#THIS IS THE FUTURE DO THEY EVEN HAVE DRIVER LICENSES?

[mostlysignssomeportents]

It was all downhill after the Cuecat

Sometime in 2001, I walked into a Radio Shack on San Francisco’s Market Street and asked for a Cuecat: a handheld barcode scanner that looked a bit like a cat and a bit like a sex toy. The clerk handed one over to me and I left, feeling a little giddy. I didn’t have to pay a cent.

The Cuecat was a good idea and a terrible idea. The good idea was to widely distribute barcode scanners to computer owners, along with software that could read and decode barcodes; the company’s marketing plan called for magazines and newspapers to print barcodes alongside ads and articles, so readers could scan them and be taken to the digital edition. To get the Cuecat into widespread use, the company raised millions in the capital markets, then mass-manufactured these things and gave them away for free at Radio Shacks around the country. Every Wired and Forbes subscriber got one in the mail!

That was the good idea (it’s basically a prototype for today’s QR-codes). The terrible idea was that this gadget would spy on you. Also, it would only work with special barcodes that had to be licensed from the manufacturer. Also, it would only work on Windows.

https://web.archive.org/web/20001017162623/http://www.businessweek.com/bwdaily/dnflash/sep2000/nf20000928_029.htm

But the manufacturer didn’t have the last word! Not at all. A couple of enterprising hardware hackers — Pierre-Philippe Coupard and Michael Rothwell — tore down a Cuecat, dumped its ROM, and produced their own driver for it — a surveillance-free driver that worked with any barcode. You could use it to scan the UPCs on your books or CDs or DVDs to create a catalog of your media; you could use it to scan UPCs on your groceries to make a shopping list. You could do any and every one of these things, because the Cuecat was yours.

Cuecat’s manufacturer, Digital Convergence, did not like this at all. They sent out legal demand letters and even shut down some of the repositories that were hosting alternative Cuecat firmware. They changed the license agreement that came with the Cuecat software CD to prohibit reverse-engineering.

http://www.cexx.org/cuecat.htm

It didn’t matter, both as a practical matter and as a matter of law. As a practical matter, the (ahem) cat was out of the bag: there were so many web-hosting companies back then, and people mirrored the code to so many of them, the company would have its hands full chasing them all down and intimidating them into removing the code.

Then there was the law: how could you impose license terms on a gift? How could someone be bound by license terms on a CD that they simply threw away without ever opening it, much less putting it in their computer?

https://slashdot.org/story/00/09/18/1129226/digital-convergence-changes-eula-and-gets-cracked

In the end, Cuecat folded and sold off its remaining inventory. The early 2000s were not a good time to be a tech company, much less a tech company whose business model required millions of people to meekly accept a bad bargain.

Back then, tech users didn’t feel any obligation to please tech companies’ shareholders: if they backed a stupid business, that was their problem, not ours. Venture capitalists were capitalists — if they wanted us give to them according to their need and take from them according to their ability, they should be venture communists.

Last August, philosopher and Centre for Technomoral Futures director Shannon Vallor tweeted, “The saddest thing for me about modern tech’s long spiral into user manipulation and surveillance is how it has just slowly killed off the joy that people like me used to feel about new tech. Every product Meta or Amazon announces makes the future seem bleaker and grayer.”

https://twitter.com/ShannonVallor/status/1559659655097376768

She went on: “I don’t think it’s just my nostalgia, is it? There’s no longer anything being promised to us by tech companies that we actually need or asked for. Just more monitoring, more nudging, more draining of our data, our time, our joy.”

https://twitter.com/ShannonVallor/status/1559663985821106177

Today on Tumblr, @wilwheaton​ responded: “[T]here is very much no longer a feeling of ‘How can this change/improve my life?’ and a constant dread of ‘How will this complicate things as I try to maintain privacy and sanity in a world that demands I have this thing to operate.’”

https://wilwheaton.tumblr.com/post/698603648058556416/cory-doctorow-if-you-see-this-and-have-thoughts

Wil finished with, “Cory Doctorow, if you see this and have thoughts, I would LOVE to hear them.”

I’ve got thoughts. I think this all comes back to the Cuecat.

When the Cuecat launched, it was a mixed bag. That’s generally true of technology — or, indeed, any product or service. No matter how many variations a corporation offers, they can never anticipate all the ways that you will want or need to use their technology. This is especially true for the users the company values the least — poor people, people in the global south, women, sex workers, etc.

That’s what makes the phrase “So easy your mom can use it” particularly awful “Moms” are the kinds of people whose priorities and difficulties are absent from the room when tech designers gather to plan their next product. The needs of “moms” are mostly met by mastering, configuring and adapting technology, because tech doesn’t work out of the box for them:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/05/19/the-weakest-link/#moms-are-ninjas

(As an alternative, I advocate for “so easy your boss can use it,” because your boss gets to call up the IT department and shout, “I don’t care what it takes, just make it work!” Your boss can solve problems through raw exercise of authority, without recourse to ingenuity.)

Technology can’t be understood separately from technology users. This is the key insight in Donald Norman’s 2004 book Emotional Design, which argued that the ground state of all technology is broken, and the overarching task of tech users is to troubleshoot the things they use:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/04/29/banjo-nazis/#cuckoos-egg

Troubleshooting is both an art and a science: it requires both a methodical approach and creative leaps. The great crisis of troubleshooting is that the more frustrated and angry you are, the harder it is to be methodical or creative. Anger turns attention into a narrow tunnel of brittle movements and thinking.

In Emotional Design, Norman argues that technology should be beautiful and charming, because when you like a technology that has stopped working, you are able to troubleshoot it in an expansive, creative, way. Emotional Design was not merely remarkable for what it said, but for who said it.

Donald Norman, after all, was the author of the hugely influential 1998 classic The Design of Everyday Things, which counseled engineers and designers to put function over form — to design things that work well, even if that meant stripping away ornament and sidelining aesthetics.

https://www.basicbooks.com/titles/don-norman/the-design-of-everyday-things/9780465050659/

With Emotional Design, Norman argued that aesthetics were functional, because aesthetics primed users to fix the oversights and errors and blind spots of designers. It was a manifesto for competence and humility.

And yet, as digital technology has permeated deeper into our lives, it has grown less configurable, not more. Companies today succeed where Cuecat failed. Consolidation in the online world means that if you remove a link from one search engine and four social media sites, the material in question vanishes for 99% of internet users.

It’s even worse for apps: anyone who succeeds in removing an app from two app stores essentially banishes it from the world. One mobile platform uses technological and legal countermeasures to make it virtually impossible to sideload an app; the other one relies on strong-arm tactics and deceptive warnings to do so.

That means that when a modern Coupard and Rothwell decides to unfuck some piece of technology — to excise the surveillance and proprietary media requirements, leaving behind the welcome functionality — they can only do so with the sufferance of the manufacturer. If the manufacturer doesn’t like an add-on, mod, plug-in or overlay, they can use copyright takedowns, anticircumvention law, patent threats, trademark threats, cybersecurity law, contract law and other “IP” to simply banish the offending code:

https://locusmag.com/2020/09/cory-doctorow-ip/

Many of these laws carry dire penalties. For example, distributing a tool that bypasses an “access control” so that you can change the software on a gadget (say, to make your printer accept third-party ink) is a felony under Section 1201 of the DMCA, punishable by a $500k fine and a 5-year prison sentence.

If Cuecat’s manufacturers had simply skinned their firmware with a thin scrim of DRM, they could have threatened Coupard and Rothwell with prison sentences. The developments in “IP” over the two decades since the Cuecat have conjured up a new body of de facto law that Jay Freeman calls “felony contempt of business model.”

Once we gave companies the power to literally criminalize the reconfiguration of their products, everything changed. In the Cuecat era, a corporate meeting to plan a product that acted against its users’ interests had to ask, “How will we sweeten the pot and/or obfuscate our code so that our users don’t remove the anti-features we’re planning to harm them with?”

But in a world of Felony Contempt of Business Model, that discussion changes to “Given that we can literally imprison anyone who helps our users get more out of this product, how can we punish users who are disloyal enough to simply quit our service or switch away from our product?”

That is, “how can we raise the switching costs of our products so that users who are angry at us keep using our products?” When Facebook was planning its photos product, they deliberately designed it to tempt users into making it the sole repository of their family photos, in order to hold those photos ransom to keep Facebook users from quitting for G+:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2021/08/facebooks-secret-war-switching-costs

Companies claim that their lock-in strategies are about protecting their users: “Move into our walled garden, for it is a fortress, whose battlements bristle with fearsome warriors who will defend you from the bandits who roam the countryside”:

https://locusmag.com/2021/01/cory-doctorow-neofeudalism-and-the-digital-manor/

But this “feudal security” offers a terrible temptation to the lords of these fortresses, because once you are inside those walls, the fortress can easily be converted to a prison: these companies can abuse you with impunity, for so long as the cost of the abuse is less than the cost of the things you must give up when you leave.

The tale that companies block you from overriding their decisions is for your own good was always dubious, because companies simply can’t anticipate all the ways their products will fail you. No design team knows as much about your moment-to-moment struggles as you do.

But even where companies are sincere in their desire to be the most benevolent of dictators, the gun on the mantelpiece in Act I is destined to go off by Act III: eventually, the temptation to profit by hurting you will overpower whatever “corporate ethics” once stayed the hand of the techno-feudalist who rules over your fortress. Under feudal security, you are one lapse in corporate leadership from your protector turning into your tormentor.

When Apple launched the Ipad 12 years ago, I published an editorial entitled “Why I won’t buy an iPad (and think you shouldn’t, either),” in which I predicted that app stores would inevitable be turned against users:

https://memex.craphound.com/2010/04/01/why-i-wont-buy-an-ipad-and-think-you-shouldnt-either/

Today, Apple bans apps if they “use…a third-party service” unless they “are specifically permitted to do so under the service’s terms of use.” In other words, Apple specifically prohibits developers from offering tools that displease other companies’ shareholders, no matter whether this pleases Apple customers:

https://developer.apple.com/app-store/review/guidelines/#intellectual-property

Note that clause 5.2.2 of Apple’s developer agreement doesn’t say “You mustn’t violate a legally enforceable term of service.” It just says, “Thou shalt not violate a EULA.” EULAs are garbage-novellas of impenetrable legalese, larded with unenforceable and unconscionable terms.

Apple sometimes will displease other companies on your behalf. For example, it instituted a one-click anti-tracking setting for Ios that cost Facebook $10 billion in a matter of months:

https://www.cnbc.com/2022/02/02/facebook-says-apple-ios-privacy-change-will-cost-10-billion-this-year.html

But Apple also has big plans to expand its margins by growing its own advertising network. When Apple customers choose ad-blockers that block Apple’s ads, will Apple permit it?

https://www.wired.com/story/apple-is-an-ad-company-now/

The problem with app stores isn’t whether your computing experience is “curated” — that is, whether entities you trust can produce collections of software they vouch for. The problem is when you can’t choose someone else — when leaving a platform involves high switching costs, whether that’s having to replace hardware, buy new media, or say goodbye to your friends, customers, community or family.

When a company can leverage its claims to protecting you to protect itself from you — from choices you might make that ultimately undermine its shareholders interests, even if they protect your own interests — it would be pretty goddamned naive to expect it to do otherwise.

More and more of our tools are now digital tools, whether we’re talking about social media or cars, tractors or games consoles, toothbrushes or ovens:

https://www.hln.be/economie/gentse-foodboxleverancier-mealhero-failliet-klanten-weten-van-niets~a3139f52/

And more and more, those digital tools look more like apps than Cuecats, with companies leveraging “IP” to let them control who can compete with them — and how. Indeed, browsers are becoming more app-like, rather than the other way around.

Back in 2017, the W3C took the unprecedented step of publishing a DRM standard despite this standard not having anything like the consensus that is the norm for W3C publications, and the W3C rejected a proposal to protect people who reverse-engineered that standard to add accessibility features or correct privacy defects:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2017/09/open-letter-w3c-director-ceo-team-and-membership

And while we’re seeing remarkable progress on Right to Repair and other policies that allow the users of technology to override the choices of vendors, there’s another strong regulatory current that embraces companies’ ability to control their users, in the hopes that these big companies will police their users to prevent bad stuff, from controversial measures like filtering for copyright infringement to more widely supported ideas like blocking child sex abuse material (CSAM, AKA “child porn”).

There are two problems with this. First, if we tell companies they must control their users (that is, block them from running plugins, mods, skins, filters, etc) then we can’t tell them that they must not control their users. It comes down to whether you want to make Mark Zuckerberg better at his job, or whether you want to abolish the job of “Mark Zuckerberg.”

https://doctorow.medium.com/unspeakable-8c7bbd4974bc

Then there’s the other problem — the gun on the mantelpiece problem. If we give big companies the power to control their users, they will face enormous internal pressure to abuse that power. This isn’t a hypothetical risk: Facebook’s top executives stand accused of accepting bribes from Onlyfans in exchange for adding performers who left Onlyfans to a terrorist watchlist, which meant they couldn’t use other platforms:

https://gizmodo.com/clegg-meta-executives-identified-in-onlyfans-bribery-su-1849649270

I’m not a fan of terrorist watchlists, for obvious reasons. But letting Facebook manage the terrorist watchlist was clearly a mistake. But Facebook’s status as a “trusted reporter” grows directly out of Facebook’s good work on moderation. The lesson is the same as the one with Apple and the ads — just because the company sometimes acts in our interests, it doesn’t follow that we should always trust them to do so.

Back to Shannon Vallor’s question about the origins of “modern tech’s long spiral into user manipulation and surveillance” and how that “killed off the joy that people like me used to feel about new tech”; and Wil Wheaton’s “constant dread of ‘How will this complicate things as I try to maintain privacy and sanity.”

Tech leaders didn’t get stupider or crueler since those halcyon days. The tech industry was and is filled with people who made their bones building weapons of mass destruction for the military-industrial complex; IBM, the company that gave us the PC, built the tabulating machines for Nazi concentration camps:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/IBM_and_the_Holocaust

We didn’t replace tech investors and leaders with worse people — we have the same kinds of people but we let them get away with more. We let them buy up all their competitors. We let them use the law to lock out competitors they couldn’t buy, including those who would offer their customers tools to lower their switching costs and block abusive anti-features.

We decided to create “Felony Contempt of Business Model,” and let the creators of the next Cuecat reach beyond the walls of their corporate headquarters and into the homes of their customers, the offices of their competitors, and the handful of giant tech sites that control our online discourse, to reach into those places and strangle anything that interfered with their commercial desires.

That’s why plans to impose interoperability on tech giants are so exciting — because the problem with Facebook isn’t “the people I want to speak to are all gathered in one convenient place,” no more than the problem with app stores isn’t “these companies generally have good judgment about which apps I want to use.”

The problem is that when those companies don’t have your back, you have to pay a blisteringly high price to leave their walled gardens. That’s where interop comes in. Think of how an interoperable Facebook could let you leave behind Zuckerberg’s dominion without forswearing access to the people who matter to you:

https://www.eff.org/interoperablefacebook

Cuecats were cool. The people who made them were assholes. Interop meant that you could get the cool gadget and tell the assholes to fuck off. We have lost the ability to do so, little by little, for decades, and that’s why a new technology that seems cool no longer excites. That’s why we feel dread — because we know that a cool technology is just bait to lure us into a prison that masquerades as a fortress.

Image: Jerry Whiting (modified) https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:CueCat_barcode_scanner.jpg

CC BY-SA 3.0: https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/deed.en

[Image ID: A Cuecat scanner with a bundled cable and PS/2 adapter; it resembles a plastic cat and also, slightly, a sex toy. It is posed on a Matrix movie 'code waterfall' background and limned by a green 'supernova' light effect.]

[ieatangstforbreakfast]

“Love you a little too much.”

Pairing ೃ⁀➷ Earth 42! Miles Morales x Fem! Reader

Summary ೃ⁀➷ Lovers have secrets of their own, no matter how much they come to trust each other, whether it be a past mistake or an unspoken trauma. For you and Miles, however, your secrets came in the form of hidden identities— one being a masked vigilante, and the other a mastermind.

Genre ೃ⁀➷ Forbidden love, mutual pining, eventual angst♡

Tags ೃ⁀➷ Both are artists, reader is from a very wealthy family, both are living double lives, underaged smoking, reader is female and uses she/her pronouns, forbidden love (ish?), swearing, daddy issues, mommy issues, reader is unhinged, both are mentally unstable, lots of flirting.

Author's Note ೃ⁀➷ so I kinda switched it up and in this fanfic, reader is the one giving mixed signals.

Chapter 2: The Secrets You Keep

Warning ೃ⁀➷ Profane language, underaged smoking, mixed signals, horrible Spanish, mommy issues.

FIC MASTERLIST

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Silvery pavements, busy streets, neon lights, and brick-cold air.

New York never truly rests, as they say. A concrete jungle where dreams were once made of. All of what was once so promising about the Yorker dream was plucked out individually with each passing year; money, careers, romance, and peace. Even now, you try to find the beauty of what was once the New York your mother adored, yet what only stared back was this desolate, tragic dystopia. A city that's fallen to ruin.

As the traffic unknots, Miles gently nudges you to the inner part of the sidewalk— subtly shielding you away from the vehicles.

Gentlemen, your mother used to always say. You'll find them not in the fineness of their clothes, but in the way they treat their women.

You can almost picture her, sitting right in front of you with that sickly sweet grin on her face, pearls hanging from her neck and mascara running down her cheeks. Buried beneath her wedding band was a dying cigarette, to which she pulls to slip in between her lips— taking consecutive sips.

There was almost never a time your mother was a mess.

Almost.

Staring at your mother was like staring into a wretched mirror. You were everything she could've been, and she was all you might become.

There was nothing more frightening than looking into your future and finding nothing promising.

"Hey, that's new." And Miles, yet again, pulls you out of your murky thoughts.

"What is?" You pique, the sight of the city dragged back into your sights. Miles points at the ivy-covered building in front of you. It gleamed in warm colors inside, a sight utterly fitting of the autumn season. Its wide, Palladian windows were embellished with orange curtains and striped green dormers. Atop the roof sat a sign, the name of the establishment written in bold, vermilion cursive. You were lulled by the smell of s'mores, hot chocolate, and pie— all the sweet things that reminded you of your precious childhood memories. It had you standing there, reminiscing over the times that were long gone.

"I think it's a café and a book store. Two in one, pretty neat." Miles mentions, looking over to the sight of you. The store's lights seeped out the windows, its golden hues gleaming over your face, highlighting your lashes. You were too lost in thought to even notice his staring.

"How pretty." You airily whispered.

"Yeah." Miles replies, sights still glued onto you.

His gaze soon lowers, noticing your trembling hands fiddling with the hem of your hoodie— a habit the both of you shared. Hesitantly, he lifts his finger, urging to intertwine it with yours.

"Do you think I can apply as a part-timer there?"

He shoves his hands down his pocket instead.

“You wanna apply?”

“Yeah. I wanna save up for summer.”

He raised a brow. “That’s still next year, though?”

“I’m planning on going on a road trip.” You began, a clear view of your plans surfacing in your mind. “I’m getting my driver’s license next year too, so I really want to make the most of it.”

“Driver’s license?”

“Yeah, I’m sixteen.”

“Damn,” Miles shook his head in amusement. “Y’know, I tend to forget you’re older than me.” He then places his hand next to your temple, aligning it with his shoulder. “And it doesn’t help that you’re… This short.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

And of course, Miles indeed didn’t shut the fuck up.

"… Y’know, I bet you'd walk out on your first day with an arson charge."

The two of you meet gazes once more. Miles looked at you with a dead stare, as if he was serious. "What? You're the one talking shit about wanting to go to jail."

"Yeah, I'm boutta fulfill that part of my checklist after I'm done strangling you."

He raised his brows, subtly amused. "Kinky."

You try to slap his arm, but he manages to dodge your hit. He stares deep into your oh-so-fiery glare, cheeks bursting from laughter.

"Look at'chu, you fight like a munchkin from the wizard of Oz."

Pulling your sleeves up, you ready yourself to brawl. "Yeah? Talk your shit, Tin Woodman."

“Oh, I will talk my shit, lollipop gild.”

Amidst your squabble, you and Miles push and pull against one other, lightly shoving each other off like little kids. Your fingers dig into the cloth of his jacket, gripping against his chest with fingers like steel. Though your little plan of shaking him by the collar is spoiled when an itch suddenly burns your nose. You turn around and sneeze, pulling away from his grasps.

".. God, I hate the cold."

He feigns a grimace, taking a step back. "Eww, germs."

"Shut up, you—“

"Stay away, you bubonic plague virus haver."

As you try to search for a comeback, you feel the same itch burn your nostrils— inevitably putting your words on hold. Miles watches as you placed your icy hands over your mouth, sneezing a couple more times. You could almost feel the cold climb up your arms like a ladder, leaving you a shivering mess. Some sort of heat begins to poke in the back of your neck, as though you were flustered like a little girl with a crush. You pull your sleeves down, stabbing your nails into your palm. Miles takes this moment to go behind you, his hands reaching out to unzip your bag. He probes inside in search of your scarf, the long silk pouring out with the grip of his fingers, like [f/c] bleeding into his palm.

As you sniff, the boy turns to you, gently wrapping the cloth over your neck. You look up, beholding the sight of a serious Miles who was too preoccupied with tying the scarf, mumbling about what's the point of bringing the damn thing if you weren't even gonna use it.

“M’not even gonna get a bless you?” You tease.

“You got me: the biggest blessing of your life. What more do you need?”

You hum. “Lots of sleep and an essential oil bath bomb.”

“The fuck’s an essential oil bath bomb?”

“What I need.”

As he finished, he slowly smoothes out the creases with both palms, looking up to meet your stare.

"… What'chu looking at?"

With an airy laugh, you reply. "Just.. You."

His hands pause, yet they stay on your scarf.

"... Idiot." Miles mumbles, grip tightening. "Stop lookin’ at me like that."

"Like what?"

Like you'd follow me to the end of the earth.

"Like a dumbass." He casually answers, flicking his nails over your forehead. "Now get moving, I’ve gotta get you home.”

Miles look over to the café once more, a hand over your shoulder. Slowly, it slips off and trails down your arm before falling to his side. Instinctually, his finger lifts to reach out for your own, though it drops when he hears a buzz in your pockets.

Despite the amount of times it rang, you simply ignored the damn thing. Eventually you did reach out for it, but without even glancing once at the texts, you set it all on 「☾ Do Not Disturb.」

It was only then, as each street passed, that Miles began noticing how the both of you were slowly exiting Brooklyn's poorest areas and started entering what seemed to be the finer parts of the borough. From skeletal buildings and desolate apartments, colorful brownstones appeared before his eyes— showered in leaves of scarlet and orange. It was the sort of Brooklyn you'd find in the movies, the dreamy sort of Brooklyn it used to be three years ago.

An immediate fresh breath of nostalgia.

There was that tiniest hope that lingered deep inside of him, believing that Brooklyn’s still savable.

Eventually, the both of you spot the local Gristedes down the road, the building growing larger with each step. Miles opted to slow his steps down, just to walk longer with you and yet, you paced hurriedly. He follows the sight of your silhouette prancing around, admiring you from afar. When you can no longer sense him, you turn around and halt your walk, waiting for him to keep up. Miles hurriedly jogs to meet you, humming a sweet tune when a sort of blurry vision clouds his mind.

A piercing pain shoots through his temple, making him wince. For a moment, his vision blurs and spots of red taint his eyes. Suddenly, you appear before him in the midst of a fire— glaring at him with such hatred. Your silhouette appears as a dark burgundy, taking center in a world set ablaze.

You call out his name in the feverish illusion.

"Miles."

He winces, taking a step back.

"Miles!"

Suddenly, he's pulled back into reality with your voice.

There you stood, eyes so riddled with worry.

"... What..?"

"Are you okay?" You walk back to him, placing a hand over his forehead. "Are you sick? What happened?"

He gasps for air, but only once. Seeing you now, looking so worried about him, it was enough confirmation that what he saw was all just a dream.

But what in the hell what was that?

As your hand presses against his cheek, Miles cups over it with his own, following the lead of your voice to find peace. "Sorry," He finally spoke, voice too much of a whisper for you to process. "It’s like I hallucinated or sum.”

You click your tongue. "You just had one hit of vape, man, the fuck you on?”

He mumbles an incoherent explanation, to which you grumble. “Do you need medicine? Maybe I can—“ You frantically turn your head in search of a place. “Maybe we can go somewhere and get you some medicine.”

“I’m fine, ma, don’t get all riled up.”

“You’re hot.”

“I know.”

“Not in that way!”

“Ouch.”

“I’m just– I’m worried about you, Miles.”

“Oh, are you now?” He teased, placing a hand over yours.

Miles gently places your hand down, eventually taking your other and burying them both in his palms. Your hands were much smaller and softer compared to his. Like velvet to leather, a paw to a claw.

He gently squeezed, an urge to hold them forever ringing in his mind. Miles looked up to see you and the way your eyes traveled from his hands, to his chest, up to his chin, and then straight into his gaze.

“Do continue worryin’ about me.” He whispers. “I’m feelin’ very special right now.”

You scrunched your brow, looking up with the softest gaze you ever endowed.

“Oh, is that right?”

“Mhm.”

It was enough to steal the air from his lungs. Of all the things, Miles didn't fear for this to all be a dream, he feared that this would all just be a game to you. Dreams would mean that this wasn't you, but a trickery of his mind— his anxiety. He'd be able to keep you once he wakes up. But since this was real, he'd have to suffer through the pain of either losing you or hating you, none of which were choices he liked.

He found you most confusing at times like these.

Most of the time, you were an open book. Your mouth was unfiltered, whether it be in conveying your emotions or saying the most out of pocket things, but at the same time, you often kept to yourself. He hardly heard anything about your family, your friends, or your life— aside from a few side stories you'd recall in the midst of reminiscing— other than that, you kept a lot of secrets.

And he didn't want to invade your privacy, or overstep your boundaries. He figured you'd tell him someday: the things that would bother you, or the memories that'd make you zone out for a few seconds.

He was too afraid of you finding out who he was. Too afraid of losing you, or hating you.

But moments like these were a detriment to his rationality.

In that icy weather, all that made Miles shiver was you.

“Miles.” You called out his name again. “... I think.. I have to go.”

Unconsciously, he mutters. “Already?”

“We’ll see each other again tomorrow.” You couldn’t help but comfort of him. “I promise.”

Let’s meet in our little place. I won’t call it my home, because home is wherever you go.

He swallows the lump that had formed at his throat, hesitantly releasing your hands. “Okay.” He sighs. “Okay, get home safely.” He detangles your fingers, savoring the warmth of your skin. You pivot your heel to leave, pulling your hood over your head. Miles simply watches as you walk and turn one last time.

“Bring your sketchbook next time, alright?”

He nods. “I will.”

“Buh-bye.” You wave one final time. Miles raised his hand to bid you adieu.

If only you knew.

As you disappear down the block, Miles clutches the notebook carefully hidden in his inner pocket.

It was at that moment, Miles couldn’t help but ponder.

How could I show you my sketchbook when all it’s filled of is you?

Uh, uh, catch me ridin’ like a bitch

Got the six forty-five, catch me ridin’ with my bitch

Uh, long hair, Lana, that’s my bitch

Uh, You can tell by the swagger and the lips, uh

The radio eases down with the volume upon the flick of a finger.

“How was she?”

Snapped from the voice of his uncle, Miles’ head perks up. An icy water bottle flies past Aaron’s hand, tossing it over to Miles as it landed straight into his palms. “Did’ya finally tell her?” He adds, to which the boy slumps deep into his seat and grumbles.

Drenched in sweat and small bruises, Miles took his well-deserved break atop his uncle’s couch— chest rising and falling with each heave, wifebeater all soaked. He squints at the ceiling while lazily popping the cap off the bottle. “I don’t even have to tell her, man. She knows— I know she knows, but I dunno if- if she likes me too or if she’s jus playin’ w’me.” Miles manages to rant in between heavy breaths, mind and body completely exhausted from training. Aaron sits by his side, dragging a towel over his neck.

“Yikes. What makes you think that?”

The cold water smoothly flushes down his throat, easing his fatigue. “She flirts with me more than I flirt with her— damn, I can’t even get a single line in.”

“.. You like a chick that’s got more game than you?” Aaron reiterates, amused by what he’s hearing. He laughs at Miles’ frustrated face, shaking his head. “You sure you’re my nephew, man?”

“Oh, I’ve got game.” The boy defends himself. “I held her hands and everythin’. She’s prolly hella into me too.”

“Or, she just plays the game better than you do.”

“Nah—“ Miles denies, but it makes him think. “Nah, she’s into me. I’m sure of it, but I think she’s kind of like… Denying it or I dunno.”

He recalls the way you scrunched your brows, and looked up at him as though he was all you could ever want to look at. It’s got him zoning out, nibbling on the brim of his bottle like a nervous little pup. Aaron simply shrugs. “I’m just sayin’, Miles, it’s not like y’all are in the Titanic. I don’t see why she wouldn’t go for ya.”

“I mean,” He scavenges for the right words to say. “I mean, what if she’s like.. Not ready or sum?”

“… How old is she?”

“Sixteen.”

Aaron’s head spun in a quick flash. “Sixteen!? Aren’t you fifteen? Damn, now I don’t blame her. You’re a whole kid in her eyes, my man.”

“A ki— a kid!?” He scoffed. “I’d have to squat down just to reach her height— why the hell would she see me as a kid?”

While taking a sip off his bottle, Aaron lifts a finger cautiously. “That,” He spoke in between sips. “That’s the reason why she sees you as a kid.” Miles furrows his brows, completely anonymous to the reason. “You’re too defensive. You should be more suave, my man. Be a gentleman.“ He pulls up a couple moves. “Jazz her like this. The ladies love dancing.”

“You telling me I gotta dance with her or sum?” Chewing on his cheek, he grumbles. “Now, how the hell do I do that?”

Aaron hums.

“You know all about the shoulder touch?”

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Dark halls, hushed voices in a box.

“I’m not having this conversation with you again.”

The chair’s legs screech against the marble as he stands up.

"She's turning sixteen next year, hardly even eighteen, if this gets out— not only would it be harmful for our family reputation, she'll be permanently eradicated from receiving opportunities in the future."

A dead gaze hung in the darkness, eyeing the figure that stood before him stubbornly.

"Your sister is incredibly capable, and she's doing a lot to support our means for the sake of the family."

Tick. Tick. Tick.

"Which is more than what I can say for you, Antonne."

Antonne stood before his father, chin held high and gaze, unyielding. The old man tapped his pen against the mahogany, each tick filling in the spaces between the clock's ticking. Within the spaces, and with each passing second, Antonne stood in the thick tension that filled the office like a soldier keeping his head above water.

The old man’s pen points at him accusingly. "Be happy for her, as she's cleaning up after your mistakes. Who would you be without your sister?”

The boy tenses.

“Do you think you’ll be able to save yourself?”

Antonne stood by the hall, eyes daunt and staring a thousand yards deep into an invisible void. For a while, he shortly allowed his mind to go completely blank. Well, it wasn't entirely blank, it was full— but everything was all blurred together that it was better to think that he was thinking about nothing.

A restless mind paired along with an unfortunately still beating heart.

His head’s piqued when a familiar sound of footsteps begin to permeate amidst the hall. The steady sound of heels thumping against the carpet, like a careful warning to those who stood in her way.

“Antonne,” Her voice calls out. “What are you doing out here?”

Your presence emerges from the shadows like a ghost who’d waited for too long. He steps in front your father’s office door, as if to block your entrance. Parting his lips, he calls for your name.

“… Your job. Are you sure you want to partake in such a thing?”

You raise a brow, understandably befuddled by his sudden disruption.

“I’m going to be honest with you.” He begins. “Our family is not the best. Our money doesn’t come mainly from sanctioned ways although we parade it as though it were. I can forgive all that, but what I can’t forgive is ruining all your potential.”

“I don’t understand. Where is all this coming from?” Your gaze narrows harshly. Though you try to appear genuinely ignorant of what he’s saying, the knowledge of it was enough to make your blood boil. Antonne sighed a deep sigh, a million words pouring into his mind like waves crashing.

“I am simply worried about you,” He claims. “You’ve been handling these affairs since you were thirteen. And it’s unfair for you to handle such things when you’re only fifteen—“

“I’m sixteen.”

“… When you’re only sixteen.”

You scoff. “Do you even have any idea of what I’m doing?”

“.. The job you’re doing, was my job three years ago.” Antonne’s words made you grit your teeth. “I know all about what you do, and I may have failed in what I did— I’m not as smart or as cunning as you— but I’ll never forget how that job ruined me.”

You snicker. “You talk like that, but you want the job to yourself.”

Your brother stiffens, but his face remains ever-so stoic.

“It’s better for you to give the job to me.”

“This is what it’s all about?” Your voice lividly lowers into a hush as you take a step towards him. “You abandoned all your responsibilities, made me carry the hotel for three years, and now that the work’s lighter, you want to take it away from me?”

With each step you take, Antonne soon finds his back pressed against the door, swallowing the lump that had formed at his throat. With one final attempt to get you to listen, he finally pulls.

“Does he know?”

Gesturing over to the fineness of your clothes, the shine of your pearls, Antonne then hissed.

“That boy you meet in Brooklyn. Does he know who you are?”

Visibly startled upon the mention of Miles, your frustration crumbles into caution. Your head turns away, lids twitching. “I’m not quite sure what you’re talking about.” Was your attempt of a lie. Antonne straightened his lips, determined to rekindle his confident stature.

“… How naïve of you.” Antonne seethed. “Do you think father’s going to let this go once he finds out?”

You scoff. “Is that a threat?”

“A warning.” He corrects of you. “Have you forgotten who you are? You’re our family’s only daughter— you’re the face of our family in high society. Not only that, but you’re engaged.”

“I’m sixteen. Fuck you mean ‘engaged’? That engagement’s hardly been processed as a legitimate promise. You and I both know it’s for the sake of shutting up the Fisks, anyway.”

“It’s scandalous.” Antonne spewed with venom on his tongue. “You’re not a kid. You’re two years away from being an adult.” He thrusts an accusing finger into your shoulder blade. “And everyone’s eyes are on you— if people were to ever find out about your little escapade, you’d be ruined.”

“Then cover it up.” You ruthlessly shoot back. “That’s all our family ever does anyway.”

As you try to maneuver past him, Antonne then interjected.

“Then what about that boy? What would he think?”

And that’s enough to make you freeze.

“Would he be able to handle you? You… Don’t forget that he could’ve known someone who was a victim.”

You could almost imagine Miles’ face contorting into disgust upon the unveiling of the truth. An inevitable scene. You’d been trying to run away from the scene like a dog with your tail caught between your legs. Your teeth dig a little too deep into your lips, blood seeping in the corners of your frown. Though you try to keep your composure, the mention of Miles was enough to send you trembling.

“No matter how much you hide it, he’ll learn about your identity sooner or later.”

“He won’t.” Your reply came out haggardly. “He won’t find out.”

“And what makes you so sure?”

Your jaw clenches, eyes bloodshot from exhaustion. You think about throwing something at him, or pulling on his hair— yet you ease your nerves like any other dignified girl.

As if on cue, your father opens the door, exchanging glances between you and your brother, reeking of fresh tobacco and dust.

“What the hell are you two doing, bickering in front of my door?”

His voice is harsh and demeaning, like winter at its worst peak. A voice that haunted you all throughout your younger years, now it was just nothing but another normality to you and your dull days.

“It’s nothing, dad.” You reassure, casting a side-eye at Antonne. “Nothing at all.”

Only then, you pulled the manila folder up to exit the situation. “In regards to the landscaping for the hotel, I have the submissions. I figured we should discuss about it.”

“Right,” He snaps his fingers. “Shall we?”

You leave Antonne in the darkness, shutting the door with a slam.

“God… She’s going to be the death of all of us.”

[shigamochii]

Shigaraki Headcannon's Again:

CW: SFW, Slight Mention's of NSFW but it's mostly SFW. Mention's of s/o. f!reader.

★.🩸.★

Music Taste:

I like to think Tomura listens to metal and heavy metal music such as: Slipknot, Metallica, Rammstein, etc. I do like to think he listens nu-metal music as well. (ex: KoRn, Static-X, Nine Inch Nails, etc.).

I feel like Tomura would secretly love pop music from the 2000's or like emo music from that era, it's mostly like MCR. It's hard to imagine him listening to crunkcore or scenecore stuff. I'm open minded with it.

If Tomura has a gf (s/o) he would be happy to share his selection or taste in music with you, he enjoys sharing his interests with the person he truly loves.

Tomura does still wear his usual outfit which consists of his long sleeve v-necked shirt and black pants that reveal his ankles. In his downtime or whenever the LoV doesn't have anything going on, he chills around base in a casual t-shirt and sweats.

If you're wondering.. yes, he wears band t-shirts sometimes. I like to think his most favorite one is Slipknot not only does he like the music/band but likes the shirt designs.

I don't really see Tomura being one to head bang to the music he plays, I like to think he uses this genre of music as a sort of stress reliever, if that makes sense? I do the same thing so.. ya lmao.

Aside from just metal music, I think Tomura would listen to vaporware or some type of synthwave music. Perhaps some 80's pop and rock.

If you and Tomura are cuddling he would most likely put on something more calm and relaxing to fit the mood between the two of you. It wouldn't be much of a good idea to play metal while trying to unwind and cuddle lol.

If Tomura has wireless earbuds or even wireless, he would definitely want to share his earbud with you, again I think the man would want to share his music taste with you and only you. Tomura knows you won't judge him for his interests on anything and he loves you for that, heh.

*Dumb Thought: but if you have a driver's license since y'know Shiggy can't drive because of his quirk or maybe he can, idk. If you're on a drive together, you'll let him play music. Shiggy loves playing DJ in the car. It makes him feel special.

★.🩸.★

NSFW Mention's (18+):

(these might not be good so.. bear with me..)

If you and Tomura are engaging in sexual activities we would most likely play music that's toned down, maybe soft rock.

I like to think one time Shiggy played metal while pounding away at your pussy and after that day you banned him from playing metal while the two of you fucked. You were extremely sore after that day too lmao.

Shiggy loves fucking you to sexual songs and I mean heavily sexual songs like: Closer, Freaky Now, Tonight I'm Fucking You, etc. He thinks it kind of sets the mood to get down and dirty.

I also see Shiggy not playing music all the time, he enjoys hearing your cute little mewls and moans when he thrusts into you, he loves hearing the sounds of his skin against yours. He just wants to hear you in general.

★.🩸.★

That is all l have so far, some random headcannon's based around Tomura and music. I'll try to do more in the future if I can think of any to do, if you have any ideas my inbox is open. If I haven't gotten back to anyone, I promise I'm not ignoring sometimes I'm really unsure on how to answer certain asks in my inbox.

[overtake]

every time i remember that gifset of daniel laughing and talking pre-race with max and his dad in spa 2014 and realize that max saw daniel win his third race and red bull's 50th race live and IN PERSON....like daniel must have seemed so cool and larger than life. and then come to find out a few weeks later it's max's test and he had made a welcome video for him. like...it's too much they're TOO MUCH.

This response got ludicrously long.

It’s such “fated to be in each other’s lives forever” shit. It’s always been Max and Daniel. In 2011, before Max was even a red bull junior. In 2014 at spa, ahead of Max being announced for toro rosso. In video form at his super license drive, when Max being his future teammate wouldn’t have even been thought in Daniel’s mind. The things Max got to see Daniel achieve and dream that he might have that and more, and the hot guy doing it is paying attention to him.

He wins that race and backs him, saying he couldn’t have done what he’s about to do and saying Max has the talent to be there… I just know it was good to hear that the man you just watched on the podium believes you deserve this oppprtunity. And if he wasn’t ready at your age and is sitting in front of you a three time winner, what can you achieve by his age?

Obviously, Max has never needed other people’s validation on his skill. He knew he could be successful and had no issue staring his naysayers down. He’s a cactus, not a delicate orchid. You cannot kill him. Your opinions mean nothing to him if you are not in his inner circle (though Daniel certainly worked his way into being someone whose opinion Max holds, hears, and values).

But still, it has to be nice to hear back then that there are people with achievements you want who believe you’re capable of getting there. Even the most brave-faced sixteen year old (with a father who tries to toughen his emotional resolve by saying he will never be anything more than a truck driver) still appreciates having someone believe in him, even if he doesn’t need the validation.

I think people tend to wrongly characterize young Max as some delicate friendless loser and Daniel was the only person to ever show him kindnesses etc etc etc. Max is extremely confident and never relied on Daniel to build self-worth or whatever pathetic way people try to write him. But he always just glowed around him — textbook of that first crush that makes you have the italics “oh. oh” moment. It’s very apparent that Daniel meant a lot to Max as a teammate and that the two of them just liked being around each other, such an anomaly for that era of f1 (ex: like they mentioned in on the sofa 2017, Lewis, — who had been busy with the life altering downfall of his relationship with Nico — was in awe of Max and Daniel and asked for the scholarship of how they got along so well).

It’s so clear that this draw between them started for Max so early from just the way he looks at Daniel on that phone, shy and not knowing quite what to say, and his gaze lingering on it even after it stops playing with that smile. He has to tear his attention away to say his sweet little praise of Daniel. Daniel respected Max as a serious competitor from day one with his quotes about Max’s talents, and that already meant something to Max — but then he also went ahead and liked Max and was kind to Max in a time where he was drenched in doubters.

It’s a great tragedy that we will never know what it would’ve been like to see the two of them in a car that could compete for championships. Obviously tensions would have altered their relationship (I mean, the Renault engine frustration and natural increase in rivalry as it became Max’s team already meant their relationship improved post-leaving), but I’m going to be delusional and think that they never could have hated each other in that bone-deep way because they like each other in a way that is so natural that it feels encoded in their DNA.

Things would have gotten messy as competitive battles do, with many a wall punched and inflammatory quotes in the media pen — especially as Daniel would have to reckon with the inevitability of Max being a generational talent whose already sharp elbows in their early days only doled out more hits on the road to WDC. It’d be claws out, teeth bared tension.

Still, I employ my delusion to say that in that universe, at the end of their careers, they could sit on Daniel’s farm and still enjoy being around each other — like Daniel said in 2019, they had a heated rivalry and pushed each other, but there was always respect. At the end of the day, Max has never stopped looking at Daniel outside the track with anything but effusive love, and Daniel is always there looking back with his mouth open and ready to make Max laugh — and I genuinely believe they would have cared enough about each other to keep their fight contained to the environment and time period and rebuild anything lost when it’s all said and done.

It’s the eternal thesis of them, that everyone has said a million times over: they like each other so much, so genuinely, without a veneer of fakeness and PR to it. They’d like each other in any universe in any conditions, even ones where they were built to hate each other. There could still be fighting and resentment and cold shoulders, but they are not built to hate each other, and that’s why I like them so much.

[carlyraejepsans]

growing up i always had these mental marks for big scary experiences I'm necessarily gonna have to face in the future. middle school exam, driver's license, CAE test, highschool exams, etc. always carrying the connotations that there was a looming threat on the horizon i had to be scared of, something to keep me on my toes. and going to uni was one of them. i was so afraid of it, i mean, whole new space, might have to move away and I'd be completely on my own, physics ain't exactly the easiest subject either, and I'd lose whatever frail social network id managed to build up in oh almost 20 years of living on this planet? i was Scared. i almost decided not to go.

i wish i could take younger me—even just from one year ago—and shake them so hard. i wish i could look them in the eye and say look buddy I don't know what kind of hole we dug ourselves into for so long but the moment you step foot out there you will have the kind of friends you get smashed with at parties and you will have the kind of friends that will keep your hair out of your face when you're bent over the toilet afterwards and you will do the same for them. your deadname won't sting as sharply because you'll use it for people you love (and you know what? it suits them better than it ever did you. what a lovely sound) and you'll figure some other shit out along the way. don't be afraid. for the love of everything, this was the best thing that ever happened to you. don't be afraid. i swear things are getting better. look forward to it

[ch3rryfunk]

HEYYY I'm pretty new to reaching out to accounts but so far everyone has been an absolute gem! I've thought about posting my small stories that have gathered dust in my notes but also never really got the courage to ACTUALLY posting them ☠️

THAT ASIDE, what are some of your Leon headcanons? It could be the most random things like how I think he hates chewing sounds or probably doesn't know how to tie a tie.

Hope that makes sense-

Hi!! 💖 Thanks for reaching out!! You should definitely post them, I bet they’re really good :•) but i totally get what you mean, just take your time!!

☆*:.｡.

Random Leon S Kennedy head cannons.

Life & Hobbies

☆ He doesn’t know how to cook. I think that’s something we can all agree on but yeah, he knows how to make simple things but not too elaborate. He just never had time for cooking, so why bother learning?

☆ He actually loves dogs, despite having seen the scariest, most dangerous undead dogs in almost every mission he’s had.

☆ Leon CAN’T drive. He never learned about driver’s ed. He only got his license because it was required to get into the cop academy. He just gets into a vehicle, says a prayer, and off he goes.

☆ He likes Jeeps and bikes though!

☆ Enjoys reading books in his spare time.

☆ loves listening to music but can’t keep up with the newer artists, so he mainly listens to alternative 90s music or grungier songs. (He was a teen in the 90s, after all.)

☆ One thing about Leon is that he LOVES cold weather and winter because he gets to wear more jackets and show them off. He probably has a whole jacket collection.

☆ He acts silly when he gets drunk. He laughs a lot and his face gets red.

☆ Dislikes smoking.

☆ Leon likes taking care of his hair, he’s been sporting the same hairstyle for years so when he needs a trim he makes sure to find the perfect hairstylist. He might run a background check, he’s so extra.

☆ His favorite holiday is Christmas. (Not Halloween, he’s seen too many monsters already. Give him a break. He also likes giving gifts lowkey.)

☆ When he’s feeling stressed he’ll usually get nightmares, so he sleeps with the light on sometimes.

☆ Loves helping people, and kids too. They remind him of Sherry.

☆ Sometimes, he’ll feel lonely. Deep down, he’s afraid of getting too close to people because he’s afraid of losing them to another outbreak or something worse.

☆ He sometimes gives himself a pep talk when he starts feeling down. He just needs to keep moving forward.

Love life

☆ He hasn’t been in a relationship in a long time, and even though he’s not exactly clueless or inexperienced his teenage years don’t compare to his adult ones. Relationships are different now, he feels like he’s got a lot to learn. specially since he has trust issues. He takes his time to get to know his future s/o,

☆ He likes hugs but isn’t used to them so he never goes to give one first. (He will in the future though)

☆ Quality time!!!

☆ Leon is committed to learning about all the things his s/o loves, enjoys, and wants. He’s the type of guy to remember something his s/o told him ONCE, months ago.

☆ He loves taking his s/o out to dinner, it’s one of his favorite things to do. He makes sure nothing will interrupt his date.

☆ He isn’t a jealous guy, I’m sure. But he’s terrified of losing his s/o.

☆ Loves slow kisses.

☆ As well as embracing his s/o and making sure they feel protected.

☆ Loves nicknames and OBVIOUSLY calling them sexy.

☆ Has a hate/love relationship with teasing. He enjoys it but gets quite needy after some time. He likes to be the one teasing though, every once in a while.

☆ Love language is quality time, giving gifts and cuddling. He’ll always make sure his s/o is happy and well. 💞

sorry this was short, i’ll make more head cannons in the future!

[unmotivatedwrit3r]

One in Eleven Million (ch. 8)

damian wayne x reader x jon kent

(A/N): So about that getting chapter out quicker thing...I blame tech week

Series masterlist can be found here.

warnings: a little bit of cursing, mild anxiety, airports

wc: ~1500

~~

Soon apparently meant thirty minutes. The plane’s landing gear hit the tarmac hard. The few shrieks were outweighed by the many sighs of relief, you own included. Jon yanked the window open, squinting. The view of the tarmac went from blurred to clear in the morning sunlight as the plane slowed. 

“Tt, finally. Though Philadelphia would not have been my first choice as a welcome back to the East Coast.” Damian pulled his gaze from the window, bending down to resecure the closures on his backpack. Jon’s eyes stayed glued to the window. 

“Are all plane landings this rough?”

“Yeah, usually,” you replied. “But it means we’re on the ground, so I don’t mind.” 

“Welcome to Philadelphia, ladies and gentlemen. The local time is 9:32 am and the temperature is 47 degrees Fahrenheit. Apologizes for the early landing but glad we all made it safe and sound. Remember to stop at the help desk if you do need to get your luggage routed to baggage claim or if you would like to take a voucher and find another method of transportation to Gotham. Thank you all for your patience and cooperation and thank you for flying with us.”

“If I ever see the inside of a plane again, it will be too soon,” Jon whined. You turned to see him drop his head on Damian’s shoulder.

“Flying commercial is both unpleasant and inefficient, I concur.” Damian squinted at the standstill line forming at the front of the plane. You stayed carefully silent. The two future trips you had in your calendar burned in the back of your mind. 

“But hey,” Jon sat up. “At least we met you!”

You chuckled, maneuvering up and out of your seat into the line of departing passengers before swinging your backpack over your shoulder. 

“Yeah,” A bittersweet wave of emotion gripped your heart. “It would have sucked so much more without you guys.”  

The deplaning of the flight was the worst you’d ever been a part of. Between panic and desire to leave, everyone was sloppy and on a short fuse. You nearly got whacked in the head with a carry-on bag trying to stand up. You did get elbowed trying to move forwards in the line.   

There was no Damian and Jon right behind you this time when you turned around after finally making your way into the airport. The spike of disappointment that drove through your chest caught you off guard. I knew this was going to happen, you reminded yourself. It didn’t make the ache in your chest go away.

“Hi,” you greeted the help desk employee. “I’d like to get my bag routed to baggage claim.” The required materials—your boarding pass, baggage tag receipt, and driver’s license—weren’t hard to produce. In just a few minutes, you were given a new receipt and an instruction to check screens for the baggage claim. The guaranteed “voucher” was to be later emailed, added to your airline account. You stepped off to the side, shoving the new receipt in your pocket. They’re tall, you figured. You’d see them if they were still there. Multiple scans of the crowd later, you didn’t see Damian’s waves nor Jon’s signature glasses. The spike of disappointment morphed into a vice around your chest even as you shoved it down. Your phone, now off airplane mode, buzzed in your pocket. You spun on your heel and headed towards baggage claim. The train you needed to take back home wasn’t going to book itself. 

Despite your unfamiliarity with the airport, it was simple enough to follow the signs towards the baggage claim area. You stopped at a restroom on your way there to avoid having to maneuver through one with a full suitcase in tow. The screen was empty of flights from your airline when you arrived, and your phone was blank of any email updates. Instead, you rerouted to the Amtrak app. The train with the lowest fare that also gave you enough buffer time to get your bags and catch the local train from the airport to the station was 2 hours away. The number of your bank balance flashed in your mind. 

“Thirty-eight for the train and eight to get to the airport,” you muttered aloud. “Yes I am so willing to spend fifty bucks to finally just be home.” The inevitable expense of a taxi or rideshare back to your home poked at the back of your mind. You ignored it. The voucher would cover the difference later on and that would have to be enough. 

A notification banner popped up on the top of your phone screen. The text notification was from the airline, declaring baggage claim three. Sure enough, the screen on the wall said the same thing. Baggage claim number three was farther down. You moved quickly, shoving through other passengers to stand in closer to it. Standing nearby was someone you had a murky recollection of from the boarding line.

All that was left now was to wait. 

~

Damian bit back a growl as a large man shoved him back into Jon and forced his way farther up the line. 

“That’s not getting him anywhere,” Jon muttered. He was half-hoping his powers would spontaneously come back and help them out. “What’s the point?” Damian shook his head.

“If people made sense, Jon, we’d be out of work.” Jon rolled his eyes. 

“You’re hilarious.” 

Damian chuckled lowly, pulling his carry-on bag from the overhead storage, then Jon’s. 

“Damn it.” 

A jolt of panic sliced through Jon. His head snapped towards Damian, eyes wide. Jon winced, massaging the back of his neck. That hurt.

“What?” 

“We lost them.” He nodded towards the front of the plane. You were gone. 

“Shit.”

As much as he wanted to get off the plane, Jon wouldn’t have pushed through the other passengers even with powers at full strength. Especially with powers at full strength. He followed the movement of the crowd as they exited the gate, coming to a stop just beside a stand selling Philadelphia hoodies and t-shirts. Jon eyed them with a not small amount of disdain. He’d pass. 

“So we’re not taking another plane-” Damian began. 

“Oh fuck no,” Jon interrupted. 

“Why do you think I started with ‘we’re not’?” 

“Right,” Jon could feel his cheeks heating. “I knew that.” 

“Hnn. So could it be worthwhile to call someone now? It’s past 9:30, your family should be up. Of mine, Alfred at the very least will be awake at this hour.”

“What’s the other option?”

“We take another method of public transport to Gotham and have Alfred pick us up there.” 

Jon thought about it for a moment. Then he thought of you. His hearing was past the point of awful fluctuation, but not good enough to hear across a crowded airport. And he didn’t know your heartbeat. It was a weird thought. Jon thought about it again. That was a weird thought too. But it had been a long time since he’d gotten to know someone without being able to hear their heartbeat. 

“Do we know what they’re doing? I don’t think we even talked about it. But I don’t want to leave them alone after all this.” He paused. “That’s not weird, right?” 

Damian shook his head. 

“No, I agree. Which means your family is out. And waiting for Alfred to drive all the way here and then asking them to get into a car with a complete stranger for two hours is also less than ideal.”

“So public transport it is.” Jon concluded. “Wait, how do we even know they aren’t taking another plane?” Damian smirked. 

“They don’t call us the world's greatest detectives for nothing.”

Jon narrowed his eyes at Damian. “You guessed.” 

“I formed a hunch based on multiple deductions,” Damian retorted, arms crossed.

“So you guessed.” 

“Deduction and guesswork are two different things.” 

“Uh huh,” Jon smiled and started heading to the help desk. “Keep telling yourself that.”

The help desk employee guaranteed Damian that the vouchers would be emailed and attached to his airline account. Based on the look on his face, Damian couldn’t care less about them. Jon wanted to hurry up and find you too. But he also didn’t want to be booked into the nearest flight to Gotham. Until he got his powers back in full, Jon wasn’t doing any flying whatsoever, much less flying that involved any sort of metal contraptions. 

“Which baggage claim is for this flight?” Damian asked before he stepped away. The airline employee checked her screen. 

“Three, but I don’t believe bags have started arriving yet.” 

Damian nodded and headed quickly towards the signs leading towards the baggage claim area. 

“Thanks!” Jon threw out as he followed, sneakers squealing against the linoleum floor as he hurried to catch up. 

[applejuicefruit]

this might be a similar request to your previous kylian fic but with a twist...

plot idea: kylian and reader gets into an argument in the car after attending an event and because of that, kylian isn't focusing on the road and a vehicle runs into the reader's side of the car and badly injures her.

reader gets taken to the hospital and is in the intensive care unit / coma and kylian spirals into depression and guilt and never leaves the side of the reader.

whether she survives or dies can be your choice!

thanking you in advance if you take this fic idea! ❤️

I’m so good at writing about car accidents that’s the main reason I don’t have a driver license 🤭🤭

I’m sorry in advance but this one is pure angst!

Reader’s being mean in this one I’m sorry

Don’t leave

“I honestly can’t believe you” Kylian shouted at you while he was driving through the street of Paris

“What?” you said back

“What? You let him touch you the whole night and now I shouldn’t be mad?”

“He didn’t touch me the whole night! We just hugged! He’s a friends, what’s wrong with you?”

“A friend who touched your boobs? I didn’t know friends touch each other’s boobs!” he kept shouting and honestly you were getting scared

“It was an accident Kylian! He didn’t mean to! His drink almost fell on me and he tried to catch it!”

“By touching your boobs?”

“I can’t believe you right now! You’re making a drama out of nothing! And please slow down you’re driving too fast!” you said back

“So it’s okay if I go and touch my friends boobs ah?”

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore Kylian and for my sanity can you fucking slow down?”

“No we’re gonna talk about it! My girlfriend, my future wife is letting other men touching her boobs. What about all the promises you made? You told me I was the only one for you and yet you’re here acting like a whore I thought I could trust you!” he shouted at you.

He was very pissed.

But what he said hurt you.

You’ve never seen him like this.

You stayed in silence for a few minutes before he spoke again.

“I’m sorry…I didn’t want to call you a whore but…what you did…”

“What I did?” you screamed back now on the verge of a mental breakdown “I simply hugged a friend and you got jealous for nothing! I’m so tired of this!”

“Don’t play the innocent card with me y/n, it doesn’t work, if you only told him to stop we wouldn’t be in this postitio-“

Then everything happened so fast.

Kylian was driving so fast he didn’t see a stop sign and a van came in full speed into his car, hitting your side.

You remembered the car crashing and going outside of the road and then everything came black.

“Babe?” Kylian said a few minutes later. He was sure he fainted for a bit but when he opened his eyes again his main focus went on you “mon amour?” he said again trying to move even if his legs were stuck “honey please open your eyes” he grabbed your face gently and moved you a bit but you wouldn’t wake up. Instead he saw a big scratch on your forehead, a few bruises on your face and arms and your lips bleeding. But what he made him worried the most was your head which kept bleeding.

“No no no” he said putting one hand behind you head trying to stop the bleeding “wake up baby please, wake up”

A few seconds later he saw the lightings of an ambulance coming towards them. He was to tired to even speak or move so he simply gave up, laying next to you and holding your head.

Both of them got carried at the hospital.

They were admitted into the E.R. with code red, meaning it was a serious situation. Luckily Kylian wasn’t too injured. He only had a few broken ribs and a mild concussion. But you were in a worst position. Your left arm was broken, your shoulder dislocated, your pancreas got injured during the crash and you lost a lot of blood from the head. You were hardly breathing by yourself. The doctors wanted to wait for you to wake up before doing anything.

Kylian woke up only a few hours later. His family and his friends Neymar and Hakimi in the waiting room attending news. You, on the other side had no one waiting for you. Your family lived in an other country. You were all alone fighting for your life.

“Where is she?” Kylian asked one of the doctors “where is she?”

“She’s still under our care”

“How’s she doing?” he asked preparing himself for the worst

“She’s not out of danger yet, we are keeping her under control”

“What?” he barely whispered “I need to see her…”

“I’m afraid you can’t to that now…”

“No you don’t understand she’s in this position because of me! I almost killed her…I need to see her”

“As I said before, I’m sorry but you can’t see her” the doctor said leaving his room.

That night Kylian cried in the arms of his mum, his brother and his friends. They didn’t blame him for what happened, he, otherwise, was blaming himself and he wished he was in her position.

The morning after Kylian asked again if he could see y/n but the doctors wouldn’t let him near her. He thought it was the price he had do pay for almost killing you. He felt so guilty. He tried to spoke with a therapist but he would end up crying everytime. He just needed you.

A few weeks later in came back home but without you. You were in a coma. He was finally able to visit you so he did, every morning and every night after practice. He would tell you about his day.

One day he spent the whole morning with you.

He grabbed your hand and begged you to wake up.

“Please baby” he said tearing up “I need you, I need you back in my arms” he dried his tears “I need to hold you and telling you how much I love you and how much I’m sorry, please, wake up for me, I miss you so much.”

He waited a few hours, your small and fragile hand still in his hands, sometimes he would kiss it, sometimes he would gently caress it.

But he felt your hand moving a bit. He thought he was crazy but then he felt it again.

“Babe?” he called you when he saw you were waking up “honey can you hear me? Mon amour?”

“Kylian…” you said in a very raspy tone, your throat still sore from the accident “what-what happened?” you asked confused

“We-we had an accident” he said, voice full of guilt and regret “don’t you remember?” he asked hoping you wouldn’t remember that night and the argument you were having

“We? Oh my…Kylian are you okay?”

“I’m good honey” he said mesmerised by your kindness and care “how are you feeling? I’m going to call a doctor” he said before leaving the room and coming back after with the doctor and a nurse.

They did all the exams they had to do and they thought it was a miracle you woke up since you weren’t properly breathing on your own. You thanked your lucky angel for this miracle.

After the check up Kylian came to see you only to find a very hard look on your face.

You remembered.

Kylian sat next to you on the bed and tried to grab your hand only for you to move it away.

“Babe I’m so sorry for the accident-“

“I’m not mad at you for the accident, I’m mad at you for how you treated me, we wouldn’t have been in this position if you had just listened to me…” you said now crying.

His heart broke seeing you crying.

His eyes were glossy too but he tried to be strong and not crying in front of you.

“I know I was a piece of shit. I didn’t have the right to say those things”

“But you did” you said back. Now you were the one who was mad

“I know I messed up but-“

“Messed up? You called me a whore, you said you didn’t trust me! How am I supposed to marry you when you can even be right with me? You know what I remember? I remember asking you to slow down, because I was scared and you didn’t! Does my family know I’m here? Did someone call them?” you asked almost shouting

“You said you weren’t mad at me for the accident…”

“I’m not! I’m mad at you because you never listen! You’re ego’s too big you always have to be right!

“Baby please…I’m so sorry…I know, I know my ego’s too big I let it inside my head most of the time but I promise you I’ll change” he said now fully crying. He didn’t like the look on your face, you were crying but you showed no emotions.

“You said that so many times I’ve lost count, guess what? You’ve never changed…”

“I’ll do it for you. Please y/n”

“You know what…when they discharge me from the hospital I’m gonna get all of my things from home and disappear for a bit…I think a break would do us some good” you said now in a low tone

“What?” he asked completely shocked “you-you can’t be serious”

“Oh I’m deadly serious” you said removing your engagement ring from your hand “I can’t do this, I need time to think…”

The moment he saw you removing your ring he swore he felt his heart going in million pieces. His face full of tears. He might have not killed you that night but now he wished he was the one who died.

“Babe…”

“No Kylian…I won’t change my mind, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to rest now”

With that he left your room.

Completely breaking once he was outside.

He didn’t care if doctors and nurses saw him. He just lost the greatest thing ever happened in his life.

[fleurriee]

❛  you’ll always be mine, in the back of my mind ... i’ll look for you first in my next life.  ❜

❛  i promised to stay away from you ... but i can’t.  ❜

forbidden love prompts plsssss x

i’ve noticed that i like to give at least a little background to these, so that’s what we’re having :)) also, wrote this whilst listening to drivers license & i miss u im sorry in the middle of the night, meaning if things don't make since, im sorry, so take that with what you will… 2k drabbles!

pairing ; neteyam x fem!reader

synopsis ; you thought you and neteyam had longer together, but ewya wouldn’t even grant you that.

themes ; mentions of previous fluff, angst

What you and Neteyam had was wrong - that’s what you had been told, without actually being told.

The prince of the Omatikaya was technically promised to another, his parents having secretly already set up the pair and believing it to be a perfect match. And, in the eyes of his parents, it was perfect. Here you had Neteyam on one side, a mighty warrior who was protective and family-oriented at the same time, and on the other side, you had Tai’la, a woman coming into her own who’s hands were perfectly crafted by Ewya herself to ensure the health and safety of those around her.

Even in your eyes, you could see they were made for one another. Still, you'd never get him out of your head.

The first time anything had happened had been back before he was told about his estrangement with Tai’la. The two of you had sort of grown up together - not quite best friends, but two Na’vi who could happily say they enjoyed a good conversation from the other.

And, those conversations gradually grew in numbers, until you were actively seeking one another out. You’d find a somewhat secluded part of your home, the two of you finding comfort in one another’s presence and talking about any and everything - whether that be how your day’s had went, what you were hoping to eat, your hobbies… So much was said between the two of you during these times, it came to a point where you knew him almost as much as you knew yourself.

As these times flew by, you and Neteyam had obviously grown a lot closer, to the point where you couldn’t deny the sudden feelings you’d grown for him. Out of nowhere, it seemed as though you were noticing everything about him in a different light - the way he stood, proud and tall, and exuding confidence despite knowing he was nervous on the inside; the subtle curves against the corner of his lips every time he’d look in your direction, eager to please and put a smile on your own face; the way his muscles grew taut when he was training or reaching for something, on full display to the point where you struggled to take your eyes away from his figure.

Perhaps you had been too obvious in your gawking when admiring Neteyam, or maybe he’d been just as smitten as you were, but not too long after that, he’d confronted you about it. He’d teasingly asked you whether you enjoyed looking at him, watching him do his tasks throughout the day, because he couldn’t help but spot you every now and again with your eyes trained on him. Instantly, you were flustered at being caught, cheeks darkening and heart beating rapidly, but, you’d never actually managed to come up with an excuse, because that was when he’d first kissed you.

It had been everything you’d dreamed of, sharing such a beautiful experience with Neteyam. And, everything had been beautiful for a while after that - the two of you continuously sneaking away to some far off place so you could show your true affections for one another without any repercussions.

Still, that hadn’t stopped what had come next.

Not long after that, the Olo’eyktan had announced that his eldest son was to be mated with Tai’la, a young woman who everyone could see had a bright future ahead of her. And, what better way to spend it than by being with the future Olo’eyktan himself?

The moment those words had left his mouth, your heart had shattered into a million different pieces, scattered across the expanse of Pandora. You’d never be able to get those pieces back, to forge them back to the puzzle that was your heart until it was whole again. Not when you knew you’d have to watch Neteyam court someone who wasn’t you, mate with someone who wasn’t you - start a family with someone that wasn’t you.

You knew it might’ve been a little difficult to convince both of your family’s that what you had was real, and that you would want to go further with it when the time came, but, it was something worth fighting for. Clearly, Ewya hadn’t thought the same.

In the near distance, your gaze had met Neteyam’s figure, his brows pinched in confusion and mouth open in shock. So many emotions were coursing through him, he didn’t know what to think - he didn’t know what to do next. For so long now, he had considered you the one, and in just seconds, you had been ripped away from him.

When your eyes finally connected, all he could see was the sadness clear as day, lingering behind your gaze until he was sure you were just moments away from sobbing. Your attention briefly looked over to Tai’la, who was being congratulated by several others, her family looking proud of her. Suddenly, you felt sick - suddenly, everything was too much.

In an instant, you’re leaving, weaving in and out of people as they cheer for their future leaders, all happy smiles and waving hands. Your thundering feet take you out further into the forest, needing the quiet of the earth to contemplate everything life has just thrown at you, and what this had meant.

Neteyam was no longer yours.

Everything the two had been through all that time had meant nothing in the end, not when he would eventually be doing all of that with her, with his mate.

“Tahni (star),” a voice called, one instantly being recognisable as Neteyam’s. Your heart sank in your throat when you understood it.

Turning your head further away from his approaching figure, you were desperate to hide the tears leaking down your cheeks. It wouldn’t be the best thing in the world for him to see how much this affected you - not if it was only going to make your situation worse. Neteyam belonged to someone else, now, meaning you weren’t his to comfort.

“Tahni (star), please,” he called quietly, gentle hands reaching out to turn you around to face him. When you did, everything had felt wrong to him. Seeing you cry in front of him, because of something that involved him, made him feel the worst he’s ever felt in his entire life. “Oh, my beautiful girl. I’m so sorry.”

“Did you know?” You question quickly, wanting to get the worst of it all out the way.

His brows furrow. “What?”

“Did you know?” You repeat, voice a little firmer. “Did you know your parents had decided someone for you?”

Neteyam paused, and that was already enough of an answer for you. Your emotions increased more in their torture, more tears spilling from your crinkled eyes as sobs escaped your lips in despair. Moving to put some distance between you, that space only felt larger than it ever would be, more so now than ever.

“I’d had… an idea…” he sighed, shoulders slacking and posture dejected as he admitted the truth. “I’d told my parents about you, that I wanted to start properly courting you soon… they didn’t really approve, but they didn’t say anything about this, about her.” You had wanted an explanation, but hearing this had only worsened it all. “Tahni (star), please, I promise-”

You shook your head, your throat racked with sobs, so much so, you had struggled to get any words out at first. In the end, you weren’t sure what was best to say anyway.

“They made me promise,” he continued, like he didn’t care that all you wanted was for him to leave, just to make things a little easier for the two of you. He needed you to know, he needed you to know every little thing he’d thought about you, about how much he truly felt for you. “I - I promised to stay away from you… but I can’t - I couldn’t. Not my Tahni (star)…”

A broken sigh fell from your lips at his words, squeezing your eyes impossibly tighter like closing them would close him off, too.

You needed to leave - this was only making everything worse.

“You’ll always be mine, tahni (star), in the back of my mind.” Neteyam’s voice was barely audible now, just a quiet whisper that was slightly shaky. Maybe he’d started to understand that this was coming to an end, too, but not without his last, final words. “I’ll look for you first in my next life.”

That was a promise he’d always keep, for the rest of his life on Pandora, until he was back in the arms of Ewya. He knew the two of you were meant to be together - and, you’d find one another in every life after this one. And, in each one of them, he’d make sure you were always his.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

North To The Future [Chapter 12: Iris]

The year is now 2000. You are just beginning your veterinary practice in Juneau, Alaska. Aegon is a mysterious, troubled newcomer to town. You kind of hate him. You are also kind of obsessed with him. Falling for him might legitimately ruin your life…but can you help it? Oh, and there’s a serial killer on the loose known only as the Ice Fisher.

Chapter warnings: Language, alcoholism, addiction, murder, discussions of sex, sexual content, violence, discussions of suicide, Taco Bell.

Word count: 7.1k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

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“It was New Year’s Eve,” you say, you know.

“New Year’s Eve, 1993.” Aegon checks the crimson-stained fistful of paper napkins he’s had jammed against his nose. His face is bloody and swollen and bruising; splotches darken from ash towards indigo as seconds tick by on the wall clock. Aegon winces under the stark florescent lights, stripped of all his shadows and secrets like a suspect being interrogated. A few tables away—far enough to give you the illusion of privacy, close enough to overhear any plots of escape—Aemond is clicking away on his BlackBerry, something you’ve never seen in person before. He is also dissecting, with great skepticism and plastic utensils, a Mexican pizza and Nachos Supreme. You aren’t sure what he had in mind when he asked for a restaurant within walking distance, but it certainly wasn’t Taco Bell.

“What happened?” you ask Aegon gently. It’s bad. It has to be bad.

He tops off his Mountain Dew with the bottle of Captain Morgan spiced rum that he added to his tab when the three of you returned to Ursa Minor for Aemond’s luggage: a single green Louis Vuitton suitcase that he had asked Dale to stow behind the bar. You have an order of Cinnamon Twists on your tray, but no appetite; you only sip tentatively at your own Mountain Dew, the ice cubes clinking in the paper cup. The Taco Bell employees watch reticently from their refuge on the other side of the cash register, like skittish animals in a zoo enclosure. The table that Trent mutilated is still wrapped with duct tape.

“Aegon?” you prompt.

“I went to a party.” He drags his fingers through his white-blond, blood-stained hair. It is wet from the snow, chaotic, untamed. His perpetually errant lock rests on his bruised cheekbone. “I was fucked up. I mean, everyone there was fucked up, but I was…combative, I guess. Do you know what a speedball is?”

“No,” you answer honestly. They don’t exactly run segments about things like that on 60 Minutes.

“It’s cocaine and heroin mixed together, and I’d never tried it before. I broke a window, I was shouting, I think I punched somebody. The people hosting knew my dad, so as a courtesy to him instead of calling the cops they called the house. My parents weren’t there. They were on a yacht out in Biscayne Bay, waiting for the fireworks to go off at midnight. Helaena was away at a boarding school in London.” He looks at you, his watery blue eyes slick and fearful.

“Aemond was the one who picked up the phone,” you realize.

“He was home with Daeron. He was sixteen, he didn’t even have a real driver’s license yet. He only had his learner’s permit.” Aegon guzzles down his Mountain Dew, adds more rum, stirs with his straw, takes another few gulps. “Aemond didn’t want me to get in trouble again. My parents were always screaming at me, they were always upset, and obviously Aemond had to live with that. He figured he could pick me up, drive me home, drag me upstairs to bed and my parents would never know the difference.”

You remember the twelve shallow scars blown across his chest like shrapnel. Car accident, he had told you. A long time ago.

“I fought him,” Aegon says. “I fought him all the way to the car, I fought him once I was inside. The security guys working the party handcuffed me to the armrest on the car door, but still, I was fighting. I was trying to get the key from Aemond. I dislocated a wrist and didn’t even realize it until later, my hand was swelling so badly the metal cuff was cutting into my skin. Aemond finally got my seatbelt on. And he was so preoccupied he forgot about his own.”

More rum and Mountain Dew, more self-medication. More cold, iron-heavy dread filling up your chest like seawater hemorrhaging into a sinking ship.

“We got on the MacArthur Causeway. Aemond was yelling at me to shut up so he could focus. He was trying to remember how to get home. It was dark, there were streetlights passing by overhead. There was moonlight on the waves in the channel. I finally broke the armrest off the car door and I…” He shakes his head, like no matter how true it is he still can’t believe it. He looks down at his open palms. “I grabbed the wheel.”

“You what?”

He flinches at the memory. “I grabbed the wheel and yanked it. Aemond was trying to push me away, but it was too late. We swerved into oncoming traffic and hit a minivan. Our car rolled over once, twice, I think four times total. The windshield shattered, glass went everywhere. That’s what happened to Aemond’s eye. He wasn’t even aware of it. I kept wondering why he wasn’t screaming like I was. He got knocked out on impact. He was in a coma for ten days. The doctors said he should have died.”

But he didn’t. And yet the guilt Aegon carries is so goddamn heavy. “What about the van?”

“It went off the road and into the channel. Everyone inside drowned. A mother and two kids.”

“You’re a killer,” you breathe, remembering the tattoo under his left collarbone.

Aegon agrees: “I’m a killer.”

You stare at him, paralyzed by wordless, icy horror.

“Everyone knows,” Aegon says, eyes wet, voice hoarse. “Everyone back in Miami knows. I couldn’t stay there. I couldn’t see Aemond’s scar, I couldn’t see the resentment on my parents’ faces every day for the rest of my life. I wasn’t just the fuckup eldest son anymore. There was nothing darkly, chaotically amusing about me. There was just plain darkness.”

“They didn’t…you weren’t…you never got arrested or anything?”

“No.”

“…Why?”

He shrugs, like it’s just the way the world works, gravity or nitrogen. “Aemond never told anyone how it happened. People knew, but he wouldn’t say it. And when the cops opened an investigation my dad made it go away.”

“How could he make something like that just…just…disappear?”

“The Microsoft office in Miami generates hundreds of millions in tax revenue each year. He threatened to get it moved to California or Texas. And maybe he threw in a holiday bonus for the police department, more money for pepper spray and flashbang grenades or whatever. All I know is that the lawyers descended and I never had to answer a single question about that night, and toxicology reports showed up claiming that mother driving the minivan had a blood alcohol concentration of 0.35.” He smiles, weakly and miserably. “People like me don’t face consequences, Appletini. They roll off our backs like rain and flood into the gutters to drown the rats.”

You can’t find your words. There’s nothing to say, or perhaps there’s too much to say; your thoughts are churning sickly like waves in a storm. From several tables away, Aemond glances over at you, his sapphire eye glinting under the unforgiving artificial light.

“And now you’ll hate me,” Aegon says with grave acceptance. He can’t blame you. He won’t even try to talk you out of it. “Just like everybody else.”

He’s been punishing himself for six years. And he’ll never stop. “I don’t hate you.”

His blood-stained brows knit together. “You don’t?”

“No.” I should, that’s true, and I would if it was anyone besides him. But I just don’t. And I have a few secrets of my own these days.

“I can’t believe that.”

“Read for yourself.” You offer your palms to him, sliding your hands across the table. At first, Aegon doesn’t understand, he doesn’t remember. And then he smiles, genuinely this time. Aemond is now watching intently and with palpable confusion.

Aegon traces the lines of your left palm with one weightless fingerprint. “It says you’re too good for this place. Maybe you’re too good for anyplace.”

“Do I finally know everything?”

“No,” Aegon says simply. “There’s over a decade of impassioned self-destruction in my rearview mirror. I could never explain all of it, and even if I could I wouldn’t want to. You have to accept that, or you have to move on. But now you know the worst of it. I hope that’s enough.”

You’re still thinking it over when Aemond forces down the last of his uninspiring Taco Bell dinner and approaches, toting his suitcase behind him. “Alright. Let’s go.”

“How did you find me?” Aegon asks.

“You gave the hospital a fake phone number and address, and then never paid your bill. They sent it to collections. I got a call asking if I happened to know where you were currently staying in Juneau.”

Aegon sighs deeply and rubs his eyes with both hands. “Goddammit.”

“What about the other cities?” you say. “Aegon mentioned that he saw you in Phoenix and San Francisco.”

Aemond looks at his brother as he answers. “The journals.”

Your stomach drops. Jesse. He’s just like Jesse. “The…?”

“He left all these journals in his room. There were lists of cities in them. Cities crossed off, cities circled. Potential places to hide out, I figured.”

“But…but…” Aegon sputters. “There must have been a hundred different names on those pages—!”

“Yes,” Aemond replies coldly. “One-hundred and twelve, actually. And every weekend, every break from school, every chance I got I picked one city and went there hoping to find you.”

Aegon sinks down into his chair, dismayed and guilty and small like a child. He says in a whisper: “I can’t work for Dad.”

Aemond is disgusted. “I don’t need you to help run the company. I need you to show Mom that you’re okay.”

“Oh, right, because Dad already found a new heir.” He studies Aemond. “MIT?”

“I graduated last year.” And you weren’t there, his tone implies.

“Fantastic. And I bet Dad didn’t even have to buy your way in with a brand new shiny gym, complete with an Olympic-sized pool and a rock wall.”

“He did not, that’s correct.”

“You went to MIT?” you ask Aegon, mystified. You can’t imagine that going well.

Apparently, it didn’t. “Briefly.”

“Three weeks, I think?” Aemond says.

Aegon frowns, slurping his rum and Mountain Dew. “Five.”

“You can have tonight,” Aemond tells him. “We can stay in your apartment. You can say goodbye to your girlfriend, or…whatever she is. And then we’re flying out in the morning.”

Aegon perks up, a lawyer seizing upon an exonerating technicality. “I can’t leave until they’ve captured the Ice Fisher.”

“The who?”

“He’s a serial killer. He’s been murdering people in Juneau for months. Right?” Aegon turns to you for confirmation.

“Right,” you say.

“I can’t leave her alone. It’s not safe. What if she gets killed as soon as I jet off to Miami? That would be a completely avoidable tragedy. I have to make sure she’s okay. I’m trying to turn over a new leaf here.”

Aemond’s remaining eye blinks slowly. “This is a bizarre stalling tactic. Ineffectual, yes, and yet I have to applaud your frenetic ingenuity.”

“Ask them,” Aegon pleads, gesturing to the Taco Bell employees behind the cash register. “The Ice Fisher is real. They’ll tell you.”

Warily, Aemond goes to the counter. He exchanges a few words with the employees—who gape impolitely at his gnarled scar and glittering sapphire eye—and then returns, eyebrows raised. “Well, that was unexpected. How long has this Ice Fisher been terrorizing Juneau?”

“Since October,” you tell him.

“Hm.” Aemond toys with his BlackBerry, gazing out the windows at the dark windswept night. He says to his brother: “How did you manage to end up in the one town in Alaska with an active serial killer?”

“Luck, I guess.”

“Bad luck,” Aemond clarifies.

“No,” Aegon says, looking at you. “Just luck.”

“And once the murderer is arrested, you’ll leave without any complaints?”

Aegon’s face is a mask, consciously expressionless. “Yes.”

“Alright. Then here’s how this will work,” Aemond begins. “You can stay for now. And I’ll stay here with you. You’ll turn over everything to me: id, keys, cash. You won’t go anywhere without me knowing about it. And in return, I’ll make a few calls and see what I can do about this Ice Fisher situation.”

“You don’t need to worry about me disappearing,” Aegon insists. “I told you. I can’t leave until the Ice Fisher is caught. I’m not going anywhere. I’m stuck.”

“Nonetheless.” Aemond’s eye is a primordial, savage blue. “You will do as I say. Or I will drag you home to Miami, serial killer be damned. This isn’t my city. These aren’t my people. Juneau could sink into the Pacific Ocean and my life wouldn’t change one iota.”

They’re that determined? They’re that capable?

One of them, yes.

Aegon is compliant, almost tame. It is a strange skin for him to wear. He shows Aemond his palms in surrender. “I understand completely.”

“Good,” Aemond says, and you bag up your leftover Cinnamon Twists to take home before following him and Aegon to the door.

The three of you walk together back to Ursa Minor. Heather’s Chevy Suburban is still in the parking lot, so you know you can get a ride home with her. This is convenient; your Jeep is at home in your parents’ driveway, and Aegon is drunk. Before you can step inside the bar, Aemond stops you, pulling you aside as Aegon waits several yards away on the snow-covered sidewalk.

He asks, low enough that Aegon can’t hear: “What has he used since he’s been in Juneau?”

“Rum. And whipped-cream flavored vodka.”

Aemond nods. “What else?”

You hesitate.

“I can’t protect him if I don’t know what to look for.”

“Heroin,” you confess. “But only once that I know of.” And in those words is a truth that you hate: you’ll never know for sure what poisons Aegon is dulling the immutable, needlelike pain of his existence with. You will only know what he chooses to show you…and what he is too far-gone to hide.

Aemond closes his eye for a moment. “Yes, that sounds about right.”

Aegon stands in an isle of streetlight luminescence, his hands in the pockets of his parka. He watches you: wanting to speak to you, wanting to do much more. And he doesn’t move until Aemond grabs the back of his coat like the scruff of a kitten and hauls him off towards the apartment building.

~~~~~~~~~~

When you’re done at the vet clinic the next day, you bring Sunfyre to Aegon’s apartment. You figure he could benefit from some cheering up. When you arrive, Aegon is just getting out of the shower and changing into his street clothes, his hair messy and wet, the scars on his pale chest eclipsed by his black and white striped long-sleeve shirt. After much debate—which primarily consisted of Aegon keeping his brother awake with an acapella rendition of Cotton-Eyed Joe until 4 a.m.—Aemond had agreed to allow Aegon to go to work. It wasn’t for the money, Aegon said, which Aemond would confiscate from him anyway. It was so he wouldn’t let his crew down by quitting with no notice. Still, Aemond accompanied him to and from the docks like a parent taking their kindergartener to the bus stop. The golden retriever bounds into Aegon’s outstretched arms, tail wagging manically.

“Hey, buddy!” Aegon gushes, flopping down onto the scuffed hardwood floor to roll around with him. “I missed you so much! Who’s a good boy? Who’s a good boy?!”

“What is that?” Aemond asks, glowering as he reaches for the refrigerator handle.

“This is Sunfyre. He’s my dog. And he’s the best boy in the whole wide world, aren’t you, buddy? Aren’t you?! Yes you are!” Sunfyre barks in concurrence.

“You can keep a dog alive?” Aemond opens the refrigerator. “All you have in here are Lunchables and Coca-Cola. And...coffee creamer, for some reason.”

Aegon, still sprawled on the floor and scratching Sunfyre’s ears, shrugs. “Then go to the Foodland. You have credit cards.”

“Foodland…?”

“Ohhhh.” Aegon cranes his neck to grin up at you. “He’s never been to a grocery store.”

“Really?” you ask Aemond, who is grimacing, annoyed but also…uneasy. Embarrassed, even. It’s the first time you’ve ever seen him rattled. “How is that possible?”

“I’ll tell you how,” Aegon says, squishing Sunfyre’s cheeks together. “Private chefs, personal assistants, five-star restaurants…”

“This town is a graveyard where culture goes to die,” Aemond mutters. He slides his BlackBerry out of his pocket—he’s wearing another black suit today—and begins typing.

“We can go to Foodland,” you offer. Aemond narrows his gaze at you suspiciously. He doesn’t understand why you would want to be accommodating. It’s really not that complicated; the more comfortable Aemond is in Juneau, the longer he’ll be willing to stay. And he seems like a useful friend to have.

Aegon stands, giving Sunfyre one last pat on the head. “Sure. As long as we’re back by 7.”

Aemond puts his BlackBerry away. “What happens at 7?”

Aegon smiles. “My band is performing.”

“Your what?”

“You’ll see,” Aegon says, and grabs his parka from where he had tossed it haphazardly on the couch earlier. Trent, you think, helpless and dismayed. If the band is at Ursa Minor, that means Trent will be there too.

The Foodland is fairly bustling; there is a blizzard forecasted to hit Juneau tomorrow, and locals are stocking up on essentials to last them through the storm. As Aegon fills a basket with Doritos and Dunkaroos, you follow Aemond to the fresh produce section. He picks up a single bunch of broccoli and sets it in the cart.

You laugh, ripping off a translucent plastic bag from the dispenser. “It goes in here.”

“Oh. That makes sense.” He secures the broccoli in the bag, then begins filling another bag with Braeburn apples.

“Wait, wait…you can’t just throw them in like that…you’ll bruise them. Here.” You take the bag and show him. “You pick up each apple, check it to make sure it’s good, no brown squishy spots, and then place it—gently—in the bag. Now you try.”

Aemond successfully procures a dozen satisfactory apples. He’s wearing an eyepatch made of black leather, which is unusual. It’s the first time you’ve seen his wounded eye obscured since you met him.

“Awesome. Be warned though, fruit is super expensive here. Those apples are probably going to be like twenty bucks.”

Aemond smirks. “I think I’ll manage.” He checks his BlackBerry and clicks out a quick reply.

“What are you emailing people about?” It feels odd to even say the word email. It sounds like something you’d hear on Star Trek or the X-Files.

“Napster.”

“What’s Napster?”

“A peer-to-peer file sharing application.”

“Oh, yeah, totally.” You have no idea what that means. “Is Targaryen Enterprises going to invest in it?”

“Probably. But that’s still confidential at this stage in the negotiations.”

“So you’re going to be in huge trouble when they find out you let me in on the secret.”

Aemond smiles, not in a friendly way but not entirely mocking either. “Who could you possibly tell? You’ve never met anyone who matters, and you never will. No one except me and Aegon. And we’ll be gone before you know it.”

You consider him, hushed and regal and stoic and yet…somehow, undeniably…dangerous. “Why did you put on your eyepatch before we left the apartment?”

“I try to wear it if I might be around children. The eye frightens them. And if I take the sapphire out, it’s just a gaping hole. That’s even worse.”

“But you don’t wear the eyepatch all the time.”

“No.”

“Why? Too…piratey?”

“No. Nerve damage.” He signals vaguely to the ruined half of his face. “The eyepatch rubs. It can set it off. And once it gets rolling, there’s no stopping it.”

And because you’re a vet, you know exactly what nerve damage is: numbness, or burning, or blinding electrifying pain, or all three in a rotation like a wheel. “I’m sorry,” you say softly. “Aegon, he…he’s never forgiven himself for it. I don’t know if he’s ever said that to you, but it’s true. I think he would take the pain for you if he could.”

“He wouldn’t,” Aemond says bitterly. “He wouldn’t even come home.”

And I don’t think he ever will. I think he’d skydive out of the plane without a parachute first. “Can you tell me what it’s like? Miami? I’ve never been.” I’ve never really been anywhere.

“I can do better than that. I can show you.” He opens his wallet—black leather, just like his eyepatch, gleaming and heavy—and slips out several small photographs. There’s the beach, and palm trees, and the city skyline, and several luxury cars, and a building with a glass spiral staircase and tall white walls speckled with bewilderingly abstract pieces of modern art.

“Oh, is that a museum?”

“That’s my parents’ house.”

“Right,” you reply, wide-eyed.

Aegon appears with a basket so full he has to lug it around with both hands. “Guess who I saw in the snack aisle,” he says to you, heaving his basket into the cart.

“Watch the apples!” Aemond hisses.

“Who?” you ask Aegon.

“Our favorite former-football star.” Icy, stunning fear seeps from your skin all the way down to the bones. Trent. “Congratulations on getting rid of him, by the way.”

You try to keep your voice level. “I got rid of him?”

“Seems that way.” Aegon plucks a banana off the display shelf, unpeels it, and takes a bite.

“You’re paying for that,” Aemond says.

Aegon continues: “Trent’s been super happy recently. Creepily happy, actually. I keep asking him what’s up but he won’t tell me, he just flashes that big stupid grin. Well just now he finally dropped a hint. He’s having luck with some girl he’s really into. Says things are finally looking up for him in the love department. And if he’s not talking about you, Appletini, it’s got to be someone else.”

“That’s wonderful news,” you say, barely hearing yourself. It's me, you think, petrified. It’s me that Trent thinks he’s going to end up with, and how the hell am I going to tell Aegon that?

“Who’s Trent?” Aemond inquires.

“Just a guy,” you reply. “A big, Hulk-like, not terribly intelligent guy.”

“You should probably check him out,” Aegon informs his brother. “I find it hard to believe that he could be a killer—he’s violent sometimes, but not, like, murderously violent—but he’s the only real suspect we’ve got.”

Aemond’s jaw is rigid, contemplative. “Hm.”

Aegon finishes his banana, tosses the peel under a table stacked high with boxes of donuts, and pushes the cart towards the checkout counter. Aemond takes off after him. “Hey, what did I say about the banana—?!”

Trent, you think despondently, staring blankly at rows of glossy apples: red like blood, green like life. I have to tell him about Trent.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Bitch!” Heather proclaims when she spies you, arms thrown wide open. She embraces you, the golden sequins of her shirt snagging on the loops of your turquois sweater. “Whoops, sorry Grandma.” She untangles herself. Joyce, Kimmie, and Brad wave from the usual booth. Rob and Trent are warming up on their instruments. Aegon meanders unsteadily over to join them, downing a rum and Coke assembled by a yawning Dale. You wonder how much Aegon owes on his tab now. It has to be a thousand or more. Maybe Aemond will pay it before he leaves. Before he drags Aegon back home to Miami screaming like stormwinds.

From behind his drumkit, Trent beams at you, showing all his teeth. You shudder when you remember the bruise they left on your neck. Nonetheless, you smile back noncommittally; the last thing you need is to prompt him to make a scene.

Heather gestures to Aegon. “British Kurt Cobain.” Now she points at Aemond. “Albino Fabio.”

You burst out laughing. “Yeah, basically.”

“What’s up with the…?” She taps her own left cheekbone. The scar, she means, The eye.

“It’s a long story. Aemond is Aegon’s brother, he’s here to convince him to go home.”

“I’d like to think I’m a pretty non-judgmental person, but their parents really should have invested in a baby names book. Where’s home?”

“Miami.”

“Well fuck, I wouldn’t mind jetting off to Miami. Think Aemond would take me instead?” But she’s joking, of course. Heather loves Juneau. She would never put it so sentimentally, but she does. Kimmie adores being a big fish in a small pond; she wouldn’t make such a splash anywhere else. Joyce needs the quiet. Only you were cursed with this greedy restlessness that is inked to you like an invisible tattoo; only you inherited this nameless craving for more.

“You should ask,” you tease Heather. “Ask Aemond really, really nicely. And make sure you nuzzle up against him so he can feel that you’re not wearing a bra.”

She gasps. “You can tell?”

“Heather, everyone can tell.”

She grins mischievously. “Good. That’s the point.”

You order drinks together—a Sex On The Beach for Heather, a blackberry Bacardi Breezer for you—and then part ways. Heather joins the growing crowd that is gathering to watch Boat #27’s imminent performance. You sit next to Aemond at the bar. He’s sipping a Caipirinha, taking slow, shallow, meditative tastes. He’s staring at the band, but you’re not sure if he’s really seeing them. Aegon gulps down another rum and Coke—his second in about five minutes—and staggers as he tests the microphone. His white-blond hair falls untidily over his eyes. No one seems surprised to see the mottled bruises or split lip on his face. It’s the sort of thing to be expected from someone like him; drunks wear ill-gotten injuries like diamonds and pearls.

“It’s not good for him,” you tell Aemond. “You being here.”

“Nothing’s ever been good for him,” Aemond says. “I remember being twelve years old and my whole life was trying to stop him from jumping out of a window or in front of a car. When we locked up all the pain pills he found bottles of Vitamin A tablets and swallowed about five hundred of them before we kicked the door down. We got his stomach pumped, brought him home, and the next day he tried the same thing all over again with my mother’s EpiPens.”

“Oh my god,” you whisper, agonized.

“I’m not here to torture him. I’m here to help. I want to help my mother move on with her life. I want to help Helaena and Daeron get their brother back. And I want to help Aegon become a better man. It’s possible, I think, if he’ll work for it. But it’s not going to happen as long as he’s running between cities and from one addiction to the next. He’s got to come home. He’s got to face what he’s done and learn how to cope with it.”

The band has begun their song. It’s Iris by the Goo Goo Dolls, a peculiarly subdued choice. Aegon sings with his eyes on you and his calloused fingertips scaling the fretboard of his battered green electric guitar.

“And I’d give up forever to touch you, ‘cause I know that you feel me somehow.

You’re the closest to heaven that I’ll ever be, and I don’t want to go home right now…”

“Hm.” Aemond’s face—half-immaculate, half-mutilated—holds a quiet, intense curiosity that might even be a dash of awe. “I’ve never seen him play before.”

“Really?”

“Really. He’s not bad.”

“He’s perfect,” you murmur.

“So you’re in love with him too.” Aemond nips at his Caipirinha. “I feel so sorry for you.”

You glare at him, flushing and furious, the kind of flame-red rage you can only conjure for someone when you know they’re right. Aemond is aware of this, but it doesn’t seem to bother him. He is as cool as his Caipirinha: frosty and still and sharp like glass. His sapphire glints, his scar grows darker in the twilight dimness of Ursa Minor. You miss the Christmas lights; you miss what could have been if Aemond had never walked with his light and yet decisive steps into Juneau. You swallow your Bacardi Breezer like reckless, venomous words.

When the song is over, Trent begins making his way through the crowd towards you. You hop off the barstool and evade him, weaving from one end of the packed room to the other. He gets drawn into a conversation with Matt and Gary, but he’s still scanning the sea of faces for yours.

If he finds me, it’s going to all come out into the open. He’ll say something, or I’ll say something, or Aegon will say something, and then it will be out of my hands. I have to tell Aegon first. He has to hear it from me.

Aegon finds you, smiling in that warm, dreamy, tipsy sort of way. “Hey, Appletini—”

“I have to talk to you.”

Immediately, it startles him: your voice, your face. “What’s wrong?”

“I just have to talk to you about something. Right now. Where can we go?”

“Uh, uh…” He glances around, and then he points to the staircase. His disobedient lock of hair is a white stripe across his cheek. “The roof?”

“Okay. Yes, good.”

“Great.”

You go to the coatrack together to fetch your parkas, then make for the steps. Aemond is there to meet you, towering and lithe and silver like lightning.

“Please, Aemond,” Aegon says. “We need ten minutes.”

“You can’t have it.”

“Ten fucking minutes,” Aegon snaps. “It’s a rooftop patio, it’s not in use during the winter. For Christ’s sake, we’re not going to jump off of it or anything. There’s nowhere for us to run. She’s not leaving Juneau. I have no money, no license, no nothing. You have all of that. Don’t you get it? There’s nowhere for us to run.”

Aemond’s BlackBerry starts beeping. He whips it out and reads the message. “Fine,” he snarls, like a verbal shove hard enough to bruise. “Just go. Ten minutes.” And as you and Aegon ascend the staircase, you catch a glimpse of Trent watching from across the crowded bar, knocking back a Heineken and simmering with some pattern of layered emotions that you can’t read.

Outside, the night sky is muted with cloud cover: thick, dark, starless. The moon is a vague blur of eerie ethereal light, a reflection of a reflection. And sometimes, you think you might be something just like that.

“What is it?” Aegon asks. And his face destroys you: seeking but not suspicious, concerned but not fearful. He would never see this coming. Not now. He trusts me too much. He thinks too highly of me. Much, much too highly. And isn’t that what love always does to people? Cold Arctic wind spirals around you both, tearing at your hair, wrenching tears from your eyes like doomed fish from a lake.

“I hooked up with Trent.”

Aegon’s face doesn’t change. He’s heard it, but he hasn’t felt it yet. “Like…a long time ago?”

“No. After the New Year’s Eve party.” After I found you in your apartment.

The first wave of it hits him: in his shoulders, in his eyes, in his tremulous voice. “And when you say hooked up, you mean…what? Second base?”

“No. I mean everything.”

“Everything,” he repeats numbly.

“Yes.”

He takes a step back from you, covering his mouth with one hand. He stares down at the snow around his Doc Martens combat boots, shaking his head and saying nothing. That’s worse than shouting. You had been prepared for shouting.

“Aegon—”

He puts his hands up like he’s barring a door. “I need a minute, I need a minute.” He inhales, exhales, rubs his furrowed forehead with his thumb and index finger. “Why—?” His voice breaks off. He tries again. “Why would you do that?”

“I was angry, I was so goddamn angry at you. And I’m not trying to make excuses, I’m just…I’m just trying to explain. I was so desperate to feel something other than what I was feeling that I made a mistake. A horrible, humiliating mistake. Now Trent thinks I really like him and that’s bad but what’s worse is the fact that now, right now, I have to tell you the truth. I’m so fucking sorry. And I would change it if I could but I can’t.”

Aegon looks at you. “You weren’t…you know…” He flinches like somebody’s struck him. “Afraid of Trent?”

“It was at my house, my parents were around—”

Again, he stops you, holding up his hands. “I can’t hear the details, I just can’t.”

“I’m sorry,” you repeat in a whimper. It’s almost inaudible in the roar of the wind.

It seems like forever before Aegon speaks. When he does, there’s no fury. It is a controlled, calm surrender. “Okay.”

“Okay? That’s all? Okay?”

“It’s my fault, right?” he says. “It would be pretty fucked up of me to blame you for something that only happened because of what I did. So okay. Don’t worry about it. We’ll deal with Trent together. We’ll figure something out. We—”

You rush to him and Aegon catches you, shocked but welcoming, harboring. You burrow into him as he strokes your hair and shields you from the frigid wind, soothing you with soft, sighing words, his damaged lips warm against your ear.

“Shh, shh, you’re okay, Appletini. I’m not mad. You’re okay. You’re okay.”

“Yeah,” you agree, biting back sobs. “Right now I am.”

But what about when you leave, Aegon? What about then?

~~~~~~~~~~

You’re lying in bed—showered, somber, oversized T-shirt and blue flannel pajama pants—and staring at the celebrity posters on your wall when the phone rings. You frown at it as it sits on your nightstand, a beacon of both hope and despair. Trent. It’s probably Trent.

Downstairs, your mom is engrossed in a riveting book club meeting. You can hear the attendees debating the merits of A Walk To Remember through the floorboards. You snatch up the phone before one of your parents can answer and invite Trent over for tea and Tongass Forest Cookies.

“Hello?” you say, with great annoyance.

“Hey, Appletini.”

“Heyyy!” You bolt upright in bed. “What’s up? Why are you whispering?”

“Aemond’s asleep on my couch. I think if I keep him awake again, he might disembowel me.”

You smile. “So why risk it?”

“I had a weird feeling. I wanted to make sure you were alright.”

“My mom’s book club is getting extremely heated downstairs. I’m currently in bed and staring at my numerous Ricky Martin posters. I’m fine.”

“Just fine? Not better than fine?”

You twirl the phone cord between your fingers. You remember what his bare skin felt like against yours, what he tasted like, the way your fingers twisted in his hair. It’s all you can think about; you can’t stop. Maybe it’s better not to. After all, time is running out. “I want you,” you say simply.

There’s no question of whether Aegon will agree. He goes straight to the logistics. “I think that would definitely wake up Aemond. And even if he didn’t have my keys I’m not…uh…in driving condition.” Not sober, he means.

“I have a Jeep.”

“I’ll look for you in ten minutes.” He hangs up. You wave a bashful hello to the book club attendees as you race by them and out into the driveway, clutching the bear mace that hangs from your purse just in case the Ice Fisher happens to be lurking nearby. You don’t even remember your parka.

As you idle under the streetlight in front of Aegon’s apartment, he comes running out of the building in his black Nirvana T-shirt, green flannel pajamas, open parka, and hastily thrown-on boots, the laces untied and flapping. You get out to meet him in the backseat, locking the doors with a distracted press of a button. Both of you kick off your boots and toss them onto the floor. Neither of you speak; there’s no need for it.

You yank off Aegon’s parka and T-shirt as he drags you into his lap, one hand pressed into the small of your back and the other cradling your face, kissing you with vicious desperation. His split lip, still healing, is rough against yours; the bruises on his face are shadows under the murky streetlight glow. You knot your fingers in his hair, drawing him in closer, closer, never close enough. He tugs your shirt over your head and finds nothing underneath but bare, needy flesh that aches for him like lungs burn in the cold.

As his hands wander, he murmurs against your throat, breathless and urgent: “I missed this. I missed you.”

“Show me,” you beg him. You can tell how hard he is; you can recall exactly what it will feel like once he’s inside you, filling and safe and deeply, immensely good. You grab his hands and put them on the waistband of your pajamas. “Aegon, please, I need you so fucking badly. Show me how much you missed me.”

He throws you down across the backseat, cushioning your head with one hand so it doesn’t hit against the door. Then he positions himself between your thighs, panting as he hooks his thumbs under the elastic of your pajamas. They’re gone in an instant, your legs bare and shaking with the rush of adrenaline. Aegon is pushing your thighs apart so he can kiss his way up the inside, his rough wounded lips pressed to your vulnerable skin. You can feel the heel of his palm kneading you through your panties, simple blue silk that is soaked for him; he’s about to take them off.

“Yes,” you moan, almost unable to stand it. The Jeep windows are clouded with sweltering fog. “Yes, yes, oh god, Aegon, yes—”

There is a deafening sound, a breaking, a crashing; someone is screaming, and it takes a moment for you to realize that it’s you. The Jeep door rips open, startlingly cold night air flooding in and ravaging your bare skin, slick with the sweat of now-vanished lust. Something grabs your hair and—with horrifying, relentless force—drags you out into the snow. There are shards of glass littering the ground from the broken window. One of them cuts into the side of your right thigh, spilling blood that is more black than red under the dim beam of the streetlight. Aegon is shouting, and someone else is too, a rumbling voice that at first you can’t place. Then you look up and see him. Trent stands above you, one hand still gripping your hair, the other holding a rock as big as a human skull. He’s calling you a slut, a whore, a bitch. His hand is bleeding from when he used the rock to break the Jeep’s window so he could unlock the door. He doesn’t seem to notice.

“Trent, Trent!” Aegon is screaming, standing in the snow with bare feet and wearing only his green flannel pajama pants. His hands are outstretched, but there’s nothing he can do. “Trent, let her go. Let her go—!”

“You?!” Trent roars. “She’s been cheating on me with you?!”

He yanks you by your hair again and you shriek, punching at his knuckles and trying to curl your legs beneath you so you can stand and then—

And then what?! your mind howls like the wind. You can’t run away from him. You can’t fight him off. You probably can’t even put a mark on him. So then what? So then WHAT?!

“You’re not mad at her,” Aegon says, trying to stay calm, trying to reason with him. “You’re mad at me, Trent, you’re mad at me, it was my idea, I talked her into it, I’m the one you’re mad at, so let her go and then we can—”

“You bitch!” Trent thunders down at you. You try to bolt away and he jerks you back again by your hair, a scream tearing from your throat. You’re trembling all over; you’re drenched in snow and blood. “You fucking bitch—!”

“Let her go!” Aegon is out of ideas. He charges Trent, having no chance at all and knowing it. And just as he reaches him—

For the second time, there is a sound that seems to split the world in two. You cover your ears; you pinch your eyes shut. Trent’s hand releases your hair, and when you fall into the snow—your arms buried up to your elbows in it—you scramble for Aegon, sobbing and shivering uncontrollably. He pulls you against his bare chest, his eyes huge. You turn to see what he’s gaping at. Under the streetlight is Aemond with a revolver in his right hand. At first, it’s aiming into the sky. Then he brings it down to point at Trent.

“You want to get out of here,” he says in a low, blade-sharp voice.

Trent—not out of defiance, you think, but rather out of sheer, witless disbelief—doesn’t move.

Aemond pulls down the revolver’s hammer with his thumb. “Or, if you prefer, we can all find out what your brains look like.”

Trent, sufficiently mobilized, stumbles through the snow to his truck, climbs inside, and speeds off into the night. Aemond dumps the rest of the bullets out of the revolver and into his palm, then stows them in the pocket of his black sweatpants.

Aegon reaches into your Jeep to get his parka, throws it over you, and zips it closed. Then he yells to Aemond, waving at the revolver: “What the fuck, they let you on a plane with that?!”

“Private jet.”

“Oh, right. Obviously.” Aegon cradles your face with both hands. “You okay, baby? You okay?” You nod forcefully, too cold and shell-shocked to speak. He doesn’t believe you. “Come on, let’s get you inside, let’s get you warmed up, let’s take a look at that leg—”

“That’s the guy, right?” Aemond says. “The one you think might be the killer.”

“Yeah,” Aegon replies distractedly, still focused on you.

“What’s his name?”

“Trent,” you say, finding your voice. “Trenton Desormeaux.”

Aemond stares out into the night, his pale eye fixed on the place where Trent had stood just seconds ago. He betrays nothing, his face lined with enigmatic concentration. “Hm,” he says. And then again: “Hm.”

[umseb]

"And at some point I thought: Stop, something is wrong here" – Sebastian Vettel in his first conversation since hisdrawal from Formula 1

He is a four-time Formula 1 world champion and lives in Switzerland. Vettel explains how racing and ecological responsibility go together. And: Will he even return to the premier class?

Mr. Vettel, have you already done something good for the environment today? I was on the bike. Theoretically, I have produced electricity with it, but it is not being fed into the grid yet. However, I made more CO2 in that hour than if I had stayed in bed. But what I find exciting is what resonates with this question: always having to do something good and talk about it. That's not the central point for me. It is important that everyone has a healthy attitude towards the fact that our world is in trouble and what can do to prevent it from getting even worse. It's about attitude, not about one good deed every day.

Would you rather do good and not talk about it? In fact, you become a little more cautious when you talk with enthusiasm and conviction about how you have changed your behavior or what else is going through your head, then you often immediately get the finger wagged. I'm not even interested in the obvious things like solar systems or electric cars. What is much more important is the fact that you take a closer look at many things, become aware of something, and then question your own behavior patterns or decisions.

But you actually do good, as we know. I have trouble walking past something that others have dropped, be it a piece of trash or even just plastic. I wonder what must be going on with people who just throw things out the car window and why people don't even think a step further. It's not correct to expect that anyone will abolish it at some point.

Is this how you raise your children too? Of course that carries over. When we walk through the forest together and they see a candy wrapper lying there, they shout: Is that necessary? But I don't want the walk together to be colored negatively by only remembering this one thing that wasn't nice - and not the good air or the funny cloud. Behavioral patterns can be inspiring when I see that the little one are already dealing with packaging waste differently.

The racing drivers used to move to beautiful Thurgau because it is so close to the airport. How are you traveling? Many people have this classic image in their heads: He's a racing driver, so he always drives a car, and always always. But to be honest: I don't have that need. It was certainly different when I had just gotten my driver's license. By the way, today I prefer driving a car again than when I was active in Formula 1; I can enjoy it more. Before I get on a plane today, I tend to take the car.

Do cars even have a future in private transport? Of course, in Switzerland we are very spoiled when it comes to public transport - because it works. I really enjoy taking public transport, especially when I want to go to Zurich. You can get anywhere in Thurgau, but it just takes a little longer. Where I live there is nothing except a mailbox and a bus stop.

A four-time Formula 1 world champion can do that so easily? Of course, I have no problem with it at all. I also don't understand when other well-known people develop a paranoia that they could be recognized or harasssed. I always tell them: Yes, you too can take the bus or train. Of course I'm not Roger Federer, it's probably a little different for him. But I think people mostly travel because they want to go somewhere, not because they want to recognize anyone.

Lewis Hamilton once told the NZZ that what he appreciated about his time in Zurich was that he was able to move around in peace most of the time. For me it's the Swiss mentality, which requires more discretion. At the beginning no one knew me anyway because I was way too young. And the country is not necessarily a Formula 1 hotspot since. But even when I was traveling in Scandinavia with my VW bus and family last year, I didn't have any unpleasant encounters.

Bus, VW bus – is that your new pace of life? Yes, my pace has slowed extremely. There are already things that I miss. But that doesn't mean I miss the adrenaline rush from speed. I lived for the moment, the competition. That's what I miss most. As intense and as fast-paced as my old life was, I am sometimes surprised that I can cope with the slowness so well now. Everything adapts to the family’s pace. With children you need and learn patience. I'm more surprised that some people think: once a racing driver, always a racing driver. I never fit into many of the clichés anyway; I rather enjoyed things that were considered boring.

Are you looking for freedom on your camping trips? I not only want to gain freedom, but I also want to pass on the freedom that I had and have to my children. It's different to read about sea creatures in a book than to stand in the North Sea and see the lugworm in real life.

But the extreme tension in motorsport, this total focus, is it so easy to get away from it? It's a process, and it's probably still ongoing for me. Sometimes I miss the tension from the old world. But my days are still full. I still haven't found the time for a lot of the things I wanted to do. The result in sport is everything, and because I come from this very extrinsic world, I can say: I don't have that much to show for it after I left Formula 1.

Can you explain that in a little more detail? This constant evaluation from outside that I had since I was a child has completely disappeared; there are no longer any results lists lists. I have a lot of ideas and I'm doing a lot more things than in all the years before. I wanted exactly this idle time in which I didn't immediately dive into the next full-time job. I thought about quitting for several years. And at some point you can no longer push away the thought of ending your career. I'm busy translation this passion that I lived out in motorsport into another language and finding something new. Neverthertheless, knowing that the new thing may never trigger the same feeling as before.

There are skiers who stop and then start racing cars. When I go skiing, I so almost go. But I don't just shoot to be the fastest, I have more fun with the swings. There are many things I try my hand at. For example, I really enjoy working with wood. I would like to be more perfect at this, and of course I get annoyed when something doesn't work right away. But how can it be, the first time? But your own personality is somehow part of everything.

What is your yardstick for a happy day today? It starts with asking yourself questions: What does happiness mean? What is satisfaction? What do I want to do with my life? That is a very great good.

Do you like being a family person? It was a very conscious decision to start a family back then. At 26, I was very young by today's standards. I remember when our first daughter was born, I read in a brochure at the hospital that babies can sleep up to 20 hours a day. Great, I said to my wife, it's working. Well, we didn't have a brochure child. It took three years for her to sleep through the night.

Did you give up a lot because of motorsport? When you're in the machinery of sport, it just keeps going. I was amazed at how much I was traveling, even though I always spent as much time at home as possible and gave up a lot of things to do so. Now that I actually have more time, other relationships with the children are developing. I can tell a bedtime story every night instead of just twice a week. When we go to museums, I can see how children see the world. I find that really exciting, so because there is a lot of identity in it. On the one hand, your own influence, on the other hand, the influence from outside. It also makes me question myself.

Your identity is that of a champion. Part of the exciting part is the question of what that did to me, how my world was shaped by it. I think I lived it very intensively. And I can well understand if someone wants more and more joy and success and even becomes addicted to it. But I always had a healthy distance from it; my identity didn't depend too much on it.

What caused you to become more interested in the environment than in motorsport? There wasn't a moment when it clicked for me. As you get older, you perceive things differently and more strongly. When we talk about the future in Formula 1, we mean the next season or the season after that. Everything else was very abstract, the future was just a dictionary definition. But hey presto you have children, you want to be there for them and if possible protect them for the rest of their lives. Life happens, this is how a real future is created, the word becomes plastic. And at some point I thought: Stop, something is wrong here. What is actually going on with our world? Isn't there much more important than what has been been important to me so far? I am a very curious person and am quick to ask questions of myself and others. And suddenly a huge world opened up in front of me - with huge problems. Bigger than just the problem of making a racing car faster. I started to become really interested in politics for the first time.

That sounds like a radical change. Starting with the question: What is my life anyway? What is this footprint everyone is talking about? How do you measure it? I did some research and started writing down how I get around. And as soon as I collected data and information, I started to change my life. I stopped flying on a private jet, which used to be common practice due to time constraints and comfort. Lo and behold, it wasn't a problem to stand in line with everyone else at the airport. Twelve hours in the car to Barcelona didn't hurt my race preparation; we actually enjoyed stopping along the way and discovering Avignon, for example. The things I gave up were not freedoms, but habits.

But for many drivers, owning a car means freedom. Most cars are parked 98 percent of the time, so they are more like stationary vehicles than vehicles. But what would would our cities look like if intelligent mobility, e.g. no longer needed parking garages? There wants be radical changes in the cityscape, like when cars replaced horses. I understand that many people are afraid when something changes. But they miss the opportunity to see how much better things could be for them if cities become more livable, safer and cleaner. Don't get me wrong: I'm not one of those people who groans when a car drives past me and immediately feels sick.

Back to our problems: Is e-mobility the solution? I believe it is a solution. It makes sense, especially the efficiency of the drive speaks for it. There is still a lot of movement on the topic, including when it comes to questions about raw materials, disposal and the energy required during production. But the materials for the combustion engine also come from somewhere. The electric car makes perfect sense in cities, and it will play a central role elsewhere too. The range can be planned; very few people get up in the morning and say: Today I want to spontaneously go to Paris and back again. As far as the supposed lack of emotions when driving, I can tell you: Yes, you feel something. I actually don't want to drive anything else, it's so pleasant to drive. There are still challenges, but they can be solved. The question is: what would be the alternative?

They are working on synthetic fuels and are even demonstrating them in Formula 1 racing cars. All of us, individually and as a society, must have found a solution to all the emissions we create because of the way we move, the way we live or what we eat. There are already a lot of options, and it would just be lazy to say: That doesn't work. Synthetic fuels are a bridging technology; hydrogen, with or without combustion engines, or fuel cells can be the solution for heavy transport. We just need to redouble our efforts to move away from the old. There is no silver bullet to solving problems, which we always dreamed of in Formula 1.

You have also invested yourself in a Swiss company that stores carbon dioxide in stone. There are always many exciting approaches. I looked at what the Climeworks company is doing in Iceland; it works very well there due to the geological conditions. If you are interested in something like that, you automatically slide into other subject areas.

Have you ever thought about visiting ETH? It is represented in practically all future fields. I'm still deciding whether and if so, what I should study. After graduating from high school it would have been mechanical engineering, but that would be too dry for me today. Maybe I would rather do something creative, with my hands.

Maybe an apprenticeship instead of studying? I have already taken a few courses in agriculture. I came to the topic through nutrition, which is extremely important for professional athletes. Of course I had heard that organic is better. But what exactly is organic, why is it better, what do they do differently? During Corona I did a small internship on a farm. There is something grounding about it in the best sense of the word. Being a farmer is a great job. And I think it's a shame that he isn't sufficiently appreciated in our society.

How do you feel about Formula 1? Are you even watching anymore? Yes I do. I wanted to try withdrawal at the first Grand Prix after my last race. I actually didn't watch the training, but shortly before qualifying I had to give in and tuned in. I also watched the race. It wasn't as strange a feeling as I had previously thought, watching and no longer sitting in the car. I then saw a few races throughout the year, or at least watched the highlights. Because of course I'm still interested in the sport, even if I'm no longer that close to it. I watch with my wife and usually comment unconsciously. She says it's the first time she's really understood the sport. And if I'm right with a pit strategy, then it'll go down like oil.

Is it still appropriate to watch men driving around in circles for an hour and a half? I'm far too close to say it isn't. I love this sport, it is so multifaceted and full of depth. But I also understand that many things are too complex to be understood in an hour and a half. For me the fascination is still there. But of course I'm not neutral since.

Do you have a favorite that you're keeping your fingers crossed for? Last year belonged to Max Verstappen. Of course some people find it boring, but I think it doesn't give enough respect and recognition to his achievements. I, for one, at the full of admiration. Even for someone like the ski racer Marco Odermatt. It's not that the others are doing something wrong, they really try everything. But Max and Marco do it so much better. They give the sport its shine. That excites me. So because I still know what success feels like.

So no boredom at all? Everyone has their own view of tension. Someone from England recently asked me: “Say, skiing, can you watch it on TV?” I said: “Sure, it’s a great thing here, in Austria and Switzerland it’s the national sport.” He replied: "That's really boring, you're just racing against the clock." I said: 'Yes, but you see in which position someone is driving and this and that. . .» To which he said: “Okay, but they don’t race against each other.”

Are your children actually allowed to watch the Netflix series “Drive to Survive”? You haven't asked for it yet. But I only watched one episode when the series came out. I found it a bit strange because it was so unrealistic. But of course I understand that it has brought a lot of attention and a new audience to motorsport. This is not possible with hours of explanations about how to adjust a damper. On Netflix, viewers feel like they're learning more, partly because there's more drama. But when I feel the need to find out more about the current Formula 1, I don't reach for the remote control, I reach for the telephone.

Formula 1 cannot ignore climate change. I have very strong opinions about what Formula 1 was, what it is and what it can be. Big sports are also big platforms; they can achieve a lot of positive things because they reach so many people. That's why I believe that this brings with it a great responsibility. Formula 1 can no longer avoid the big issues of our time. I still remember what was drilled into us during the media training in the young talent series: don't take a position on the topics of sex, money and politics, don't have an opinion, and ideally don't say anything. Nobody can afford that anymore, especially not an entire sport. There are already issues that Formula 1 has to address.

That would be? The type of vehicle drive is crucial, even if cars only make up a small part of the emissions. But the engine shapes the image. I see this as a huge opportunity for Formula 1 to set a good example instead of just harping on about something old. Otherwise I see a great danger that motorsport will be threatened with extinction in the long term if it continues to involve things that are no longer accepted by society. In Germany this can already be felt to a certain extent; the hype no longer exists. Is that just because no German is winning at the moment, or is the country a little further along in this respect and is dealing with other issues?

Would you be interested in becoming the environmental ambassador for the series? Change has to come from within, skiers are the best example. When I talk to people from the ski circuit, they see how climate change is affecting the racing calendar. In Formula 1, the race in Imola had to be canceled because the soil could no longer absorb the rain and the entire region was flooded. And in Canada only the wind would have had to change and the smoke from the nearby forest fires would have made a race impossible. A lot of money is involved in motorsport. Taking care of certain things costs money, but it has to be included. Last year I carefully started raising awareness myself with a small project to protect insects. The loss of biodiversity is a very serious issue. I also have some ideas for the new season. That's why I'm talking to Formula 1 boss Stefano Domenicali about what can be done.

One last question about career orientation: With Lewis Hamilton's move to Ferrari in 2025, a lot will shift in Formula 1. How close are you to a comeback? I was surprised by this change. Mercedes team boss Toto Wolff didn't call me, but we briefly exchanged text messages. But so far it's not an issue for me, because at 36 I still have all the time in the world. So this doesn't go away. But my signs haven't changed. I think that I have learned and understood a lot in this one year without racing, including about myself. Being on the other side had a big impact on me; a lot of questions came up. So far there is no active project.

Is that a clear no now? No. I already said back then that there wouldn't be clear no in that sense, because I already said back then that there wouldn't't be clear no in that sense, because I believe that everything is a process. And maybe there will come a point at which I say: Yes, I would like to go back. When I sort it out mentally so that it suddenly makes sense again. But at the moment I'm doing very well without driving in Formula 1. There is no firm no, but also no firm yes.

Are you doing something good for yourself today? I'm going for a medical check-up now. This is mandatory if you want to keep your racing license.

[deancrowleycas]

I am stressing the heck out. If I don't find a proper job that I can live from 'til the end of April I have to move back to Germany to live with my grandparents but idk how I would even do that without a car or a driver's license and doing it all alone? I really fucking need a job. I feel so fucking useless. It brings back all my trauma of my mom kicking me out as a teen overnight. Sometimes I think I'm better off dead let's be real then I wouldn't be a burden for my family and also I wouldn't have to worry about my future anymore. I mean moving back is so not the end of the world and I feel like I'm being a brat. I just feel so useless. A total failure. Exactly what my mom told me I would be. I don't really see a perspective for myself idk

[tsams-and-co-memes]

TSAMS Moondrop Canon Info

UPDATED - 4/14/24

Moon's likes:

Dogs

Anime

Pokémon

Webcomics

Imagine Dragons

Quietness

Spending time with his family

Magic

Technology

Coding

Six The Musical

My Little Pony

Palworld

Hot water

Minesweeper

Wolves

Moon's dislikes:

Kids

Witnessing any amount of affection between people or being subjected to it, even in a familial way (he always acts grossed out by it, but maybe he’s just messing around, I’m not sure)

Star Wars

Back to the Future

Eclipse

The creator

Bloodmoon

Miscellaneous:

Moon is aroace

If he could have a pet, it’d be a fruit bat

He takes a lot of inspiration from Rick Sanchez (from Rick and Morty)

He’s not good with directions

He can drive, he just hates doing so

He does not have a driver's license

Moon takes care of himself by taking a metal buffing drill and rubbing it across his face. He has a machine that cleans the rest of him

He tends to have a lot of sleepless nights, trying to relearn everything he knew from before he was reset, contemplating his mortality, how he could be reset, and wind up “dying” again

He’s been kidnapped by an evil version of Sun, who he described as being similar to “evil Morty”

New Moon (after being reset), doesn’t know how he identifies. At the very least he’s ace, but he’s not sure about if he’s romantically attracted to people or not

Moon is a fan of Rick and Morty, and he thinks Rick is the smartest person in the universe

He gets angry whenever anyone says the earth is flat

Moon talks to the Devil from the Bible quite a bit and they get along

When having conversations, Moon prefers it when people are blunt and direct with him

When confronted with problems, he tends to either shrug it off or get angry

Part of his anger towards the situation with Eclipse being back stems from feeling inadequate. He thought he took care of an issue created by his past self, only to find out that the issue (Eclipse) was back, once again threatening his life and Sun's

There was a kid at the daycare once that wasn't scared of Moon. The two talked back and forth, and upon hearing that the kid's home life wasn't great, Moon decided to sneak out of the pizzaplex. He followed the kid home, saw what his home life was like, and he took matters into his own hands, wanting to help the kid. The kid didn't survive whatever Moon did, and Moon (before being reset) carried a lot of regret with him over that incident

Moon recently bought a Chili's from Monty (implied, since Moon recently bought it and Monty said that they recently sold it)

Moon turned his and Sun's garage into his "experimentation area"

Moon makes and sells technology to the government, but he doesn't specify which government that is

Old Moon once ate someone (during the episode where he and Sun fought, and he wound up punching Sun)

New Moon knows the cure for cancer

[seb-boo]

NZZ Interview with Sebastian Vettel | English translation under the cut

He is a four-time Formula 1 world champion and lives in Switzerland. Vettel explains how racing and environmental responsibility go together. And will he even return to the premier class?

Mr. Vettel, have you already done something good for the environment today?

I was on my bike. In theory, I produced electricity, but it's not yet being fed into the grid. However, I also emitted more CO2 in that hour than if I had stayed in bed. But what I find exciting is what resonates with this question: always having to do something good and talk about it. That's not the central point for me. It's important that everyone has a healthy attitude to the fact that our world is in a mess and what they can do to prevent it from getting any worse. It's about attitude, not about doing a good deed every day.

Would you rather do good and not talk about it?

You actually become a little more cautious when you talk enthusiastically and with conviction about how you have changed your behavior or what else is going through your mind, then you often immediately get the finger pointed at you. For me, it's not about the obvious things like solar panels or electric cars. Much more important is the fact that you take a closer look at many things, that you become aware of something and then question your own behavior patterns or decisions.

But you are actually doing good, as we know.

I can hardly walk past something that others have dropped, be it a piece of garbage or even just plastic. I wonder what must be going on inside people who just throw things out of their car windows and why people don't think even one step ahead. It's not right to expect that someone will pick it up at some point.

Is that how you bring up your children?

That carries over, of course. When we go for a walk in the woods together and they see a sweet wrapper lying there, they exclaim: Is that really necessary? But I don't want the walk together to be tainted in a negative way, with only this one thing that wasn't nice sticking in their minds - and not the good air or the funny cloud. Patterns of behavior can inspire me when I see that the little ones are already dealing with packaging waste differently on their own.

In the past, racing drivers also moved to beautiful Thurgau because it is so close to the airport. How do you get around?

Many people have this classic image in their heads: he's a racing driver, so he always drives a car and always drives fast. But to be honest, I don't have that need. It was certainly different when I first got my driver's license. Incidentally, today I also prefer driving again compared to my active Formula 1 days, I can enjoy it more. Nowadays, I'd rather take the car than get on a plane.

Do cars even have a future in individual transportation?

Of course, we are very spoiled in Switzerland when it comes to public transport—because it works. I really like public transport, especially when I want to go to Zurich. You can also get anywhere in Thurgau, it just takes a little longer. Where I live, there's nothing but a letterbox and a bus stop.

A four-time Formula 1 world champion can do that so easily?

Of course, I have no problem with that at all. I also don't understand when other well-known people develop a paranoia that they could be recognized or harassed. I always say to them: yes, you can take the bus or train too. Of course, I'm not Roger Federer, it's probably a bit different for him. But I think people are mostly on the move because they want to get somewhere and not because they want to recognize someone.

Lewis Hamilton once told the NZZ that he also appreciated being able to move around in peace during his time in Zurich.

For me, it's the Swiss mentality, which involves more discretion. In the beginning, nobody knew me anyway because I was far too young. And the country isn't exactly a Formula 1 hotspot either. But even when I was traveling in Scandinavia last year with my VW bus and family, I didn't have any unpleasant encounters.

Public bus, VW bus - is that your new pace of life?

Yes, my pace has slowed down considerably. There are things that I miss. But it's not that I miss the adrenaline rush of speed. I lived for the moment, the competition. That's what I miss most. As intense and fast-paced as my old life was, I sometimes surprise myself that I can now cope so well with the slower pace. Everything adapts to the pace of the family. You need and learn patience with children. I'm rather surprised that some people think: once a racing driver, always a racing driver. I never fit into many of the clichés anyway, I rather enjoyed things that were considered boring.

Do you seek freedom on your camping trips?

I don't just want to catch up on freedom, I also want to pass on the freedom that I had and have myself to the children. Reading about sea creatures in a book is different from standing in the North Sea and seeing a lugworm in real life.

But the extreme tension in motorsport, this total focus, is it that easy to get away from it?

It's a process, and it's probably still ongoing for me too. Sometimes I miss the tension from the old world. But my days are still full. I still haven't found the time for a lot of things I wanted to do. The result in sport is everything, and because I come from this very extrinsic world, I can say that I still don't have that much to show for my retirement from Formula 1.

Can you explain that in more detail?

The eternal external assessment that I had as a child is completely gone, there are no more results lists. I have lots of ideas and I do a lot more things than in all the years before. I wanted exactly this kind of idle time, where I don't dive straight back into the next full-time job. I thought about quitting for several years. And at some point, you can no longer push away the thought of ending your career. I'm trying to translate this passion that I've lived out in motorsport into another language, to find something new. All the while knowing that the new thing may never trigger the same feeling as before.

There are skiers who stop skiing and then start racing.

When I go skiing, I also ski fast. But I don't shoot to be the fastest, I have more fun with the turns. There are many things I try my hand at. For example, I really like working with wood. I'd like to be more perfect at it, and of course I get annoyed when something doesn't work out right away. But how can you the first time? But your own personality is somehow involved in everything.

What is your benchmark for a happy day today?

It starts with asking yourself: What does happiness mean? What is contentment? What do I want to do with my life? That is a very good thing.

Do you like being a family man?

It was a very conscious decision to start a family back then. At 26, I was very young by today's standards. I remember when our first daughter was born, I read in a brochure at the hospital that babies can sleep up to 20 hours a day. Great, I said to my wife, that works. Well, we didn't have a brochure baby. It took three years before she slept through the night.

Have you given up a lot because of motorsport?

When you're in the machinery of sport, it goes on and on. I was amazed at how much time I spent on the road, even though I always spent as much time as possible at home and gave up a lot in return. Now that I really have more time, different relationships are developing with the children. I can tell them a bedtime story every night instead of just twice a week. When we go to museums, I can experience how children see the world. I find that really exciting, also because it involves a lot of identity. On the one hand, my own imprint, on the other, the imprint from outside. It also makes me question myself.

Your identity is that of a champion.

One of the exciting things is the question of what it did to me, how it shaped my world. I think I lived it very intensely. And I can well understand if someone wants more and more of the jubilation, the success, and even becomes addicted to it. But I always had a healthy distance to it, my identity didn't depend too much on it.

What was the trigger for you to become more interested in the environment than in motorsport?

There wasn't one moment when it clicked for me. As you get older, you perceive things differently, more strongly. When people talk about the future in Formula 1, they mean the next season or the season after next. Everything else was very abstract, the future was just a definition in the dictionary. But suddenly you have children, you want to be there for them and protect them for the rest of their lives, if possible. Life happens, a real future emerges, the word becomes tangible. And at some point I thought: stop, something is wrong here. What is actually wrong with our world? Aren't there much more important things than what has been important to me so far? I am a very curious person and am quick to ask questions of myself and others. And suddenly a huge world has opened up in front of me - with huge problems. Bigger than just the problem of making a racing car faster. I started to take a real interest in politics for the first time.

That sounds like a radical change.

Starting with the question: What is my life anyway? What is this footprint that everyone is talking about? How do you measure it? I did some research and started writing down how I move around. And while I was collecting data and information, I started to change my life. I no longer flew in a private jet, which used to be the norm for reasons of time and comfort. And lo and behold, it was no problem to stand in line with everyone else at the airport. Even twelve hours in the car to Barcelona didn't harm my race preparation, we enjoyed stopping off on the way and discovering Avignon, for example. The things I gave up were not freedoms, but habits.

But for many drivers, having their own car means freedom.

Most cars spend 98% of their time parked, so they are more like stationary vehicles than cars. But what would our cities look like if intelligent mobility meant that parking garages were no longer needed, for example? There will also be radical changes in the cityscape, like when cars replaced horses. I understand that many people are afraid when things change. But they miss out on the opportunity to see how much better it could be for them if cities became more livable, safer, and cleaner. Don't get me wrong: I'm not one of those people who groan when a car drives past me and immediately feel ill.

Back to our problems: Is e-mobility the solution?

I believe it is a solution. It makes sense, especially in terms of the efficiency of the drive. There is still a lot of movement in this area, including the issues of raw materials, disposal and energy consumption during production. But the materials for the combustion engine also come from somewhere. The electric car makes perfect sense in cities, and it will also play a central role elsewhere. The range can be planned, very few people get up in the morning and say: Today I want to go to Paris and back again spontaneously. As for the alleged lack of emotion when driving, I can tell you: yes, you can feel something. In fact, I wouldn't want to drive anything else, it's so pleasant. There are still challenges, but they can be solved. The question is what would be the alternative?

They are looking into synthetic fuels, even demonstrating them in Formula 1 racing cars.

We all, individually and as a society, need to find a solution to all the emissions we cause because of the way we move, how we live or what we eat. There are already a lot of possibilities and it would be lazy to say that it won't work. Synthetic fuels are a bridging technology; hydrogen, with or without a combustion engine, or fuel cells could be the solution for heavy transportation. We just need to step up our efforts to get away from the old. There is no single ideal solution to the problem that we have always dreamed of in Formula 1.

You yourself have also invested in a Swiss company that stores carbon dioxide in stone.

There are always many exciting approaches. I had a look at what the company Climeworks is doing in Iceland, where it works very well due to the geological conditions. If you are interested in something like that, you automatically slip into other subject areas.

Have you ever thought about visiting the ETH University?

It's represented in practically all future-oriented fields. I'm still thinking about whether and if so, what I should study. After leaving school it would have been mechanical engineering, but that would be too dry for me today. I would perhaps prefer to do something creative, with my hands.

Maybe an apprenticeship instead of studying?

I've already done a few courses in agriculture. I came to the subject via nutrition, which is hugely important for professional athletes. Of course I had heard that organic is better. But what exactly is organic, why is it better, what do they do differently? During the pandemic, I did a short internship on a farm. It was grounding in the best sense of the word. Being a farmer is a great job. And I think it's a shame that it's not appreciated enough in our society.

How do you feel about Formula 1? Do you still watch it at all?

Yes, I do. I wanted to try a withdrawal at the first Grand Prix after my last race. I didn't actually watch the practice session, but just before qualifying I had to give in and switched it on. I also watched the race. It wasn't as strange a feeling as I had previously thought, watching and no longer sitting in the car. I then watched a few races throughout the year, or at least the highlights. Because of course I'm still interested in the sport, even if I'm no longer so close to it. I watch with my wife and usually commentate unconsciously. She says it's the first time she's really understood the sport. And if I'm right about a boxing strategy, then that goes down like oil.

Is it still appropriate to watch men driving around in circles for an hour and a half?

I'm far too close to it to say that it's not. I love this sport, it's so multifaceted and full of depth. But I also understand that many things are too complex to be understood in an hour and a half. For me, the fascination is still there. But of course I'm not neutral either.

Do you have a favorite you're rooting for?

Last year belonged to Max Verstappen. Sure, a few people find that boring, but I don't think it gives his performance enough respect and recognition. I for one am full of admiration. Even for someone like the ski racer Marco Odermatt. It's not that the others are doing anything wrong, they really do try everything. But Max and Marco do it so much better. They make the sport shine. That inspires me. Also because I still know what success feels like.

So no boredom at all?

Everyone has their own view of excitement. Someone from England recently asked me: "Tell me, skiing, can you watch it on TV?" I said: "Sure, it's a great thing here, it's the national sport in Austria and Switzerland." He replied: "It's really boring, you're just racing against the clock." I said: "Yes, but you can see what position someone is in and this and that . . ." To which he replied: "Okay, but they're not racing against each other."

Are your children actually allowed to watch the Netflix series "Drive to Survive"?

They haven't asked yet. But I only watched one episode myself, back when the series came out. I thought it was a bit weird because it was so unrealistic. But of course I understand that it brought a lot of attention and a new audience to motorsport. You can't do that with hours of explanations on how to adjust a damper. With Netflix, viewers feel like they learn more, also because there is more drama. But when I feel the need to find out more about the current Formula 1, I don't reach for the remote control, I reach for the phone.

Formula 1 cannot close itself off from climate change.

I have a very strong opinion about what Formula 1 was, what it is and what it can be. Big sports are also big platforms, they can do a lot of positive things because they reach so many people. That's why I also believe that this brings with it a great responsibility. Formula 1 can no longer avoid the big issues of our time. I still remember what was drummed into us during media training in the junior series: don't take a stand on the topics of sex, money and politics, don't have an opinion, preferably don't say anything. Nobody can afford to do that nowadays, let alone an entire sport. There are issues that Formula 1 has to face up to.

What are they?

The type of vehicle drive is key, even if cars only account for a small proportion of emissions. But the engine shapes the image. I see this as a huge opportunity for Formula 1 to set a good example instead of riding around on something old. Otherwise, I see a great danger that motorsport will be threatened with extinction in the long term if it continues to involve things that are no longer accepted by society. In Germany, you can already feel this to a certain extent, the hype no longer exists. Is that just because no German is winning at the moment, or is the country a bit further along in this respect and dealing with other issues?

Would you be interested in becoming an environmental ambassador for the series?

Change has to come from within, the skiers are the best example. When I talk to people from the ski circus, they see how climate change is affecting the racing calendar. In Formula 1, the race in Imola had to be canceled because the ground could no longer absorb the rainfall and the whole region was flooded. And in Canada, all the wind had to do was change direction and the smoke from the nearby forest fires would have made a race impossible. A lot of money is involved in motorsport. It costs money to take care of certain things, but it has to be included. Last year, I cautiously started to raise awareness myself with a small project to protect insects. The loss of biodiversity is a very serious issue. I also have some ideas for the new season. That's why I'm also talking to Formula 1 boss Stefano Domenicali about what can be done.

One last question about professional orientation: With Lewis Hamilton's move to Ferrari in 2025, a lot is shifting in Formula 1. How close are you to a comeback?

I was surprised by this change. The Mercedes team boss Toto Wolff didn't call me, but we briefly exchanged text messages. But so far it's not an issue for me, also because at 36 I still have all the time in the world. So it's not going away. But my omens haven't changed. I think I've learned and understood a lot in this one year without racing, including about myself. Being on the other side has had a big impact on me and many questions have come up. So far, there are no active plans.

Is that a definite no?

No. I also said back then that there wouldn't be a clear no in that sense, because I believe that everything is a process. And maybe there will come a point when I say: yes, I would like to go back. When I get it sorted mentally so that it suddenly makes sense again. At the moment, however, I'm doing very well without Formula 1. There's no definite no, but there's no definite yes either.

Are you doing something good for yourself today?

I'm going for a medical check-up now. It's compulsory if you want to keep your racing license.

[babyspacebatclone]

Small rant from a daycare teacher:

It’s important and healthy to teach children they can be told no.

We’re talking something like a bell curve, you need to be in the middle, but please for the love of your child’s future please answer this:

Will your child be expected to stop at red lights?

Will your child have to make appointments in inconvenient days?

Do you want your child to be able to live with, at most, a manageable amount of debt?

If you want those things for your child in the future - safety when driving, handling making doctor’s appointments in the schedule available, and financial health - If you want your child to be able to handle that in the future…

They need to learn that it’s ok to be told “no.”

That they can’t get everything exactly when they want it.

That some things are reasonable, but maybe not right now.

That other people have needs too, and we sometimes have to put those needs first for the time being.

Please.

I’m just… Exhausted from the three year olds complaining “But I want it!” or “I don’t want to [take my break]!” for months.

Because that behavior is age appropriate.

It is age appropriate for a child to want to impose their desires on the greater world. They don’t know other people have real feelings, real needs.

They need to learn this.

But if the belief that “I want this!” is going to work for months, that means they A) are getting away with it from someone regularly and B) aren’t learning patience and self control.

And at the minimum, if you want your child to have the independence of a driver’s license, they’re going to have to learn patience and self control.

And I promise you, they can start learning even before the age of 1.

On the flip side, of course, they also need to learn they do have control over the world, but that’s a different rant right now……

(They won’t be good at self control at age 1, in fact the way you know they’re learning is they cry at the word “no.” But that’s the process, and the earlier they understand the world imposes limits on them while having their needs otherwise met, the earlier they can learn coping skills for working within those limits.)

[vettelsvee]

YOU'LL FIND ME IN THE STARS | Sebastian Vettel

f1 masterlist | history series masterlist

history series season 1: part 1 | part 2.1 | part 2.2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5

summary: sebastian can't get di out of his head even though he's back home with hanna, his girlfriend. that's why the young man decides to step up with his decision: doing everything possible to have the austrian continuing her internship alongside him, now at redbull. little did he know that does news weren't the only ones that diana wagner not only would receive on christmas, but also would change her life.

word count: 6919

warnings: brief mentions of sexual activities, anxiety attacks, sickness, death and suicide. bad language, curse words.

taglist: [@theseerbetweenus @annewithaneofthegreengable @vincentvanshoe @formulaonebuff] if you wanna be tagged in each part just tell me in the comments <3

a/n: last part of history season 1! hope you liked it because this is just the beginning of seb and di's story. they're my very own fave characters i've ever created and i hope you liked them as much as I do :)

¡! you can read the fanfic as diana or y/n, but the faceclaim will always be my girl emma stone :)

feedback is truly appreciated!

2008 Berlin, Germany

Only two days, actually one if they considered it was already Friday, were left for the meeting with Red Bull and Sebastian, who complained to his public relations that he seemed to have no vacation during the winter break, insisted on driving to the German capital despite the six long hours ahead.

"Are you sure you don't prefer to go by plane?" his girlfriend asked, settling into the passenger seat as Sebastian placed the suitcase they would share in the trunk. "Britta can find us a last-minute flight, I'm sure."

"Hanna, I'm a professional driver, and I have a license to prove it," the blonde replied, getting into the car. "I've spent about nine months driving a single-seater at over three hundred kilometers per hour; now I need to drive like a normal guy, with my girlfriend by my side, while I calmly drive on roads I don't know, enjoy the scenery, and feel the wind on my face."

"You better not open the windows at three degrees we have out there."

"Wait and see."

As soon as the driver started the car, he turned the heating to the max and directed it towards Hanna, who just rolled her eyes at the gesture. Although she knew her boyfriend like the back of her hand for years, there were many occasions when his antics surprised her.

"Okay, okay," Prater finally responded, raising her hands in redemption, followed by a yawn. "I understand you want to act like a normal twenty-one-year-old guy, so go ahead," she indicated, pointing her index finger at the road ahead.

They had only been on the road for about an hour and Hanna had already given up, falling into an immediate sleep that had interrupted the conversation she and Sebastian were having about the apartment they planned to see in Berlin and intended to buy. Although the German enjoyed driving, he didn't like doing it alone, at least not outside Formula 1.

The music playing in the background, coming from a local radio station, along with the constant roar of the engine, was what kept him from dwelling too much on why his mind had been so distracted since the end of the season or, more precisely, on the person who had occupied all his thoughts.

No matter how hard he tried, Vettel's mind was elsewhere, immersed in that unnatural blonde hair and blue eyes that conveyed both security and fear, from the girl who had a brighter future than many people made her believe.

Since that victory in Monza, the German's judgment was completely clouded and filled with confusion. He couldn't overlook any of the interactions they had had since then. The spark in the girl's gaze and her desire to see him succeed, regardless of what happened to her, left Sebastian completely bewildered.

Did the Austrian see the possibility of going beyond a simple friendship between them? Or was it him, seeing in Diana what he would like to see in Hanna?

Possibly the latter: the problem was him.

The night wind entered gently through the window, which the blonde had opened slightly shortly after her girlfriend fell asleep, who was unaware, thankfully, of all the possible scenarios Sebastian was creating and would like to experience with Wagner. The last thing he wanted at that moment was another jealous outburst from his girlfriend, although he deserved it.

While his love for his girl was the most important thing to him, he couldn't help but feel remorse for realizing that there were certain things his girlfriend seemed to lack, but that Diana shared with him. It wasn't just their passion for motorsport anymore, but also the concern the intern felt every time the pilot got in and out of the car, when he finished a press conference or an interview, or even those moments when he saw him with few friends. Prater rarely did that, even if she made an effort to show a minimum of feigned interest.

Diana Wagner was the kind of person whose world could be falling apart, and yet she would worry more about the person in front of her.

For months, Sebastian had been wondering if his mind was playing tricks on him by comparing the two girls. Was it fair to Hanna for him to think of Diana as her replacement? Even for the Austrian: was it normal for him to see her as the idealized version of his girlfriend? Sebastian found himself in completely unknown territory from which he couldn't find a way out, and the more he thought about it, the more lost he became in his feelings.

Hanna shifted slightly in her seat, turning her head in the opposite direction, now facing the pilot. Vettel took a few brief seconds to turn his gaze toward her while still paying attention to the road ahead. He loved the girl beside him and would do anything to make her the happiest woman in the world.

A knot started forming in his stomach: he didn't want to hurt her, but it was becoming increasingly difficult for him to clear his head, the mental block growing stronger as the hours of the journey passed, even when they had already entered the German capital.

Friday had passed faster than Sebastian expected. As soon as they parked their car in a nearby hotel parking lot and checked in with autographs and a photo session with the hotel staff included, they dropped off their few belongings in the assigned suite and took a short nap to recharge. Within hours, Vettel and Prater were roaming the streets of Berlin incognito, heading to the apartment they had in mind to buy. Sebastian's impulsivity, driven by guilt, led him to say yes without giving the blonde much chance to decide, making the pilot start convincing himself that the future with his girlfriend, Hanna, was what he should have in mind. They also enjoyed an early dinner at one of the blonde's favorite restaurants in the city.

The new Red Bull star wanted to do everything possible to make his partner happy and distance her from all the insecurity she gained because of him. At the same time, he wanted to get rid of intrusive thoughts that, no matter how hard he tried to ignore them, were meddling too much in every aspect of his life.

When they returned to the room, a sense of calm invaded them. Hanna left her bag on a chair near the main door, stretching as Seb took off his coat and delicately hung it on one of the racks, his yawns filling the room. After that, the blonde approached the girl from behind, embracing her tenderly and holding onto her as if he was going to lose her.

"I'm very happy about everything we're going to do together from now on, love," he whispered in her ear, planting a gentle kiss on her cheek.

Hanna turned carefully, still hugging him but now looking directly into his eyes while her hands rested on his sturdy chest.

"I am too, Seb," the girl replied with a smile that perfectly reflected her fatigue. "This is just the beginning of a new chapter in our story."

The driver held her even closer, stroking her hair and removing some strands from her face, placing small kisses on her crown. Hanna leaned in decisively, and their lips met. The tenderness that initially seemed to characterize the connection between the young couple gradually turned into passion, their mouths moving in such perfect synchrony that it seemed rehearsed. Sebastian's hands began to explore his girlfriend's back, deepening the caress that was interrupted by the blonde, who was looking at the guy with ulterior motives.

"Do you want me to do something to you?" the girl suggested mischievously. "I'm at your disposal for whatever you want. Just ask."

Prater started taking off the sweater she was wearing, throwing it on the floor, and kissed Vettel again, now with more desperation. At the same time, while trying to dedicate time to his girlfriend, Sebastian once again had visions of the Toro Rosso intern in his mind, remembering the last times they had been together and, especially, how he wished things were different between them.

How his life could be different.

"I'm sorry, Hanna," he said, pulling away from his girlfriend and taking a step back. "I'm very tired... and I can't take it anymore, I need to rest a bit," he tried to articulate as calmly as possible, pretending to lie on the bed.

"Come on, Seb, don't spoil the fun for me," the girl encouraged him, raising an eyebrow, pushing him to lie on the mattress and positioning herself on top of him. "Now we have no one to bother us, and you can make me scream as much as you want."

Hanna wasn't giving up easily, and Sebastian knew that perfectly well.

"Hanna, I'm being serious..." the pilot began to say, trying to get her off him. "It's not that I don't want to, it's just that I've been driving for almost seven hours all night, and I've only slept about two hours since last night," Seb explained, using the journey as an excuse. "I need to sleep for twenty hours straight. The Red Bull I had is not enough."

Hanna looked at him, changing her expression to a more serious one as she tried to extract something beyond her boyfriend's words. Her expression reflected concern, which upset the pilot even more than he appeared.

"Are you okay, Seb?"

The mentioned sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"Yes, don't worry. I just need to sleep, at least, two days in a row and sort out my thoughts... about tomorrow's meeting."

"Relax, sweetheart," the girl began to say, caressing his cheek. "I don't want to pressure you if you're not comfortable. And don't worry about tomorrow's meeting: I'm sure everything will go smoothly."

The German simply nodded slightly, trying to act as normal as possible.

"Tomorrow everything will be over, so calm down. Everything will be more than resolved, and I promise I'll devote myself body and soul to everything you want until the season starts."

Hanna convinced herself that this would be true, calming down a bit when Vettel approached and gave her a peck, then got into bed. The girl was curious about how events would unfold the next morning with Marko and Horner, especially regarding the famous intern, but she wouldn't find out until much later because she couldn't be at the meeting. Moreover, she preferred to stay studying there; she had too many assignments and final exams to prepare to be up and down. She had accompanied Seb to Berlin to enjoy his company as much as possible.

Determined, she got up to remove her makeup and get ready to go to bed herself, although at the same time, she did it so Sebastian could have some time alone and calm down without pressure. She tried to keep the lights off and not make much noise: there had been few occasions when the pilot had had an anxiety attack, but Prater knew perfectly well that when it happened, the last thing he wanted was to talk, wishing to escape from everyone to hide his vulnerability.

When she was ready, she slipped carefully between the sheets, staying behind Seb's back while trying not to disturb the calm that seemed to have finally consumed him. The room would be immersed in a sepulchral silence if it weren't for both of their breaths, which always became synchronized after a few rigorous minutes. Seeing the scene, Hanna felt the urge to move toward Vettel. Gently, she approached him until she was close enough to put an arm over his waist, pulling him toward her protectively. She felt how the boy relaxed, encouraging her to continue: instinctively, she rested her head on the shoulder she had free, closed her eyes, and let sleep take her to a world where, perhaps, Sebastian Vettel didn't have so many doubts about their relationship.

[...]

Sebastian

The landscape visible through the tinted windows of the van taking Britta and me to the hotel for the meeting to finalize my six-year contract with Red Bull was more than memorized in my memory from all the times I had traveled it. I guess that's the advantage of having photographic memory. But it's also a disadvantage because I remember perfectly every single moment I've shared with her, moments that I'm not supposed to have so vivid. 

The so-called power of Diana Wagner, I suppose.

Her face, her smile, her voice... everything seemed to have moved into my mind with no intention of leaving for a long time, and I hated it immensely because I felt an indescribable emotion when I saw her. But at the same time, the confusion was huge because I couldn't understand what role her presence was playing in my life. Add to that, the fact that I felt like a complete idiot for Hanna, who deserved none of this, no matter how many scenes of jealousy she made or how much insecurity she emanated; after all, I understood her—I behaved like a Neanderthal on many occasions when I saw her classmates too close.

Britta was by my side, delivering a speech that my mind didn't seem to grasp because it was already working hard, thinking about the intern.

"Seb, are you listening to me?"

The poker face she threw at me when she seemed to realize I wasn't listening was indescribable. I just nodded quickly.

"Why are you so concerned about Wagner?" she asked, cutting the tension that had formed between us.

My hands turned into a fist automatically, my knuckles turning a shade of red that even worried me.

"I don't know," I admitted, looking at her briefly before returning my gaze to the city's buildings. "Since we said goodbye, I haven't been able to stop thinking about her..."

"It's normal to have feelings for other people," she interrupted, not giving me the opportunity to continue explaining myself. "But you have to know perfectly well what you want and, more importantly, who you want."

If my mind was a whirlwind, after her words, it was even more so. Why was it impossible for me to forget, even for a few months, about Diana? But that's not all: most importantly, I didn't know why everything I did with Hanna or everything I wanted to say to her, I wanted to say to the adopted Barcelona girl. I felt like I was somehow being unfaithful to her.

My public relations continued talking, only sending me another small thread of everything she was saying, repeating as if it were a mantra that I had to take into account what having Di on our team would mean. She even emphasized strongly that, before making a hasty decision, I should think with my brain and not with my penis.

It seemed she didn't know me, and that's what made me dislike her in moments like these.

"Vettel, come here!"

As soon as we stepped into that meeting room in one of Berlin's most luxurious hotels, Christian opened his arms for a hug, setting aside the formalities I had seen from him until then. Marko was in one of the corners, holding a folder with the team logo in his hands, completely still and with a distant look, although I knew he was analyzing everything I said or did; I could see him occasionally commenting to Guillaume Rocquelin, who would be my new race engineer, better known as Rocky, while I talked to Horner about what I had done during the only free week I had had so far.

When Helmut finally deigned to greet me, I stood straight as a candle, just as I did in school whenever I was reprimanded. No jokes for now; Roeske had already warned me about that. I was too young to be out of a job.

"I'm glad to see you again, Sebastian," he said, offering a handshake that I gladly accepted. God, he was so sweaty. "We're delighted to have you here. Let me introduce you to Rocky," he turned to the man next to him, who already had a big smile on his face, "from now on, if you decide to sign the contract, he'll be your race engineer at Red Bull."

How could I not sign the contract? I wanted my favorite girl from the paddock to be with me wherever I went. I didn't want to be out of a job.

Damn it, thinking about Diana again.

"Pleasure, Sebastian," the engineer said, giving me a hug that left me completely out of place. "I'm thrilled that we'll be working together from now on. I know you have potential."

"Thank you."

I couldn't say more because, even before finishing the word, Marko was already demanding that I sit next to Britta, who already had an impressive pile of papers in front of her. I did that, also asking her with my gaze what it was; she didn't answer, of course, but threw another one of her many phrases at me with her eyes that I knew perfectly. In this case, it could be something like "stop being a teenage jerk and focus on being an adult for once."

"All right, Sebastian," Helmut Marko began to say, "you already know well what the contract entails because, if I recall correctly, we publicly confirmed your entry into the team at the German Grand Prix this year, 2008," I nodded, "and we agreed that you would replace Coulthard about two months earlier, in May," I affirmed again, "so you must have read the contract around February or March, but it was confidential."

God, how annoying.

"Exactly."

"Well," he continued, making me more nervous. I don't know how he could live from the calm he always carried with him, "let's review the terms and everything you'll be facing for the next six years."

"The contract will last, as I've already mentioned, six years, from 2009 to 2014, with the possibility of extending it, which will allow us to establish a solid relationship with you and, especially, to develop your potential to the fullest. You already know well that during this time, you will be the number one pilot, the most important member of the team, without intending to belittle Webber," he clarified, although I knew it was an excuse as thin as a demon. "This will give you the opportunity to demonstrate what you are capable of and, above all, achieve what we believe you desire most: accumulating podiums, victories, and even winning a championship or two. Regarding responsibilities," he changed the subject to one that seemed infinitely more boring to me, "we only expect you to integrate into the team and contribute both to the development of the car and to race strategies," he said, looking at the engineer beside him, "alongside Guillaume. We're not just looking for the best driver for the coming seasons, nor the fastest, but someone who can provide the necessary feedback to make us a rocket."

"And how much are you going to pay him?" Britta impatiently wanted to know, eliciting a smile from me that didn't amuse the company owner as much. "I believe that's what my client is most interested in and what we haven't discussed yet, I'm afraid."

For those reasons, I knew I couldn't easily let this woman slip away.

"He'll have a base salary and, from there, bonuses based on the results he achieves, especially if they're P1," explained the older man, earning mere murmurs from Britta. "But don't worry about that, Roeske, we'll provide everything necessary in terms of facilities, personnel, and resources so that your client, as you've called him, walks away satisfied every year."

"And would that be all?"

"Don't play dumb, woman," now Christian was speaking, whom I both loved and hated in equal measure. "You read the contract even before Sebastian did."

The expression she made seemed like she wanted the ground to swallow her. I knew nothing about her knowing what would be in the contract before I did... Should I be worried, or should I be calm because that was her job?

"Do you have any questions or concerns about the contract?" Horner asked with interest. "We want you to have everything clear before you sign anything. If you regret something, you can tell us with complete sincerity, you know you're the new star and we want you to feel at home."

Britta's gazes were penetrating me even before I knew she was looking at me because I knew what she was going to ask. Was it the best decision? Probably not, but sometimes the heart wants what it wants and mine, in those moments, wanted to do everything possible for Diana Wagner to have the opportunity to show the world what she was capable of. The woman looked at me, making faces so that I wouldn't say anything of what she knew as well as I did that I was going to end up saying.

"Yes," I said, taking a breath before explaining what had been going through my mind for so long. "I would like Diana Wagner, the Toro Rosso intern who was subordinate to Alex last season," I told them as I saw their faces turn into completely different expressions, "to be with us, on the team, doing something more than what she has done this year."

Roeske observed me impatiently, while the two big shots from Red Bull exchanged somewhat uncomfortable looks. The engineer simply remained silent, watching the other three as much as I was.

"Why would you like this Diana to join us, Sebastian?" Helmut wanted to know, which seemed very odd to me.

"I know what she's capable of," I began, "but since she's not given a chance to demonstrate her talent, it's impossible for you to see it. Each and every one of us, myself included, has underestimated her at some point because she's a woman and inexperienced, when all she's doing is fighting to learn, carve out a place for herself, and above all, try to be the best at what she knows could be her future profession," I declared with a tone increasingly angry from the rage contained within me. I had to learn to control it as my mother had told me so many times, but it was impossible in cases like this.

Christian Horner and Helmut Marko glanced at each other again, but unlike before, now they seemed to have a clear decision, and it didn't give me a good feeling. Before they could say anything, Britta interrupted them, showing no consideration for how much I disliked talking about my personal life in public:

"Sebastian..." she commented, knowing perfectly well the doubts that had been plaguing my mind for so long, "don't act like Diana is Hanna. Don't do this out of pity because it will end very badly."

I couldn't say anything because I knew she was right. Britta Roeske once again had bloody well hit the nail on the head, and I couldn't take it away from her. Her words echoed in my mind constantly, along with every single conversation we had had on the subject. I had a serious problem, and making another impulsive decision wasn't the best way to act.

But I did it. I ended up doing it for that bright-eyed girl whose eyes turned dark every time they trampled on her, threatened her, insulted her, or suggested she do another job than the one she was there to do, among thousands of other words and gestures that surely made her feel like crap in the area of her life that stood out the most; surely Toro Rosso hadn't selected her from thousands of candidates if they hadn't seen the potential she had. I wasn't the only one who could think that.

"This has nothing to do with me feeling sorry for Diana or not," I tried to calm my anger, "but these are professional matters that I would like to address because, just as something, I don't know what, was seen in me to run for this team, I also see that this girl can succeed when given the opportunity to do so," I turned to Helmut eagerly, and I swore his eyes began to penetrate him like no one had ever done before: “You are the ones who claim to have a young team. Don't you think it would be good to have a more rejuvenated vision of engineering, to learn from each other? No offense, man," I ended up looking at my engineer.

I could feel the doubts of everyone present, but there had come a point where I didn't care anymore: I was determined to fight for what I believed was right, regardless of the consequences that all this fuss I had created based on a slight obsession with a colleague might bring.

"Seb, please," the blonde replied authoritatively, but at the same time with affection as she looked at me with concern, "take things slowly. You're not thinking clearly, your feelings are doing it for you."

"No, Britta, I'm thinking very clearly," I replied firmly. "I can't turn my back on someone who has passion and potential for this sport, and that was clearly seen with the victory I achieved in Monza because she was the one who designed the strategy since Alex decided to leave after psychologically abusing her."

Shit, I had gone too far revealing details, but I didn't care because their faces, which had been completely impressed, except for Roeske's, were the sign that made me affirm that I had made the right decision.

"Diana was the one who prepared it?" Rocky wanted to know, and I nodded. He was the most surprised person in the room, and that gave me a little hope.

"If it hadn't been for her, I probably wouldn't have finished the race."

Everyone in the room was even more surprised. I don't blame them, I was too at the time, but I was bored: I needed Diana Wagner to surprise me even more.

"To be honest, we had no intention of continuing to trust Miss Wagner for the next season," Helmut Marko confessed, and my heart began to race. What if, after all, I had messed up even more? “To be honest, the internship program we set up turned out to be much worse than initially thought. If you are so determined for this girl to join the team, then we will establish some conditions for her to join," announced the man, "and if she doesn't meet expectations, she will be expelled immediately."

Marko's voice was firm, but behind it, I knew he wanted to test Di and me for what I had proposed. His look conveyed to me that, as much as he trusted that I could make Red Bull Racing shine, he didn't trust the opinion of a twenty-one-year-old kid; the same could be said of Horner, Rocky, and Britta, who probably weren't giving credit to the kind of debate the team advisor and I were having.

"Agreed," Roeske sighed beside me and crossed her arms. I knew she was angry and that she would scold me as soon as we left there, but I didn't care. WI don't know what Diana will think of all this, but I'm sure she's more than willing to prove more than she's worth; just as I know she won't disappoint you."

"I hope your words are true, Vettel. You'd better not do this because you have some kind of fling with the girl, because if you mess up, she'll be out on the street with you right behind her."

My lungs seemed to have disappeared because at that moment I didn't feel the air flowing through my body. Her look made me feel like a lost child, with no one to help him and not knowing where to go. I had defended Diana tooth and nail and didn't regret it; in fact, I would do it as many times as necessary, but... was it just because of the innate talent I had seen in her from the very beginning?

I had to prove at all costs from March onwards that everything I had said had been from a professional point of view, and emphasizing that there was no future life that we planned to have together because I had Hanna for that.

Diana's and my future, our future, was now more at stake than ever, and if we failed the Austrians, we would fail ourselves more than anyone else.

However, no matter how much I tried to calm my mind and forget them, Christian Horner's words stuck to me like darts because I knew that, deep down, I had just brought out a truth that I myself wasn't ready to face yet.

[...]

2008 December 25th

Barcelona, Spain

The dreaded Christmas Eve had arrived, marking the beginning of another ridiculous Christmas at the Wagner family home. Since Rosalie's departure, those festive times filled with music, food, gifts, and, especially, love, had turned into a routine that had to be celebrated no matter what in Bernhard's eyes; for Diana, however, it was quite the opposite.

After her mother's suicide, the girl had done everything in her power, without anyone's help, to ensure that Christmas wouldn't be ruined for her six-year-old sister. The redhead was in charge of preparing the decorations during the famous December festivities celebrated in Spain from the sixth to the eighth of December, where she set up the Christmas tree and various other ornaments. Also, well in advance of the 24th, she prepared a dinner different from the usual with care, trying to make it more elaborate as the years went by; and she even bought gifts, saving money for months thanks to sporadic jobs that she managed to get.

All of this took a lot of effort, and sometimes she thought about not doing anything to avoid conflicts with her father during those two weeks, but the desire to keep the excitement alive in little Amelie was what ultimately won.

That year, thanks to her salary as an intern, she had been able to exceed her initial budget. The food was of better quality, and she had even made enough to eat in the days to come. At the same time, there were more gifts for the youngest of the house, and even for their father, who always rejected any presents they gave him.

Although the little one was now 12 years old, she still had as much excitement for Christmas as they did when they were a normal family, thanks to the efforts of her older sister.

"Amelie, come get the foie grass and grab a beer for dad!"

The girl quickly obeyed her elder sister's orders, taking what she had been told and bringing it to the head of the household. As she watched her sister walk away and finished finalizing the details of the main dish, she felt her mobile phone vibrate in her pocket.

She took out the device and saw messages from Sebastian. To say that her heart didn't skip a beat would be lying to herself.

It was Sebastian, telling her that they would see each other on February 9th in Jerez. That she was going to continue in Formula 1, now as a Red Bull intern. With him.

"Diana, come to dinner now!"

As soon as she heard the voices in her native language from her father, she quickly tucked her phone into her pocket and returned to the living room, carrying a tray with the roast she had been preparing all day. Upon crossing the door, she saw her father sitting in his armchair watching the Christmas programs on Spanish Television, trying to hum along to a few carols he liked with his limited level of Spanish. Diana placed the food in the center of the table and sat to the right of her sister, leaving Bernhard at the head of the table.

At that moment, Sebastian Vettel had given her the best Christmas gift she had received, and the only good news that would resonate in the Wagner family unit for quite some time.

"Dad, Amelie..." the girl began, unable to hide her excitement. Barely a few minutes had passed since she had received the messages from the German, and maybe she should inquire a bit more in case it was a joke, but she couldn't wait. "Sebastian sent me a message a couple of minutes ago saying they have decided to promote me to Red Bull alongside him to be his track engineer's assistant."

The father's face lit up, something Diana hadn't seen for quite some time. Her younger sister jumped out of her chair and bounced around, completely euphoric, rushing to hug her instantly.

"What do you mean, an engineer?" Bernhard wanted to know, taking a sip from his beer can and trying not to choke on what seemed to be excitement. "Does that mean you won't be an intern anymore?"

Diana nodded, shaking her head faithfully. "That seems to be the case. In the end, getting fired by the other team seems to have worked out."

"By the way, Diana," the man said again, steering the conversation to a completely different topic, "I'd like to tell you and Ame something."

The sisters' faces paled a bit, not knowing what their father might be referring to. He straightened up in his seat and looked them directly in the face. Tears began to well up in his eyes, and the redhead had a premonition that what would come out of the mouth of the man who gave her life would not be good.

"I've been facing some health issues lately," he announced. "Your sister knows that I've been to the doctor more times than I'd like to count," he recounted, looking at the younger one, who agreed with her father, "and if we haven't told you anything, it's because we didn't want you to abandon the season for a father with less and less time left."

Diana, who was drinking Coke, spat out the soda she had in her mouth, staining her burgundy-colored dress a shade of brown. Amelie was in shock, and her gaze began to alternate between her father and her sister.

"Excuse me?"

The words that came out of the adult's mouth couldn't be true.

"The doctors have diagnosed me with ALS, and besides having a late diagnosis, it seems to be progressing faster than expected."

That was impossible. She couldn't lose her father too.

Tears began to form in the girl's eyes as she felt arms wrap tightly around her waist. The muffled sobs of her younger sister on Christmas Eve were the last thing she expected. Trying to process the news, Diana could only blame herself for not being there with her father, thinking if she had been, none of this would be happening.

"I know this is difficult...," Bernhard continued, his voice trembling slightly, "but I want you to know that I'm taking the appropriate measures, listening to the experts, and I'll be joining palliative care in the coming days."

"What's palliative care, Diana?"

Ignoring her sister's question, Diana carefully pushed her away. She couldn't believe it; this couldn't be happening to her.

"Does what Dad said mean he's going to die, Didi?" the girl insisted again, this time tugging forcefully at her dress sleeves.

Diana couldn't deny her sister, not because she wanted to deny her the truth, but because at that moment, she couldn't say anything. Faced with her sister's deafening silence and her father's growing anxiety, Amelie opted to leave the room in tears, ignoring what might happen next in the living room.

"Hey, Dad..." Wagner tried to say, but it was completely impossible. That day felt like a dream, and neither what Vettel nor his father had said was true.

It was difficult for her to articulate words now that she was alone with someone who would leave her sooner rather than later. She tried to stay calm to maintain the family's composure because if it wasn't her, no one else would. Inside, her body was a bundle of nerves, on the verge of collapse. She wanted to scream, to hit something, and above all, to die in those moments so she wouldn't have to watch her father die.

She couldn't become an orphan at her young age of twenty.

Who would walk her down the aisle if she ever got married to someone who loved her enough, as her father had promised her so many times?

Especially that question, and a thousand more, began to swirl in her mind, only causing her to sink deeper into her newly found misery.

"You need help in these moments. If that means I have to leave Formula 1, don't worry," she managed to articulate at last, drawing strength from where she didn't have it.

Bernhard jumped up as best he could. He wasn't going to let his daughter give up the dream she had been waiting to achieve for so long, and for which she had fought for years.

"Don't you dare say that, young lady!" he exclaimed with an authoritative yet sweet tone. "Listen to me," he continued, trying to capture the girl's attention. "When I'm no longer here, I want to see you succeed, do you understand? I want to see you at the top, from the top," his eyes turned to the ceiling of the house, knowing Diana would understand where he was going with this. "I want, when you manage to stand alongside the driver you direct and collect a world title, to look up and be aware that I'm watching you from a better place."

"I can't bear the thought of losing you, Dad," the young woman was sobbing, unable to control her tears. "Saying goodbye to you too, in such a short time, isn't fair... Six years ago it was mom, and now you."

"Diana Wagner, I want you to know that wherever you are, you will always find me in the stars," the man gently took his daughter's face in his hands, wiping away the tears that covered her cheeks. "You were born for this, so don't let my situation make you abandon everything you're fighting for."

"But, Dad..."

"I know this is very difficult, little one, but I want you to know that I am very proud of you and the woman you have become," he paused to catch his breath due to the difficulty he had with it, "and the woman you will surely continue to become. I know your mother would be very proud of you too."

Tears flowed freely again, and the sobs increased. Diana hugged her father tightly and wished to die right there with him.

"I don't know how I'll be able to do it without you," she revealed, leaving the man stunned. "It hurts to think of losing you."

"Well then, don't," he declared.

Immediately, Bernhard sat back on the couch and patted his lap, indicating to his daughter to sit on it. Despite hesitating for a moment due to her father's well-known delicate health condition, Diana eventually complied, feeling like she was five years old again.

"You know? I like this Sebastian guy you've talked so much about. I don't think I've ever told you," the man said.

The girl felt a slight blush beginning to creep onto her cheeks. Diana had shared everything she had experienced with Sebastian day and night with her family, but they had never reached the point where they questioned whether she had a slight crush on the German.

"Do you think I'll ever get to meet him?" the brunette continued to insist.

The redhead knew that question would come up at some point, but not minutes after her father had told her and her sister that he was dying and that there was nothing to be done for him except to wait for his life to fade away.

"Of course, Dad. You'll get along great, I'm sure," she lied, knowing it would be very difficult for that to happen.

"And will he like me enough to have him as a son-in-law?"

Diana laughed. Her father always had to match her up with someone, regardless of what happened between them.

"Sebastian is just my friend, Dad," the redhead clarified, getting off her father's lap. "Plus, I'm not sure he would ever come to love me in the future as anything more than... his friend. Well, I'm not even sure about us being friends, to be honest," she corrected herself.

She knew Bernhard was putting on all this show to calm her down and make her forget the devastating news that not only ruined their holidays but possibly their lives; but at the same time, a fervent desire arose in her to tell him the whole truth about how she had felt in recent months with the blue-eyed German who had been so kind to her, unlike many others.

Tears welled up in Diana's eyes again when she realized that her father might never know that she was slowly but earnestly falling in love with Sebastian Vettel, and that there was nothing she wished more at that moment than for him to meet the man she wanted to be her future son-in-law.