carlislesrequiem

[songofwizardry]

It's speak your language day! I have some fun facts on Kiswahili! Translation under the cut.

Leo hapa Tumblr ni siku ya kuongea lugha yako ya kwanza (inaitwa speak your language day)! Kuisherehekea siku hii, nilitaka ku shiriki nanyinyi nyote semi chache za Kiswahili. Kiswahili ina utajiri nyingi ya mapokeo ya mdomo, na kuna desturi na historia ndefu ya kusimulia mahadithi, kutega vitendawili, n.k.

Kwa mfano, ukitaka kusimulia hadithi, unaanza hivyo:

Msimulizi: Hadithi hadithi!

Hadhira: Hadithi njoo, uongo njoo, utamu kolea!

Msimulizi: Zamani za kale...

Hadithi zinazosimuliwa mara kwa mara ni hadithi za wanyama wa porini: sungura mjanja, mfalme simba, fisi, na kadhalika; hadithi kama hizi zinapatikana katika nchi nyingi za Kiafrika.

Vitendawili ni semi zinazotegwa, na watu wanatakiwa wazifumbulie. Watu wanaoongea Kiswahili kawaida wanajua vitendawili vingi, kwasababu tunazifunza katika shule ya msingi—mi mwenyewe nakumbuka nilipokuwa katika darasa la saba, kabla ya mtihani ya taifa, nilikaa ninakariri vitendawili kama arobaini! Vitendawili vinachekesha na vinachemsha bongo, kwa mfano:

"Askari wangu ni mpole lakini adui wanamhara." (Jibu: paka)

"Tajiri wa rangi." (Jibu: kinyonga)

"Numba yango ina nuguzo mmoja." (Jibu: uyoga)

"Mzungu katoka ulaya no mkono kiunoni." (Jibu: kikombe)

Kwa ukweli mi mwenyewe nimeaanza kusahau vitendawili vingine—lakini zinapatikana ukiGoogle siku hizi!

Kiswahili ni lugha yenye historia, desturi, na vipengele vingi vya kuvutia—siwezi kuziandika zote hapa, lakini kwa mfano, muda ya Kiswahili ("swahili time"), ngeli za nomino, historia ya uandikishi wa Kiswahili (kuanza na harufi za Kiarabu), na ilivyotengenezwa 'lingua franca' katika Tanzania, na lugha ya taifa baada ya uhuru. Natumaini mtafunza kidogo kuhusu lugha ya Kiswahili leo—usiache baada ya kujua 'Hakuna Matata' tu!

(Kama nimokesea sarufi, samahani sana! Siku hizi siandiki kwa Kiswahili kwa kawaida.)

(Translated from Kiswahili/Swahili, with some extra notes)

Today, here on tumblr, is Speak Your Language Day! To celebrate this day, I wanted to share with you a few short sayings in Kiswahili. Kiswahili has a rich variety of oral traditions, and there is a long history and tradition of narrating stories orally, posing vitendawili (common riddles), etc.

For example, it is traditional when one is narrating a story to start like this:

Narrator: A story, a story!

Audience: Story, come! Fiction, come! Make it sweet!

Narrator: Once upon a time...

The common tales that are narrated are folk tales involving wild animals: common characters of the cunning hare (sungura mjanja), the king lion, the hyena—folk tales of similar nature can be found in many African countries.

Vitendawili are short sayings that are posed, and people need to solve/figure them out. People who speak Kiswahili will know many of these, because we learn them in primary school—I remember when I was in Grade 7, before my national exams (standardised tests taken at the end of primary school), I sat and memorised about forty different vitendawili! Vitendawili can both make one laugh, and be mind-bogglers (literal translation: they boil the brain), for example:

"My soldier is so gentle, but the enemies are scared of them."

"The one wealthy in colours."

"My house has only one pillar."

"The white man has come from England with his hand on his waist."

Answers to the vitendawili are at the bottom.

In all honestly I have forgotten a lot of the vitendawili—but these days you can Google and find lists of them easily!

Kiswahili is a language with a rich history, and many fascinating features—I couldn't write them all here, but for example, Swahili time, our many noun classes, the history of writing Kiswahili (there are early Kiswahili writings using the Arabic script), and the way it originated as a lingua franca and how it became the national language and a uniting factor in Tanzania after independence. I hope you'll look up the history of or a little bit of Kiswahili today—it's much more than just the phrase 'Hakuna Matata'!

(My apologies if I've made any grammar mistakes—these days I don't often write in Kiswahili. Also, because I intentionally wanted to write this in Kiswahili first, and then translate it, and I'm not practiced at translation, the English sounds clunky/weird—my apologies, but hey, it's SpYLD, I gotta prioritise the non-English text.)

Answers to the vitendawili:

A cat

A chameleon

A mushroom

A teacup

Some links:

Langfocus' Swahili video, which is a really good primer

The online Kiswahili dictionary I use most

For Kiswahili news, BBC Swahili (both online and you can listen to the radio) is pretty good. There's also many, many Kiswahili language news sites you can find, eg Mwananchi.

And of course, music!

Bongo flava is a genre of Tanzanian music (that originated in Dar es Salaam! Bongoland!)—it's a vibrant genre, it's closely linked to hip-hop and Afrobeats; I have a soft spot for the Bongo Flava of the 00s, so here's Usineseme by Ali Kiba (2009)

Sauti Sol are super well known these days, with good reason! They're awesome! They sing in both Kiswahili and English, but my favourite song of theirs is Nairobi

And in a departure from my usual brand, some patriotic music—this is a remix of the traditional patriotic song Tanzania Tanzania, recorded to encourage people to vote in the 2015 elections. I like it because it's a fun video that captures a lot of different parts of Dar es Salaam.

[sensitiveheartless]

One Summer Day

[musicallisto]

· · · · ♡ IF (SAINZ WIN == TRUE) (cs55)

… starring carlos sainz x f!engineer!reader ... 4.4k words ... in which carlos is an effusive, self-assured lad to every member of his team... except ferrari's head software engineer, making her wonder if he secretly hates her guts. ... based on this request ... warnings for language (minor) ... my first ever (posted) fic for carlos aaaaa (i have written A Lot More about this man because he occupies my every waking hour, but i shan't share it yet). in honor of me missing my communication networks final last week i made the reader a software engineer, but you would Never catch me willingly coding anything in c++ outside of my mandated assignments. no not even for carlos sainz jr. i have morals. this is open for part 2 if you guys enjoy it <3

He speaks the language of princes.

It's not in anything he says, no, he's much too industrious to waste time boasting, but rather in all that he doesn't. Carlos walks into the Ferrari motorhome, with that good-natured smile and that slightly disheveled hair from the morning's cycling session, and heads bow. Not out of plight, or even obligation, but mostly because it's hard not to. His warm greetings to everyone—Ciao's and even Come stai?'s to his team members strolling down the hallways before the weekend—, his keen interest in remembering little things about engineers' and photographers' lives, his nonchalant stride around the parc fermé all force camaraderie at least; reverence to most.

Wherever the red car goes, Maranello or any other corner of the world, religion follows, and though Carlos Sainz has never quite fit into the nooks they keep for their idols—their walls are carved for Monégasque shoulders—, he's at least always carried the air of a rebel leader on unforgving land.

But if Carlos is Ferrari's bastard prince, then clearly you are a subject he would not go to war for.

Or so he makes you think, once again, on that hot Singaporean afternoon.

You hadn't meant to interrupt, really, but with only one hour to go before FP1, you needed to talk to Riccardo Adami; something about the software updates, optimization of the data acquisition systems to account for Marina Bay's sweltering heat—run for half a second too long, overheat half a degree too much, and everyone's calculations would be going to hell. So of course you'd corrected it, supervised a brand new version of your code for the weekend, for that tenth of a Celsius; competition drove you. Almost just as much as those solar eyes boring into you when you walk into the room.

"Riccardo, about the softw—oh. Carlos. Hi," you timidly trail off when Carlos' eyes meet yours.

The room gets quiet, and it is only then that you notice how much space his laugh takes. Usually, you would've recognized the accent from outside the door, the boisterous voice regaling the Fifty-fives with another funny story—how could you not, when it sends shockwaves down your stomach? He seems to have been in an animated conversation with his race engineer, but as you get closer to the two men you notice the crinkles lengthening Carlos' eyes are fading with his smile. You aren't sure he's even said hi back.

"We've changed the code for acquisition, but some loops could still cause problems with overheating, particularly the engine oil temperature sensors…" you explain, though half your attention is directed to your peripheral vision, in which Carlos sways on his two feet, averting your gaze at all costs.

But you're not a college girl with a crush, you're Scuderia Ferrari's head software engineer and so you go on with your precisions to Riccardo. What to expect during free practice, how to overshoot any nonessential sensors that might fuck up the data analysis... until, mid-sentence, Carlos excuses himself awkwardly, pats Ricky on the shoulder, and walks out of the room.

You will your face into not betraying the sudden ache in your throat. How he simply acted like you weren't there... didn't even inquire about the updates. About the race. About your flight, about how much you loved Singapore's twinkling lights, about... you.

"Xavi and Charles know this already, but we really gotta test it all now before it gets cooler for FP2," you conclude with a too-hard swallow. Back firmly turned to the door Carlos just disappeared out of.

Riccardo thanks you, offers his own insight, some banalities about the risks of rain—no, you shouldn't consider them banalities. Nothing, on a Friday, is a banality anymore; yet everything is when you remember how Carlos' entire face shuts close when you're around, how his tone quietens down, how he repeatedly and stubbornly conceals all his rays of brazenness from you.

Does he hate you? Despise you? Are you not worth his effrontery?

This is ridiculous. You're not a college girl with a crush, you're a damn senior member of the team with responsibilities and he doesn't owe you anything more or less than you him—

"Riccardo," you neither ask nor plead. "Has Carlos... said anything about me?"

"About you? Like what?"

"I don't know... but you did see he just... left while I was in the middle of talking, right? And he looked annoyed as soon as I came in." And for all that's holy, try to pass this off as mere politeness and not a heartache that is eating you alive.

"Maybe he was just bored."

"So I'm boring?"

"No," Riccardo wheezes, in uncharacteristically high spirits for the conversation. "But I've worked with a ton of drivers, and you know, they're all the same. Less time discussing boring analytics is more time they spend in the sim. Or on track. What, you think he's angry at you or something?"

"I just... don't get why he's always so guarded and distant with me but so outgoing and confident with you guys. Charles isn't like that either. It makes no sense. We're a team, all of us."

The Italian looks at you for long seconds, amusement noticeable on his features, and you would shake him up and tell him to stop giving you those pity eyes if you lacked the tiniest bit of respect for the man; instead, you frown and cross your arms.

"He'll be in a good mood tonight when we top free practice," Riccardo assures you before you can ask him if he needs anything else. "and even better tomorrow after getting pole. You can talk to him then if you want."

A smile creeps its way on your lips without you conjuring it. There it is, that loyal veneration that only men and women of the Scuderia possess. Something in those southern eyes Carlos shares with legend has made you religious, too.

"I'll hold you to that... we could all use a Singapore miracle."

Singapore is a miracle.

Surely any other team would scoff at the word, bragging that a pole position has nothing to do with miracles, that it's all meticulous teamwork and endless iterations on calculators, but Ferrari is deeply supersitious at its core. You—the centenarian team, its red-hot beating heart—don't shy away from thanking divine intervention. Maybe that's the reason why it still works.

After Carlos' last pole in Monza, the whole Scuderia had dared to dream of something different, a glimmer of scarlet in the season's overwhelming orange. Of course, an uncatchable Max had put a dampen on the fervent Tifosi's mood, but the formidable hope machine had revved back to life...

and now it's roaring in Marina Bay.

Leclerc's side of the garage claps for a hard-earned P3, but it's the Spaniard's team that erupts into cheers and rushes out into the pitlane to congratulate their hero. You stare at his lap time on your monitor with a grin—1:30.984, not even a tenth faster than his teammate—as cheerful screams, in Italian and Spanish, fill the garage; they get louder when Carlos walks back inside, grinning ear to ear and not even bothering to dodge the strong-arm pats on his head and back.

"Twice in a row, cazzo!"

"And this time you won't have Verstappen underfoot!"

"Perfect lap, Carlos, that was a perfect lap..."

"Grazie a tutti," Carlos beams, fire suit down to his waist, running clammy hands through his hair—he parts the red sea as he walks deeper into the garage, close to where you are. "I think we all did a very good job today, and now we gotta finish the job tomorrow..."

He laughs with the mechanics, a sun of fire and victory casting its rays onto the tarmac, and maybe it's the euphoria of the moment, but a sudden wind of courage rushes through your blood, and you walk up to him.

"Bravo, Carlos."

Your voice hits him like the purr of an engine in the ruckus, overshadowing any other sound; he whips his head in your direction, shiny eyes colliding with yours, and for the first time you don't back off but hold them in awe, and his smile doesn't fade, but rather shifts. To surprise, or... coyness?

"You were incredible out there, we're all so so proud of you," you praise, and the more you look at him the wider your smile grows, and the quieter the rest of the world gets.

"Thank you, Y/N," he rubs the back of his neck, his free hand fiddling with the hanging sleeves of his fire suit. "We... I couldn't have done this without you. Because, you know, the overheating, or what you were saying to Ricky before? I didn't understand everything, but at least I didn't cook to death."

Coyness? In Carlos Sainz? When he's still sweaty and panting from qualifying first? What a bizarre sight, one that makes you giggle.

The way your nose scrunches up beneath sparkling eyes is so endearing, Carlos almost feels his breath hitch in his throat, almost reaches out to lightly brush your arm, hold the steady coolness of it.

"Great, that was what we were going for, pretty much," you reply, and for a second you could've sworn he wanted to touch your arm and changed his mind, but...

you bury the idea before a craving for his warmth can nestle in your chest.

"Great," he repeats. "So, I'll... see you later," and with that he leaves you there, stranded in the middle of the garage, to be lauded by the press and fans.

You'd be lying if you said his shadow disappearing out the backdoor as quickly as it had come doesn't slice a gash in your heart—always whisked away to some important obligation, and you, like everyone else, duty-bound to pick up the pieces behind him. But this time around the cut doesn't run as deep, doesn't bleed as red; because for the first time in months Carlos talked to you, joked with you, and looked the tiniest bit glad to be doing so.

If that's how good of a mood a pole puts him in... then clearly you'd better make damn sure he wins this race.

Ferrari is deeply superstitious at its core. Maybe that much is true in any sport—when victory eludes you, athletes find obscure laws to trick themselves into believing they still retain control—, but a team so old, on which glory has rained so often, does not withstand the passage of time without a few pillars of faith. And so it makes sense that Ferrari drivers, of all people, would have their pre-race traditions.

Leclerc plays the piano on Saturday nights; you hear him every time you pass by the team hotel's lounge, his melancholy tracks grounding you in a precise time and place. Now the car is out of bounds, the comfort of your object-oriented programming and optimized lines of code off-limits; now's the time for withdrawal and rest.

Typically, you like to hang out in the lounge while Charles plays, trying to distract yourself with a book or simply basking in the music. The predictable, calculated flow of Charles' arpeggios soothes you, like lines of code running one after the other. So does the Monégasque driver's easy conversation. Although it doesn't shoot butterflies in your belly like Carlos' does... but you're not supposed to play favorites.

This Grand Prix eve is just like any other, save for the unordinary trepidation that carpets the hotel. With one of their own sitting on pole, it's obvious strategists struggle more than usual to drop the words "tire management" and "pit stops". Eager to escape the nervousness, you excuse yourself from the dinner table, and make your way to the lounge.

Charles is already there, if the usual pieces echoing in the distance at dessert are any indication, and you barely even get lost in the elegant halls before you find the lounge... though there is no piano to be heard. Maybe this hotel has two music rooms—maybe Charles went to bed early—or maybe...

maybe he's sitting on the piano stool and chatting with Carlos, wet and sleepy from his evening shower.

Neither driver notices you at first, and you stop dead in your tracks, wondering if you should just leave. You wouldn't want to intrude—intrude on what, the rational part of your brain says, but with Carlos I always feel like I'm intruding on something bigger than myself, the rest of your body answers—, but you really enjoy this unspoken tradition with Charles... and, well, this is everybody's lounge, and...

"Y/N," Charles sees you eventually and beckons you over. "Sorry, I don't think there'll be a lot of music tonight, Carlos is distracting me."

"You could kick me out anytime," Carlos remarks good-naturedly, but you don't miss how he angles his body away from you ever so slightly. The sight sends a dagger through your heart. So he actually hates you then. So you didn't breach any barrier earlier at the circuit, didn't melt any ice. So he didn't look pleased and a little excited to be talking to you.

"That's okay, I'll just head to bed then—"

"Oh no no no," Charles interrupts, "come sit with us. I was trying to convince Carlos to give the piano a go, maybe you'll be more successful than me."

"Absolutely not, mate."

"Come on Carlos, it will relax you!"

"No, you're the musician, not me. One of us has to be the sportsman, no?"

Unsure, you flick between the two men, Charles' inviting face and Carlos, who's still doing everything he can to avoid looking at you in the eye. And then you decide—fuck it. You're just as much a member of the team as he is. He cannot drive you away with his... stupid cold shoulder tactics any longer.

You take a seat on the sofa opposite Carlos, and watch in half delight, half annoyance as he turns his shoulders away from you. Though his body language appears relaxed, one leg strewn across his knee and elbows hugging the backrest, he is, as usual, going to hell and beyond to not acknowledge your presence.

Charles has the merit of lightening the mood with his jokes and fan encounters of the day: some bizarre, some endearing, because he seemingly never has a boring day in the paddock. His easy laughter mixes with the distant voices down the halls when your attention drops—too fast, too soon, as always, it's irremediable—to Carlos, the soothing scent of his shampoo and the little droplets that run down his temple whenever he shakes his head in amusement... before you know it, you're staring again, eyes shining with undisclosed heartache. Something Charles sees, and recognizes very well, with a jot of curiosity.

Charles may not be the most perceptive when it comes to these things, but he is in love too, and he'd know the signs anywhere. That's why after a little while he lets silence blow his last words away like wind does the mist, and stands up from the piano stool.

"Well, I'm going to bed," he announces with an air of conniving finality, and he smiles his crooked smile at Carlos. "Gonna need all my energy to take the lead in turn 1."

This snaps you out of your reverie. Half-gone, you bid him goodnight at the same time as the Spaniard does, and you brace yourself for his own excuse... but it doesn't come. Carlos lazily watches as Charles leaves the lounge. You don't dare to move, as if your slightest sound could remind him you're there and trigger his fight.

You would've thought a tête-à-tête with you to be Carlos' worst nightmare... but he makes no sign of leaving. And sends solar flares up your chest and throat. "Whatever problem he's got with me, he'll have it sort it out with me like an adult" sounds much more intimidating when it's so plausible.

"You think he has the slightest chance of overtaking me in turn 1?" Carlos chuckles.

You look him straight in the eye and read no resentment, not even that sheepishness from before—just relaxed delight, and the slightest hint of reddened cheeks against tan, damp skin. It takes you a second, maybe even two, to realize there's no one else in the room. He's talking to you. Joking with you.

Why is the script running without error all of a sudden, even though you changed no variables?

"Maybe," you give a noncommittal shrug and a smile. "Why not? It all depends on you."

"He can lead the first lap if he wants. That will just make it more fun to cross the finish line ahead of him after."

"You better win this one, Sainz, because I..." you start, and midway through your sentence are hit by how absolutely ridiculous you're about to sound, but he's leaned in already, intrigued by your words, and his burning gaze and strong hands fiddling in his lap have you losing all notions of propriety. "I've... coded a little something for you. If you win. A surprise. It's not much, but... yeah."

Your whole face burns deep scarlet as you trail off... and the light in Carlos' eyes darkens, then goes out completely. His smile fades back to the usual professional grimace he reserves for you. Distant. Cold. He rises to his feet.

"I should get some sleep."

Terror strikes you. Incomprehension too.

"No, Carlos, wait."

He turns his head to your outstretched hand... your pleading eyes almost rip through his heart.

"Why do you dislike me so much?"

And then his shoulders slump, like crushed by an immense weariness, and he sighs, long and hard, before his gaze falls back to yours. Those big brown eyes, gentle, compassionate, and those fingers tapping against his thigh like they're waiting for an invisible cue to reach out for yours.

"... Can we talk about this after the race?" he says, shooting daggers through your stomach.

So he didn't deny it. Didn't reassure you, tell you it's all a misunderstanding, that he bears no ill will towards you, that you're imagining things as usual and that you two could be on the best of terms if you just got out of your head a little bit.

One more time, he's running away. Sweeping everything under the rug, for just one more session, one more race, hiding behind the excuse of concentration and professionalism.

But who are you to revoke him that? It's a damn good excuse. You need to win. He needs to win. Not be bothered about... interpersonal relationships while clipping walls.

"... Alright," you concede, voice and bones all broken, glistening under your frozen skin. "But if it's something I've done, then I'm sorry. I really do... enjoy your company. And you."

"It's not something you've done," he speaks quietly. Gosh, your frailty in this moment—you, so proud and unshakable on the pit wall, so dedicated and thorough on TV, so immeasurably devoted to Ferrari, to Charles, to him... "Or, well, I guess not directly..."

If he looks into your confused, imploring eyes one more second, almost brushes your arm with his one more time, then he's done for. But he thinks he knows this already.

"I don't dislike you," he starts speaking and as soon as he opens his mouth he knows there's no stopping himself now, so he blurts it all out as quickly as he can to get it over with and hopefully bury some meaning in the pits of his accent. "Not at all. In fact I really like you. I think you're gorgeous, and smart, and clever, and fun, and every day I wish I could spend more time with you outside of races and get to know you better but then I remember that can never happen and it's so frustrating and I have the hardest time concentrating. So I just avoid you. It's easier."

Silence thick as a thundercloud tethers you to one another. He runs a hand over his face, sighing deep, and you blink. Once, twice.

You've always prided yourself on your brains—not everyone gets to be in charge of all the computing for a Formula 1 car—but right now, you are all utterly lost.

"Carlos, I... I don't get it." Or maybe you do, heart thumping in your ears, but you're too scared you might be wrong.

"In any other life I would've asked you out on a date." This time he speaks more slowly, more purposefully, too. Like he's imbuing every syllable with the depth of his confession. "But it kills me that it can't be this one."

"... Why not?" you tentatively ask after an instant, feigning not to notice how his hand is now resting on the back of your sofa, right next to your ear and neck.

"Because you're a senior engineer! That would be like... like dating Ricky. Even if you're much prettier than Ricky. But you don't need to tell him that," he adds with a nervous laugh, which you mirror; though you fall silent as soon as his hand comes to rest on your shoulder, right where your collar ends, millimeters away from your skin. His body's warring with his own words... one wants to resist, the other to give in. "What if I leave Ferrari? That's a crazy conflict of interest."

"That's a silly idea, you're not leaving Ferrari anytime soon. Are you?"

"I don't know, it's... hypothetically... you know what I mean," he exhales in defeat. His hand clasps a little tighter on your shoulder, his scent dizzying, closer than ever before. Can he feel your frantic heart thumping underneath your skin? If he keeps licking his lips like this, will he sense your breathing getting more erratic?

"I do. But... the problem is I like you too, Carlos."

If embers could burn back to life, light a hearth out of nothingness... they wouldn't shine as bright as Carlos' eyes just then.

"Don't mess with me."

"I'm not messing with you. Why wouldn't I like you?"

"Because you're not supposed to have a favorite."

"I won't tell Fred if you don't."

He laughs, a brittle but adorable little thing, like a small bird taking its first flight. If you could hear the sound more often, see that bashful smile on his handsome face more every day... you wouldn't need any other prince to die in war for.

His hand runs down your arm, his thumb lightly caressing your skin through the fabric of your shirt before he grabs your shaky hand in his.

"Now's not the best time, but... I think we've got to have an important conversation after the race tomorrow," his deep, soft tone pacifying you just as much as the abstract shapes he traces on the back of your hand.

"After you win, you mean."

"Right. After I get my surprise, no?"

"After you win," you repeat with a grin, and he squeezes your hand, smiling too. Something, deep down, tells him he'll win regardless of the race result.

"Cosa diavolo sta facendo?"

Even in spite of the roaring crowd and the bellowing V8s speeding down the straight, the dumbfounded voices around the pit wall come to you clear as day.

"Russell 1.4 behind Lando," Ricky, sitting on the other side of Vasseur, speaks into his headset.

The team principal keeps quiet, eyes fixed on the cascade of numbers and brackets on your screen. He understands before the rest of the wall what his driver is doing; and as you relay all the information you get to the race engineers, you understand it too.

"Lando .8 behind, .8 behind with DRS—Russell no DRS... Copy that."

He's doing it on purpose. Keeping Norris just close enough to shield him from the Mercs while making sure he can't catch up. You'd laugh in triumph and disbelief if you weren't gritting your teeth so damn hard, heart on the verge of exploding as the last laps tick out in a blur.

Just a few more minutes. Just a few more seconds, and the night sky over Marina Bay will explode in crimson lights...

Mechanics spring to their feet and climb the wall to the track, bumping their fists in the air. Cheers, claps, exclamations, a bouquet of red roses swaying in the wind to greet its champion at the finish line. And then, the unmistakable roar of a racecar speeding past the chequered flag at three hundred kilometers an hour. Liberation.

You spring to your feet right as the fireworks go off, yelling to the sky. Carlos won. Carlos won! Your Carlos—in the middle of Red Bull's flawless season...

"¡Vamos Fred! ¡Vamos Ricky!" Flashes of red and gold pass his high spirits by, diligently braking into the first corner.

He laughs, he screams it all out, unclenching all his muscles, woozy from the G's, from the adrenaline, from the win... from you, watching him from the pit wall. From the memory of your skin against his, your adoring eyes and the formidable lightness inside his chest that has him feeling like he's the king of the world.

In a few minutes, he'll be posing with his trophy and the team in front of his P1 plaque for the group photo, and he'll drench you in champagne—your lively laughter will fill his heart with the gold of medals. And later in the evening, before the afterparty, he'll pull you aside and tell you maybe this victory has made him reckless, and he'll kiss you senselessly like a prize he fought for.

For now, though, he's nodding his head at Lando who gave him a congratulatory wave from his car when his on-board screen lights up with an unexpected message. Glowing red letters read, "Great job, smooth operator! 🌶️" Laughter escapes him as small virtual fireworks go off on his screen... and he presses the radio button on his steering wheel.

"Did she have one of these ready for Charles too?"

A few seconds of white noise, and then, your mischievous voice, dripping with joy.

"You know me, Carlos. Never play favorites."

�� f1 taglist; @retvenkos @giuseppe-yuki (want to be added? send me an ask!)

[todayisafridaynight]

[avnasace]

no but the way viserys continues to haunt the story through rhaenyra and alicents conflict, which gets passed down to both of their children, is crazy good content.

the irony in that viserys the peaceful was the one who started this war, and the downfall of the dragons/his family in the first place.

viserys and daemon had their own conflict, but when viserys alienated rhaenyra initially by marrying her best friend, he then ignored his and alicents children, eventually later his actions leading to rhaenyra marrying his brother (who he'd also taken for granted and ignored).

he then kept doting on rhaenyra up until the moment he died, further seperating himself from his own children by alicent.

alicent knows of rhaenyras affairs, grows hateful and takes that resentment out on her own children instead, while her father otto is further poisoning her and them for his own ends to scheme for the throne.

so then alicents children learnt to grow up disliking rhaenyra's. the only time you see them even remotely amicable is when theyre bullying aemond, another bond made through cruelty instead of kindness. this is ironic considering at laenas funeral you can see that aemond actually thinks about trying to offer comfort to i think baela and rhaena (if i remember correctly?)

aegon and helaena couldnt care less, which to me makes it even more sad. if aemond had, he might not have then been so quick to rub his claiming of vhagar in their faces, and he might not have lost an eye.

the taking of the eye plus viserys' incompetence reignites and cements alicents hatred for rhaenyra even more. viserys takes rhaenyras side, not defending his hurt child at all, even going as far as to shout at aegon for even the mention that he might have said something against rhaenyra. this causes alicent to attack her, and later making her then double down on her efforts to pressure aegon into hating rhaenyra, further distancing him from her.

later we see with aegon that his mothers pressure leads him to find affection in other very unhealthy and harmful ways, assaulting his maids, excessive drinking, brothel going, and assumably fathering many bastards, leading him tho the child fighting rings as well. aemond too starts going to the brothel and avoiding alicent, but for platonic affection instead of anything more.

helaena is the one who received the most of her mothers love and the least of her cruelty, however their relationship is similarly screwed up because shes the only child that doesnt actually want affection from her...

meanwhile rhaenyra is a very loving and fiercely protective mother to her children, fighting for them above all else, especially when their parentage is concerned. she does anything for them, and it shows in their natures that their upbringing, other than the scrutiny from other nobles about their father, that they were raised kindly and wisely.

whats also completely different is that rhaenyras children have not one but three father figures, all of which love them in different ways, which is three more than alicents children have. you could make an argument for cole being a prominent male figure in their lives but he is also quite cruel and hateful.

we see team greens children grow up to be anxious, affection starved control freaks, with mummy and daddy issues, with not one of them knowing how to be a leader even though they are all in some way forced to be one.

aegon is an incompetent drunkard of a king who knows nothing of court or war or politics, not even high valyrian. he is only a figurehead, but is strangely empathetic towards his subjects and loves his children.

aemond is cruel and objective, a fierce fighter and being the most studied and educated of them all, but with no care to his subjects and far too willing to disregard or maim his own blood for his own ambitions.

helaena is the gentlest but she herself has no ambition to rule, she is kind but also an outcast of their society because of her prophecies. she also does not particularly care for her subjects, even being scared of them and their willingness to get to know her.

meanwhile in complete contrast jacaerys and lucerys are kind, more than willing to learn, theyre fluent in high valyrian, they are very interested in their histories and heritage and they learn sword fighting from harwin and assumably laenor? later probably daemon too.

they stand in the war council room with their mother and learn, and even baela and rhaena are involved by rhaenyra to both take part and learn.

the generational trauma goes crazy in this show, but all these characters are so compelling. i dont think there is a single main character that doesnt interest me. yes most of them are bad people and have done awful things, but its also so interesting to see how they got that way and see how one fathers actions, or lack thereof, caused so much destruction.

[mordremrose]

ART PARTY BABEY HAPPY PRIDE

Enjoy ur bees, give magic swords to little girls and baked beans to slublings— and be wary of rogue noodles

EU doodles: my own Mehndra, Hey Barbie, Tai of the Order and their cursed snack choices, the never ending bench, Strongessst, Necrotechnician Fip, Soft Skunk, Ruárn and Lux Pyrefaith

NA doodles: Khynain (ft a very tiny goofy version of my lad Draikôs) Wet Gunk, Harley Vuong, Tine of Nice Dreams, Kimber Truthspeaker, Zuutes and Master Dokks

As always, if you would like to be tagged with your toon, please let me know!! Otherwise, enjoy ur mischief

[actual-changeling]

no i am not done with the breakup scene yet. it haunts me during the day and it haunts my dreams, soon i will be able to replay it in my head on command. today's obsession: tell me you said no

firstly, i think it's important to point out just how deep the miscommunication runs here. aziraphale is excited, outright giddy about the news he is delivering, and he expects crowley to be just as happy about them.

after all, he thinks he is giving crowley what he has always wanted - they can go off together, he can be an angel again, which to zira equals being on the good side. the side of *light*. he remembers crowley's creation, remembers how in awe and happy he was with it, and thinks that is what he is offering.

aziraphale's expressions during this scene are probably gonna be their own post, but long story short he switches between excited and confused like a broken light switch, unable to decide which one to settle on.

crowley, well, crowley is angry. angry and confused and completely caught off guard because aziraphale is shaking the very foundation of what crowley currently thinks to be their relationship. the horror dawns on him pretty early, but he tries to fight it off, tries to convince himself that no, aziraphale wouldn't. he wouldn't agree to that, he KNOWS me. he knows i don't want to go back, he knows both sides are equally bad.

tell me you said no. tell me i wasn't wrong about you, about us. tell me i didn't misjudge our entire relationship. tell me the last millennia were worth something, anything.

tell me you said no.

if you rewatch the scene, you will notice that crowley never breaks eye contact, he stares aziraphale down the entire time. unless it was literally blink and you will miss it, i am pretty sure he does not even blink. not once. aziraphale on the other hand is looking everywhere but at him, his gaze flicks around just as much as his expression. crowley tries again, one last time. tells him you know they will both destroy this planet, humanity, us. it doesn't matter which side wins, the result will be the same. we KNOW that. we SAW that. we stopped it from happening.

aziraphale does not answer.

he does not have to. crowley can read him well enough to know exactly what he responded, and even if he couldn't - he knew from the beginning. he just cannot believe the answer. he still can't.

it's one of his fatal flaws, isn't it, believing in aziraphale and in them against every rule and threat the universe throws at them.

now to get to the part that breaks my heart.

crowley repeats himself again, not breaking eye contact while aziraphale tries to avoid his gaze.

tell me you said no.

he still hopes. after that entire conversation, he still hopes.

when the silence stays unbroken he steps towards him, asking one. last. time.

angel tell me you said no.

this. this frame. this is when the realization hits him full force, the truth he has been trying to talk and rationalize his way out of. he has been begging aziraphale to tell him that he did not betray him, them.

everything he has been fighting for the last six thousand years, all the thoughts telling him he is worth less than aziraphale because he fell, because he is a demon, evil, on the wrong side. everything he has been unlearning, accepting that he can be kind, he can be good. accepting that aziraphale cares about him, fuck, maybe even loves him.

crowley thought aziraphale is the one being that sees him, truly sees him, which is why he offers himself without his glasses - his last layer of protection.

he betrayed us. he has never been with me, we have never been on our side, not when he chooses heaven over the fragile, peaceful existence they have carved out for themselves. he took care of the bookshop, allowed zira to take his bentley, cleaned up and tidied and prepared it for his return, for the both of them. just to get all of it thrown into his face, to have it degraded as not good enough. to have HIMSELF degraded as not good enough.

and after all that. after that realization, the pain, the break in what he thought was their reality.

after aziraphale telling him that he plans on leaving earth and wants crowley to be someone he is.

crowley swallows his tears and he steps back, keeps his glasses off and continues with his confession anyway. his voice breaks several times throughout it, he is on the verge of crying. i will probably make a separate post about all that but once again, tldr he suppresses tears throughout his entire speech.

i want to spend eternity with you and he cannot say it because he knows he would break on eternity and start crying. somehow, crowley still hopes that maybe this will change his mind, this will make him realize that he needs to stay here, stay with me.

crowley hopes and hopes and hopes and aziraphale finally meets his gaze and all he responds is nothing lasts forever.

no, i don't suppose it does.

still, what is left but to keep hoping that maybe one day, they will be an us, even if it isn't forever. even if it's just one day, one kiss, one second of being held and kissed back.

crowley keeps hoping and that, to me, is the most painful part of it all.

[deoidesign]

I've been... Busy 👀

Trying to get all 4 arcs from season 1 into books!

(not available for sale, these are print proofs. I'm planning a Kickstarter early next year!)

[bagog]

If you're still taking the reverse trope prompts, may I have too hot to cuddle for (m)Shenko? Absolutely happy to have Shaun featuring as well if the muse strikes but absolutely not required!

Sounds like fun! Lemme see what I can do:

++

The air inside the Citadel apartment was crisp--frigid, even. Kaidan padded around the kitchen barefoot, wearing one of Shepard's too-small-for-him shirts and a pair of sweatpants, once in a while rubbing his arms to try to smooth out the gooseflesh there.

Shepard and he had planned on a staycation in their apartment while Kaidan was off from his duties, and so the fridge was well stocked. This wasn't exactly how they'd imagined it going, however.

"Alright Shepard," Kaidan called, walking up the stairs with several food items in his arms. "I've got marjan fruit, grape leaves, rye toast, and corn porridge. Any of that sound good?"

Shepard lay in their bed, looking bedraggled. Dark circles hung beneath his eyes, and a fine sheen of sweat made him look... sticky. The Ifter-Manatoit fever was not a good look on him.

Despite his husband listing off some of his favorite foods, Shepard stared blankly up at Kaidan, shaking his head. His throat dry, he rasped, "Sorry, I just don't think I'm hungry."

"Okay," Kaidan smiled, but there was a watchful caution in his eyes. "Well, I'll keep it all up here, just in case you decide you want something."

"I just..." Shepard cleared his throat, swallowing dryly, "Just want to sit with you, if that's alright."

Kaidan nodded warmly and set the food next to the bed. He fetched his book from the bedside table and slid into bed next to Shepard. His husband scooched over and laid his head on Kaidan's chest, hooking one leg over Kaidan's and holding him tight. Kaidan kept one arm behind Shepard's back, softly stroking up and down his spine, while he held is book in the other hand.

Shepard was asleep--or as good as asleep--in minutes: soft breath against Kaidan's chest. Kaidan could normally pass several hours like a sieve with the right book, but today he found his mind wandering.

It was like there was a radiator wrapped around him, cuddling up to one side. It wasn't till sweat dripped from his hair onto his shirt that Kaidan realized how much of Shepard's excess heat he'd been absorbing. He sweltered for another thirty minutes before gently shaking Shepard awake.

"Hmuh?"

"You're still burning up, Shepard," Kaidan placed his sweaty palm against Shepard's sweaty forehead as if to confirm. But when Shepard pulled away, the imprint of his body was left as a wet patch running down Kaidan's side, his sweats and t-shirt soaked. "I imagine its gotta be uncomfortable cuddling up like this."

"I already feel awful," Shepard declared, pitifully, "Worth feeling a little more awful to be... I mean... You are not awful. You are good. You are a good. You're worth it, you know?"

"Shepard, you're delirious," Kaidan intoned, but there was a bit of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "I have an idea, I'll be right back, okay?"

Once he moved away from the bed, the air conditioning of the apartment once again had him shivering as he made his way into the master bathroom.

A few moments later, he came back and shook Shepard awake once more. "Here, come with me. Shoulda had this idea two days ago."

Shepard stumbled out of bed, Kaidan supporting him under a shoulder like the old soldier needed a patch up. In the bathroom, Shepard stared down into the hot tub with a questioning look.

"Do... I smell that bad?" Shepard rasped.

"Ha!" Kaidan exclaimed. "No comment. But no, let me help you in."

"Too hot," Shepard shook his head. "No hot tub. Please?"

"It's alright, it's not hot. Just... temperate. Not quite cold, but definitely not hot. Lean on me, there you go." Shepard stepped into the water with Kaidan help and sank into the water. The sound of relief that came out of his mouth as he sat and let the water lap up and over his shoulders was pure relief.

Kaidan quickly peeled off his own sweaty clothes and tossed them in the hamper before carefully stepping into the cool water.

"Now we can still hang out and be comfortable," Kaidan said, but he couldn't keep the shiver out of his voice as he took his seat next to Shepard and put an am around his husband's shoulders.

"You... cold?" Shepard said, dreamily. "Nooooo. Here." He wrapped his arms around Kaidan beneath the water and laid his--admittedly still damp head--on Kaidan's shoulder. Between the heat radiating off Shepard and the coolness of the water, Kaidan stopped shivering and stopped sweating. Shepard snoozed against his shoulder, and Kaidan let his head fall back against the tile.

Shepard needed rest. Shepard needed to cool off. And Shepard needed Kaidan. Kaidan smiled to himself that--at least this once--he was able to give Shepard exactly what he needed.

[dootznbootz]

Odypen definitely and equivalently adore each other BUT I weirdly can't see them as the type to actually say "I Love you".

They still definitely vocalize their love for each other but it's more so in "My Joy", and "Extraordinary Woman", "Strange Woman/Man", etc. And very cheesy lines (both say some cheesy shit in the Odyssey, and he definitely does in the Iliad as well. "Joy like a drowning sailor seeing land" bit???)

I could see "I adore you" but even then, that's probably during very specific moments but the actual "I love you"??? I just typed it just now for fic shit and... It weirdly just didn't feel right and I don't know why. 😅

Idk maybe it's kind of because I see them as over the top in ways, they love wordplay and riddles and I think they'd almost think "...That's not good enough >:( " about it??? I don't know???😂

[omegalomania]

So Much (For) Stardust 10 Day Countdown Challenge ↳ March 20th: Heartbreak Feels So Good

[woah-its-sketch]

I'd love to hear your opinions on a Bard of Mind for reasons that definitely don't have to do with anything ever at all

WAIT I ACTUALLY HAVE A BARD OF MIND CHARACTER THIS IS PERFECT

This is gonna be great bc Ive been needing to develop their character like at all lol

Thanks for requesting this and here we go !!

A Bard of Mind is someone who invites destruction through Mind or allows the destruction of Mind.

Mind is associated with choices and their consequences, as well as rules, rationality, order, and masks (in an emotional sense).

Bards tend to start out acting like their opposite aspect and tend to dislike their aspect. They could have their aspect destroyed within them by external means like gamzee and his sopor slime addiction or they simply avoid their aspect. Because of this, a Bard of Mind would act a lot like a Heart player. They may be very emotional and impulsive. They can also be very authentic and encourage others to be authentic as well. The Bard of Mind could also be someone who dislikes rules or schedules or ignores the consequences of their actions. They could even avoid choices altogether, leaving someone else in their life to make their choices for them. The Bard of Mind may also be messy or disorganized. They may not plan things out and could even ruin the plans of others through their impulsiveness.

Most Bards eventually switch from lacking their aspect to having an excess of it. For the Bard of Mind, this could happen when they have to come to terms with the consequences of their actions or being placed in a situation where they have to make an important decision. The Bard of Mind at this stage will begin to act more rationally and will take more control of their life. They could become more distant and closed off from others, especially those who try to make decisions for them. However, they could also put up a mask similar to their old self, making the change very subtle on the outside.

This is also when Bards begin inviting destruction through their aspect rather than allowing the destruction of their aspect. This could manifest as the Bard of Mind encouraging others to make bad decisions. By masking as their old self, the Bard’s fake authenticity could make others trust them, allowing the Bard to influence others while still seeming innocent. They could also impose strict rules upon others which either results in them destroying themselves or others to obey the rules or causing their own destruction as punishment for breaking the rules. My favorite interpretation of inviting destruction through Mind is something similar to the butterfly effect, where the Bard of Mind’s actions cause a chain effect ending in some form of destruction. The Bard of Mind could also use tricks and mind games to cause others to go mad, literally destroying minds. The Bard of Mind would also be skilled at rationalizing their destruction, using logic to justify themselves to others and avoiding any consequences of their destruction.

Like all Bards, the Bard of Mind has incredible potential for both saving and ruining a session. Without careful management and channeling of their destructive tendencies, the Bard of Mind could very easily lead to a game over, but if they channel these tendencies towards whatever stands in their teams way, they could help their team overcome any challenge.

[plaidbooks]

Was about to go to sleep but now I'm intrigued lol

Wind, daffodil, cupcake + fluff 💙

The wind tousled Lyra's hair as she followed Gallowglass up the grassy hill. the ground looked alive as the breeze made the grass wave in front of them.

"Where are we going?" she asked for the hundredth time since Gallowglass woke her this morning, a devious grin on his face. "Going for a picnic" he had said, pre-packed basket in his hand.

"You'll know soon enough," he replied now, Scottish accent heavy in his mirth. His free hand clasped hers, pulling her close. "Are ya tired? Want me ta carry ya?"

"No, I'm okay," Lyra said with a smile. She loved his kindness more than anything--and that she got to see this side of him all the time.

Finally, they crested the hill. Tilting her head back, she worked on catching her breath. Gallowglass, of course, never even broke a sweat. Damn vampire powers.

"Lyra, darling, look there."

Her eyes followed where he pointed to a small patch of wildflowers. Eyes wide, smile wider, she mentally categorized the ones she could see from their view point; daisies, delphinium, wild roses, hyacinth, and one of Lyra's favorites, daffodils.

They made their way to the outcropping, then Gallowglass pulled a blanket from the basket, shook it out in the air, and laid it down. Smiling, he held his hand out to Lyra, then helped her onto the blanket. Only once situated does he join her.

"What'd you bring? What'd you bring?" she asked eagerly, bouncing on her knees.

Turns out, he brought cucumber sandwiches, assorted fruit and veggies, homemade potato chips, and ice cold, freshly made lemonade.

"This is delicious! You made all of this?" Lyra questioned, slightly surprised. Gallowglass has learned to make simple meals; it's easy having a vegetarian mate.

He grinned at her, "I had Marthe teach me a few things before we left the chateau. And she's been texting me soup recipes nonstop for months."

"I'll have to send her flowers as a thank you."

By the end of the meal, Gallowglass has flowers in his beard and a flower crown, and Lyra has a traditional Viking-style braid, flowers decorating the red hair.

She let out a sigh before saying, "I love you so much, Eric."

"And I love you, my sweet flower."

Then he reached back into the basket, and pulled out the most beautiful, most perfectly frosted, chocolate cupcake.

"Ready for some dessert?" he asked, and Lyra perked up, scooting over to him.

But he held it away from her, making her pout.

"Eriiiiic!" she whined, arms crossing over her chest. "Don't tease me."

"I just want to feed it to you," he replied, smirking.

She huffed but accepted the bite he gave her. The taste was so delicious--better than any cupcake she ever had before, and her annoyance melted with the chocolate on her tongue.

"Good?" he asked.

"I've never been happier that you were my mate."

That has him laughing in that deep voice of his, and he fed her another bite.

[allylikethecat]

Chapters: 5/6 Fandom: The 1975 (Band) Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: George Daniel/Matthew Healy Characters: George Daniel, Matthew Healy, Original Female Character(s), Original Male Character(s), Original Child Character(s) Additional Tags: Christmas, Meeting the Parents, Angst and Hurt/Comfort Series: Part 4 of The Infection 'Verse Summary:

“Yeah,” said Matty, pulling his hand away from George’s to run it through his hair. If there was one thing he was good at, it was doubling down, even if usually that just made it worse.

“Christmas, what are your plans for Christmas?” Matty swallowed hard, feeling very small all of a sudden and like he was baring a piece of his soul, “because I would very much like to spend it together.”

“Oh,” said George and Matty wanted to die right then and there.

.

AKA The Christmas Fic™️

[nach0]

"Over there is Housemaiden Stagnation." "Someone named Stagnation? In a House of Change?" "They say they lost their first name, it's more of a title... but honestly. Could they not think of anything less fitting?"

aka i know that i've got lucas' isat trip all planned out but i go What If anyway

putting them through the horrors (having them go through world after world, feeling like they're going insane helping the same people who never recognise them over and over) to the point they've started disconnecting from who they used to be

[emometalhead]

AFTERSHOCK DAY ONE WAS UNREAL. I MET GRANDSON!!!!!!!!! HE HUGGED ME AND HELD MY PHONE TO TAKE A PICTURE WITH ME!!!!!!!!