#v8 cold start

[omgcarsandengines]

Nice Cold Start V8 Ford Flathead Engines and Awesome Sound 2

[prisvvner]

✫・゜・ ☆ﾟ. ʜᴀɴᴅʟᴇʙᴀʀꜱ & ʜᴇʟʟꜰɪʀᴇ

─── pairing: biker!ryomensukuna x mechanic!femalereader

─── synopsis: you used to run tokyo’s streets. now you build the monsters that do. but when a rider in black shows up on a hayabusa with eyes like blood and a smirk like a loaded gun—something starts ticking again. something you swore you buried.

─── content: 4.7k words, street racer au, strong language, swearing, street culture, intense emotional conflict, verbal aggression, depictions of abandonment and betrayal

─── author's note: one of my fav' chapters i've written so far, enjoy!

⊹ ࣪ ˖ masterlist ⊹ ࣪ ˖ part two ⊹ ࣪ ˖ part three ⊹ ࣪ ˖ next tba.

Tokyo breathes differently at night. Down there, under the electric haze and between the glass-and-steel giants, the city pulses like an engine on the edge of redline. It’s not just the neon or the hum of life clinging to the streets—it’s the anticipation. The pressure in the air before the drop. The scent of burnt rubber and gasoline, of cigarettes half-smoked and egos half-checked.

Downtown is alive, veins glowing red and orange, arteries mapped by taillights and adrenaline. Somewhere far below, the streets stretch wide and wicked. They belong to the reckless, the brave, and the desperate. And tonight, those are all the same thing.

You’re posted near the edge of a rooftop, high above the chaos. A quiet silhouette cut sharp against the skyline, wind tugging at your jacket hem, hands shoved deep in your pockets. Your collar’s zipped high, jaw locked, eyes tracking the motion far beneath.

Next to you, Inumaki crouches low like a stray watching traffic, one hand bracing against the concrete ledge, the other raising the last bite of tuna onigiri to his mouth. His expression hasn’t changed all night, bored, casual, like he isn’t watching a powder keg counting down beneath his sneakers.

And then you hear it.

Not just the crowd, they’ve been murmuring for minutes, sound swelling and retreating like the tide. No, you hear the engines. Low at first. Then louder. Closer.

Four. No—five. Each one a monster, snarling down the tunnel of asphalt like they were built to kill gods. Exhaust howls up through the high-rises, guttural and sharp. V6s and V8s tuned to a dangerous frequency, built for nothing but speed and recklessness. They tear through the first straight like wolves loosed from the chain.

But one voice rises above them all.

The Skyline.

A silver-blue blur. Polished like a mirror but meaner than chrome. You catch it the second it rockets past the first checkpoint. Headlights low, body hugging the road like it’s in love with the danger. The underglow floods the pavement in a smooth wash of cold light, casting long shadows in its wake. She’s a ghost in a storm of thunder.

You can hear the turbo whine, high, hungry. The low-end growl curling under it like a secret. Every shift is violent and precise. Every movement intentional. No twitching. No wasted effort. No fear.

She was built for this. And you built her.

“Well damn,” someone murmurs behind you, low and reverent. “That’s Black Dog’s touch if I’ve ever seen it.”

“Has to be,” another voice adds, eyes tracking the Skyline as it takes a corner tighter than physics should allow. “No one else tunes that smooth. Listen to that grip—it’s not just speed, it’s balance.”

“She doesn’t just make them fast,” a third cuts in, arms folded, sunglasses still on despite the dark. “She makes them feel alive.”

You don’t turn. You don’t need to. The pride sinks deep into your chest like heat into metal, slow and satisfying. You’d smirk if this were a different night. If this race mattered.

But you’re not here for praise. You’re not here to bask in the engine’s song or to flex your name like a brand.

You’re here for something else entirely. Watching. Waiting. Just in case.

Inumaki flicks his gaze to you, then to the street below. You know what he’s thinking: if the cops show, you’ll see the flashing lights before anyone else. That’s the deal. That’s the reason you’re up here instead of down there.

But still. Still it’s hard to shake the feeling.

The rush in your bones when the Skyline cuts another corner too fast to be legal and too clean to be luck. When it drops a gear like it’s snapping vertebrae and Tokyo becomes a blur of chrome, glass, and madness. For one perfect heartbeat, that machine owns the night.

And though no one below can see your face, though no one knows you’re watching from above, steady and quiet, hands shoved in your jacket—

You know. And he knows.

The Skyline takes the final stretch like it’s laughing in the face of physics—tires skimming asphalt with a grace that borders on sacrilege, engine howling like it’s begging for just one more gear, one more second of freedom before the inevitable end. It weaves through the last bend like a whispered threat, body low, underglow kissing the street in a blur of silver-blue and phantom light.

Then—

It’s over.

The finish line explodes into view, nothing but cones, bodies, and broken rules, and the Skyline carves through it without hesitation. No fanfare. No hand out the window. No victory spin. Just a smooth deceleration, like the driver knows the moment spoke for itself. Like it would be disrespectful to say anything more.

The silence that follows barely lasts a heartbeat before it ruptures.

A roar. Screams, cheers, the metallic clatter of money changing hands and bets turning real. Phone flashes burst like muzzle fire. Someone’s already sprinting toward the winning car like it’s the last holy relic on Earth. The energy is molten, raw and electric.

And then, like it was choreographed by the devil himself—the sirens.

Faint, at first. Background noise. A soft, far-off scream that could almost be part of the city’s usual madness.

But they don’t fade.

They grow. Closer. Angrier. The kind of sound that cleaves the night in two, red and blue lights bleeding across glass towers and neon signage like some divine punishment.

You don’t need to say a word.

“Crows! Time to fly!” someone shouts behind you.

Panic moves fast up here. It has legs. The rooftop fractures, bodies scattering, voices cracking, equipment vanishing into bags and coats and shadows. You hear feet slamming against metal grates, laughter turned to panic, adrenaline flipping from thrill to survival like the click of a safety switch.

“Go,” you urge, low but clear.

Inumaki doesn’t move.

Your eyes flick to him, sharp. “Now, Toge.”

He stares back. Just for a second. Long enough for something to pass between you, something unspoken but heavy.

Then he nods, slow, brushing a few crumbs off his hoodie.

“Shake,” he mutters simply, and you can’t help the faint twitch of your mouth. That’s his way of saying stay alive.

You watch him slip into the chaos, light-footed and ghost-quiet, vanishing into the folds of the rooftop like he was never there at all.

And then it’s just you.

You stay rooted in place, arms folded tight, chin tipped down so the collar of your jacket catches the wind. The city breathes below you—hard, fast, alive. The Skyline’s long gone. So are the others. All that’s left is rubber ghosts on the asphalt and the howl of sirens echoing between glass and steel.

Your pulse has leveled out. Almost.

The breeze tugs your hair loose, slipping strands against your cheek. You don’t move. You’re not here for applause. You’re not here to be seen.

You feel it.

That shift in air pressure. The quiet wrongness of being watched. Not the jittery, paranoid kind. No, this is different. Familiar. Inevitable.

You don’t flinch. You don’t turn.

“Thought you might show,” you call out.

There’s a pause, long and deliberate.

“I was wondering,” a voice replies, velvet-smooth and knife-sharp, “if you’d recognize me without the lilies.”

It’s a voice like low tide and slow poison. The kind that slinks under your skin and nests there.

You turn, just enough to catch the silhouette easing out from the dark, from behind a hulking ventilation shaft that might as well have been built for moments like this. The glow of a rust-orange sign down the block catches the edge of his face in slices: cheekbones like a blade, mouth that doesn’t smile so much as suggest danger, eyes lit from the inside with something unreadable.

Oh. It’s him.

The ghost with a florist’s instincts and a habit of showing up like a problem you thought you’d buried.

“Big show tonight,” he remarks easily, like he didn’t just appear out of nowhere. Like he belongs here, breathing your air, standing on your rooftop.

“Wasn’t for you,” you shoot back, cool as chrome.

“No,” he murmurs, stepping forward. “It never is.”

He glances over the edge, toward the now-empty street. His lips quirk.

“But that Skyline… That was poetry on wheels.”

You don’t answer. He’s not wrong. But flattery smells like bait, and you’ve got enough hooks in you already.

“Most people just slap a turbo on and call it personality,” he continues. “But you? You build things that want to live.”

You tilt your head, dry as asphalt. “What do you want—a love letter or a quote for your next tattoo?”

He chuckles, low and rich. “Maybe just an answer.”

“To what?”

He leans against the rail beside you, like you invited him.

“Do you remember the rules of the game?”

Something cold curls at the base of your spine.

“What game?” you ask, voice flat.

“The one you walked away from,” his voice is soft, almost gentle, but he’s smiling like he knows exactly what you’re trying to forget. “Or tried to.”

And just like that, it’s there again. The image you thought you’d ground down to ash. The flicker of taillights disappearing into fog. The scream of an engine you built with your own hands, taken from you like a part of your body. The hollow pit of choices you made in the dark when no one else was watching.

Another siren shrieks down below, slicing clean through the moment. A helicopter blinks somewhere above the towers, indifferent and circling.

You could walk away. You should.

Instead, you stay.

“Careful,” you murmur, voice lowered like a threat. “You’re not supposed to be up here.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch.

“Neither are you,” he replies, and there’s a flicker in his eyes, something knowing, something dangerous. Like he’s not just here to talk. Like he’s playing a move that was set in motion long before tonight.

The rooftop settles into a strange kind of stillness, the kind that only comes before a storm or a gunshot. The wind whistles between rusted vents and empty scaffoldings. Below, Tokyo pulses like a machine barely holding itself together, neon bleeding across rooftops, windows glowing like open secrets.

And the two of you?

You stand like statues, carved out of shadow and stubbornness. Balanced on the edge of memory and menace, high above a city that doesn’t care if either of you falls.

This rooftop was supposed to be your escape. Your observatory. The one place where the world quieted enough for you to think. To breathe. To forget.

But now?

With him here—poised, unreadable, too familiar in all the wrong ways—it doesn’t feel like a safehouse.

It feels like a chessboard.

Every breath is a move. Every silence a trap.

And the worst part?

You don’t know whose move it is.

Not anymore.

Your jaw ticks. You taste the weight of unspoken things on your tongue, bitterness and battery acid, old questions you buried so deep they almost fossilized.

He’s still watching you.

Like he’s got time. Like he’s got all the time in the world.

You’ve played this game before. Slow entrances, cryptic lines, smug half-smiles that don’t quite reach his eyes. And maybe it worked on you once. Maybe you were young enough, reckless enough, desperate enough for answers or attention or whatever poison he was selling dressed up as prophecy.

But not now.

Not anymore.

Your voice cuts sharper than the wind this time, low but laced with steel.

“What do you really want, Geto?”

It lands hard. No flourish. No theater. Just the truth, flung between you like a challenge in the dark.

His smile flickers, just for a heartbeat. A crack in the performance. It’s gone before it’s fully there, but you see it. You feel it.

He doesn’t answer right away. Doesn’t rush to fill the silence. He lets it hang, stretched taut between you, heavy with everything he isn’t saying.

Then he tilts his head, the dark fall of his hair catching what little light spills across the rooftop. There’s something ancient in his face now, something worn and weary beneath the gloss of charisma.

“What I’ve always wanted,” he answers smoothly. “Balance. Power where it belongs. A world that doesn’t eat its own just to keep the wheels turning.”

You narrow your eyes.

“Save the manifesto bullshit. You didn’t climb six stories and crawl out of the shadows just to give me your LinkedIn header.”

His eyes glint. There's a flicker of amusement, but it doesn’t reach the edges. Not tonight.

“You haven’t changed,” he steps a fraction closer. “Still mouth first, consequences later.”

“Don’t confuse consistency with tolerance.” Your spine is a live wire now, but you don’t back away. “You want to preach? Start a podcast. If you’re here, on my rooftop, after all this time, you want something. So let’s skip the preamble. And stay out of my apartment.”

Another step. Just close enough that you can hear the soft scuff of his boots on the gravel. He’s careful with his distance, not quite in your space, but close enough that the air between you turns electric.

“You always did hate games,” he murmurs. “And yet… you were so damn good at them.”

You feel it again, that strange pull in your chest. Not affection. Not nostalgia. Something darker. Something like recognition. Like staring into the mirror you broke and buried.

“Don’t make this sentimental, Geto,” you retort, almost cold now. “We both know where that road ends.”

There’s a beat. A wind gusts through, stealing the breath from between you both. Somewhere far below, a door slams. A dog barks. The city doesn’t care about your ghosts.

But Geto’s expression shifts, something flickers in the hollows of his eyes. A tension he can’t quite mask. When he finally speaks, it’s quieter. Slower.

“I need a driver.”

The words land like a stone in your gut. Simple. Sharp. Intentional.

You blink once. “You have the entire underground on speed dial and you come to me?”

“No one else knows how to handle what I’m building. And no one else has you under the hood.”

“That’s not flattery,” you mutter. “That’s manipulation in a leather jacket.”

His mouth lifts at one corner. “And yet you’re still here.”

You hate how true that feels. Hate how you didn’t walk. Hate how part of you—the part that still hears the roar of engines like a second heartbeat—didn’t want to.

You fold your arms, eyes narrowing like crosshairs.

“I don’t work for phantoms, Geto. And I sure as hell don’t run for people who ghost me and then show up like nothing happened.”

“I didn’t ghost you,” he says calmly. “I protected you.”

“Oh, spare me,” you hiss, the words sharp and jagged like shattered glass sliding across concrete. The cold night air tightens around you, pressing in like it’s waiting for a crack to split the silence. Your voice cuts through the space between you like a blade—raw, unyielding. “You left me. You left him. In the blast zone. And you called it mercy.”

That hits. You see it, a flicker of guilt, or memory, or something twisted between them.

“Maybe I did,” he admits. “But the game’s starting again. Come back. You know the rules.”

You stare at him. Silent. Furious. Alive.

And beneath all of that?

You’re listening.

Because you can’t help it.

Because you always did like to win.

The rooftop air is sharp, metallic, charged like the air before lightning splits the sky. You can smell rain that hasn’t fallen yet. The kind that clings to rusted rails and slick pavement, to the bones of the city itself.

He’s still so calm.

Hair slicked back, lips curled just barely at the corner, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. Like he’s already counted every one of your defenses and written the blueprints for how to walk right through them.

Your silence stretches, taut as a tripwire.

The longer it hangs, the more brittle it becomes. You feel it fray. Hear it hum. Something inside you is splintering, minute cracks spiderwebbing from a pressure point you’ve spent years pretending didn’t exist.

Because God.

You miss it.

The danger. The burn.

The way racing used to sing in your veins louder than any heartbeat ever could. The feel of the throttle biting back. The smell of gasoline and rubber. The impossible high of a well-timed turn, an open stretch of road, and the belief—just for a second—that you belonged to something that made sense.

That you made sense.

The temptation curls hot in your gut.

One word. One step. One yes, and you'd be gone again. No questions. No apologies. Just the echo of your tires screaming against the dark.

You blink hard, dizzy with the weight of it.

And then—

CRASH.

The rooftop door explodes open with a violence that shakes the concrete. It slams against the wall and rebounds, rattling on its hinges like it's trying to escape.

You and Geto both snap toward the sound like dogs trained for the gunshot.

And then he’s there.

Sukuna.

He doesn’t enter, he invades. Like he’s not just stepping onto the rooftop but claiming it. Owning it. Daring the sky itself to strike him down.

His boots hit hard, heavy against the rooftop, each step loud enough to echo. His leather jacket flares behind him, catching the wind like a battle flag. Tattoos black as oil peek from under the collar, sliding down his throat like vines.

His face is a thundercloud. Eyes locked, jaw wired tight. No hesitation. No calculation.

He’s not looking for an explanation.

He’s looking for someone to bleed.

And first his eyes find Geto.

Something shifts.

Not surprise. Not rage.

Something older. Deeper.

Recognition.

The kind that crawls up from the past with blood on its hands. The kind that carries names carved into brass casings and tire tread. A slow, cold knowing. Like the past just walked back in, uninvited, and Sukuna remembered exactly where he’d buried the bodies.

The tension spikes, palpable as a live wire. For a heartbeat, neither of them move.

The skyline hums around them. Neon pulses. Wind howls.

Two storms. No safe shelter.

Then Sukuna’s gaze rips from Geto and crashes straight into you.

And now?

Now the fury erupts.

It ignites in his eyes, bright and volatile. Moves through his shoulders like a fuse running toward detonation. His jaw clenches so tightly the muscle ticks, and his breath sounds like it’s fighting to stay human.

He doesn’t bother with preamble.

“What the fuck are you doing here with him?”

His voice hits like a punch, raw, rough, ripped straight from the core of him.

You blink. The heat of his rage coils at the base of your spine. “Excuse me?”

Geto doesn’t so much as twitch. He watches Sukuna the way one apex predator watches another. Amused. Alert. Dangerous.

Sukuna steps forward again, each footfall heavier than the last. Like gravity itself is answering to his rage now.

“Got a real fucking talent,” he spits, the words dripping venom as they slice through the heavy silence, hanging in the cold air like smoke from a burnt-out fire, “for standing next to the worst goddamn people you could pick.”

You plant your stance without even realizing it. “I barely know you.”

His laugh is a single, sharp exhale. Almost a bark. Bitter and disbelieving.

“Bullshit. You touched my bike like it was sacred. Like every nut and bolt told you a secret. And now I find you here”—he waves a hand at Geto like he’s filth—“having a midnight rooftop chat with this snake?”

Geto lifts a brow, amused.

“Still running your mouth, Ryomen?” he drawls. “Still pretending there’s a soul left under all that engine grease and barbed wire?”

Sukuna doesn’t bite.

Doesn’t even glance his way.

His focus is locked on you like a targeting system. Eyes ablaze, but beneath the fury, something else now. Something heavier. Something that tastes like metal in the back of your throat.

Fear.

Or worse—

Possession.

Not the soft kind. Not the safe kind. The kind that burns. That digs its nails in. That refuses to lose.

“You don’t know what he’s capable of,” Sukuna growls, voice dropping like a hammer. “He’s not just another job. He’ll crawl inside your head, twist it until you think it’s your idea to fall apart.”

You blink once. Hard. Then laugh.

Cold. Empty. Hollow as an oil drum.

“And you’re different?” you snap.

“Yeah,” he bites back, not missing a beat. “Because I don’t lie to myself about what I am.”

The rooftop spins a little. Your ribs feel like they’re trying to crack open.

“You don’t even know me.”

“I know enough,” his voice is rough, crimson eyes never leaving yours. “I know the way he’s looking at you means he’s already calculated what it’ll cost him to lose you again.”

Your heart stutters.

Air goes thin.

Your gaze cuts to Geto. But he doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t even blink.

He just stands there. Tall. Calm. Beautiful as a lie.

And you? You burn.

You take one step forward, fire in your spine. Your voice could slice steel.

“Find someone else to race your ghosts,” you hiss to Geto.

He opens his mouth.

You don’t let him.

“No. You don’t get to say something. Not after what happened. Not after what you did.”

You don’t wait for the response. Don’t care what it might be. You turn on your heel, the wind whipping past your ears as your boots hit pavement.

Past Sukuna.

Down the stairs.

Gone.

You don’t stop moving.

Not when the streetlights begin to stretch and smear like watercolors left out in the rain, bleeding color into the corners of your vision until the world itself feels smudged and unreal, as though it’s sliding past you too quickly to catch.

Not when the heat in your chest—the fire that had started out sharp, righteous, volatile like oil on flame—starts to twist into something warped and unrecognizable, something slower, heavier, thick with memory and rot, slowly collapsing inward until it no longer feels like rage at all, but something infinitely worse.

Grief.

Not when your lungs seize and swell with more than exertion, aching not from the sprint or the bitter night air slicing into them, but from the weight of everything you haven’t said, everything you’ve buried so deep it’s begun to fossilize, pushing against your ribcage like a scream trapped beneath your sternum, hot and living and seconds from shattering you open.

One block. Two. Three.

Each footfall slaps against the wet concrete with a rhythm that doesn’t feel like movement so much as a warning, echoing through the empty street with the finality of a gunshot, like the city itself is bearing witness to your unraveling.

You don’t even register the wind shifting behind you until your jacket jerks against your shoulders, pulled suddenly by the breeze like a warning tug, like a ghost yanking at your collar to stop you, to turn around, to look.

When you finally see it, you visibly exhaled. There it is. Your garage.

Home. Sanctuary. Wound.

Familiar in the way only something broken can be. The metal front looms tall and indifferent beneath the streetlight’s sputtering glow, its rust-lined seams catching shadow in all the same places they always have, like the scars on your knuckles or the ones under your skin. Above it, the battered neon sign buzzes dimly, its blue and red glow flickering in and out like a faulty pulse, casting fractured light across the pavement, where it pools in puddles like old blood rinsed down a drain.

Your fingers, numbed and clumsy from the cold, scrabble for the keys in your pocket, fumbling them once, then twice, the metal biting into your palm as if punishing you for the hesitation. You shove the right one into the lock with more force than necessary, and for one brief second, all you want is to get inside—to slam the door behind you and drown yourself in the familiar smell of oil and rust and old gasoline, to lose yourself in the mechanical certainty of engines and steel where nothing—your mind goes blank.

A sound.

A breath.

A shift in the air like the night itself inhaled.

A shadow moves.

“You really walk off like that after a scene like that?”

The voice cuts through the dark, low, rough, familiar. It curls around you like smoke from a fire that should’ve gone out by now.

Of course he fucking followed. Of course he didn’t let it go.

You go rigid, spine drawn taut, hand still clutching the key, the cold metal digging into your skin like an anchor. You don’t turn around. Not yet. Your voice comes out low, measured, scraped raw at the edges.

“I don’t need an escort,” you declare, every syllable carefully carved like stone, controlled, unshaking, even if your heart is still racing.

“Too bad,” he bites out, the words rough with something darker than anger, something close to panic in disguise. “I didn’t ask.”

That does it.

You spin around, fast and sharp, like a blade unsheathed, body vibrating with fresh fury, with the unbearable pressure of everything you haven’t had the space to feel until now, and you meet him with a glare that could strip paint from steel.

“What the hell is your problem?”

His eyes flash. All heat and teeth. He paces forward like a wolf barely held at bay by the thread of his own restraint.

“My problem?” His voice cracks against the walls, low and thunderous. “Geto is my fucking problem.”

Your fists curl at your sides. “I noticed,” you throw back. “What is it between you two?”

Silence.

Not empty but bristling. Buzzing with history. With memory. With things you aren’t sure you want to know.

Sukuna doesn’t answer, but his face does. The twist of his mouth. The tension in his jaw. The way his hands twitch like they miss the feel of a weapon.

Like Geto isn’t just a threat. Like he’s unfinished business.

You shake your head, voice rising. “You barge in like a psycho, insult him like I’m not even standing there, and now you’re what—trying to protect me?”

His eyes narrow. The fire behind them dims—just a flicker—but it’s enough. Enough for something colder to settle in its place.

“He’s not who you think he is.”

Your laugh comes bitter and fast. You throw your hands up like you’re flinging off the weight that’s been chained to your shoulders since the moment Geto opened his mouth on that rooftop.

“I know who he is, Sukuna! I’ve known longer than you! I was there!” Your voice cracks. You don’t care. “I watched it all fall apart. I watched him burn everything down and walk away like it didn’t cost him a goddamn thing.”

Sukuna stills.

Like a gear slips. Like a switch flips inside him.

His chest stops heaving. His fists unclench. His whole presence goes quiet, not calm, but quiet, in that dangerous, seismic way right before something breaks.

And your own breath stutters.

You hadn’t meant to say that much. Not like this. Not to him.

But now it’s out. Raw and bleeding in the space between you. And it hurts.

“You think I’m naïve?” you whisper, your voice hollow with exhaustion. “That I’d just run back into that life because he showed up with an apology and two fucking words? I wasn’t gonna say yes.”

The silence that follows is vast.

Vast and unforgiving, like a canyon you can’t cross no matter how loud you scream into it.

Sukuna looks at you, really looks— Like he’s seeing not just the mechanic, not just the smart-ass girl who doesn’t flinch at blood and grit and steel. But the version of you that still carries ash in your lungs. That still smells like smoke from a fire someone else set.

And for once, he doesn’t speak. Doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t mock or threaten.

He just stands there, chest rising slow, shadow cutting hard lines beneath his cheekbones.

Something in his eyes shifts.

Not softer. Not exactly.

But deeper. Something old. Like the sound of tires screaming on wet pavement. Like the last look you give someone in your rearview mirror, knowing damn well they won’t be there when you stop.

Finally, he exhales. And it sounds like regret.

tag-list:

@dahliadaenerys @greenday-bingus @w31rd0s7mblur

@blublublubby

✧･ﾟwritten by @prisvvner ⊹ dividers by @cafekitsune ⛓️ do NOT repost, steal, translate, or claim as your own. 🖤 reblogs are love — theft is not. 🏍respect the grease and the grind.

[rickybobbydan]

1. New Girl in the Paddock

Daniel Ricciardo x Fem DriverOC

Summary: Solana Villarosa, the girl with fire in her veins stands on the world stage, wearing red and carrying the weight of a dream born from working class parents. The engines scream, the politics simmer, and somewhere between the cameras and the chaos, a rivalry begins—sharp smiles, sharper edges. It's not love. Not yet. But it’s something.

Warning: Daniel kind of being mean (sorry!), mutual pining in disguise, enemies to lovers, angst, rookie reader

Words: 1.3k+

Next Part

Melbourne, Australia – March 2014

There's something about the sound of a Formula 1 car—how it doesn't just echo in the ears, but burrows into the chest, makes the bones hum and the blood race. It's quieter now, these new V6 turbos a far cry from the V8 scream she used to watch on grainy YouTube clips, but even muted, they still carry that addictive thrum. That promise of velocity.

Solana Villarosa stands just outside the Ferrari garage, her visor pushed up, the late summer sun of Albert Park bleeding golden heat across the paddock. The air is sharp with the scent of scorched rubber and espresso from the hospitality lounge, undercut by the acrid tang of clutch smoke and the faint chemical buzz of race fuel.

Home. In a twisted, high-octane sort of way.

She shifts on her boots, listening to the distant clatter of tools and radios. This is it. Her first race weekend as a full-time Formula 1 driver. Wearing Ferrari red. In Melbourne.

It's hard not to think of where she started. Of home in Riverside, California—halfway between freeways and forgotten desert. Her parents never had much, immigrants from Guadalajara, Jalisco, who made ends meet with quiet dignity and the kind of work ethic that didn't allow for rest. Sundays were for laundry and fútbol. Not European motorsport.

But everything changed when she was ten and her father sat her down with a busted old laptop and showed her Sergio Pérez slicing through the rain-soaked streets of Monaco. A single overtaking move, and her entire trajectory shifted.

Her parents didn't understand what Formula 1 was. But when she told them, plain and serious, "I want to do that," they didn't laugh. They asked: ¿Y qué necesitas para lograrlo, mija?

She karted in borrowed helmets and duct-taped gloves. She studied telemetry before she learned algebra. She won, lost, fought harder. Now she's the first Mexican-American woman to race full-time in Formula 1. Ferrari didn't hand her this seat—she clawed her way to it.

And the cameras love it.

"Big smile, chica," her PR rep murmurs as she's guided toward the photo wall beside Fernando Alonso. "You're the story this weekend. Make it count."

She flashes a smile, teeth clenched beneath the surface. She doesn't need a reminder—she can feel the tension in her gut. The headlines wrote themselves weeks ago: Diversity on the grid. First-timer. Ferrari gamble.

Alonso leans in, bumps her shoulder with a grin. "You'll get used to it," he says, voice thick with his Asturian drawl. "The questions, the spotlight, the pressure. It all blends together eventually."

"They asked me if I wore lipstick under the helmet," Solana mutters, still smiling for the flash.

Fernando winces. "Ah. Bienvenida a la Fórmula Uno."

The paddock hums with life—crew members in branded polos, TV presenters chasing soundbites, engineers hunched over laptops. The 2014 season opener feels different. The old order is crumbling. New engines, new rules, and the whispers that Mercedes has cracked the code.

She catches Lewis Hamilton laughing with his crew, animated, full of that effortless charisma. "If this thing doesn't last five laps," he says, waving at his W05, "I'm flying home early."

Nico Rosberg walks a step behind him, stiffer, calculating. He glances Solana's way with a professional nod—not cold, not warm. Just measuring.

She rounds the corner of the paddock, brushing past a knot of Red Bull personnel, her eyes scanning for the Ferrari hospitality entrance. Her nerves are sharp. The suit still feels too new, too stiff. And then—

She nearly collides with Sebastian Vettel.

“Ah—la rookie,” he says, taking a small step back, eyes crinkling with amusement. There’s warmth in his voice, but also something else beneath it—recognition, perhaps, or quiet wariness. “Causing trouble already, hmm?”

Solana lifts her chin, slipping her hands into her pockets to keep from fidgeting. “Trying not to crash into anyone. Yet.”

Seb chuckles. “Good instinct. But if you do, make it Ricciardo. He enjoys a bit of chaos before lights out.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Ricciardo? That’s the one with the smile too big for his own helmet, right?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Seb replies with a smirk, leaning in slightly as if to share a secret. “The louder he laughs, the more trouble he’s usually up to.”

Solana hums, intrigued despite herself. “And you? What should I expect from you, Vettel?”

He gives a small shrug, stepping aside with theatrical deference. “Only what you earn.”

She nods once, tucking the moment away.

It isn’t until later—when she sees Daniel Ricciardo laughing in the garage, charm turned up like a spotlight and eyes flicking toward her just a little too long—that she understands what Sebastian meant.

And she wonders, not for the last time, what she’s just gotten herself into.

Exiting the Ferrari hospitality suite, adjusting her collar, she hears it—dry, unmistakably Aussie.

"Didn't know Ferrari started giving seats out in cereal boxes."

She freezes mid-step and turns slowly, one brow already lifting.

Daniel Ricciardo stands there, arms folded like he’s got all day, leaning against the paddock wall like it owes him rent. Sunglasses pushed into his curls, his smirk nearly as sharp as the glint in his amber eyes. There’s a casual arrogance to him, the kind of ease that comes with knowing you belong.

She’s heard the stories. That he’s all sunshine, the paddock’s favorite smile, the walking PR dream. But the way he says it now—there’s an edge. Not cruel. But not kind either.

She tilts her head, letting the silence stretch just a little longer.

"Didn’t know Red Bull scouted drivers based on who could smile widest for the press."

A McLaren engineer walking past chokes on a laugh. Ricciardo doesn’t flinch.

"Still reckon I’ll finish ahead of you," he says smoothly, as if it’s a certainty—not a challenge.

Solana steps forward, her boots clicking with deliberate control. Her voice is cool, measured. "You reckon wrong."

There’s a pause. A subtle shift in the air—like the paddock itself is holding its breath. It’s the kind of silence charged with something that can’t quite be named.

Ricciardo’s grin breaks the tension. This time, it’s real. Not performative. Not teasing. It crinkles the edges of his eyes, softens something sharp around his shoulders.

"Alright then, Miss California," he says, backing away. "Let’s see what you’ve got."

He saunters off without another word, like he owns the asphalt.

Solana watches him go, jaw tight, heart pounding—not with nerves this time, but with something hotter.

Fire.

And for the first time all weekend, she welcomes it.

Race Day – Sunday

The grid is a blur of colors and engine whines as the lights go out. Solana reacts on instinct—clutch drop, throttle feathered, wheel straight. The Ferrari leaps forward.

She holds her line into Turn 1, diving past a sluggish McLaren and slicing up the inside of Hulkenberg. Alonso's car dances ahead, the Mercedes pair already breaking free. But she's in the fight. And she's fast.

By lap 10, she's P4.

And Ricciardo's in her mirrors.

Red Bull's upgrades are holding—for now. His RB10 looms, aggressive through the twisty middle sector. He lunges on lap 12, a cheeky dive into Turn 9. But she's ready—hangs on around the outside, rear tires screaming for grip. They're wheel-to-wheel, brushing apexes like it's a street fight.

She doesn't flinch. She doesn't yield.

The crowd explodes.

Lap 18, Vettel's power unit fails—another Renault casualty. Solana's still holding P4. Ricciardo can't get past. The Ferrari might lack top-end speed, but she's placing it perfectly, defending like a veteran.

And when she crosses the line ahead of him, just 0.8 seconds clear, she doesn't need to check the board. She knows.

The garage erupts.

When she climbs out of the car, breath short, arms shaking, the sky blazing above, she's met by a sea of cameras and cheers. The mechanics lift her in the air. Alonso claps her on the back.

And across parc fermé, Daniel Ricciardo stands beside his Red Bull. Helmet off, curls matted to his forehead. His face is unreadable. Maybe impressed. Maybe irritated.

Solana meets his gaze.

She smiles first.

He doesn't smile back.

Not yet.

But she knows a rivalry when she sees one.

Next Part

[virtueking233]

Eh so I’m bored and just want to go a WR filled rant so I’m just going to go on another talk about Whiterose undoubtedly going to be Canon because of all the factors and potential and stuff we seen

So feel free to read and comment and do whatever in regards to this but but i will let you know that if you approach my post and be negative or a troll, just going to ignore ya

Anyways, let’s begin with the rant by starting off with the most obvious part: Patterns/Soulmates

Starting off with this part, it’s relatively simple idea to get across when I say… There is a literal pattern that shows how all Partner ships are going to be canon and why it makes sense they would be canon. Which one of the strongest pieces that prove this point being the whole pattern of opposites attract that balance each other out.

Something that can be greatly seen with Ships like Bumblebly, Arkos, and Rennora, All canon partner ships.

And this is something that can especially be with Whiterose and with how Ruby and Weiss are practical opposites since the beginning but they greatly balance each other and greatly understand each other better than anyone.

They are Fire and Ice, the warmth and the cold, now with Vacuo and what we see with Ruby/the schnee family, The Hero and the Villain.

However, despite their differences or how opposite they are, we see how Ruby and Weiss balance each other out.With Ruby’s warm personality balancing out Weiss cold personality or how Weiss fighting style helps to balance out and support Ruby’s fighting style

And we see how well that balance helps the other out… and happens when Ruby and Weiss are unable to balance the other out

But another fact we should take note when it comes to the whole pattern is how, so far, all canon partner ships all seem to be soulmates and that can be heavily supported by how the partner selection ceremony from V1 seems to be based on soulmates with the whole idea behind being that Partners selection are left up fate/destiny.

Literally thrown into a forest and are meant to run into someone and make eye contact with them for them to be your partner for coming years, something that literally can be drawn out and seen as a thing for soulmates/a soulmate concept (heck, the eye contact stuff with is something I’m pretty sure I’ve seen a lot of soulmate Au’s or stories use).

But ultimately there are other factors and things that make the whole pattern very obvious or some stuff that just just describe the pattern and the whole soulmate stuff, but honestly that’s just going to lead me to figuring some other stuff and then talking and ranting more and more and not talking about the other points

So moving on, let’s now talk about Potential

Starting off, let me just go ahead and say that this is probably going to be a short point I’m going to talk and that it is essentially me just saying that out of all the ships for Ruby or Weiss, Whiterose is the one ship that really only has the potential/has the greatest amount of potential to be canon.

Why? Well that’s very simple, incredibly simple actually

Ruby and Weiss are the two people who greatly need to talk to each other and greatly need a heart to heart moment in RWBY. They are both practically tied to each other arc’s now due to stuff that happened back in V8 and V9 as well as now how quite literally, they are both the only people who can give the other what they are missing… what they need to be whole again.

They are tied in that, back in V9, they both failed each other and feel significant guilt over that failure for each other… and undoubtedly have a desire to try and be their for the other or do something to apologize/make up for that failure in V10 and beyond, much the same as a few other ships.

They are tied in that they are both the only person that can give what the other needs with Ruby being the one person who can/has already given Weiss a place she can call home again among team RWBY and Weiss is the only other character who can be the one who will always be by Ruby’s side and fill the missing void left by Summer and Penny, be the one to help put Ruby back together through being someone can make that promise to remain and to always believe in her no matter what.

And just overall, with what happened in V9 and all the connections and how Ruby was the only to notice Weiss pain about Atlas or Weiss was the one who truly understood what was wrong with Ruby and why she was hurting as badly as she was without telling anyone

It’s very clear as to why Whiterose will become canon from looking at how much potential they have and how their relationship will have a major role in V10

But another way is to look at how much growth their relationship has already gone through and easily determine through that growth the ship being canon

What exactly do I mean by we can tell WR is going to be canon just by looking at the growth of the relationship so far? Again, very simple

Much like every ship that is so far canon and so far every development, a major factor in each partner ship is how the characters within each ship causes the other to grow and change in different ways.

For example

With the Bees you have how Blake and Yang gradually help bring out the best in the other with Blake being more joyful and happy and Yang being more calmer and patient/less prone to anger, or how both Blake and Yang were able to help them to change and realize that they are worthy of love and not afraid of it

Or

With Arkos how Pyrrha helps to train and make Jaune not just a better fighter/leader but genuinely more strong willed and courageous, or how after Pyrrha’s death, while being the reason Jaune pursued such a path, being the one who ultimately managed to get Jaune to change and move on from the pain and sorrow and instead honor her memory then avenge

But how is that his all relevant to Whiterose and how they grow, well, it’s because Ruby and Weiss help each other to grow and change in that way as well

Ruby helps Weiss to change and become genuinely more warmer and more understanding and patient, to become less of a ice queen and rather someone who is far more supportive, inspiring, kinder, and warms

Weiss helps Ruby to change and become more of a better fighter/leader and to help her become more understanding and determined, to no longer be the anxious girl just starting beacon to the brave and strong huntress who stands up and manages to inspire the world to work together.

And we know this to be the case with how “one small act of kindness brings about marvelous change” or however the blacksmith puts it, we see that with Ruby and Weiss, and with all the other partners

We see that with how Weiss back in V1, with a single moment of kindness of showing that she believes in Ruby and sees she can be a great leader as well as a promise to be the best teammate

Help to change the two to become far better then ever and to grow in ways that are quite marvelous indeed

And we also don’t see just positive changes, we all some negative changes or pushes that causes thing to happen

With all ships and WR especially

Bees have the losing one another causing them to change both negatively and positively, Arkos has Jaune losing Pyrrha and pursuing revenge changing negatively first and then ending in a positive manner, Ren and Nora separating in V8 and being lost/confused on who they are and what they want in a negative sort of change til after they reunite and figure out what they want first

Ruby and Weiss change negatively in V9 and most likely a part of V10 for Weiss with how Ruby lacks Weiss as a major pillar of support and how she misunderstands Weiss words or what she is doing, causing her to break her mask finally and to let out all that she been bottling up/hiding away (though this does lead later to how Ruby learns she is just enough/she doesn’t have to be perfect). As for Weiss, we don’t fully see the effects yet and don’t see how much Weiss is going to negatively change from some events but due to JL part 2 and how Weiss character is… needless to say it’s probably going to be something

Either way, just from looking at Ruby and Weiss is growth, we can tell that they are incredibly important to each other and they are very special for each other.

But overall

There is many ways to see how Ruby and Weiss are incredibly special to each other and especially how Whiterose is undoubtedly going to become canon. Many things that can be pointed to and just a whole bunch of cute stuff

But overall, I hope you all enjoyed this little talk I did and had a good time reading it or whatever, I might make a part 2 in another couple of months for the heck of it because why not, it’s fun and it just something to do during the hiatus

Let me know your thoughts

[vic-sinclair-96]

What Cars Would All the Little Characters in The Amazing Digital Circus Drive?

Welcome! To the AMAZING DIGITAL car show? That's right! We're gonna profile all of the characters and figure out what each of them would drive, based on their personality and requirements.

Starting off with the most popular total irredeemable asshole, Jax!

Jax is the worst. He's brilliantly entertaining, but he really only cares about himself and entertaining himself. He needs a car that's driver-focused. Something fast enough to get into trouble, and fancy enough that he can feel better about himself driving it.

His modified BMW 328i coupe fits perfectly. It's the perfect combination of smug and wrathful that suits him. It's also lightly modified on larger wheels, basic "cold air" intake (the box said 10 horsepower!) and a crackle tune with a shitty exhaust. It pops and bangs along as he weaves through traffic, the turn signal stalk having never been touched once.

Next up! Our favorite ray of sunshine, Ragatha.

Ragatha is a sweetheart. Often, sickeningly so. She needs a car with as much preschool teacher-energy that she has.

Ragatha has a Kia Soul. She saw the hamster commercials on TV and thought they were adorable. When she walked into the dealership, the salesman's mouth watered at seeing an easy target. She pointed to the top of the line model right in the center of the dealer showroom and said "That one is adorable! can I have that one?". She then spent 3 hours in the dealership getting fleeced for every single optional extra the Kia salesperson could come up with.

Moving onto our resident bug collector, Kinger!

Kinger, despite not really being all there most of the time, is clearly very intelligent. He seems the most aware of the actual mechanical functions of the Digital Circus, and fans theorize that his "bug collecting" comes from being a QA tester before he got shlorped into the circus.

Kinger would absolutely drive a SAAB 9-5 Aero Wagon. Fun Fact! Back when SAAB actually existed, they had, statistically, the highest-educated drivers of any car brand. I actually work at a major university, and I still see a good dozen SAABs being driven by professors with more degrees than a thermostat.

My lovely dysphoric darling Zooble is next!

Zooble is a functionalist. They're observant and intelligent, but they feel unheard in the circus. Zooble needs a car that works hard for them. They value the utility of their vehicle above all else, and their car can often blend into the background unseen.

Zooble's Ford Ranger is perfect for them. It's an truck. It goes down the road, it has space in the back for objects and things. Rangers were rather disposable back in the day, but luckily they're quite repairable which makes up for it. Zooble has no problems getting their hands greasy when need be!

Unmasking to our next little character, Gangle!

Gangle loves Manga, she's an artist who's not very sure of herself. She likes Japanesey-things, which like, who doesn't? and we also know her old job as a shift manager! This means we know her budget, which is: low

Gangle likes her Nissan Micra because it's cute. She got it because it was cheap, and she keeps it because it's good on gas and surprisingly fun to drive! Low weight will do that to ya.

Finally getting to the big man himself, Caine! no relation to Abel.

Caine is larger than life. He needs a car just as insanely exaggerated as he is, something that has no basis in real-world practicality, but is just more. More engine, more bodywork, more flair, more everything.

The 1930 Cadillac V16 Phaeton is exactly that. It's 18 and a half feet long, has 8 headlights, two grilles, two spare tires, two entire dashboards! The rear seat passengers even have their own windshield they can flip up when the roof is down. Not to mention the incredible V16 engine means it has double the cylinders and double the size of an already very large V8. It also has an "awooga" horn which just feels right.

Finally! Last but never the least, our protagonist herself, Pomni!

Pomni is down to earth. She values things she can be sure of, and the Digital Circus really throws all of that off a cliff. She's also reasonably intelligent, emotionally and numerically. She would value a car that gets her from point A to point B, every single time while carrying whatever she needs to carry. Something she can rely on.

She'd drive a Toyota Corolla Hatchback. Dependable. Reliable. There when you need it, just like Pomni.

Thank you for tuning into another What Cars Would All the Little Characters Drive! Comment any suggestions for the next cartoon you'd like to see!

[rwbyrg]

I don't known if you noticed or not, but in the back ground of v7ep9, with the Rosegarden fumble scene, the pillars have what looks like roses and green stems going around them and I'm just like did they (CRWBY) plan this !?!?

I did notice!! Everything about that scene is so blatant, intentional, and in your face and... y'know what, I've been meaning to talk about this scene for forever. Now feels a good a time as any.

Reasons Why Rosegarden is Canon: #013 - The Fumble

I have to admit, this was the first scene that really made me realize that these two were being set up as more than just character foils. And the way it does that is by making this scene sooooo tropey. We've got them Speaking in Unison, Finishing Each Other's Sentences, all with the air of Sickening Sweethearts. Ruby's little run towards him making them almost completely collide? Her closed off body language and nervous giggles? The second jinx at the end? The way it ties into their respective arc(s) while also paralleling other ships?

Lets break it down piece by piece.

First, this scene represents a resolution of sorts to the conflict - or, in romance arc terms, "break up" - that was set up between them at the start of the volume. The disagreement over what to say to Ironwood about the Oz situation is something that Oscar doesn't agree with, but respects either way; prompting the two of them to spend much of the volume separate and distant from each other.

As CRWBY says in the V7 commentary, The Fumble is when they "finally start to regain trust in each other". This, as well as their interactions within it, stand perfectly well on their own. Especially how it talks about the themes of trust, truth, and fear that both their solo arcs brush up against often. It also reaffirms the mutual care that's been established within their relationship thus far.

Ruby has spread herself too thin with her responsibilities and is offering to go tell Ironwood the truth that she initially decided to keep from him... but she's needed in Mantle with the rest of her team. So Oscar, who as we've previously established, is well aware of the weight of responsibility Ruby carries as leader, offers to take over for her. While he didn't agree with her decision from the start, he did respect it and therefore has his own amount of blame in keeping the truth hidden. His actions in this scene tell Ruby that she doesn't have to carry it all alone. That her decisions are not solely hers to bare the weight of. Even reassures her when she double checks that he's okay with it. Look at the little thumbs up! He's got it, Ruby! No worries!!

But outside of how it works for their individual and shared arcs as a pair, it also follows an established pattern within how CRWBY writes their romances. This 'breach of trust/break up' arc is one that has been explored with both Bumbleby and Renora as well. With BB, it kicks off when Blake runs at the end of V3, followed by her and Yang at odds with each other throughout most of V6, before they regain trust after protecting each other against Adam.

With Renora, it's running tangentially to Rosegarden throughout the Atlas arc. Ren, not believing they should be huntsman or be carrying these responsibilities, follows Ironwood's orders to the letter, represses his feelings and gives his team the cold shoulder, etc... all while Nora is in complete disagreement with how he's handling it. But both Bumbleby and Renora have new conflicts and resolutions throughout V8 as well... and so does Rosegarden.

Ruby and Oscar don't end this scene working fully together. They split up, following the name of the episode. Oscar stays behind in Atlas (As Above) to talk to Ironwood, and Ruby goes down to Mantle (So Below). Only for the two to swap places by the end of the volume with Oscar falling to the crater, and Ruby getting picked up from Atlas. They separate again in V8 following the split of the other ships as well; Yang, Ren, Jaune, and Oscar split from Blake, Nora, Weiss, and Ruby, respectively. The narrative constantly separating them with intention.

When they do have another resolution with the (rudely interrupted) reunion hug in V8E10, it is once again in this same location: The Schnee Manor entryway. Which, if you look at the full scope, with its rose engraved pillars, is designed like the definition of a fairy tale ballroom.

This romantic setting having not just one, but two very important moments to their shared narrative, ties into a Chekov's gun that's been following them around since the beginning: the idea that fighting and dancing aren't so different.

Even their body language and poses have them set up as if they're asking the other to dance!!

During this scene, they're also framed between two open doorways. Doors framing Rosegarden is something I've mentioned a few times, but am still working on a full meta for. To explain it briefly, open doors within stories - especially RWBY's narrative - are often symbolic of a few things. New beginnings, transitions and change, but also opening up or vulnerability. In this scene, Ruby and Oscar end up coming to an agreement between two thresholds marking a mutual transition. And they do this by trusting each other, opening up to one another, and ultimately growing closer in the process.

Speaking of being on the same page, I also want to talk about how the other characters are framed here. (Disclaimer: this isn't meant to downplay other ships, it is just an objective observation.)

Within the scene proper, team JNR all leave before Ruby and Oscar arrive, but there is an Interesting Focus on the characters that pass them over. The first we see passing over Ruby's shoulder is Penny, the second one is Weiss, this time over Oscar's shoulder. Leaving the two behind...

But then the camera angle changes. When Ruby and Oscar say "we should tell Ironwood" in unison, they are overlapped by Yang and Blake. Ruby then asks "Guess we're on the same page, huh?" before it pans back to Oscar and shows Bumbleby crossing past them a second time, as he responds "Guess so".

Which tells us two things. First, that they're on the same page as each other, and second that they are also on the same page narratively as Bumbleby. And if that wasn't enough to really drive the idea home, they give us another parallel to them by the end of the scene when Ruby and Oscar jinx with each other again!!

Ruby is so excited that she actually jumps off the ground when she turns around to wish Oscar luck, they bid each other farewell before she gives him the finger guns (just like her big sis does to Blake in V9), and then Ruby leaves through the front door, giggling again. Which prompts Marrow to roll his eyes in exasperation at the cringey, overly romantic youth he's been forced to witness twice over now. Once here, and once with BB earlier in the volume.

The last thing I'll mention has less to do with analyzing the scene objectively and more about a little test a dear friend of mine ran. She took the clip of this scene and sent it to some friends that weren't familiar with RWBY, the ship, or either of the characters individually, and asked them the question: What do you think the dynamic is between these characters?

And every single person that was asked immediately agreed that there was either a crush situation going on or it was building to a potential romance arc.

So take that as you will. Love this scene with all my heart, and thanks for giving me an excuse to talk about it. 🥰

[special-agent-sass]

Running Back To You

Smut

Y/N revved the engine of her blue 1969 Dodge Challenger and floored the gas pedal, speeding down the open Montana highway. The powerful V8 Hemi roared as the landscape blurred past in a mix of browns, greens, and blues. This was her happy place, just her and the road.

It had been a year since she left DC, since she left him. After their blowout fight, she just couldn't stay there anymore, not with Gibbs. The tension between them had been building for months, both at work and in their secret relationship. She was too wild, too reckless for the stoic Marine. He wanted to tame her, and she refused to be caged.

So she came back home, back to Big Sky country where the wide open spaces matched the freedom in her soul. She started over, opened her own shop just like she always dreamed. Her days were filled with the sound of wrenches turning and classic engines rumbling back to life.

But some nights, when she lay alone in bed, she missed the warmth of Gibbs’ strong arms around her. She missed the feeling of his calloused hands gripping her hips as he took her hard against the basement wall. The way he commanded her with a simple “Y/N” in that gravelly voice.

She thought she could forget him, but a year later her heart still raced for Leroy Jethro Gibbs.

As she crossed into the town limits, Y/N sighed and slowed the Challenger to a more reasonable speed. She had a stop to make before heading home.

The familiar neon sign of the local dive bar glowed in the approaching dusk. She killed the engine and pocketed the keys before heading inside, the scent of stale beer and cigarettes welcoming her back.

She nodded at the bartender as she approached an empty stool at the end of the bar. Within minutes, a cold longneck was waiting for her. Y/N took a long pull and tried not to stare at the handsome cowboy chatting up the redhead a few stools down.

“Now what’s a pretty little lady like you doing in a place like this all alone?”

The cowboy slid onto the stool next to her, giving her a smile that was probably meant to be charming but just came across as sleazy.

“Just looking to enjoy my beer in peace,” Y/N said evenly, not giving him much attention.

But the cowboy wasn’t deterred that easily. He leaned in closer. “A woman like you oughta have a man to keep her company. Why don’t you let me buy you a drink and show you a good time?”

Y/N clenched her jaw, reigning in her temper. “No thanks,” she said sharply.

The man was persistent, though, reaching out to touch her arm. “Oh come on sugar, don’t be like tha—”

“The lady said no.”

A rough, familiar voice interrupted the cowboy’s slurred words. Y/N’s heart leaped as she looked up to see Gibbs standing behind the man, ice blue eyes flashing. The cowboy scowled but seemed to think better of arguing with the intimidating older man and tipped his hat to Y/N before departing.

“Didn’t need your help, I had it handled,” Y/N muttered, trying to ignore the way her body was already reacting to Gibbs’ close presence.

“I know you did,” Gibbs said, his eyes softening as he looked at her. “Just didn’t want to watch that ass paw at my woman any longer.”

Y/N swallowed hard at his words. They stared at each other for a long moment, the air electric between them.

“Wanna get out of here?” Gibbs asked gruffly.

Y/N nodded, tossing some bills on the bar before following him outside into the cool night air. They got into his truck, the old Ford rumbling to life and kicking up dust as they headed for her house on the edge of town.

As soon as they were inside, Gibbs pressed her up against the door, kissing her fiercely. Y/N moaned into his mouth, feeling like she could finally breathe again after so long without him.

“Missed you, Y/N,” Gibbs growled against her neck as he sucked a mark into her skin. “Couldn’t stop thinking about you, about this.”

He squeezed her ass to emphasize his point and Y/N gasped. “Jethro,” she whimpered, already so wet for him.

Gibbs smirked, manhandling her toward the bedroom. “Gonna remind you who you belong to, baby girl. I need my Y/N back.”

They tumbled into bed together, relearning each other’s bodies with eager mouths and roving hands. He kissed every inch of inked skin, paying special attention to the secret spots that made her moan his name. When Gibbs finally sank into her tight heat, Y/N cried out his name, overwhelmed by how right it felt to be in his arms again. There was no slow build this time - the need to claim her was primal, urgent.

“So perfect for me, baby,” he praised, setting a relentless pace. She clasped him tight, meeting every thrust and urging him on. The bite of her nails and the sinful roll of her hips pushed him right to the edge. He wanted to watch her fall first.

“Come on, baby. Cum for me,” he commanded, driving into her sweet spot until she shattered with a sharp cry. The pulses of her release triggered his own and he followed her over, burying his face in her neck as ecstasy crashed through him.

Later, nestled against Gibbs’ strong chest, Y/N traced random shapes on his chest.

“Missed you too, Jet,” she whispered. “As wild as I am, I’m still yours. Only ever wanted to be yours.”

Gibbs pressed a kiss to her hair, holding her close. “I know, baby. We’ll figure this out, together. I love you, Y/N.”

“Love you too.” Y/N tilted her head up for a soft kiss, heart full and racing, always racing, for Leroy Jethro Gibbs.

[genimas]

How I think changes are represented regarding team RWBY, JNPR, STRQ

Fair warning: This post is loooong

Team RWBY- Outfit's colour pallets

Volume 2 outfits won't be in here cause I think that's a whole different problem

Ruby Rose

-Beacon Arc: Red and Black, this is the start, nothing much to say

-Mistral Arc- Atlas Arc: Add white, her mother colour, this may be because she start to follow her footsteps, do what her mother did, because she believes her mother is the perfect Huntress she needs to becomes

-Prediction: In Volume 10 she will have less white?

Weiss Schnee

-Beacon Arc- The Schnee's colour is white- it represents snow, ice, cold- and her outfit has cold blue, she got away from the coldness of her family, the ice is slowly melt

-Volume 4-5: The blue is now dominate the white, I also think this blue is...bluer than the Beacon Arc's blue, the impact her friends had left on her is so strong the ice still continue to melt even when she's back home even though it's dull and lifeless but BUT

-Volume 6: I never notice this detail until I started to think about all of this. The RED scalf, she didn't have it in Vol.4-5 because she was at home, she was under Jaques' thump again Whitley is too every time we see him he still not refuse Jaquess no red no RED on him. At the start of Vol.6 she's backs with her friends, her teammates HER FAMILY. Wow that made me kinda emotional, anyway enough rambling

-Atlas Arc: Even if she's back 'house' she's still with her real family so she still has that red on her and the blue now is more like ocean too

Blake Belladonna

-Beacon Arc: White, black and a hint of purple. At this point in time her dominant colour is black because she still in her 'From Shadow' phase *wink wink*

-Mistral Arc: This is a, kinda, special situation. Noticeably, Blake adds purple- her Aura colour- to the outfit, still not sure what this means though. But that not all, before Blake had the black to cover the white part of her outfit, but now it's the opposite, you can say she is wrapped in purity.

-Atlas Arc: Another thing to consider is the black on her outfit slowly shift into dark purple/violet-> she slowly step out of the shadow and become her real self. So the black-ish/purple-ish, maybe the black is the White Fang and after Blake's arc in Vol.4-5 it now wraps around her with the white?

Yang Xiao Long

-Beacon Arc: This is a bit hard; Yang colours, as this post points out, are brassy yellow (most likely her hair), orche, brown and black. Here's the problem, her palette doesn't change at all except in Vol.4

-Volume 4: She still has all the colour but is wrapped in grey (Mercury's colour, maybe) and if I'm right, gold can be dissolved by mercury, so that's how her defeated state is represent. Note: when she gets back on her feets, the jacket is gone

-Volume 5- Atlas Arc: The only thing I can say about her changes is that she's no longer the thrill seeker she was at Beacon and has more practical outfit choice

Team JNPR- Weapons

Jaune Arc

-Beacon Arc: Crocea Mors-The hand down weapon of his family, as he's trying to become the warior like those before him

-Mistral Arc: The shield+Pyrrha's crown thingy. The weapon is now more him, and it represent his growth at Beacon but consider himself unimportant

-Volume 7-8: Atlas upgrade. Less that destructive 'I'm not important' thought, more mature as a fight and a leader

-Volume 9: 3 words- the Ever After (and maybe also V8 final)

Pyrrha Nikos

Miló and Akoúo̱

Nora Valkyrie

-Pre-RWBY: A wooden hammer

-Beacon Arc- Atlas Arc: Magnhild-She is no longer that scared little girl back at S but a bubbly enthusiastic pink lightning 'still little' girl but with low self-esteem problem. Interestingly, no Atlas upgrade cuz her arc, changes, growth happen in V8 so

-Prediction: weapon upgrade for Nora in V10

Lie Ren

Pre-RWBY: His father dagger

Beacon Arc-Mistral: StormFlower-No longer the boy who stand by, he now actively helping people but also have problem with suppressing his feeling

Atlas Arc: Atlas upgrade. Ren has changed after his arc in V5, learn to express his emotion more yay [V9 Epilogue] and now he's one who try to keep the team together, good for him

Team STRQ- Outfit

Now is the part where I speculate the most

When we heard story about Summer and every time Ruby remebered her, she wears [pic.1] but when the tree showed Ruby the real Summer that is not perfect she wears [pic.2]

Qrow tried to be better in V7 and to signify that growth, he got outfit upgrade

Tai and Raven hadn't have their outfit changed, but those are what we saw throughout the course of the show

✨Speculation time✨ this kinda stupid so take this with a grain of salt someone pointed put that Raven's arm guards are similar to Summer's, so what if at Beacon one of them had a significant growth and that was a gift from the other *shrug*. Qrow's old outfit had a similar neck to that of Taiyang👀 no one else like that, maybe(?). I think those who changed are more likely the Branwens, yeah

[westdallasgang]

W.D. recalls his first robbery with Bonnie and Clyde that also resulted in murder:

 "I know now it was a fool thing to do, but then it seemed sort of big to be out with two famous outlaws. I reckoned Clyde took me along because he had knowed me before and figured he could count on me. It must have been two o'clock Christmas morning when we checked into a tourist court at Temple. They slept on the bed. I had a pallet on the floor. Next morning, I changed two tires on that Ford Clyde had. Clyde really banked on them Fords. They was the fastest and the best, and he knew how to drive them with one foot in the gas tank all the time. We went into town and stopped around the corner from a grocery store. Clyde handed me an old .41-caliber thumb buster and told me, 'Take this, boy, and stand watch while I get us some spending money.' Later, I found out that gun wouldn't shoot because there was two broken bullets stuck inside the chamber. I had to punch them out with a stick.

I stood outside the store while Clyde went in. Bonnie was waiting in the car around the corner. After he got the money, we walked away toward Bonnie. Now, the blocks in them days was longer than they are now; and before we got halfway back to the car, Clyde stopped alongside a Model A roadster that had the keys in it. I don't know if he'd seen something over his shoulder that spooked him or what. But he told me, 'Get in that car, boy, and start it.' I jumped to it. But it was a cold day and the car wouldn't start. Clyde got impatient. He told me to slip over and he'd do it. I scooted over. About then an old man and an old woman run over to the roadster and began yelling, 'That's my boy's car! Get out!' Then another woman run up and began making a big fuss. All the time, Clyde was trying to get it started. He told them to stand back and they wouldn't get hurt. Then the guy who owned it run up. Clyde pointed his pistol and yelled, 'Get back, man, or I'll kill you.' That man was Doyle Johnson, I learned later. He came on up to the car and reached through the roadster's isinglass window curtains and got Clyde by the throat and tried to choke him. Clyde hollered, 'Stop, man, or I'll kill you.' Johnson didn't move, and Clyde done what he had threatened. About then he got the car started and we whipped around the corner to where Bonnie was waiting. We piled into her car and lit a shuck out of town. It all seemed pointless then as to why Clyde wanted that car. I've thought about it since, and I figure he must have wanted the laws to think we was in Johnson's car. Of course, he didn't have no way of knowing he was gonna have to kill Johnson. We headed out of town toward Waco. A mile or two down the road, Clyde pulled over and said, 'Boy, shinny up that pole and cut them phone wires. We don't want no calls ahead.' I done it and we went on. As I look back, cutting them phone wires was slick. That was about all you had to do to cut off the law in them days. There wasn't no two-way radio hookups like now; and when a police used them long-distance phone wires to call the next town, it run up expenses. Them was hard times and even towns didn't have much to spend. There wasn't as many laws then, either, and they just couldn't catch up with Clyde in them V8 Fords he drove. Ted Hinton and Bob Alcorn, the Dallas lawmen I come to know a year later, told me Clyde was about the best driver in the world. They said them Fords and Clyde's driving was what kept him and Bonnie free them two years. Hell, I knowed that. I rode with him. He had me drive some when he was tired, but Clyde stayed behind the' wheel when the heat was close. He believed in a nonstop jump in territory—sometimes as much as 1000 miles—whenever it got hot behind. He and Bonnie didn't intend to ever be taken alive. They was hell-bent on running till the end, and they knowed there was only one end for them.

Clyde was pushing that Ford for all it was worth toward Waco when Bonnie said, 'What you gonna do, honey? You can't go back to Dallas now. That man's shot and probably dead.' He was, too, we found out later. 'Hell, I know that. He can't go back, either,' Clyde said, nodding at me. 'You know that, don't you, boy? You can't go home. You got murder on you, just like me. You can't go home.' He was right. They was supposed to take me home to Dallas that Christmas Day. He had promised that, but I couldn't go home after Doyle Johnson got killed. I had murder on me, just like Clyde said. I was an outlaw, too, now, so I stayed with them. The robbing and the killing never stopped, and neither did we. I run with Clyde and Bonnie for more than eight months. That was all I could stand. I left them up in Mississippi and hitchhiked back to Texas. The law caught me in Houston. My running was over. " — W.D. Jones, Playboy Magazine interview, November of 1968

[bestworstcase]

something interesting that popped into my head re: maiden talk. objectively between winter, weiss, and jaune, winter is the one most committed to atlas the nation; her line to ironwood, "I have never wavered in fighting the enemies of this kingdom, and I won't start now" has always stood out to me and I find it... interesting. Winter has the winter maiden powers and is probably the most high-ranking Atlas official to survive the fall. Raven, in committing to her tribe, places herself squarely in Mistral. Cinder steals Amber's powers in Vale, a country historically against Atlas (notably in the Great War), therefore aligning with her own sentiments. I doubt there is actually anything to this, but it feels like more reason to believe the Summer maiden will be in and associated with Vacuo. also as I rewatch the ironwood fight, he says that he never expected Winter to betray him... I have to wonder if he groomed Winter into joining the Atlesian military, or planted the seed in her mind, thinking that if he could mold someone into the lieutenant he needed that he'd never have to worry because he would have been totally responsible for them. (as in, taught them everything and shaped their morals and scruples). we know that as head of atlas he is the headmaster of the atlas academy but what better way to make sure that your protege never gets any "ideas" by picking someone who is isolated and desperate to escape, who wants to be cared for and about by someone and especially someone like him? if they never go to the academy they won't have the distraction of "friends" and "teams" and "allegiances." this could in part explain why her sword and rapier (?) are like ironwood's bfg and due process- she modelled them after him. also of course must be mentioned that when James realized Winter had inherited the maiden powers, he says that the destiny he chose for her had arrived. he must have known that it means penny is dead, but that doesn't matter to him at all. i think that's part of why winter is so pissed when she says "you chose nothing. this was a gift." she has to grieve her friend and a man who stands before her claiming he feels betrayed doesn't even seem surprised or sad about the death.

…hm yeah. throws that on the "gillian asturias is the summer maiden" pile

the WOR episode on huntsmen implies this pretty overtly, as ozpin notes that atlas academy has been under increasing scrutiny for "indoctrinating" its students into the military and pressuring graduates to enlist as special operatives, and…

ironwood also personally invites weiss to enroll at atlas in V4, and he knows jacques personally--prior to the fall of beacon it's implied they were political allies even, so he certainly knows what kind of person jacques is and how he treats his children. and then the way he talks to the kids when he gives them their licenses in V7 implies an expectation of personal loyalty--he needs huntsmen he can trust at his side.

i think he probably saw it as himself opening doors and taking a personal interest in promising students, much as ozpin does--bc ironwood very much does view himself as ozpin's most important lieutenant and natural successor, based on his unilateral actions after the fall--without necessarily recognizing (or caring) how manipulative and exploitative this sort of behavior is. but 100%, absolutely he was surprised by winter's "betrayal" because he thought she was his perfect protégé, never realizing she could still think for herself.

the funny thing is, projecting absolute obedience and deference while keeping her true thoughts and feelings behind a faultless mask is almost certainly a survival skill winter learned to protect herself from jacques, and she slips seamlessly into doing that the instant ironwood begins to make choices she disagrees with.

ditto her decisions in V8: winter sees ironwood murder a councilman in cold blood, going past "martial law" all the way to "military coup," and she sees the ace-ops brace up and fall in line. so what does she do? quietly stays put and starts doing what she can to sabotage him. she lets JYR go, then--upon realizing that they must have been the ones to blow up the whale, and thus probably survived--immediately turns around and declares they're going back to ironwood, no searching for the hostages, they'll tell him something else blew up the whale in person. jumping in to "arrest" marrow before ironwood shot him wasn't the moment winter "came to her senses"--that happened when she saw ironwood shoot sleet. it was just the moment when she saw she could do more good by leaving than by staying to mitigate ironwood's excesses. & i would bet anything that is exactly how winter was with her siblings when they were children: appeasing jacques and presenting as the perfect obedient child, and using the relative freedom that gave her to make things easier for her siblings in small, quiet ways.

ironwood just never noticed that he'd burned through all of winter's trust and all the chances she was willing to give him.

as for his reaction to penny's death: another moment i think about fucking constantly is this:

the way her focus goes right to penny's sword. the pause before she responds "sir?" to ironwood's greeting because she's so caught up in her worry for penny. (watts being… watts, and silently gloating at her because he can tell how bothered she is. framed between ironwood and harriet, who don't see penny as anything but a weapon to get under control.)

there's a reason winter is such a storm of feelings when she lets JYR go to try to save their friend, and the reason is she's terrified and angry and disgusted by whatever ironwood did to penny while she was being fitted into that brace, unable to intervene or protest.

so a day later, when penny dies and ironwood shrugs? it's not just that he's indifferent. ironwood is directly responsible for penny's death--he made the devil's bargain with watts, he authorized that virus, he is the reason penny was forced to leave her robotic body behind, he made penny vulnerable to cinder--and winter knows that.

[motorspexx]

Ford Mustang Coupé V8 - Raw Engine Sound 5.0L 486 HP

The raw and unfiltered sound of the 2025 Ford Mustang Coupé V8 in this audio-focused video. Captured in high-quality, this recording highlights the natural acoustics of the Mustang’s 5.0-liter Coyote V8 engine — from cold start to idle, throttle blips, and full acceleration runs.

This video is all about the engine note — no commentary, no music, just the signature growl of a modern American muscle car.

2025 Ford Mustang Coupé V8 - Technical Specifications

5.0L naturally aspirated V8 Up to 486 horsepower and 418 lb-ft of torque Available with a 6-speed manual or 10-speed automatic Active exhaust system with adjustable sound modes

Whether you’re a Mustang enthusiast, car audio lover, or just appreciate the sound of a high-performance V8, this video offers a pure auditory experience of one of the most iconic engines on the road today.

[omgcarsandengines]

Crazy COLD STARTING UP FORD FLATHED V8 Engines and Cool Sound

[snap-oversteer]

I saw your v6 drift v8 rodimus and I gotta know your opinion on what their earth alt modes would be, make/model-wise

v6 ls swapped s15 drift because i really think the s15 suits drift perfectly and the ls is small enough to fuel my short drift propaganda. drift's toy is a combination between the s15 and mitsubishi fto, and theres like that poster of ahm drift with an s15 and i dont wanna take that car away from him so lets imagine he was engine swapped lmfao. the other v6 i like in the vq35de and you know how that one sounds like cold start. totally not biased because of the 350z or whatever nuh uh

people are gonna pelt tomatoes at me but i really think roddy would be a ferrari testarossa. i have this other hc that basically said roddy is that type of guy who would misshift into reverse while doing 5th and blow up his trans/engine. yeah. yeah. ITS NOT REALLY possible to do that in a testarossa since the reverse gear is really far away from 5th but lets pretend lmaoooo. in my head he's like. countach styling on a testarossa. you get me? you get me. @calculatesguilt planted this idea in my head u gotta blame him bro not me

the other option for roddy is. the '73 de tomaso pantera. not a lot of people know about this car but it sounds heavenly and i really think-

do u see my vision anon. tell me u see my vision anon

[stormclawponyrises]

felt like rewatching the mad max series of films, given its been like 10 years since i watched the first 3, and several years since the 4th. While I was a bit too young to really understand everything that was happening when I first watched the first 3 they're a big source of nostalgia to me.

Something about the production and the way its so familiar in its aussieness, even though it was made decades before i was born.

So here's some thoughts on the first Mad Max film (1979) (obviously the film's like 40+ years old I'm gonna spoil it I don't care):

The film's got a good hook to start us off, a simple car-chase to get the ball rolling, and a good avenue for some character and plot setup. It's interesting to me how Max is set up as a character- he's not properly introduced until 9 minutes in, he's presented in a more mysterious light to the other characters (before being introduced his identity is obscured, setting up that he's important without even telling us who he is), and when Nightrider realises Max is after him, his entire tone of being the cool Nightrider having fun and escaping prison completely shifts to a man who knows death is coming for him.

Still, for the first half of the film there's very little focus on Max specifically, other than a scene or two with his wife. Most of the focus ends up being on Goose, who is even set up as an incredibly important character. We finally get more focus on Max after Goose's accident: he's in tune with his mental health for one (surprised me a lot if I'll be honest), scared to be like the men who ruined his friend's future. This serves as great setup for him becoming "Mad" Max, which was interesting to see!

The scenes with his wife Jessie throughout the film show them as a couple who truly love and adore each other- they enjoy being together and talking. Their feelings are genuine. They even try signing their feelings to each other which is such a cute and silly detail, even if the signs aren't proper ASL or Auslan (based on my research at least- I do not know either sign language).

So when Jessie and their son die, it hits that much harder. Because we've seen over and over a true depiction of love and kinship between these people in such a short time, and its completely torn apart. We don't even see them get hit, just the implication. So the suspense when Max runs up and we get even the tiniest glimpse of the body and the music builds up, we get that emotional intensity that establishes Max's madness developing in the next few scenes.

Pretty consistently, even while mad and interrogating, Max is a fairly soft-spoken and calm man. He's cold - one of the things he said he was afraid of becoming after Goose's accident. You can see rage on his face in multiple scenes, but he's still so quiet and blunt. It makes him far more unsettling and intense as a character.

The only thing I don't like that much about the film is how suddenly it ends, because Max's rampage feels so short. A lot of the bikers were dealt with offscreen or forgotten about, so it feels like there's something missing. At the very least though, the film answers its own question. Max is mad. Why? This is why. It's a good film and a fun taste of 70s Aus but I feel like if it didn't have any sequels it wouldn't have lasted that long in people's memory. With the abrupt ending I'm glad there's something more in the series I can watch.

Fun things about the film that I've heard (truth may vary) or that I just happened to find personally interesting:

The scene where Max ties a man to a car spilling gasoline with handcuffs and tells him to saw off his leg (or he'll explode) apparently inspired the Saw franchise.

V8s have always been pretty big in Australia. V8s are popular long-distance vehicles, which some see as a necessity in Australia, especially with the long distances (not so bad now in the 2020s, but Australia is still bloody fucking big!!!!!!!). I remember my dad watching the V8 Supercars racing on the weekends, he's also attended races throughout the years and even did some racing when he was younger, so hearing that the Pursuit Special (the car Nightrider was driving and that Max takes after Jessie and the child die) was a V8 perked my ears right up.

Jessie actually has some sense of self-preservation! Even though she dies she still actually tries to survive when she's put in danger. The only really stupid thing she seemed to do was trying to run right before she got hit, and that can easily be put down to panic causing intelligence to go out the window- and the fact that there wasn't really a clear way for her to survive there (so you can't really blame her for trying, even if I feel staying with the van would've had better results).

The son isn't named. "Sprog" is slang. No I don't know why and I haven't heard people use it personally. But it's not his name.

I know very little about the actual production of Mad Max, other than that it was filmed in a lot of locations I've been to. It obviously looks different now though! If you're interested in the production there are documentaries for the Mad Max films and some reviews I've seen from Mr Sunday Movies' "Caravan of Garbage" youtube series on the films that go into some detail about the production. I'm sure there's plenty others too.

[glitterandmoondustofficial]

So I’m actually going to use my blog as a blog! I’m going to track my days to note my stress and mood, and also track what I’m eating for my dietitian. This can be completely ignored! This is for my benefit only.

Alarm went off at 6:40 but slept until 6:50.

Fairly normal routine in the morning. Got up, fed KitKat, brushed teeth and hair, got dressed. Went outside to do my morning barn chores and saw the chickens were free roaming which is not great during the night.

Got yelled at by the sheep because they hate being in the stall compared to the horse trailer.

Drove to work while listening to a playlist my roommate and I made together. I got three Hozier songs and a Sleep Token song on the drive so that was great! I’m taking that as a good sign.

This was what I packed for breakfast. I drink V8 energy drinks because I gave up coffee. It’s about to be two months without it. I wanted to try sheep’s milk yogurt but it’s far too sour for me unfortunately. It made me lose my appetite so all I ended up eating was the V8.

And I also set these up. They were an early birthday gift.

Started listening to this playlist while I started working in my cubicle.

Checked my application status for the new position and it was very confusing so I really hope that they’ll contact me and at least tell me I didn’t get the job /:.

Have to work harder this week because my coworker is out and I’m in charge of her responsibilities. Yuck.

My horoscope for the day (it’s just for fun).

Snack time consisted of a cheese stick and a handful of freeze dried coconut milk covered in chocolate.

Here’s what I look like today. Bangs are not banging since I didn’t blow dry them yesterday. Also had to pull hay out of hair as per usual lol.

Lunch consisted of vegetarian ramen, green grapes, and sugar free sparkling “water.” Ate half of the ramen and all of the grapes.

Spent the rest of my shift before leaving for therapy filling out my spreadsheets and then checking on the status of my application. I hope they at least interview me 🙏🏼

Therapy was good. I was able to properly vent about everything that’s bothering me. I got home around 5:00 where I had a snack of popcorn and some chocolate. Also my package came in that had the bulk unscented soap and reusable dispensers in it.

Decided to have a meal while waiting for my roommates to come home. I had strawberries, pretzels, caramel popcorn, and a sandwich that was cold smoked salmon, spinach, spicy mayo, and everything bagel seasoning (since I’m out of furikake), on toasted sour dough bread 🥖. Ate everything!!

Sitting outside while the sheep graze. It’s a nice cool day so sitting in the sun is very pleasant. The sheep grazed for a few hours while I sat in the sun. I also changed their water for the second time today since Princess won’t drink her water unless it’s changed that often and filled their hay bag. I fed them their pellets by hand to reduce choking risk and then put them up for the night.

After putting the sheep up I watered the garden. The garden is looking so happy and I’m really glad all that effort I’ve put into it is paying off. I’ll have to buy mulch soon but luckily it’s not a terribly expensive thing. All the sprouts are looking so good.

After the garden was watered I did the dishes. Then I took half of my vitamins. I took a shower and then blow dried and rolled my bangs so that they actually look decent tomorrow. I tried these cannabis seed oil eye gel things that were given to me as a gift to relieve stress and I guess they’re nice? Brushed and glossed my teeth and put on my night cream. Put my laundry away while KitKat ate his dinner.

Here’s my tarot draw of the day.

King of Wands. A good card when I’m trying to move up in the company.

This is actually my favorite deck. I bought her on clearance and she brings a positive attitude to my life when I desperately need it.

At 9:30 I’ll take my meds and the other half of my vitamins and then hopefully fall asleep quickly.

Stress level: 6/10

Interest in eating: 3/10

Exhaustion: 7/10