Coaxed to a fancy blood-sucking vampire speakeasy by your best friend, you end up in between two guys who are instantly obsessed. With your blood, and with you. They make it very clear they want to see you again.
Vampires!poly!wolfstar x fem!reader, 2.8k words
"Okay, look, just... hear me out."
Lisa has that terrifying glint in her eye. The one that means you're about to be coaxed into something that sounds objectively insane.
"It's not a fetish thing," she starts, "it's, like, a service. Super upscale. Very discreet."
"The service is letting a vampire drink your blood," you say flatly. "Lisa, that's a fetish thing."
"It is not! Ugh, you're so vanilla. It's a transaction. They get dinner, we get..." She does a little full-body shiver of pure bliss. "You know that feeling when you're so stressed your shoulders are in your ears, and then you get, like, the world's best massage? Times a thousand. It's a full-system reset. And it feels... honestly, it feels amazing."
You take a long sip of your drink, rolling your shoulders. The idea makes your skin prickle, and not entirely in a bad way.
"It's safe," she presses, seeing your hesitation. "It's totally mainstream now. It's called The Velvet Room. Sounds fancy, right? My guy is lovely. Very sweet. Says he's been doing this since the Great Depression, can you imagine?"
“You’re letting a Depression-era vampire drink your blood,” you reply, putting your glass down with a clink. “What’s next? Getting your hair done by a ghost from the Victorian era?"
Lisa rolls her eyes so hard you worry for her optic nerves. “He’s not from the Depression, he… lived through it. There’s a difference. And he’s very modern. He has an iPad.”
“An iPad? Wow, okay, a real techie. I should go to him for electronics advice, huh? I wonder what he uses it for..."
“He uses it for solitaire!” she defends, then frowns. "But that's not the point! The point is he’s professional. And discreet. You won’t even see a fang if you don’t want to.”
“Professional,” you repeat slowly. “In a place called The Velvet Room."
“It’s exclusive! They have complimentary towels that are insanely soft. Like, a cloud soft. I stole some last week. But I guess it's not really stealing if they're complimentary, right?"
“I don’t want a soft towel, Lisa! I want to not be someone’s Capri Sun!”
“You’re not a Capri Sun! You’re a… a fine vintage! A delicate, artisanal…” She gestures vaguely at you. “…soup.”
You stare at her. “You just compared my lifeblood to a soup.”
"A good soup! Something you'd pay a proper forty dollars for!" She slumps back, defeated. "Look. You're wound up so tight, your eye bags are insanely dark, and you look exhausted."
"Wow, thanks for the compliment," you deadpan. "You're so sweet, Lis."
"I'm being honest! You look like you haven't slept in a week." She leans in, voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial whisper. “Just come with me. Sit in the fancy chair. Drink the complimentary sparkling water that probably costs more than our electric bill. If you get the ick, we bail. No hard feelings. But if you don’t…”
She gives you a look. "You’ll finally understand why I’ve been so zen since April. I haven’t bitten a single nail.”
You glance at her hands. Her nails are, indeed, miraculously intact and even painted a cheerful coral. Probably the most compelling evidence of the night.
“The second I feel a single… slurp… noise,” you say, holding up a finger. "We're out. We're getting cheesecake, and you're never mentioning this ever again."
Lisa's face brightens. "Yay! You're gonna love it, I promise."
"I have my doubts." You sigh, resting your chin in your hand, swirling your drink with the other. “I can’t believe I’m agreeing to be soup.”
“The best soup,” she corrects cheerfully, already flagging down the waiter for the check. “A bisque, maybe. You have bisque energy.”
The Velvet Room is... not what you expected. It's like a kind of speakeasy, really.
Lisa leads you down a grimy alley, past overflowing dumpsters, to a nondescript black door. There's no sign, just a small, velvet-lined slot at eye level. She leans close.
"The moon is a lonely hunter," she whispers, clearly delighted with the phrase. You roll your eyes at her enthusiasm.
The door clicks and swings inward.
The ceiling is high and lost in shadow. The floor is scuffed wood, covered here and there with deeply coloured rugs that look like they’ve seen a century of parties. The walls are lined with shelves crammed full of books and records and strange little trinkets that you'd explore if given the time.
Low, squashy sofas and armchairs are arranged in little groups, lit by the soft glow of table lamps and hanging chandeliers. And there's jazz, a band playing in real time.
The place is busy. Not packed, but comfortably full. People are tucked into corners, talking quietly, laughing softly. You see a woman with red streaks in her hair offering her wrist to a vampire in a sweater.
A guy in paint-splattered jeans is leaned back in a chair, eyes closed in bliss while a vampire, who looks like she stepped out of a 1940s film, murmurs something near his ear.
"See?" Lisa squeezes your arm. "Totally upscale."
Before you can answer, a man rises from a deep armchair by the crackling fireplace. He’s tall, with a kind, tired face and a neatly trimmed beard.
This, you assume, is Lisa’s Depression-era solitaire enthusiast.
“Lisa,” he says, his voice warm and gravelly. “You made it.”
“Franklin!” Lisa chirps, darting over to give him a quick hug. “This is my friend. The one I was telling you about.”
Franklin turns his gaze on you. “A pleasure,” he says, extending a hand. You take it. “Any friend of Lisa’s is welcome here. We’ll take good care of you.”
He’s nice. He’s perfectly nice. But your attention is already snagged, pulled away like a compass needle finding north.
From a chaise lounge tucked in a darker booth near the band, two men are watching you.
One is all sharp edges and lazy grace, dressed in black, his hair a dark wave falling to his shoulders. He’s staring with a frank, interested intensity, a slight smile playing on his lips.
The other is softer. Curly, sandy hair, a worn-in jacket over a simple shirt. He looks like he’d be more at home in a library, but his eyes—a warm, amber colour—are fixed on you with a focus that makes your skin prickle.
They are, without a doubt, the most beautiful people you have ever seen.
“Your friends?” you whisper to Lisa, nodding subtly towards them.
Lisa follows your gaze and her eyes go wide. “Oh. Them. No. That’s… that’s Remus and Sirius. They’re kind of… legendary around here. They only ever feed together. And they’re really picky.” She lowers her voice further. “It's okay. Franklin’s great, I promise. Very sweet. Safer. I don't know much about those two.”
But it's too late. The one in all black stands up first, moving with a liquid sort of grace. He says something, his voice too low to catch, directly into the other man's hair.
The taller one—the one with the soft curls and the kind eyes—turns his head, listening, then his gaze snaps back to you. He nods, just once, and stands up.
Before you can blink, even, they're across the room, having come to a stop right in front of your little group. They don’t even look at Franklin.
“She’s with us,” the dark-haired one says, his voice low and smooth. His eyes never leave your face.
“Yes," the taller one murmurs, his tone softer but just as firm. “This one’s ours.”
Franklin lets out a small, resigned sigh. He gives your shoulder a gentle, almost apologetic pat. “Seems you’re in for a different sort of evening, my dear." He gives Lisa a look. “Shall we?”
Lisa looks utterly gobsmacked. “Uh. Yeah. Sure.” She gives you a wide-eyed, what-is-happening stare before letting Franklin lead her away to his cozy chair by the fire.
And then it’s just you and them.
“I'm Sirius,” the dark one says, finally introducing himself. He nods towards his companion. “And that’s Remus.”
“Hi, angel," Remus says softly, gesturing for your hand. You let him take it, watch in fascination as he presses a kiss to the back of your palm. He hands your hand over with entirely gentle care over to Sirius, who mimics the action, smiling against your knuckles.
“You were right, Pads,” Remus murmurs, hazel eyes tracing over your face. “She’s perfect.”
“I'm always right,” Sirius murmurs, lacing his fingers with the hand you'd extended to them, coaxing you towards their secluded booth towards the back of the room.
Remus sits first, settling back into the corner with an easy sigh. Then he looks up at you, pats his thighs. “Here, sweetheart. Best seat in the house.”
Your brain stutters. “On… on your lap?”
“Unless you’d rather sit on mine, baby,” Sirius murmurs easily, sliding onto the chaise beside Remus, his movements fluid. “But he’s comfier. And he gives better cuddles.”
“Sirius,” Remus chides, but he’s still looking at you, his expression open and patient. “Only if you’re comfortable. We won’t take a drop otherwise.”
Something in his soft, gentle tone makes the decision for you. Feeling surreal, you move forward and awkwardly perch on his thighs. His arm comes around your waist, guiding you to lean back against his chest.
“There,” Remus murmurs into your hair, his voice a soothing vibration against your back. “That’s it. Just relax.”
Sirius is immediately there, close. He takes your hand, his fingers cool as they find the frantic pulse in your wrist.
He lets out a soft, sympathetic tut. “Oh, sweetheart. You’re all wound up, aren’t you? Let’s fix that.”
You feel Remus’s nose gently nuzzle the spot where your neck meets your shoulder, pushing your hair aside with a tenderness that feels more intimate than any kiss you’ve ever had. “Ready, love?” he asks, his voice a low murmur right by your ear.
"Mhm." You feel like you're floating.
Sirius’s lips curve into a smile against the inside of your wrist. “Good girl,” he whispers. “You'll tell us anything you need.” It's a statement, not a suggestion. You nod anyway.
You feel Remus’s lips press softly against your skin, then a sharp, clean pinch that dissolves instantly into a warm, pulling feeling. At the same time, Sirius’s mouth finds your wrist—a kiss, then the same precise sting, melting into that same bone-deep, golden warmth.
The effect is... woah. You totally get why Lisa has been so zen recently. The constant, buzzing static in your brain fizzles out. The weight on your shoulders dissolves. A sigh slips from your lips, and your head lolls back against Remus’s shoulder.
“That’s it, love,” Remus coaxes against the soft skin of your neck. “Let it all go. We’ve got you.”
You float. The gentle tug at your neck and wrist is rhythmic, soothing. The jazz music wraps around you. You faintly hear Sirius makes a soft, humming sound of pleasure against your skin.
“Perfect,” he murmurs, his voice thick. “So good, baby.”
You are held, completely, between them. Remus’s steady strength at your back, Sirius’s focused attention on your hand. You're putty in their hands, being moulded to their whims, being shaped to their wishes. Time becomes a soft, shapeless thing.
You are, for the first time in living memory, completely quiet inside.
“Never,” Remus murmurs, his lips moving against your throat, the words vibrating through you. “Never tasted anything like you, angel. Like honey and sunlight.”
You feel Sirius’s slow, deliberate swallow against your wrist. He lets out a shaky breath. “So good.”
You make a soft, incoherent sound of acknowledgment, your head a heavy, blissful weight on Remus’s shoulder. You are completely, utterly droopy against them. Your limbs are loose. If they weren’t holding you, you’d slide right off the chaise into a contented puddle on the rug, and you're not sure you'd entirely mind.
You feel the gentle draws begin to slow, becoming softer, more languid. Savouring. They’re drawing it out, reluctant to let the moment end.
You feel two soft, cooling licks—a faint, soothing sting—sealing the tiny wounds. A final, lingering kiss from Remus at your neck, as if he can’t quite bear to let go of the spot.
Sirius turns your hand, his grip infinitely gentle, and presses a line of soft kisses from your wrist to the tips of your fingers. “Thank you, baby,” he says softly.
For a long moment, they just hold you, letting you float in the aftermath.
Remus rocks you gently. Sirius strokes your palm with his thumb.
You blink your eyes open. You don't even remember when you'd closed them. The world's fuzzy at the edges, like how it gets when you're drunk, only better, 'cos you're not nauseous now.
“Welcome back, sweetheart,” Sirius says softly. He’s looking at you like you’ve hung the moon.
Remus nudges your hair with his nose. “How do you feel, angel?”
It takes a monumental effort to form words. Your tongue feels thick and lazy. "Like jelly," you mumble, words slurring just a little. "The good kind," you add in reassurance. They probably don't need it. They probably know their effect on you.
Sirius lets out a delighted, choked laugh.
“Jelly,” Remus repeats, his tone rich with amusement. “I’ll take that.”
You try to nod, but your head just lolls to the side, coming to rest against Remus’s collarbone. You’re practically melting off his lap, held in place only by the secure band of his arm. You make a half-hearted attempt to sit up straighter, but your muscles just won’t cooperate.
“Oh, look at her,” Sirius coos, his voice dripping with fondness. He reaches out and brushes a stray strand of hair from your forehead. “Absolutely boneless. You did so well, sweetheart. We turned you into jelly, huh?”
“Sirius, don’t tease,” Remus murmurs, but he’s pressing a smiling kiss into your hair. “Here, love, let’s get some water in you.”
He gestures to someone above your head, and almost instantly, a glass of water appears on the low table beside you.
Sirius picks it up and holds the rim to your lips. “Come on, baby. Small sips. Just for us.”
You obey, mainly because it’s easier than not obeying, and partly because you want to hear their praise again. You manage a few swallows before turning your head away with a soft, protesting noise, nuzzling instinctively into the warmth of Remus’s neck.
“Alright, alright,” Remus soothes, chuckling. “That’s enough for now.”
You’re drifting again, lulled by the steady beat of Remus’s heart (do vampires have heartbeats? This one seems to) and the gentle stroke of Sirius’s thumb over your knuckles.
“So,” Sirius says after a moment, his voice unusually careful. “We have a bit of a problem, Moony.”
“What’s that?” Remus asks, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your arm.
“Well, we’ve found the perfect girl. And now we have to let her go walk out into the world, all wobbly and unsupervised. Seems irresponsible.”
A slow realisation curls through your jelly-like insides. They don’t want you to leave.
It makes you feel warm.
Remus hums in agreement, his chin resting on top of your head. “It does seem a shame. We’ve only just gotten her properly calibrated.”
You manage to peel your eyes open. “Calibrated?” you mumble.
“Mhm,” Sirius says, leaning in close. His grey eyes are soft and serious as he tucks a finger under your chin, tilting your head up to his liking, eyes softening when you go lax under his touch. “To us, sweetheart. You fit just right. We’d… we’d really like to do this again. If you want to.”
“We’d like to see you again, angel,” Remus adds, his voice a gentle rumble beneath your ear. “Properly. Not just here. Maybe for coffee, or... we could take you out to dinner.”
The offer hangs for a second. It’s crazy. You've just met them. They just drank your blood. But...
A slow, drowsy smile spreads across your face. You don’t have the energy for anything more. “M’gonna need a nap first,” you whisper. “A really long one.”
Sirius’s answering smile is brilliant. “We can work with that.” He tucks a card into the pocket of your jeans, his fingers lingering for just a second. “Our number. Text us when you wake up. Or don’t, if you don't want to. But we really hope you do.”
Remus helps you sit up, his hands steadying you as the world tilts a little. “Can you stand, love?”
With their help, you manage to get to your feet, though you sway like a sapling in a breeze, instantly leaning into Sirius’s offered side. They walk you back to where Lisa is sipping tea, looking thoroughly de-stressed.
“All in one piece?” Lisa asks, eyes wide.
“Better than,” Sirius says, his pride unmistakable. “She’s flawless.”
You give Lisa a wobbly, blissed-out thumbs up.
As you're guided towards the door, Remus leans down, his lips brushing your ear one last time. “Sleep well, angel. Dream of us.”
It went from being a random drawing to becoming something else afterward…
Everything happened during a failed mission against the Kraang. The objective was to stop the activation of an experimental dimensional core that used living plasma as an energy source.
The core became unstable, and Raphael was exposed directly to the center of the rupture while holding the containment long enough for his brothers to escape.
The accident drastically altered the matter of Raphael’s body, turning it into something between plasmatic energy, radiation, and condensed energy.
His body visually “fails” at times, like glitches or distortions, with an extremely high body temperature, electronic interference, and energetic residue left wherever he goes, along with constant low noises similar to static, electrical vibrations, or distortion.
He constantly experiences different and rapid emotions that his own brain — or whatever is left of it — cannot fully comprehend all at once, causing him to remain emotionally numb most of the time because he cannot properly process those feelings.
But whenever he does manage to feel them, both he and his own body enter a frenzy, creating radiating heat waves, magnetic distortions, electromagnetic explosions, and an uncontrollable rage.
His vision extends beyond visible light, giving him an extremely wide range of perception and awareness.
pairing: oscar piastri x fem!reader | rating: 18+ | masterlist
genre: enemies to lovers, ex best friends, f1 academy driver, oscar's debut at McLaren, complicated feelings, slow burning, angst, sex, unprotected sex, drunk sex, swearing, smut
author note: Heeyy, lovely ones 💕 It's been a while, hasn't it?Well, I'm here to tell you that I've come up with an interesting (at least in my opinion) idea for a multi-part story.
You know, I love studying the history of Oscar's career and how he got into Formula 1. He has an interesting biography, and you know, I adore his era in Formula 3 and Formula 2, and I already have a fanfic on this topic, BUT I also like studying his first year in Formula 1. You know, the scandal with his transfer from Alpine reserve driver to McLaren. And when I was reading and researching this topic, an idea popped into my head.
So, here's a quick summary of what this story is about.
Y/N was at the Alpine academy with Oscar since F4. She competed in various regional championships while he was confidently moving towards Formula 1. They were best friends and spent a lot of time together. And when he became an Alpine reserve driver, she was his biggest supporter because when he spent hours on the simulator, she was also somewhere nearby because she were preparing to compete in the Formula 1 Academy for Alpine.
It is at this moment that feelings begin to develop between them. But then she finds out from the news that Oscar is going to McLaren. For her, it's a disaster.
The events unfold in early 2023 when Oscar makes his Formula 1 debut. She is also about to make her debut in Formula 1 Academy, so she is constantly with the Alpine F1 team. They meet in the paddock, and Oscar tries to explain his decision to her, but she only sees him as a traitor who abandoned the team that invested in him and abandoned her too.
They are literally enemies, but fate makes them cross paths more often than she would like, and over time she begins to see Oscar's actions from a different perspective when she has to interact with him more, and through history she learns what really happened.
So, what do you think? I know this is another story about enemies in love, but this time their conflict is much deeper, intertwined with strange feelings and emotions.
I have a teaser for you, so I'm adding it so you can get hooked on the story:
“Great, Pierre is contending for the top 10,” you hear engineer’s voice in the headphones while watching the monitor, arms crossed over your chest. Your eyes were mostly focused on two names: CAS and OCO, the Alpine drivers. But involuntarily, your gaze kept sliding down the timing screen to the name PIA. Oscar had started from the back of the grid, but now he was running 8th, and it irritated you. It rankled that he might score his first Formula 1 points in his debut race.
On the main screen, the cameras picked up the orange car number 81, as if reading your thoughts, but suddenly something went wrong. He made a forced pit stop, and you heard the engineers discussing a problem with the electronics on his car.
You watched the commotion around his cockpit as the McLaren mechanics frantically tried to replace the steering wheel, hoping for a miracle. Oscar tried to turn the wheel on, but it just sat there, dead. Your palms grew sweaty and cold. You took a deep breath through your nose, feeling a strange tremor inside. You pointedly turned away, right to Gasly’s telemetry, trying not to think about Oscar.
On the track, Max Verstappen began lap 14, and Pierre’s engineer's voice crackled in your ears, distorted by the radio:
“Piastri has an electrical issue, and it’s not the steering wheel. Looks like it’s over.”
And then… the engine os his car finally went silent. DNF. His debut race ended in complete defeat. You watched as his car was wheeled into the garage and he finally began unbuckling his safety harness to climb out—prematurely, in his very first race. You felt a sweet, poisonous sensation of triumph spreading inside you.
Justice. You looked at his bowed head on the screen and felt a faint smile play on your lips. He left the team that was his foundation for the sake of this orange seat? Well, enjoy the result, Oscar.
You shifted your gaze back to the track. Formula 1 cars were flying past, but Oscar Piastri was no longer among them. Suddenly, alongside the spite, a sharp pain stung deep beneath your ribs. This was the same guy whose hands had gently held your face just last summer. The same one whose kiss had promised a future together. A traitor and a lover in one person.
Now, this guy was your enemy.
The duality of these feelings was tearing you apart, but you forced yourself to remain cold.
When the Grand Prix concluded with a victory for Max and a Red Bull double podium, the paddock turned into a sea of people. You felt a strange lightness, sparked by the fact that Pierre finished 9th in the standings—a small victory for your team, which was set to have a good season.
You were walking with Helena, the PR manager, Nicole, and Robert—a mechanic from Esteban’s garage whom you’d been friends with since the Formula 4 days—discussing plans for the evening. Ahead, in the crowd, you recognized his figure. Oscar was walking toward you alongside Logan and his manager, looking exhausted and disappointed.
When your group almost drew level with him, you stopped abruptly right in his path. Your companions fell silent, sensing the sudden change in atmosphere. Oscar lifted his head. His eyes met yours—they held such defenseless fatigue that for a moment, you wanted to look away and pity him. But you didn't allow yourself that weakness.
Slowly, with undisguised pleasure, you broke into a smile.
“My sincere congratulations on your McLaren debut,” your voice sounded mocking, filled with feigned joy. “A wonderful first race, Oscar. A true success!”
You smiled even wider, seeing his jaw tighten while a spark of restrained anger flashed in his eyes. Your gazes locked, and you used your eyes to tell him as clearly as possible: "You deserved this." Without waiting for a response, you turned around and walked away with confidence. You knew he wouldn't watch you leave, and he likely walked on without even looking back, but you were satisfied that you had said it to his face.
Everyone around you acted tense, not daring to comment on what you had just done, instead talking about dinner. And for the first time in a long while, you felt like you were finally starting to breathe deeply.
And of course, I'll ask you to vote on whether I should write this story. (If you want to be on the tag list, write in the comments 👇🏻)
Should I write this story?
Yes, I would be happy to read it
No, I'm not interested, and I don't think the plot is that interesting
𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑠 damian wayne x female!reader, girlfriend!reader au, fluff, 1.4k+ wc.
𝑠𝑦𝑛𝑜𝑝𝑠𝑖𝑠 soulmates in every universe trend with damian wayne.
"would we be soulmates in every universe?"
she asked it softly, a simple and sweet question for her boyfriend, damian wayne.
"soulmates in every universe? ...is that some new slang?"
he looked up from his schoolwork, turning his chair so his back was to the desk and his eyes were on his girlfriend, who was lounging on his bed and twirling one of his small shirkens between her fingers.
"why do you say it like you've just discovered electricity, dami???"
he shrugged.
"i think i asked a question. the same way i always do."
god. she adored his commitment to not letting electronics rule his life as much as she got irritated having to explain things to him.
(not that she minded all that much. most of the time, she wanted to kiss her boyfriend's face off just for having his life so damn together.)
"‘soulmates in every universe’ is a tiktok trend—"
"of course it is, hayati."
"shush. i'm talking."
"...my apologies, miss gurl."
"...i actually regret teaching you that."
she groaned into one of his pillows, which smelled like his stupidly expensive cologne.
then she continued.
"it means... like hot chocolate and winter, popcorn and movies — that kind of connection. love, you know?"
her fingers fidgeted with each other, a soft blush dusting her cheeks. she bit the inside of her cheek gently before going on.
"would our hearts still find each other? despite everything?"
he turned fully in his chair to face her.
"oh... of course."
his tone was steady.
"i don't think a different universe could weaken our bond — definitely not ruin it. we'd be each other’s, no matter the place, time, or version of us. we are each other's. always."
damian let out a small laugh once he finished, covering his mouth with the back of his hand.
there was nothing funny about what he said.
in fact, he found the topic deeply important.
he just couldn’t help it.
what kind of mushy mess had his hayati turned him into?
he stood up and crossed the room, the mattress dipping under his weight as he sat beside her.
his long, slender fingers slid across the sheets, intertwining with hers.
he brought her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles tenderly, his voice low and warm.
"we’d be soulmates in every universe, hayati. the moon and the sea, flame and moth, the tide and the shore..."
she cupped his face with her free hand, thumb brushing along his cheek.
he exhaled a soft, contented sigh at the feeling — every imprint of her touch lingering against his skin.
"fire and gasoline?"
her quiet question made him pause, then chuckle.
"are you calling us trouble, hayati?"
"...hmm. maybe."
she grinned, then added:
"shark and remora?"
he nodded slowly, clearly finding her analogy adorable.
he leaned in closer, pulling her gently by the waist until there was no space between them.
Does someone inheriting a pokemon from a family member count as trading it for the purpose of evolution? Like, hypothetically, if my grandma were to give me her Haunter, would it evolve into Gengar?
no, it does not. trade evolutions are really triggered by the electrical pulses run through a pokeball during a trade. that's why you'll find these pokemon in the wild sometimes- they can encounter similar electrical energy naturally! meanwhile, pokemon inherited after a relative passes away or given as a gift often aren't transferred electronically. the ball is usually just handed over.
if you did receive a pokemon that evolves through trading in this way and would like to evolve it, the easiest way to do so is by transferring the pokemon to a new pokeball. the process of switching the pokemon's individual energy reading to a different pokeball requires the same kind of electrical pulses as a trade between trainers.
Oh and General Electric heavily symbolises the influence of Hawkins Lab💡
The surveillance cameras in the lab are by the company General Electric (GE mostly supplied these cameras to government facilities and large corporations because of the high cost of taping and keeping it on record)
Let’s go back to where it starts:
General Electric in the 80s were the #1 manufacturer of lightbulbs in the US (started with Thomas Edison, previously called Edison General Electric)
So well-known that Funny or Die did this skit of General Electric and Winona Ryder in 2016 😭
These guys were everywhere, I mean they were manufacturing everything
A friend you can’t escape. Sounds like a threat tbh 😆
It somehow led me to this painting (behind Lucas) in Mike Wheelers basement:
Only to find out that General Electric Credit Corporation COMISSIONED this painting.
‘Computers’ by Bart Forbes (1980). It depicts Charles Babbage - Father of Computers
Oh you mean like…Father of computers = PAPA
(This painting shows a variety of objects associated with the history of computing, including an abacus, a portion of Babbage's difference engine, a punch card, electronic circuitry, a magnetic tape reader, and a computer monitor with keyboard.)
GE also built this fascinating Disney Pavilion in the 60s:
There are some similarities that caught my eye, but may just be a coincidence:
Corridor of mirrors??
Progressland pavilion:
Progressland tunnel:
Progressland nuclear demonstration:
Progressland archway:
Doors & Gateways in Stranger Things:
Besides General Electric selling electrical appliances - they were a powerhouse company; owning television stations, radio stations, and being a pioneer in aerospace and nuclear technology 👀 (sounds familiar)
Consumers boycotted GE in the 80s by refusing to buy their lightbulbs to try to force them to stop manufacturing components of nuclear weapons
Speaking of radio stations, we’re all aware of the original WPTF inspiration.
This station became an affiliate of the NBC Red Network.
Guess who owned it at the time? You bet, it was General Electric and RCA (1926 - 1987)
Some Radio & Walkman ads (the escape one!!):
GE television involvement goes even deeper. They aired their own show called “The General Electric Theatre” in the 60s - hosted by Ronald Reagan
The playgate vibes I get from this 😂 there’s no doubt Ted, Henry and Dr. Brenner would have caught this on tv at the time:
Remember this RCA/Columbia Home Video campaign from this post
Well…General Electric merged with them:
Notice the resemblance between their logos. Are you actually kidding me:
Here are some interesting 80s ads from General Electric and RCA (I started with a snippet from the Starcourt Mall ad to show tonal similarity):
A few interesting things I noticed…
I’m just thinking from the perspective - if this is part of the Nina Project tapes, a lot would be generated by things they saw on tv…
GE ad 1:
GE ad 2:
General Electric dishwasher ad vs. Green Substance: the tagline fits as the green goo reanimates the creatures in Tales of 85 and fuels ‘the Key’ machine to open the portal in S3!
RCA ad:
RCA ad vs. Henry’s mindscape
GE ad 1:
General Electric ad vs. The Wheeler kitchen
Some General Electric products in the show (thanks @slavless for pointing these out!)
That’s it, it’s settled in my mind now.
Dr. Brenner is the biggest big bad of all.
Hawkins is his Progressland, it’s his playground and the residents of Hawkins are forced to take part in it:
I think General Electric is just a symbolic clue of how deep Dr. Brenner’s influence goes:
He can see everything (surveillance cameras)
He controls your electricity (power and light)
He can hear everything and control what you listen to (radio stations)
He controls what you watch and illusions you see (television stations)
Hell, he can even find you anywhere (nuclear and space technology)
The station shutters had already come down by the time they reached Shinjuku.
Not fully, just halfway, enough to make the fluorescent lights inside look trapped. The electronic sign above the gate blinked apologetically in red: LAST TRAIN DEPARTED.
Behind you, rain hissed softly against the pavement.
Megumi stood perfectly still for a second, chest rising once beneath his damp uniform jacket. His hair was soaked flat in places, dark spikes softened by water. A bruise bloomed faintly along the line of his jaw where a curse had clipped him earlier.
“Great,” you muttered.
He glanced at the departure board again anyway, like staring at it long enough might reverse time, before he steps closer to the board instead, tilting his head slightly as if reading it differently might change the outcome. Rain beads along his eyelashes and one drops down his cheek and disappears into his collar.
“It’s six hours until the first train,” he said.
The city answered for him with the low electric hum of midnight traffic. Not silence exactly, Tokyo was never silent, but something quieter than daytime. Looser. The streets felt abandoned by obligation. Salarymen drifting home with untied ties. Cigarette smoke curling beneath convenience store lights. Neon signs reflecting liquid-pink in rainwater pooled at curbs.
The mission felt impossibly far away already.
You drag a hand down your face. “Okay,” you say slowly. “So. We’re stuck.”
Megumi looked at you for a moment.
“We’re not stuck,” he says. You look at him. He adds, after a beat: “…We’re waiting.”
You snort. “That’s just stuck with optimism.”
Megumi doesn’t argue, he just turns away from the gate.
His steps are slow, not reluctant, exactly. More like he’s recalibrating where to put his energy now that the mission’s ended and the train’s gone and there’s nothing left to follow.
You kick a loose pebble near the curb, it skitters into a puddle. You watch it ripple out in concentric circles that immediately get swallowed by the rain again.
“So what now?” you ask.
Megumi doesn’t answer right away, he’s looking down the street instead.
Neon signs flicker in the distance, soft blues and reds smeared by rain. A vending machine glows under an overhang like a small, lonely altar.
“…Food,” he says finally.
You glance at him. “That’s your plan?” “It’s a start.”
The vending machine hums when Megumi taps it.
He stands slightly to the side while you decide, arms relaxed but posture still faintly guarded, like even idle time hasn’t fully agreed to settle into his body.
Before you could choose, he reached past you and pressed a button. Hot café au lait dropped into the tray.
You bend down to pick it up, then immediately frown.
“You always pick that one.” He said it like it was obvious. Like of course he knew. “You complain black coffee tastes like burnt dirt.”
“…I’ve said that maybe twice.”
“Eight times.”
The can was warm in your hands. Megumi bought black coffee for himself with no sugar, but he doesn’t drink immediately. Just holds it in his hand, rolling it slightly between his fingers.
Rainwater runs off the edge of the overhang in a steady sheet. Cars pass behind it, headlights bending through water like stretched light.
You lean against the vending machine and pop the tab as you kick the base of the machine lightly with your heel.
It thunks back at you and you do it again. Megumi watches it once.
“You’re going to break it.” “I’m testing its resilience.”
You kick it again.
A softer thunk this time.
Megumi finally exhales through his nose, almost laughter, but not enough commitment to become it. He shifts his weight and looks away before it can fully happen.
You walk without choosing a direction. That’s how it starts. No decision point. No agreement. Just movement.
Your shoes slap lightly against wet pavement as you step through shallow water pooling at the curb. Megumi walks half a step ahead without thinking, then slows when he realizes you’re not matching him.
He adjusts, barely. The change is so small it looks like coincidence.
You notice anyway.
“So,” you say, tilting your can back. “Do you always go this quiet after missions, or is this a special treat?”
Megumi glances sideways at you.
“I’m not quiet.”
“You’ve said like twelve words in ten minutes.”
“That’s normal.” “For a monk, maybe.”
He looks forward again.
A pause. Then, quieter: “…It depends on the mission.”
You step over a puddle, misjudge it slightly, and your shoe splashes anyway.
You grimace and Megumi sees it, doesn’t comment. But he shifts a little closer on the sidewalk side, like without thinking he’s subtly adjusting the space so you don’t have to walk near the curb.
The laundromat appears almost by accident.
Bright white light spilling onto the street like a spill of cleanliness in the middle of wet neon chaos.
You slow down and Megumi notices immediately.
“What?”
You point with your chin. “Drying option.”
He follows your gaze. The glass doors fogged slightly from inside heat.
“…We don’t need—”
You’re already walking in and the bell above the door rings too loudly in the quiet.
Inside, the air hits warmer. It smells like detergent, fabric softener, and electricity. A few machines spin lazily. One older man sleeps in a chair in the corner, head tilted back like he’s forgotten gravity.
You peel off your damp jacket and shake it once.
Water flicks onto the tile.
Megumi stands near the entrance for a second, as if deciding where in the room he’s allowed to exist. Then he follows. He removes his gloves slowly, one finger at a time. His hands were rougher than people expected. Scarred knuckles. Tiny cuts along his fingers from years of fighting.
You sit on a plastic chair and stretch your legs out, watching a dryer rotate. Clothes inside tumble in slow circles, glowing faint orange every time they pass the light.
Your heel taps lightly against the floor.
Once. Twice.
Megumi sits next to you, not immediately close, but the chair beside yours creaks slightly as he lowers himself down.
He sets his coffee can on his knee and looks at it, but doesn’t drink.
Outside, a car passes. Light flickers across the window in blue streaks.
You tilt your head back.
“You ever think it’s weird,” you say, “that everything still exists like this after we almost die?”
His eyes stay on the dryers.
“…It’s better that it does,” he says finally.
Your foot stops tapping as you look at him while he doesn’t elaborate. But his shoulders are a little less tight than before.
“You were humming earlier.”
You looked over. “During the mission?”
“No. Walking here.” “Oh.”
He looked down at the coffee can between his hands.
“You always hum when you’re trying not to panic.”
Your chest tightened a little.
“…I do not.” “You do.”
“You notice weird things.”
Another almost-smile. Small and crooked, gone quickly enough that you could’ve imagined it.
Outside, thunder rumbled faintly somewhere far away. Your shoulders stiffened instinctively and Megumi noticed immediately, of course he did.
“You hate thunderstorms,” he said softly.
It wasn’t a question.
The television crackled quietly in the corner.
You looked at him carefully then.
At the tired boy sitting beneath fluorescent laundromat lights at nearly three in the morning. Damp black hair falling into his eyes now that rain had weighed it down. Long lashes. The permanent exhaustion carved into him too young.
Megumi never said things accidentally.
If he remembered something, it was because he carried it with him. Carefully, privately, like stones in his pockets.
“You remember a lot about me,” you murmured.
For a second, he looked genuinely caught off guard.
His gaze shifted away almost immediately.
“…Not really.”
“You counted how many times I complain about coffee.” “You complain a lot.”
“You remembered my humming.”
Silence.
“And the thunder thing.”
Another distant rumble outside and Megumi’s jaw flexed slightly.
The laundromat hum fills the space where his words should go, dryers turning, fluorescent lights buzzing faintly like something alive trying not to be noticed.
He finally looks down at his coffee can, rolls it once between his palms.
“…It’s just observation,” he says.
You give him a look.
“That sounded rehearsed.” “It’s not.”
Another beat. A dryer thumps as clothes inside shift, heavier now, wet cotton slapping against the glass in slow rhythm and you kick your heel lightly again, but softer this time. Less restless. More automatic.
Outside, rain keeps falling in a steady curtain, washing neon into watercolor streaks.
Megumi shifts slightly in his chair, not away just… adjusting. Like he’s trying to find a position that doesn’t feel like he’s taking up too much space.
“I’m just tired.”
It’s simple. Almost too simple.
Like he’s refusing to turn it into something more complicated, even though you can see the edges of it in the way his shoulders sit too still, the way his grip on the coffee can hasn’t changed in minutes.
You swing your foot once, gently tapping the chair leg.
“You can rest, you know.”
Megumi looks at you immediately. Not because it’s surprising, because it isn’t. That’s the problem. His eyes narrow slightly, not in suspicion but in habit. Like rest is something he hasn’t quite figured out how to accept without paying for later.
“I am resting,” he says.
You give him a look that says you’re not buying it for a second.
A dryer thumps behind you, wet fabric slapping glass in slow, repetitive rhythm. The sound fills the pause he doesn’t.
You lean your head back against the chair.
“I mean actually rest,” you say, quieter. “Like… you don’t have to stay on.”
That makes him still just for a second. The words stay on land differently.
Megumi’s gaze drops to his lap. His shoulders shift again, but this time it’s less guarded. More uncertain. Like his body doesn’t know what to do without instructions.
Outside, rain keeps falling. But it’s softer now. Less like pressure. More like background noise the world forgot to turn off.
“So you can shut your brain up for like… ten minutes.”
Megumi looks at you for a long second like he’s searching for the part where this becomes a trap. It doesn’t show up.
“…You’re annoying,” he says quietly.
Megumi leans back, not fully but enough that his shoulders meet the chair. His grip on the coffee can loosens, just slightly.
You don’t look at him too directly. You just shift your foot down and stop kicking entirely.
The laundromat feels warmer now. Or maybe it’s just that you’ve stopped moving enough to notice the temperature. A dryer clicks over. A low mechanical sigh.
Megumi’s eyes close.
It happens almost reluctantly like he expects to be interrupted mid-rest by something urgent, something calling his name, something he forgot. Nothing does. Only rain outside. Only machines turning. Only you, sitting beside him without moving.
His breathing changes after a while. Longer exhales. Like his body is learning a rhythm it doesn’t usually trust.
Time passes without announcement.
At some point, Megumi’s head tilts slightly. Just enough that it finds your shoulder. It’s not intentional at first, more like gravity testing a boundary.
You freeze for half a second. Then slowly, careful not to disturb it, you settle back into the chair again and let it happen. Megumi doesn’t move away. That’s how you know he’s asleep.
Later, somewhere between night thinning and morning forming, Megumi wakes first. It’s subtle. A shift in breath. A return of weight.
His eyes open slowly, unfocused at first.
The laundromat lights feel harsher now. More awake than the world deserves.
He blinks once. Then twice. You’re still there.
Head resting against his shoulder now instead of the other way around. Hair slightly damp at the ends. Mouth slightly parted in sleep. Completely unguarded in a way you never are when you’re awake.
His chest tightens in a way he doesn’t immediately name. He doesn’t move or breathe differently, just looks.
Then slowly reaches for his phone.
The screen lights up too bright in the dark-soft room. 05:18 AM A notification beneath it. FIRST TRAIN: 05:32
Megumi stares at it for a long moment and then looks back at you.
The train becomes irrelevant in his mind before he even finishes the thought.
He lowers the phone, doesn’t wake you.
Your hair is slightly stuck to your cheek. Your breathing is even. One hand rests loosely on your lap, fingers relaxed in a way he doesn’t see often. Not guarded. Not ready.
He remembers, without trying, that you hate thunderstorms. That you hum when you’re nervous and pretend you don’t. That you always pick café au lait even when you complain about it. That you kick things when you’re thinking too hard.
Small things.
Not because they’re useful , but because they’re you.
He looks at you for a second longer than he should.
Then, barely moving his lips, so soft it barely exists in the room at all: “…I like you.”
No emphasis. No performance. No expectation. Just the truth, dropped carefully into silence like it might break something if it’s handled too loudly.
Megumi doesn’t even realize he’s waiting for a reaction.
He assumes there won’t be one.
You’re asleep. That’s what he thinks.
So he exhales slowly, almost like he’s relieved to have said it without consequences. His eyes stay on your face, softer now in a way he wouldn’t name even if asked.
A beat passes. Then another.
Your breathing changes slightly and then then, slowly, your mouth curves. A small smile.
Megumi freezes.
For the first time since the mission, since the train, since everything, he doesn’t know what to do with his own body.
“…you’re awake,” he murmurs, quieter now.
Your smile lingers, but you don’t lift your head. Don’t make it harder than it needs to be. Just stay there against his shoulder, still pretending sleep in the gentlest way possible.
Megumi looks away for half a second, ears faintly warmer than they should be.
Then, almost inaudible again, like he’s letting himself be honest only because you didn’t stop him the first time: “…that’s unfair.”
But he doesn’t move you. Doesn’t pull away. If anything, he stays exactly as he is. Like he’s already decided there’s nowhere better to be.
