#Scaffold Express

[jacketpotatobeansandcheese]

🚧🔨🌱

[kerosene-in-a-blender]

Watching the first episode of Age of Umbra and specifically watching Marisha play Brixton solidified something I've been thinking for a while: Marisha thrives when her characters have an external scaffolding of some kind that she can build off of and occasionally chafe against. Brixton has this in the form of the Order of the Pyrekeepers that she grew up in, and in her devotion to the tenets of an ancient order of knights that she discovered and became obsessed with. She desperately wants to embody the ideals of nobility and knighthood from the old world, and she feels stifled and bored by the life of a Pyrekeeper, even as she acknowledges the work is important and the life itself is charmed.

As a side note, it was an incredible choice by Marisha to tie this character conflict to an older character, feeling constrained by your life and wanting to do and be more is a conflict often given to characters in their teens or early twenties, so seeing it given to a slightly older adult is nice here.

Marisha's other characters (bar those appearing in one shots) have this same sort of scaffolding that both provides a defined place in the world for her character and something for her to rub up against. Keyleth has the Ashari and the Aramente and the expectations that puts upon her and her fears that she won't measure up. Beau has the Cobalt Soul and the fraught circumstances that saw her entering the Order. Patia has her family and the mage hierarchy of Avalir and how her slavish devotion to that ultimately impacted how she relates to others. The two real exceptions among her roster of characters, in that they are not part of any institutions in a defining way, are Laudna and Beatrix.

In the latter's case, instead Marisha defined her by her connections to Sean and Maggie Finnerty and the tragedy of losing her husband in the attack that started the Great War. Losing her husband provided an emotional base for Marisha to build of off and the Finnertys gave her people to play of off to express that. Sean's personal feelings about himself and his place in the world being so counter to Beatrix's views on the same ended up providing a springboard for great character moments for both. As far as I can tell, she tried to do something similar with Laudna, where she defined the character emotionally with the tragedy of being murdered and raised by Delilah Briarwood and socially with her connection to Imogen but it didn't end up working out as well in her case. My best guess is that a combination of Matt simply not developing the patron side of her relationship with Delilah strongly early in the campaign meaning there wasn't a lot to work with there for much of it, Laura generally being conflict averse meaning that she wasn't as willing to challenge Laudna's perceptions of Imogen as Brennan was challenging Beatrix's of Sean's, and Laudna deeply lacking in any solid connections to the people and institutions of Exandria otherwise meant that Marisha ultimately ended up without the scaffolding she uses to really ground and build up her characters, and Laudna ended up easily her weakest character as a result. Because that scaffolding is what she uses as a base to build out her characters; it sets the groundwork and conditions out of which they will grow as people. I'm excited to see what she does in Age of Umbra given this groundwork for Brixton has already been so solidly laid out.

[hamilton-here]

Oooh what about journalist!reader and engineer!reader? Love your stories admin 💖💖💖

𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓈𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝐵𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓃𝑒

Authors Note: Hey Guys! Here's another request. I do have a engineer story coming at some point so stay tuned. Thank for the kindest. Hope you enjoy. Praying for Ferrari! Lots of love xx

Summary: A journalist and Lewis Hamilton fall in love, secretly at firstuntil he kisses her on live TV after winning for Ferrari.

Warnings: slight swearing

Taglist: @hannibeeblog @nebulastarr @cosmichughes @piston-cup

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The press room was chaos the kind that made rookies sweat, and veterans roll their eyes and tighten their grips on half-dead voice recorders.

A hundred voices tangled in the air, bouncing off scaffolding and the aluminium frames of hastily assembled walls. Phones were thrust upward like weapons. Hands flailed. Someone knocked over a folding chair, but no one even blinked. Reporters barked names like auctioneers each hoping to snag a moment, a word, anything they could spin into a headline before it hit the paddock group chats.

You sat in the back row, unbothered, untouched by the noise.

Your espresso had long gone cold. It didn’t matter you weren’t drinking it for warmth. It was habit. Anchor. Ritual. You tapped your pen against your notepad slowly, rhythmically, as the chaos unfolded around you like a badly scripted reality show.

Same circus. Different weekend.

Drivers would file in, sweat barely dried, trying to sound fresh and focused while their PR reps hovered with schedules printed to the second. Half of them would repeat the same three soundbites. A few would try too hard. And Lewis Hamilton?

Well. Lewis never needed to try at all.

You didn’t look up when the energy in the room shifted but you felt it. It was unmistakable.

The hum of cameras grew louder. Voices pitched higher. The tension in the air pulled taut like wire. And then—

He entered.

Not like most drivers did. There was no nervous twitching or sideways glances at their handlers. No stiff posture or rushed smiles. Lewis walked in like the building belonged to him. Like time slowed to match his stride.

Sunglasses on. Ferrari-red fire suit immaculate. The fabric caught the overhead lights and shimmered just slightly tailored within an inch of its life, clinging in all the right places. He didn’t smile. Not yet. His expression was neutral, bordering on bored.

Until his eyes found you.

It was almost comical, the transformation. His face lit up. One corner of his mouth curled first, followed by the other, forming a grin so familiar you’d practically developed an allergy to it. Bright. Charming. Annoyingly irresistible.

“Ah,” he said loudly, drawing the attention of half the bullpen, “my favourite journalist.”

You didn’t bother looking up. “I’m every driver’s favourite until I ask the second question.”

He laughed. A rich, velvety sound. Smooth enough to bottle and sell.

And then, like gravity forgot everyone else in the room, he walked closer towards you dodging a flurry of outstretched microphones, waving off a desperate PR rep mouthing, Lewis, the schedule-

He didn’t care.

He reached the partition in front of you and leaned on it, casual, but intentional. Close. Too close. The scent of him hit first clean, woodsy, expensive. Whatever cologne it was, it made your brain skip.

“You missed me,” he said, and it wasn’t a question.

You clicked your pen once. Twice. “No,” you said, still scribbling in your notebook. “I missed the coffee in the McLaren motorhome. Stronger. Less sweet.”

He clutched at his chest with mock offence. “Wow. Brutal.”

“I’m just being honest.”

“You always are. That’s why I like you.”

You finally glanced up, slowly, eyebrow raised. “Tell that to the quote you tried to retract last time.”

“That wasn’t me,” he said with a grin. “That was past me. He was reckless.”

“You were twenty minutes younger.”

“Time is a construct.”

Your sigh was theatrical. “So is your humility.”

He laughed again, then leaned in, voice lowering just enough to make you aware of the proximity. “Admit it,” he said. “Your whole weekend’s just a little duller without me in it.”

You met his gaze, deadpan. “Are you under the impression you’re interesting?”

“I’m not just interesting,” he said, flashing teeth. “I’m fascinating.”

You let your pen pause on the page. “Fascinating like a car crash, maybe.”

“Ouch.”

“Don’t worry,” you said, reaching for your cold espresso. “Most crashes are the highlight of the broadcast.”

He gave a full belly laugh then head thrown back, hand braced on the divider like he might fall over if he didn’t. Cameras clicked wildly, phones recorded every second. You already knew TikTok would have this cut, captioned, and shipped to hundreds of “Hamilton x Hardball” fan accounts before the day was over.

You shifted your notebook just slightly, cool as ever.

“Ready for your actual interview,” you said. “Or are we still in your delusional version of reality?”

He tilted his head. “What if I prefer the delusional version?”

“Then you should talk to Red Bull’s strategy team. They live there.”

The laugh that escaped him was softer this time. Less performance. More real. His smile lingered, just a fraction too long.

He didn’t move away. If anything, he leaned a bit closer. “You’re really not going to let me win, are you?”

You stared at him like you were bored. Like your pulse wasn’t going haywire. “Nope. But I’ll let you talk. For now.”

“Lucky me.”

You straightened, lifted your voice just enough for the recorders to catch. “Let’s start with something simple. Q2. Sector 3. You locked up at Turn 11. Radio said something about grip issues. Are we blaming the car or the man today?”

The room went still. Everyone was listening.

His expression flickered just briefly. Then the smirk returned.

“Straight to the throat,” he murmured. “God, I’ve missed this.”

You didn’t blink. “You’ll miss the podium tomorrow if Ferrari doesn’t sort that balance.”

He licked his bottom lip, the way he always did when he was deciding whether to flirt or focus. “Bit of both. Car wasn’t behaving like I wanted. And yeah, maybe I pushed harder than I should’ve. I wanted to see how far I could take it.”

You raised a brow. “And the plan to fix it?”

“Can’t give all my secrets away,” he said, with a wink.

Another camera flash.

“I’m not asking for secrets,” you replied, voice dry. “I’m asking for accountability.”

He exhaled through his nose. “You always hit where it counts.”

“Good,” you said. “I aim for the heart.”

A beat passed. Then he leaned in again, this time with a different glint in his eyes softer, teasing, but unmistakably genuine.

“I’ll give you the full scoop,” he said. “Off the record. Over dinner.”

You sighed. “Keep dreaming, Hamilton.”

He grinned like a man who already was. “I do. Every night.”

A collective oooh rose from the nearby reporters. One of them dropped their phone. A PR assistant broke through the crowd, expression frazzled and whisper-shouting about timing and post-session obligations. Lewis held his ground until the last possible second.

As he was pulled away, he turned to look at you one more time.

A wink. A smile. A promise.

You shook your head, scribbled something into your notebook, and muttered under your breath, “Golden retriever energy. With a PR team.”

The journalist beside you leaned in, wide-eyed. “You do realise half the internet thinks you two are secretly dating, right?”

You flipped a page calmly. “Good. Let them keep fantasising.”

And still, every race weekend without fail he found you.

Even if you never called it chasing, he always did.

You were halfway down the paddock, cutting through the midday haze and the thick scent of Pirelli rubber, your heels clicking rhythmically against the asphalt. The air buzzed with post-qualifying energy team radios crackling, cameras flashing, fans yelling from behind barricades like their voices could carry miracles.

You clutched your notepad under one arm, voice recorder in hand, the strap of your media pass digging slightly into your neck. The Red Bull hospitality suite loomed ahead like a steel-and-glass spaceship, all chrome finishes and deep navy accents. Everything about it screamed precision and control even the PR team posted outside looked like they’d been handpicked from a Scandinavian runway show.

Max Verstappen had ten minutes slotted for interviews. Ten. No more. And the list of journalists waiting for him was longer than the pit lane. If you missed this window, you’d have to crawl back into the rotation with an apology email and a fake smile. And you hated crawling. Especially for Max.

You were just a few strides away. Almost there.

Then came the voice. Smooth. Familiar. Teasing.

“Red Bull, huh? Didn’t take you for the traitorous type.”

You didn’t have to turn around.

“Go away, Hamilton.”

The footsteps behind you didn’t stop. Of course they didn’t. In fact, they got closer. Uncomfortably close.

“That’s no way to talk to your favourite seven-time world champion,” he replied, tone dripping with mock offence.

You finally turned, just enough to throw him a glare over your shoulder.

And there he was. Lewis Hamilton.

Dressed in full Ferrari red, the fire suit unzipped halfway down his chest, revealing the sweat-damp base layer clinging to his skin. His race boots scuffed just enough to look like he’d actually worked that morning. His cap tilted slightly, curls tucked beneath it, grin wide and infuriatingly smug.

He walked beside you like you were glued at the hip, like he belonged in your orbit—like he was allowed to waltz into your space just because he wanted to.

“I’m working,” you said, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from letting his presence rattle you.

“So am I,” he shot back, shoving his hands in his pockets like this was a Sunday stroll through the paddock. “Part of the job is being nice to the press.”

You narrowed your eyes. “This isn’t being nice. This is harassment.”

“Oh please,” he said, clearly enjoying himself. “If I were harassing you, you’d know it. This is just…” He let the word hang, searching the air theatrically. “Charisma.”

You barked a laugh. “That’s what you’re calling it now?”

“That’s what they call it,” he said, nodding toward a nearby group of junior reporters who were very clearly watching the two of you like it was the latest season of Drive to Survive. One of them nudged another, mouthing something that looked a lot like They’re doing it again.

You groaned softly. “You’re turning my job into a meme.”

“I’m giving it flavour,” he said with a wink.

“You’re giving me a headache.”

Lewis leaned in just a fraction, close enough that you could smell his minty breath and a touch of cologne that was expensive. “I bet you say that with a smile when I’m not around.”

You didn’t blink. “I bet you say that line to every woman who walks past your garage.”

He placed a hand over his chest, mock wounded. “Wounded. Again. You really know how to break a man down, huh?”

You stopped walking. Spun on your heel so fast he nearly collided with you.

“What exactly do you want from me, Hamilton?” you asked, voice low, tight, sharp around the edges. “You’ve got a world-class car, a million fans, and a team press officer who’s probably already drafting an apology email because of this detour. So why the hell are you following me to the Red Bull paddock like a lovesick intern?”

He didn’t flinch.

If anything, he smiled wider. But it wasn’t as cheeky now. It was more intentional.

“Oh my God,” you muttered, eyes narrowing. “You’re jealous.”

“Jealous?” he repeated, scoffing like you’d accused him of baking cupcakes in secret. “Why would I be jealous? It’s not like Max is charming or witty or well, me.”

You stared at him, heart thudding louder now, stubbornly uninvited.

He stared right back, and for a brief, unexpected second the grin slipped.

Just a flicker. Barely a blink. But enough.

“I just don’t like sharing your attention,” he said, the words quieter, almost like they cost him something. “Especially with him.”

Your breath caught chest tightening before your brain could catch up.

And then—

“Hi—hi!” A young comms assistant appeared beside you in a flurry of nervous energy and tablet-clutching. “Max is ready for you now. Sorry, we’re running tight on time.”

You nodded, forcing your features back into something polished. Professional. Detached.

“Coming,” you said.

You started walking again, this time briskly, trying to shake off the heat crawling up your neck.

Lewis didn’t follow.

But just before you reached the steps to the suite, his voice floated toward you like a final warning or a promise.

“Dinner. Still on the table.”

You didn’t look back.

“Only if it’s not Ferrari catering,” you called over your shoulder, your voice steadier than your pulse.

His laugh followed you down the walkway, full-bodied and reckless, like he knew exactly what kind of chaos he was leaving behind.

Inside the hospitality suite, the air conditioning blasted your skin, but it did nothing to cool the burn under your collar.

You reached Max, shook his hand, and launched into your first question with a rehearsed smile.

But your heart was still hammering fast, uneven, annoyingly hopeful.

Because Lewis Hamilton had never played fair.

And despite every instinct, every boundary, every moment of journalistic decorum…

You didn’t really want him to. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Later that night.

The hotel ballroom pulsed with soft jazz, champagne flutes, and the dull thrum of tired engines still echoing in your ears. The post-qualifying media reception was glamorous in a muted, corporate sort of way dim chandeliers overhead, sponsor logos glowing from screens lining the walls, and the gentle rustle of expensive clothing trying not to wrinkle.

You were tucked into a booth at the edge of the room, laptop open, notes scattered, half a glass of wine untouched beside you.

You weren’t here to network. You were here to work to file quotes, shape analysis, write the kind of sharp yet digestible piece your editor liked to call “clickable without being desperate.” And if you wrapped it up tonight, you might actually sleep before the race tomorrow. Might.

Your attention was fixed on your screen, the cursor blinking back at you, taunting. You paused your typing just long enough to scribble a detail in your notebook something Max had said about tire degradation that could use a dramatic twist.

Then, a voice cut through the noise like velvet through smoke.

“Didn’t take you for the wallflower type.”

You froze.

No. No, no, no.

You didn’t even have to look up to know who it was.

But you did.

Lewis Hamilton stood beside your table, hands in his pockets, head tilted, eyes trained on you like he’d been looking for you since he walked into the room. He was no longer in his race suit now dressed in tailored black trousers and a deep burgundy shirt that should’ve been illegal in this lighting. Sleeves rolled just enough to show his forearms. Watch glinting. Smile lethal.

“Didn’t know you were invited,” you said, slowly closing your laptop.

“I wasn’t,” he said, unapologetic. “Heard there was a party. Didn’t realise it was invitation-only.”

“It is,” you said pointedly.

He slid into the booth opposite you without asking.

“Then I guess I’m crashing,” he said, reaching for your wine glass and taking a sip without hesitation. “You really need better taste in Pinot.”

You stared at him, equal parts exhausted and flustered. “Lewis.”

He met your gaze evenly. “That’s my name.”

“Don’t you have, I don’t know, a team debrief? A massage therapist? A manager to annoy?”

“They’re all very busy. I figured I’d come annoy you instead.”

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “I’m working.”

“You’re always working,” he said, softer now. “Even when you’re trying not to be.”

There was a beat of silence between you thick, charged, unspoken.

He leaned back against the booth, watching you like you were some riddles he couldn’t quite solve.

“I meant what I said earlier,” he added. “About not liking to share your attention.”

You glanced down at your notes, pretending to be disinterested. “Don’t make this a thing, Hamilton.”

“Too late,” he said. “It already is.”

You didn’t want this. Not here, not now. Not when your article was half-finished and your reputation barely balanced on the edge of objectivity.

But still, you asked, against your better judgment: “Why me?”

He blinked, as if the question genuinely surprised him. Then he leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice lower.

“Because you don’t flinch when I push. You give it back. And you see right through the noise. You don’t care about the headlines, or the car, or the team colours. You care about the truth. That’s rare.”

Your throat tightened, but you kept your tone flat. “That truth goes in my article tomorrow.”

He smirked. “Then make sure you quote me right.”

“Off the record,” you said, narrowing your eyes.

He lifted both hands in surrender. “Fine. Off the record.”

You stared at him. And for the first time in a while, you didn’t feel like a reporter and a driver on opposite sides of a line.

You felt like two people circling something dangerous and undeniable.

Then he stood, sliding out of the booth and adjusting his sleeves.

“I’ll let you get back to work,” he said, stepping away. “But dinner’s still on the table. And I’m a much better cook than Ferrari catering.”

You didn’t answer. Not right away.

You watched him melt back into the crowd, his presence lingering like a fingerprint on your wine glass.

Your hands hovered over the keyboard, the article blinking back at you.

And then, without thinking, you typed one sentence you hadn’t planned to include on your phone.

Lewis Hamilton doesn’t play fair. But maybe that’s what makes him worth watching.

You hit save.

And maybe just maybe you let yourself smile.

The race was over, but the tension hadn’t left the air.

Ferrari had secured a podium. Red Bull took the win. The champagne had been sprayed, the anthem played, and still, the paddock buzzed like a live wire as teams started packing down, cameras still rolling, and reporters shuffling between media pens, trying to catch every last usable soundbite before the feed cut to commercial.

You stood just outside the press pen, notebook in hand, voice recorder clipped to your collar. You were supposed to be focused. Professional. Detached.

But it was him again.

Lewis Hamilton grinning like the devil knew a secret, his Ferrari race suit tied at his waist, sweat-damp curls sticking out beneath his cap was drifting dangerously close to your section of the paddock, talking to Sky, joking with mechanics, and glancing at you way too often for it to be innocent.

You pretended not to notice.

But you did notice the way his smile changed slightly when he looked at you. Like it was private. Like it was meant just for you.

You were mid-sentence, jotting down something from Max’s interview, when you heard it:

“Looks like I’m not the only one who had a good race.”

Your pen froze.

You turned.

Lewis was right there.

Too close.

You stepped back slightly. “Shouldn’t you be doing debriefs or plotting world domination?”

“I was,” he said, eyes scanning your face. “But I got distracted.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Try harder.”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm. “You always this grumpy post-race?”

“I’m always this grumpy when I’m being flirted with in front of three camera crews.”

He glanced around nonchalant, confident, knowingly and shrugged. “Let them look.”

“They are looking,” you hissed, lowering your voice. “And half of them have Twitter open right now.”

“Good,” he said, a flicker of something bolder in his tone. “Maybe they’ll finally stop pairing me with that pop star I haven’t texted in eight months.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

He tilted his head, stepping just close enough that his words felt like heat on your skin. “I don’t flirt with anyone the way I flirt with you.”

You hated the way your stomach flipped.

You hated it even more when you caught the corner of a Sky Sports camera panning in your direction.

You stepped sideways, trying to shield your face behind your notebook. “Lewis, this isn’t—”

“Relax,” he murmured. “You’re the only one who thinks I’m not serious.”

That shut you up.

Because for a second just a split second it didn’t feel like flirting.

It felt like a line he meant.

You stared at him, pulse hammering, breath shallow, throat tight.

He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice to just above a whisper. “Come on. I made the podium. Don’t I get a kiss?”

Your breath caught.

You weren’t sure if it was the boldness of the ask or the very real, very smug look on his face as he said it right there in front of a handful of media staff, a couple of Ferrari crew members, and one very stunned Sky presenter clearly trying not to react on camera.

You blinked slowly, schooling your features. “Not unless you want that kiss turned into an HR complaint.”

He grinned. “I’ll risk it.”

You rolled your eyes hard enough to strain something, but you were fighting a smile. You could feel it faint, traitorous, tugging at the corners of your mouth.

Then, mercifully, someone called his name probably his press officer, furious.

He didn’t move.

Not right away.

Just looked at you, gaze steady, something soft curling beneath the charm.

Then he smiled again genuine this time and stepped back.

“I’ll let you go back to being cold and terrifying,” he said. “But I’ll see you tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Media dinner. Don’t pretend you forgot.”

You had forgotten.

Shit.

Before you could respond, he was gone walking backwards at first, grinning like he’d just scored pole position.

You watched him go, flustered beyond repair, heart doing double-time behind your press badge.

And then your phone vibrated.

A message from your best friend:

“Girl. You and Hamilton are on every F1 gossip thread. Again. 👀 I told you they’d catch on.”

You groaned.

Clicked the link.

There it was already reposted by three accounts: a clip from the paddock, where Lewis leaned in to talk to you. The way he smiled. The way your jaw clenched like you were trying not to smile back.

The caption?

“If this isn’t flirting, I don’t know what is.”

You closed the app.

Shoved your phone into your pocket.

And for once, you didn’t deny it.

A few hours later you arrived at the venue.

The restaurant buzzed with low chatter, soft jazz curling through the air like cigarette smoke. Flickering candlelight danced off polished cutlery and wine glasses, casting everyone in flattering shadows. Waiters glided through the space like chess pieces, placing tiny sculptural appetisers on pristine white plates. The PR teams had pulled out all the stops long tables, imported wines, and menus that required Google Translate.

You were seated between two motorsport journalists you vaguely liked, your recorder tucked away for the night, a half-full glass of champagne sweating at your elbow. This dinner was supposed to be harmless networking, laughing at polite jokes, asking the occasional softball question and calling it a night.

Then he walked in, Lewis Hamilton.

Black suit. No tie. The collar open, revealing just enough to stir something that had no business waking in the middle of a professional event. His presence soaked into the room like honey slow, warm, unmistakable. And the worst part?

He was looking directly at you.

Like he’d known where you were before he even stepped through the door.

He should’ve gone to the other table. There were three others. He should’ve.

But of course, he didn’t.

“Evening,” he said, pulling out the empty chair beside you like it had always belonged to him. “Is this seat taken?”

You didn’t even look up. “It was.”

“Not anymore,” he replied smoothly, already lowering himself into it. He shrugged off his jacket in a single fluid motion, hanging it on the back of the chair, and leaned slightly into your space, elbows grazing the white tablecloth. “Fancy seeing you here.”

You gave him a sideways glance, careful to keep your voice low. “This is a work event.”

“Exactly.” He grinned, shameless. “I’m working.”

“On what?”

“You.”

The journalist across from you choked on his water.

You sighed, closing your eyes for just a second. “Lewis.”

“Yes, darling?”

You turned to him now, slowly, giving him your sharpest, most disinterested stare. “Try not to embarrass yourself tonight.”

He held up both hands in mock surrender. “Wouldn’t dream of it. I’m simply enjoying the evening. The food. The company.”

“The company was better before you got here.”

He laughed under his breath, the sound dark and rich. “Yet you haven’t moved.”

You took a sip of champagne to avoid answering. He watched you do it with that same infuriating tilt to his head, like he was already two steps ahead of you and enjoying the wait.

Around you, conversation hummed of race strategy, tire degradation, who’d be switching teams next season but Lewis didn’t care. He made the right comments to the right people, just enough to be polite, but his real attention stayed on you.

Every word. Every pause. Every glance.

“You always frown when you’re trying not to laugh,” he said casually, somewhere between the foie gras and the main course.

“I’m not trying not to laugh.”

“Liar.”

His knee brushed yours under the table light, accidental, then deliberate. You moved away.

He followed.

The breadbasket made its rounds. Lewis handed it to you silently. You reached for it, and his fingers lingered just long enough for your skin to touch. Warm. Intentional. You didn’t pull back, but your pulse stuttered.

He noticed.

“You look good tonight,” he murmured. Just loud enough for you to hear.

“It’s a black dress, Hamilton. Calm down.”

“It’s not the dress.”

You stared down at your plate. “Do you ever turn it off?”

“Not when I’m trying to win.”

You finally turned to look at him. And there it was the challenge in his eyes, that unshakable confidence, wrapped in something slower, darker. Something not for show.

He wasn’t just trying to rattle you.

He wanted you to feel it.

He wanted you.

“Save it for the podium,” you said, voice cool, just as the dessert was set down in front of you.

But he didn’t back down. He just smiled wider. A slow, lazy, satisfied kind of smile the one that meant he already knew how this game would end.

Just as your spoon dipped into the brûlée, he leaned in again, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours.

“Still thinking about that kiss?”

You nearly dropped the spoon. Heat flared in your chest and climbed up your neck like wildfire.

Across the table, one of the journalists arched a brow. “Everything alright?”

“Fine,” you said too quickly, adjusting your posture.

Lewis stretched an arm across the back of your chair, not quite touching you, but close enough that you could feel the heat of him. Your spine went rigid.

The rest of the meal blurred together, a hazy mix of candlelight, half-listened conversations, and the constant awareness of the man beside you. You kept your face neutral. Your laugh controlled. Your answers professional.

But Lewis? He kept chipping away.

A glance that lingered too long. A low joke whispered in your ear. A comment about how your lipstick hadn’t smudged yet.

He was relentless. And maddeningly composed.

By the time the final plates were cleared, and people began to drift into the lounge for drinks, your jaw ached from clenching.

You stood abruptly, grabbing your clutch. “I need air.”

Lewis stood too, like it was instinct. “I’ll come.”

“You won’t.”

“I’ll still follow.”

He did.

Out through a glass door and into the garden terrace, where string lights dangled from old stone archways and ivy crept down the walls like a secret. The city glowed just beyond the wrought-iron gates golden and glittering. The night air was cooler than you expected, brushing over your skin like a sigh.

You stopped when you reached the edge of the garden, turning sharply to face him.

“What is wrong with you?”

He halted just short of you, eyes gleaming in the low light. “I just wanted to see how long you could pretend not to want me back.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

Because the truth was burning at the back of your throat and if you said anything now, it would come out all at once. Too much. Too raw.

He saw the hesitation.

He knew.

Still, he waited. No smile now. Just eyes locked on yours, steady and silent.

“You gonna keep pretending?” he asked, voice low, intimate.

The words landed like a touch.

Your heart thundered in your ears. Your mouth was dry. And still – still you didn’t move.

But you didn’t walk away either.

Your silence stretched between you like thread pulled tight. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think not with him this close, not with his words still echoing in your chest like a secret you didn’t want anyone else to know.

“I’m not pretending,” you said finally, voice barely more than a whisper.

“Oh?” His brows lifted just slightly. “Then what is this?”

You shook your head once, slow and unsure. “This is a problem.”

He stepped in. One breath closer.

“Why?”

You swallowed hard. “Because you make it impossible to think straight.”

He smiled, softer now. No smirk. No smugness. Just truth.

“Good,” he said quietly. “Then we’re even.”

And he didn’t touch you not yet but he didn’t have to.

Because the war was over.

And you both knew exactly who had surrendered first.

The night had softened around you, the city glittering in the distance as the cool air kissed your bare shoulders. After the terrace confrontation or confession, if you were honest with yourself you hadn’t gone back inside. You’d needed a second to breathe, to steady your pulse, to remind yourself who you were before Lewis Hamilton decided to crawl under your skin and stay there.

You didn’t expect him to wait for you.

But when you turned the corner of the restaurant, clutching your phone and quietly Googling the nearest ride-share, he was already standing by a sleek black car out front. Jacket back on, tie still nowhere in sight. Leaning casually against the passenger door, like he knew you’d come this way.

“Your driver?” you asked, not stopping.

“Yours,” he replied, standing upright. “Figured you’d rather not make small talk with a stranger tonight.”

You hesitated.

It was tempting. Too tempting. Every cell in your body was begging for stillness. Quiet. Just a little more time to figure out what the hell had just happened on that terrace.

“I don’t need rescuing,” you said softly.

“I know,” he said, just as soft. “Still offering.”

You exhaled through your nose. “Fine. But no more lines.”

He opened the passenger door for you with a small smile. “Not a single one.”

The leather seats were warm. The car smelled like clean soap and something subtly spicy probably his cologne. He slid into the driver’s seat, glancing at you once as he started the engine.

“You, okay?” he asked.

You nodded. “Just decompressing.”

He pulled onto the quiet street, the city lights stretching out through the windshield like constellations. For a few minutes, neither of you spoke.

And for once, Lewis didn’t fill the silence.

Instead, he let it settle between you, calm and unforced.

“I wasn’t always like this, you know,” he said eventually, eyes still on the road.

“Like what?”

“Relentless. Always chasing.” A pause. “I used to be quieter.”

You looked at him then, catching the gentle curve of his jaw in the soft dashboard light.

“What changed?”

He shrugged; one hand relaxed on the steering wheel. “Life. Racing. Pressure. Winning makes you loud. Losing makes you louder.” He glanced at you. “But you make me want to be quiet again.”

Your throat tightened.

“That’s not fair,” you said, turning back to the window.

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t come here for this. I came here to do my job. Stay invisible. Be… untouchable.”

“You’re anything but invisible.”

“Exactly the problem.”

He was quiet again. You thought maybe you’d said too much.

But then he pulled up at a red light, and with one hand still on the wheel, he turned his head and looked at you. Really looked at you.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” he said simply.

You blinked. “This?”

“This whatever it is. The pull. The spark. That kiss we’re both still thinking about. I’m not trying to win anymore. Not with you. I just want to know you.”

You sat still for a moment, processing it. Processing him.

And for the first time since you’d met him, you let yourself stop bracing.

“I grew up splitting weekends between two houses,” you said, voice quiet. “Learned early on not to take up too much space. Or expect consistency.”

He didn’t interrupt. Just listened.

“I wanted to be a lawyer,” you continued. “Or a detective. Something sharp. Something that made people pay attention when I walked in a room not because I was loud, but because I mattered.”

“You do.”

You turned your head. His eyes were still on you.

“You don’t even know me,” you whispered.

“I’m trying,” he said. “If you’ll let me.”

The light turned green, but neither of you noticed until the car behind gave a gentle honk. Lewis drove on in silence, but it wasn’t awkward now it was something like understanding. Like the edges between you had softened.

When he pulled up to your building, he didn’t kill the engine right away.

You looked at him. “You really meant it?”

“Every word.”

You didn’t kiss him. You didn’t need to.

You just sat there, staring at him like maybe for once you didn’t have to keep your armour on. His eyes held yours, soft and steady, like he was memorising this version of you. Not the one from the paddock, not the one at the media event. Just you.

And then without asking he leaned in just slightly, one hand rising between you.

You held your breath.

He gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers barely grazing your cheek. The touch was feather-light, reverent. It made your stomach twist in that dangerous, beautiful way the one that felt like falling, but somehow felt safe too.

His gaze lingered on you for a beat longer.

Then he leaned forward and pressed a soft, warm kiss to your cheek.

Not rushed. Not suggestive.

When he pulled back, there was the smallest smile on his lips quiet, earnest.

“Goodnight,” he said, voice low.

Your hand was already on the door handle, but you paused for one more second, letting your fingers brush the inside of your wrist where he’d touched you earlier. You could still feel it.

Your heart thudded.

“I’ll think about it,” you said, lips curling into a smile you didn’t bother to hide.

And this time, he was the one left watching you walk away.

Speechless.

Hopeful.

And, maybe, just a little bit undone. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Few days later.

You were mid-sentence, microphone steady in hand, nodding along as the Alpine team principal launched into a detailed explanation about tire degradation and long-run pace. Your expression was the very picture of professionalism neutral, attentive, practiced. You’d done this a hundred times, maybe more. Ask the question, listen carefully, nod thoughtfully, deliver the follow-up. Keep your tone measured, your face steady, your personal space a fortress.

But what you didn’t know what you couldn’t possibly see was that just behind you, out of the camera’s frame, Lewis Hamilton had silently appeared.

And he was making faces.

It began subtly: a slow arch of his eyebrow, an exaggerated tilt of his head as if hearing something utterly baffling. When the team principal mentioned the word “strategy,” Lewis’s eyes widened in mock astonishment, then he pulled out a slow, theatrical yawn that looked entirely too genuine. The cameraman caught on quickly and stifled a laugh, trying hard to keep his composure.

Lewis was relentless. He leaned forward and blinked slowly, deliberately, like he was struggling to stay awake during a particularly dry lecture. Then, with the precision of a seasoned comedian, he made a grimace so over-the-top it was borderline cartoonish exactly the “this guy again?” look you imagined everyone in the paddock had perfected by now.

You, however, were completely oblivious. You stayed locked in your role: nodding, listening, responding your face an expert mask of concentration.

That is, until the Alpine principal’s eyes flicked to your shoulder mid-answer and twitched in amused recognition.

You caught the shift immediately.

“Everything alright?” you asked, a faint furrow in your brow.

“Uh yeah. Just…Hamilton’s behind you,” came the awkward reply.

Without hesitation, you twisted on your heel, your gaze sharpening.

There he was Lewis, way too close for comfort, grinning like a mischievous child caught in the act. His jacket hung casually off one shoulder, his tie undone, eyes sparkling with mischief.

He gave you a cheeky little wave.

You raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Are you twelve?”

“Emotionally? Probably,” he replied, utterly unbothered by your glare.

“I’m working.”

“I know,” he said, voice low and sincere, “and you’re very impressive.”

He leaned in a little closer, voice dropping to a stage whisper only you could hear, “But also, incredibly serious. Someone had to loosen things up.”

You shook your head, a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of your lips and turned back to the mic.

“I’m so sorry,” you said apologetically to the team principal. “He wasn’t invited.”

Lewis gasped dramatically behind you. “Wow. Cold.”

“Security,” you said without missing a beat.

The room chuckled the crew letting out quiet laughter, the team principal himself cracking a smile.

Lewis wasn’t done. He leaned forward again, just close enough so only you could hear.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said quietly.

You didn’t turn. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t let your guard down.

But your voice, when you answered, was warmer than it had been moments before.

“I figured.”

A slow, mischievous smile spread across his face as he took a small step closer. His voice lowered even more, drawing you into a private moment despite the camera still rolling and the surrounding crew stifling their laughter.

“You know I’ll only stop pestering you if you finally agree to that date,” he said, eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made your pulse quicken.

Your lips twitched, trying to keep things professional. It was impossible.

“The date,” you echoed, voice low but still clear enough for the mic to pick up, the word hanging between you like a secret.

“Yeah. You. Me. Somewhere quiet. No cameras. No interviews.”

Your eyes flicked sideways toward the camera lens. The cameraman gave you a barely concealed grin, like he was in on the joke.

“And you think I’m going to say yes to that?” you teased, voice dripping with playful challenge.

Lewis’s grin deepened, his breath just a whisper against your cheek. “I think you want to.”

You took a slow breath, feeling your heartbeat rise not from nerves, but from the thrill coursing through you.

“Fine,” you said, your tone mixing mock solemnity with genuine warmth, “Yes. You win.”

The team principal shook his head, laughing softly. The cameraman gave an enthusiastic thumbs up.

The live feed continued unabated.

The media was definitely going to lose their minds.

And you?

You let yourself enjoy the moment, the subtle shift in the air around you.

The spark had been struck.

And for the first time in a long time, you felt like maybe something unforgettable was just beginning.

The moment you said yes, a subtle ripple passed through the crew. The cameraman’s grin turned into a barely contained chuckle. The Alpine team principal exchanged a knowing look with his engineers, shaking his head with a smile like this paddock had just gotten a lot more interesting.

Back in the broadcast van, the producers caught the exchange live, and their immediate reaction was audible through the comms laughter, surprised whistles, and a few rapid-fire messages about clipping that moment for social media.

Within seconds, the paddock’s social feeds lit up. Journalists whispered into their phones, fingers flying over keyboards. “Did you see that? Hamilton’s charm offensive is officially on air,” one tweet read, while another teased, “Who’s got the popcorn? The new Hamilton romance saga starts now.”

You caught Lewis watching you out of the corner of your eye, his smile almost smug but utterly genuine.

As soon as the interview wrapped, Lewis slid in beside you with a relaxed ease, as if he belonged there, despite the chaos his presence always seemed to bring.

“See? That wasn’t so hard,” he said quietly, voice a velvet rumble only you could hear.

You glanced at him, a slow smile spreading across your face. “Don’t get too cocky. I’m just giving you a head start.”

He laughed softly, eyes bright with mischief and something warmer, something like anticipation.

“Fair enough. But now that the world knows, I guess we’ll have to make it a date worth remembering.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart wasn’t in it. “No pressure.”

He winked, and just like that, the playful game between you had shifted into something deliciously real.

The days after that on-air moment felt like stepping into a secret world one that existed just between you and Lewis, away from the prying eyes, vibrant cameras, and relentless headlines.

At first, there was nothing official. No announcements, no social media posts, no whispered rumours swirling in paddocks or paddock cafés. Just stolen mornings spent over strong black coffees at quiet cafés tucked away behind the circuits places where nobody recognised you, or if they did, they respected your space. Casual texts that lingered longer than necessary, filled with playful banter, inside jokes, and late-night messages that made your heart beat a little faster.

You’d joked about that live interview the way he’d teased you into agreeing to a date, the way his eyes twinkled with mischief just before he whispered the words that made your pulse skip. At the time, it had felt like a dare, a game. But the truth was, neither of you had imagined it would start so quietly, so carefully, so deliberately off the radar.

Lewis was thoughtful, almost protective of the fragile bubble you both had created. He understood how quickly the public could turn something beautiful into a circus. So, he made sure your moments together were shielded from the glare of cameras and the noise of speculation. It was a rare kindness, and you treasured it.

Some afternoons, you found yourself slipping into the garage, pretending to review notes, while he adjusted the car’s settings nearby. You caught him stealing glances at you when he thought you weren’t looking, a soft smile tugging at his lips. Those quiet minutes surrounded by the scent of rubber and fuel felt intimate, a world apart from the chaos of race day.

Other times, you met at the hotel gym, the hum of treadmills and clinking weights your only soundtrack. You’d exchange quick smiles between sets, sharing fleeting moments of normalcy amid the madness. The staff who passed by barely spared a glance, the invisible shield your secret relationship created.

You learned the small things about him the way he preferred his coffee black and strong, the soft hum he made when lost in thought, the way his smile deepened and eyes softened when he caught you off guard with a quiet compliment whispered just for you. You found yourself letting your guard down, shedding the layers of professional distance you’d built over years of interviews and cameras.

It wasn’t always easy. The pressure to stay hidden gnawed at you sometimes, a restless ache beneath the surface. The fear of being discovered brought a thrill and a tension that only made those moments sweeter. There were times your heart hammered in your chest when you heard footsteps approach unexpectedly, or when a photographer lingered too long in the distance.

But those stolen moments with soft smiles exchanged in the shadows, whispered conversations over coffee, the brush of his hand against yours as you passed were yours alone.

One afternoon, several weeks after your whispered “yes to date” on live TV, Lewis caught you just as you were about to leave the paddock. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows over the bustling scene, but when he stepped into your path, the world seemed to hush. He looked casual, in a simple T-shirt and jeans, but the way his eyes locked on yours was serious, the kind of serious that made your breath catch.

He cleared his throat, a slight nervousness in his smile. “So,” he said, stepping closer, lowering his voice so only you could hear over the din, “how about we make that date official? Not just a maybe or a secret but a proper night out. Just us.”

Your heart skipped a beat, a mixture of nerves and excitement swirling inside you like a summer storm.

“Just us,” you echoed, feeling the weight and warmth of the promise in those words. A slow smile spread across your face despite the fluttering in your chest.

He nodded, his smile widening, the familiar spark returning to his eyes. “No cameras. No distractions. Just a night where you don’t have to be the professional interviewer, and I don’t have to be the driver.”

You glanced around, suddenly aware of the usual chaos of the paddock fading into the background, leaving only the two of you suspended in that moment.

“I’d like that,” you said softly, meaning every word.

“Good,” he replied, voice low and steady. “Because I’ve been waiting to ask for weeks.”

That night, as you walked away with your pulse still racing, your mind replayed the moment over and over. You knew, deep down, this was only the beginning.

Weeks passed, and your time together grew richer with each secret meeting, each shared smile. You both moved slowly, carefully, savouring the quiet intimacy that only those first days of something new can hold.

One evening, you found yourselves sitting side by side on a balcony overlooking the city lights, the noise of the world far below and forgotten. The air was warm, scented with jasmine and night blossoms. You watched as the city flickered to life, streetlights blinking on like stars pulled from the sky.

Lewis reached out then, his fingers brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear with a tenderness that made your breath hitch. His gaze held yours steady, full of something deeper than you’d felt before.

After a comfortable silence, Lewis turned slightly, searching your eyes as if looking for permission.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said quietly. “About us. About this whatever it is.”

You smiled, fingers curling around his hand.

“I want to stop hiding,” he continued, voice steady but vulnerable. “I want to be with you not just these secret moments, but all of it. The good, the messy, the loud, everything.”

Your heart pounded in your chest, eyes glistening.

“So,” he said, a slow smile tugging at his lips, “would you be my girlfriend? Officially. Publicly. Me and you, no secrets.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, a warmth flooding your chest.

“Yes,” you whispered. “I want that too.”

His smile grew, radiant and real, as he pulled you into a gentle, lingering hug.

For the first time in a long time, you felt completely seen. Completely free.

Because even if the world wasn’t ready yet, you were.

Ready for whatever came next. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

A month after dating -

The atmosphere was electric.

The Ferrari garage pulsed with energy, a blur of red, roaring voices, and champagne spraying like rain in the late afternoon sun. Mechanics and engineers embraced, team members shouted in celebration, and fans along the barriers screamed Lewis’s name like it was gospel.

It was his first win with Ferrari and the paddock hummed with a kind of high that only came when history was being written in real time.

You should have been swept up in it, too. And in a way, you were. But you were still at work mic in hand, earpiece live, standing just outside the McLaren motorhome and trying to stay composed for your post-race segment.

You were interviewing Lando Norris, who’d crossed the line in second, still flushed from the race and smiling wide, his race suit unzipped down to his waist. He was rambling playfully, his accent warm and teasing.

“I mean, I almost had him,” Lando said, chuckling. “But you know Lewis...Give him a car that breathes, and he’ll make it sing.”

You grinned, trying to focus. “Well, if today’s anything to go by, the Ferrari anthem might be on repeat for the rest of the season.”

“Looks like it,” Lando replied with a pointed glance over your shoulder. “Speaking of the man himself…”

You blinked, confused, following his gaze—

And then you felt him.

Strong arms wrapped around your waist from behind, warm and grounding. A familiar scent sweat, champagne, and just the slightest hint of his cologne washed over you in an instant. You froze, the microphone dipping slightly in your hand.

Your eyes widened as the realisation hit. Lewis.

He didn’t say a word at first, just pulled you flush against him in a moment so casual and effortless that it made your heart stop. Your breath hitched, and your body tensed before instinctively relaxing into the comfort of him.

Then his lips brushed your cheek. Soft, slow, intimate. A kiss that wasn’t rushed or hidden. It lingered like a promise. Before pepper kissing your face…

On live television.

In front of thousands. Maybe millions.

Lando burst into laughter. “Well, alright then.”

The cameraman wavered, unsure whether to keep filming or pan away, but it was too late. The moment was caught. Burned into the feed. Sent out into the world in crisp, clear definition.

You turned in Lewis’s arms, stunned. Eyes searching his, your brain trying to catch up. Your heart was hammering in your chest, both thrilled and absolutely panicked.

“We’re live,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said calmly, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I figured it’s time.”

Your jaw nearly dropped. Time? You had been careful. So careful. The private dates, the whispered conversations in corners, the inside jokes behind closed doors. You had walked this tightrope for months he, a global icon; you, the ever-neutral journalist.

But Lewis?

He looked completely unbothered. Happy, even.

“I’ve waited long enough to show this,” he added, lowering his voice for only you to hear. “You’re not just some secret I want to keep. Not anymore.”

The producer’s voice crackled in your earpiece, asking what the hell just happened, but you didn’t respond. You couldn’t. Your face burned with heat, and your fingers trembled slightly where they clutched the microphone. But your chest, your heart was full.

When you finally stepped away from the camera, the chaos had already begun.

By the time you made it backstage, your phone had exploded. Notifications filled your screen in a dizzying scroll text from colleagues, friends, your editor in all caps. Twitter was in absolute meltdown. Instagram reels were already cutting together fan reactions. TikToks analysed the hug in slow motion, zooming in on the kiss, the way your face lit up.

“Lewis Hamilton confirms mystery girlfriend live on air.”

“Ferrari’s golden boy and the F1 journalist he’s been flirting with for months—finally official.”

“The way he hugged her. The way she froze. The cheek kiss. I’m sobbing.”

#HamitonHasHer was trending within the hour.

Clips of past interviews resurfaced. Fans shared moments they swore they saw sparks how he always seemed to smile a little wider when talking to you, how your questions were often met with teasing, how his eyes had always lingered a little too long on your face.

People had guessed, sure. But no one had known.

Until now.

You sat in the media centre later that night, dazed. Your laptop open but untouched, your phone still buzzing with alerts. A dozen F1 journalists were speculating on podcasts and YouTube videos, analysing every moment between you and Lewis from the past year.

And then, a text from him:

“Dinner? Just us. No cameras. I’ll pick you up in 20.”

You smiled, a little breathless.

It didn’t matter what the world said now. You weren’t a mystery anymore.

You were his.

And for the first time, he was yours publicly, unapologetically and forever caught in the glow of victory and something deeper than just a race.

[snowyduck]

Inspo from an artwork comic I found in X, @akaiyashinoki

The underground construction site was a labyrinth of steel beams, half-finished tunnels, and flickering work lights casting eerie shadows. The air was thick with dust and the lingering chill of liquid nitrogen, clinging to every surface like frostbite creeping into metal.

Through it all, Doey rampaged, his monstrous new form thundering against the ground. His three-mouthed head snarled, the voices of Kevin, Matthew, and Jack overlapping in a discordant, rage-fueled symphony.

"You let them die!" Kevin's voice accused.

"I could’ve stopped this..." Matthew’s voice wavered with guilt.

"It’s my fault! It’s my fault!" Jack's voice, trembling with raw, pure sorrow.

The Player, standing on an unsteady platform, merely watched. Their expression was unreadable, their posture loose, relaxed, as if this were nothing more than a simple game.

"What's wrong, Doey?", the Player spoke.

Doey’s monstrous body stiffened, his three mouths twitching, voices overlapping with uncertainty. The Player still wasn’t afraid.

The Player took a single step back, hands loosely at their sides. Their posture was relaxed—completely at ease, as if this weren’t a life-or-death chase, but something far more simple.

A game.

"I'll play tag with you," the Player said, voice even, calm. "Until you're too tired to move."

Doey’s breath hitched.

"Then I'll come hug you."

For a moment, the underground facility was silent. The only sound was the faint dripping of liquid nitrogen melting from the steel beams.

Then—

Doey lunged.

The Player dodged. A hand from their grabpack sent them effortlessly dodging to the side, barely missing a swipe of clay-like claws. Their body moved like this was routine—like they knew the rules of this game better than Doey himself.

They leaped to another platform, swaying as the scaffolding creaked. Doey scrambled after them, his massive frame crushing machinery under his weight.

"Stop acting like this is a game!" Kevin’s voice roared from one of the three mouths.

But the Player just tilted their head, offering the closest thing they had to a smirk. They tapped their temple as if to say, Think about it.

Doey didn't. He couldn't. He was too far gone.

Another attack. Another dodge. Liquid nitrogen burst from a broken pipe, freezing sections of Doey’s monstrous form. But still, the Player didn’t strike back.

And then—

Doey staggered. His breath was coming out in ragged, white puffs. His once-fluid movements grew sluggish, exhaustion settling deep into his form. His monstrous frame trembled, weakened from the cold and the overwhelming guilt still eating him alive.

The Player stopped running.

They stood still, watching, waiting.

Doey panted, his three mouths clicking shut as the rage inside him dulled into something else—something smaller. He shrank, his monstrous form dissolving into clay until only his usual shape remained.

Silence.

The Player stood there, body swaying slightly—before their legs buckled entirely.

Doey barely had time to react as they collapsed.

And then, as exhaustion finally took hold, he whispered, almost pleadingly—

"...You said you'd hug me."

The dust settled. The underground site was eerily quiet, save for the distant hiss of leaking pipes and the gentle dripping of thawing ice. Doey stood frozen, staring down at the Player, their unconscious form completely still.

The hug never came.

Doey clenched his fists, staring at his hands, then back at the Player. His clay trembled, uncertainty creeping in where fury once burned.

He had wanted someone to blame.

But now, as he kneeled beside the only person left, he realized… he didn’t know what he wanted anymore.

[ice-man-goes-bwoah]

Breast reduction surgery||Charles leclerc x fem!reader

Summary— Charles loves your breast so when you decide to tell him that you’re thinking about a reduction surgery he feels like his world is ending.

Word count —589

It was a lazy Sunday afternoon in Charles’ apartment, the kind of day that begged for nothing more than lounging on the couch and ignoring the world. He was half-watching a football match, the sound of commentators filling the space as he absentmindedly scrolled on his phone. Beside him, Y/N was curled up, legs tucked beneath her, scrolling through her phone with a focused look on her face.

Out of nowhere, she sighed, set her phone down, and said casually, “I think I’m finally going to do it.”

Charles looked up, brow furrowing. “Do what?”

She didn’t even glance at him. “Get a breast reduction.”

It took him a moment to process the words. He blinked, sat up straighter, and turned to her with wide eyes. “Hold on. What now?”

Y/N finally looked at him, her expression calm but resolute. “I’ve been thinking about it for years, and I think it’s time. My back can’t take it anymore.”

Charles stared at her like she’d just suggested selling their firstborn child. “Your back? When did this become about your back?”

“Always,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Charles, you know this. I’ve been complaining for ages.”

He leaned back, waving a hand dismissively. “You’ve complained, sure, but I just thought it was, like, normal life complaining. Not surgery-level complaining!”

“Charles,” she said firmly, her tone laced with both patience and warning.

He sat up, his full attention now on her. “You’re seriously thinking about just… getting rid of them? Like, just like that?”

“Yes.”

“But…” He gestured dramatically at her chest. “You can’t just get rid of them! They’re—” He paused, grasping for the right word. “They’re iconic!”

Y/N pinched the bridge of her nose, already regretting bringing this up while he was awake. “Charles. I’m in pain all the time. My shoulders have permanent dents from my bra straps, I can’t go running without strapping myself in like a gladiator, and every button-up shirt I own gapes open like it’s crying for help.”

“Okay,” he said, raising a hand to stop her. “But—”

“And bras?” she interrupted. “Do you know how much I spend on bras? A hundred bucks each, minimum. And they’re not even cute. They’re functional. Like, ‘industrial scaffolding’ functional.”

Charles blinked at her, his lips parting like he wanted to argue but couldn’t find the words. Finally, he said weakly, “But… you look great in them.”

“Oh my god.” She threw her hands up, exasperated. “This is not about how I look, Charles. It’s about how I feel. And I feel like I’m carrying around a couple of bowling balls every day of my life.”

He frowned, leaning forward as if he could reason his way out of this. “But what about us?”

“What about us?”

“Our dynamic! The… the whole…” He gestured at her chest again, like it was a key player in their relationship. “You know, vibe.”

“Charles,” she said flatly. “They’re boobs.”

“Not just boobs,” he argued. “They’re your boobs. They’re a part of you. A part of us!”

She stared at him, deadpan. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m serious!” He stood up, pacing in front of the couch now. “Do you know how many people would kill for what you’ve got? And you’re just gonna… throw them away like an old sweater?”

“Okay, first of all, ew. And second of all, you’re being dramatic.”

He stopped pacing to point at her. “I’m not being dramatic. I’m being honest. You’re about to break the hearts of an entire fanbase—”

“Your fanbase,” she corrected, raising an eyebrow.

“Exactly!”

Y/N let out a disbelieving laugh. “Charles, I’ve made up my mind. This isn’t about you, or your ‘fanbase,’ or even how I look. It’s about me being able to live my life without constant pain and discomfort.”

He deflated a little at that, sinking back onto the couch. “But what if you regret it?”

“I won’t.”

“But what if you do?” he pressed. “What if one day you wake up and think, ‘Wow, my life was so much better when Charles was worshiping the temple of—’”

She picked up a throw pillow and smacked him in the face with it. He caught it with a grin, but his eyes were still slightly pleading.

“Charles,” she said, softer now. “I appreciate that you love me exactly as I am. But this isn’t about you.”

He sighed dramatically, flopping backward on the couch. “Fine. But just so you know, I’m going to miss them. Like… a lot.”

“Noted,” she said dryly.

“Maybe I’ll throw a farewell party,” he added. “You know, invite some friends over. We’ll say our goodbyes properly.”

Y/N laughed despite herself, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love me,” he said smugly, pulling her back onto the couch and wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

“Unfortunately.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment before Y/N got up to grab a glass of water. Charles pulled out his phone and began typing into the search bar: “Can boobs grow back after surgery?”

She glanced back at him from the kitchen, catching the guilty look on his face.

“Charles!”

“What? I’m just… curious!”

“Unbelievable,” she muttered, but there was a smile tugging at her lips, drinking the water and setting the glass down on the counter as she walked back over to Charles.

“Hey!” Charles says as y/n snatches the phone out of Charles's hands her own hands cupped his face “It’ll be okay Charles. It’s not the end of the world baby, you know that right?” You ask.

“Of course I know that but I just love them so much,” Charles says, reaching up to cup her breast feeling the weight of them.

“Can I fuck them?” Charles asked out of nowhere.

“Charles!”

“What can’t blame me for asking” he says smiling holding his hands up defensively.

“You know what I don’t see why not”

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

What did you think of the eternity float story? I know you’ve said before you prefer events with strong storytelling/writing so I was wondering if this one hit the mark for you?

Any hometown event comes with the usual shortcomings of a hometown event. Low stakes, a lot of eating and souvenir shopping, etc. Eternity Float is no different from previous hometown events in that regard.

BUT!! ☝️🤓 Putting aside my J word and TLM bias (although I’m the type of person that evaluates media MORE harshly, not less, when the characters/media I like are involved), I do think Eternity Float is a step up from most other hometown events because it is slightly more ambitious. I’d argue that the highlight of this event’s story isn’t the wedding/Eternity Float, but instead the subtler secondary plot about how Jade has changed since his childhood + middle school days. Throughout the event, there are many details that feed into this recurring idea of Jade once not having interest in land or not having the belief that he could comfortably be on land. Then he becomes curious somewhere along the way and starts dreaming and working toward that dream. He decides to stop staring longingly at the land to become a part of it. And knowing just how competent he is in other areas now (such as being able to meet all of Vil’s demands; see: Jade Dorm Uniform vignettes)?? How much extra work did he have to put in to get to this point?? Jade isn’t a natural genius like Floyd is; Jade has actually had to put in tons of time and energy to develop all these skills, to learn the polite mannerisms of his mother, to present as pleasant, etc.

Jade genuinely expresses multiple times in Eternity Float that he is grateful to have made these memories with everyone. He also talks about how his past self would be amazed to see himself today more than once. We hear stories of him in the sea but also hear about how he’d visit Ultramarine City to actively learn about life on land. We meet his old land boot camp instructor. Just listening to him share about his experiences, you get the sense that he really worked hard to be able to walk and study on land as competently as he can today. It carries that wistful and hopeful and determined spirit of Ariel, and it harkens back to TLM source material without being outright stated.

We hear from Georgina, his mother, about how she frequently worries about Jade and is glad he has friends that support him and try to understand him. Now, this could also be said for the other family members we meet in hometowns, but the difference here is that Georgina’s worries actually help in scaffolding Jade’s growth. She is concerned about how Jade is faring on land because she may be aware her son is a literal fish out of water and may have lacked confidence before—but now she is put at ease after seeing that Jade does have a social circle and is having fun on land. (The only other parent whose worries about their kid has major story relevance is Dylla in White Rabbit Fest, as Deuce would later go on to honorably win the Rabbit Run against delinquents that had disrespected her. By the way, I also consider White Rabbit Fest to be one of the better written hometowns.)

This is especially important because we see in his book 7 dream that Jade, above all else, believes in himself. Eternity Float is the character growth Jade needed for book 7, it’s done sooo much better than his actual Draconia-induced dream BUT I DIGRESS— To imply that there was a point in time in which he did not have that confidence in regards to living on land is really fascinating and also implies previous growth. It manages to walk the line of keeping Jade mysterious—which is a large part of his appeal to a certain fanbase—while also demonstrating to us how his character has developed over time.

The event still has missed opportunities, of course. We could have gotten a better glimpse into Jade’s past if he actually knew the bride and groom instead of being complete strangers. Or maybe the land boot camp instructor we ran into in town could have been introduced sooner or stuck around for longer to drop more lore about kid!Jade. Still, I think it’s overall a bit stronger than the usual hometown event. Nowhere near the quality of Glorious Masquerade, mind you, but for sure one of my favorite hometown events.

[taylorswiftstyle]

The end of an era, but the start of an age.

Taylor’s music has been the soundtrack to all the most significant milestones of my life. My first crush. My first heartbreak. My first true love. My first (and hopefully only) walk down the aisle. Her words, her vulnerability, her unrelenting bravery and defiance to pave her own path no matter how much has stood in her way or how daunting the task ahead may have seemed. Whether in the face of heartbreak, of pain, of loneliness. At every turn in her life, and correspondingly in mine, I have found comfort, meaning, friendship, and inspiration in her music. I’ve often described listening to Taylor’s music as the longest relationship of my life.

When I first heard her in 2007, her debut album was the scaffolding I placed so much of my life upon. Taylor’s art has created a permanent ripple effect in the industry and in the millions of fans, like me, who have benefited from growing up in the wake of the lessons in life and love she’s carefully and painstakingly documented for her healing and ours. The topography of my life has been layered atop her art. Her words have been my one constant since I myself was just a girl … trying to find a place in this world. Naturally, I had to honour that album and that era on this final night with my ‘fit. I opted to wear the very same pair of Liberty boots that Taylor once did in the earliest days of her career. It made hearing “A Place In This World” all the more special. I’ll never be able to express how grateful I am to have found that place in the world she’s created with the words she’s chosen to share with all of us. 

Thank you, Taylor. For everything and for every era.

[misscalming]

I bring you Logan waking up scared not because of his dreams but Wade’s (minimal angst maximum fluff)

A blood curdling scream startles Logan awake, his eyes dart around in the dark, claws out at the ready to defend himself and Wade from whoever or whatever had dared to threaten his mate.

In a state of panic he grabs at Wade’s arm to ground himself, without thinking he yells ;

“WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT!?” And glares down at Wade who startles awake from all the commotion.

“What was what!? What’s going on? Are you okay!?” Wade exclaims, unfocused eyes trying to make sense of the darkness around him,just as panicked as Logan was before, he instinctually grabs the knife tapped to the bottom of the beds scaffolding.

Logan’s expression softens, releasing the tension from his shoulders and bringing a hand up to grip Wade by the jaw, pressing thick calloused fingers into scared cheeks to watch his lips pucker.

“You fucking asshole, don’t scare me like that” Logan reprimands, shaking Wade’s head side to side before pressing their foreheads together.

“Dit I talk in mah schleep again?” Wade whispers through his squished lips, guilt laced through his words.

“It’s not your fault Darl’ , don’t worry about it I’m sorry for waking you up, go back to sleep….Okay Bubba?” Logan mumbles, releasing his grip on Wade’s face and giving a affectionate, chaste kiss to his nose.

They lay back down, Logan falls asleep and Wade nervously chews his bottom lip while he gazes at his partners sleeping face, he was scared of falling asleep and waking his husband up with his stupid sleep talking again. That wasn’t fair on Logan. He struggled to sleep even without Wade’s ridiculous brain subconsciously keeping his lips flapping even while unconscious, he didn’t know WHY Logan put up with his bullshit.

Wade gently lifts the heavy arm draped over his waist and, without little effort, rolls away from the fucking black hole gravitational pull of the dip in the bed under his partners weight. unravelling himself from his blanket to stand up and gently step around the bed.

Wade’s making his way out the room to simply sleep the rest of the night on the couch when a strong arm shoots out from the blankets to catch his wrist in a bruising grip, stopping him from leaving. before Wade can react he’s being thrown back onto the mattress and pinned down by a 400 pound purring Wolverine. Deep rumbles emanating from the beasts large chest in soothing waves.

Logan keeps his knees pressed either side of Wade’s hips, distributing a portion of his weight off of the poor man’s body and onto the mattress, which dipped and sunk Wade like a rock.

Wade fruitlessly slaps his palms against Logan’s back.

“Logaaaan~ get off!” Wade whines, kicking his feet in the air like a flipped turtle.

“No” Logan grumbles in reply, tightening his arms around Wade’s waist and nuzzling his face into his chest, “comfy”

“Logan please- I needa pee” Wade protests.

“That’s a lie and me and you both know it, I could hear ya’ thinkin’ , sleep” Logan growls nipping at the soft spot between Wade’s collarbone and arm.

Wade squeals and struggles some more before going limp, submitting to the role of Logan’s Pillow.

“You’re an asshole” he sighs, bringing his hands down to scratch at the back of Logan’s head, and run his fingernails down his neck.

Logan purrs and quickly nods off to sleep. Wade instead stays awake, gently playing with Logan’s hair leaving small braids in his wake. He twirls a loose curl around his finger, mesmerised by its softness, eyes drooping more and more before eventually falling shut.

[anotherhumaninthisworld]

Frev friendships — Bonbonaparte

During my [sic, his?] second stay in the Army of Italy, Robespierre the younger had the opportunity to become quite closely linked with Bonaparte. During his first mission, he, like me, had made his acquaintance, but had not cultivated it as particularly as during the second one. Bonaparte had a very high regard for my two brothers, and especially for the eldest; he admired his talents, his energy, the purity of his patriotism and his intentions. So Bonaparte was sincerely a republican; I would even say that he was a montagnard republican; at least he had that effect on me by the way he looked at things at the time when I was in Nice. Mémoires de Charlotte Robespierre sur ses deux frères (1835), p. 127. Going off the timeline given in Memoirs of Napoleon Bonaparte (1885), it sounds rather strange for Augustin and Charlotte to have met Napoleon during their stay in Nice in the fall of 1793, seeing as the latter had left the town already on July 14 1793, being with the Army of Carteaux up until 9 October, after which he went to Toulon. Charlotte does however also write Augustin made frequent trips to the armies during their stay in Nice, so maybe an encounter happened here?

At the time when these circumstances occurred Bonaparte had just received his commission of captain of artillery. Shortly after he was sent to Toulon to command the works of the siege. About this period of his life, Bonaparte was very intimate with Robespierre the younger, with thom Junot was also well acquainted. Young Robespierre was what might be called an agreeable young man, animated by no bad sentiments, and believing, or feigning to believe, that his brother was led on by a parcel of wretches, every one of whom he would banish to Cayenne if he were in his place. Memoirs of the Duchess D' Abrantés (Madame Junot) (1832), page 76.

Bonaparte, after the siege of Toulon, was appointed brigadier-general, with orders to join the Army of Italy, under the orders of General Dumerbion; it was then, through the patronage of Aréna, that he became intimate with Robespierre the younger and Ricord and his wife, afterwards his protectors. From the time Bonaparte joined the first Army of Italy, holding very low rank, he desired and systematically sought to get to the top of the ladder by all possible means; fully convinced that women constituted a powerful aid, he assiduously paid court to the wife of Ricord, knowing that she exercised great influence over Robespierre the Younger, her husband's colleague. Memoirs of Barras: Member of the Directorate (1895), p. 148-149.

…I add to the names of the patriots that I have named to you, citizen Galmiche, judge in Vesoul, honest and talented man, citizen Morin, public prosecutor of the military tribunal, citizen Buonaparte, general head of the artillery of transcendent merit, the latter is Corsican, he only offers me the guarantee of a man of this nation who has resisted the caresses of Paoli, whose properties were ravaged by this traitor. Augustin in a letter to his brother, April 5 1794. This is the only conserved document in which Augustin mentions Napoleon that I know of.

The Emperor, for example, has told us, that while engaged in fortifying the coasts at Marseilles, he was a witness to the horrible condemnation of the merchant Hugues, a man of eighty-four years of age, deaf and nearly blind. In spite of his age and infirmities, his atrocious executioners pronounced him guilty of conspiracy: his real crime was him being worth eighteen millions. This he was himself aware of, and he offered to surrender his wealth to the tribunal, provided he might be allowed to retain five hundred thousand francs, which, he said, he could not live long to enjoy. But this proposition was rejected, and he was led to the scaffold. ”At this sight,” said Napoleon, "I thought the world was at an end" — an expression which lie was accustomed to employ on any extraordinary occasion. Barras and Fréron were the authors of these atrocities. The Emperor did Robespierre the justice to say, that he had seen long letters written by him to his brother, Robespierre the younger, who was then the Representative to the Army of the South, in which he warmly opposed and disavowed these excesses, declaring that they would disgrace and ruin the Revolution. Memorial de Sainte Helene: journal of the private life and conversations of the Emperor Napoleon at Saint Helena (1823), page 83-84. The letters from Maximilien to Augustin alluded to here cannot be found today.

Indeed that spring the friendship between Augustin and Napoleon was so marked that Tilly, the French consul in Genoa, writing to the French Minister for Foreign Affairs, referred to Bonaparte as the favourite and counsellor of Robespierre the Younger. Bonaparte tells us, and he may only be a little exaggerating, ‘He loved me much,’ and relates how, when Haller asked Augustin for supplies, ‘Robespierre would never sign anything to do with the army or the supplies without consulting me. He would say to Haller who was then administrator; “That’s good, but I must speak to Bonaparte”.’ […] Napoleon’s words to General Bertrand many years later were: ”I believe that Robespierre the Younger asked his brother to make me Commander of the Army of Italy, but Carnot opposed it. Augustin: the younger Robespierre by (2011) by Mary Young, chapter 16. Young cites Cahiers de St. Hélène 1816-1821 (1951) by Henri Gratien Bertrand, volume 2, as the source for this. She doesn’t give a source for the Tilly letter.

The brother of Robespierre, after the capture of Toulon, had been sent as commissary to the army of the Alps. Napoléon was considered as the hero of that memorable siege, and was appointed general of brigade: he was at Nice, where he commanded the artillery. His connexion with the army had brought about an intimacy with the young Robespierre, who appreciated him. It appears that the ruler of the convention had been informed of the uncommon talents of the conqueror of Toulon, and that he was desirous of replacing the commandant of Paris, Henriot, whose incapacity began to tire him. Here is a fact which I witnessed. My family owed to the promotion of Napoléon a more prosperous situation. To be nearer to him, they had established themselves at the Chateau Sallé, near Antibes, a few miles distant only from the head-quarters of the general; I had left St. Maximin to pass a few days with my family and my brother. We assembled together, and the general gave us every moment that was at his own disposal. He arrived one day more pre-occupied than usual, and, while walking between Joseph and myself, he announced to us that it depended upon himself to set out for Paris the next day, and to be in a position by which he could establish us all advantageously. For my part, the news enchanted me. To go to the great capital appeared to be the height of felicity, that nothing could overweigh. ”They offer me,” said Napoléon,” the place of Henriot. ”I am to give my answer this evening.” ”Well, what say you to it?” He hesitated a moment.  ”Eh? eh?” rejoined the general, ”but it is worth the trouble of considering: it is not a case to be enthusiastic upon; it is not so easy to save one’s head at Paris as at St. Maximin. The young Robespierre is an honest fellow; but his brother is not to be trifled with: he will be obeyed. Can I support that man?! No, never. I know how useful I should be to him in replacing his simpleton of a commandant of Paris; but it is what I will not be. It is not yet time; there is no place honourable for me at present but the army. We must have patience: I shall command Paris hereafter!” Such were the words of Napoléon. He then expressed to us his indignation against the reign of terror, of which he announced the approaching downfall: he finished by repeating several times, half gloomy, half smiling: ”What should I do in that galley?” The young Robespierre solicited him in vain. A few weeks after, the 9th Thermidor arrived, to deliver France, and justified the foresight of the general. Memoirs: Lucien Bonaparte, prince of Canino (1836), p. 42-43.

When attached to the Army of Nice or of Italy, [Napoleon] became a great favourite with the representative Robespierre the younger, whom he described as possessing qualities very different from his brother: the latter Napoleon never saw. Robespierre the younger, on being recalled to Paris by his brother, sometime before the 9th ef Thermidor, exerted every endeavour to prevail on Napoleon to accompany him. ”If I had not firmly resisted," observed the Emperor, "who knows whither this first step might have led me, and for what a different destiny I might have been reserved!” Memorial de Sainte Helene: journal of the private life and conversations of the Emperor Napoleon at Saint Helena (1823) page 85.

In the course of our conversation, relative to Robespierre, the Emperor said, that he had been very well acquainted with his brother, the younger Robespierre, the representative to the Army of Italy. He said nothing against this young man, whom he had inspired with great confidence and considerable enthusiasm for his person. Previously to the 9th of Thermidor, young Robespierre being recalled by his brother, who was then secretly laying his plans, insisted on Napoleon's accompanying him to Paris. The latter experienced the greatest difficulty in ridding himself of the importunity, and at length only escaped it by requesting the interference of the General-in-chief, Dumerbion, whose entire confidence he possessed, and who represented that it was absolutely necessary he should remain where he was. ”Had I followed young Robespierre,” said the Emperor, "how different might have been my career! On what trivial circumstances does human fate depend!" Memorial de Sainte Helene: journal of the private life and conversations of the Emperor Napoleon at Saint Helena (1823) page 182-183.

One thing that has not been reported, as far as I know, by any historian of the revolution, is that after 9 Thermidor Bonaparte proposed to the representatives of the people who were on mission in the army of Italy, and who had succeeded my younger brother and Ricord, to march on Paris to punish the authors of the counter-revolutionary movement which had killed my two brothers. This bold proposal, revealing courage, an extraordinary spirit and patriotism, terrified the representatives, who hastened to repel him.  Mémoires de Charlotte Robespierre sur ses deux frères (1835), p. 127-128.

[Napoleon] assured me that Robespierre the Younger had not always held the same opinions as his brother, and that he looked upon himself as in exile when with the Army of Italy. He informed me that a woman of the lower classes, who had been assisted by Robespierre the Younger, had been arraigned before the Revolutionary Tribunal and sentenced to death during his absence from Paris, and that on his return he had expressed disapproval of the sentence , sent for the twelve-year-old son of that woman, clothed him, and admitted him to his table; the boy feeling sad, Ricord commanded him to drink to the health of the Republic, but the lad refused; thereupon Robespierre the Younger, addressing Ricord, said to him: ”Respect such a character. You would not do as much under similar circumstances." It was easy to gather from everything Bonaparte said, anxious as he seemed to speak well of Robespierre the Younger and extol his virtues, that he had a bad cause to defend, and that he was seeking to vindicate the connections he had made.  Memoirs of Barras: Member of the Directorate (1895), p. 287. This meeting between Barras and Napoleon took place in 1795.

Bonaparte’s admiration for my elder brother, his friendship for my younger brother, and perhaps also the interest which my misfortunes inspired in him, enabled me to obtain a pension under the consulate. When Bonaparte was First Consul I was advised to ask him for an audience. I had no resources; since the death of my brothers I received the hospitality of my respectable and excellent friend, M. Mathon, who had been their friend and who was from Arras like us. Bonaparte received me perfectly, spoke to me of my brothers in very flattering terms, and told me that he was ready to do everything for their sister: “Speak, what do you want?” he said to me. I explained my position to him; he promised to take it into consideration; in fact, a few days later I received the patent for a pension of 3,600 francs. Mémoires de Charlotte Robespierre sur ses deux frères (1835), p. 129. According to the article Charlotte Robespierre er ses amis (1961), on September 24 1803 we do find a document signed by Napoleon granting Charlotte, not a pension but a ”relief” of first 600 francs and then 150 francs each month for half a year. The decree granting Charlotte a permanent pension of 200 livres per month, dated 1805, was however signed not by Napoleon by rather Fouché, and it is unclear if he did this on his own, Napoleon’s or someone else’s initiative.

[beefcakekinard]

I wish you would write a fic where... Tommy confronts a monster (maybe they're of his own making)

Tommy's a strong guy, physically. And he's no slouch at compartmentalizing - at filing the sludge away, locking it up until he's not thinking about it, until it doesn't even touch him anymore. He broke up with Evan a week ago and he's sealed that up so tightly he hasn't felt anything at all about it. This should be a piece of cake in comparison.

His feet still feel weighed down with lead as he steps into the hospital.

It's an odd hour of the morning between shift starts and lunch, so the lobby isn't exactly bustling. His footsteps carry in the wide open space. A woman behind the counter at the gift shop smiles at him as he passes. His own expression feels odd on his face, a frozen rictus grimace, and he hurries on before she gets the chance to start a conversation.

Tommy makes it to the elevator bank and hits the button. It's no time at all before he's in the elevator car, picking the floor he needs, and watching the doors close. The lead in his feet spreads upwards, like capillary action, finding his stomach and settling there in the pit of it. For a brief moment he doesn't know what he's doing there, in the elevator, in the hospital. He almost convinces himself to just leave and go home, but by then the doors are opening.

He follows signs down the hall into a small room with a desk, where he checks in and sits to wait in a stiff plastic chair. He isn't waiting long before a woman in a lab coat calls his name. Tommy follows her into a cold, windowless room. His entire body feels heavy now, overfull with dread as he approaches the metal table in the middle. The woman pulls back a sheet.

"Yeah," he rasps. "That's him. That's my dad."

Tommy feels - he doesn't know quite what he feels. His dad's face is ashen, lifeless; strangely distorted by its own stillness. Like it's just... collapsed, without the scaffolding of life holding it in place. Tommy's eyes instinctively skip down to his dad's hands, an old habit so deeply ingrained in him that he still can't help expecting blows, even as old as he is, as big as he is. Even though his dad is dead.

The woman says something. The awareness of another voice in the room is all that Tommy's able to process behind the sludge oozing out of its carefully constructed containment, dripping black and tarlike through the ridges and valleys of his brain. He feels like he shouldn't be breathing, between the sludge and the lead and the room occupied by his dad's dead body and unlit by the sun.

Tommy signs some forms. He moves on autopilot and the only thing he can think about is the wry little smile Evan would have given him if he'd ever said that, told him I was on autopilot and maybe Evan would have carried the joke, maybe-

Forms signed and copied, Tommy excuses himself in a haste, bursting back into the hall and tearing for the stairs. He takes them two at a time, lunging up them like he's being hunted, and once on the main floor he shoves his way through the first exterior door he can find. He manages to take two steps and lean over some bushes before he's vomiting, bile crowding up his throat and nose and forcing its way out.

As he watches it drip to the ground, he's surprised it's not black.

[utilitycaster]

Watching the Mighty Nein conversations and seeing people post about Watch Machina I really am struck by how much like...generally well-meaning misunderstandings or accidentally insensitive statements or even just two valid but conflicting viewpoints come up in conversation from the very start, and how utterly vital this is to the characters feeling so real and having such clear motivations.

Molly accidentally says the worst things possible to Nott every time, because while he needs to believe he is not the person who was put in a grave and who Cree knew, just a different person who happens to share the same body (that he's endeavored to make his own), she needs to believe that despite being in a different body she is still able to be Veth Brenatto, a halfling woman from Felderwin. Fjord has designed his entire current persona about being someone who commands respect after a powerless childhood in which he was bullied and abused and an adulthood in which he was horribly, even lethally, betrayed, and so the others aren't wrong about his tusks (and, notably, he's even able to listen) but it's part of that precarious scaffolding, along with the accent; and people like Caleb and Yasha in turn (as many people have said in the notes) need to know that someone else can move forward from their past, even though they can't yet.

With the conversation about Kima, Vex - victim of racism over her mixed heritage and having experienced an early adulthood as a homeless wanderer who was undoubtedly treated with suspicion simply for being new in town too many times to count - needs Keyleth to have more than just "vibes"; Keyleth, on the other hand, is terrified she lacks leadership qualities not just of intuition ("vibes") but also expressing that to others. Much later on, Scanlan's outburst in A Bard's Lament is both very real - Scanlan feels (and might even be right) that if he'd never met Vox Machina, he'd be less powerful but he also wouldn't have died twice, and he wouldn't have to care so much about others and he might not even know about Kaylie - but in expressing that he blames the rest of Vox Machina for caring back and making that attempt to disconnect impossible.

These are all in my opinion either absolutely necessary groundwork for characters who develop satisfyingly over the course of a campaign, and remarkably efficient too: each of these serves to set up both the characters as individuals (even if we as the audience did not know the entire story at the time, which, in many of these cases, we didn't) and their relationships with each other.

And I think, and I would apologize for making so many posts about where Campaign 3 fails where the other two succeed but I find it personally helpful to do so and I'm not going to stop until it no longer is, that this is perhaps its greatest failure point: there was no space given, in the narrative or by much of the fandom, to work through well-intentioned insensitivity or disagreement. Especially with the examples of the Mighty Nein, this doesn't even need to rise to the level of outright conflict! Molly and Nott's conversation is at most prickly, and the conversation with Fjord is even supportive, and Vox Machina had, notably, much more time with each other than the Mighty Nein had had at the time of both those conversations and could go much harder without destroying a nascent social connection.

And, of course, the Mighty Nein were also not without more outright conflict - we've already seen Fjord (life ruined and nearly destroyed entirely by someone deviating from the plan in a high pressure situation and betraying the group) threaten Caleb (pretty much solely motivated by the pursuit of arcane knowledge and Nott at this point, history of extensive abuse) and Nott (family saved because she went off-book), and Bowlgate (Beau's value of personal freedom vs. Caleb's suspicion of strangers' intentions, both informed by their pasts) is coming up fast. And clearly, it is not uniquely a campaign 3 issue that the fandom decided that one person was right and one was wrong instead of understanding that these are people with two separate perspectives - that stretches back to Vox Machina (the initial source of much Keyleth hate was that conversation about Kima), and the cast is still joking about Bowlgate - but I am struck by how there was pretty much no one who both loves Bells Hells and embraces this sort of misunderstanding. I still recall the seething hatred towards Orym's mother Alma for an utterly innocent statement re: the Ashari avoiding any Ruidusborn children even though she is personally entirely unaware of Imogen's past and the end state of the world ends up being...no more Ruidusborn ever.

We've seen what happens when everyone takes those misunderstandings and instead of trying to dig into them with empathy for both sides (Vax re: the argument about Kima) or talking it over after the fact even in veiled terms (the team conversation with Nott immediately in episode 13, and the oblique conversation between Fjord and Caleb in 14 and several much later ones and more explicit ones re: Swordgate) tries to just skip past them and maintain an illusion of peace. Ironically, instead of having heroic assholes who can deal with the fallout of the problems they cause and who learn to take unintentional insensitivity in good faith, you simply end up with regular old assholes, who can't, and who as a result treat most outsiders with disdain.

[chanelgrll]

hi! could you do a ronin x reader who struggles with substance abuse? all good if not, thank you!

A/N: ofcc!! Please take care of yourself and reach out if you're struggling <3 your mental health matters This is a heavy one, please read warnings below CW: substance abuse, weed, reader is high, mental health struggles, addiction

Smoke and fire

There were nights when the dark tide rose faster than you could swim. Tonight was one of them.

You hadn’t meant to fall this deep into it, hadn’t meant to let the stress reach bone level, where it pulsed in your ribs and skull like a war drum. You’d been good, better, even. Weeks without falling apart. But tonight, something simple and stupid, a glass shattering on the kitchen floor, had cracked the fragile dam inside you.

It had started with your fingers trembling too hard to pick up the shards. Then the breathless, clawing sense that you weren’t safe in your own skin. You’d sat on the floor and pressed your palms to your chest like you could cage your frantic heart. No use.

So you’d lit up instead. It was supposed to be recreational, casual, a rare indulgence. But lately it had become a secret scaffold you leaned on when things tipped too far, not even something Ronin knew (that you were aware of). Tonight you tipped.

Now you were sprawled sideways on the worn couch, eyes half-lidded, the room pulsing gently around you like a tidepool. Music murmured low from the speaker. The world turned 2D and your head was filled with a heavy fog-like pressure. Your limbs were warm and slow and not entirely yours.

Some part of you knew this wasn’t good. Knew that this wasn’t how you wanted him to see you. But that part was far away, muffled, like a voice through thick fog.

The door clicked open.

You didn’t even flinch.

Bootsteps. Slow, deliberate. Then a long pause, silence stretching between inhale and exhale.

“...Darlin’.” His voice was low, no scorn, just weighted with something you couldn’t parse in your current haze. You let your head loll toward the sound. Ronin stood in the doorway, still in his coat, bag slung over one shoulder. His expression was carved from shadow and worry. One hand flexed at his side, as if unsure whether to reach for you.

“Roooo… hi..!” Your voice lilted high and thin, like a bird caught in a storm. You pushed yourself upright with sluggish, graceless limbs, pasting a smile across your mouth, something you hoped resembled normal. But the room swayed. The floor dipped and rolled like a ship at sea. Ronin blurred in your vision, edges smearing like ink in rain. For a moment, even he felt unreal, some towering figment conjured from smoke and shame.

You staggered toward him on trembling legs, one, two steps, then the world pitched. A breathless yelp escaped you as your knees buckled. The floor rushed up in a hard embrace. Before the sting could register, he was there, boots thudding fast against wood, a curse flaring low in his throat.

“The fuck did you do?” He sat down on the floor, careful as he gathered you, pulling your unstrung form against the steady wall of his chest. Your cheek pressed to the worn fabric of his shirt, heartbeat thunderous beneath your ear. The rest of you sprawled limp across the floor, body gone weightless and wrong.

“Mmn… ’m fine, Ro… jus’ sleepy…”

“Bullshit.” The word landed soft but sharp as a blade’s kiss. His voice was low, frayed at the edges, carrying worry shot through with something that ached. “I smell it on you. Smelled it every damn time. Even when you snuck out, half an hour gone, thinkin’ it’d fade off your clothes.”

You tried to blink, to see him clearly, but the world remained blurred, awash in dull red and shadow. His face hovered just beyond reach, but you caught the rawness in his eyes, fury not for you, but for whatever had driven you to this unraveling. You made some sound then, a small, slurred thing, half apology, half plea. But your mouth felt heavy, tongue slow, words impossible.

The weight of his gaze pressed on you like a tide. Not cruel. Not cold. Just unbearably present. You wanted to disappear beneath it, crawl down through the floorboards and vanish. Instead you lay boneless against him, pulse stuttering.

Ronin exhaled slow, controlled, like a man holding back the sea inside him. His arms shifted, one beneath your back, the other curling beneath your knees.

“C’mon,” he murmured. The softness in it unraveled something in your chest. “We’re not stayin’ on the damn floor.”

And then you were lifted, weightless, shame hot against your skin despite the cold fingers of the high still tugging at you. You buried your face in his shoulder to escape the world, to escape yourself.

He carried you to the couch, lowered you down with bone-deep care, as if you were spun glass. His hands lingered a moment, brushing hair from your face, thumb tracing beneath one eye where a tear had escaped without your knowing.

“Y’didn’t have to fight it alone.” His voice broke soft. “Could’ve called me. Could always call me.”

You whimpered, shaking your head weakly. “Didn’t… didn’t wanna bother… didn’t wanna be weak…”

A curse, low and ragged, slipped from him. He knelt beside you, eye-level now, one calloused hand cupping your jaw with aching gentleness, forcing your gaze to his through the blur.

“Look at me,” he said. You tried. Gods, you tried. “You are not a bother,” Ronin told you, voice raw. “And you ain’t weak. You hear me? You ain’t fuckin’ weak for drownin’. You’re stronger than you know for survivin’ it.”

The words cracked something open. The tears came full then, silent at first, then in choking waves. You turned toward him without thinking, clutching fistfuls of his shirt as if he were the only solid thing in a world gone soft and spinning.

He let you cling. Didn’t pull away. One arm slid around your shoulders, the other stroking up and down your spine in slow, grounding motions.

“I got you,” Ronin whispered. Over and over, a steady chant against the storm in your skull. “I got you. Ain’t lettin’ go.”

Time dissolved. The high ebbed like a sick tide, leaving you wrung-out and trembling in its wake. Through it all he stayed, a pillar at your side. His warmth. His scent... leather, cedar, faint trace of iron—became the anchor you clung to. When the worst of it passed, when your body sagged exhausted and empty in his arms, he pressed a kiss against your temple.

“We’ll talk about this. Later. When you’re steady.” Another kiss. “But not tonight. Tonight, you rest.”

And when you slurred, voice cracked open and child-small, “You’ll stay?” he answered without pause:

“Always.” He sat on the couch, resting your head on his lap. Before you knew it, the exhaustion of the weed hit you like a trainwreck, and everything faded to black.

.....

You blinked, sluggish, and found Ronin sitting on the couch, head leaned back with a hand resting on the top of your head, which was still rested on his lap.

The realization struck hard and sharp. “Ro…” you croaked. Voice frayed, throat raw.

He opened his eyes instantly, all the iron edges of him smoothed to quiet concern.

“Hey,” he said soft, gently stroking your hair. “Easy.” A pause. “You with me now?”

You swallowed, nodded faintly. Shame rose like bile in your throat. “I—fuck. I’m sorry.”

Ronin shook his head, slow and sure. “No apologies yet. Not till you eat, drink. You’re still runnin’ on fumes.” A bottled water appeared in his hand; you took it with trembling fingers, sipped gratefully. When your shaking eased, he spoke again, voice low as dawn wind,

“We need to talk, darlin’.”

You closed your eyes, nodding once. You owed him that much.

He didn’t launch in hard. He waited. When you opened your eyes again, he met your gaze, steady as stone, unflinching but not unkind.

“I ain’t mad at you,” Ronin said first. Voice rough with the truth of it. “Ain’t ever gonna be. I’m… worried. And scared for you, if I’m honest. Scared what happens if you keep leanin’ on that shit every time it gets bad.”

You looked away. Tears prickled again. “I know,” you whispered. “I know it’s not good. I just, sometimes it hits and I—I can’t breathe, Ronin. I can’t think. It feels like drowning in my own skin.”

His breath caught faintly at that. Then he shifted, leaning forward, elbows braced on his knees, voice gone even gentler:

“You ever think I don’t know that feelin’? I do. More’n you know.” A pause thick with meaning. “But there’s better ways through it. Ways that don’t tear you down after.” You kept crying, tears pooling out your eyes that Ronin carefully wiped off. He gently pulled you up to sit on his lap, wrapping his arms around you and rocking back and forth slightly.

“I got you,” Ronin said again. Thumb brushing slow circles on your knuckles. “I ain’t lettin’ you fall, darlin’. Not alone.”

And this time, when you whispered, “Okay,” you meant it.

[schizoidvision]

Why Schizoids Might Not Identify as a Personality

Some of us don’t experience ourselves as “people” in the way others seem to. That doesn’t mean we’re absent... it means we may exist in a different format.

Here are 7 reasons why schizoid individuals may not identify with the idea of having a personality:

1. Narrative Isn’t the Core

Many people build identity around narrative. They recall past events, anticipate a future self, and describe their desires through a personal timeline. For some schizoids, this structure isn’t active. The present doesn’t feel like part of a larger story... it feels like an isolated moment governed by current thoughts, not continuity.

2. The Self is an Interface, Not a Character

Rather than being a character with traits, some of us experience the self more like an interface... a channel for ideas, thoughts, or functions. What comes through depends on context. We’re not trying to express who we are; we’re responding to external cues.

3. Expression Doesn’t Feel Necessary

Where others feel compelled to express themselves, we often feel no such urge. There’s no internal drive to present a self, share preferences, or display emotion. In many cases, that part of interaction feels irrelevant or even burdensome.

4. The Concept of ‘Personality’ Feels External

We may recognize that other people rely on personality as social currency, but we don’t experience that internally. It feels like something expected from the outside, not something we naturally possess. When prompted to “be ourselves,” we may freeze... not because we’re hiding, but because we don’t know what they’re looking for.

5. Emotional Distance Alters Self-Definition

Without strong emotional bonds or social feedback loops, identity often stays unformed. If personality is shaped by relational impact, then lack of emotional investment in others creates a different outcome: a self that is mostly unshaped by interaction.

6. Ideas Take Precedence Over Identity

For many schizoid individuals, thought patterns, value systems, and internal structures hold more weight than emotional consistency or social traits. In this context, “who I am” becomes less relevant than “what I think,” “what fits,” or “what is accurate.”

7. Function Replaces Persona

Instead of performing a role based on traits, we tend to shift into function-based engagement. If the moment calls for clarity, we become clarity. If it calls for silence, we’re silent. The self isn’t being expressed... it’s being adjusted.

Closing Reflection:

Not identifying as a personality doesn’t mean lacking humanity. It points to a different internal scaffolding... one that values neutrality, function, and inward alignment over outward identity. This isn’t always visible, but it holds shape in its own way.

Schizoid Education Videos: What happens when you have no personality

[gardens-light]

The Intern

With the alliance between the Autobot's and the U.S government straining by the day, clearly something needed to be done to restore faith and trust- despite the classified operations of N.E.S.T successfully defeating the Decepticons over two years ago. Therefore, Major Lennox and his commanding officers created TTF- Transformers Talent Forge. An internship offered to only the most skilled and promising personnel within the U.S Defence Force , providing an opportunity of a lifetime to work side-by-side with N.E.S.T and the Autobots...

Content: Mild Coarse Language. Events takes place in 'Transformers- Revenge of the Fallen.' Autobot/Ratchet x F/Human reader. Reader Insert.

Intern Series- Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 (End)

Word Count- 3,500K

N.E.S.T- Diego Garcia. 8:30am

"Come on, Private! Keep up!"

"Ye-Yes, sir." Snapping out of your daydream gaze, running after your lieutenant.

Pulling the strap of your military duffle bag a little more over your shoulder. Trying not to stare at the sights and sounds that surrounded you in the hangar, as you followed Lieutenant Smith's footsteps. Roughed up concrete lined the floors, only the unpredictable pattern of tyre marks 'decorated' what once was a smooth surface.

Various military personnel roaming around tables and various stations filled with all sorts of gizmos, gadgets and computer systems lined either side of the hangar. Creating an almost 'catwalk' like feel for the concrete flooring which ran through the middle.

"Alright, so this is where we communicate with the JCS. And this area serves as the Autobots' hangar."

Your curious gaze wandered over the various vehicles which was casually parked on the left side of the hangar.

"The living quarters are to your right. Third door down. But once introduced to our Major, you'll be debriefed further and provided a map- this place is like a maze. I don't know what it's like where you're from Private, but here. Every day's different. So learn quick and learn fast." Lieutenant Smith slowly halted, facing you with a smile. "But don't think you'll be going through this alone. You're among family now-"

"Excuse me!" a commanding tone filled the hangar, drawing your attention to the scaffolding-like structure which stood in the centre of the military space. Lining up perfectly with the concrete 'catwalk.'

"And just like any other family household, we occasionally have our fair share of rodents." Lieutenant Smith whispered into your ear, causing a smile to tease the corner of your lips.

Complete awe flashed across your features, eyes widen as your gaze soaked in the sight before you.

H-Holy shit... that's Optimus Prime!

"With this so-called AllSpark now destroyed, why hasn't the enemy left the planet like you thought they would?" Director Galloway questioned the Autobot. His voice holding a firm tone, as he adjusted his glasses once coming to the landing of the scaffolding-like structure. Which brought him and other military personnel more to Optimus' height.

"Forgive the interruption, General." Galloway's scowl expression faced the monitor before him. Seeming not to care that he was talking directly to the Pentagon, "but after all the damage in Shanghai, the President is... hard-pressed to say the job's getting done. Now... under the classified Alien/Autobot Cooperation Act, you agreed to share your intel with us, but not your advancements in weaponry.-"

"We've witnessed your human capacity for war." Optimus' smooth yet authudicating tone rumbled throughout the hangar, his words almost holding a sharp edge. "It would absolutely bring more harm than good-"

"But who are you to judge what's best for us?-"

"With all due respect, we've been fighting side by side in the field for two years!" A small chuckle came to you, as Major Lennox's familiar tone came to your ears.

"We've shed blood, sweat and precious metal together!" Lieutenant Smith called out.

"Soldier! You're paid to shoot. Not talk."

Lieutenant Smith rolled his eyes at Galloway's snarky comment. His unamused expression turning to you as he whispered, "don't tempt me."

"And the... newest members of your team. I understand they arrived here after you sent a message into space, an open invitation! Come to Earth! Vetted by no one at the White House!-"

"Let me stop you right there, Mr. Galloway. It was vetted right here." A voice from the Pentagon crackled through the monitor. "And in my experience, the judgment of both Major Lennox and his team, has always... been above reproach-"

"Well... be that as it may, General. It is the position of the President when our national security is at stake... no one... is above reproach." Galloway turned his attention back onto Prime. "Now... what do we know so far? We know that the enemy leader, classified NBE One, aka, Megatron. Is rusting in peace at the bottom of the Laurentian Abyssal, surrounded by SOSUS detection nets and a full-time submarine surveillance."

"We also know that the only remaining piece of your alien AllSpark is locked in an electromagnetic vault. Here on one of the most secure naval bases in the world! And since no one can seem to tell me what the enemy is now after, well.. there's only clear conclusion!... You! The Autobots!" Galloway's glare narrowed. "They're here to hunt you!"

You begun to slowly shift your weight from one foot to the other. The smile fading upon your lips as the atmosphere within the hangar begun to grow tense.

"What's there to hunt for on Earth besides that? 'The Fallen shall rise again'?... It sounds to me like something's coming. So... let me ask, if we... ultimately conclude that our national security is best served by denying you further asylum on our planet. Will you leave... peacefully?"

All eyes turned on Optimus. The tension grew thicker. You could almost hear everyone hold their breaths as all hung onto his answer.

"Freedom is your right. If you make that request, we will honor it. But... Before your President decides, please ask him this... What if we leave and you're wrong?"

A heavy sigh escaped your lips. Why do I have a feeling that I've came at a bad time?...

Optimus straightened his posture as Lennox ran a hand through his short, brunette hair. "That's a good question-"

"Major! The intern is here!" Lieutenant Smith shouted from the ground. A small smirk teasing his lips, knowing his voice briefly deafened Mr Galloway while he awkwardly climbed the steps down.

"Here... let me take your things." You looked at the lieutenant, holding out his hand. Simply gesturing towards the scaffolding stairs with a slight nod. "You'll be fine."

Taking a couple of deep breaths before handing over your duffle bag, your heart slightly picking up pace as you climbed the stairs. Flashing the soldiers a weak smile, as their curious gazes turned away from their monitors and onto you.

"So, is it every day that the government comes round to bite your asses?" your cocky tone slightly eased the tension in the air. Greeting Lennox with a salute as his soft gaze fell onto you, a relieved smile teasing his lips.

"At ease, Private. No need to be so formal... nah, they don't come by often. But when they do, it's just my ass that gets bitten." A small chuckle left Lennox as he embraced you with a warm, tight hug. "Ah Valkyrie... it's been so long. How you've been? Keeping out of trouble?"

"You know me, Lennox." You looked up at him with a warm smile, slowly breaking away from his embrace. "Trouble just seems to follow wherever I go. Speaking of which... things gotta be bad for you to pull some strings to get my name picked."

A nervous chuckle escaped his lips, lowering his voice to just above a whisper as he wrapped an arm around your shoulders. "You have no idea." Guiding you a little closer to railings, Lennox cleared his throat and gestured to the Autobot. "Allow me to introduce you to the leader of the Autobots, Optimus Prime. Prime... this is Private Y/N, aka 'Valkyrie.' She's the intern I've personally chosen for Ratchet."

Swallowing your nerves, your heart fluttered a little as Prime's stern gaze softened. A welcoming smile spreading across his face plates as his blue optics settled upon you.

"A-A pleasure to meet you, sir."

"The pleasure is all mine." His smooth, calm tone melted your nerves. Causing a sweet smile to tug at your lips, "I've heard a great deal of good things about you from Major Lennox. He said you're quite an experienced medic, and had been... trained specifically for field duty, correct?"

"Correct. I've been serving the U.S military for three years. My experience varies on and off the field."

Optimus nodded in approval, a glimmer of hope flickered within his optics. "Regarding your earlier observation, I won't lie that things have been... difficult here. My medical officer, Ratchet has been... having issues with the interns assigned to him." Exhaustion crept into his words, rubbing his temples. "He's... not exactly impressed with them, and it's gotten your superiors... annoyed to say the least."

Lennox gave you a weak smile, "and... I figured, if anyone could work with Ratchet, despite his... rough edges, it's you. You're one of the best damn medics I've ever fought alongside with! And you know I've seen my fair share of skilled personnel during my career."

Your curious gaze flickered between the two, " so basically... you picked me because the Autobot keeps kicking out his inexperienced interns... how long have they lasted?"

Optimus and Lennox hesitated for moment, giving each other nervous glances before the major finally spoke up. "The longest was a week... the shortest was two hours."

"What?-"

"He's just... very strict with his demands. But you out of anyone would understand how a unit are highly dependent on the medical expertise of their medic!" Lennox gave your shoulder a comforting pat, "you've got what it takes, you've been out there! And to be fair it's not just him. The previous interns were... problematic too- but! I have full faith in you!-"

"Behind Ratchet's gruff exterior and sarcastic tone, lies a soft spark and a bot who genuinely cares for his team." Optimus assured, "you just... need to chip away at his concrete walls. Are you... familiar with Cybertronian biology? Or at least came up close to our kind?"

"Unfortunately... no. But that's why I'm here, to learn and become apart of this team." A small smirk teased the corners of your lips. "But as for getting 'up close' to your kind... does shooting a Decepticon in the face count?"

Optimus coughed out a chuckle, the air almost getting stuck within his vocal processor while Lennox tried to hide his smirk.

"Well... I suppose I should introduce you to Ratchet." Lennox spoke, finally clearing his throat and composing himself.

Optimus simply nodded, giving the pair of you a warm smile as Lennox gently guided you away from the railings and back towards the stairs of the scaffolding.

---

Approaching the neighboring hangar, which was surprisingly on the smaller side than the previous. Lennox paused before opening the medbay doors, giving you a slight glance over his shoulder. "You... might wanna wait out here for a minute. Ratchet... hates surprises."

"He's that bad, huh?" crossing your arms and raising an eyebrow.

"No. No, it's just..." a heavy sigh left Lennox. "The... 'higher ups' are constantly breathing down my neck and second guessing our whole operation- not just N.E.S.T, but the internship too. Surely you heard Galloways bullshit."

"I did... but I won't add further stress by poking and prodding you for information about what's going on. I'm sure I'll figure it out."

Lennox gave you a weak, appreciative smile before entering the medbay, leaving you outside as you subtlety peeked your head around the corner of the large door frame.

"What have you done this time, Ironhide?" the major attempted to keep his casual tone, as his footsteps echoed upon the tire-marked concrete flooring.

"Blasted Decepticon punk got a lucky shot at me!" Ironhide snarled as he man-handled the large cannon that refused to retract back into his forearm. An annoyed expression flashing across Ironhide's face plate while sitting at Ratchet's peds, a small huff escaping him as the medic pushed his servo away.

"That's what you get for being reckless during the mission." Lennox took a deep breath before turning his attention onto the Autobot medic. "Ratchet... I have someone important that I'd like you to meet."

The yellow and red Autobots' annoyed glare briefly flickered towards Lennox, before turning back to Ironhide's arm. "And who, exactly, do I need to meet right now?"

Lennox hesitated for a moment. "Your... new intern..."

Ratchet immedictly paused, his glare narrowing onto the major. "What?! You know I-" a heavy sigh escaped the medic as he stopped himself from arguing. Closing his optics tightly while pinching the bridge of his nose, "... who is it?"

"Private Y/N but she mainly goes by the nickname, 'Valkyrie.' She's a personal friend of mine- we fought alongside together back in my old unit during her first two years of service. You'll like her."

For the love of Primus, please tell me that this some sort of joke. Ratchet's servo ran down his face plate, Lennox's unfaltering expression caused the Autobot to let out a frustrated sigh. Great... another intern to get in my way. Just what I need! "... bring her in then."

Lennox briefly glanced at you over his shoulder, his hand giving a small gesture behind his back.

Taking a deep breath and composing yourself for a moment, before entering the medbay. Greeting both Autobot's with a professional smile, saluting once you reached Lennox's side. "Pleasure to meet you, Medical Officer Ratchet, sir. I'm looking forward to working with you."

Ratchet's skeptic expression slowly melted away, as his optics soaked in your appearance. Your polite yet professional tone made his shoulders relax, your body language and how your military uniform framed your toned and confident physic, grapsed Ratchet's attention. The suttle scars upon your skin was Lennox's proof that you were indeed experienced within the field.

She's certainly not giving me a awkward smile, or hiding behind Lennox. Perhaps... she's not gonna be as bad as the others.

"Likewise... Valkyrie... Welcome."

A low purr emerged from Ironhide's engine, as his optics roamed over your relaxed frame. His voice just above a whisper, "oh... she is a babe- ah!"

Annoyance flashed across Ratchet's optics, his gaze narrowed onto Ironhide as he whacked the weapons' specialist upside upon his helm. The medic's free servo clutched onto Ironhide's forearm tighter than necessary, causing the gun-metal coloured Autobot to wince in pain.

"Anyway..." attempting to ignore your confused expression, Ratchet's attention returned to Ironhide's arm. Picking up one of his tools from a nearby table, and adjusting a bolt within his comrade's inner circuits, "I assume Lennox has debriefed you..."

"Only that I'll be working alongside you. Learning and understanding what it's going to take to patch up you Autobots."

I suppose that's a good starting point. "You're going to be helping me in the medbay, yes. Though for your first day, today I'll just get you to learn basic Cybertronian anatomy. And depending on how the day goes, I might get you to watch how I treat the common injuries we get." Ratchet's optics briefly flickered at you, "and I mean, just watching. Don't try anything unless I say so. I've... had some rather eager interns in the past that didn't know how to stay put."

You gave the Autobot a firm nod, "understood. I know how annoying it can be, when someone's trying to stick their nose into your work."

A small, suttle sigh of relief escaped Lennox as he witnessed Ratchet's expression becoming more... neutral. A genuine smile teased the corners of the medic's lips, his optics softening. Fucking finally...

"Well... I'll leave you two, to it." Lennox whispered, patting you on the back. And giving Ratchet a 'I-told-you-so' smile, before leaving the medbay.

"I believe Lieutenant Smith placed your belongings on a desk over there." Ratchet gestured towards a stainless steel desk, it's 'human size' looked almost like dollhouse furniture, compared to the hologram monitors and workspaces that was more to Ratchet's height. Your duffle bag almost drowned under the piles of folders and paperwork, "apologies for the mess. But... feel free to settle in. Once I'm done with Ironhide, we'll start your training."

You briefly gave him a sweet smile, before approaching the desk which was somewhat tucked neatly away in the corner close to you. Ratchet continued fixing and adjusting the stuck cog within Ironhide's forearm, the gun-metal Autobot wincing as his cannon finally retracted.

"Hm... Perhaps your interns should of been femmes from the start- ah!-"

Ratchet's glare bore into his comrade's optics, a low snarl rumbling in the back his vocal processor. As the medic's grip upon Ironhide's forearm tightened, scratching his paint, "shut. It!"

The weapon's specialist pulled his limb away, but his teasing smirk never leaving his lips. His flirtatious gaze lingering on you for a brief moment before turning away, and finally leaving the medbay.

A heavy sigh left Ratchet as he pinched the bridge of his nose. Taking a moment to compose himself before looking at you, only to raise an optic ridge. Annoyance should of bubbled within his chassis, as his gaze watched you organize the mess upon the human-sized desk. Taking a brief glance into the files, before you placed them in their respected piles.

Instead, curiosity peaked his interest as you seemed become distracted by a particular folder within your hands. Ratchet's spark subtly pulsed a little quicker, as his optics soaked in your focused expression. It was as though he seemed to... admire your interest...

"That folder you have there... might be classified."

"Oh!" quickly snapping the folder shut, surprise slightly flickering across your features as your wide eyes witnessed the medic kneel towards you. The realization of the size difference between you becoming more obvious than before, "sorry. I was... just curious... about Megatron."

"I... understand your curiosity. But those papers relating to Megatron are restricted for a reason." His firm tone matched his body language, holding out a servo towards you.

Only for a mixture of appreciation and surprise flicker within his optics, when your soft gaze looked up at him. A sweet apologetic smile spreading across your lips, as you held out the folder towards him. The object looking comedicly out of place within the palm of his servo. She... didn't argue or protest? Just... accepted the restricted access...

"He seemed like one tough son-of-a-bitch."

A small hint of concern eased into you, as Ratchet's servo curled into a tight fist.

"You... could say that." Ratchet's tone slowly changed back to his gruff demeanor, but his words held a sharp edge. "He was one cruel and sadistic bastard. He and the Decepticons would stoop down to any level! Even if that level is tearing out the still beating spark of their foe!"

Sympathy and concern softened your features. The hidden memories reckoning within his words, tugged upon your heart strings.

"I've... had my fair share of encounters with him. Almost came close to... deactivation more than once because of him."

A small moment of hesitation stole your voice before you could squeak out your question. "De...activation...?"

A heavy sigh escaped Ratchet, as his optics briefly looked away from you. It's probably best if she hears it from me, than the others. "In 'our' terms... it basically means death. I've... came very close to it by Megatron's hands."

Ratchet's spark fluttered as you placed a hand over his closed digits. Your gentle touch sending warmth throughout his frame, causing his shoulders to relax. A stuttle heat slowly spread across his faceplate, as his processors burned your sweet, comforting smile deep into his memory core. Why... does she make me feel... so-

"Badass ice-cream truck coming through!-"

"Excuse me. Excuse me!-"

A small yelp of surprise escaped you, as two playful voices suddenly disturbed the air as a 1930's Chevrolet truck came into view. The pink and white paint almost completely faded away, only to be overtaken by dirt and rust.

The back of your legs pushed up against the stainless steel desk, as you leaned backwards. Confusion washed away your previous expression, as the voice's came from the singular vehicle. Ratchet closed his optics as annoyce begun to bubble back up within him.

"That... would be Skids and Mudflap..." the medic sighed.

Your confused yet curious gaze followed the 1930's ice-cream truck roam around the other side of the medbay hangar, leaving new tire-marks upon the concrete flooring as it circled two Mini Coopers. The red and green colours shining like new, polished metal compared to the truck.

"Hold up-"

"Those are nice. Yeah baby, it's upgrade time-"

"Yeah, sir yeah! Look here, it's my booty call right here!"

You looked at Ratchet with a puzzled expression. Giving the medic a silent question as he rubbed his temples, do they... even know what a 'booty call' is...?

The sound of turning cogs, whirling gears and shifting positions filled the air, making your eyes widen as the truck separated into two small Autobots. Possibly coming to Ratchet's waist if they stood next to his 20ft frame.

"Time to get my sexy on with the green-"

"Green? No, the green's mine! I call green!-"

You quickly reached for Ratchet's servo, your touch barely covering the tip of his digit, as the medic remained knelt beside you like a protective giant. A small gasp escaped your lips as Skids tackled Mudflap to the ground, causing violent vibrations to echo throughout the hangar and beneath your feet. You winced at the sound of metal clashing against metal, as the twins fists collided. Another vibration echoed through floor, like a ripple through water, as Skids grabbed his brother into a headlock, flipping the younger Autobot over his frame and forcing Mudflap onto his back.

"I got the green!-"

"That hurts man!-"

"It's supposed to hurt. It's an ass-kicking!"

Another heavy sigh escaped Ratchet as he tried to compose himself, still rubbing his temples while his free servo still welcomed your soft touch. For Primus sake...

[balrogballs]

The Clean Break

a little take on Aragorn and Elrond’s final meeting, a removed scene from Cast in Stone (no context required; it’s canon compliant) that I liked too much to toss.

Aragorn was Estel when he broke his wrist, somewhere between five and six years old. It was a perfectly ordinary break, which happened for a perfectly ordinary reason: he had been running about on a wet floor, slipped, and crashed over a threshold. Elladan and Elrohir had come running at his wails, picked him up and took him to Elrond.

He remembers how Elrond explained to him that it was a clean break, and a very small one — it would stop hurting in a few days if he kept it still. The twins, those ardent connoisseurs of broken bones, had kept up a steady stream of joking patter to distract him whilst their father slowly applied a pain-relieving poultice and began to wrap up the wound.

Estel had been sobbing and sobbing, regardless of how mild the injury truly was. He was only five years old, and was more frightened than hurt, because he had never broken a bone in his life and he did not understand what everyone was doing, did not understand why his arm was being covered in white cloth, and it did hurt quite a lot, so he wailed.

And at some point in the process, he remembers looking up and realising that his father was crying too. Elrond hadn't made a sound, but his cheeks were awash in silent, indecipherable tears. Aragorn remembers how his expression didn't change at all, blank and beautiful in the white afternoon light: wrought from stone like a weeping statue, a quiet miracle, a promise of faith.

He remembers Elladan's tense, barked-out "Ada! What is it? What is wrong? You said it’s a clean break!"

And Aragorn remembers how Elrond had sat back on his heels and smiled, the motion pulling his features back into familiar lines. He remembers sitting silently, watching the last tears fall down the marble face, as Elrond said: "hush, my boy, you will scare Estel. Nothing is wrong, it is only a clean break. He will be fine tomorrow."

"Then why are you in tears?" Elrohir had asked, equally worried.

"Oh dear, am I? Aha, I am. Truly, it is only because he is," Elrond admitted sheepishly, sniffing. He had stroked a lock of hair back from Estel's face, laughing self-consciously, and his voice shook only a little. "I hate seeing him in pain. It breaks my heart seeing him cry so ceaselessly, even for such a small cause. It is only that, Elrohir, do not worry."

At the time, the twins had laughed, teased their father for his softness as they often did, made so many jokes about it that even little Estel, who didn't really understand the fuss and at the time had just probably assumed Elrond had a broken wrist too, was laughing alongside the three of them for absolutely no reason at all. It was casual, domestic, completely ordinary and commonplace as far as his childhood went: there were funnier incidents, sadder scenes, happier conversations.

But for some reason, this one is Aragorn's first real memory. The day he broke his wrist is the scaffolding he built his life atop, the day he looked at his father and found something sacred within him.

________

"I thought for a very long time," Aragorn says, on the tallest tower in Minas Tirith, their final meeting. "About what I could give you as a parting gift."

"If it is anything extravagant," Elrond warns him, raising a finger. "You know as well as I that I will take it to mean you are offering me a bride price, and I will take deep offence."

Aragorn grins, winks: "it's actually less than worthless, financially speaking" and cackles at how Elrond actually looks somehow more offended at that option.

"And what is this less than worthless thing you are donating to the one who raised you all your life?" he raises his eyebrows, a smile playing on his lips. "What castoff hand-me-down do you deign to bestow me with?”

"I know you must be weary of rings," Aragorn gestures at Vilya, winking away on Elrond's finger. "But perhaps this one may restore your faith in them."

"I am of a race that thinks nothing: jewels, lives, wars, is eternal," he continues, hair drifting over his face. "Of an old jewelry box my mother had, many trinkets were lost to time, some earrings were without a pair. And such loss of heirlooms never grieved us. After all, they were not ours to grieve."

"The oddest thing in the box was an old, battered golden ring. When I was first given the collection, I was only twenty yet already that ring was far too small for me. I thought that it belonged to a petite woman, perhaps a sister or a mother. Yet more recently, I was thinking of it and it confused me — why would a noblewoman own a cheap, plain ring? The other stones in the box were all precious, valuable, true heirlooms. When my mother died, she told me to pass them on to my children, and I will: but with this ring, I intend to disobey her."

"It was only some weeks ago, as Arwen showed me her own rings, that I realised something," said Aragorn, fishing around in his collar. "That this trinket I carry was no woman's ring, it was made to be worn by a child. You had given me one of these too, if you recall, as per tradition — on my sixth begetting day, a flat gold ring like this with my name carved into the inside. That was when I looked closer at this one, at the inscription on the inside of its hollow."

He unfastens the clasp on the chain, slips a small ring into Elrond's palm. He watches as all the blood leaves the elf's face only to be replaced by a harsh, terrible expression.

"Nothing is eternal, Ada," repeats Aragorn. "But some things should be."

"You are — you are giving me this?" Elrond's voice is strangled, eyes wide. "It —"

"I am. It is not mine to grieve."

Elrond does not say a word, does not even look at Aragorn, instead turning away and walking towards the far side of the balcony where he stood silently, ring clutched tightly in a shaking fist. Aragorn allows him to hold on to dignity.

Dignity, and a small, burnished gold ring.

It was rather battered, some of the plating rubbed off, a groove carved into it from all the times its owner tied it to a string and used it to tease cats with. It had a small dent in the frame, warping it slightly, and if you looked closely you could make out a little tooth mark, as though someone had a habit of gnawing at it. It was less valuable heirloom, more solid proof that the ancient king Elros Tar-Minyatur of Numenor, had once been a messy, careless little boy.

A few minutes pass, in which neither of them speak.

"I had nothing of him," Elrond tells him quietly after a while. "All my life, I had nothing of him at all. It had felt wrong, you see, sailing off to Numenor and demanding his possessions from his grieving children. So for five thousand years, I had nothing of him."

"But I never told you of him," Elrond's voice is searching, harsh and confused, trying to find a justification for the gift. "I had never told you of him, and yes, you had known of him from your lessons but I had tried so hard never to speak of him to you lest you, for one second, thought that I only loved you because you were the heir of Elros. You had no reason to know how I loved him, how fiercely I missed him, how I had nothing of him at all."

Elrond sounds almost angry, wrenching the words through gritted teeth like a scolding, his back still turned to Aragorn: "who made you so kind, Estel? Who made you so selfless — that you — that you give me this without ever being told — that you thought of it — who made you, boy?"

Elrond is breathing in deep, clarifying breaths and Aragorn stands there silently. He does not answer any of the fevered questions. It was Elrond, after all, who once told him over a chalkboard: stupid questions did not deserve answers.

"I never wanted to hurt you, Ada," says Aragorn at last, when only a sliver of sun is left behind in the sky. "Not for a moment. That is why I had… I had… that is why I had hoped we could have a clean break. I just didn't want to hurt you."

"I know you didn't," Elrond says, half-smiling as he turns back, composed again yet not entirely unruffled. "But I would rather it hurt in such a way, than it not hurt at all."

"Would you?"

"Of course," Elrond tells him, unconsciously running a finger across the flat, golden surface of the ring he had slid onto his smallest finger. "After all, the most treasured things in the world are only so valued because of how debilitatingly painful it would be to lose them."

Aragorn cannot speak. He has dawdled and delayed, pushed this parting to a cliff-edge, given gifts and made jokes, all the while waiting for a clean break that would never come for those who love like the two of them. He walks forward in a daze, and Elrond takes him into his arms and Aragorn is five again — building a life atop the scaffolding of the heart Elrond offered to him.

"I do not know what divinity made you this way," his father's voice is rough as he repeats his earlier question, but it does not break. "I do not know which of the Valar wielded the knife that carved you out of kindness. But I am glad, Estel, so glad that I know you."

Aragorn stays pressed in that embrace, shaking. He fights a sudden, absurd urge to laugh and roll his eyes, to say don't ask stupid questions, to say who made me kind? oh, I don't know, perhaps the one who loved me so wholly that he beheld a five year old's silly, childish tears, and wept that I shed them at all.

Still, he does not move: he does not want to see Elrond's face, does not want to see his own, not at this moment. Time passes, strains like molasses through linen, slowly and with great reluctance. At last, the king draws away and takes in this final image, the one who raised him standing before his son with an inscrutable expression on his face.

When he was younger, Aragorn used to think it might make it easier for his father to bend with the marred world if he learned how to be as cruel as it was, instead of taking each slap in the face as a surprise. But he understands now that whilst he wasn't looking, the marred world had bent itself to Elrond's gentleness; that it is a strength, an honest one, to be kind when the world not only abides by cruelty but insists upon it.

Aragorn cannot bring himself to turn and leave, wanting to brand Elrond’s face into the back of his eyelids with knife-hot tears. It is anything but a clean break.

“I cannot bring myself to turn,” he admits, the moonlight limning the silver in his hair. “Because when I turn, you'll be gone, and it will be the end of everything. Is this the end of everything now, Ada? Are we done now, you and I?"

Elrond smiles, looking at Aragorn in the same way he had always looked at him, every day since the moment he was put in his arms: eyes bright with unconditional adoration, unashamed pride, and a constant, total faith in him. He shakes his head.

"You and I will never be done,” he says softly; resolute. It is the only oath he ever makes.

[raayllum]

Is there like‚ some kind of symbolism of Claudia fixing Callum's hair VS Rayla lovely touching it?

There's probably a whole mini meta just waiting in TDP about hair (how Soren parts his hair switching post-timeskip to reflect how he's literally switched sides; Claudia's moon symbolism hair, which I do have a meta for in my drafts rn) so to put it simply: yes, I think so!

Claudia cares a lot about appearances. This ties into how much she hates feeling judged ("you're doing it again prince judy-face!" / "here to judge me, captain true heart?"). She values things looking put together, largely because she puts more emphasis on things being Physically okay rather than considering someone's emotional state (i.e. overruling Viren and Soren in S2 and S4 respectively). We see this overtly in "Lost Child":

“You’re still here. Even though I’m…” She gestured at herself, to something beyond the soil-soaked boots and tearstained face: a total mess. [...] A moment later, she blinked into the pond; her reflection beamed up at her. Her eyes brighter, her face fuller, more color in her cheeks. Small changes, but still—There I am, she thought.

We also see this in show canon. She checks with the little leaf-cub creature in 6x04 that her new haircut suits her. She also reflects that maybe seeing the creature as parts is bad, implicitly, because the creature is so cute/adorable. (This is in stark contrast to Ezran who reflects a season earlier in 5x06 that sea slugs may look gross, but they have a rich inner life and he's regularly made friends with them. Post with that comparison here)

Another consistent facet of Claudia is that her compliments are sometimes not entirely compliments. This happens just once with Terry ("Claudia says that makes me weird, and wonderful, so...") as she more readily compliments him ("you saved the day!" / "goofy and glorious just like you!"), but it happens basically any of the few times she compliments/offers praise etc. to Callum in any manner.

It was completely ridiculous. Adorable. Did you just say adorable? Did I? (1x02)

That was very confident Callum. Oh, thanks. Even if your hair's a little messy. (2x02)

You didn't open it? Why would I do that? [The letter] is for you. Though I could've easily opened it and then resealed it with magic. Did you? Did I? We may never know. But no. No.

Yeah, you always were a very clever human, weren't you, Callum? (4x08)

Impressive, Callum. Somehow you learned primal magic. But dark magic will always have the edge. (7x07)

(AKA she giveth and she taketh away.)

So Claudia fixes Callum's hair. She compliments him, but also makes him more nervous. She adjusts his appearance to something she thinks is 'better' (cleaner). Absolutely none of it is malicious, but it does reaffirm that when crushing on her Callum never felt entirely comfortable around her despite being longtime friends, whereas even though Rayla can be much gruffer, Callum feels a lot more comfortable around her (even once he develops feelings) in general.

So there's the obvious level of comfort (Rayla) vs non-comfort (Claudia), as well as a longstanding childhood crush vs what has blossomed into more mature, enduring love of 3+ years as of the end of 7x09.

Claudia sees that his hair is messy and points it out; Rayla sees that his hair is messy and quietly fixes it herself, doing so simply and leaving Callum looking more relaxed than before, rather than less like in 2x02.

Rayla, as we know, doesn't really care about appearances. She routinely doesn't care about titles, she goes with what her gut tells her, and anytime she expresses distress over her appearance ("I'm a mess") it's scaffolded under "I'm showing weakness" rather "I look bad". There's a similar fear of judgement lurking underneath as Claudia's, but I don't think Rayla sees herself as a Good Person the same Claudia does, and therefore doesn't have the need to keep seeing herself that way in the same manner.

Either way, Callum is always Callum to her ("You're so gross" with a fond smile on her face; his scarf is smelly and he knows it and just smirks at her over it; "you're a good person, Callum, maybe the goodest," etc), and always her Callum — her heart, her home, her best friend and partner — and that's what the 7x09 scene is ultimately about, I think.

Do me the honour of letting me talk a bit about hair-touching and white streaks, though, for a second, when it comes to Claudia, Terry, Callum, and Rayla.

Because despite Claudia and Terry being very touchy-feely for 3.5/4 seasons, Terry never once touches Claudia's hair in quite the same manner or framing that we see in 7x09. He touches her hair, sure — he braids it for her and then later cuts it — but this is the closest we get to an adjustment, which is when he's bathing her and cleaning her up in 6x03.

Now, pushing the white hair and all its associations to get to Claudia, flesh and blood and very much still alive, underneath would be ripe enough as a symbolic examination, honestly. The reason why this feels so different to me than 7x09, I think then, is that there are two scenes 7x09 mirrors when it comes to someone touching Claudia's hair in the "facing the camera, strands on the face/cheek" directly shot.

And it's herself.

SOREN: You saw what Dad turned Kasef into. What Dad turned into. Claudia, you're changing too. (3x07)

CLAUDIA: But... I'm still nice. I'm still me. (7x09)

In both instances, she's not willing to admit that Soren is right / that she's changed (or, arguably, that she needs to change just in the opposite direction). She touches it first as a sign of shame in the face of her brother's words, the first white streak in her dark hair. Then she touches one of the few dark streaks that remain, reassuring herself (because nobody else will or can at this point) that she's still the person she thinks of herself as, someone who's still nice ('good').

Callum, meanwhile, never touches his white streak. He wakes Rayla up in the middle of the night (which she takes much better than I would, I can say that much) and offers his scarf, asking if she trusts him. But Rayla notices his hair is a little askew, so she tidies it for him. And the whole time, his expression is completely open, smiling and trusting her in turn... even when she hasn't actually answered his question yet, and his expression softens even before she has too.

She doesn't tuck or hide it away. It's a part of him, and therefore a part she loves ("Everything"). And he knows it.