#they shamed me so many times for that. which made it worse but whatever

[echo-s-land]

Nothing like spending your entire childhodd bitting and eating your nails and picking your hair and your parents never realizing it means something must be wrong but rather keep telling you to quit

[snek-panini]

Today I've got binderary book #3 to share! It's a lighthouse (burning) by books-and-omens. This is a really excellent canonverse (sort of) historical setting liminal ghost story-esque fic that I read practically in one sitting sometime last summer. It's fantastic, well-characterized, angsty and fluffy and fairly plotty and with some really unique worldbuilding. I honestly can't sing its praises enough; it's one of the only times since taking up this hobby that I've known I wanted to bind something before I actually finished reading it.

Have a look at the rest of the photos under the cut; this one came out really well and I'm in love with it.

For this cover we have lineco book cloth on the spine, a strip of chiyogami paper that I got in one one ChibiJay's random paper packs, and blue-gray sketch paper for the primary gray space. It's a little hard to tell in the photos but the HTV for the titles is in two different colors, silver for "a lighthouse" and pewter for "(burning)". The effect is more pronounced in person and I love it. The pewter came in a multi-pack of cricut foil HTV and I can't seem to find it on its own anywhere, which is a shame because it's beautiful. The sort of streaky effect on the cover was unintentional but I'm kinda liking it? It's a more porous paper for drawing or painting or something, and I tried to wax it for waterproofing, but when I used the heat press to get the title on the wax darkened in the spots where the glue was applied to the cover board. At first I was disappointed, but the fic features a really massive unnatural storm, and it sort of looks like water running down a windowpane, so I'm leaning into that and calling it an aesthetic. The back didn't get this heat treatment, so it doesn't have the pattern.

Top view, showing the bookmark and handmade end bands. The bookmark is a navy blue ribbon cut from the inside of a shirt, and I chose red and white because there are so many picturesque lighthouses that have red and white stripes. It's the only color in the book that's not blue or gray. The endpapers are a navy blue silk moire, and I had better luck with them than I did with the platinum ones on my Persuasion bind even though they are the same brand. Maybe it's practice or maybe navy just hides more sins than platinum.

For the title page I went fairly simple (for me anyway) with just a frame I pulled from rawpixel. It suits the story, though, being set sometime around or before the early 20th century. I also played with text colors on the title page, with some words being grayed out to mimic the effect on the cover. The section break is me getting clever with a feature of my printer. I often use a gray line to denote section breaks, but for whatever reason my printer doesn't like them and often makes them blurry. It is only these lines that come out blurry; larger images don't do this even if they are complex. So for this one, where a major feature of the story is trying to figure out what's real and what's a supernatural occurrence, I made one that was deliberately heavier in the center so it would come out sort of smoky or fuzzy, like it wasn't quite real and couldn't be clearly seen. It doesn't look this fuzzy in the unprinted file but I love the effect and I feel very clever for manipulating the printer like this.

I'm going to show off some interior shots but this bit contains spoilers for the story, so if you don't want to see that then maybe skip the rest of the post.

I wanted to get creative with my title placement since a lot of my binds look very similar inside, and this concept really let me try that out. The plot of the story is that the reason there are so many supernatural phenomena at this lighthouse is that someone in the future ran an experiment to harvest energy and accidentally cracked spacetime with it, and bits of the future and the past and the might-have-been are seeping through the cracks, and the longer the cracks exist the more seeps through them and the worse the ghostly stuff gets. At first it's not clear whether there's anything weird happening at all, and it becomes clearer that something is wrong the further in you get because the cracks are worse. So I had this idea for a vintage lighthouse illustration with an overlay of cracks in glass, that become more defined as the story progresses until something is done and they're sealed up in the end. I am not a visual artist and even this straightforward concept was too much for my skills, so I chose the lighthouse and the crack overlay and my amazing husband did the actual image manipulation. There are five different images, with the cracks invisible in the first and final chapter and most visible in chapter 10 and 11, when the characters are trying hardest to fix the problem. I'm really really proud of how well this turned out.

And that's it! I have several more binderary books to post but they are all still waiting for titles before I do the photos, so I don't know when I'll have them up.

[lostdreamr-blog1]

Stood Up. Picked Up.

Requested: Thank you anon for this sweet request!! Hope you enjoy it!

Word Count: 1.8k

Pairings: Jake Seresin x Reader

Warnings: mentions of alcohol, mild swearing, some fluff

Summary: When you get stood up on your date, a certain pilot is there to pick you up.

It wasn’t often you had the free time for a date, let alone a guy who would give you the time of day. Being a Top Gun pilot had most guys turning their heads at a girl who could hang with the best. Which made for a very dry love life.

Phoenix had the same problem and joked if things kept going the way they were, the two of you would date. Something you had given some thought to once or twice. At least she would treat you right. But you knew her, and Rooster were dancing around each other these days. It was only a matter of time before one of them grew a pair and made the first move.

The excitement had slowly started to die down when the time kept ticking and you were alone at the restaurant your date previously agreed on. You tried to blame the military for making you not only on time, but fifteen minutes early. These past years in the Navy had taught you to never be late or you will be running until you puke.

Which then carried over into your personal life, thus making you wait for other people. But five minutes late quickly turned into thirty and soon enough you were grabbing your purse heading out the door.

It almost felt like a walk of shame with the people around you throwing pity stares your way. The hostess gave you a sympathetic smile on the way out, but you didn’t have it in you to be friendly back. The embarrassment of the situation swiftly transformed into anger and the only thing on your mind was having one too many drinks at the Hard Deck.

The place was crowded as usual, but it wasn’t hard to find a seat at the bar. Most of the patrons were playing pool, darts, or attempting to dance to whatever was playing on the juke box. You heard a few voices from the Top Gun pilots that were stationed here with you, but you hoped and prayed they stayed on the other side of the bar.

Penny did a double take when she saw you. The pilot she had come to love was not in her uniform but a simple red sundress. A sight she knew she wouldn’t get to see much of. The smile she wore quickly vanished when she realized how upset you looked.

A glass of whiskey was set out in front of you, and you mumbled a quick “thank you” to the ever so lovely bar owner. You didn’t waste time and threw the glass back with one gulp and placed the empty glass back down.

“Want to tell me about it?” Penny was just trying to help which is why you gave her a very short run down.

“Had a date that didn’t show up. Now I’m here trying to forget about it.” You glanced up at her and saw a look of understanding.

“I’ll keep them coming. Just make sure you find a ride home.” You nodded your head because it was all you could do. If worse comes to worse, you’ll call a cab and have Phoenix drive you back in the morning.

A few more drinks in and you could finally start to feel the anger fade away. That along with any other feelings at the moment. You felt someone sit at the bar next to you, but you were too focused on the half drank drink in front of you.

“Never in my life would I have expected to see you dressed like that.” The southern drawl told you exactly who it was before giving them a glance.

“Yeah, well soak it all in now. Because it for sure isn’t happening again.” You didn’t see the concern Hangman had over that statement. Instead, you finished off your drink and grabbed some money out of your purse to pay for the drinks.

“Don’t go leaving on my account.” You lazily turned your head towards him, “Don’t feel like getting into it with you tonight. I’ve had enough irritation in the last few hours to last a lifetime.”

Everyone knew the two of you didn’t exactly get along. He was always doing whatever he could to be the best while you solely believed in teamwork. The two of you just didn’t mesh well and it was no one’s fault. Well, maybe his.

You hopped of the stool and nearly fell over if it wasn’t for him catching you. “I’m fine.” He chuckled and shook his head, “Clearly. How are you getting home?”

You fished out your phone from your purse and held it up to him. “Calling a cab.” You squinted at the screen, trying to make the numbers in front of you stop moving.

“I can give you a ride. Just wait right here.” He didn’t give you time to protest as he walked off, leaving you to grip the bar for support. While having a few too many drinks worked wonders for clearing your mind, your body was hating you for it.

A hand was placed around your waist, making you jump at the sudden contact.

“Calm down, Darlin. Just me.” On any other day you would’ve slapped him for not only putting his hand on your waist but using the pet name he called all the girls he took home with him. But because of your now questionable decision to get drunk, he was now leading you out to his truck.

You only hoped no one from the team was witnessing this. You would never hear the end of it.

Once situated, he started the truck and pulled out of the bar in the direction of your apartment. It was quiet except for the soft sounds of country music playing on the radio. You were nearly asleep sitting up when he asked, “Who hurt you tonight?”

The question caught you off guard. It wasn’t a simple “what happened” or “why are you drinking on a Wednesday”. He knew something happened and you didn’t expect him to care enough to notice.

“Got stood up tonight. Felt like drinking was my best option.” Being stood up was one thing but having to tell others hurt in a whole different way. It was like admitting out loud that someone didn’t think you were good enough for their time.

While you were stuck in your own pity party, you missed the way his knuckles tightened on the steering wheel. Or the way his face hardened at the carefree way you explained what happened. He knew you were hurting but were too stubborn to admit it.

“Why do you even care?” He winced at your question, hoping you were too drunk to notice. The explanation was simple really. He had fallen for you the first day you met. He admired the way you held yourself, confident and sure of ever decision. You included everyone during a conversation. He swears it was the most he heard Bob talk at one time. And while you were quick to call him out on his bull shit, you never once talked down to him.

“Ever think I’m just a nice guy?” The snort that came after his question had him smiling.

“I think you are a guy who doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to. Which brings me back to my question. Why do you care enough to drive me home? You could’ve easily called a cab instead.” You had been trying to run all the possibilities in your head, but nothing made sense. The two of you avoided each other most of the time and the few interactions you had aren’t exactly pleasant.

But you also couldn’t help that this man could make you weak at the knees with a simple smile. There was something about the cockiness that drew you to him and you wanted to hate yourself for it. This was the guy who left his teammates hanging for his own gain. The one who would never admit to a mistake. But that still didn’t stop you from wondering if there was maybe more to him.

And his answer proved just that.

“That man today was stupid for ever letting you go. But I can’t help but thank God for giving me a chance to step in. Let me show you how a real man is supposed to treat a girl. Because you, Darlin, deserve the world.”

You were stunned into silence. Words like that weren’t supposed to come from him. He was supposed to be the villain in everyone’s story, but here he was shutting down all doubts you had about yourself tonight.

“You still with me, sweetheart?” His voice brought you out of your head, but you still didn’t know how to answer him. So, you blurted out, “Good lord I didn’t think I was that drunk.”

His laugh had you smiling along with him, and you were hoping that this wasn’t some messed up dream you were going to wake up from in the morning. “I’m not like all the other girls you take home.”

You heard him sigh and looked over to see him running a hand through his hair. It was weird to see him act nervous. The ever so cocky pilot had never shown an emotion he didn’t want to. Which made you wonder how much of an act he really put on around you all.

“I know that. I also know how different you are than most people in general. You make everyone around you a better person. The happiness and joy you bring with you pulls people in and I can’t get enough of it. I’ve tried all different ways to get your attention from day one, but you see right through it. I thought I would never get the chance at a moment like this, but seeing you alone at the bar damn near killed me.”

You thought over his words and asked, “Why not be real with me? That would’ve grabbed my attention. It did tonight.”

He pulled into my apartment complex and parked the truck, turning towards you in the process. “Because I didn’t think the real me would be good enough for you.”

It was in that moment you realized how wrong you were about this man. The insecurities he seemed to have about himself was mind blowing to you. From the outside looking in, he seemed like the perfect man who had it all together. But really, he only put on an act like he did.

“Thank you for getting me home safe.” You gave him a warm smile as you got out of the truck. Before you shut the door, you leaned your head in and said, “I’m free after training tomorrow.”

A/N: Thoughts? Comments? Thank you so much for reading! My inbox is always open to you all!

[bitchlessdino]

MY BELOVED!! happy 3k you beautiful human!! ilysm <3333333

now, who would i be if i didn’t request multiple members and made it v biased? 😃 so i would like to request a woozi x seokmin x dino x reader fic in which they are all friends and maybe one or two of them live with mc and stumble across their dream-diary (woops) and see explicit dreams about them that they now want to make reality 🤭 make it as dirty and with as much degrading as you like giggles. i am normal!! i swear. LOVE U

Pairing: woozi x seokmin x dino x afab!reader

Genre: smut

Word count: 1.6k

tags: heavy degradation, mentions of unprotected sex and creampies, choking, oral (rec.), hair pulling, foreplay heavy

author note: ILY MITCHIEEEE and thank you <3333. a little taste of what we're getting into this staycation. I'm also trying to get back into the format of writing less is more so I sincerely do hope whose reading enjoys. and remember asks are open!

Tag: @shiningstar-byulxx @misssugarlips @tommolex @hoeforhao @honglynights @homerunhansol @dkakapizzaboy @junhui-recs @svtup @buffhoshi @meowmeowminnie @caratochan @lovebot4han @6969lilithcat @wonuhour @camisun93 @tommolex @emmmui @toruro

You’re a vivid dreamer. Your dreams are so vivid you wake up the next day recalling them as if they were actual events in your life. They can get so overwhelming, mornings are defiled with built-up sweat and other bodily fluids that soaks through your sheets. Unfortunately, many of these dreams just happened to be some of the “not safe for work” variety, getting you into the habit of leaving a towel under you before ending your day.

To make matters worse, you would replay these images in your brain until exhaustion–not without some restraint–making you feel guilty for the familiar faces that involuntarily got involved. Eventually, you realize you had to deal with these dreams one way or another.

Over the past few months of these types of dreams, you’ve kept a dream journal. It detailed some of the most intimate and out-of-pocket occurrences within your subconscious and for a while, it has helped take control of the situation. The wet dreams never stopped, but there is a bit of that reassurance that you’re able to process these images in a healthy manner. But none of these notes were ever meant to get out. Not a single one.

“I’m home with dinner! If I hear you’ve already eaten without me, Seokmin, I’m fighting you. You know I don’t like eating alone–what are the three of you doing?”

You watch your roommate and neighbors next door, Jihoon and Chan, scramble to hide whatever they had earlier within the depths of the couch cushions. You narrow your eyes at their suspiciously guilty faces before setting the pizza box on the kitchen counter and cautiously approaching them.

“Are you hiding something from me?”

None of them look like they would talk, probably in fear of your wrath, that was until one understood better than the others that there was no point in hiding the imminent truth. “I told them it was invasive!”

“Lee Jung Chan, you snitch!”

You glare at Jihoon for the animosity in his outburst towards Chan and in turn, it made the man go shrink in shame. “We didn’t know what it was at first,” he admits in a timid voice, “Seokmin thought it was a diary of you shit-talking us.”

“Way to throw me under the bus, bro!”

Now your eyes are shooting through your roommate, the one with access to your room at all times to borrow something with only the condition of him giving you a heads up. It just had to be the one day he decided to not ask that you forgot to properly store the journal away when you were leaving the apartment in a hurry for work.

He shrinks just the same as Jihoon before pulling the bounded book out, open to a page dated a humiliating night: the first night you dreamt of Seokmin fucking over the fire escape. You rip the book from his hands, fuming both in anger and mortification and clutches it to your chest. You are prepared to be mad, prepared to scream at them, foam at the mouth, but nothing would come out.

Instead, you feel like curling up in a ball and hiding away from the world, only ever leaving your room to eat or use the restroom. You don’t know what to do. You just feel naked.

All three men can tell underneath your silent frustration is shame, and they could feel more at fault. Seokmin is first to approach you, which makes you quickly retreat a step seeing how closer he got, but soon enough calm down by the caress of his hand over your hair, hearing him quietly apologizing again.

What none of them didn’t expect was for you to apologize, standing still in abhor of yourself for having such thoughts and even having all three make an appearance more than occasion. You admit your actions make you sick to your stomach. That you know in no way any of that can become a reality for you, that these dreams were simply disgusting, and you loathe yourself for having them.

They all grow silent, the air charged with the harshness of your words. It shocks them, rolling over to a state of bemusement and utter astonishment at how little you thought of yourself.

Seokmin peers closer at you, fingers threading over your hair. His gaze may be soft but pierces through you like sun rays on dry concrete. “Do you really think that?”

You can’t help but confirm, ready to defend yourself once more until Seokmin's hands are on your hips and his forehead kisses yours. There is a look in his eyes you can’t explain and you can’t help but feel weak at the knees, almost buckling from their sheer tension. His name comes out so softly from his lips, Seokmin can’t help but smile. 

“I don’t think you understand the gravity of the situation…you have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“E-excuse me?” You attempt back up from the bank but are pulled by the waist, meeting his hips incredulously.

“I said, you don’t have a damn clue what you’re talking about.”

You’re able to pry yourself from him only to be met with the bodies of the other men you only realize now cornered you, becoming a makeshift pair of walls behind you. They share the same gaze Seokmin, all exhibiting this subtle darkness that turns your stomach inside out. It steals your breath. It speeds up your heart rate. A wave of vulnerability overtakes you and you are now surrounded by men who all knew already have a physical effect on you.

“How can we make that clear for you,” Jihoon speaks up, gliding a hand over your shoulder.

“Maybe the way to do it is to make those dreams a reality,” Chan joins, lips dangerously close to your neck.

You aren’t sure how things escalated the way they did. All you know is that split second you were entangled in a situation beyond the comprehension of involuntary self-manufactured imagery. Jihoon has you by the throat, platting with your breath take in as he kisses your lips feverishly. Chan kneads the fullness of your breasts, biting in your neck with conviction and desire while the sweat of his toned chest rubs against your naked backside. And finally, Seokmin has taken your legs between his face, nose pressing against your clit harsher the deeper he delves inside you with his tongue, understanding what your downfall tastes like.

Your mouth is stretched open in gasps, whines, and whimpers, and Jihoon manages to swallow every one. You inhale the stench of pure animal instinct and merely melt against the body behind you, not minding how his tight pinches and descriptive narration cease your lungs from expanding (as if Jihoon wasn’t already doing that enough).

“Is Seokmin eating your dirty little pussy well?” Chan’s low tenor sends shivers down your spine, making you squeeze your abdomen tight in response.

“Your journal was so interesting we couldn’t help ourselves. Sorry again. But not that sorry.”

Chan has always had a mouth on him but hearing him speak while everything was happening was pure sin. That’s what made the situation differ slightly from the dreams. The dreams were pure sex and no dialogue. You would think that made it dirtier, but it was missing what real-life Chan’s voice is currently giving: the whole picture.

“We’re only sorry a dirty little slut like you didn’t get the treatment you deserved until now.”

You can feel Jihoon’s smile against your lips as you let out a loud moan, causing him to dig his fingers a little harder against your neck, cutting harsher into your breathing. Chan chuckles, lips now trailing over your shoulders. “You like that, don’t you? Being called a little slut?”

You nod frantically, his pinches only getting tighter until his palms are whipped across your flesh. “You like that too, slut? I bet you’d like anything we do to you. Are we making you feel as good as you dreamt?”

Jihoon finally pulls away from you to let you answer, forcing you to face the younger man and squeeze the response out of you. “Well? You’re not gonna keep him waiting, are you, whore?”

His hand releases your neck and relaxes against it, now favoring your hair, in which he’s already wrapped around his knuckles.

“N-no, sir.”

“Then tell Chan what he wants to hear.”

You swallow your nerves down, turning into a puddle under the dark watchful of the eyes of the man in question and utter a soft “yes” and crumble in front of them to see and hear. Ripples of arousal go through you, clenching around Seokmin’s tongue when he finds your sweet spot. You clutch your chest as if a line of pearls are dangling off your collarbone, releasing your ivory nectar lining his mouth and taste buds. He moans into your heat, caressing your thighs. “Our needy mess tastes so good…”

You look back at him longingly, tempted by the glossy sheen of his lips, and Seokmin is quick to realize it. He connects your lips, pulling you from Chan to fall on top of him instead. “Such a fucking mess,” he mumbles, “need you cumming all over my cock…”

Chan’s hand slips through your hair as Jihoon’s nails grated over your ass’s flesh, you clench around nothing when they join you. Although they’d made cum once today, you severely doubt that it’d be the last. “I’m sure they’d love to be filled up with all our cocks. Isn’t that right?” Chan questions.

When you let out another weak “yes,” they join your weak display of need, pressing against parts of your body that only ache to be filled, ache to be ruined, ache to be stretched and pulled until your body is fatigued beyond comprehension.

“I hope you can handle it,” Jihoon comments in feigned concern, “handle us reusing you and take turns fucking our cum back into you, that is.”

Part of my 3K Follower StayCation!!!

[somejazzinthemorning]

tightrope. 04

Pairing: Carlos Sainz x Original Female Character Warnings: Language, I guess?  Word Count: ~12K

As soon as we arrived in Verona, regret and shame hit me right in the gut. Seeing my grandpa's unsteady gait as he rushed to meet Rio, the tears in his eyes, and the quivering voice with which he whispered "my grandson works at Ferrari" made me realise the magnitude of his achievement.

"My grandson works at Ferrari." My brother works at Ferrari .

The words rang like a church bell in my head the whole week. Mixed feelings fighting inside— the fear of being alone, the disappointment to have it all hidden from me and the regret of having said such harsh things to the person I love and admire most in the world.

It didn’t matter how many times I’d tried to apologize, Rio would refuse to talk with me outside any mandatory meeting.

I’d messed up. There was no doubt about it. And I needed to do something about it.

But there were two races left to win and a championship to grab and if I wanted my name on that trophy, I needed to completely focus on racing. So, no matter how much shame and guilt weighed on my lungs, I needed to ignore everything going on outside the track.

That included my brother. That included Carlos, who had tried to call me twice during the week. That also included my dad and his constant talks about contracts and the promises for next season.

I forced myself to put a tampon over these feelings, stopping myself from even talking about them. And the worse thing about the roof of an empty hotel room is the fact that late at night it can become a mirror; Each night I was faced with myself, and the effects of all that had happened in the last weeks.

Regret and anxiety. Pressure and fear;

The weight of all these emotions and the expectations people around me held for that weekend weighed heavily on me. When I stepped onto the track on that Saturday for the first race of the weekend, the air was heavy and I felt like I couldn't breathe.

Passion fighting head to head with the anxiety. The emotions inside burst with the same intensity as the ones on the grandstands.

Imola’s grid was full, but my eyes couldn’t focus on the dozens of cars aligned on the track, not even on the black and red Ferrari parked in front of me, at the first mark of the grid.

The atmosphere was something I’d never experienced before.

The noise was constant, a low rumble that rose and fell with the action on the track. And now, they were silent, observing us. I had watched them the day before, I’d felt their passion at the end of the qualifying session in the morning, from where I’d gotten my sixth pole position of the season. Each time a car drove by, the crowd erupted in joy, a sea of red and yellow taking over the grandstands. It was an incredible sight and sound, either standing on the track or inside the car.

I had never felt that kind of energy; such an electric atmosphere, the crowd burning with anticipation.

The passion .

To this day, I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything like it.

“10 minutes.” Rocco’s voice snapped me back to reality. He was standing next to me, headphones over his head. “They need you back in the car.”

Right . I just nodded. My mind was focused on just one goal: to be the first car to reach the finish line, whatever the cost. And, by starting in pole position, it didn’t seem like a hard challenge.

It was a hot day in northern Italy. The tarmac was hot under my feet and the air was hard to breathe in. I could feel the sweat forming in my temples and my chest, even before having my suit on. I had it hanging down my waist, a cold vest around my torso, trying to stay cool amid the heat wave happening throughout Europe.

As I approached the car, I felt the adrenaline taking over.

Rio was standing next to the door, already opened to welcome me. My helmet, mainly black with red and yellow stripes framing the vizor, was resting on top of the Ferrari 488 EVO. I got my balaclava and suit on, feeling his gaze burning on my skin. Before entering the car, I dared to look at him.

My eyes travelled up and looked into his.

A dreamer's gaze. Hopeful smile and deep green eyes, always looking beyond the horizon that lay ahead of him. The gleam. A deep, calming voice that inspires confidence. He had always been like this. Strong-willed, driven by ambition, by the paths he waves for himself, by the paths he chooses for himself; never turning back, never giving into somebody else’s dreams, no matter what obstacle he encountered along the way.

A dreamer, not a planner.

And there I was, blaming him and someone else for making it real.

Carlos’ meddling was more about not postponing the step Rio was meant to take, rather than coming up with one for him.

We were doing well in the Challenge, but as I looked around where I was standing, I knew we had done everything we had and could do here. We both knew it was time for a new future, time to take the step. And even if I was not ready for it, he was. I knew he was. He knew it too. And his apologetic look, as I got ready for what would be, possibly, the first of our last races together, told me everything I was trying to ignore.

There was a lot at stake. Even more than just a championship.

This was for Rio, too. For his future.

“You’ve done it loads of times,” he straightened my suit, tucking my braided hair snugly between the black and red suit and the dark fireproofs. “You’ve got this.”

Rio left me after a short hug. I looked around at the dozens of people walking around the grid, their hurried footsteps and the voices that overlapped each other creating a murmur that screamed louder than my thoughts. I remained silent, straightening the balaclava lines around my eyes and nose as I watched the other pilots.

“Ready?” Pietro’s voice made me turn to the car. The old mechanic stood with my helmet in his hand. “You seem tired, Evita.”

“Tough weekend,” I said, taking the helmet he extended in my direction.

He scrunched his nose. “Not ideal,” he said before patting my shoulder. “But I know you’ll get around when you get inside.”

I nodded, sliding the helmet over my head. “We won’t disappoint you today, don’t worry,” I reassured the old man, before completely lowering the helmet around my head.

The second I slid into the cockpit, I felt my heart rate picking up and the heat becoming almost unbearable, as the height of the expectations slowly took over my mind and manifested themselves on my body. While the mechanic made sure I was secure and all the seat belts were adjusted, I focused on the track ahead. No car in sight.

Yet.

They would come.

I waited for the sign, my hands resting on the wheel. My door was still open.

Silence fell on the track.

The calm before the storm.

Pietro leaned inside and my hand left the wheel to hold his. The old man squished it, looking into my eyes. He was a bit older than my father; he carried his age on his grey hair and moustache, and around the lines near his eyes, where the skin wrinkled when he smiled. I closed my vizor with one hand and squished his with the other.

“Ti aspetto al traguardo, donnina ,” he said, still holding my hand in his. It was a promise he always made and one he always fulfilled. I’ll wait for you at the finish line.

And then the door was closed.

Looking at my rearview mirror, I could see the last of the personnel leaving the track with urgency as the engines started to roar. Pietro was among them, now joining Rocco, waiting on the other side of the pit wall.

The storm was arriving.

Gradually, the grunt of the engines took over the circuit. My car awakened around me, vibrating, singing in my ears. A perfect melody. My lips were taken over by a smile as my hands settled on the steering wheel.

The race began on the formation lap, with Pulcini’s not-so-subtle taunts. I could see the black and yellow car appear in the peripheral field at every turn, remembering he was there. He would be there at the start, posing a threat to my much-envied position.

Besides my car and the nineteen turns ahead, Andreas Pulcini was my only worry. My direct competitor for the championship. We had a comfortable margin between us but I knew a bad race could switch things around. If he knew how to push my nerves on and off track, I knew how to retribute.

Each time he tried to poke at me and threaten my position, I returned the favour by playing my part in that mental game that began even before the lights went off. I was the one who held the power. The one in control. And that fed my ego.

As always in the Ferrari Challenge, it was a rolling start. I had the power to control the rhythm. I stepped on the brake as I entered the last turn. The Safety Car was no longer in sight. My eyes were focused on the lights. The cars were slowing down around me. Slow, slow, slow.

At any moment those lights would go off. The red would cease.

And then, the whole grid would step on the accelerator.

And at that moment, it was only me and the car, the embodiment of power and speed. The second the lights went off, I pressed the accelerator. My car lurched forward easily, cutting through the main straight, side to side with the blue car.

First turn, Pulcini was closing in dangerously, Fox just tenths behind him.

The car was handling them beautifully. I was flying. As I got to Tamburello, I had them behind, fighting each other. I could see them in my rearview mirror, but my focus was on the road ahead.

Each turn, each straight, a dance.

Grande macchina! Adrenaline was taking over. My blood was rushing through me quickly, energy building up in my body. My eyes followed the curves, the car drawing the correct lines. A comfortable margin grew between me and Pulcini. I was in the right headspace, my car was behaving beautifully. Everything seemed to be working as planned.

“Car stopped at turn 12.” I heard it on the radio. “Be careful.”

“Safety Car?”

“Yes,” the answer came quickly. “You know what to do.”

As I went through Aqua Minarelli, I saw a purple and yellow car over the grass; no signs of impact.

“Is she okay?” I asked after not seeing the driver next to the Ferrari.

“Driver’s okay.”

A Safety Car could be both salvation and doom and at that moment, it was a threat to my lead. I had to stay calm. The distance that had grown between me and Pulcinni was beginning to shrink. The three laps we spent behind the Safety Car were enough to turn the seconds I had managed to win over both Pulcini and Fox into tenths.

“Safety car in this lap.” I heard and looking in my mirror I could see them at my heels, so close.

As the green flags were waved and the race restarted, the engines roared louder. As I got to the main straight, while trying to keep away from my two competitors, I felt the car struggling.

“Something’s off. Losing power.”

“We’ll take a look after the race,” the answer came quickly.

Pulcini was right behind me, taking advantage of my power loss. If you can’t be fast, be smart. I remembered my Sainz Sr’s old advice. I took a deep breath. Turn by turn, that’s the plan. Despite the power loss, the car was behaving beautifully. As we got to Tamburello, I could feel Pulcini’s car close to mine but I held my line and came out ahead.

“Brava, Eva!” I heard on the radio. “Keep going.”

I couldn’t pull away from him.

He was smart and fast. I kept defending as best as I could, but it became harder every time he tried to get past me. The second time we went through the main straight we were side to side. My heart was in my throat as I saw the other car right behind him.

Fuck no .

“I don’t know how much longer I can hold him off.”

As we entered Turn 1, he was still there. I refused to give up the fight. There was no way I would let him go away and take the lead from me. I knew him, I knew exactly how he would try to overtake and all I could do it take it difficult for him. Block his moves and think ahead. I braked as late as I possibly could and, as expected, he did the same. What I didn’t expect was to be pushed off track.

“Stronzo! Imbelice!” I yelled to the silence, feeling the car spin on the grass, after a strong impact on my rear.

There was no friction as the car turned on the grass. I prayed to not make contact with the barrier or another car. My head was bobbing in my seat, preventing me from having a clear view of the circuit. The cars passing by me just looked like blurs.

My chances would be gone if I didn't finish that race.

“Are you okay?”

As soon as I regained control, I accelerated. The car was back on track. Pulcini was not behind me, I couldn’t see him in the mirrors.

“Fine. Position?”

“P4. Fox is P1. Pulcini next.” No. Fuck, no. These men won’t take the win away from me. “Just bring it home, Eva. We have tomorrow.”

Andreas was ahead? Fuck no.

“That fuc— Ah!” I stopped myself from cursing in my engineer's ears. I repeatedly slammed my clenched fist into the steering wheel, immediately grunting in pain. What a fucking disaster.

“Pulcini is 0.7 ahead,” I heard Dante’s voice on the radio, a few laps later. “Fox, 3.5.”

“Copy that,” I just said, my focus on the car ahead. He was faster, I knew it, but he was losing time just like me. Although my car wasn’t okay, neither was his. We were in the same position. It was a fair fight.

“Krogen behind,” a pause, “she’s faster than you.”

No, no, no.

I was shaking my head, even though he couldn’t see me. I could see the pink car in my rearview window. I was ahead, the margin was not too short but it was enough to make me worry.

I knew what I had to do, I was trying to do it but the car was not responding.

Besides, I had Pulcini less than a second away. I needed to focus on him, attack him and move forward and not let him escape while I was busy defending from Krogen. The main straight was the longest part of the track and the perfect place to regain my position but when I got there Pulcini was too far ahead to reach. I needed another lap.

“Time left?” I asked on the radio.

“Five minutes, plus one lap.”

Okay. That could be three laps, four maybe. I could do it.

I had absolutely no chance to overtake him that lap. My car didn't cooperate and I felt like I was fighting the tide. I felt my blood boiling with frustration, especially seeing Pulcini so easily evade my attempts to overtake him.

“Krogen is half a second behind,” I heard again. “Pulcini, 1.3”

Fucking hell.

I was trying, really fucking trying, but the car was unresponsive. I was pushing to the limit, but it just wouldn’t go any faster. I was shaking my head, trying to get rid of the thoughts, fears and doubts. I was trying to focus, but it was impossible. Everything was happening too fast.

I had been so focused on Pulcini and Fox that I had neglected Krogen. And she was taking full advantage of it. She was right there. She was coming too fast.

“What is happening with the car? Do I have damage?”

“We believe so,” Fuck . What a shitshow. “Bring it home. The fight’s tomorrow.”

Fuck that.

My eyes were on the mirrors. Krogen was close, way too close for comfort. And Gostner, in the blue and white car, was right behind. I needed to defend like hell if I wanted a chance at winning the championship that day, in front of that amazing crowd.

But as we got to the last turn and faced the straight ahead, I came to the realization: there was nothing else to do.

Even though I exited the corner better, my car just couldn’t keep up with her speed. She overtook me in the straight. Gostner was very close to doing the same.

“Last lap.”

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” I screamed in the silence of the car, my screams being muffled by the helmet and the roar of the engine.

Gostner became my challenge. He was young, with little experience. That was my salvation. The lack of experience and confidence made it easier for me to hold him behind in the last lap remaining.

I crossed the finish line in P4, 0.4 seconds behind Krogen. 0.4 seconds away from my championship. It was not lost, but, at that moment, the disappointment rushed over me, taking me whole.

There was a dark haze floating around my mind when I parked the car on the pit lane, vision blurred by tick tears, weighted by anger. Pietro was there to unleash me from the seatbelts, as he promised. I didn’t take off my helmet or even raised my vizor.

“I’m sorry, donnina ,” he put a hand on my shoulder. “We’ll do better tomorrow.”

I just nodded, not trusting myself to say anything. Behind the tick layer of tears, I could see Fox celebrating his win. I would congratulate him on it, but right now I felt as like being crushed by the weight of the world. I raised my vizor to clean the tears and the sweat forming around my eyes. And then, feeling like I would explode if I continued sitting there, I got out of the car.

My helmet shielded me from the chaotic atmosphere that had settled in the pit lane. People would move out of the way as I crossed through the crowd, walking towards the garage. I left my helmet on one of the counters and desperately tried to get rid of the balaclava. Lungs aching for a breath of fresh hair. Pressure grew on my chest. A cloud blinded me.

I grabbed a bottle of water and left.

Some strands of hair were sticking to my face as I walked aimlessly around the paddock, the sweat pooling on my temples and cheeks, as I tried to find a safe place to be left alone with the ticking bomb my mind had become.

I ended up sitting on the floor, my back against the wall of a truck, hiding from the curious looks that shamelessly followed me. I was still shaking when I sat down, feeling like I was going to vomit. So much was happening inside. I willed myself to take deep breaths.

Each second of the desired silence and quietness was making me overthink every lap of the race and each decision that led me to my result. The voice of the inner impostor was taking control of my own mind. I felt powerless. The pressure in my chest increased as my rib cage seemed to shrink around my heart and lungs, working faster and faster.

My arms were shaking.

I felt my muscles tense and darkness took over my vision.

Without feeling it, I was rocking my body back and forth, with the palms of my hands resting on my chest. Trembling, I brought my fingers to the zipper of the suit, opening it up, and then to the collar of the fireproof, pulling the fabric down. I wasn’t breathing. I was slipping into some sort of deep panic.

I was crumbling under the pressure and frustration, the fear and insecurity. I had been reckless and immature. I didn’t read the race well. I underestimated a driver and suffered the consequences. I ignored my team, which was waiting for me at the pit lane.

I opened the water bottle. My dry lips, relentlessly wrapped along the bottle, drinking the cool water with desperation, trying to escape that living nightmare. I poured water into my hands and splashed the cold liquid over my face. I leaned my head against the wall, my hands at the side of my body, touching the hot tar where I was sitting.

I can smell burnt rubber. I can see the flag that the wind waves. I can hear the crowd. I can feel the heat of the tar on my fingertips. I can feel the cold drops of water running down my neck. I can see the pigeon crossing the sky. I can smell the fuel. I can feel the texture of my suit. I can hear the giggle of a child. I can hear the engines. I can smell the sweat. I can taste it on my lips.

                                                        *  

I don't know how much time it took until I felt grounded enough to get back to the garage. Head down, suit secured around my waist, and my hair up in a ponytail, I made my way back under the curious eyes of a couple of people in the paddock. A couple of feet ahead, Pulcini stood next to Krogen. His lips turned into a small smile, and his hand went up in the air, waving in my direction. His long dark hair was still wet from the champagne. I waved back at him and before he could catch me to exchange some words (and probably apologize for whatever had happened in the race), I rushed to the garage.

Rio was in the middle of the mechanics, all of them hunched over the hood of the car. Their heads turned to me when I entered, and slowly each one of them went back to work, except for my brother, whose eyes lingered on mine for one more second.

“Is it too bad?” I asked, and like my voice was a trigger to his action, his head went back down.

The air in the garage grew tense. Immature. I just turned my head to Pietro, standing next to him, whose eyes were shifting between the two of us.

“We can fix it, don’t worry,” Pietro said, patting my brother’s back as he stood up straight. I walked over to them, stopping on the other side of the car. In between us, the car, Rio had his hands dirty with dust and oil.

“Sure we can. What can I do?”

“Nothing, Eva. Go back to the hotel and get some rest,” replied my brother.

Pietro brought his heavy hand to my shoulder. “You can help me once we start working in the rear, donninna .” I nodded. “Now, go eat something. Rest.”

Once again, I nodded before walking to the back of the garage where a small workbench and a couple of tools were. I sat down, my attention on my brother and the group of mechanics. Their hands moved with the precision of a machine. A couple of movements, a couple of voices and sounds echoed throughout the garage as if it would be the one thing that would guide me out of the miasma.

“She’s okay,” I heard my father’s voice. My head turned to the door, watching him walk through, with the phone glued to his cheek. “I’ll go check on her.” He was talking to my mother, perhaps.

Pietro was back with the group, my dad was still on the phone. My head dropped down, tired and disappointed. I was tired. So tired. My body and mind. My hands were still shaking, and I felt like they were feeding on the last bit of energy my body still retained. I had been doing just fine up until this week. In a week, my mind had collapsed. I’d failed.

“Good job out there,” my dad’s voice pulled my attention, as he sat down next to me. “You did your best. It was not enough today, but it’s your best. I’m proud.”

I simply nodded. My rib cage tightened around my chest again, with all the restlessness coming back around to hit me as my eyes met my father’s. The dark haze floating around us prevented me from seeing the pride in his eyes. There was none. He handed me a protein bar and went back to his phone.

“I am sorry, papa, ” I muttered, as I took a bite. He looked back at me. “The way I acted at the end of the race, on the radio, and…” I sighed. “The dinner, the other night. The way things have been these last days too.”

“Eva,” my dad said as he shook his head. “It’s passion. You’re passionate. I would be worried if you didn’t get frustrated.” A faint smile. “We have tomorrow.”

He was avoiding it, as he always did with all the sensitive aspects within our family. It was what frustrated me the most about him: his neutral and always perfect facade. I had never watched him cry, or be actually angry. At that moment, I wanted him to correspond to my feelings, to feel the same emotions in their enormity as I did. I wanted to see a bit of me in him, to feel understood.

That could possibly make it easier to understand his vision for me.

“I just…” I just can’t trust myself to take another step and this just proved it. I can’t do it alone. I just know I’ll fail. I know I’m not capable. I need you. I need Rio. I can’t do it alone. I can't be alone . My mind was still racing, leading me down agonizing paths. “I’m just so frustrated,” I said.

That wasn’t half of what I was thinking.

“I know,” he said. That wasn’t half of what he was thinking too. His hand caressed my hair; my mind eased at his touch.  “Nothing is lost.”

                                                        *  

I spent the final hours of the afternoon in the garage.

The race ended around 4 pm, and from there until sunset we stayed working, completely oblivious to the reality outside our garage, only the roar of the engines reminding us of the other races happening just a few meters away.

With the garage doors down, with only the too-bright white lights coming from the ceiling and some lanterns scattered around us, we joined forces to understand what was wrong with the car and get it ready for qualifying, happening at 9 am of the next day.

There was a problem with the engine, alongside the damage in the rear, caused by the impact with Andreas. The team divided itself into two groups; I stayed with Pietro and Eddie, his son. The boy, three years younger than me, was sitting on the floor next to his dad, lying under the car. At Pietro’s command, he would pass him the tools.

The scenery took me back to my early years as a driver.

Everything I had learned, I had learned like this - kneeling on the floor of the garage, or leaning over the hood of a car, with Pietro’s voice narrating whatever he was doing. We had met years ago when Rio joined the team. At that time, he was meant to be the driver. He gave up the wheel when he decided to go to college, after a year of competing in the Challenge as an amateur.

I was still wearing the racing suit. My red knee pads had oil stains on them and my suit probably had them too, but I couldn’t perceive the stains on the dark fabric. The fireproof was sticking to my skin, leaving me uncomfortable. I needed a shower and a good night of sleep.

The old man’s head slid from under the car.

“You can go now,” he said, cleaning his thin and agile fingers from the black substance, with a yellow cloth that was beginning to take on the same hue as his fingers. “It’s done. I just need the guys to check a few values and we’ll be done for the day.”

“I won’t leave until you do,” I insisted. If they were working to fix my car, especially because of damage coming from an impact, it was my duty to be there with them.

"You're not going to sleep here, are you?" the old man raised one of his thick grey eyebrows.

"I said what I said,” I shrugged as I stood up, my legs and back struggling to fight gravity.

"Eva, go. We won't be here for much longer and you need to rest." Rest, a shower, a meal , I thought. "You've had a tough day. Rest. You need it for tomorrow."

Tomorrow . I wanted to postpone tomorrow. Delay as much as possible the night, and consequently the morning.

I went around the car, wiping my hands on my tights. The car was looking good. No visible damage in the back, at least. Over my shoulder, the old man watched me, with an arched eyebrow.

“Eva…”

"Okay, I'll go," I gave in. "But please, call me as soon as you're done."

Pietro called me not even an hour later. I heard the muffled ringing coming from the bedroom as I was leaving the shower. The phone was still inside my backpack. I hadn’t paid attention to it the whole day.

Our brief talk didn’t take more than three minutes. Everything was okay.

I sat on the bed in front of the window. A tiny breeze entered the room to kiss my skin, not yet totally dry. A dusty orange lustre was breaching in through the curtain. I looked over at the clock on the nightstand. Almost 9.30 pm. Dinner would be served in half an hour.

Looking down at the phone in my hand, a wall of notifications stared back at me. They were mainly messages from friends and family, especially from Marjorie, who had to stay in Spain with the twins. I read them without much care, just taking the time to hear the audio message she had sent last: the delicious confusing mumble of my nieces, wishing me good luck for the next day.

And then, messages from Carlos. Plural.

“I’m so sorry.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Call me if you need.”

And a couple of hours later:

“I know you are winning this tomorrow. Can’t wait for it.”

And half an hour later:

“I was serious. Call me if you need.”

"Anytime you need.”

I couldn't help but crack a smile. This was what I had been missing for so long, what I had silently asked for and never received. These seconds that he never managed to dedicate to me. But at the same time, so many questions, and so little trust.

“disappointed. stupid mistakes."

"i could have avoided all of this.”

“It happens. Don’t be too harsh on yourself.”

“You are still leading the championship. You still have tomorrow.”

Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tomorrow.

Looking at the mirror at the side of the bed, I barely recognized the reflection. The image in the mirror looked back at me with a tiredness that matched my own. My eyes, usually so full of life and light, were now dull and sunken in, the skin around them darker than usual. The long blonde hair on my back was still wet. My face was free of makeup, revealing the cracks of my so imperfect facade.

I let out a deep breath, feeling my shoulders drop as the tension left my body. So, so many mistakes that could have been avoided.

Looking at the messages one more time, I felt a warmth in my chest.

“not that easy. you know that.”

“I do. I’ve been there. What’s done is done. You can’t change it.”

“Amaze us tomorrow. Read the race. See the lines. You have it in yourself.”

At least he understood.

I put on a black tank top and some washed boyfriend jeans and left the room with my hair still wet since I was feeling so tired I couldn't bother to style it. I felt like I was in a daze — tired, emotionally and physically. I was still trying to make sense of what had happened in the race.

The phone vibrated in my hand when I stepped outside the elevator.

“Maybe I can call you later?”

“please do.”

I felt the void in my chest deflating. I looked at the phone for a second longer, taking in a small victory, before taking the last steps to reach the dining hall. Tables and chairs were scattered around the dimly lit room. Groups of people, some of them familiar faces, were chatting and enjoying their meals. It wasn't until I saw the food that I understood how famished I was.

My mom and dad chose a table in one of the corners of the room beside a large painting of a 248 F1 crossing the finish line at Imola. On the corner of the painting it was written “Michael Schumacher, 2006”. I greeted them with a small nod of my head and a tired smile as I took my seat. Rio was not at the table.

“Where’s Rio?” I asked as I reached for the napkin.

“He’s already eaten,” my mom answered with a tone that I knew meant she disapproved of his decision.

“Did you watch the race?” my dad asked. Eyes on his plate.

“I didn’t have the chance yet,” neither I wanted to , I desired to add. My mom filled my cup with water and raised a hand to call the waitress. “I just got back from the track. I was helping with the car.”

“I see,” he looked at me over the rim of his glasses. I knew that look. “Make sure to watch it before bed.”

He was not asking anything wrong of me, but there was nothing to learn from the race. I knew exactly where my mistakes were made and why I had made them. Figuring out the reasons behind my bad judgements was something I had to reflect on, but I wouldn’t solve this by watching the race.

I resorted to nodding in silence and playing with the cutlery. For my dinner, I picked the first option from the menu and ate in complete silence. My parents seemed to be lost in their thoughts, just sharing casual words about the food trying to make the dinner less uncomfortable. It didn’t work. I couldn’t stop thinking about the race and the awful things I had felt right after that were making me doubt my capacity to battle the next day.

“I’m going to bed,” I announced as I got up from the table. I kissed the top of my mom’s head and lightly stroked her shoulder. “See you tomorrow at the track.”

“Get some rest, my love,” she said. My dad didn’t speak a word.

Walking away from the dining hall and looking outside to the big golf course extending past the back of the hotel, I felt tempted to go for a walk. Just the thought of it made me feel even more tired than before.

Bed it is , I thought.

The light from the laptop screen was too bright for my eyes. The roar of the engines and the fast voice of the commentator were too much for my head. I felt it implode as I tried to focus on the race. I turned off the volume. There was nothing but the hum of my breath and the laptop fan whirling.

I kept reviewing the same moment. The impact at Turn 1. The car spinning in the grass. I watched the slow-motion replays and the onboard cam and I went back to the restart to watch it over again. And again.

Anger swelled up inside of me. I was frozen in front of my screen, sitting in bed, watching my own race over and over again, looking for answers that weren’t there. I was torturing myself with the thoughts of what could have happened if I didn’t regain control of the car.

Where would I be if the car had ended up in the barrier? Or at the middle of the track? How many drivers would I take with me?

And I felt it again. That pressure on my chest, the void in my lungs, as if those thoughts were taking the life out of me. My mind was racing as fast as my heart, weaving horrible scenarios, and poisoning me with a reality that was just another mistake away.

Before completely losing control of my own body and emotions, I got up from bed and walked to the window. The feeling of the carpet under my feet was enough to ground me in my current reality and as I parted the curtain to look outside, I felt peace taking over.

The empty golf course stretched across my vision until it was taken over by darkness. I looked through the darkness at the tiny dots in the clear sky, way more numerous than the ones I could see in Madrid.

“Breathe,” I whispered to myself. “Just breathe.”

As I inhaled deeply, I felt the pressure on my chest release its grip. The darkness in front of me started to take shape. The golf course, the trees and an artificial lake in the distance. The moon was bright enough to cast a pale light over everything.

My phone vibrated on the nightstand, startling me. Carlos. Our photo.

“Hi,” I walked back to the window.

“I’m glad you picked up,” a tired voice emerged on the other side. “I tried calling you a couple of times.”

“Sorry, I was…,” I looked for the right words; anything else than almost having a panic attack for the second time today would work. “Watching the race.”

“How are you feeling?”

His voice was clear. I pictured him in his room, about to go to bed, with the same worries as me, not knowing what to expect from the race he would have to battle in.

“To be honest,” a sigh. I sat on the floor, my bare tights touching the comfortable creme carpet. “I’m tired of being asked the same thing over and over again.”

“Sorry, just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“I am,” a lie. I could still feel my restless fingers shaking from the anxiety. “I’m just— you know, getting ready for tomorrow.”

“How many times have you watched it?”

“Three, I guess?”

“Don’t you already know what you did wrong?” a pause, my eyebrows frowning as confusion took over me. “I’ve watched you race before; You’re methodical. I know you are fully aware of the reasons behind the incident today,” another pause, not big enough to make me feel the need to fill the silence. “Don’t make yourself go through it again. Sometimes it’s not worth it to watch a race.”

“That surprises me,” actually, a lot of what he said surprised me.

I didn’t want to mention Rio’s new job or the fact that my heart had skipped a beat when he said that he had watched me race. Hearing it from his mouth was way different from hearing it from his mother’s.

“I would think an F1 driver would encourage me to watch and rewatch it,” I continued.

“I want you to win and to be better, but not at the price of your mental health. You need to be in a good headspace tomorrow.”

Tomorrow . I closed my eyes for a second. Focused on the deep tone of his voice in my ear, the warmth of his words, loaded with genuine care and understanding. He understood. He had his fair share of bad races and disappointments.

“How did quali go?” I asked, remembering that I didn’t have the chance to look at his results. For a second, I felt bad.

“George snatched pole within a very tiny margin, at the very last second,” Oh . His tone had said more than his words. He was pissed .

“Ouch,” he chuckled on the other side. “Did you get frustrated?”

“Of course,” a chuckle again, this one way more sarcastic than the previous. “I still am.”

“And how do you overcome that?”

“By remembering that there is always tomorrow,” a brief moment of silence. “Just focus on the next one. That's what life taught me. That’s how I do it.”

His words resonated with me. There’s always tomorrow. I repeated them in my mind.

“Thank you, Carlos.”

“For what?”

“Texting me. Calling me,” I looked over at my reflection in the dark window, the shadow of a lonely girl. “Even before everything the other day. For being here,” sometimes it feels lonely, I wanted to add.

“That’s what friends are for.” Friends . A brief moment of silence. I couldn’t find the right words, I couldn’t feel the right feelings either. “Will you watch it again or are you ready to get some sleep?”

“Just once more, I think.”

“I can do it with you. I know Imola and it wasn’t very kind to me this year as well.”

“I think that could help.”

“Alright,” I heard some noise, “Give me five minutes. I need to grab my laptop. Should we do this over the phone or… video?”

I looked at the window again. The messy bun, the tired eyes, the oversized t-shirt. Then I thought of him and the way his gaze grows more powerful when he’s focused on something or the very unique way the corners of his mouth twitch when he speaks. I didn’t want to have him as a distraction.

“Phone, if you don’t mind.”

And he hung up, just to call me again a few minutes later when I was sitting in bed with my laptop open in front of me. The recording was paused on the frame of my back as I walked away from the car at the end of the race. We analysed the race lap by lap and we also talked about the track, examining the curves I wasn’t taking so perfectly. Carlos explained to me his methods, tricks and tips to defend and attack in particular corners. Time flew by.

“Any questions before going to bed?”

I laughed at his tone, leaning against the headboard. “You’re taking this way too seriously, professor .”

“Well, I want you to win.”

“I know, I know.” I closed the laptop and put it on the nightstand. “Do you feel ready for tomorrow?”

“No,” he said, softly. “I’ll need to get ready tomorrow. There’s no such thing as just being ready.”

"I know," I replied. “Do you… fear it, sometimes? Racing?”

The flames from Austria came to my mind. I would fear it. I would hate the thought of having to be back in the car a few days after and race like nothing had happened. Perhaps he thought about that too, because he stayed silent for a few seconds.

“Racing itself, or the results? Or the danger?”

"Everything," I replied after a few seconds. "The unpredictability of it all. There’s this thing my mind does,” I admitted. “I think about the worst-case scenarios, all it takes is a single thing to go wrong and my mind and confidence just crumble.”

“I think we all do it sometimes.”

“And how do you enter the car when you’re not sure about anything?”

“I don’t,” he said, with a small laugh. “I go in with the same headspace I have every time, I put my helmet on and I try to concentrate on the race. In the car, it’s just me and the machine. My mind is blank. If my car is not my safe space, I know something is wrong and I need to do something about it.” A pause. “You can think about the race in your mind, imagine the most important corners and how you’d attack them. Beforehand, you can think about it all the time, but at the moment, while you’re racing, you can’t think too much. It’s a matter of removing unnecessary things from your mind and trying to focus on what you need to do. If you’re second doubting yourself, things won’t go well.”

“How are you so confident in the car? In life.”

“I guess it’s just experience,” he replied. “Seeing the amount of times that things went wrong and being able to learn from them. We are constantly learning, every time we drive. I know you learned something new today.”

“I did.”

“What was on your mind?”

“So many things I can’t tell you what they were,” I dragged my hand over my face. “Rio moving, this incredible pressure, the talks about next year… you .”

“Me?”

“Yeah. You,” I replied, a little absent. “The issue is not with racing. I’m happy when I’m in the car. It’s just… everything happening around me right now. I need a break.”

“I’m sorry if I’ve…” he paused, probably unsure of his words.

“Don’t be sorry.”

“I didn’t want to disrupt you. At all.” He paused again. “And here I am, calling on the night before a race, once again.”

“Well, I won the race last time, let’s see if the same happens again tomorrow.”

“That’s all I can wish for,” a laugh against the phone. “Go sleep, now. Goodnight, Eva.”

“Goodnight,” I said almost in a murmur. “Good luck out there too, Sainz.”

“We talk tomorrow,” he said before hanging up.

                                                        *  

Rio joined me and Rocco for a workout the next morning. Just like in the previous days, we didn’t exchange more words than the ones the activity obliged. The cold air of the morning invigorated me and by the time we had finished, I felt ready to take on the world.

Qualifying went smoothly. Another pole position. Andreas would start the race in fourth place, which gave me an advantage that I gladly welcomed.

By the time the race start procedure began, the sun was high in the sky and the air was still and dry. The asphalt was sizzling under my boots. There was no breeze entering the car when Pietro leaned in to say his goodbyes.

“Ti aspetto al traguardo, donnina. ” This time I squished his hand with more strength. It was all or nothing.

I had a chance to redeem myself and make history for this sport. That could be a greedy way of thinking, but I wanted that trophy as much as I wanted to have my name connected to the Challenge and Ferrari for years to come. That could be the last chance if I was to part with the category and chase other aims.

The start of the race was uneventful. Lap after lap, I kept my position. I was in control, completely dominating the race. I had them at my back during the whole race. In front of me were just the support of the crown, the red and yellow flags, and the prancing horse; all weaving in the grandstands.

A hard-fought victory, but a victory nonetheless.

The noise of the machines and the ecstasy of the crown echoed around the circuit as I left the car. I climbed to the top, my arms raised in the air, my clenched fist pointing to the sky, as my team celebrated around me. What a beautiful feeling.

No mistakes, no fears. No doubts. No more uncertainties.

I had done it.

My chest got lighter and lighter as the ecstasy took over my body and mind and the chants of my team set the rhythm of the celebrations. I jumped down and immediately was taken in a hug. I could feel the patting on the helmet. I could hear and feel them singing and jumping around me. I lifted my vizor to look clearly at their faces.

My dad took me into his arms the second I got rid of my helmet and balaclava. He kissed my warm cheeks, over the tears running down my face, which I didn’t even notice I had shed.

“I’m so proud of you, Evita,” he whispered in my ear, lifting me from the ground. His heart was beating as strong as my own. “So, so proud,” he cupped my face in his hands. I never saw him smile that hard. “Never doubt that. Never doubt yourself.”

Rio pulled me in a tight hug. His arms wrapped around me with a strength I had never felt before from him. It was a goodbye. He stepped back. His teary eyes, the big smile, the messy hair, the undone shirt from all the jumping.

I felt my lips tremble and I made an effort not to cry. He was an extension of me. I had never spent more than two weeks without seeing him. He embraced me again. Even tighter. Even more meaningfully.

“You’ll be great,” I muttered while he sniffled next to my neck. I stroked his back gently as I spoke. I could feel his hands clinging to my suit. “You’ll be one of the best.”

                                                        *  

His words mingled with the cacophony, making it hard to understand what he was saying. I sat down on one of the benches, of the outside garden. Dinner and the prize-giving ceremony were happening inside.

“Where are you?” I asked.

“In a bathroom,” he replied. “I had to hide from the team. I wanted to talk to you before this dinner. How are you feeling?”

“I don’t know…” I said, almost in a mumble. Hours had passed since the moment I crossed the finish line and I couldn’t seem to put some sense into what I was feeling. Utter happiness and disbelief and, at the same time, fear and uncertainty of what the future was saving for me. "Hard to put it into words," I said, a short giggle coming out with my words.

"I can imagine." The smile in his voice was easy to perceive. Instantly, my mind pictured him leaning against the wall, with his phone pressed to his ear. "You were great out there."

“I don’t think I could’ve done it without your help.”

“This race didn’t win you the championship,” he paused for a second. “You were amazing all season.”

“That doesn’t mean that I don’t need to thank you for what you did yesterday,” I insisted. My fingers were restless in the fabric of my dress, gripped by my inability to discern what last night had awakened in me. “And I need to say sorry. For the other day.”

For the first time, I could feel that we were going through the same thing. After years of parallel lives and not being able to understand his world, or even trying to, I finally felt like I could relate to him. That we weren't that far apart. I felt him close. Closer .

“You’re welcome,” he said after a short silence. I could hear the smile in his voice, even if I couldn’t see it. “And don’t worry about it.”

I didn’t really know what to say. The words were building up in my throat as quickly as they were disappearing. I didn't know how to deal with him. To be fair, I don’t think I ever knew. It was impossible to resist the sensations he ignited in me, which so easily took me back to the times when just the sight of his face made me blush.

"I should probably go," I said, seeing Nicola and Lina calling me inside.

"Save some champagne for me.”

“Of course,” I said. “Enjoy that dinner.”

“Enjoy that win. You deserve this.”

I mumbled a thank you and a fast goodbye and the line went dead shortly after.

                                                        *  

As I walked down the red carpet flanked by several Ferraris from various eras and categories, my attention was locked on the trophy weighing heavily in my arms. Striding through the aisle with confidence, teary-eyed but donning the biggest smile my lips had ever formed, my gaze dropped to the silver plate, with a thick gold rim and a yellow medal in the centre, on which the prancing horse was drawn in black. Around the rim, the title I had just conquered was imprinted on the golden metal.

I couldn’t help but smile as the flashes of the cameras lit up in my face. I had done it. Against all odds, I had become the first woman to win the Ferrari Challenge. At the end of the aisle, around the long rectangular table, my team was applauding me. Around the huge room, hundreds of people clapped.

I raised the trophy over my head, my arms reaching for the higher aims I always wanted for myself. I had finally conquered them. I did it under the weight of the stares and the pressure of expectations. And if there was a day where it weighed me down, this day it inflated my glory.

I had been living under a magnifying glass that whole year, but this time it was different. I had won it, despite all the scepticism. I looked around, still with my arms outstretched. In between intervals of blindness caused by the intermittent flashes, I watched the faces of the crowd clustered at the tables on either side of the aisle. Among them, I saw the sceptical faces that once told me that it was too late to turn pro, that I could continue as an amateur in lower categories and not waste my father’s money in racing. Those who, years before, had tried to convince my father to invest in other teams when Rio decided to stop racing and I proposed to take his place, were now applauding me as I walked back to my table, carrying the most important trophy of the room in my hands.

I reached the table in a few steps. The familiar faces smiling back at me, their eyes as teary as mine. Every single one of them was happy for me. Proud of me.

Rio looked at me with pain in his eyes, an uncertain smile, a duality that took over his expression. My chest ached to feel such an antithesis in his features, aching to feel him so restless, overwhelmed by scattered feelings. I set the trophy down on the table.

"Go hug your sister, Fabrizio," I heard my father say, pushing him towards me. The second I opened my arms to hold him in a hug, he was already there. Holding me in return.

"I'm so sorry. I’m so so sorry." I murmured as I caressed his back, hands open.

I pulled away and looked at him. He was wearing a tuxedo, but no tie. The top buttons were left unbuttoned and his face was perfectly shaved. His hair was slicked back, leaving his green eyes uncovered. The deep green stared at me, a tiny smile that barely reached his eyes. I had changed, Carlos had changed, but I had forgotten Rio had changed too.

He had always been my older brother, that unshakable figure who resisted everything and gave up nothing. The ambitious Rio, objective and analytical, with dreams and ambitions. The guy who taught me how to drive, how to make donuts and how to rollerskate. He was all that, but he had also grown to be a father and a husband, he had cultivated in him a huge sense of responsibility to care for and think of others, sometimes putting others ahead of himself.

“I want to make sure you understand my choices,” he took me by the arm and walked with me to the other side of the table, where we were previously sitting. “Don’t want to leave anything left unsaid.”

“I do. It may have taken me a while, but I do,” I sat down and Rio occupied the seat by my side.

I looked over at my parents, still standing near the rest of the team. They were beaming with pride. My father had his arm around my mother's waist and she was resting her head on his shoulder. I felt a lump in my throat and turned my gaze back to Rio.

“I won this for us ,” I whispered. “It has our name on it, not just mine.”

My body leaned over the table to pick up the trophy, which I then placed on my lap, over the silky red fabric of my dress. Around the trim, “DiMaggio” was imprinted in the space just before the title. I showed him the detail.

"I asked them to do it this way," I explained. "I wanted to share it with you."

"Eva," he looked deep into my eyes. His voice cracked and he had to pause to compose himself. "This is yours. You won it. You did an amazing job this season."

" We did an amazing job," I insisted. “I don’t care where you’re going next. Why you’re going, even. We deserve this.”

"Yes," he conceded. His finger traced the outline of the brim. "We do."

We looked at each other for a few seconds, in silence.

"I'm going to miss you," I said finally.

"I'm going to miss you too." He took my hand and squeezed it. "Maybe for just one day or two.”

I turned my head down and laughed again. When I turned to him again, his eyes were now locked on the golden band on his finger, “Marjorie told me I should talk to you first. I didn’t listen. I don’t know why. Do you think I’m ungrateful?”

“Rio…” I laid my hand on top of his and did a gesture with my head as I got up. I felt the weight of the stranger’s eyes on us. He got up after me and walked by my side until we reached the outside.

The icy night air seeped through the slits in my dress, touching my skin everywhere and making me shiver with cold. There were a few people scattered around the terrace - some were alone, drinking or smoking, and some were accompanied. I walked to one of the corners of the terrace. The cigarette butt in the ashtray, still scattering a line of smoke, told me that until a few minutes ago someone had been there. I sat on the wooden bench, positioned under a still small and fragile tree and looking out over the golf court, from which the terrace offered a beautiful view.

"I said it out of fear," I began to speak as soon as the background noise of the ceremony died down. "I never believed you were really ungrateful. I saw the things you’ve done for me and the team. There’s nothing ungrateful in this. But you made the decision by yourself, spent weeks keeping this away from me and I admit that hurt me.” That was no lie. Looking at him, his painful expression and the look on his face throughout the whole weekend, I could see he was going through a lot. “Perhaps you were being a bit unfair, but not ungrateful.” I paused.

Rio leaned against the glass railing that surrounded the terrace, facing me. His body blocked the view, making the darkness disappear and filling my field of vision with the image of his tired and remarkably upset face. Now, maybe, even a little confused.

“Unfair?”

“Yes… To yourself and to me too. It was a tough decision to make alone,” I explained my point. “And it saddens me that you didn’t feel you could share the burden with me. I’m not a teenager anymore. I could have helped.”

He nodded. Just that. No words, no dry smiles or sarcastic remarks. Silence took over, which was not common between us. We would fall into disagreements and arguments every time we had a tough matter to handle. That’s how it had been the last week. The gut-wrenching silence that fell whenever we weren’t obligated to talk over any work-related subject.

He had his lip caught between his teeth and his gaze focused on the perfectly polished sailing shoes he was wearing. And if I knew him, I knew that hard-to-decipher gaze was a sign that his mind was full. I wondered what words he was saving and what was the reason to do so.

“I didn't want to approach you and simply say I was bored at the Challenge,” he raised his eyes to find mine. “At one point, I felt like I was doing nothing, that I had barely any service to the team. You were doing all the job.” He paused quickly. “And you did it amazingly! But there was nothing more for me to do than gather data and pass it on to you. I was not being challenged .”

A dry chortle from his part, noticing the play on words.

“So you decided to send out resumes?”

"Not only that," he shrugged and leaned away from the fence. He took a few steps, hiding his hands in the pockets of his pants. The night was unusually cold for July. I warmed my arms with my hands. "But yeah, essentially that was it. I started to send them out until the day I was talking about the season with Carlos and he decided to act on it.”

Carlos. His name didn’t take long to surface in the conversation.

“How involved was he in this?”

“Not much.” He sounded honest. “I didn’t want it to be any other way. I just needed him to tell me if there was a chance for me or not.” He paused. I raised an eyebrow and gestured with my hand, encouraging him to continue. "Two, three, weeks later I got a call. They asked me for some reports. And a few days later, when I travelled to Silverstone, they surprised me with an interview."

“What did Carlos do, exactly?”

I wasn't sure where I was going, there wasn't much thought behind my questions. I knew Rio had gotten the job on his own merits. All the work my brother had done with the team, the way his insights managed to unify a set of strangers and turn them into a winning team was remarkable. It was more than enough to promote him to any category above the Challenge.

So my question wasn't what Carlos had done to get him a job. And I think he knew it.

“He mentioned my name? I think. I don’t know.” A pause. “I didn’t talk to him about the job until after I got an offer. Why so many questions?”

I shook my head. There was no reason for so many questions, other than the lack of trust I had in myself and Carlos. With each barrier he broke down, another one rose.

I hadn't been naive enough to think that it was really the longing that made him take a step towards me, but I had let myself bathe in the happiness that thought brought me. However, it was one thing to allow me to think about it and use such excuses as a justification for not trusting him, and it was another thing for Rio to confirm to me that he had indeed encouraged Carlos' action.

“This might sound dumb, but,” a dense exhale left my lips, taking with it the restlessness of my ideas. The answer Rio would give me wouldn't be black and white, but maybe it would be the ideal shade of grey. “Did you ask him to talk to me?”

He didn’t take long to answer, nor did he hesitate with his words.

Rio had no reason to be careful with his words and spare me the answer. It was a yes. Simple as that.

"Asking you would be a dead end," he completed.

That was a certainty. I was too stubborn to deign to talk to him, even if my brother asked me to. Rio had leaned back against the fence again, his hands now in his pockets, one leg crossed in front of the other. The night accentuated the expressions on his face, especially the frown lines on his brows and his clenched jaw as he tried to read my face.

I didn't realize that I was silent.

That was one hard shade of grey to decipher. Only then I realised I was grabbing onto the hope of a different answer. That maybe, even if Carlos’ motivation had been Rio’s well-being, at least he acted by himself, without any interference from my brother. Once again, my hopeless romantic streak jumping ahead of me.

"I'm guessing you two have talked by now.” I nodded without saying a word. I needed a few seconds to think. "Things didn't go right, did they?"

My torso heaved with the dry laugh that had escaped. I couldn't say things were worse, but they weren't right. They would be if desperation and longing hadn't clouded our minds and had put us in that position . Literal and figurative. If only he had never gotten so close like that, or if I had retreated at once instead of allowing us to levitate so close to each other, harvesting feelings I thought had long since withered and disappeared.

"Didn't he say something about it?"

"Not really," he said. "Until now, I had no idea if he decided to try to talk with you after his failed attempt in Mugello."

I looked into his eyes, my mind trying to think of some way to put my feelings into words. I was confused, upset, angry… Everything I felt was too tangled up to be able to answer in one go. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

"Eva,” he sat down by my side and clapped his hands on his tights, “I just need you two to get along well. I don’t need you to become best friends, I just want you to be able to share a room, or a table, without any of you feeling uncomfortable with each other’s presence.”

He had a good point. Avoiding us sitting close together at the same table will be the least of his worries the moment they start to work together. Until now, it was Rio who occasionally visited Carlos wherever he was racing. In a couple of months, it would be me who would have to go to Rio. And Carlos would be there.

Imagining a future where everything stayed as it was, Rio would be destined to live a nightmare, running through a complicated labyrinth whenever he needed me.

“You two were really good before,” he continued. “I don’t see why things won’t get better.”

I sought comfort in him. I laid my head on his shoulder and stared into the darkness, imagining lines between the points of light that marked the paths through the grass a few feet away from us.

“I don’t think things will go as well as you deserve them to go.”

"No worries," he answered with a tender smile, looking at me. "I just need them to go a little bit better."

We stayed silent for a bit, my mind finding the rest it needed on the good memories of the three of us, especially the weeks in winter we would spend in the snow with our parents, or the long summer days we used to spend by the pool.

“Don’t be mad at him for only speaking to you now,” he continued and I moved my head to be able to capture his face. “I'm sure I'm not the only reason he decided to finally do something about it. If what I asked him to do had any impact, it was just so he could blame me if things didn't go well,” his lips turned into a funny smile and I chuckled. “You two,” he paused, “have a problem with empathy. Not the lack of it. The total opposite. And both of you are so stubborn… It was difficult to see you drifting apart and not being able to stop it.”

His words brought the restlessness back. I got up, pacing around between the bench and the fence, trying to settle my unquiet mind. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That each step he takes to reach you is way heavier than you could ever imagine,” he explained. “He has a way to deal with his feelings, a way to show them… he talks, he acts, he…”, Rio stopped for a second, thinking, “he doesn’t let himself be vulnerable. He uses his tough guy attitude to hide it, but you know he’s not all that.”

My mind pictured the beautiful sight of his face so close to mine - the perfectly shaped brown eyes, the thick lips parted, ready to take mine. I could hear his laughter in my mind and the murmur of his breath. He had been vulnerable with me.

“I would pay to know what you’re thinking about, Eva,” he disrupted my thoughts. “Don’t use this to create a glass box around you, thinking it will protect you from him while giving him the illusion he’s getting close.”

“I’m not like that,” I interrupted him.

“He protects your feelings more than his own, Eva. That’s why he let you go,” my brother's countenance changed as his patience wore thin. “I was there to witness the way he looked at you, the way he used to get jealous when you talked to someone else. He was crazy about you. But he…” Rio hesitated, “ respected you so much he was not capable to stop you from living your life to live by his.”

From this moment on, my mind was blank to anything but his words.

"You were way too careful with each other," he continued. "You take a step forward, or a step back, but never to each other’s pages. Because you are too afraid to let yourselves do it. You’ll find every excuse to not do it. Just like you’re doing now.

“You’re waiting for me to say something that will either make you trust him or verify every excuse your mind has been weaving since the last time you talked. And he’s probably doing the same. He doesn't have faith in his feelings. And he definitely does not have faith in himself, to the point where he thinks it’s acceptable to jeopardize his relationship with me or our family if he takes the step."

"I want it to go well," I said.

"I'm sure you do," Rio took my hand and smiled. “But if you're waiting for me to make you feel comfortable, you'll have to wait a little more." I nodded at his words, a fragile smile taking my lips as I saw the corner of his curling. “I can’t tell you to follow your heart, or whatever saying you or anyone else would say,” I chortled and he continued, “especially because I don't know what the hell is going on in your head, but I can just tell you to admit to yourself that you miss him and that you want him around.”

His words reached me and if it hadn't been for his usual sunny disposition that was being brought back by the smile emerging on his face, I would have probably started crying at that moment.

Next chapter: 05.

Next chapter we'll have Carlos in a suit roaming around Eva's backyard. Keep that in your mind, eheh. Hope the race narration wasn't too boring. Thank you so much, see you all around! <3

[secretwhumplair]

Welcome

1,061 words | Mirai and the serpent king (sequel to Awakening)

Content | Slavery, fear, shame

Notes | Honestly not a lot of exciting things happen in this one but. Mirai is glad about it lol

Taglist | @yet-another-heathen @echo-goes-aaa @whumpinator

For a moment, Mirai stood there, feeling ridiculously lost, then Rizi came up to him; several of the others, too, came closer to look at the new arrival, interrupting what Mirai now realized was an advanced stage of breakfast.

»Hi, Mirai. I’m Rizi.«

They shook hands, Mirai in a daze that couldn’t quite decide between happiness of being surrounded by friendly-seeming peers, and terror of so many unknown faces and hearts. »H-hello.«

Rizi introduced the others who had come, four nosy creatures: two humans, a snake and the centauress. Mirai already knew he’d fail to remember their names at the first try, but they continued to seem friendly, and they backed off when they noticed how nervous he was.

»Come on,« said the centauress, »there’ll be plenty of time to get to know each other.«

He was left alone with Rizi, and stole a glance at the elf. He hadn’t approached, but watched him with interest, quietly chatting with a snake in iridescent dark scales Mirai hadn’t known existed. When he caught Mirai’s eye, he gave a wry smile and looked away.

»That’s Izara and Shasha. I’m sure you’ll get to know each other, don’t worry.«

Mirai simply nodded, once again ashamed of his voice. What would Izara think? Maybe it would be better if they didn’t get to know each other… but then, that didn’t seem an option, living in such close quarters.

»Do you want to have breakfast first, or the tour?« Rizi asked. »It won’t take long.«

»Oh.« Mirai was taken aback by even the possibility of a choice. »The, the tour, please.« That was what the serpent king had ordered, after all.

»Alright! So this is our living room,« Rizi gestured at the room around them, then led the way towards the arches, which opened, as Mirai realized when approaching, onto- »The balcony.«

There were a pair of tables with seats on the balcony as well, with a pretty view of a pond full of water-lilies, surrounded by old trees, of which several were flowering.

Mirai found himself with a hand to his heart. It felt good, having a little beauty to look at almost at his leisure.

»Like it?« Rizi was smiling, and it barely felt vulnerable to admit it with a nod.

»You don’t like talking, huh? Does it hurt?«

»No, I just…« Mirai swallowed, once more reminded. »It’s… I miss my voice,« he confessed. »And it’s… it doesn’t bring up… fond memories.«

»Ah.« Rizi reached out and patted his shoulder awkwardly, and somehow, that was the final straw.

Before he knew it, Mirai was bawling in Rizi’s arms. Shame washed through him—how could he, when Rizi and the others were in the same position?

But Rizi didn’t try to escape. They held him, rubbed his back, and muttered, »Shh, it’s alright now. You had a rough journey, huh? It’s okay.«

»I’m s-sorry,« Mirai sobbed, and pulled back.

»It’s okay, really.« Rizi squeezed his hand. »Most of us were a bit of a mess when we got here. Especially us not-snakes. Foreign traders don’t make the journey with wares they can get rid of elsewhere, we’re all… we’ve all been through it.«

That only served to make Mirai feel worse. They all had suffered equally, and here he was taking advantage of Rizi’s kindness. »I’m sorry.«

»Me too, for whatever happened to you.« Rizi smiled sadly. »Here’s better than anywhere I’ve been, I promise.«

»Okay,« Mirai muttered, feeling stupid even as he said it. »Thank you.«

Rizi awkwardly rubbed his arm once more, then asked, »Ready to go on?«

Mirai nodded, his cheeks flushed hot.

They took him back inside and turned to the first door on the left. »Here’s our bathrooms—the other one is right opposite. We’re expected to keep ourselves clean and tidy for the king.«

Mirai nodded; that made sense. The bathroom was generously large, with several washstands, racks of towels, a shelf with various jars, brushes, and soap. In the middle of it, there was even a tub.

»I guess you’ll have your hands full with your hair,« Rizi noted, walked over and picked up a jar out of the shelf. »This’ll be useful for it. Brush it in like once a week.«

»Yes, he- the king said something like that,« Mirai recalled, relieved to find out where and how he was expected to do that. »Thank you.«

»Sure. Hey, if you have any questions, you can ask me, alright? The others too. They don’t bite. Come on.« Rizi led the way back into the main room, where Mirai immediately noticed the more covert curious glances he still drew, then to one of the open doors.

They entered a simple bedroom, containing a large bed, a wardrobe, and even a small desk under a regular-sized window—small in comparison to what Mirai had seen elsewhere in the palace. »And the rest of these are our bedrooms. There’s ten of them and like, what, now fourteen of us, but some people already share so I’m sure you’ll find a spot. Actually I’m not sure anyone sleeps in here at the moment, so, if you want to sleep alone… And during the day, most of the time some of them are free. Just let people know if you’ve got to be alone for a bit. We’re making it work.«

»That’s, um. That’s lovely, thanks.«

»And that’s about it, I think? Like I said, if you have any question or are unsure about anything,« at this they gave Mirai a dubious look, as if they could already tell he was unsure about most things, »just ask, okay?«

»Okay,« Mirai muttered, even knowing he probably wouldn’t have the nerve. Not soon, anyway.

He followed Rizi back into the living room, where they returned to the table they had gotten up from.

The darkest-skinned human, having finished breakfast, was just dealing out cards to the four people around the table, three humans and the startlingly thin brown-patched snake. »You in, Rizi?«, and when Rizi affirmed, she looked at Mirai. »What about you? We’re playing Blossoms.«

»I- I don’t know how.«

»You can just watch a round and see if you want to join the next,« Rizi suggested to general agreement and Mirai’s relief. »You need to eat, anyway.«

Mirai let himself sink into a seat cushion, and for the first time, caught his breath.

[stardustprompts]

she who became the sun ( the radiant emperor #1 )  -   shelly parker-chan change tenses/pronouns as needed !!  some lines have been edited for clarity / length / ease of roleplaying  tw ;  death , war ,  violence , sexism

‘they say there’s luck in names, and you’ve certainly had luck enough.’

'in my experience, lucky people tend to be the laziest.’

‘where’s the fun in suffering by yourself?’

‘you think you’re that good-looking everyone wants to see you?’

‘desire is the cause of all suffering.’

‘I don’t appreciate being made a puppet for another man’s dirty work.’

‘when I ask myself if future pain is worth it for this life I have now, I always find that it is.’

‘I always knew you had a strong will. but what’s unusual about you is that most strong willed people never understand that will alone isn’t enough to guarantee their survival.’

‘more so than will, survival depends upon an understanding of people and power.’

‘it isn’t strength, but knowledge, that will be our best tool for surviving these difficult times ahead.’

'undoubtedly, chaos brings danger. but there will be opportunities, too.’

‘it’s due to chaos that we’re living through a moment in which even ordinary men can aspire to greatness.’

‘are you going to stab me?’

‘you can’t pray away your fate.’

‘I was merciful. I let you live.’

‘you cause me trouble as well as shame.’

‘you disappoint me.’

‘any power with such comprehensive reach should be understood.’

‘any power with such comprehensive reach should be understood. perhaps especially if they’re on our side.’

‘in my father’s eyes, I’ll always be the failure.’

‘(name) is an easy person to love. the world loves him, and he loves the world, because everything in it has always gone right for him.’

‘you and (name) are two unlike things. don’t fool yourself that he can ever understand you.’

‘I know what it’s like to be humiliated.’

‘any kind of fool can stumble into success once or twice.’

‘you two are such a bad match. can’t you have a single conversation without fighting?’

‘can’t you have a single conversation without fighting?’

‘clever people know when to give in.’

‘if you join his side, you’ll regret it.’

‘how little lives are worth in this war. theirs and ours, both.’

‘you have a lot of feelings in you.’

‘to win a hundred victories, a hundred battles is not the pinnacle of skill. to subdue the enemy without fighting is the pinnacle of skill.’

‘what someone is means nothing about what kind of person they are. truth is in actions.’

‘I didn’t mean to kill. at first.’

‘I wanted to live, so I took a life.’

‘all that means is we have to make this life count.’

‘who did you become, when we were apart?’

‘I might not know you, but I know what you want.’

‘you’ve opened my eyes. there are so many more options than I thought.’

‘you saw something in me that I didn’t know myself.’

‘what kind of man bothers to see potential in a woman, and encourages her despite her own doubts?’

‘rest assured that the only reason I helped you is because it gets me closer to what I want.’

‘you know what’s worse than suffering? not suffering, because you’re not even alive to feel it.’

‘learn to want something for yourself. not what someone says you should want. not what you think you should want.’

‘don’t go through life thinking only of duty. when all we have are these brief spans between our nonexistences, why not make the most of the life you’re living now?’

‘why not make the most of the life you’re living now? the price is worth it.’

‘maybe your suffering is worth whatever it is you want to achieve. but mine wouldn’t be.’

‘that’s all past history. I never think of it.’

‘do you believe that? that one day we’ll be out of a job, because of peace?’

‘have the courage to take power for yourself! do you think it will come to you if you wait?’

‘do you actually believe the idiocy that comes out of your mouth?’

‘you never accepted me for who I am; you never even saw everything I did for you, all because I’m not like (name)!’

‘you always push everyone away. what do you find in it, the loneliness? I couldn’t bear it.’

‘you trust too much. I admire you for it. that you prefer to drawn people closer, rather than push them away. but it’ll get you hurt.’

‘the worst injury you can do to a man is shame him. he can never forget it.’

‘it must have been painful, learning that true wisdom lies in obedience.’

‘are you always thinking do little of me that my defeats seem inevitable?’

‘i’d have thought you’d be the last to cry about (name’s) fate. why can’t we just stand back and let it happen?’

‘so you’re going to save (name) from himself?’

‘and here I thought I was the only one who got manipulated by pretty girls.’

‘why are you lowering yourself by dirtying your hands like this? let someone else take care of this trash.’

‘you were only ever a pretender. you only sat on a pretend throne.’

‘why do we have to play these awful games? what for?’

‘what does anyone want but to be on top, untouchable?’

‘who do you think I am, to think I can make anything happen in my own life? i’m a woman.’

‘I know you don’t want that life. a different one isn’t impossible.’

‘you have something I don’t; you feel for others, even the ones you don’t like.’

‘you want me to believe you’re different. that you can give me something different. but how can I trust that? I can’t.’

‘are you fool enough to believe the future will match your dream of it, with no consideration of the reality of the situation?’

‘I don’t admit anything! I don’t need to! you’ve already made up your mind!’

‘you can’t reason with fools who refuse to see reason.’

‘he was right about you. you’re worthless. worse than that; a curse.’

‘there are people who say that grief will hurt as much as it’s worth.’

‘there are people who say that grief will hurt as much as it’s worth. and there is nothing worth more than a father.’

‘(name) would never put himself on the line for me, or anyone else. but you, you’d do anything for me, wouldn’t you?’

‘i’ve wanted and struggled and suffered for that fate my whole life. I’m not going to stop now.’

‘you are trouble. I’ve never met anyone more trouble than you,’

‘are you so certain of the possibility of change? it seems to me the outcome is inevitable.’

‘what I want has nothing to do with who wins.’

‘every time the world turns its face from you, know it was because of me.’

‘stop blaming yourself and let yourself want it.’

‘stop blaming yourself and let yourself want it. i’ll give it to you.’

‘I have everything I need. whereas you, — you still need me.’

‘nobody expected anything of me. nobody ever cherished me.’

‘I cherish you.’

‘you think you understand me. but don’t forget it goes both ways. like knows like; like is connected to like. I understand you, too.’

‘pure emotions are the luxury of children and animals.’

‘more fool I am, to hope against hope for a change in his nature, that he might actually try to be useful.’

‘I presume you’re not here to kill me.’

‘you think you have power over me because you know a secret. but you don’t.’

‘how can something like that stop me, destroy me, when nothing else has?’

‘look at me and see the person who will win. the person who will rule.’

‘I presume you realize how much I dislike you. wasn’t the last where I said I wanted to kill you clear enough?’

‘you betray you ignorance in less than a sentence.’

‘how willing you were to think the worst of me. why aren’t you happier? i’m just being who you’ve always though I was. i’m giving you the ending you believed in.’

‘the times and means of our deaths have always been fixed, and this is yours.’

‘even the most shining future, if desired, will have suffering at its heart.’

‘i’ll follow you, as far as you want to go.’

‘I wasn’t born with the promise of greatness either. but I have it now. because I wanted it. because I’m strong, because I’ve struggled and suffered to become the person I need to me, and because I do want needs to be done.’

‘you said you’d be different. you lied to me.’

‘when you did this, did you even stop to think about how it might make me feel to bear witness for what you think is justified?’

‘I want what I want, and sometimes I’m going to have to do certain things to get it.’

‘you have two choices. you can rise with me, which I’d prefer. or if you don’t want what I want— you can leave.’

[eternal-armin]

old friend.

eddie patches up the reader after he gets beaten yet again. reader: transmasculine. warnings: transphobia, injury from assault, blood, light mentions of drugs.

you ignored the blood still dripping from your nose and the pounding of your head and body, opening a small container and taking one of the capsules out, swallowing the ecstasy easily.

eddie walked out from the bathroom, a damp rag in one hand and a first aid kit in the other. you glanced up at him; at his concerned expression, at his eyes just catching the case returning to your jean pocket. he didn't comment on it, but you both knew. he sat down in front of you, lifting the cloth to your nose, carefully cleaning the blood off of your skin. you barely flinched anymore, even if it still hurt. hell, you had to sit down on the ground instead of the couch because it was easier to fall than it was to sit.

he hated seeing you like this. but even more so, he hated that you wouldn't do anything about it.

eddie didn't want to push it. he didn't want to make it worse. but he couldn't help himself. he had to at least try, or something, god damnit.

"why don't you do anything, [y/n]?" he asked, tilting your head slightly, illuminating a bruise on your temple. he presumed it was from hitting the ground. his voice had started out very quiet, not loud or accusatory, and he sounded as concerned as he looked. "it's okay to defend yourself, y'know. you're strong!"

"eddie, i'm not gonna do that." your voice was hushed and sore. eddie knew you had been crying. and hard, even if you wouldn't admit it. your eyes were still red and puffy, your cheeks stained with the trails left behind, your lips a little swollen. not just from the punches, but from biting them, trying to stay quiet. you did not look at him. but he knew why you couldn't meet his eyes, because he could see the shame in yours.

you were strong. which somehow made everything hurt ten times worse.

"why not?" with a huff, he sat back, crossing his arms. with his shoulders hunched up near his jaw, he looked like a pouting child.

"we've gone over this, eddie." you scoffed to keep from crying all over again. and it was very, very clear that it lacked humor. but it wasn't angry or condescending, either, just a sound void of all feeling and all thought. "if i tell someone that i'm being hurt, then they're gonna question the dickheads that hurt me—why they hurt me, and then i'm out to everyone. i don't have a choice."

"there's always a choice, [y/n]!"

"so what's mine?" out of exasperation, you looked at him. your expression was so utterly hurt and scared that it practically reset him. "what's mine, eddie? w-wh—... i can choose between getting beat and getting beat more. those are my fucking options, eddie!"

he couldn't deny that. it was '87 in a small town, you could be fucking crucified, for god's sake. but still, there had to be some other option or something. just something. "then... a-at least let me help you! protect you, whatever you need! i can't stand seeing you get hurt this way anymore, man!"

"i can't stand it either, but it's either pain or worse pain, alright? and you—you definitely aren't getting caught up in all of this. okay? just stay out of it." your throat limited the anger you could spout. you could barely muster words, it hurt so bad, but you also couldn't stop talking. you could deal with getting beat half to death, but you would never be able to forgive yourself—or the world—if it happened to eddie.

"why not? i-i don't care if i get hurt, i don't care how many people i need to hurt! let me protect you!"

"eddie, no."

"why the hell not, damnit?!"

"people already are freaked out by you! t-they already hate you! it's just gonna get worse for you if you try to intervene! i'm not—i am not having that. okay? it's checkmate, eddie, stop trying to change the game and just... accept that this is the way things are right now." your voice broke, and you rested back against the couch, sniffling quietly.

"no. no no no. i'm accepting fucking, like, nothing right now. i'm helping you, [y/n], you think i care about what those... 'people' think about me? like hell i do!" he sat up, gently holding your shoulders, and cupping your face when you couldn't look at him. the frazzled look in his eyes pacified you a little in a strange way. maybe because he could muster up the strength that you couldn't bear.

"eddie, i'm... i'm worried about you getting hurt."

his expression softened slightly, running his thumb back and forth on your bruising skin. his touch was careful and tender, gently brushing away the new streaks of tears.

"don't worry about me getting hurt, rockstar." he gave you a small smile. "honestly, don't you fucking dare. you're the one that needs to be taken care of right now, alright?" upon receiving your nod, he sat back down, legs crossed, and looked over your face once more to be sure he didn't miss anything. your nose was now red from the scrubbing, not from stains of blood. and though you would certainly look like a punching bag in a few hours, it was nothing that ice packs, good meals, and decent sleep couldn't fix.

"thank you," you mumbled, managing a smile for him.

seeing it made the world feel a little bit more okay again. "not a problem, my dude. now off with the shirt, i know you got your shit rocked."

you snorted, shaking your head slightly at the crude humor. but you did so, taking off the long-sleeve that wasn't yours but his, exposing forming bruises and a few deep cuts from steel-toed boots, along with your binder.

it felt like his heart faltered for a second. how you hadn't broken a rib or something yet amazed him. "it can't be fun to go through this wearing that." eddie muttered, glancing at your binder with the last word.

you shrugged slightly. bad idea. "it's not. i can't catch my breath for so long. i'm like a fish out of water." as much as you joked, it was that inability to breathe that struck you as the worst part of it all. being unable to catch your breath, choking on the air you could get in, your lungs drying up like raisins, sobbing and gasping and writhing on the ground. it made crying sting and stab so badly. you remembered how badly you wanted to scream and cry and plead, and how you couldn't, because you were being asphyxiated by your own goddamn clothing. eddie recognized you spacing out, tapping your forehead.

"you gotta stay out here, rockstar. for a little bit, anyway." hearing eddie be so tender was weird. but in a good way, oddly enough. you nodded, taking a deep breath. reminding yourself that you could.

"yeah. yeah, yeah, i ju—... uhm, sorry."

"[y/nnn], what did we talk about, no apologies when they're not necessary." with the gentlest touch he could muster, he wiped away the blood—both dry and fresh—and winced every time you did. along with mumbling a very sincere "my bad." and once everything was clean, aside from the bruises, he broke out the bandages. already, those deep contusions were turning almost black in how deep red they were. they would only get worse. he couldn't imagine how sore your torso would be. would you even be able to move? eat?

if you would allow him to, he would fucking kill those bastards. but you wouldn't. and he would respect that.

begrudgingly.

"s—" you cleared your throat. eddie narrowed his eyes at you, raising a brow. you couldn't help but break into a grin, trying not to laugh. "okay. yeah." a jolt of aching pain prickled through your ribs as he put neosporin on the still-open wounds—and another when he put on the bandages. "s-shit. oh, shit," you hissed.

"it's okay. you're okay, 'ts alright," he reassured, and allowed you to hold his hand. eddie even encouraged you to hold it as tight as you could. he couldn't imagine the pain. "jeez, i dunno how we're gonna get food in ya, man. how are you gonna change your clothes 'n shit?"

fuck. you hadn't thought of that. and there was no way you were spending the next few agonizing weeks with a damn binder on.

"i-i mean, we can just do smoothies and stuff. for the food. please—don't feel, uhm, d-don't feel obligated to help..." you cleared your throat rather awkwardly. you weren't a child, you didn't need help being changed, but what the hell else were you supposed to do? try and cut off the binder? like hell you were gonna do that.

"hey, we're all guys here. we're all bros. and also, you definitely aren't spending weeks in the same outfit. i don't care what i have to do. a'right?"

"fine... but don't even think about changing my underwear. i have to keep my dignity." eddie snorted at that. boxers would be easier to take off than a very skin-tight and constrictive binder. both would hurt, but the latter would hurt more if you tried to wriggle out of it yourself.

"you want me to go over to your place and get some clothes? i mean, i ask, but i already know the answer." clapping his hands on his knees, he stood up. "i got plenty'a hand-me-downs and shit just for you, little one." lord knows that your own clothes were... well, let's just say, unfitting for your identity. yeah, your parents weren't exactly the most accepting, either. the dickheads.

"i'm your age, eddie."

"i'm sorry, i'm sorry, which one of us is taller?"

you gasped, rather dramatically. "asshole."

"i love you too, shortstack. now i'm gonna put away the first aid kit, get you some new, uh, un-stained clothes, and then you're getting out of those." eddie explained, tucking the kit under his arm. "then i'll get you some ice for your face. and torso. and arms, probably. and then, we'll make up a smoothie or some shit. i probably have still some of your favorite fruits from last time in the freezer. worst comes to worst, i'll probably just run out super quick."

you smiled at him, your own way of thanking him beyond what words could say. and even when you were beat up beyond belief, you smiled like an angel. his heart hurt when he saw it, but it also brightened.

[your-divine-ribs]

Ice Cold Part 11

Words: 2.2k words

Lyla arrives in Paris for the next assignment…

Ice Cold Masterlist Main Masterlist

The days following my encounter slipped by in a whirlwind of anxiety and denial. I felt like I was sleep-walking, the tenuous grip I had on reality getting weaker every time I tried to make sense of my confusing feelings.

My colleagues all thought that I was traumatised by something that had happened that night and in part that was true, but for very different reasons than whatever they could imagine. Apart from Jason of course. I had to endure his snide comments and inappropriate behaviour which was steadily getting worse. His wandering hands which would have earned him a sharp comment at the very least or a slap before were met by a pathetic weakening of my resistance. I hated myself for letting him get away with it, but in truth I was terrified by the thought of him causing trouble for me.

Paul tried to persuade me to move to a safe-house and lay low for a while, positive that Van would come back to 'finish what he'd started' but I refused. He eventually relented, so I now had an unmarked car sitting outside my apartment every night, and strict orders to report on my whereabouts at all times if I made a trip out. I felt like a prisoner in my own home, and having more time to sit around and think was driving me crazy. When I got wind of some valid intelligence that had been received about another hit expected in Paris, I found myself begging Paul to let me go, despite my better judgement.

"Please Paul, I'm losing my sanity here stuck behind a desk. I know you're worried about me but you can't mollycoddle me forever. I'm a fully trained agent and I can handle myself."

He looked conflicted as I paced in front of his desk. "Lyla, you know how I feel about this. I think your time might be better spent staying here in the office and working with Jason. He's making some real progress with mapping out where the people are based who are orchestrating all of this. If we can get to whoever's running this organisation it'll be like cutting the head off the snake."

The thought of spending time alone with Jason filled me with a sick kind of dread and I considered coming clean and telling Paul all about the harassment that I was enduring, but I was terrified that if I made life difficult for Jason he would retaliate and the shameful truth would somehow be uncovered.

I balled my hands into fists at my sides in pure frustration, stepping up to Paul's desk and looking at him with pleading eyes. "I can do this... please. Look, you said so yourself, no one has ever got so close to Van and walked away to tell the tale. I have... three times."

Paul raised his eyebrows. "Don't think you can let your guard down just because he's spared you before. Showing mercy isn't his style. Things are hotting up. They know we're closing in. That's why they're desperate to find out who our undercover agents are. Van will have strict orders to wipe out as many of us as he can."

My mind immediately pictured Van in a rage, fighting with his conscience about whether to kill me or not. The risk was real and absolute, I had no doubt about that. But there was something burning inside me which pushed the risk to one side. It was reckless and foolish but I just couldn't help myself. I felt out of control, like an addict craving a fix of the one thing that would more than likely be my demise.

"I need this... I need to prove my worth. And I can do this... I know I can. I won't let you down."

My plea hung in the air for a moment, I could see the struggle taking place in Paul's head, the promise he made to my father weighing heavily on him.

"Shit Lyla... I think you have me wrapped around your little finger sometimes," he said eventually, shaking his head. Then he frowned at me with a stern expression. "Please don't make me regret this."

So there I was, two days later, disembarking a plane at Charles de Gaulle Airport, gripping my passport tightly as I moved through arrivals.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Jen spoke from beside me.

I'd hardly spoken since we'd got on the plane, thankful that another agent, Raj, had been sat on Jen's other side. He'd taken her attention whilst I sat at the window seat, staring blindly out at the clouds, trying to convince myself that I was travelling hundreds of miles for the right reason.

"I'm fine... I'm just tired," I mumbled.

"Can't believe Paul's actually let you come," Raj chuckled as he retrieved his luggage off the baggage carousel.

"And what's that supposed to mean?" I snapped, automatically ready for a fight.

"Woah! I didn't mean anything bad!" Raj set his suitcase down and raised his hands up defensively. "I think he's worried that Van's got some kind of agenda with you, the way he keeps targeting you."

I waved a hand dismissively. "I guess I've just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. It's nothing personal."

Jen stepped forward. "He broke into your apartment. I'd say that was pretty personal!"

Before I could protest Raj was off again, an eager look on his face as he looked at me wide-eyed. "I heard about that. Bloody hell, it must have been terrifying coming face to face with him. I've been doing some work with the profiling team and he is one fucked up individual. He's an absolute psychopath, no empathy, no fear, no remorse... nothing."

My interest was piqued, I'd seen plenty of case files but I'd not been privy to his in-depth psych profile. "Have you read all about his history? Why he's the way he is? I'd love to know..."

Jen cut in. "Does it matter? We're not here to give him bloody therapy!"

"But aren't you curious?" I asked.

"No!" Jen said in a sharp tone which wasn't her usual manner. "And you shouldn't be either. Just concentrate on what we've been sent here to do. We're here to arrest him... or kill him. And I can't see him coming quietly, can you?"

Jen's statement caught me off guard but luckily Raj came to my rescue. "Well I actually think it's pretty fascinating Lyla. Did you know I had a Masters in Criminal Psychology?"

I fell into step beside Raj, making small talk about his degree studies as we made for the taxi rank. I made sure the conversation didn't stray to Van again.

We were to attend an exclusive benefits dinner and dance at a lavish hotel in a wealthy area of Paris. Word was that the assassination of yet another high society figure with connections to the underworld was to be carried out that very night. Our primary objective was to protect the target and deflect whatever attack was to be launched, securing an arrest or the termination of the perpetrator. Van. Dead or alive... by any means necessary.

Preparations for the big event were already underway when the taxi dropped us off outside the hotel and I saw countless staff milling around. I looked up, awestruck at the grand building, blowing out a breath through my pursed lips. "We're actually staying here too?"

"Perks of the job and all that!" Raj chuckled, eyes bugging as an Aston Martin pulled up outside and a chic looking couple stepped out.

"It's not a bloody holiday!" Jen huffed as we all moved towards the entrance.

I bristled at Jen's frosty demeanour which had been evident since we stepped off the plane but decided to ignore it, putting it down to stress at the vitally important assignment we were all faced with. Paul was right, things were hotting up and we couldn't afford to make any mistakes. There was only one reason that the criminal organisation we were up against would dare to carry out a hit on a high profile target in such a public place... and that was to make statement. They wanted to show they were fearless and untouchable.

We all checked in and made our way across the opulent foyer, making for the lifts.

"Right, we'll meet back here at 7pm," Raj instructed.

"Don't forget it's a black tie event," Jen piped up, giving my colleague a pointed glare, taking in his ripped jeans and scuffed boots. "I hope you've brought something suitable. Not that bloody awful suit you wear for meetings."

Raj shook his head, assuring her he'd packed his tux, and he'd be appropriately suited and booted for the evening, and then we all went our separate ways.

My room was situated on the fourth floor of the sprawling hotel and my eyes were wide as I stepped inside, taking in the vast room. The bathroom alone was bigger than my whole apartment. I walked around, running a hand over the expensive looking furnishings, marvelling at the huge bed adorned with sumptuous silk sheets. God, it looked inviting. I turned around, kicked off my boots and flopped down on to my back, practically sinking into the mattress.

I hadn't realised just how tense I was. My body felt tight, knotted with anxiety. I closed my eyes, consciously trying to relax each part of my body in turn. My toes, my legs, my back, my arms, my neck. Of course it was all well and good relaxing my body but what of my mind?

My thoughts slipped back through the years to when I'd attended therapy as a child. Sleep hadn't come easily to me then, the night time just bringing back all the horrors of that fateful night that I'd watched my dad die. My therapist had taught me some simple relaxation and breathing techniques and I did them now, focussing hard on slowing my inhales and exhales, trying to clear my mind but it was no use. Van flooded my thoughts completely.

I sighed, getting purposefully to my feet and stepping across to the large gilt framed mirror. My reflection stared back at me defiantly, daring me to judge. I could do this. I was strong. I just needed to get my head straight. I didn't need Van to satisfy me... or any man for that matter. All those guys that I'd picked up and fucked, I hadn't needed them. They were just a means to an end... but to what end? Much as I told myself I was in control of my life I was starting to doubt it more and more each day. That niggly feeling that the only reason I craved these encounters, each one more sordid than the last, was because I was dead inside taunted me. I just needed something or someone to make me feel alive again. And Van made me feel alive.

I sank back down on to the silk sheets once again, letting my thoughts stray to forbidden territories. In my mind's eye Van hovered over me whilst I lay prone on the bed, his hands fixed firmly around my wrists, securing them over my head whilst he slowly pushed my thighs apart with his knees. The piercing look in his eyes told me that I was his to do with as he pleased and the thought shivered me through with a desire so strong that I pressed my thighs together to ease the ache I felt there. I squirmed on the bed, frustrated beyond belief, eventually pushing myself up, feeling angry for not being able to control my feelings. It was getting worse, steadily worse, and each encounter only made me crave him even more. And what happened next time? Would I still feel the same with a gun pressed against my head or a knife held to my throat? I had to stop this now or it would be the death of me, I was sure of that.

I quickly unpacked, then showered and selected my attire for the evening. Even though I was on a dangerous mission I would still have to blend in with the other guests. My hands danced across the underwear sets that I'd packed, coming to rest on a beautiful deep red set with intricate lace detail I only ever wore when my aim was to seduce. I slipped into it, telling myself that I'd only chosen it tonight because it went perfectly with the red silk evening dress I'd planned to wear. The dress was stunning, with a plunging neckline and a deep slit from the floor right up to my upper thigh. Last but not least I lifted up the dress, securing a special thigh holster which I slipped a small, discreet handgun into.

I stepped back, perusing my reflection once more. I really did look the part... now I just needed to feel the part. I needed to take control of my life, do the right thing for once. I could do this. I had to do this. I was ready.

[adulting-sucks]

Evans has two choices: stay in whatever this is and as if he is okay with hate, racism, homophobia, transphobia, antisemitism, and body shaming OR end whatever this is and address it. Apologize. Start his activism work again. What he’s doing now is not it.//

We also have a choice….stay and continue discussing this mess or leave and move on with our lives. People want Chris to live up to this image he’s ….his hired team built (ie waiting for him to address everything or prove this is real or PR or whatever) when the actuality of the situation is…..this may indeed be who his is. This isn’t the first time Chris has been in mess. When he started a public relationship with a married woman, that wasn’t the final straw?

He’s shown who he is multiple times, but people keep moving that marker because they want to believe he’s “Chris Evans” the celeb and is a semi decent guy who made a mistake getting involved in this crap and not Chris Evans a random white man who is famous and lives in Boston, Massachusetts where racism is prevalent, a random man who’s dating a woman 16 yrs younger, a random man who’s probably like other men or worse than many of the men we actually know. A random man who is using his fame and power to get what he wants and live however he wants while publicly acting like he’s the opposite. A random guy who calls his fans crazy when they are messing up his PR stunt but says he’s loves them when they are helping hide his dick pic online after HE “accidentally” leaks it.

Hollywood is a business, they pay him, they dictate how he moves at times because they determine if he remains relevant so he does what’s needed while getting multiple perks. PR works because HW knows how invested people are in these celebs and the celebs know it too, which is why they go through with the PR crap. When we’re freaking out over stuff, they are somewhere relaxing or plotting their next move based on reaction…..how long do we choose to continue to entertain them and be used is the ultimate question.

You can ignore it if you choose. I won’t ever ignore racism, homophobia, transphobia, antisemitism, body shaming, that’s just not in me.

Look, he’s spent 20+ years fighting these things. I don’t see him all of a sudden being a racist antisemite who’s loving shaming women for their bodies.

The image of the internets boyfriend is gone, and I couldn’t care less about that. I care about the people, myself included, who have been hurt by the inaction and performative actions at a time when we needed someone on our side. We’re being killed left and right for no reason.

If he is shitty boyfriend, great. I am not going to date him. If he likes to sleep around, awesome. Everyone should embrace their sexuality. If he wants to get hair plugs and Botox, do it! Do what makes you feel better.

But if he wants to be as vile and disgusting as the other people involved in this, then no. I refuse to ignore it, I will always call it out, and if people cannot understand why that is so important, then they haven’t been paying attention

[wordswithkittywitch]

This got longer than I expected, and having typed it out I realise it sounds a lot like something someone would make up to be funny. Sadly, the following is true. My only defence is that this was before I was in grade school, and I knew very little. This is the same period in which I also was under the misapprehension that Maggie Smith and Michael Caine were a single actor who took roles regardless of gender. (in my defence, my older siblings were in drama club, and that kind of thing happened all the time in high school drama clubs in the late eighties and early nineties)

When I was a child perhaps younger than the intended audience of the Leslie Nielsen films I was watching, I reached the conclusion that there was an important role in the social ecosystem vital to keeping everyone else happy even when they would have difficulty being happy otherwise. This person was the Slut. It was neither gendered nor shameful, although people who were not Sluts didn't like to be taken for Sluts in fear that they may be expected to take on Slut responsibilities. Slut responsibilities included being willing to be nude without shame whenever it was funny and seeing to it that everyone was having enough sex to keep morale up. Sluts were people of any gender, (in fact I took Dr. Frank N. Furter from Rocky Horror Picture Show to be a rare example of an intersex slut, [it is with some shame I will admit I did not know that word at the time I held that belief, so that is not the word I used] but that's a misunderstanding for a whole different post) although there tended to be more women sluts in movies because most movies were made by men and keeping the male, heterosexual directors happy meant putting lots of women Sluts in their movies.

Having a Slut of each gender in your friend group was vital to keeping the rest of the group happy. While people tried to pair off with romantic partners as much as possible, if for whatever reason someone's sexual needs were not being met, they would seek a Slut to fill that role.

Now, being a Slut was not necessarily shameful, and in fact giving someone a hard time about being a slut was incredibly rude, much in the way that giving someone a hard time about being in a service job makes you look much worse than the worker. Particularly as they are doing a job you're likely to benefit from yourself.

This was reinforced by the fact that when a female partner in a heterosexual relationship found her partner had sought out a Slut, the anger was always at the partner and not the Slut. The Slut was just doing their job, it was the partner who had broken the social contract that people in a committed relationship would have their needs filled by each other and not outsource it to a Slut.

All right. So you've probably noticed by now that this is not a good description of societal norms now or in the early nineties. And while I did consider this to be a viable lifestyle choice at a young age and did in fact consider the possibility that in some point in my life I would hold the respectable office of Slutdom, I somehow turned out to be asexual instead. It was early in grade school when I began to wonder why my peers were still pretending sex was interesting now that it wasn't a secret anymore, failing to realise that if adults didn't still think sex was interesting, they wouldn't put it in so many movies.

I don't know if this story has a point, other than, "Wow. Kids can write elaborate headcanons for the society they live in because they have no experience with anything." and "Farces of the early nineties are not an accurate depiction of anything, nor are they intended to be." And maybe just a hint of "What a wonderful world it would be if Sluttery was truly a respectable lifestyle choice." Goodness knows I want people other than me to be handling each other's happiness so I don't have to.

[museenkuss]

Sorry if you've already answered this but bro can I ask wtf happened to shipping and incest? Like I have been around in fandoms for a long time now and I swear the change between shipping siblings and it being what helps dictate you are vile human happened like whiplash for me. One moment it was fine and another moment you were getting death threats for daring to treat Loki and Thor as more than siblings even though the mcu fandom was sorta chill with it for years. I'm not saying EVERYONE was ok with shipping siblings (like no one should judge you for that lol) but it WAS tolerated for a long time. What happened??? I felt like purity culture sneak up on me. Now shipping incest gets thrown in with 'wrong things that help show you are a bad person' such as a being pedo (no one is defending that hopefully...). I suppose I'm not trying ask if it's moral or not (it's shipping), but more so what the fuck happened and if I should feel guilty and bad about enjoying those types of ships?? Are they truly in the same line as liking gross pedo ships?? Apologies for if this ask stirs trouble, I am just genuinely confused about what happened and why the tolerance for those ships dropped so low and you get called a demon for doing so (everyone knows incest is bad, no one was ever agreeing it wasn't but none of it was real. It was just literally fun...)

You're really summarising some of my own thoughts and questions on the matter. Honestly, I wasn't actively involved in fandom back in 2013 or so, but I recently noticed that same change as well! For example, for the longest time I wasn't even aware that people were opposed to the Thor&Loki ship based on the incest factor and the most contact I had with wincest at the time was a gif set where apparently someone asked JP during a con what he thought of it and he said "I don't think they think it's real, it's just a hot fantasy" - I remember that post so vividly because I saw it and went "yeah, makes sense" and went back to my 2014 posting. In 2020, my first introduction to the spn fandom was a BLOCK LIST with blogs who post wincest content. A BLOCK LIST?! that was so absurd and laughable and honestly made me feel so bad about fandom in general. So, yeah. I definitely agree with you, there has been a huge shift in fandom culture as to what is seen as "approptiate shipping behaviour".

Firstly: I do of course understand why people might be uncomfortable with the topic. I understand that it can be triggering, too. This makes this topic a complicated and layered one, but I don't think it means we should erase the theme from all pieces of fiction. I also don't think making others feel miserable, sending death threads or other witch hunts of the sort to strangers on the internet is justified in ANY way. Now as for your questions —

What happened? Honestly, no idea. I wonder if it's a side effect of websites being made more and more "kid friendly", banning nudity and swear words and all that to appeal to advertisers. Maybe the kids being raised in this environment adopt those mind sets? I'm not sure.

Should you feel guilty for enjoying those kinds of ships? Absolutely not. Incest can be a very interesting trope for many reasons - it can be used in gothic settings, it can be used as a "forbidden love" trope, etc. Some people make it a point to say that they like it but ONLY if those stories are dark and evil and metaphors for abuse etc, they're not like those nasty creatures who think it's "hot". But, honestly, I always get back to JP and his nonchalant reaction. "It's a hot fantasy", and voilà. I don't like it when people insist on feeling shame or - even worse - making others feel shame for meaningless things like that.

Which brings me to the idea that enjoying incest ships (for whatever reason, be it because the relationship is intricate, rotten and terrible or because it'd be hot) makes you a bad person - that's ridiculous. "Incest harms real people", yes. So does murder. I hope we're not using this logic to hunt down everyone who likes fictional murderers. Enjoying a specific dynamic in fiction does not mean you would encourage this behaviour in real life. It also doesn't mean you'd put anyone in real life in danger or hurt them. It means you enjoy this specific dynamic for one reason or another, that's all. So please, don't make yourself feel miserable for something like this.

There is also the fact that incest porn (as in, real porn where real people are filmed acting out fantasies for other people to get off to) is so incredibly popular. In the logic of the purity culture fandom people (who seem to ignore this fact and focus on random people drawing or writing about fictional people btw), this would mean that many, MANY men (who those videos are usually aimed at) secretly want to fuck their siblings, step mothers, etc. I sincerely doubt that that's the case. Instead, I think it's a sign that sexuality is very complex and we can't just narrow it down to "you think this is hot = you're evil rotten and morally corrupted"

I also have to bring up one last point: This shift in culture is not limited to fandom, although fandom people seem to be extremely loud and ruthless about this with their witch hunts. I've seen people act this way about Lolita by Nabokov and other pieces of literature, for example. Frankly, it's embarrassing to see. It's sad, too. Can people not interact with fiction anymore? Not every piece of fiction is meant as a moral indicator, we aren't 10 anymore and not every piece of art has to be Dr Seuss or Aesop.

This got very long and I don't want to get too off track, so to sum up: I don't think you should feel guilty for enjoying incest ships or themes in fiction. Really, that's your personal business and not anyone else's - and I mean that in a positive way.

I hope we as a culture grow out of this phase soon and we can all go back to having a relaxed, healthy approach to shipping/fandom/literature/art by avoiding what we dislike and focusing on what we enjoy.

[jvstheworld]

My Ted Lasso Re-watch: S1E10 (part 7)

The Hope That Kills You

Everyone is coming to terms with team being relegated. And Will is being a sweetie, offering Ted a drink before he starts talking. Will is precious.

Before he gets into what he really wants to say, Ted praises Zoreaux and Roy, and makes jokes to lighten the situation, which worked. Roy laughed. At basically being called Jamie's granddad, because that's why Jamie always called Roy.

Rebecca and Sam sitting together. They started planting the seeds for their relationship early.

Ted's speech here is another that hit hard for me personally. From the age of 11 to now I have spent a lot of time being sad and alone because I didn't have many people in my life that I could be sad with to get through some really horrible and heartbreaking things. A lot of my teenage years was lived in isolation because I didn't have support at home or from friends to get through things. Things got a little better when I met my friend who I occasionally refer to in these posts when I talk about my thirsting for Ted (still sorry about that... Kind of). They got me through a lot and helped me realise a lot, but things took a back slide over the past few years due to Covid lockdowns, physical health problems due to a chronic illness and then depression and anxiety coming in to make things worse again. 16 years of my life has been spent being sad and alone, and it's beyond horrible. Because all you end up doing is screaming into a void. I'm still dealing with the effects it's had on me, but things are changing for me, so maybe I won't be sad and alone for much longer.

Don't be sad and alone. Find people who can be there for you and you be there for them. Find people you can trust, who can understand what you're going through. Build your own little support network so you don't have to be alone ever again. Because that's what the Richmond team is now, they are their own support network, for whatever they might need. That's what we all need in our lives.

Sam understands what Ted means by being a goldfish. Calling it back from episode 2. Take your moment to reconcile what has happened, then move on, because dwelling on it won't do you any favours. Onward and forward.

Why didn't Ted give Jamie the note? Because Beard was already leaving and Ted had to talk to Rebecca. But also, maybe out of awkwardness and shame after he saw Jamie with his 'dad'. So Ted wrote a note and included an Army Man with binoculars, waving, so Jamie would get that Ted would be watching him because he does care. Ted got through to him in the end. He made the pass and Ted gave him a little bit of positive reinforcement, like Keeley suggested.

Did Ted really not know that Higgins's first name was Leslie? Huh, I really though he would have know that.

Ted still hates tea. Fair, it's gross.

Is the takeout menu from the Indian restaurant that he went to with Trent?

Ted doesn't quit things. He hates it. But he would if it was to spare his friend some pain and trouble. Luckily Rebecca likes him now and he's staying. He's not a good football coach, he has people with him who are. That's not why Ted has to stay. Ted stays because he cultivates trust, friendship, and loyalty between the players. He takes what could be very hard headed and jockular people and turns them into emotionally healthy and open men. He makes them better people on and off the pitch. That's why he's a coach.

Ted drops his first f-bomb. Damn Daniel. (Jason's first name is Daniel, so you can use that phrase and it make sense. Jason suits him better than Daniel anyway).

The spit take over fizzy water, oh honey. And poor Rebecca. I mean it is gross having someone spit their drink on you. Or being spat on in any circumstance. Thus begins their new tradition.

[piqued-curiosity]

#misogyny isn’t okay just because you don’t like somebody

but you have shielded the people that was about repeatedly.

Just soon back you were reblogging black pills and telling us, oh stupid bi women, stop getting "hung up on" being called dick worshipers, say you're identical to tims, and having your abuses discredited. Ohh fine you say, maybe she should use nicer words to say same things, but she is very right, listen to the things of real importance not your stupid little rape statistics or whatever. Of course she is not a misogynist no no, she is insightful and it is based that everyone reblogs those things. So you get annoyed at bis because they wont ignore misogyny and biphobia, you don't get annoyed at misogyny or your friends reblogging it. wau!

Then just now you get so angry bisexuals dare say we should not feel shame for any aspect of bisexuality. You pretend that post said "het relationships are oppressed by gay people" so you can move the straw man into the goal posts, but what it actually said was that bisexual people are degraded and internalize shame about OSA, even in het relationships. You ignore how first post was bisexuals telling other bisexuals, and literal example in next post was bi woman saying about herself. Yet you pretend its bisexuals forcing gay people to worship us. Reach.

Could not be that its about how people call us dick worshipers, degenerates, sex beasts without love, kink freaks without boundaries, that is bi womens fault if they get raped for being sluts, and even worse things? all that affects us, gets in our heads? But no of course saying those things is fine against a dick worshiper. Well for us is not fine, we feel pain that our fellow bisexuals internalize those things deep in their hearts and it makes them alone and afraid, only you can think that is evil and homophobic somehow. Hetero relationships are celebrated but that does not mean bisexuals or bisexuality are celebrated by heteros, the statistics on the abuse and everything prove that very much. But no of course you ignore any of that to tell us to go "touch grass" as if hetero world is peace for us. Then when the reality reveals itself and the heteros are - the gasping here! - homophobic, you are first in line to coddle the people that tell us we are playing victim and our rape and other abuse is not real compared to what homosexuals feel.

I do not think you are against misogyny, misogyny is fine against bisexuals you by how treat it. You are not getting angry at misogyny you are getting more angry at bisexuals for not putting up with it. What you are against is seeming of misogyny and only just barely.

Oh my fucking god here we go again.

I apologised. I admitted I was wrong. I meant it. And yet you still come at me like this. Honestly you’re just making it clear that I’ll never be good enough for you. If you have such an issue with me and with accepting that I’m both a human and a learning feminist meaning I will make mistakes, just block me.

This whole time I’ve disagreed with language like “dick worshippers”. I’ve made that clear and I don’t know how many times I have to do so for you to stop pretending I haven’t. And even if I was once out there yelling misogynistic language at bi women (which I was not), me reblogging the post speaking against it should make you think “good, she’s changed”, not “ooo let me tell her off for reblogging a post about the issue I want her to address”???? Talk about not leaving room for growth.

The post you’re referring to…I EXPLICITLY STATED I DISAGREED WITH WHAT YOU ARE MENTIONING. Because I am able to read a text critically, I took the good bits which were the criticism of lesbophobia from bi women (and tbh I think you probably take issue with this too, because how dare we talk about anything other than uwu wlw solidarity), and acknowledged it wasn’t perfect. One of the first things I pointed out in my reblog was that I disagreed with saying bi women and TIMs were the same, so you acting like I agree with that is either you ignoring what I said, or being intentionally obtuse.

I agree bisexuals shouldn’t feel any shame for being bisexual. I also agree that a lot of bisexuals get hilariously pissy when gay people don’t give a shit about their OSA and opposite sex relationships. Tbh I’m actually not sure what specific post you’re talking about here because just tonight I’ve seen so many posts where OSA people cry about their het relationships not being seen as “queer” or “gay enough” or some shit. But look, I don’t believe anyone can truly feel shame regarding OSA, because the whole fucking world celebrates and encourages OSA. And I don’t think any homosexual needs to give even an ounce of compassion to OSA people crying to us about how much they don’t like being OSA, because we’re too busy focusing on the victims of homophobia (before you get angrier with me, I’m talking about both gay and bi victims of homophobia).

If you want to talk about the negative stereotypes about bisexuals, or the degrading language used to discuss specifically bisexual women, then talk about that! I’ll support you! But you can do that without making it about how it’s so so hard to be OSA. Idk maybe you’re talking about some post I’ve forgotten about that I misinterpreted and it really is talking about everything you’re saying and isn’t pulling the “gay people make it so hard to be OSA” card, because I’ve seen a bunch of those posts on my dash recently so they’re fresh in my mind and are what I’m thinking of while responding to this. So just know if that’s the case idk what post you’re talking about, and I’m strictly talking about the kweers who cry about people thinking their m/f relationships are straight, and being upset that gay people don’t want to hear about their OSA.

I know in my heart that I’m against misogyny, you can think what you want of me. But in my humble opinion, I think you have a very black and white perception of me that doesn’t allow for realising mistakes and growing from them.

[wawawawawawawawawawawawawa]

anon who doesnt have aspd and taught myself empathy here yet again! i am Now Thinking and remembering that a huge part of why i've never tried to go to therapy or anything is coz like i Know i'd use what i learn to like, manipule ppl better and shit. i enjoy playing w ppl Too much and coz Fun Childhood i've been good at it all my life, but cognitively i recognise its bad so it would be bad and not fair for me to go to therapy and get even better at it and manipulate ppl i love for my own fun. and like even i dont do illegal shit or even like drink alcohol or smoke coz then i can keep the moral high ground in arguments w ppl and i can say whatever i want and call em out on shit and create a fuss for them and stir the pot and they cant call me a hypocrite. like so much of what i do is about making sure i have a level of ability to manipulate and control ppl and situations. so many behaviours which arent explained by autism, idk why i've just brushed all of them aside except that i've gotten bored by overthinking abt them, and ive mostly gotten to a point where they're under control and im content w life

but back to remorse and empathy i honestly just think they're not really necessarily useful things and ppl place so much importance on "oh im such a good person i have so much empathy" but will also use their empathy/remorse to control ppl? like i know ppl w bpd who use their genuine guilt and worries and stuff to get ppl to feel sorry for them and indulge them instead of confronting and working on it. like even ppl w/o mental illness will sometimes try to use the fact they feel bad abt smth to erase their culpability instead of actually fixing their mistakes. it can be confronting for them that some ppl can be like "oh shit i made a mistake. fuck. oh well" (and sometimes fix their mistake/take responsibility) w/o remorse or other emotions to it coz i think it makes them realise their emotion doesnt absolve them

thanks to listening to me ramble!

man i feel that, im also obsessed with having the moral high ground, except i think my view of morality is the best one and everyone else is stupid. also i'm a hypocrite. i also hate hypocrites! yes this in of itself is hypocritical i am aware. do something morally reprehensible? shame on you! doesn't matter that i do the same thing with no intent to stop. its over anakin i have the moral high ground!! i have Standards and Morals and also i'm correct all the time. if i had the death note there would be no story and everything would be okay. i simply would not go mad with power and i'd only kill people who are deserving of it

also yeah i hate the empathy = morality thing i hate it so so so so much. i do think cognitive empathy is a useful tool and remorse can be useful as like, the emotions equivalent of getting spritzed with a water bottle and also you are a cat. do something shitty? feel remorse? my cuck ass is NEVER doing that again!! because remorse felt so bad the first time, why would i risk doing it Again and feeling remorse Again? its just not worth it. but then again if you get more and more used to its presence it wouldnt work all that great and also would suck balls

and i've known a dude w bpd who was like that, and ive known people with good ol fashioned Anxiety Disorder that were like that- worse, even! they thought that bc they had anxiety, they were these cutesy little waifs and anything they did could be rebutted with "but i have anxietttyyyyyy" and everyone was just expected to pity them because of it- no matter what they did! people put too high of an emphasis on emotion as the standard of morality- if you're a scared abuse victim, thats Moral and you are Pitiable, which is Good. however if you fought back, you are Immoral and you are Secretly Probably The Aggressor, which is Bad. (consequently, if you're too scared, that's Moral, however you Didn't Fight Back, which means you were acting Illogically, and Had It Coming, therefore you are Bad) which is hypocritical as fuck! ive taken responsibility w/o remorse and i've takne responsibility with remorse and remorse is Not the important part of this argument, it's emotional intelligence.

[septembersghost]

I'm so bummed about the Lizzo that, never would've expected such horrible and disgusting stories about her mistreating people. :/ idk it makes me think of how the internet has been so obsessed with making Taylor into a villain or bad mouthing H when they're well-known for being kind and generous to literally everyone who works with or for them, including truckers and service workers, there's never a bad story and they get hated for nothing at ALL. when actual harassment and harm and abuse is taking place from others all over the industry and keeps coming to light.

it's terrible, the stories in the lawsuit are worse than i would've even imagined, and it really is awful to see things like this and to realize how many artists/celebrities use their money/influence/power to mistreat and degrade those around them. that status unfortunately goes to people's heads and egos, sometimes in very gross and hurtful ways. it's especially a shame to see it with someone whose image has been based on positivity, inclusion, and equality. you always just want to believe that's true and see the best of people who present that because it's uplifting and needed.

it's apples and oranges to compare, in a way, but after 17 and 13 years respectively in the industry, it is particularly telling that the stories around the two of them have always been of immense kindness and generosity and welcoming spirits - because i truly do believe that's a choice. once you're that successful, that wealthy, the bad behavior, the feeling of invincibility almost, knowing you can get away with whatever, is probably heady. many fall into the trap of it because they can. (also, small poor choices or missteps in one's personal life, that then end and can be moved on from, is quite different than active mistreatment of others professionally and abusive behavior, imho). being kind is a decision, especially when you're at that high of a level, being generous, embracing people at all levels, recognizing the work others do to help you, it's all an active choice. you can decide to wield your power harmfully, or you can decide to do your best to extend it with graciousness. and nothing has ever shown to the contrary with them, and it's something that i do find comforting and worthwhile. i don't need them to be perfect or to never make a mistake, no matter how famous they are, they're still human beings and we all have our flaws. but they've proven time and again that they try to do good, and that is part of why i love them.

i'm sorry that the lizzo news made you sad though, i get exactly why it did. 😔

let's read these instead, yeah? 💗