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[socialobligation]

schedule disruption: you

you and izuku midoriya have been best friends forever. he's busy, responsible, always on schedule—you're not. but when your night goes sideways, he drops everything to come get you. you say something you might not remember. he hopes you do.

the music inside is muffled now—blurry thudding base pressed against the walls like it's trying to escape. your phone glows in your palm for a few seconds longer, until izuku’s "i'm on my way" disappears. you blink, feel the chill air wrap around your shoulders, and finally set it down beside you on the grass.

the night air is cool against your skin, a little too cool for how flushed your face feels. you're barefoot, or at least... one shoe is definitely missing. whatever. it's fine.

you curl your arms around your knees and squint up at the stars, counting exactly none of them.

the front door opens behind you with a roar of noise and then shuts again. laughter spills out into the dark for a second, but it doesn't reach you. you sit there in a haze, cheek pressed against your arm, blinking slow. everything feels floaty. you're starting to regret that last drink.

when the familiar black car pulls up to the curb, headlights washing over the lawn, you sigh in relief. izuku parks in a weirdly straight line, like even now he needs to make sure he's perfectly aligned with the sidewalk. of course he does.

he's out of the car in a second, jogging around to you. "y/n?"

you lift your head and wave weakly, "heyyy, 'zuku."

he exhales through his nose, crouching diown. "are you okay?"

"mhm," you hum, then after a beat, "no."

he doesn't ask anything else. he helps you up with one arm around your shoulders, leading you gently to the car, careful not to rush you.

"you smell like cheap tequila and regret," he says as he buckles your seatbelt for you.

"mmm. that's just perfect."

the drive to your dorm is quiet at first—until it's not.

"izuuukuuu," you sing, dragging out the vowels.

he glances at you, just long enough to check you haven't somehow turned into a puddle in his passenger seat. "yeah?"

"do you think that if trees could talk," you say, eyes glazed and face pressed against the window, "they'd be mad at us for always carving initials into them? like. what if that was their face?"

"...what?"

"like—what if—what if it's like if i just came up to you and went '<3 Y/N + I.M.' right across your cheek with a knife."

he blinks hard, struggling not to laugh. "okay. maybe no more frat parties for you."

"you're not even listening to the message, izuku," you pout.

"i think you should write a thesis on it. present it to the botany department."

"you're making fun of me," you say dramatically, eyes fluttering closed. "wow. and to think, i was gonna marry you."

he almost swerves. "what?"

"hmm?"

"...nevermind."

when he pulls up to your dorm and puts the car in park, you frown.

"shit," you mutter, blinking hard. "i don't have my key."

he turns to look at you. "what?"

"my roommates brought me. they were gonna unlock it when i got back. i didn't... i didn't think i'd need mine."

he lets his head fall back against the headrest, then sighs.

"...okay. you're coming back with me."

by the time you get to his apartment, you're half-asleep and still clinging to his arm like gravity doesn't apply to you anymore.

"okay, come on," he murmurs, locking his car and adjusting his grip around your waist. "let's get you inside."

the walk to his building is slow. you trip on the curb and immediately latch onto him with both arms, face smushed against his shoulder.

"you smell nice," you whisper.

"that's—thank you," he says, trying to breathe through it.

he unlocks his door, nudges it open with his foot, and guides you in gently.

you kick kick off your lone shoe and immediately make a beeline for his bed, flopping face-first into the mattress. he sighs and tugs a blanket over you, tossing you a hoodie too—just in case.

he exits the bedroom and returns a few minutes later with a bottle of water, aspirin, and a small trash bin.

you've turned onto your side, face buried into his pillow.

"y/n," he says softly, kneeling beside the bed, "can you sit up for a second?"

"mm. no."

"i brought you water."

"...fine. if you insist," you grumble, lifting yourself up with all the grace of a wet noodle.

he hands you the bottle and the pills. you down them obediently.

then, after a long pause: "you're too nice to me."

"someone has to be," he replies, tucking the blanket around you. "your decision-making tonight was... not ideal."

"hey."

"you were drunk. by yourself. with nobody around that you knew."

you frown, suddenly more awake. "okay, well—sorry my friends ditched me? that's not my fault."

he sighs, eyes soft. "i know. i'm not blaming you."

you grumble something incoherent and flop dramatically onto your side. "felt like you were."

"wasn't," he says gently. "just... worried."

you peek up at him, eyes squinted. "...i guess that's allowed."

"thanks for the permission," he says, and you swear you hear the tiniest smile in his voice.

he starts to stand, but your hand catches his wrist.

"hey, izuku?" he pauses, looking back at you.

you blink slowly. "you're my favorite person. like ever."

his eyes widen a little. he swallows. "...y/n—"

"'s true. dunno when it happened but i love you."

he blinks.

you blink.

"...what?" "i love you," you repeat, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "kinda figured you knew that already."

his mouth opens. nothing comes out.

it's not the first time you've told him that.

you've said it before, offhandedly—over childhood goodbyes, late-night calls, after especially rough days. but something aboiut the way you say it now is different.

it doesn't sound like a best friend.

it sounds like everything else.

"i mean," you continue, voice soft and sleepy," why else would i always call you first? or wait for you to text back before i do anything. or remember your whole ass schedule even though i don't even know mine."

he looks like he's buffering. you broke izuku midoriya.

which means the only plausible thing to do here is keep going.

"oh," you add suddenly, "and you're, like, insanely hot. in a shy, rule-following, chronic overachiever kinda way."

"y/n."

"what?"

"you're drunk."

"yeah," you agree, "but i'm also right."

he laughs under his breath, eyes warm even in the dim light. and then, gently:

"yeah. i... love you too."

your eyes widen just slightly, and he adds, a little quieter, "i just want you to say it again when you mean it sober. so i can believe it's real."

you grin, eyes fluttering shut. "i'll tell you first thing in the morning, then."

he lingers there a second longer, like he's about to say something else—but he doesn't.

just pulls the blanket over your shoulder a little higher.

and softly, almost too softly: "okay. morning, then."

he turns off the light and closes the door behind him.

[slowpitstop]

I Dare You – IH6 (part one)

summary: A girl, a boy, a slow burn, a bunch of F1 drivers, too many parties and just enough tension to ruin your week

word count: 5.6k

isack hadjar x reader

note: hello my lovelies! this is the first fic I'm posting on tumblr and I hope you'll like it!!! This is part 1 so please comment and repost to give me any motivation to write part 2 otherwise this will end up in the bins of my projects along with my draft masters thesis lmao

Paris, April 2025

Your breath feels so loud it almost drowns out the music pulsing in the background. You recognise Niagara Falls by The Weeknd. The bass notes are shaking your bones but not as much as his eyes do.

Isack is looking at you, not moving an inch. His lips are slightly parted and all you want is to crash into them, hard, not sweet.

You stand two meters apart, fists clenched, while he is leaning against a cluttered table like you’re not melting in front of him.

“I dare you,” he smiles.

Something twists inside you and your veins ache. You take a step. Then another.

4 months ago -  London, January 2025

“HAPPY NEW YEAR!” Everyone around you screams while you snort out a huge laugh watching your friend miserably fall out of a handstand.

“Victor freaking Martins. You have to stop doing things like this or else you cannot complain about all the compromising videos I have on my phone,” you say as you lend him a helping hand.

You two keep dancing for a while, the music pounding in the crowded London apartment you somehow ended up in with a mix of friends and a bunch of strangers too. The lights are low and the air is buzzing with perfume, sweat and cheap champagne. It’s loud and chaotic and a little too hot but the energy feels good.

A little later, breathless, you slip away to get a drink, weaving through the crowd. You find a quieter corner with a table full of bottles and pour yourself an iced tea. Near the table, two guys are talking in French. You don’t mean to listen but you catch the words anyway.

The tall one, standing next to you, points to a girl in the crowd and smirks.

“C’est déjà Halloween?.” (Is it already Halloween?)

You follow his gaze and freeze. That’s your friend Marla, the same one you hyped up a few hours ago when she was choosing her outfit: orange overalls and a sheer green mesh long sleeve shirt. Sure, she looks a bit like a fashionable vegetable, but who cares? She loves it.

That is when you notice the other guy, shorter, half-hidden behind his friend. He has a boyish grin on his face and bursts of laughter when the tall one adds “En tout cas, c’est exactement comme ça que j’imaginais une citrouille danser” just as Marla throws herself into some heartfelt moves. (Anyway, that’s exactly how I imagined a pumpkin would dance)

He leaves but the other one lingers. He turns, catches you watching him.

“Hi,” he says, completely oblivious to your death stare. “Having a good night?”

His accent is thick and unmistakably French. You blow out a breath, like a bull in a kid’s cartoon.

“You Frenchies really like talking about people in front of them thinking no one can understand, huh?”

He blinks, confused. His smile fades. Now that you see him clearly, you clock the details of his vaguely familiar face: dark curls, Roman nose with a beauty mark, eyes the color of hot chocolate. But none of that matters.

“You think nobody here understands French?” you’re almost yelling now over the music.

“You can understand French?” he asks.

“Je suis à moitié française, bien sur que je comprends. Et surtout ce que tu dis sur mes amis,” you snap while pointing at Marla. (I am half French, of course I understand. And especially what you say about my friends)

He has recovered his composure now, and frowns. 

“Eh, j’ai rien dit, perso.” (Hey, I didn’t say anything myself)

“Ouais enfin t’as bien rigolé.” (Yeah, well you sure had a good laugh)

He shrugs. 

“Bah ouais. C’était drôle.” (Well yeah. It was funny)

Your eyes narrow and you give him a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes.

“I think it is funnier that two guys standing stiff as planks in a corner are commenting on a girl who’s just dancing and having fun.”

“Woaw, relax,” he says, holding his hands up. “You’re scary.”

“And you’re an idiot,” you say before you can think.

He raises an eyebrow and the space between you snaps tight. You’re about to say something else but your words catch behind your teeth. Maybe you overreacted. It was just a dumb comment. Marla had said she was going for chaotic sexy vegetable vibe, so why were you so angry?

Because he had that smug, boyish grin that made your stomach slightly twist and you didn’t like how that felt. Feeling a bit stupid and not ready to admit it got to you, you put your drink on the table a little too hard, and head back to the dancefloor as he watches you go.

When you come back to your friends, Victor wraps an arm around your shoulders.

“Why were you talking to Isack?”

“Who?”

He tilts your head toward the guy you just argued with.

“Him. He raced with me in F2, you don’t recognise him? Isack Hadjar. Really good, just made it to F1 with Racing Bulls.”

The rest of his words feel like they echo from underwater.

“You’re going to see him a lot this year actually, since you’re interning with McLaren.”

Your eyes lock with Isack’s across the room and for a second, you wonder if he is just as thrown off as you are.

March 2025, Melbourne GP - Wednesday evening

The restaurant is fancy in a subtle way but the wine still costs more than your rent. The McLaren team fills the space with warmth and noise: engineers and mechanics are trading jokes while Zak Brown at the head of the table is sitting like the godfather of the whole operation.

You are seated between Oscar Piastri and one of the data analysts who is obsessed with tire degradation. Someone raises a toast to the start of the season and you clink glasses even though you are still convinced someone will soon realise you are an imposter and revoke your badge.

You were not supposed to be here, not really. Not at a literal F1 team dinner. You were a final-year engineering student at MIT and your school had this partners program where the lucky nerd who topped the year in each discipline gets to do their final semester with a real-world placement. Most get stuck designing powertrains for scooters but somehow, you got McLaren. The email even said that Zak Brown himself, a fellow American, helped launch the programme years ago. You remember rereading the name like: wait, that Zak Brown?

When you called Victor after getting the internship, he hallucinated for ten whole seconds and then said something that sounded like:

“You made it to F1 before me. I hate you. I’m so proud. I still hate you.”

Despite growing up in the U.S., summers at your grandparents’ in France meant everything to you: the tiny village in Essonne just an hour from Paris, your grandma’s terrifying Peugeot and Victor Martins. You met him when you were kids, racing bikes down gravel alleys. He got into karting first, obviously. Then one day you tried it too, just for fun and… you were awful. But something still clicked in your brain, not on how to drive the damn thing but how it worked. This spark steered you early on, toward engineering and eventually one of the best schools in the world.

You smile at the memory while someone refills your glass.

Thursday evening

You are in the hotel gym which is small but well equipped. You usually prefer running outside, especially early in the morning when the city is quiet but today the heat is too brutal. The air conditioning of the gym is a relief. Cool and steady, it matches the rhythm of your breath as you run on the treadmill.

You like the treadmill for your interval sessions, the fact you can precisely control the speed. Your feet hit the belt in a steady pattern, sweat building on your skin. You are focused and in the zone when the door swings open.

Isack walks in with his trainer, chatting. Your heart skips a beat, not for him obviously, but out of surprise, and you pretend you didn’t notice him.

But of course, you notice. He is wearing a fitted black t-shirt and training shorts and as he moves through warmups, his sleeves ride up his biceps. Then he starts on the weights. You see him in the mirror, the way his arms flex naturally with each movement, controlled and easy. He is focused, jaw clenched and hair damp at the edges. Shit.

You catch yourself staring a little too long and suddenly your foot slips. A loud noise echoes as your shoe hits too hard and you try to regain your balance.

Isack’s eyes snap to you.

Your cheeks are heating and you feel mortified. He smirks, part amusement, part something you can’t quite place.

You return your eyes to the screen in front of you, pushing the speed up in some desperate attempt to outrun your embarrassment. The weight of his gaze lingers, itching the back of your neck. You focus on your breathing. In. Out. In. Out.

Later

You are down at the hotel lobby vending machine at 1am because jet lag is eating you alive and there is nothing in your room but cool air and silence. You punch the button for crisps and the machine does nothing. Of course.

You are about to kick it when you hear a voice behind you.

“Maybe try saying please.”

You turn. Isack Hadjar, in sweatpants and a hoodie, with messy hair.

“Maybe try minding your business,” you mutter, not even looking at him.

He leans on the machine. You can feel him there like static electricity, right under your skin. He finally breaks the silence.

“You’re still mad about New Year’s?”

You roll your eyes and sigh.

“No, I don’t care. Why would I be mad? I don’t even know you.”

“Fair enough” he smiles, then adds: “I wasn’t trying to be a dick to your friend, you know that, right?”

“Fine,” you say, half to him, half to yourself. “Noted.”

You nod. He nods too. Not defensive, not smug, just… honest. There’s a beat. One too long. He looks exactly like the pictures you found online when you googled his name like a total idiot after that New Year’s argument. Same eyes. Same muscular silhouette. Same effortless charm that pisses you off just a little.

Except now he’s right in front of you. Real and warm and too close.

The crisps fall with a mechanical noise and break the spell. You snatch the bag and step back without another word, heart doing something stupid in your throat. You feel him looking at you the whole way to the elevator.

Race Day

You are in the McLaren garage, yawning. The first Grand Prix of the season is about to start but you are still half asleep, from jet lag and a few nights of tossing and turning in your bed. Friday practice and Saturday qualifying had gone well for the McLaren boys, which made you genuinely excited. Everyone knows it, this season, McLaren is onto something.

The crew slowly clears from the grid and the cars start their formation lap. You are looking at a detail on a spare piece of the car with one of the mechanics when a wave of noise breaks behind you. You turn toward the TV screen just in time to see the replay: Isack’s car is in the wall. Your stomach drops. How is that even possible? 

“Shit, that’s embarrassing,” says an engineer in the background.

You follow his exit on the screens, and even though he does not take off his helmet, you can see he is devastated. On his way back to the garage, Anthony Hamilton stops him to give him some comfort. You lean back, fingers brushing your face. He must feel awful. You should feel something else, some sort of vengeful smugness, but you don’t. There is no satisfaction at all, just some uncomfortable feeling in your chest.

A few hours after the Grand Prix and celebrations at McLaren’s, you are walking in the paddock hallway. You don’t mean to run into him. Not really. You’re just cutting through the back hallway to bring data logs to your trackside lead when he is suddenly there, half leaning on a wall and phone in his hands.

Isack’s suit is rolled down to his waist. He looks pissed. He sees you before you can turn around. Too late. You force yourself toward him.

“How are you?” you ask.

He shrugs. You open your mouth but he cuts you before you can speak, looking exhausted.

“Look, I’m not in the mood for banter, honestly.”

“I don’t want to banter” you protest. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry. About the crash.”

He pushes himself off the wall like your words physically annoy him. He looks at you, trying to decide if you’re lying. You hold his gaze but he looks away first.

“C’est vraiment la honte putain. Je me suis affiché comme un con sur mon premier Grand Prix en F1,” he mutters as he kicks a rock with his shoe. (This is so fucking embarrassing. I made a fool of myself at my first F1 Grand Prix)

You look at him, surprised by the sudden confession.

“It was just a stupid mistake, you have plenty of time to prove everyone wrong. Actually, it’s a pretty cool redemption arc story, you know.”

Then you add, because you are apparently incapable of stopping and need to fill this unbearable silence:

“I’ve watched footage of your F2 races. You have talent.”

His head tilts and he shows his usual smirk.

“You’ve stalked me?”

You feel your entire face becoming red, realising your mistake.

“No, I mean, I watched Victor's. You just happened to be in them.”

“You said you looked at my races, though.”

“God, fuck off.”

He laughs and it settles somewhere low in your stomach. Someone calls his name from down the paddock so he gathers his gear and starts walking back.

You call out, trying to save face:

“I still think you’re an idiot! By the way.”

He glances over his shoulder, a wide smug grin on his face. You try to ignore the warm and irritatingly happy feeling that blooms through you.

China GP, March 2025

Sunday mornings in the paddock seem to always be a little chaotic but today it’s the good kind. You’re sitting on an overturned crate near the Red Bull hospitality area, sipping something over-caffeinated. Around you, a loose group of rookies and Lily, Alex Albon’s girlfriend, who somehow manages being surrounded by chaos and still look elegant.

Someone, probably Ollie, just sparked a heated debate about who would survive longest on a desert island.

“You’d be dead in two days,” Kimi says, pointing at him. “You got lost inside a shopping mall.”

“I was eleven!” Ollie squeaks.

Laughter breaks out. Liam is mid rant about survival tactics and the object he would bring with him “I’d hunt some fishes, with like, sticks. Or a sharp spoon”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Isack smirk. You don’t look at him, you’re careful not to.

“Since you guys are asking, I would bring Liam and eat him for protein,” says Ollie out of the blue.

Liam smiles. “Kinky.”

You choke on your drink and Lily mutters “Oh my God”.

“What about you?” she turns to you. “How long are you lasting out there?”

You shrug. “I know how to boil water, I can tie knots and I don’t complain. Also I have watched all seasons of Survivor religiously.”

Lily whistles. “Damn. Attagirl.”

You try not to glance at Isack but you fail. He feels you staring and tilts his head toward you but you turn back to Lily a little too quickly, gulping your drink.

Then, salvation: Alex Albon appears from around the corner. He heads straight for Lily. 

“There you are,” he says, smiling. “Come on, I’m saving you from this testosterone soup.”

Lily stands and kisses him on the cheek. “Please get me out.”

You hop off the crate too to follow them. Lily loops her arm through yours and you glance back, just briefly. Isack’s eyes are still on you, unreadable.

Sunday evening

Someone has the bright idea of heading up to the hotel rooftop. It’s one of those in-between evenings where the post-race buzz still lingers but there’s no party, just too much dopamine and nowhere to put it. Someone brings snacks, someone else pulls out their JBL and the music mixes with the honks of Shanghai in the distance.

The sky is dark but it’s a nice night. String lights are throwing a golden halo over everyone’s head. You pull a hoodie over your sundress and sit cross-legged on the ground, sipping a Coke zero.

Ollie points a finger at Kimi.

“Truth or dare.”

A wave of protests erupts until Ollie threatens to switch the music to his Bangers only playlist.

Kimi is challenged to serenade a picture of Toto Wolff with a Backstreet Boys song. He does, terribly, and Ollie discreetly films the moment for future blackmail. Liam makes Lily answer whether Alex has ever cried during sex. He hasn’t, but he has cried watching The Notebook, apparently. You don’t know who dared Arthur Leclerc to try pushups on the roof ledge, but you stopped watching after the second one.

Eventually, it lands on you.

“Truth or dare?” Isack asks through the laughter.

You hesitate. He is leaning back on his hands, casual, but he looks at you like he knows you won’t pick truth. And maybe it’s pride or the rush of your second Grand Prix, but you say:

“Dare.”

Isack sits up straighter. “Walk the ledge.”

You blink. 

“Excuse me?”

He points to the low concrete ledge that lines the edge of the building, maybe half a meter wide.

“That’s so dumb,” you say. “What if I die?”

“I said walk, not fall. Are you scared?” he says and you catch the smile he is trying to hide. “Come on, I dare you.”

“Fine,” you concede, already standing. “Just to prove a point.”

Alex says your name like a warning but you wave him off. You climb onto the ledge, carefully, the night breeze making your sundress float up. Your feet balance quickly, muscle memory from years of martial arts and being stubborn. Halfway across, the wind picks up. You flinch. Your arms extend for balance but you wobble a bit.

And then he’s there. Quiet and sudden, next to the edge, reaching his hand out instinctively.

You don’t think. You grab it.

The second your palm touches his, a jolt goes through your fingers, sharp and electric. Like the spark of static from an old sweater. You let go immediately. He flinches too.

“What the hell was that?” you mutter.

“Static,” he says, staring at his hand like it betrayed him. But his voice is a little off.

You climb down fast, cheeks flushed. Lily grins at you like she knows exactly what just happened.

Somewhere in the English countryside, April 2025

You don’t really know whose house this is, only that Ollie found the party and wherever Ollie goes, Isack follows. Victor is here too, sipping a beer next to you. You are sitting in a pair of lounging chairs in the back garden with a small group. You’ve had maybe three beers. Four? You’ve stopped counting. Enough to feel loose and light, stretched out with your legs over Victor’s.

It’s been a strange few weeks. Japan feels like a blur and Bahrain is coming soon, but right now you’re in this bubble back in Europe with everyone. You miss Liam. He hasn’t been around much since the news, the fact that he got demoted to Racing Bulls hit him hard. You hope the memes you send relentlessly and the appreciation messages you text him are cheering him up a little.

But everything else is going surprisingly well. You are three Grands Prix in, and you’re not just surviving, you’re actually doing something. You have caught a few people off guard with how quickly you’ve picked things up. Your work is helping engineers tweak things, even small things. You’re useful. You’re wanted. Sometimes you catch yourself smiling for no reason at all, like you have finally found your place.

You suddenly tune back into the conversation the boys are having. Someone brought up MMA and some dramatic fight from last week, and now all the hormonal late teenagers around you are losing their minds.

“Wasn’t Adesanya the first one to come in with that insane striking record?” Ollie asks around.

You take a sip of your beer before responding.

“Nope. Germaine de Randamie was undefeated in 46 kickboxing fights before she got into MMA. Try again, sunshine.”

The group turns to stare at you like you’ve grown a second head.

“Wait, you follow MMA?” Ollie says, clearly stunned.

Victor bursts out laughing.

“Of course she does. She did taekwondo for twelve years and boxing for five.”

Everyone laughs, quite impressed, before the conversation shifts. Amid the chatter and clinking bottles, Isack, who has barely looked at you all evening, tilts his beer slightly in your direction.

“You’ve been hiding this side of you.”

You reach for your beer, barely holding back a smug grin.

“You never asked.”

“Maybe we’ve been training in the same gym, do you know La frappe in Paris?”

“Sorry, I only train in tough cookie places,” you smile. Isack lets out a laugh.

“Putain,” he mutters, shaking his head. “You can be so cocky.”

You shrug, innocent.

“Just telling the truth.”

“What? You think you could take me?”

“I know I could take you,” you say before you can stop yourself.

He lifts a brow, his mouth twitching.

“You sure? You’re all talk.”

You lean back in your seat. You did not notice, but the garden has gone quieter as most people have drifted back inside because of the cold. It’s just you, Isack and Victor now. The air feels different somehow. You're both a little too competitive, a little too tipsy and neither of you knows when to back down.

Victor gets up and glances between you and Isack.

“I’m going for a wee, I do not want to see what this turns into,” he says, pointing between you two. “And I swear to God, if I come back and find you rolling in the bushes, I’m calling your mums.” You flip him off as he leaves.

Silence. Then, Isack stands and offers you a hand.

“Come on, let’s settle this.”

You give him a look.

“You’re not serious.”

“I dare you.”

Before either of you can think any better, you are both on your feet, half-fighting, half-laughing. He’s quick, but you’re quicker, dodging a grab and slipping around him. You aim for his ribs, gentle but cocky and he screams with exaggerated offense.

At some point, you throw a lazy leg kick that he somehow catches. You both lose your balance and roll into the grass, breathless. You manage to pin him for half a second before he flips you with way too much ease. He ends up above you, hands wrapped around your wrists, pressed into the grass. You stop giggling. His curls are a mess and he's panting a little.

His eyes flick down to your mouth and you suddenly realise how close your faces are. Now all you can think about is how your lips are almost brushing his. How they looked like when he laughed two seconds ago. How they might feel.

You can hear your own heart in your ears. Your skin is burning, in the places where he touches you, where he doesn’t. What the hell am I thinking? You’re drunk. That’s all it is. Just the beers and the grass and the way he’s looking at you like you’re some kind of mystery he wants to solve with his mouth.

He breathes out, slowly and his lips almost touch yours when…

“OLLIE BROKE A TABLE!!” someone screams from inside.

You both get up within a second like you have been electrocuted, barely looking at each other.

“I.. I’m going to see what that was,” you mumble, already moving. 

You don’t wait for him to respond and just run.

Essonne, France, April 2025

The sun is bright over your heads. You squint as you wipe sweat off your forehead with the bottom of your shirt. Victor misses his shot and groans.

“Sucker” you tease, snatching the ball.

“I’m not a sucker, I’m distracted,” he says, looking at you. “You’ve been in a mood all day. Spill the tea.”

You roll your eyes and dribble past him, taking a shot that bounces off the basketball rim. He takes the ball, still looking at you like he is not going to let this go.

“What’s going on with you and Isack?”

You freeze for a second too long.

“Nothing.”

“Oh come on. You were flirting with your eyes at that party like it was a full-time job.”

You try to dodge him, literally and figuratively but he runs into you lightly, grinning.

“I’m serious! You’ve been weird ever since. What happened?”

You press your lips together. Bounce the ball twice.

“Nothing happened, okay?”

Victor raises an eyebrow, smirking. You cave.

“Fine. We almost kissed.”

He blinks and his jaw drops.

“WHAT?”

“We were messing around on the grass. It got stupid. We were drunk. And then someone yelled about Ollie breaking something and I panicked and left. And I haven’t talked to him since.”

Victor makes a noise between disbelief and amusement.

“You ghosted him?”

“I didn’t ghost him.”

He just stares.

“I just… avoided him. For the rest of the party and at the Bahrain GP.”

He drops the ball and throws his hands up dramatically.

“You’re unbelievable!”

You throw your hands up as well. 

“Hey, it’s not like it’s just my fault. He also hasn’t reached out.”

“But why don’t you reach out? You like him.”

“I don’t like him.”

He squints at you again.

“You look at him like you want to fuck him and kill him at the same time.”

“Shut up!” you throw the basketball at his chest. He dodges, laughing.

“You do! You’ve got the murder eyes and the horny eyes!”

You chase him across the court, swearing in French under the spring sun.

Paris, April 2025 (back to the beginning)

You don’t really want to be here but Marla begged and honestly, there wasn’t much to do tonight anyway. You are only in Paris for the night, crashing at her place since your early train to visit your family and Victor leaves from the Austerlitz station.

The party you found yourselves in is hosted by a Red Bull crew member, a celebration after the triple header. The apartment is full of people. A mix of F1 people, friends of friends and party crashers. There is French rap humming in the background and wine glasses everywhere.

You are sitting on the kitchen counter in a short skirt and large sun-faded Carhartt t-shirt, both stolen from Marla’s wardrobe an hour ago. Your hair is loose and your legs swing lazily as you sip a very bad rosé.

Marla stands beside you, arms crossed, the neck of a beer bottle tucked between two fingers like a cigarette.

“I get she is lonely after the divorce, but she could literally find anyone else. I always have to be the one going, ‘Mom, that man brought a coupon to your birthday…’”

Your attention slips and your eyes drift toward the living room. Paris + Red Bull party equals Isack Hadjar, prince of the evening. He has been laughing for half an hour now with two guys you vaguely recognise from the Racing Bulls garage and a girl with a backless dress and perfectly blown out hair. You haven’t seen him since England apart from a glance at the media pen at the Saudi GP, but now he’s here, on home turf, like the party belongs to him. Of course he’s magnetic. Did a magnificent season debut. Everyone knows his name here. You wish you didn’t.

“You’re not even listening to me,” Marla complains.

“I am!”

Marla tilts her head.

“You’ve looked at him like six times in two minutes.”

“No I didn’t,” you say too quickly.

The girl next to Isack says something and touches his arm. He doesn’t pull away. You grit your teeth and gulp your glass of wine in one go before reaching to pour another one. Marla watches, unimpressed. 

“Anyway,” you say, desperate to steer the conversation elsewhere, “please tell me more about your new step dad.”

“Fine,” she sighs. “He wears leather bracelets. Plural. And he plays the didgeridoo.”

Later in the evening, you are standing by a dying potted plant, pretending to check something on the wall. Your glass is still half full but your head is light from the wine.

You turn to head back to the kitchen and slam right into someone. Your wine nearly spills down your front. A hand reaches, steadying your arm.

“Careful,” he mutters.

You look up. Isack.

“Maybe look where you’re going,” he says, pulling his hand back like he regrets touching you.

“Are you mad at me?” you say abruptly, the wine talking through you.

His brow lifts, caught off-guard.

“What?”

“You’ve stayed a mile away from me all night, hovering around…” you glance at the girl with the backless dress across the room “... whoever,” you mumble.

He exhales.

“I’m being weird? You’re the one who’s been ignoring me for weeks. You barely hang out with the guys anymore. And you look right through me like I don’t exist.”

“I haven’t been…”

“Yes, you have,” he cuts in. “Just admit it.”

“It’s not that simple.”

He lets out a dry laugh. 

“It is to me. You got scared,” he says like he’s daring you to deny it.

You cannot hold his gaze as you look away without replying. 

“Then say it,” Isack says, calmer now. “Say there’s nothing between us. Say it and I’ll walk out that door. You’ll never have to deal with me again.”

You open your mouth but nothing comes out, because you don’t know how to lie right now. The silence stretches and his expression doesn’t change.

“Yeah,” he says, voice flat. “That’s what I thought.”

Then he turns and walks away.

You stay frozen for a second. Maybe two or three. And then the air rushes back into your lungs. Heart pounding, you push through the crowd. You shove your wine glass into Marla’s startled hands on the way.

He is already halfway down the corridor when you catch him just as he slips into the pantry to get his hoodie, all the guest’s jackets being oddly packed next to the food shelves.

You follow him inside and the door clicks shut behind you.

He turns around, clearly irritated.

“What now?”

You take a shaky breath, words tumbling out before you can stop them.

“I don’t know what I feel, okay? And it’s so unfair of you to ask that because I cannot think when you’re around, and… and I feel like an idiot. Like I’m drowning in something I don’t understand, and you’re just standing there like it’s nothing.”

His expression softens.

“You didn’t say anything either, after England,” you say through your breath.

“Because you acted like it was a mistake,” he replies while running a frustrated hand through his hair.

“I got scared,” you whisper.

He meets your gaze.

“So did I.”

You are way too aware of every detail right now, the cramped room, his eyes, the way his presence makes your chest tighten while he is in front of you, waiting for you to say something, anything.

Your breath feels so loud it almost drowns out the music pulsing in the background. You recognise Niagara Falls by The Weeknd. The bass notes are shaking your bones but not as much as his eyes do.

Isack is looking at you, not moving an inch. His lips are slightly parted and all you want is to crash into them, hard, not sweet.

You stand two meters apart, fists clenched, while he is leaning against a cluttered table like you’re not melting in front of him.

“I dare you,” he smiles.

Something twists inside you and your veins ache. You take a step.
Then another.

You’re in front of him now. So close you can smell his cologne and feel his breath on your lips. His hand slides to your jaw, gentle but sure and then his mouth is on yours.

The kiss is nothing like you imagined. It’s worse. Rougher, hotter, messier. Your teeth bump. Your hands are in his hair. His fingers dig into your back like he doesn’t believe you’re real.

You grip the front of his shirt as Isack exhales into your mouth. There’s too much noise in your head and not enough space between you. He flips you around, lifts you onto the table and you pull him closer between your legs.

One of his hands slides up under your skirt and his fingers leave burning marks on your thigh. He kisses you like he wants you to feel every inch of it, like he’s daring you to pull away. His lips trace the shape of your jawline before returning to your mouth. You let out a moan.

It’s not soft, it’s not perfect. But it’s just right.

[reidarkholme]

PROLOGUE — synopsis | Owen Taylor, a new professor from your class assigned a thesis project right at the start of semester and due next week. Burdened by the amount of paperworks to do, your only solace is a pack of cigarette and your secret “spot”.

CONTAINS❕: age gap, owen taylor × reader, smoking, forbidden attraction, teacher’s pet, vivid description of matured contents, no use of y/n, erotic fanfiction

WORD COUNT : 3.4k

WARNING❕: MDNI

▫️ AUTHOR’S NOTES : Based on “The Starling Girl” played by Lewis Pullman. This is my first time writing a fanfiction with R18+ contents. English is not my first language, please do understand that there may be ungrammatical errors made. BEST VIEW ON DARK MODE !

other social: @d4rkholme on tiktok — an edit based on this story is posted already on my account, you can check it out. <3

It’s been a hell of a week and I haven’t even finished my thesis yet. I am so piled up with schoolworks that I even forgot what it was like to socialize with people, but I don’t have many friends who I can talk and banter with. So, I just sit here in my room with my laptop and a cigarette on hand to lessen the stress that I’m feeling while working on my paper that I have to pass next week.

I rolled my eyes out of frustration and shut my laptop. I checked the time and it’s already two in the afternoon, I have a class at three.

This professor that I will be attending class on has only been here since the second semester started and just casually gave us a thesis to work on, isn’t he just a bundle of joy? But, I’m not going to deny… He’s kind of attractive compared to other professors I had for the past two years I’ve been here at this school. Tall, maybe he’s about six feet, muscles are perfectly defined and doesn’t look exaggerated, slicked back hair, wears a polo shirt that fits him just fine, smells like… I don’t know what brand he’s using but it’s definitely not cheap. Looking at him from head to toe, he’s the accurate figure of what a man should look like. Not some guy who thinks full of himself while looking like trash and treats people, especially women, as some kind of punching bag.

As soon as I stepped foot in the hallway, I instantly went to my class and sat on an empty chair far from everyone. I don’t want to socialize–I am overstimulated because of this paperwork.

Before I even put my earphones on, he came into the room, “Good afternoon.” His voice was mildly loud and sharp enough to make me roll my eyes once again because of irritation. I only hate him because he gave us paperwork like this, but what else could I do? Throw hands at him? Only if I could, I would.

I didn’t even notice that he caught me eye-rolling at him. “Is there any problem?” He said, looking directly at me while placing his book and papers on the table.

Of course I play dumb. “Me…?” I said. “Yes, you. Who else might I be referring to? You’re the only one who’s sitting there far away from your classmates,” he replied.

I sarcastically replied, “There is, in fact, no problem.” I faked my smile.

He seemed not to be content with my answer, but he just went lecturing about a new lesson for today and added some suggestions to put in our paper just in case we haven’t done it yet. But, did I mention I listened to everything he said? Right. I didn’t, because I was busy studying his figure… I don’t know what’s gotten into my mind but I feel like I’m being slowly pulled to him, like some kind of magnetic force that an equation or anything about science could not even explain. I’m still irritated by him, though.

It’s already five o’clock and his class just finished. Before I could even step outside of the door, he called my name and asked me, “How’s your paper?” Really? Why not ask how I am instead of the paper, I thought. “Going pretty well,’’ I replied. “Good, because that will help you to finish your studies,” he said, as he put his book and papers inside of his crossbody bag.

I nodded and gave him a bitter smile. “Yeah, I know.” I didn’t even wait for him to say anything back and just went outside already.

A cigarette could really be a good use to free myself from stress. I have a perfect spot to smoke after class whenever I feel stressed, which I do every time. It’s been a coping mechanism since I was in high school and I could never seem to get it out of my system.

Without hesitation, I lit my cigarette and covered it with my left hand so the fire won’t be blown by the wind.

After inhaling it three times with my eyes closed while leaning on the brick, I was startled by a familiar voice. “Still got some?”

I turned around and recognized it’s my professor from my class… Owen Taylor. I almost threw away my cigarette when he saw me. “Holy shi–” I paused, “I’m… I’m really sorry, I won’t do this again. Just promise me you won’t tell it to the dean.” I pleaded. I feel embarrassed that I want to be eaten alive right now.

He looks unfazed. “I just said if you still got some but you straight up get worried.” He paused for a second, maintaining eye-contact, “So, are you going to hand me one or not?” He handed out his hand from his pocket.

Still startled from what just happened, I grabbed a pack of my cigarettes in my pocket and handed him one of it.

He puts the cigarette on his lips, but he’s still not lighting it up. “Are you just going to let it be like this or will you light it up for me?” He asked, putting away the cigarette from his lips.

“Oh, yeah, sorry. Here.” I said as I handed him my lighter.

He took the lighter from me and lit up his cigarette. Oh, God, I’ve never seen a man who lit up a cigarette effortlessly making it look… I don’t know. Hot? Maybe. But, that’s weird to be fascinated by. He’s my professor and it’s wrong to think of him that way. God forbid a woman who finds anything attractive, especially if it’s acted out by an attractive man, I thought.

There’s a minute of silence before he speaks, “When did you start?” He said as he took a puff.

I instantly understood his question. “Since high school. Just a coping mechanism and not just to be seen as cool by other kids.” I said as I inhaled mine.

“I see.” He nodded.

We didn’t do much talking and just went to finish smoking. We just stand beside each other as we inhale every nicotine we have.

He breaks the silence, “Thank you,” he said. “Yeah, no problem. Just don’t tell anyone from school then we’ll be fine.” I nodded.

He chuckled. “Is that a threat?”

I answered, “No, but if you perceive it that way… Maybe, yes.”

As we were walking away from that “spot” the rain started to pour. Shit, I forgot to bring an umbrella with me, my bag is going to be soaked and my laptop’s inside, I thought as I frowned my brows and looked at the ground getting wet.

He stopped walking and looked at me with concern. “You don’t have an umbrella with you?”

As much as I hate to admit it. “Yeah… I forgot.”

“I have my car with me parked near here, you want a ride?” He offered.

I really wanted to refuse but I am caught with this situation with nothing but his offer. “Okay… sure.” I said as I followed him walking towards his car.

He opened the door for the passenger seat, I didn’t know he’s a gentleman. I thought he was just some kind of teacher to put some stress on his students. Judged him too far, I think.

He closed the car door for me and went to sit on the driver’s seat. I’m too focused on checking my laptop forgetting that I need to put my seatbelt on. “Buckle up, the road’s slippery.” He commanded.

After I buckled up, he started to drive. His attention was too focused on the road so the ride just went silent until the rain started to pour heavily so that he had to idle his car.

“We have to wait for the rain to subside, I can’t risk us getting into an accident,” he said.

I didn’t say anything, I just rested my head on the window beside me, watching and listening to the rain downpour.

Minutes passed by and the rain is still ongoing. When will this end? I need to go home and finish my thesis, I thought.

I noticed him moving from my peripheral vision, he turned the music on.

The mirror’s image tells me it’s home time

But I’m not finished, ‘cause you’re not by my side

And as I arrived I thought I saw you leavin’

Carryin’ your shoes

Decided that once again I was just dreamin’

Of bumpin’ into you

“You listen to Arctic Monkeys?” I asked as he hummed along with the music.

“Hmm, yeah. How ‘bout you? A fan of ‘em?” He asked, turned to look at me after staring at his front windshield for God knows how long.

Now, it's three in the mornin’

And I’m tryna’ change your mind

Left you multiple missed calls

And to my message, you reply

“Why’d you only call me when you’re high?”

“Hi, why’d you only call me when you’re high?”

“Yeah, I am.” I said, as I looked into his eyes. Those eyes… those eyes that could make you crippling your sheets–Oh, oh, no. Enough, I thought. I covered my face with shame.

He looks confused. “What’s wrong?” He frowned his brows.

“Nothing… Just shrugging a thought,” I nervously replied, but I somehow managed to hide my nervousness. If I really did…

“And what those thoughts got something to do with looking at me for too long?” His voice snapped me back to reality and made me realize I stared at him for too long.

Somewhere darker, talkin’ the same shite

I need a partner, (High) well are you out tonight?

It’s harder and harder to get you to listen

More I get through the gears

Incapable of makin’ alright decisions

And having bad ideas

His voice echoed in my ears. “Are you having ideas?”

I gulped, not knowing what to answer. I looked away from him but he cupped my chin with his left hand. The hand that he used to smoke earlier, it still smells marlboro red.

“What ideas…?” I asked weakly.

“You know what,” he said, his voice became deep and raspy.

Now, it’s three in the mornin’

And I’m tryna’ change your mind

Left you multiple missed calls

And to my message, you reply (Message, you reply)

I chuckled shakily. “Are you high?” I asked.

“Why’d you only call me when you’re high?”

(Why’d you only call me when you’re)

His tone seems confused at the same time. “High?”

“Hi, why’d you only call me when you’re high?”

We stared at each other, waiting for one of us to make a move. The tension is palpable inside of his car. I can smell his breath, his perfume, I can see the details of his hair looking soft with a sense of rawness in every strand. The way his eyes blink at the same time as mine. The way my heart pounds at every second his face gets closer with me. I’m not turning away from him which made me question myself. He’s thirty-two years old and I’m only twenty-one. This can’t be happening–I am dreaming but I’m not…

In a flash of two seconds, his lips pressed on mine. I can feel its softness and the way it devours me. I kissed back… I know I shouldn’t, but here I am.

And I can’t see you here, wonder where I might

It sort of feels like I’m runnin’ out of time

Our lips continue to savour every taste, not wasting any saliva. He slides his tongue inside of my mouth. The way our tongues dance with each other is enough to send shivers down my spine. I can feel my entrance getting wet as he touches my left leg with his right hand and his left hand at my nape while making out with me.

His kiss gets deeper and deeper at every second and I fear I might run out of breath. The music still plays while we’re doing an unholy act. What a perfect song for a perfect time.

I haven’t found all I was hopin’ to find

You said you gotta be up in the mornin’

Gonna have an early night

I let out a huge breath after he released his mouth to mine, his lips went down on my neck… A part of my body I considered to be more sensitive than my entrance. I grip his hair signaling for him to suck deeper which he did. This man is going to be the end of me.

And you’re startin’ to bore me, baby

“Why’d you only call me when you’re high?”

He stopped for seconds to pull my shirt up and threw it away at the backseat. I did the same thing with him, I unbuttoned his polo shirt and saw his majestic deliciously carved body. He has the perfect shape I wanted.

“Why’d you only ever phone me when you’re high?”

“Why’d you only ever phone me when you’re high?”

“Why’d you only ever phone me when you’re high?”

“Why’d you only ever phone me when you’re (high)?”

The song stopped, then we realized what we were doing. “Are we going to continue this?” He asked, breathing heavily.

I nodded unhesitatingly. “Are you sure?” He asked again.

As soon as he got the answer which I think he wanted to hear, he scooted over in the backseat. I did the same as well.

I laid down and found myself being dominated by this man. He started to unbuckle his belt and unzipped his pants. I also started to take off my underwear but I still haven’t unhooked my bra. He leaned over me and I can feel his manhood bulging and ready to be released from being caged in his pants.

His breath is hot as fire as he breathes, I can feel it in my ears as he kisses my neck again. His right hand slowly went from holding my hair to going down on my abdomen to tracing my legs using his middle and ring finger, teasing my insides.

I sighed out of frustration at being teased. “Touch me…” I said, breathing shakily.

He seems to not have heard what I said. I grabbed his wrist and put it in my center, started grinding and made it more wet than ever.

“Ohh… Slow down.” He said between the kisses.

He breaks the kisses and rises up. “Unhook your bra.” He commanded.

I arched my brow, teasing him. “Why don’t you unhook my bra?”

He looks at me seriously. “Are you going to follow or not?” He said, voice low and raspy.

I took a little sigh and unhooked my bra. It felt like freedom to remove this thing from me. I’ve never been a fan of wearing a bra, so I only wear a shirt whenever I’m at home.

He leaned back again, but this time, it’s my chest that he’s starting to violate. He sucks my nipples as if there’s no tomorrow. His mouth on my left chest, his left hand on my right. Massaging it slowly.

I can feel the metal of his watch touching my skin, sending shivers to my body. The way his tongue twirls on my nipple makes me crazy like an animal. My thoughts are full of lust. This man is breathtaking.

He paused, sliding down his pants. He stroked his manhood three times before entering my insides. I let out a soft moan, feeling every inch of him in my body.

He started to thrust me slowly at first, giving me time to adjust from his hard length. Every single thrust he makes, I can hear him whimper even though he’s trying not to make any sound.

His hair touches my face, giving me a tickling sensation. I brushed and grip the back of his hair. I put both of my feet behind his waist, holding on to his nape as he goes faster and deeper than he did minutes later.

I can feel my core throbbing and pulsating, like a morse code spelling his name repeatedly—like an echo in my mind.

I gripped his back using my fingers to support the force he’s giving. My nails are long enough to leave claw marks on his skin, leaving trails of my scratches.

He licked his lips and started to explore my mouth again. Sliding his tongue in me, sharing heat and feeding each other’s hunger. His kiss gets deeper and deeper as he thrusts me harder and faster. This is the first time a man has given me this kind of pleasure. This is heaven.

He got up carrying my back with him, still not breaking the kiss. Our bodies shifted, I hovered over him—breathless and wanting more.

I began dancing on his lap, my lips traced a path along his throat, sucking hard like what he did to me.

He groaned. “I—I’m close…” He gasped, chest rising.

“It’s okay… I’m taking birth control pills,” I said, gasping for air.

He shut his eyes, each of my thrusts met me with equal intensity. My hips are bouncing by the way our bodies move together in sync. The atmosphere became more tense and hotter as we felt our climax built with every thrust.

We couldn’t hold back much longer anymore. Our bodies collapse together as we breathe against our skin, bodies trembling.

My head resting against his neck, hands hugging his back. His hands stroked my hair, giving me a sense of comfort.

I lifted my head up and leaned backwards, holding on to the passenger seat behind me, I grabbed my bag.

I put down my bag on his right and started to look for my cigarette. I took one and put it between my lips as I lit it up in front of him.

He watches me smoke and blow it, not minding the suffocating feeling it might cause us. I once again inhaled and held it in for three seconds, I leaned onto him, my lips coaxing his mouth open as I exhaled into his.

He grabbed the cigarette from my fingers and inhaled deeply, not breaking an eye-contact.

“You’re good, huh?” His voice, dark and smooth.

I smirked. “And you’re bold,” I replied. I snatched my bag beside him and looked for gum, still not leaving from our position. I peeled the packaging and started to chew.

He frowned his brows slightly. “Are you chewing gum?”

I let out a small smile. “No,” I replied, sarcastically.

“Spit it out.” He demanded.

I stared at him, not doing what he requested. I just started to chew this tasteful gum, there’s no way I’ll throw it away this soon, I thought.

He handed out his other hand close to my mouth, signaling me to spit it out. He looked down at his hand, then he met my gaze again and he slightly arched both of his brows.

I gave him a confused reaction because I can’t understand why he wants me to spit this out, maybe he’s irritated by the sound it makes? I don’t know.

“Spit it out and I’ll give you a high grade on your paper,” he added.

Without a further thought, I spat out my gum. I’d rather waste a gum than waste my grades.

“There you go,” I said, looking at the gum I just sacrificed for a grade. But, whatever.

“We should go, the rain just stopped pouring. I’ll drive you home.” I nodded. I got off of his lap and we picked up our clothes and wore them like nothing happened. I opened the car door beside me and went outside to go back to the passenger seat. He did the same thing and went back to the driver’s seat.

He started to drive and focuses on driving. I broke the silence, “So… what are we going to do now?” I asked.

His left hand on the steering wheel, while his right hand squeezed my thigh, still not breaking his attention from the road. “Meet me at my office tomorrow. I’m going to give you something,” he replied.

I just nodded and let him continue driving until I reached home. It only took me five seconds before I reached for his face, giving him a kiss. I went outside of his car and watched him drive away.

▪️ AUTHOR’S NOTES : DO NOT STEAL❕

[mylordshesacactus]

I don't think I'll ever be over the way that the thesis statement of OWK is represented, more than anything else, even more than Reva's plotline honestly, in Haja.

Like.

Genuinely? The one "twist" I wasn't emotionally prepared for was that Haja was legit, and he really was trying to help, and there really was a massive grassroots shadow-network underground railroad evacuating Jedi survivors and Force-sensitive kids across the galaxy, and he really was part of it.

Because the thing with his whole setup--the magnet tricks, the motion-controlled windows, the cold-reading, the crowd-working kid identifying obvious offworld marks, the "audience plant" stormtrooper playing along over the comm? Yeah, they're cheap tricks, but it's a SOPHISTICATED setup.

This guy is a straight-up conman. He really is every bit the sleazy grifter he appears to be.

That matters. That's important. Haja is not an angel. He's a mid-level fake psychic, callously cashing in on the Jedi's legacy to do, like, bullshit fortune-telling. It's--it's the way you can see this guy's whole backstory in a few minutes of screentime. Because we DO see him identify a Force-sensitive kid....and the escape he offers them is genuine.

So: Haja. And the story we can see in him at a glance.

He's a scam artist! He's dressing in knockoff porn-vid robes, waving his hands, and babbling half-remembered vague tropes before murmuring generic platitudes and sending rubes on their way. The Jedi are dead, right? It's not like they're around to be offended. He's not even really lying, right? He gets people what they want! The Jedi stuff just lets him upcharge! He's just skimming a little, a man's gotta make a living.

And then, one day, someone came to him who'd used all their hope just getting there. Someone with a Force-sensitive child, and the Empire on their heels, stumbled terrified into his little den of cheap tricks, because they'd heard a whisper of a rumor that there was still a Jedi alive on Daiyu.

And in that moment, Haja learned that he was a better person than he'd ever realized.

They must have staked everything on reaching him, and then they found him, and what they found was...Haja. Just some guy in a cheap costume. Just some guy, and not a particularly great one. How much is the bounty on a Force-sensitive youngling? Enough to retire on. Enough to set you up for life. And Haja is just some guy, who had just been slapped in the face with the reality of what he was capable of doing in the next five minutes.

There are moments when you learn who you really are, and sometimes you surprise yourself.

After all that time "acting like a Jedi," when given the opportunity--he chose to act like a Jedi.

Ultimately, the thesis statement of OWK is: There is a galaxy full of Hajas. And that's hope enough to keep going for.

[shruiee]

put it on me | d.t x reader x r.t | vampire au | bloody baby au

an: heyyy ya’ll missed me? had a tove lo song stuck in my head it’s talking body.

synopsis: baby knows she has been made to forget, she knows they are pretending to, everything is alright but is it?

warning: overconsumption of alcohol, compelling, argument.

You were dead sure something was off, like visually not a hair out of place but you just knew, like a nagging intuition burning holes into your stomach. Though it could have been the last shot oqf tequila you took.

They let you off the fucking island, it made no sense. What four months of playing a captured princess and out of nowhere “Go birdie go fly and be free.” something was off it was sour milk in your mouth. One could even say it was because you were touch deprived, but the more shocking detail to take note of was the lack of puncture marks in your body. This wasn’t some insecurity bullshit again, this was them hovering over you from the balconies watching you dance with you friends and not lifting a finger to feel you up.

Absurd isn't it?

Something happened, you can only feel it in your dreams, something deeply wrong— something that you were not supposed to see but you hadn't been compelled, at least you think you weren’t. You simply woke up in their bed three weeks and they’ve pretended like you would break from a single touch, and they watch you—constantly. When you eat, when you read on the lawn and sometimes you could swear they watch you sleep.

This uneasiness was tearing at you, were they done with you? Their own martial relations seemed to be a little too close, they always were but you never felt left out but now you did, you felt nervous even to walk up to Rhaenyra for a hug in the morning. And now this.

A taste of caged freedom. Freedom.

Who knew you'd grow so fond of the cage that housed you, a golden stone castle far from any life you’ve ever seen? Yet here you were now, at a cheap club your friends and you had graced every weekend after working on your thesis to chug fireballs and vodka.

Freedom? That's what the wanted you to feel, to help you transition back to your mortal life. Well then, a taste of it should have been fair for all. So you didn't hesitate after pulling another bill from your bra and ordering another round for your girlfriends. You loved them, you missed them, but right now your sense of celebration wasn't for them. As the bitter liquid burned at your throat, you shot daggers at the balconies again and disappeared into the crowd.

Deep in the sea of sweaty bodies jumping with no care in the world, thick into where the intentions of every one were similar, “We’re free game” You didn't care who touched you, just as way before when you didn't. You never know the person, hell you couldn't even make out their face from the lights but you felt the hands, the grinding.

It did feel freeing, compelled or not, you could do it— slip further into the crowd and just slip out of this dingy club. Disappear with the money and ID tucked into the lining of your bra, they won't find you. Strom City was far too vast to find a little scorned soul nearing the bottom of the bottle. You closed your eyes and just felt the music and the alcohol making you feel weightless, you lifted your hands into your hair to cook the back of your neck as you continued to sway, a stranger’s beer can pressed to the back of it. You smiled at your friends dancing, reaching for the coolers in one of their hands and took a big swig. You could feel the bile at the back of your throat, but you knew you'd been fine if you just kept dancing.

You could still feel hands on you and yet no faces, it wasn't until you turned that you could finally register faces— or well a face.

Daemon stood still amongst the dancing crowd, arms crossed and neck just slightly titled. Silently questioning as to the fuck were you up to.

You didn't stop, looking right at him you kept dancing when the beat dropped stealing the last of your friend’s drink. Hips swaying and still holding your wild hair so you don't overheat, you knew you were playing with fire. What's the worst that could happen? They’d drain you of all blood until there was no life left in you? You’d come to terms with that possibility months ago.

You could feel him nearing, shrugging off the mortal bodies coming in contact with him. You could hear your friends giggling as she reached for your hand and yanked you through the crowd.

“What the fuck were you thinking,” Daemon said, looking very visually irked as he sat comfortably on the hotel couch.

Rhaenyra had barely anything to say but she was angry, you could see it. A conflicted hurt. The rules were clear, they were crystal and you'd broken them.

You scoffed sipping on the glass of water you were forced to drink as you leaned against the bathroom door, still heeled and dizzy. You couldn't digest their discontent when they were ones playing games with you.

“We have very simple rule-”

“Oh fuck your rules!” you cut him off

“It's just bodies isn't it,” you said holding in a hiccup “We are just bodies.”

Rhaenyra opened her mouth but you raised your finger to stop her, stumbling of the bathroom door and walking to the middle of the room.

“How many? How many girls? How many men? I mean fuck!” you shook your head stumbling a bit.

They entertained your outburst, usually you were so placated that this was beyond the unusual.

“Don't you see, you've lived the two of you have each other, have been married for like a forever long time, and me. I'm twenty— human years mortal, simple-bodied.” you tap your head to see if they saw your point.

“I have barely loved, and now that I do—” you hiccup blinking your drunk tears away “its with two blood-sucking—” you stopped yourself laughing.

“I’m just a body to you that you use for fun.” you laugh, mascara tears coating your face.

Rhaenyra finally speaks “that is not true.”

You scoff once more, this time breaking the glass of water you'd been drinking against the bedstand “Turn me then.”

Daemon turned his face, looking out the window and Rhaenyra now stood shaking her head at you.

You could feel the glass imbedded into your palm, you raised the broken shard at her— lil quivering. “Turn me.”

“Turn me.” it sounds like a pathetic prayer.

This time Daemon turned to you, eyes narrowed staring at your bleeding palm, he looked at his wife. He knew this would have come to this conclusion, it always does.

You knew you’d die soon, whether it was to come back as one of them or dead for good. You’d made your peace with it a week before, pouring your heart out in the pages of your journal. Though what were you expecting, that the sex with you was that good that they’d have you around for a life time.

You served one purpose for them, to be their walking blood bag, a toy for them to use and dress as they pleased.

“Turn me.” you said once more.

This time Daemon pushed off the couch, he was in front of you within a blink of an eye, nostrils flared as he grabbed the back of your hair and yanked it back.

“You want to sell your soul that bad? You’d break even before it began sweet girl. The pain of the turn, but sure since you want it that bad.” he bit into the back of his hand and pressed it to your mouth.

The taste of bitter copper filled your mouth, it was true human blood tasted far sweeter, and you’d tasted it on their lips countless times. Your own blood.

“Daemon stop.” Rhaenyra said this time, approaching her husband.

He did not budge, still staring your soul down as he pulled the glass shard from your hand. He didn't hesitate to press it against your carotid artery, the faintest if pressure and he’d dig in. You bleed out and either come out as one of them or a feral— a demon of sorts. They wouldn't take that risk but Daemon was so done for it.

He knew the truth of what he’d compelled away from you, the attack, the threat that somebody was after them— he feared not for him or Rhaenyra but if they found you. He had thought of turning you a thousand times over, and so had Rhaenyra, though the possibility that you may not make the other side. Not many survive the pain, not many come out looking like their mortal bodies but mangled creatures from hell.

However Daemon had snapped, he grew irked from having to hide the truth, from having to pull away. True he had Rhaenyra to come to with his ails but she would sway him otherwise. Rhaenyra battled the guilt of nearly killing you for days, she still does and cannot touch you without remembering her teeth digging into your flesh. You may not remember it, but she had torn you within an inch of your life.

“Daemon we have to let her go.” Rhaenyra urged.

This time your eyes snapped to her and then back to Daemon.

“No turn me.” you urged, this time pushing yourself against the shard of glass “turn me.”

Daemon threw the shard away, shaking his head as he held your shoulders.

“No no, you're not leaving me.” the panic set into your body, death would have been easier. “Just turn me, I can do it.” you hiccuped.

Rhaenyra this time finally touched you, pulling you closer and embracing you, your senses were completely engulfed by her. The way she smelled, her touch, her hair.

You kept mumbling “no” incoherently as she sat you down on the bed.

Her eyes dilated as she shushed you, you looked at Daemon, his stern expression held pain to it if you looked close enough. He leaned against a wall. He knew Rhaenyra had to be the one to do this.

You felt no pain as Rhaenyra pulled the small pieces of glass from your hand, they were already healing because of Daemon’s blood.

“I’m so sorry my love,” she kissed your palms as she sat them back down onto your lap. “It isn't safe anymore.”

“Please don't,” you pouted, more tears flowing down your cheeks. “Don’t leave.”

“You were away on a vacation in the Summer. Isles, you needed a break. You won't remember us, anything about the past six months, it will be as though time stopped and brought you back to reality.” Rhaenyra whispered, kissing your forehead.

“Please.” you cried.

“The pain you feel now will be gone, we will be gone.” her eyes dilated one more as she shuffled your body back into the bed. “Go to sleep.”

Okie and that's a wrap!! I had so much fun writing this chapter, kinda poured my own breakup pain into it. Either way, I can't wait to start writing more!!

[charlieslowartsies]

FINISHED MY TOOTHLESS PLUSH!!

Materials, info and some comments under the RM!

Toothless' Pattern I purchased

Materials: 6 yards of black minky 1 yard red minky 5 yards of Poly-Fil extra loft medium quilt batting 18 oz of poly pellets (4 oz in each foot) 2 Mainstay firm bed pillows for stuffing 1 spool of purple thread for the top stitching details on his tail, hip and main wings 2.5 spools of black thread Dark green, lime green, goldenrod and light yellow embroidery floss black acrylic paint white fabric paint Velcro one very old, small and cranky sewing machine who somehow survived this ordeal several comfort shows, podcasts, and music to listen to

This was my winter break project! Granted I started bits and pieces of the process in early December, but once my two weeks off hit he really started getting worked on lol.

I know it's hard to tell from photos, but he is A BIG CHONGUS. Toothless is 5.5 feet from head to tail tip, and has a 9 foot wingspan. He weighs about 8 lbs.

He took about 60ish hours and was very complex. My budget was $200 and he came in at $202! That includes things like the bulldog clips that I bought when he was being pinned because the minky was so slippery! This cost EXcludes a sewing machine, or things like an embroidery ring which my mom had, so I was very lucky in several areas—but he still was not cheap, either by expense or by time and sweat/tears!

Of course, the minky was by far the most of the cost, coming in at $122. I’d say the batting would be next, but I waited and snagged a good deal at my local craft store and got the batting for $18. I HIGHLY recommend buying bed pillows. The original maker of the pattern used IKEA pillows I believe.

I increased his size by 20%, so I printed him at 120% and guesstimated on the minky amount. My WORST mistake was forgetting to mirror the WINGS, which meant I had to recut two of the four pieces of fabric. (I should have marked it on the pattern, which I did mark well for things like number count.) Had I not done this, I would have used a lot less minky. I bought 7 yards and only needed 5.5 before my error.

(Now I’ve got scraps and a whole yard left sitting there whispering that it wants to be made into a Krobus plushie…who seems much less of a hurdle than Toothless.)

I stuffed Toothy’s hip fins and tail fins with one layer of quilt batting. His wings however, are double layered with the batting for extra plush, warmth, and durability. His eyes are hand embroidered (my first time!) but stitched on with the machine. Toothless has poly pellets in his feet to help support his bulk, but most of his weight is in his body, hips and start of his tail so he actually sits up really well.

He was a huge labor of love for sure! The pattern was great, the instructions were…less great. But my mom helped me figure out a lot of the troubling bits. Some parts were easy to follow and others were basically "bing bong fuck ya life." Despite that, I do suggest this pattern. But this is definitely an intermediate or advanced pattern. They also sell the eyes for those that have access to an embroidery machine.

I followed the pattern closely as I desired. I did omit the back spikes on his rear legs, and I couldn’t embroider his lil nose by hand ^^; I also did not make his blue alpha fins because of expense and mistrust in my own skills...also, I kinda wanted HTTYD1 Toothless haha. I love the series as a whole but the og movie is literally one of the reasons I went to college, and it went into my thesis as well.

I want to remake his prosthetic at some point when I have time and energy, but for now I’m pleased with 99% of him, especially since this is my first plushie I’ve ever made. I do not regret any of my personal changes and I’m totally in love with him.

[matt0044]

What we can learn from “The Jaune Arc Discourse” (TM).

Well, to start with, people are really resistant to being corrected on lies at worst or overstatements at best.

Like if nothing else, the Does RWBY Like Women poll was illuminating in how it showed me that a veeeeeery weird myth about Jaune Arc has persisted beyond its true relevancy.

Volume 1 of RWBY features Jaune Arc in the spotlight for… what? Four episodes? The minutes of each adding up to roughly twenty minutes, the length of an average TV episode?

While he was featured in the previous storyline where we are given an eight episode arc introducing us to our eight main protagonists, he was a lot more… ancillary as comic relief. A discount Lavernius Tucker with Felix’s voice if you will.

He's Vomit Boy in episode one. Episode two has him introduced more formally as somebody who helps up Ruby after a bad first impression on Weiss. He later appears more prominently pining over Weiss and catching Pyrrha's attention before falling to bracing himself in being catapulted into the Emerald Forest.

He's bailed out by Pyrrha and it's set up that he's in over his head by not knowing what Aura is or at least wanting to know how it works. An exposition sponge as I heard on fan call it. I could go on but the point is that all signs pointed to a Butt Monkey Ron Stoppable sort who was likely there for cheap laughs.

Amusing enough but I worried if that's all he'd be personally. Lord knows that some movies give the Comic Relief character too much comic relief and, well, not enough character. But after Ruby and Weiss have their leader/lance headbutting, the four episodes that followed reassured me that there'd be more to Jaune than meets the eyes.

But to circle back to the main thesis, it's actually fascinating that the myth of Jaune hijacking the narrative for himself is this pervasive when the offending story in question... is very much a self-contained character piece. It's way less about the wider story involving Ozpin, Roman Torchwick (at the time) and the White Fang.

It has relevance in how Pyrrha starts mentoring Jaune after he deals with Cardin and gets over himself (for now) which trickles down into future stories. Even then, the next story arc right back with Team RWBY with nary a sign of the everyman in question. A story arc that does deal with elements of the main plot, leading directly into Volume 2.

And in Volume 2, Jaune trying to woo Weiss and being ignorant to Pyyrha's advancements was just a subplot scattered in the first half of the story. It very much piggybacks off of Team RWBY's whole deal.

Volume 3 has what I consider to be a reversal of what's been known as Trinity Syndrome.

Namely the sort where a male character goes off the square off with the main villain mano-e-mano after shoving the female character/his love interest away so she won't get hurt. An egrigious example being when the love interest CAN FIGHT and back him up.

However, Pyyrha instead shoves Jaune out of the way after kissing him and goes off to face Cinder in a very fatal battle. It was honestly a brilliant (as much as the term may be disliked these days) subversion of the cliche.

And it’s Ruby who sees her death and gets the trauma induced power up. Jaune only has a scene of angst before that and was the one to call Ruby to have her try and back up the one he just realized he loved.

Jaune from that point on is an Everyman Protagonist who is forced to remember that he’s not THE protagonist. Yet the myth persistently proclaims that he hijacks the narrative from the titular Team RWBY despite only four episodes being wholly dedicated to him and his head space.

How did we get here?

Well… there’s the fact that not everyone finished Volume 1 and that not everybody, well, watched RWBY. And that would be fine on its own. You gave it a shot and it wasn’t your cuppa joe. You saw the trailer but clicked on something else.

I get it. That’s fine. Contrary to popular belief, nobody in the FNDM will really fault you for it. Less fine is when you spread faulty readings of RWBY and from those heavily biased against it no less.

It cannot be emphasized enough that tearing into RWBY is a cottage industry on YouTube. Hbomberguy might have the biggest platform but you’ll find multiple channels with lengthy series on “RWBY bad, here why.” And they are actually amongst the FNDM. They know how the YT Algorithm game is played, how it rewards engagement above all else. And sadly, negativity and rage pay more bills.

It’s why there are few positive videos or at least few that are pushed into the recommendations. Many often borrow the same points from each other born from the V1 days, namely that Jaune is allegedly given favoritism by the writers while we somehow “don’t know who the main girls are.”

From four episodes.

I also think it’s also to do with how it’s not that he actually did steal screentime… so much as many anticipated he would. A lot of shows and movies I grew up with would have strong female characters but any potential they had was hindered by the male lead and his hero’s journey. See the above Trinity Syndrome I referenced.

But Jaune didn’t do that. Even when he was central to an event like his semblance being awakened, it’s a healing/power boost that he gives to others. Weiss getting skewered might’ve brought it out but it lead to her getting back into the fray while he was largely to the sides.

Seems more like he shares screentime if anything.

People cling to these myths despite legit fans actually pointing out, “Hey, that’s not true actually and here’s why,” because that hate being told they are wrong more than being wrong. And because there are many around these who reinforce this “truth,” they feel content with it. No need to challenge it when it “feels” right.

So Jaune Arc stole screentime. Because that’s what “everyone else” is saying. By you need to question popular opinions. You need to realize that sometimes… a fan community is based on lies.

”Trust me, bro” is not the gotcha you think it is.

[supernatural-bias]

𝐄𝐱𝐭𝐫𝐚 𝐇𝐞𝐥𝐩

↳ summary: you ask your distant and cold professor for some help with your thesis. good thing he seems to be an expert on fear

↳ warnings: mentions of murder, booze, guns, and some gore. canon type gotham violence. a wiff of stalking maybe?

↳ song: aleph—gesaffelstein

masterlist!

University life wasn't much different than you had expected. Television and movies glam it up to make it sound like the peak of your young adult life. A time for exceeding expectations and drinking cheap booze out of those weird solo cups in a random person's basement. But this was Gotham—where crime is the highest in the country and misfortune runs galore. The closest anyone got to walking into a stranger's basement these days was with the threat of a gun at their back.

In preparation for the quote-unquote finest school Gotham had to offer, instead of going out and buying the list of supplies your school recommended, you simply lowered your expectations. Not like there was much to begin with in the first place. You could get a protractor later.

Your thought process proved to be worth it too. Barely an hour into your first day, the campus was evacuated as a precaution for a major villain sighting in the area. Something about filling up a building with highly dangerous gas. As of weeks later, details still hadn't been released to the public. That was fine by you. All you cared about was not getting ripped away from your precious lunch again.

The campus cafeteria was drafty and smelled of mold, parties were thrown way too often, and most of your professors were stern with classes people only took so they could get their degrees.

In that case, Mr. Crane was no different from any of the other teachers.

There was certainly no lack of students in his class on the first week—the largely female percentage most likely gathered because of his pretty face. But by the end of it, over half had already dropped out.

You were not one of them. Somewhat regrettably, you had begun to think after hours of pouring over papers in just the first week. But you needed this class to fully understand your thesis topic and you'd be damned if you moved all the way out to Gotham for nothing.

That was what you were thinking about as you rounded the back row of Doctor Crane's class, staring blankly at the missed call from your mother atop your phone's home screen.

It had practically become a ritual for her to call you at least once a day since you'd moved to the city. Anytime you didn't pick up, it would send her into a frenzy—despite your multiple explanations of why you have your phone on silent during lectures. But that wouldn't stop her from constantly pleading for you to come back and finish getting your degree at home. Because even if it would take longer, and completely drain your bank account, at least you would be away from those lunatics. Or so she called them.

"You have nothing to worry about." You'd told her one time while watching a bowl of ramen bubble angrily on your stove. "Even if I was mugged or something, I'm sure the Batman would save me."

It had been meant as a half joke, said only to quell your mothers worries. Yet the more and more newspaper stands you passed on your way to the store, the more the vigilanties name came up. Often accompanied by the words HERO or SAVIOR afterward.

The sudden memory of newspapers stopped you right as you were about to cross the threshold from the lecture hall to the rest of the building. You were quick to turn around, flipping your phone back into your pants pocket loosely before approaching the professor's desk. A few more students filed out from behind you, one even tossing you a wave, before it was just you and the professor left.

Doctor Crane was nothing short of intimidating. Everything from the clean cut suit he worse, to his icy blue eyes—and even his second title as lead doctor in the nearby Arhum Asylum—was surrounded by an air of stoic professionalism.

The man hadn't even been there on the first day of school. Something that would have off-put you if not for the sudden evacuation, haulting any chance of first impressions. Instead, he had shown up the next day like nothing had happened: lips pressed into a tight line and eyes dull as he spoke to the class without really looking at anyone.

He had made it clear on multiple occasions that he was rarely available after class or for tutoring hours, but you doubted that even if he was, nearly anyone would show up for a one on one conversation.

Looks like you would have to be the outlier today.

You waited patiently as he shuffled from one stack of paper to another, eyes never once drifting over the rim of his glasses to look at you. Occasionally you would catch a glimpse of his usually devoid face break into a little frown before making a mark on a paper and moving on. You resisted the urge to peak and see if any of those papers were yours.

"Yes?" He adressed you by your last name suddenly. Packets and papers continued to shuffle. This time he did spare you a glance, a flash of something swirling in his cold eyes before disappearing. Or maybe that had been the dim light. It had been to quick for you to catch.

You cleared your throat before speaking; adjusting your bag unconsciously.

"I had a question or two for you about my thesis topic." You said with a level tone. He asked what it was somewhat dismissively, his monotone way of speaking ever present.

"I've been researching fear and its effects on the human brain for quite sometime, so I felt it was only fitting for that to be my topic."

That seemed to gather his attention. When you looked up from your examination of the plain black stapler on the corner of his desk, you were met with one raised eyebrow. His hand was writing on the stapled essay before him considerably slower.

If you squinted hard enough it almost looked like he was smiling.

"May I ask what has garnered your interest in such a subject?" He pressed. For a moment your mind went a little blank, not expecting such undivided attention from him. It was unnerving, concidering that before today he probably didn't even know your first name.

"Well, I've always been interested in how much emotions have a grip on the mind." The words were now tumbling from your mouth in a flurry of half-baked thoughts.

"It was only after moving here that I really realized how it can affect an entire city, much less just one person. Everyone knows how absurd the crime rates here are, but I don't think they've ever seen the stark contrast in the Gotham residents from, say, another neighboring city.

And not to mention there's a whole group of personas parading around the block inspiring pure fear. When the bigger crimes aren't outwardly released to the public, I'm starting to think the ones the police can cover up are being covered up. I did a quick search of specific types of crimes related to the patterns of people like the Joker, Bane, and Scarecrow, and too much adds up for it to all be a coincidence."

You reminded yourself to breathe. You knew you were passionate about this subject—hence the decision in thesis topic—but you were never this chatty with it. Something about Doctor Cranes' unwavering stare drew it all out of you in one go. He was a surgeon at the moment, prying your brain apart from the inside out and turning it over in his hands.

Or maybe you were over analyzing things again.

"And what do you think of this Scarecrow?" He had stopped grading now, plucking the clear rimmed glasses of the bridge of his nose and folding them neatly beside him. In a second, his icy blue gaze seemed to intensify in strength, pinning you in place like a specimen of his to observe. You made the brief connection between this and a lepidopterist pinning up butterflys by their wings. It was quick to leave.

Instead you thought back as news clippings and articals flashed in bold print on your mind. Pictures of the victims he had since left behind followed.

Most of them had died from shock or poison, toxins coursing through their bloodstream too fast for their bodies to handle. Not a wonderful way to go, but it was no better or worse than the dozens of mugging gone wrong that occurred everyday. If you ignored how they had all clawed their eyes out in terror, that is.

Your response came slow and methodical, words chosen with care. You were well aware that people had been thrown out of prestigious universities for speaking their minds about less, and you couldn't afford that right now. Besides. He had asked you a question. Who were you to deny him?

"I think what he's managed to make, to do, is a breakthrough in the scientific and medical field." If your professor noted the way you swallowed thickly he didn't say anything.

"What else?" It was almost like he knew every thought that crossed your mind before it even formed. As if he had been preparing for this exact moment.

You could continue. You could tell him that you'd started sitting by your thoroughly locked window at night, waiting patiently to catch a glimpse of a masked maniac. You could tell him that monster was the exact thing that pushed you to move to Gotham. You most certantly could tell him that you wanted to get your hands on that gas to do some tests of your own—see exactly what this Scarecrow had managed to create.

But instead you looked to the left and told him that was it.

"Well if that's all, I would like to continue this conversation at a later date." Doctor Cranes glasses were back on now as he stood up and began gathering his things.

"I'm not sure—"

"I'm quite interested in what you have to say." He adressed you by your last name again, shutting his briefcase closed with a chilling click. "After all, I have written some papers on this exact subject."

You know. You had read them in your search for more information on the Scarecrow's toxin.

"I'll keep that in mind, professor." You glanced at the doorway, wondering if it would be unacceptable to make a dash for it. You didn't want to be late for work any more than you were already. And if you were being honest this conversation had taken a turn you weren't prepared for.

By some grace of god he let the conversation drop. Not caring to spare another glance at him, you took to the door, planning out the route home in your head.

If he watched you go, you didn't notice. It wasn't until you had gotten home in your stained work uniform, beat up trainers grayed with labor, that you noticed your folder for his class was missing.

"Shit." You dragged a tired hand down your face, kicking off your socks as you lay next to the spread out compartments of your backpack.

You sighed. Looks like you'd be seeing Doctor Crane again sooner than you thought.

[sgiandubh]

Contemplating Bullshit

Quick, Fandom Police, screencap this and send it to CO. ASAP:

'Dear' CO (or should I say, eh... 'Glinda'? 🙄),

You wrote what amounts to a PhD thesis about one of my recent posts (https://www.tumblr.com/sgiandubh/753845334988423168/they-watch-they-hate-then-they-copy?source=share). So long for your carefully curated 'I don't care about Those Tinhat Shippers' narrative, in the process: but hey, common sense never bothered you and your ilk, right?

You don't care, but you write. Abundantly. Prompted by a denunciation that should give your 'US progressive beliefs' pause. Between you and me, lady: our European shipper community cannot give a dead rat's ass about you systematically dragging the US politics current evolution in this TV series fandom, in an effort to-

a) brown nose the US more conservative, MAGA crowd (with which 'Erself seems to be resonating, but that is suddenly and conveniently of no social and political import to you, of course)

b) sound sophisticated towards what you think (wrongly) is a primitive, uneducated, politically unaware shipper fandom crowd.

Some of the shippers chose to go political, for their own reasons and if they are happy with it, so am I. I do happen to believe in freedom of speech and editorial choices. Many, such as myself, chose to never mix politics and mundane, private beliefs (such as all this fandom thing), just because we happen to think, in Europe, that mixing those two notions is extreme poor taste. With dramatic historical precedents to boot. So you see, I am not very sure what point are you trying to prove, spare that you somehow consider yourself superior to those who do not share your political views. Told you: so long for your progressiveness and I am sorry, but your are such a Cheap Demagogue, lady!

Then, you couldn't help yourself but tell a Big, Fat Glinda Lie:

I did not invent the Orc concept. Your running mate, BIF (the Poor Man's CO, btw) did - and proud of herself, too:

Discerning Orcs vs. Stupid Shippers, Circle of Trust vs. Rectangle of Reality. We know that song, that is so 2019. And sure, I did mention an Orc Army (five to ten blogs, the rest are parrots, unable to make the difference between 'pixilated' and 'pixelated', when talking about a blurry picture - pixie/pixel, btw). My understanding is that someone as genuinely intelligent (that, I grant you) as yourself was piqued by the irony. But you chose to be nasty. Fair enough. Your problem, not mine.

Have you moved on? It doesn't sound like you did. And yeah, you sound angry and bothered and barely keeping up a civilized demeanor, there.

I could go on and on and on, debunking everything you said, but I am merciful to my readers and I happen to think that sometimes being clear and concise is far more effective than being verbose. So, here is the deal, CO:

Take your condescending, US-centric world view and your intolerant nastiness and shove them right up your Glinda nose, ok?

As for me, I am firmly on the ship deck. You are not to tell me what I saw with my own eyes. Better stick to whatever you post on your political blog. You have a LOT of work to do there. Seriously.

PS: in the book, Glinda is the Good Witch from the South. Just pedantically sayin'.

[bvidzsoo]

Slow it down

⊂Biker!Seonghwa⊃

TW: nothing

Word count: 3.1k

A/N: A short drabble while I'm away on vacation, because for some reason biker Hwa's been occupying my mind lately, not letting me rest. I can't wait to continue my pirate!au mini-series with Ateez, I miss writing it so much lol. Being at the sea is definitely not helping at all at suppressing my creativity lol. Hope you enjoy this one!

You couldn’t tell when it started, your infatuation with Seonghwa. Infatuation, perhaps, was a strong word, but you didn’t know how else to define it at the moment; maybe crush would’ve been a more fitting term, you thought, but you weren’t too sure about it. Park Seonghwa. You had known him for years, although never truly paying much attention to him, he still managed to become the center of your friends conversations, stealing the spotlight at any given chance without even being around. Seonghwa was quite famous at your school, and in your town, let’s be real, for constantly doing bad things and breaking girl’s hearts left and right. He was your typical bad boy and you wanted nothing to do with him. He was edgy and sometimes quite dramatic; he dressed in all black and wore quite cheap looking jewelry, painting his nails black after he realized girls went crazy for it. He knew he was good looking and he used that to his advantage. He could persuade anyone into doing whatever he wanted and it came in quite handy when he was behind on his schoolwork, his teachers excusing him for whatever dumb story he managed to come up with. Girls ate up his sob stories about his fake pets and evil parents; he came from a very loving family, so you never understood why he was lying about it. And, oh God, when he got his license for his motorbike did his popularity skyrocket even more. You were pretty sure you caught him once making out with one of the teaching assistant’s behind the school, but one side glance from his sharp eyes and you knew never to mention it to anyone. And to be honest, that was probably your first and last interaction with the boy, not that it bothered you. You liked your peaceful life as it was, serene, and void of worries correlated to boys. You didn’t feel like dating at your age yet, seventeen wasn’t too young nor too old, but you felt like you weren’t ready for a relationship. And that was fine, your father was happy too, not quite ready to lose his ‘little’ girl which he was aware you weren’t anymore, but it brought closure to him to know that you didn’t crave male attention just yet. His ‘little’ girl’s heart would remain unscathed for a little longer.

And all of that sounded really good, really, you would’ve never complained about your ordinary life. Oh, well, that is until Seonghwa started showing up to your father’s car service frequently. For some reason, the two of them seemed to be getting on well, and your father allowed him to come in from time to time to fix his motorbikes. Seonghwa owned at least three by now. He was two years older than you and while all of his friends went to college, he stayed behind, telling people he wasn’t ready to choose just one thing he was interested in to study for the rest of his life. However, this confirmed your theory for you that he just didn’t know what he was good at and that he wasn’t smart enough to go to a good college. It might’ve been a little harsh to view him like that, but he never ranked too high in your high school, too busy chasing girls and starting fights. And so, one day, as you made your way home you decided to stop by your father’s car service before heading upstairs as you lived just above it.

The rock music blasted throughout the car service; a few cars scattered around as your father had quite a lot of work for the week. Him and his colleagues were nowhere to be seen and you figured you stopped by during their lunch break, everyone was back in the dressing room. But you wanted to greet your father still, show him the grade you got on your thesis, unable to keep the smile off your face. You scored the highest in your year, it made you ecstatic. Your father would always order your favorite food whenever you brought home an outstanding grade, celebrating your achievement. With a skip in your steps, you waltzed down the spacious room, appreciating the white Mercedes your father was currently fixing. You failed to notice the clanking of tools, so when you turned to your right, your heart almost jumped out of its place as you yelped loudly. The older guy just cast you an unimpressed glance before he bent down again, unscrewing something around the front spring of his motorbike. You placed a hand over your hammering heart, frozen in your place as you watched his long black hair fall over his face. His hair had gotten longer since the last time you saw him, which was probably around a year ago, at the closing ceremony of his graduation.

“Did you become a statue or what?” His low, monotone voice snapped you out of your initial shock and your eyebrows furrowed as you shook your head, remaining silent. Seonghwa cast you a quick glance before he continued working, eyebrows furrowing as he struggled to take off the nut screw. He had been sweating prior and he lightly tapped his forehead before twisting the screw again, nothing happening. You didn’t consider your next actions for long as you let your backpack fall onto the floor before walking up to Seonghwa, kneeling down beside him. He turned his head to look at you, his sharp eyes watching you closely as you inspected his work, chuckling. Of course the nut screw wouldn’t come off if it was stuck, almost fried onto the tube it was holding together. So, you looked around for a little oil and found it on your father’s stand, so, you stood and walked over to it, getting it, then walked back to Seonghwa’s motorbike. You kneeled down again and sprinkled a little oil around the nut screw, failing to notice Seonghwa’s curious gaze on you. Because it was slightly fried against the tube, you struggled to get the nut screw off at first, but after tugging at it and forcing it, it finally loosened up enough to come off, clattering onto the ground. You grinned in victory and grabbed the nut screw, turning your body towards Seonghwa to show him your success but you, instead, froze at the proximity. Your noses were almost touching and your wide eyes took in his face, taken by his mesmerizing features. He seemed tanner than the last time you saw him and his plump lips were redder too, dark eyes gazing into yours intently. Sweat rolled down the side of his temples, stray strands of hair sticking to his damp forehead. You had never seen him from so close before, and suddenly you understood all those girls who gave in to him. He was breathtaking. His sharp gaze held a glint of curiosity in it and that made you self-conscious as you quickly stood, clearing your throat, as you extended your hand to Seonghwa.

“Uh, sorry—” You started, avoiding eye contact, “I should’ve asked before helping—”

“I’ve been struggling to get that off for half an hour now,” Seonghwa chuckled as he stood, taking the nut screw from your hand; you didn’t fail to notice the way his pointer finger ran over the back of your palm, making you gulp nervously at the unnecessary action, “and you did it in like…five minutes.”

You didn’t know what to say so you just picked up your backpack and looked away as Seonghwa took a step towards you, your body tensing, “You’re Mr. Han’s daughter, right?”

“Yes, I’m—”

“Y/N, I know who you are.” Did he really? You smiled a little, nodding your head as you heard laughter coming from behind you, it was your father’s. And as Seonghwa watched you, he noticed how tense you seemed to be around him yet as soon as your father approached the two of you, you had long forgotten about him. It was weird to him; he was used to girls throwing themselves at him constantly.

“Y/N!” Your father hugged you, excited to see you, “What brings you around here?”

Suddenly, a big grin appeared on your lips as you unzipped your backpack, digging around, looking for your thesis. Seonghwa watched intrigued as you pulled the paper out and shoved it in your father’s hands, who’s eyes had the same glint as yours in them. It was quite an endearing sight, how much the two of you resembled each other.

“I got the highest grade, dad!” You exclaimed with excitement and your father chuckled as his eyes ran over the papers, a proud look on his face as he handed it back to you.

“Very well, honey,” He handed you the thesis back, “You know what’s for dinner tonight then.”

Seonghwa watched as the biggest smile he’s ever seen on you spread onto your lips, snatching the thesis away from your father who just chuckled and winked at you. He’s seen you around your high school, but never had the chance to talk to you. It seemed as if you always ran away from him, almost as if you were avoiding him. He knew of his reputation, it was hard not to when everyone kept reminding him of it, yet you never seemed to care as you wouldn’t even cast a second glance his way. You weren’t fascinated nor scared of him, it was peculiar, but he never thought about you for too long. He usually didn’t like challenges when it came to girls and those who played hard to get never had his attention for too long. He wasn’t there for the long run, therefore he found it useless to invest so much energy into one girl only. But you seemed like you didn’t want his attention at all as you kissed your father’s cheek goodbye before you ran out of the service, forgetting about his presence altogether. It didn’t sit right with Seonghwa, and as he gazed after your bouncing form, your father chuckled and looked at him amused.

“Didn’t you two go to the same high school?” He asked and Seonghwa nodded his head.

“We did, but our circle of people were too different for us to know each other.” Seonghwa’s answer made your father chuckle to himself, nodding his head in understanding. He knew what type of boy Seonghwa was, he never truly expected his daughter meddling with him.

“Yes, that makes sense—” Your father said more to himself before his eyes fell on Seonghwa’s motorbike, “How’s the spring, son? Any progress?”

“Oh, I got the nut screw off finally—well, your daughter did, actually.” Seonghwa admitted with a shameful chuckle and your father nodded, not looking surprised in the slightest.

“Yeah, she’s quite the mechanic, my little one.” Your father gloated proudly before he walked off, headed towards the white Mercedes he was supposed to fix by Friday.

            And after that first encounter with Seonghwa, you considered it your first real encounter, you seemed to run into him everywhere. It started being creepy after a while and it made you feel weird as you told your best friend, who didn’t think much of it, unsurprisingly, and suggested that perhaps you were just randomly running into each other, your city wasn’t too big, after all. Despite that making sense, you couldn’t help but still think Seonghwa was doing it on purpose as he’d always strike up a conversation with you when you crossed paths. Sometimes it was about something really dumb and it would make you look at him with a questioning gaze, nevertheless, you still seemed to entertain him, curious of his motives. He never made obvious advances towards you, so you really didn’t understand what was the purpose of all of his actions. Perhaps he was looking for a friend now that his other friends were in a different city at college? But that didn’t make much sense as he stopped showing up to your father’s car service since he had fixed his motorbike, yet trailed you around the city whenever you were out. And one evening, as you were headed home from the library, you had been doing research on a fish type for you biology class, Seonghwa was there. Across from the library in the parking lot, sitting on his motorbike as his eyes fell on you. Your heart skipped a beat and you looked around, trying to find the person Seonghwa could be waiting for it. But it seemed like just the two of you were on the street and you sighed as you took off, but not towards him. The sun was long gone and you had to walk quite a lot to get home, so you didn’t want to waste any more time, not a fan of walking around alone at night. But you barely made it a few steps before you heard rapid ones approaching you from behind. By now, you knew it was Seonghwa. You had memorized his walking pattern and the force of his steps.

“Headed home?” And you were right as his head popped up next to yours. You cast him an unimpressed glance before nodding wordlessly. Seonghwa hummed and continued walking next to you, grinning as he realized you were trying not to look at him. You couldn’t help but notice the gear he was wearing, his thick jacket undone and his light sweater showing underneath. He has never touched you before, so when you felt his warm grip around your wrist, halting you from taking another step, your eyes widened. He pulled you lightly forward, towards himself, and you almost tumbled into him. His cologne was strong and you caught the whiff of something strawberry scented, his hair looked like it wasn’t completely dry.

“Let me take you home,” Seonghwa’s low voice was soft and quiet as he looked in your eyes, making you flustered, “It’s not safe for you to walk alone.”

This was it, then, the moment Seonghwa’s been probably waiting for to finally try and woo you. He didn’t seem like the patient type, you had to give him some credit for holding out for so long. And despite every fiber in your body asking you to accept his offer, heart thumping loudly at the proximity and wrist burning from his warm hold, you smiled and softly pulled away from him.

“Thank you, but I did this walk many times before,” Seonghwa wasn’t pleased with your answer at all, and he let you know as his eyebrows furrowed, “There’s nothing to be worried about.”

But Seonghwa didn’t let you leave, stepping in front of you, making your body collide against his, you hoped he didn’t hear your quiet gasp, “There’s plenty to be worried about, actually, so just let me take you home.”

You took a step back, trying to put some distance between your bodies, hoping he wouldn’t see your red cheeks. You didn’t think he’d be this persistent and as you looked up at him, he seemed very determined, “I’ve never ridden a motorbike before and I don’t have the proper gear either.”

That made Seonghwa chuckle and you watched as he quickly took his jacket off, closing the distance between your bodies once again, making you avoid eye contact as he draped his jacket around your shoulders. He held the collar together around your neck and you gulped nervously, his fingers lightly grazing against your neck. His jacket was heavy and a lot bigger than your frame, “I brought two helmets, don’t worry.”

You went to still try and deny his offer nicely, but Seonghwa was already pulling you after him, interlacing your fingers, making you blush again. You couldn’t deny his attractiveness anymore, and despite staying away from him for so long, you seemed to be unable to do so lately. Yes, he was everywhere, but you seemed to want him to be everywhere you were, his sharp gaze always following you, making you stay alert. When he wasn’t looking, you’d sneak peeks at him, admiring his features from afar, imagining as you ran your finger down his tall nose, his plump lips, his sharp jaw, and then all over his dark eyebrows. Park Seonghwa was gorgeous and you now understood those girls trying to get his attention, hoping he was the love of their lives. You entertained that thought sometimes, before falling asleep mostly, wondering if you could fall in love with Park Seonghwa. Wondering if he could genuinely love someone. Wondering if he could fall in love with you and not play you like all those other girls before you, But now, as you stood by his bike, allowing him to place the spare helmet around your head, securing it, it all felt so real and you couldn’t help but wonder if he was ever going to change. Seonghwa suddenly grinned, his smile making your heart melt, as he tapped the helmet where your cheeks were supposed to be, and you found yourself suddenly holding his hands, pressing them down, holding them in place

“Were you waiting for me?” You finally asked what’s been on your mind ever since you spotted him and now a charming smile appeared on Seonghwa’s lips, gaze locking with yours. He suddenly gripped your hands and brought them down to your sides, interlacing your fingers on both hands. You were glad the helmet somewhat concealed your currently red cheeks.

“Yes, I was,” Seonghwa admitted truthfully, “there are no coincidences when it comes to me, Y/N.”

Your heart skipped a beat and you tried not to grin as Seonghwa watched your face closely for a reaction, grinning himself. You didn’t want strands of hair getting into his pretty eyes, so you found yourself pushing them behind his ear, hand lightly grazing against his skin, making Seonghwa gulp. He tried to remember a time when his heart was racing this much because of a girl, but he couldn’t. He watched you as you fixed his hair for him before placing the helmet around his head, securing it and tapping the top like he had done for you. It made him chuckle and you looked down, embarrassed, but excited by his reaction. Despite his bad boy reputation, he was being rather soft and almost shy as he released your hands and got on the bike, beckoning you over too. You got on too, excited and lightly scared by the new experience as Seonghwa brought the engine to life, reeving it a little and making you giggle. You allowed your arms to rest around his middle, holding him tightly as he took off, headed towards your house. You knew explaining this to your father would be a bit troublesome, but you hoped his liking for Seonghwa would help you out a little bit.

Masterlist (divider)

[eolewyn1010]

Current state of mind: Uuuuuurrrrrrrrgggghhhhhhh.

Things that went good:

I cleaned the kitchen and both bathrooms, and got my folks to help me with the stuff I don't like (vacuum-cleaning). Only thing I didn't do are the windows, but they'll have to wait for better weather.

I finally wrote my professor another overdue mail.

Changed the bedding! Is there anything better than sleeping in a freshly made bed?

I made egg salad.

I'm making wild garlic butter.

Did the laundry!

Got those photos that I need to write some job applications.

Took care of my health insurance bullshit despite it scaring me. I'mma get a good grade in adulting, something that's both normal to want and possible to achieve.

Things that went not so good:

When we were almost done with cleaning, the vacuum cleaner broke. Admittedly, it was a really cheap thing and my mother had already grown to resent the acquisition. Still, inconvenient. My sis and I brushed out the entire hallway carpet flooring on hands and knees, and now we know why people invented vacuum cleaners.

I'm in a real working block regarding my stupid thesis. This is not good. I'm trying to keep up with the literature, but I really need to get over myself and tackle my newspapers again.

Things to do today / tomorrow:

Go buy groceries with my mom, including some travel snacks for the train ride on Wednesday. Before that: Ask friend what we're gonna cook so I can bring ingredients.

Make tomato butter. Tonight, we shall feast!

Bake ~something~ out of cream cheese and puff pastry; that stuff needs to go before it runs away.

Take out the trash. No, I don't mean myself.

The godforsaken dishessssssss.

Transmit some of my reading materials to my phone so I can at least spend the train ride doing something useful.

Things to do these days:

Go visit my friend. Perhaps set their local bus station on fire because the bus connections I'm getting for the trip back when I look it up online are weird as fuck, and it's always a 50/50 whether they can bring me all the way to the train or not.

Set the people in parliament on fire who keep Zeitumstellung alive because What The Fuck.

Maybe try out yoga or something; I really need to chill out.

Get my bike out of the basement. Winter break's up; we're done lazing around!

Drive to the furniture store and buy my new closet. It's for my clothes, not for my sexuality or gender.

[rocksandaces]

Some tips for surviving uni (especially for people with bad mental health) from someone who had depression during the first 1.5 years of uni and recently finished their thesis:

1. If you are able to cook, learn easy and cheap one-pot recipes that you can make several portions of - like pasta. Take lunch with you and if possible reheat it (many unis provide microwaves). Hot lunch is so much better than cold, especially in winter and can really lift your mood. Try to make the food you enjoy eating (it may seem obvious, but it's easy to forget it). Avoid only eating sandwiches if you have a long day.

2. Talk to your professors. If you know you won't be able to finish project on time the best thing you can do is talk to your professor. Often they are pretty chill about it and will let you deliver your project a week or two later. If you want to take a photo of something and don't know if it's allowed you can also ask.

3. Talk to older students. They know many things - which professors are chill and reasonable, old exams photos and notes. Sometimes they know where you can print something for a reasonable price or eat cheap.

4. Take notes and share them with the other students. Also ask them for their notes. Don't be afraid to ask for help when you don't understand something and offer help if you can give it.

5. Find a place to study. If you can't focus in your room, try a library or any other space your uni offers to study. If you can't focus on it, try parallel studying with other people. Just sit in one room, each person learning their own thing. You will feel more motivation to study if there is another person around you that will notice if you start scrolling your phone insted of studying

6. Use scihub and anne's archive to get to the literature you need. No, it's not stealing.

7. Sleep! It's very important to have a decent sleeping schedule.

8. If you don't pass an exam it's not the end of the world. You always have a second chance and if this also doesn't work out, go to your professor and ask for another one. You won't always get it but some of them appreciate the effort and will let you rewrite the exam for the third time.

9. Always have pasta and some easy instant sauce at home. And some ready-made meals. If you have a freezer, use it. Don't rely on them but in case of an emergency you will not be left with nothing to eat

[tanadrin]

There's a German economic historian named Eckhard Höffner who has argued that during the early 19th century, German science and industry benefited strongly from a lack of copyright law, as compared to England and France in the same period. Specifically, copyright law improved the profits of publishers, who could set high prices for books, but not really authors--while in England books, including scientific monographs, were published in small editions mostly at higher prices, publishers in Germany in the same period had to be more innovative, with editions aimed at both the high-end and low-end market, lest competitors flood the market with cheaper editions of the same works.

This meant that both popular works and academic titles entered the market in large numbers and at low prices, and this in turn motivated scientists in particular to publish, since it was comparatively easy for their work to get to readers. There was also a proliferation in the kinds of books published, since the cost of books was lower, and many more types of customers could enter the market. This situation might be seen as one where it was hard for authors to make a living, but the opposite seems to have been the case: Höffner cites, by way of example, a chemistry and pharmacy professor of the era in Berlin who earned far more in royalties for his book on leather tanning than Mary Shelley did for "Frankenstein" in the same period.

The accessibility of books, and scientific literature in particular, laid the foundation for the period of rapid German industrial expansion in the 19th century. As copyright law became gradually established (starting in Prussia in 1937), German publishers reacted in much the same way as British ones, increasing the prices of books. The market for cheap editions dried up, often to the frustration of authors whose readership declined.

Nowadays we think of copyright as being almost a requirement to create a market in intellectual property, and while the marginal costs of distribution are even lower in the electronic age than they are in the age of print, I think this thesis (to the extent it holds up) is an interesting argument against that proposition! It's also especially interesting as an adjunct to arguments for openness in scientific publication--between criticisms of the peer review system as contributing to perverse incentives in the structuring of science as a profession and being not really fit for purpose (not contributing at all, for instance, to preventing the replication crisis), it seems that that the gradual turn towards more open channels in scientific publishing should only increase with time. Weakening copyright law (which mostly serves the interests of publishers and not authors anyway) might help not only with artistic innovation but scientific innovation as well.

[dresshistorynerd]

Dresshistorynerd you’re so cool

I have an undergrad in architecture and throughout college i loved the art and architecture history classes.

I realize I have a passion for history but now I wonder, should I go for graduate school and study something more towards history or shouldI just keep it a hobby

Sorry i know this is kind of unrelated to your blog khgrubdt

Aaaw thank you so much!! ;-; <3

I'm perhaps not the best person to give advice on that because it sounds like you live in a country with a very different education system. In Finland you can do basically nothing as an architect with an undergrad degree (and with every other field too masters degree is typical if not expected), so we get automatically to the masters program once we have finished bachelor's degree. But I assume it's different from where you live. Also we have free university (we pay like 100 euros per year) so if studying is free or very cheap, then I could very easily recommend studying further. University access and resources make learning so much easier.

But regardless if I were you I would think about what I want to do with history. Do I want to redirect my career towards restoration or historical assessments of buildings etc. or do I want to just learn more about history and do different things as a career? If going back to school is not a huge financial risk/burden, the answer might only matter in a sense that what program/school you would go to. In Finland we don't have a separate degree for architectural history, but in my university we have a specialization inside architecture degree for that, for which I'm starting the masters studies in the fall.

I would mostly try to figure out if there is something in the historical/architectural history field you would rather do as your career than the path you are on right now, while also taking into account realism and finances. If there isn't or it's not viable or practical option, you can always just study history as a hobby and/or incorporate historical knowledge of architecture you accumulate in your free time into your career as an architect. I did my bachelor's thesis on historical architecture specifically from the angle on what we could learn from it to make our contemporary architecture more sustainable and better. The answer is a lot. Studying history as a hobby too could end up being helpful even in your current career path.

[aprillikesthings]

A few links I've dug up while looking for things for my fic

(do I need to read these things for my story? .....not really. am I enjoying finding all this shit that I would've killed to read in 1997? uh yeah lolol)

a bunch of LENGTHY interviews etc with people involved with the Diggers

A short-ish article about businesses on the Haight during the Summer of Love anyway this one gets points for mentioning gay people in the Haight scene, and specifically a young lesbian who owned a clothing store.

I'm continuously surprised/amused by how much of this shit I know just from reading The Summer of Love (as in the Lisa Mason novel). I knew the Diggers and the HIP (Haight Independent Proprietors) did NOT get along, but I knew less about WHY. The Diggers were horrified by all the marketing of the Summer of Love, for good reason--it ruined the neighborhood and brought in all those runaways with no resources. All those kids needed food and shelter and medical care.

Anyway. It's also just nice to find articles online that aren't the same list of surface information: The Human Be-In and then Monterey Pop and then tens of thousands of people showed up along with just as many gawkers and by the end of the summer all the people that had made Haight-Ashbury so interesting had gotten the fuck out and the drug scene had gone from LSD and marijuana to speed and heroin, The End.

But also where the fuck did I put that book by Emmet Grogan because I still want to find out if Ruby Maverick was based on a real person, considering I'm basing my au's Aunt Casta on her. At this point I'd settle for a LIST of HIP members considering Ruby was a member in the novel, but I can't find one!

Anyway. There were also Diggers in LA, and here's a thing they handed out to kids who showed up in LA, taken from an article contrasting the LA Diggers to the SF Diggers:

Oh, and here's someone's thesis from 2012 about the Communications Company, which was run partially by Diggers/people associated with the Diggers; and put out leaflets/flyers/broadsides basically DAILY, some of which were just "here's where we're giving away food," some of which were poetry, some of which were journalism or protest; there's a ton of old-school scans of them here

like this one

(yes it is unfortunately hard to read, try opening in a new tab; they were all mimeographed)

ANYWAY one of the things I keep noting when I read people's stories is just how CHEAP everyone was able to live.

People could just....do shit. Rent in San Francisco was just so, so cheap. Christ.

Anyway true story, for a few months in 1967 the neighborhood of Haight-Ashbury had a higher population density than Manhattan. And remember, we're talking streets of like, three-story townhouses.

(I've poked around on zillow. A lot of them have been split up into astronomically expensive condos. I can't help wondering how many people living there wonder if their place used to have a dozen hippies crashing on the floor. I know all the houses now-famous bands/musicians lived in are listed various places.)