mnhinjurylawyersab

[bbyangyl]

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚— EASE YOUR MIND- DEKU | IZUKU MIDORIYA

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚— description: after inviting you to an event, izuku has a difficult time deciding if "a date" would be the right term to use.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚— w.c: 2.1k

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚— tags: sfw (however, my blog isn't!), fluff, very soft, deku is basically in love with you but overthinks like CRAZY

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚— a/n: here's something that has been sitting in my drafts for a while now. I actually have a lot written so you'll be seeing a lot from me soon :) I just need time to edit a few things. please stay tuned!

deku was sweating

he was sweating so much that his palms felt drenched, struggling to discreetly wipe them against his pants, hoping you wouldn’t notice. you walked beside him, wearing a smile that outshined the sun.

he doesn’t know how he got here, with you. the only thing he could recall from the events of his spiraling and panicking brain when he asked if you wanted to go with him to a “history of heroes” event, where he scored two tickets for, were your bright, excited eyes and lovely smile when you agreed to go with him.

and then, he was sure he messed it all up when, for some reason, his mouth moved faster than his brain and said “I’m so glad! It’s a date then”

he didn’t mean for the words to be heard aloud. and through his stammering voice and flushed cheeks, he tried so hard to make an excuse; to distract you from the fact that he just called it a date. which meant he asked you out on a date.

but instead of gazing at him in confusion or uncertainty, (or worse, disgust), you simply giggled, nodding as you gathered your belongings before heading out to the dorms.

“it’s a date” you said, walking away from his frozen figure that decided to stay in place on its own accord, processing the three words you repeated back to him.

you said yes, despite him calling it a date, but did you really consider it a date? or did you know he accidentally called it that and you just went along with it, even though he truly did want to go on a date with you. but he never thought you’d ever go on a date with him. and even if he intentionally asked you out, he wasn’t sure a first date with you to a hero event was good enough. You seemed excited for it, should he plan something else?

as he looked up at your retreating figure, he noticed the way you look back at him, with soft eyes and a pretty smile before turning around, continuing to walk away.

he felt his brain short circuit, as you leave him with nothing but blooming red cheeks, shaky legs, and thoughts of you.

as the day of the event arrives, after thirty minutes spent rehearing how to approach you and what words to say, a soft knock unexpectedly echoes on his own door, before being opened slightly.

and he begins to sweat.

there you were, in a cute sundress, looking at him with such a sweet expression on your face. he felt his hands slightly trembling, his heart practically soaring through the air in a fluttering mess. he felt like a fish, mouth opening and closing as he tried to think of what to say. anything at all! at least a hello.

he didn’t trust himself, however. deku had a tendency to ramble and mumble, and he had an small feeling that a simple ‘hello’ would turn into ‘you’re the most beautiful girl in the world’, or something more than he was ready to admit

it was difficult to form words anyways, when just the sight of you is enough to leave him breathless, unable to think about anything else but the fact that you were here, ready to go out with him…

to an event that he had called a date, and you seemed happy to agree...

he felt his face burn, and one part of him believed that the temperature could’ve rivaled todoroki’s quirk.

“hey! I’m sorry if I interrupted you, I just wanted to let you know that I’m ready! If you’d like I can wait in the common area while you’re done.” you say, playing with the straps of your backpack.

he laughs nervously. “o-okay, yeah. I just need to grab a few things and we can head out” he feels his voice get shaky towards the end, and quickly he turns around, flustered, as he pretends to try and find something on top of his bed.

he hears a small laugh from you, before announcing you’ll be waiting for him over there. as your footsteps indicate you walking away, deku immediately lets out the tremulous breath he didn’t realize he was holding in.

the thought of being around you, without the confirmation of what this “outing” was considered to be, caused his nerves to skyrocket. he hated second-guessing, and couldn’t bear the embarrassment he would feel if he treated today as a date, only to find out you thought he was joking, or vise versa.

despite the inner conflicts in his overworking mind, he, at least, was certain of one thing. he invited you and you said yes, and you were now waiting for him in the common area.

with a small, unsteady sigh, he starts to relax a bit. everything will be fine. he’ll take you to the event, and you’ll both have an amazing time, free from his overthinking.

at least, that was the plan.

it’s a bit easier said than done, especially in this circumstance, where his mind is on endless overdrive, hanging out with a girl who practically hung the stars in his eyes.

he felt awkward, realizing that not a single word had been exchanged between the two of you since leaving the dorms. he tried to think of something to say, but the probability of stumbling over his words as he tried to start conversation was unfortunately high.

each step he took felt unnatural, as if every movement was a forced effort, desperately trying to match the light, effortless way you walked beside him toward the museum.

it only made things more complicated when deku realized he couldn’t even bring himself to look at you; it was too overwhelming. but the brief glances he stole, seeing you smile softly as you took in your surroundings, only made the fluttering in his heart grow stronger.

he was sweating

but luckily for him, you were the one to break the ice.

“y’know, I’m actually a bit shocked you invited me out, midoriya” you say softly, glancing at the ground with a small smile on your face. deku turns to you, feeling his hands trembling against his side, wondering if you’ll bring up his embarrassing ‘it’s a date’ declaration.

“what…uhm…what do you mean?” he asks, feeling his voice crack. immediately he feels his face grow hot, watching as you glance at him with a small laugh, no trace of teasing, just amusement.

“it’s just, we’re friends, obviously-“ you begin to clarify, and he can’t help but feel his heart drop slightly, despite that being the facts. “but…I don’t know, you were always so close with ochako, iida, todoroki and our other classmates. we don’t interact as much.”

it was the truth. deku never had much trouble talking or hanging out with his classmates. he was extremely close with a few and, at the very least, felt comfortable around all of them, even with bakugo. deku was proud of how far he had come from his middle school days, now able to talk freely and be himself. he felt lucky. but with you, things were slightly different.

he always caught himself rehearsing what to say before starting a conversation. he’d stumble over his words, his face flushing red during any interaction. just a glance in your direction was enough to turn him to mush. in some ways, you made him feel like his middle school self again; timid and nervous. but the reasonings couldn’t be more different.

“I actually wanted to get closer to you, but funny enough I was always kinda shy around you.” suddenly, he halts any movement. did that come from him? that wasn’t his voice. his eyes widen as he realizes that came from you. shy? around him? really?

“what?!” It was difficult to wrap his head around the fact. all this time he was so focused on how to interact normally with you, never once did he take the time to analyze any interaction you had with him and deem it as shy. you were always so happy and kind, and anyone with eyes could see how much he fumbled through the smallest of conversations with you. the thought that maybe you were also shy around him too, made his heart skip a beat.

he watched as you turn to him, cheeks blooming a pretty pink, like the petals of a cherry blossom fluttering through the air. “yeah…i mean…we talked every now and then. not as often, but you were always so kind despite our limited conversations. I never really reached out to you because I was always a little nervous around you, unable to get a clear picture of how you felt about me.”

you take a small step forward, and he immediately notices the slight hesitation in your movement, as if there was more you wanted to say but weren’t sure if you should. he catches the way you try to meet his gaze but become a little flustered, and how your fingers fidget with the straps of your book bag.

deku had always been so perceptive; picking up on body language and mannerisms with ease. but he never realized how similar the two of you were in your interactions. he was always focused on not looking like a fool in front of you; a blushing mess. Yet now, seeing the flustered look in your eyes instead, he felt himself melt on the spot, fighting the urge to kiss your cheeks.

“when you invited me to the hero event, I couldn’t help but feel happy! and…I felt over the moon when you called it a date. even if you didn’t mean to call it that l-“ you pause, before giving him a gentle smile “-it still made me very happy.”

he gazes at you, momentarily questioning if his mind is deceiving him, conjuring up a hopeful illusion. but as he watches you nervously bite your lip, awaiting his response, the reality of the moment sinks in. he feels his heart flutter in his chest, and the weight of your words sends a shiver through his entire body. “you wanted it to be a date?”

“Is it weird if I said more than anything?” you confess, shyly looking at the ground with uncertainty and anxiousness. he feels himself physically vibrate with excitement, hearts practically forming in his eyes as he steps closer, unable to hold back the confession on the tip of his tongue.

“I-I want that too! I want this to be considered an actual date!” he exclaims with happiness pouring out of his soul, feeling his cheeks become slightly sore from his smile. you look up at him, a shocked expression on your face as you slowly process his words. he watches in time the way your features soften, beautiful eyes widening slightly as you let out a gentle gasp.

“really?” you ask, as he feels the joy practically radiating off of you. deku nods in confirmation, hands trembling from overwhelming delight. he meets your gently gaze, as you both stare at each other with bashful grins before a small laugh escapes your lips, followed by a domino effect of uncontainable giggles between you and him.

he feels lighter, almost euphoric; his entire body buzzing with warmth that radiates from his flushed cheeks, offering a new kind of comfort he’d never known before. he was always used to feel shy around you, his heart brimming with so much love and admiration that he could barely meet your gaze. but now, that love has multiplied, and all he wants is to lose himself in your eyes for as long as you’ll let him.

you step to the side, offering him one last smile before the two of you begin to walk in sync. it no longer feels out of place. just right.

“can I hold your hand?” he asks, a hint of the familiar shyness still laced in his words. but this time, there’s a newfound confidence beneath it. he’s certain you feel it too as you beam at him, gently intertwining your soft fingers with his calloused, scarred hand.

“you know…I…all this time, I was kinda freaking out! I didn’t know if this was actually a date or not, and I was extremely nervous this whole time. I’m sorry if things were a little awkward when we left the dorms” you look at him with reassurance; an amused giggle leaving your lips as you shake your head.

“please don’t apologize. I couldn’t even tell!”

[suzukiblu]

Ko-fi thank-you sentences for Derpsheep; a fake cryptid and a real romantic. (( chrono || non-chrono ))

“Oh! Are you not the kind of bird who makes the nest? Because I can totally make a nest, I can definitely do that!” its new Robin blurts eagerly, straightening up in the air and brightening in excitement. 

Dick cackles, and Tim makes a strangled noise and vanishes completely inside Robin’s wings. 

“Um . . . is that not . . .?” Its new Robin trails off, looking embarrassed. The Batman is . . . puzzled. It really never has had a Robin that nested before. They’re all different, obviously, but–

Oh, it realizes, and tilts its head. Perhaps this actually isn’t a new Robin. Perhaps this is something . . . else. 

Something–new, in a sense. 

There was Batgirl and the Spoiler, but this is more . . . Starfire, maybe. More like her. Something different, that isn’t from Gotham. Isn’t of it. Something new and shiny like a just-made, just-cut diamond with no history to it. 

The Batman prefers history. Prefers old and lovely things; the long, long line of preservation and protection. The cherished, and the stories that are cherished most of all. The history of a bloodline, of a name, and the loving fear of the dark, and the flip of a decades-old coin against the shine of a centuries-old jewel, and above all, the concept of justice.

But the Batman is also a thing of change, a thing that wants to keep moving, and a thing that wasn’t there, once, but will be from now on. A thing that wants to help bring something better. 

It wants better for Gotham. 

And Superman is something bright and constant in the world, and wants better for it. So then . . . Superboy is . . . not a Robin, but . . . 

Something new and shiny and just-made, and made of a dreaming for that “better”, when the Batman looks at him the right way. 

Something that came looking for its Robin with a diamond made just for him, and caught Nightwing without a moment’s hesitation when he asked, and wants to build its Robin a nest. 

Hm. 

Selina brings it diamonds, sometimes, wrapped around Cat-claws and a slick smile. But she never stays to nest. 

But not-its-new-Robin still tastes just a bit like Cat. 

. . . hm. 

kitten, the Batman decides after a long moment, and then pats the kitten’s curly fur with the trailing edge of its cape. It leaves the rest of it strung in a net, though, because Cats shouldn't be able to fly at all. 

Not that it's telling the kitten that, because then he might realize he can't and fall. 

“Uh–what?” The kitten blinks at him, though he leans into the petting just the slightest bit, feeling like a neglected alleycat that's just feral enough not to know what to do about being touched. Dick falls over laughing–though he doesn’t actually fall; not any farther than the ledge–and Nightwing’s discordant cackle echoes across the rooftops. 

“Oh my god,” Tim mutters under his breath, and sounds very “teenage” even in Robin’s voice. 

The Batman has learned about teenagers. 

kitten, it repeats with one last patient scratch behind the kitten’s ears, then draws its cape back. Strays don’t get used to being petted so quickly. 

The kitten . . . blinks, once or twice, his eyes very large and pupils dilated far past normal human proportions behind the flat opaque surface of his glasses. 

It does look very Cat-like, in the dark. 

The Batman hums its approval and pats Tim’s shoulder where Robin’s feathers drape and cover, and then turns to leave. 

[nerdasaurus1200]

I just realized some sad things about Eugene and Varian’s talk in PEEV so Imma talk about that scene.

So first Eugene starts pretty small with it. I think you could interpret this as either Eugene trying to imply Quirin being a mole as gently as he can, or bringing up a sort of…I guess fact to start the tense conversation. And of course it kinda flies over Varian’s head. He takes it at face value, making sure to reassure Eugene. Which to me implies Eugene has probably been worrying about the Brotherhood for a while now.

So Eugene tries again, much more obvious this time. Although he never outright says anything he directly points the finger at Quirin. The implication is there. And lately I’ve been wondering if there’s something a little deeper to this conversation. i feel like could easily be echos of season 1 cause the whole reason Varian’s villain arc started was cause his dad was in danger. And now his dad is in danger, again. Except Eugene may be trying to not repeat history by actually checking on Varian this time and trying to nip this potential threat in the bud.

And if you listen to the dialogue Varian never actually says it either. But you can see in his eyes. Now that Eugene’s planted the idea in his head, the fear is very much there. And his trauma from season 1 is probably coming back a bit too.

So of course he mildly deflects and snaps at Eugene. I think this is…I’d say 60% trauma reaction, with the other 40% being Varian just being generally angry at the idea that Quirin would ever betray or hurt him. And maybe slightly at the idea that Cassandra would do that to him. Cause Adira and Hector are one thing, Edmund and Quirin is a new low.

Also I think this is actually the first time we’ve actually seen Varian seriously angry since season 1 ended. Yeah we’ve seen him pissed before this season but that was for jokes. There is nothing funny about Varian’s anger here. Cause when Varian gets angry shit goes down.

So of course Eugene backs off and drops the topic. He probably thinks (or rather hopes) Varian has some failsafe already taken care of for that situation but I think it’s more likely that Eugene doesn’t wanna press Varian any further and trigger him.

But, sadly…Varian knows Eugene is right. He knows he has to do something to make sure nobody gets seriously hurt or worse when Quirin inevitably turns on them.

[yutaspierced]

So I was rewatching the Eddie Gets Shot episodes (like one does late at night while catching up on admin) and ALSO thinking about Tommy’s comment that the 118 should have their own hospital wing, when my thoughts spiraled.

What if Tommy was on shift when the 133 called in Eddie getting shot? It was probably on an open emergency line, right? They identified him as “firefighter Eddie Diaz of the 118” over the radio on the way to the hospital. Hearing repeated and increasingly frantic “shots fired” and “firefighter needs help” over and over with gunshots in the background over the radio has to stick with a guy, you know? Plus, Eddie and the other firefighter who got shot were kinda infamous in LA first responder circles after that.

So when Chim introduces Buck and Eddie to Tommy before they fly off with Hen to rescue the cruise ship, that radio call echoes in his head so loud he can barely hear anything else. Oh. Eddie. Eddie Diaz of the 118.

Then he’s getting to know Eddie and hang out with Eddie and like Eddie. Of course he’d never ask, just like he’d never ask Eddie how he got his silver star. You don’t casually ask a guy to relive that kind of trauma. But it sits heavy in the back of his mind. This great guy he’s starting to be really good friends with was the firefighter that needed help.

And then he gets to hear Eddie talk about Evan and Christopher talk about Evan and he starts to truly understand the depth of Eddie and Evan’s connection.

Then he gets to spend more time with Evan and hear Evan talk about Eddie and that call over the radio rings through his mind again, because Evan. Dear god, if this is how closely these two are intertwined, what that day must have been like for Evan.

And then I got to thinking about Bobby radioing in a, “Mayday Mayday Mayday, this is Captain Nash of 118, we have a firefighter down …” and that probably made Buck a little infamous too but what if Tommy was also on shift for that and it doesn’t really hit him until the first time he sees Evan’s scar and everything clicks into place. That firefighter that got hit by lightening at the 118 was Evan and fuck that day must have been hell for Eddie.

But Tommy’s been over at Harbor for five years, right? So he might also remember the firefighter from 118 who got caught under that ladder truck because it was all over the news for a week. But it’s been a long time and the firefighter’s name kinda fell out of his head. He knows it was someone at the 118, but not anyone he’s familiar with. But Buck showed up to that first basketball game with compression sleeves and a brace on one of his legs and he made an offhand comment about an old leg injury acting up because of the rain the other night and fuck that was Evan too.

Basically, what I’m getting at and what I wanna ponder more is Tommy and these two inseparable, gorgeous, strong men he’s suddenly got in his life. And Evan, who he’s probably starting to love a little bit even though he’s wayyyyy too old to believe in silly things like that only a few months in. And Eddie. Eddie, who Evan would die for and Tommy who doesn’t have their history but might not hesitate to either. And how much pain they both have stored up in their bodies. How many times the world has tried to take them and probably will try to take them again and again. How radio sqwauks are a little more emotional for Tommy than they’ve ever, ever been in either the LAFD or the army.

Anyway this is what I’m gonna be chewing on.

[0cta9on]

You want fluff requests? Please do (G)I-DLE Soojin! I wanna read M Reader literally sleeping with her.

Hello anon! Sorry for taking so long on this one :> Also, never thought I'd have to do this for a short, but thanks to @msafterhours for looking over this, you're a real one lmao :]

The scratching of graphite against paper is a tune you’ve come to memorize, even enjoy as late nights provide the much needed quiet and solitude that allows space for your creativity to thrive. The people around you have plenty to say about your poor sleeping habits, but you can’t exactly help it if an idea for a garment comes to you as the sun dips below the horizon. In the long history of great creatives, “good health” doesn’t exactly rank high on their list of priorities, so you figure you’re on par to opening that high end fashion brand one day. 

A gentle rasp against your front door reminds you to straighten your back. The clock reads 1AM, who the hell could it be at this hour?

“Hey,” Soojin greets you from the other side of the door, carrying a pillow and wearing a bizarre combination of an oversized band tee and pajama pants with pumpkins all over them.

“Uh, hey, what are you doing here?”

She nervously shifts her gaze from side to side, avoiding your eyes entirely. “Well, I was in the neighborhood and—”

“Carrying a pillow?”

A hint of pink forms on her cheeks like blooming sakuras. “...Y-yes. Anyways, I thought I’d stop by and visit a friend.”

“It’s 1 in the morning, what if I was sleeping?”

“You? Asleep at a normal time?” she scoffs. “I think hell would freeze before that would happen.”

Your eyes roll into the back of your head as her regular cocky attitude shines through. “Yeah yeah, whatever. Come in.”

Soojin’s grin widens as she skips into your apartment like she’s done plenty of times before, her gaze immediately gravitating towards the messy pile of sketches on your desk. “What’cha working on this time?”

“Just an idea for a dress I had,” you say, tidying up around your apartment. She shoots you a familiar impish look that always precedes an increasingly annoying line she likes to repeat.

“If you ever needed a model—”

“I know, Soojin,” you groan. “You’ll be the first person I call, alright?”

“Just making sure,” she chuckles at your expense, plopping herself onto your coach.

“Why are you really here?” you ask. That same nervous expression pops up on her face, an obvious tell whenever she doesn’t want to reveal the truth.

“I told you already, I was in the neighborhood and wanted to visit you.” She clutches her pillow closer to her chest, her gaze glued to the ground. “That’s all.”

You sigh. “You live a good half an hour from me, and that’s the best lie you could think of?” you quip, raising an eyebrow at her. All that gets you is a solid smack to the back of your head that knocks a few of your screws loose.

“I-I’m not lying!”

“ALRIGHT, DAMN!” you exclaim, clutching the back of your head in pain. The room falls into a tense silence as she huffs into her pillow.

Lies were so commonplace on Soojin’s tongue, as normal as butter on toast. You’ve come to expect every other word out of her mouth to be laced with some kind of half-truth, all dolled up to hide the cracks underneath. You can’t help but wonder why she keeps you around if all she does is play make believe with you.

“...Sorry for hitting you,” she murmurs, her tone uncharacteristically somber.

“Yeah, whatever,” you mutter, resting your head against the back of the couch.

“I, uh…” Her shoulders rise and fall as a heavy breath falls from her lips. “I wasn’t just in the neighborhood.”

“Yeah?” You glance towards her, curiosity piqued.

“Y-yeah, um… God, this is gonna sound so stupid.”

“Hey,” you say gently, resting your hand on her shoulder. “It’s fine. Are you alright?”

She sighs. “Promise me that you’re not gonna laugh.”

Your heartbeat echoes with anticipation, crescendoing in your chest. “Um, alright, I won’t laugh.”

“Promise me,” she scowls, shooting fire with her eyes.

“O-okay, I promise,” you gulp nervously. “What’s wrong?”

“I-I, uh…” Soojin shoves her face into her pillow, muffling her voice. “Ifhadnighmar.”

“Huh?”

She huffs in annoyance before spewing, “I had a nightmare! There, I said it! Look at me, a grown ass woman with a nightmare! Whoopty-fucking-doo!”

You shrink in your seat from her outburst, but despite it all, you can’t help but feel grateful. Her eyes were on you the whole time she was yelling. She didn’t lie to you.

“Hey, it happens, what can you do?” You stand up from your seat and stretch out your back, a bout of exhaustion hitting you as the muscles in your lower back relax. “You’re free to crash on the couch if you want—”

“W-wait!” Soojin grabs onto your arm, her eyes wide in panic. “I, uh… Nevermind. Sorry.”

For how much she lies, it’s a wonder how easy it is to read her. She’s like an open book written in a language that you can only partially understand. Sure, it takes a while to completely get her, but all that time and effort is worth it in the end.

“Eh, my room is too far, you mind if I stay on the couch with you?” you ask her.

The corners of her lips lift into a sly smile, but her eyes betray her true feelings as they beam at you with appreciation. “Hm, fine. I don’t usually let guys sleep with me until the second date, but I’m willing to make an exception just this one time.”

“Oh god, if this is your idea of a first date, then we desperately need to find you a better taste in men,” you chuckle, molding your body into the space next to her. Soojin smacks your face with her pillow before laying on top of you.

“Whatever,” she huffs, shifting her body into a comfortable position. You begin to push her off, but decide against it as the warmth of her body sends you towards a peaceful slumber. A gentle pressure on your cheek is the last thing you feel before succumbing to your own exhaustion.

[laughhardrunfastbekindsblog]

Style and Error

Summer of Bad Batch 2024 | Week 7 | Prompt: Getting a Haircut

Summary: Omega finally gets her first hairstyle change after leaving Kamino - and her brothers get a crash course in human adolescent female hairdos. POV: Hunter, Omega (Word Count: 2700)

Read on Ao3

Notes: This prompt finally convinced me to turn this headcanon into a proper fic! Also, my fic last week ended up being a LOT sadder than I had originally intended (sorry about that, all, the story just kept going that direction and I couldn't stop it), so just a heads up that this story is a lot more relaxed and fun!

            “We need to do something about your hair,” Hunter said.

            At this, Omega glanced up from the datapad from which she was dutifully studying the history of Coruscant.

            “Really, it’s fine, Hunter,” she said, absently removing her left hand from her hair to steady the datapad on her knee. Her bangs fell into her eyes, obstructing her view, and she automatically brought her hand back up to scoop the unruly hair off her forehead and hold it in place.

            Hunter shook his head even as his lips twitched into a smile. “Doesn’t your arm get tired holding your hair back all the time?”

            “Well…” Omega hesitated.

            “Hunter’s right, Omega. If nothing else, you need both hands and unobscured vision to handle your energy bow properly,” Echo said firmly as he entered the Marauder, having apparently heard the conversation from outside where he had been double checking the ship’s landing gear. “Besides, we don’t need a repeat of what’s happened on the past two missions.”

            Omega wasn’t nearly as successful as Hunter was in hiding a grimace at the reminder. Just a few days after escaping a destroyed Kamino, Hunter – his thoughts still full of Crosshair and wondering what he could have said differently to convince his estranged brother to rejoin the squad – had suddenly noticed that Omega was needing to brush her hair out of her face a lot more often than usual. After a few weeks of this, Hunter had finally suggested that she try wearing a headband.

            “Really?” Omega had said excitedly. “I get my own headband?”

            “It’s just to keep your hair out of your eyes,” Hunter had replied. If it worked for him, it would work for her.

            It had not, in fact, worked for her.

            If Hunter knew anything at all about different hairstyles, he might have conjectured that Omega’s unevenly grown out layers were one factor hindering the efficacy of using a headband at this time; but he did not know anything at all about different hairstyles. What he did know was that when Omega wore the headband farther back on her head in a way that actually kept the band secured, it didn’t help hold her bangs off her forehead; and when she wore it on her forehead as Hunter did… Well, even Tech was sensitive enough to not tell Omega that the layer of bangs sticking up in wild disarray behind the bandana made her bear a striking resemblance to a frilled zarco lizard, but Hunter had a feeling Cid would not be so kind if she ever saw it. And anyway, this style had ended up causing near-catastrophe when the headband had slipped down over Omega’s eyes at the precise moment she had been taking a shot at an errant masador chasing them down on one of their most recent missions.

            So the headband had been quickly abandoned; but given that Omega’s hair was growing ever longer and more uneven, the problem still remained, and had led to the second accident Echo had just referred to, when Omega’s bangs flying in her face meant she hadn’t seen the tree root as she was sprinting along with her brothers back to the Marauder. Here they were a week later, and her scraped hands and a bruised forehead had only barely healed.

            “I don’t know what to do about my hair, though,” Omega sighed now. “Nala Se made sure I got my hair cut every four standard weeks on Kamino, but I didn’t really pay attention to how they did it.” Suddenly she brightened. “Hunter, you cut your own hair. Maybe you can do mine the way the droids on Kamino did it?”

            Hunter had no idea how to tell Omega that he cut his own hair only because he didn’t really care if his ends were even, but he did care if Omega’s were and he was not going to be responsible for whatever insult Cid would come up with to describe Hunter’s barbering skills in relation to Omega’s hair. Besides, he had no idea how to work with bangs, and he didn’t want to just chop hers off.

            Deciding to keep his explanation simple, he said, “I don’t know how to do whatever the Kaminoans did for your haircut, Omega.”

            Wrecker, his interest in the discussion having apparently reached a peak, suddenly set Gonky down and moved forward to the seat next to Omega.  “You could always try Tech’s hair gel,” he said with a shrug.

            Tech, perched in his usual spot in the pilot’s seat, was engrossed in his datapad and didn’t appear to hear Wrecker’s statement, nor notice the look of dismay that briefly passed over Omega’s face.

            “No need,” Hunter said quickly before Omega had to reply. “We’ll figure something else out.”

            Thing was, he and his brothers hadn’t even thought about visiting a barber ever since first being sent off Kamino – there had never been any time given how frequently they were sent out on missions during the war, so they had always just maintained their own hairstyles themselves. They had occasionally helped each other out with haircuts… but the best any of them knew how to do was shave to one length and cut a relatively straight line with standard clippers.

            “Do you know how to cut hair?” Hunter asked Echo now, looking hopefully at him.

            “If we had the tools, most I could do is a regulation haircut,” Echo said doubtfully, frowning in thought. “Wrecker has his standard shaver but I think we’d need more than that…”

            “I would assert that Omega may not actually want a regulation haircut, or any of our styles of haircuts, for that matter,” Tech interjected at this juncture, finally looking up from his datapad. Before anyone could say anything, he had made his way back to the others and connected his datapad to the console, displaying his research on the larger screen so the others could see. Hunter smiled a little at the sight; of course Tech had been paying attention to the entire conversation. “These are examples of current trends for human adolescent female hairstyles,” Tech continued. “Perhaps we can trial one of these.”

            “Oooh, I like that one,” Omega said, pointing to one of the images; the look of sheer relief on her face told Hunter that Tech had been right in his assertion. “That would keep my hair out of my face.”

            “An ‘overhand braid,’” Wrecker read out the description, glancing between the picture and Omega. “Uh… how do we do it?”

            “I’ll look up instructions,” Tech said promptly.

            Omega, face brightening even further, set aside her datapad and moved forward to look more closely over Tech’s shoulder, while Hunter and Echo exchanged glances.  

            “Worth a shot,” Echo shrugged, and Hunter nodded.

            Between the five of them and Tech’s unlimited information, how hard could this be?

******

            Four hours later, Hunter was slumped defeatedly in his chair, watching Tech and Wrecker as they doggedly pressed forward in trying to figure out variations of a ponytail. After the thirty minutes spent devising a reasonable substitute for standard hair ties, Hunter could understand why Tech was so determined to find a way to use them.

            He glanced over at Echo, who was currently standing a few feet away observing the proceedings, arms crossed and, Hunter was fairly certain, still muttering “Never again” under his breath. It had been almost two hours since they had finally given up on trying to figure out braids, and Hunter wasn’t sure if Echo was actually traumatized by the experience or just taking the failure personally.

            It was really saying something that Echo – with his one hand, scomp arm, and teeth – had come the closest to actually recreating a hairdo approximating an overhand braid, where Hunter and Wrecker and then Hunter and Tech with their combined four hands hadn’t even been able to make it past step two. But Echo had been rather put out when he somehow got his scomp entangled in the braid and almost took out a chunk of Omega’s hair when trying to extricate it. Omega, for all her patience during the proceedings, hadn’t been able to hold in a high-pitched yelp when Echo had finally managed to free himself, and Tech hadn’t needed any prompting to suggest turning their attention to other possible hairstyles that didn’t include braids.

            Wrecker had been very pleased with himself when he was able to put Omega’s hair into a low ponytail, but her bangs were not yet long enough to make this style very effective, and managing to get all of Omega’s hair into a high ponytail was beyond the current skills of Wrecker, Hunter, and Tech (Echo had declined making any attempt). Tech and Wrecker were currently discussing the feasibility of splitting Omega’s hair into high and low ponytails; and Omega, who had somehow been enthusiastic and happy throughout the entire ordeal, was starting to look exhausted.

            “This isn’t working,” Hunter spoke up.

            “I would guess that the current length of Omega’s hair is simply not conducive to these various styles,” Tech said thoughtfully. “Perhaps when her hair grows longer…”

            “We can’t wait that long.”

            “There is a barbershop just down the street from here. Perhaps we can seek their expertise.”

            “You couldn’t have mentioned the barbershop four hours ago?” Echo said with no small amount of exasperation.

            Tech opened his mouth to respond, but Omega piped up. “I’m glad we tried the other styles. That was fun!”

            Her cheerful sincerity made Tech’s expression soften with a smile, and Echo gave a small sigh but said no more.  

            “Have you ever cut your hair short, Hunter?” Omega asked curiously as the squad, understanding the new plan, prepped to head out for the barbershop.

            “As cadets, we always had to have the regulation haircut,” Echo put in. “We didn’t get to choose a different style until after graduation.”

            “True,” Tech added, “but for us 99s, getting a regulation haircut was… tricky. We didn’t look like the regs anyway, and our hair was different in more ways than just color. For example, my hair grows slower than is typical for clones, so oftentimes I wasn’t scheduled for a cut for months at a time.”

            Hunter nodded as he looked at Omega to answer her original question. “My hair always grew faster than the regs’ did, so the droids would cut my hair shorter than standard. A lot shorter. I… didn’t like that, so several times I just didn’t go to the appointments.”

            “They let you do that?” Omega asked in awe.

            Hunter chuckled a little. “Let me? No. I got away with it a few times – Tech would go in my place, since the droids only kept track of the number of cadets scheduled for a cut. But the trainers soon caught on and insisted I keep my hair short. But once we graduated and I could choose my own hairstyle – well, by the time we shipped out for our first mission, my hair was already this long and I was never going to get a regulation cut ever again.”

            “Crosshair was the best at cutting Hunter’s hair until Hunter figured out how to do it himself,” Wrecker put in.

            Hunter nodded again, smiling a little as he thought about all the times Crosshair had threatened to shave a bald strip down the middle of Hunter’s head if he wouldn’t stop fidgeting while Crosshair was trying to cut his hair straight… then he grew somber as he always did when he thought of his brother.

            He hoped Crosshair had at least been recovered from Kamino by now.

            “Well,” Omega was saying with quiet enthusiasm, breaking through Hunter’s thoughts, “it’ll be nice to have something different, for a change.”

            Hunter reached down and brushed Omega’s bangs back, again – though it didn’t do any good, and Omega giggled as her hair flopped back into her eyes.

            “Yeah, kid, you definitely need something different,” he quipped as they followed Tech toward the barbershop.

******

            Omega took the seat next to Wrecker, holding back a sigh. She had just completed her seventh circuit of the barbershop; by now she had pretty much memorized the layout as she looked at the various products, equipment, strange décor, and caught a glimpse of other clients receiving services from the other barber.

            It had been almost an hour, and her brothers still hadn’t settled on a hairstyle for the barber to try on her. The first style the barber had recommended had been deemed by Hunter to be too complicated for him to help with upkeep, even when the barber had patiently explained she would be more than willing to show Hunter how to maintain the cut; an inquiry into current fashion trends for more active individuals had snowballed into a lengthy discussion with Tech about hair textures, growth rates and patterns, hair health, and the impact of these factors on transitional haircuts when one wanted to switch from one style to another; and even now that Tech was currently engrossed in examining more pictures of example haircuts, Hunter and Echo were still debating feasible styles with the barber, with Hunter seeming most concerned about the fact that their lifestyle didn’t lend to committing to a consistent schedule for professional haircuts.

            Omega had never really cared what her hair looked like – she had spent over ten years with the same routine hairstyle and had never even thought about changing it, it was just part of her life. Kaminoans didn’t have hair, and even as she had seen more of the galaxy the past months, she had never really paid much attention to others’ hairdos. But when Tech had shown her the varieties of hairstyles that other human girls were wearing, it had suddenly struck Omega that she could have a different hairstyle too.

            She sighed openly now. The excitement of trying a new hairstyle had ebbed away after hours of failure. She understood the point Hunter had first made to the barber that once Omega’s hair was cut, she’d be stuck with that style for several months, minimum; but at this point, it didn’t really matter. She just needed something to keep her bangs out of her eyes so she would stop being more of a liability for her brothers.

            Wrecker apparently had noticed her mood, for he now leaned over and whispered conspiratorially, “You could just be bald, like me. If we leave now, I bet I could have your head shaved before Echo notices we’re gone.”

            Omega giggled - she could only imagine the look on Hunter’s face if she took Wrecker up on his offer. It almost sounded like a good idea, even though she knew Wrecker was joking.

            The barber continued talking through all the other options, at Hunter’s and Echo’s behest. “As I said before, keeping length allows for more versatility with specific hairstyles, including braids…”

            “Never again,” Echo interjected adamantly, earning a startled look from the stylist.

            Omega almost groaned – this had gone on long enough.

            Getting up and crossing the shop with Wrecker following suit, Omega tugged gently on Hunter’s hand. “Hunter, I don’t need all this. I just need a way to hold my hair back.”

            Up close, Omega could tell the barber was reaching the end of her rope. “Have you tried hair clips?” the stylist said in near desperation.

            Echo furrowed his brows. “What are…”

            “This one will do nicely,” Tech said suddenly, gesturing for Omega to come over to give her final opinion as the other brothers looked over curiously at the sample image Tech had pulled up.

            Omega took one look at the style and grinned. It was perfect.

            “That one,” she said; and when she looked back at the others, she knew a unanimous decision had finally been made.

            She couldn’t stop grinning until long after the barber had completed her work and the team had returned to the Marauder. Her bangs were now out of her eyes, her hair felt more manageable, and – well, once or twice before she had heard other people say that they felt “pretty,” and now she knew what that meant. She felt pretty.

            Who knew it could be so exciting to get a haircut?

@summer-of-bad-batch

[my-mt-heart]

TBOC 201 Review

Two and a half years ago, Carol fans were terrified that they'd never see her again, that her story would end with so many things left unsaid and unresolved, and now she's finally back. That's a victory I do not take lightly. Carol is a vital part of the show and Melissa McBride deserves to tell her story, but after watching the premiere and having an inkling of what’s ahead, it’s still very clear to me that she deserves a hell of a lot more than what she’s getting.

I never had any expectations for the external plot and in that way I was not disappointed. There really isn’t much of one first of all. The action sequences are hokey and nothing we haven’t seen before—Daryl waiting to shoot Genet a few feet away from him while she monologues and then escapes gives me All Out War flashbacks—and the walkers continue to be a minor nuisance with zero stakes. The editing is really strange, making the movement from one beat to another feel inorganic. There’s also some pretty cringey dialogue and I’m sorry to say that it’s mostly coming from Ash. If they’re only allowed to drop one f-bomb per episode or whatever it is, why don’t they use them more meaningfully? I do like his character and his dynamic with Carol though. I'm not sure how I feel about her lying to him. On one hand, I know she's doing it because she's desperate to get to Daryl and I would never fault her for that. I guess I worry about audience reception because female characters tend to be judged far more harshly for their decisions than male characters.

What I really wanted to get out of this season was a strong emotional arc. That’s what matters to me—honoring the characters’ history and allowing them to grow from it. There isn’t a doubt in my mind that the effort I see on Carol’s side is thanks to Melissa’s wonderful story instincts and devotion to her character. Carol’s line to Ash, “I couldn’t keep waiting, feeling stuck. I had to move forward,” tells us what Melissa has also echoed in interviews. Her quiet life at the Commonwealth is giving her time to reflect on her past, particularly Sophia’s death, and it’s terrifying for her in itself, but also because the only person to share that trauma with her, the only person who makes her feel safe isn’t there. She needs Daryl. It’s such an exciting arc because it puts her on the path to healing from her survivor’s guilt as well as confronting what Daryl means to her.

The problem is that Zabel keeps falling back on the TV book of tricks he swears he doesn’t use and he acts as if he’s allergic to connective tissue. I already talked about some of these issues in my review of the opening minutes available here, so I won’t repeat myself. I’m just frustrated because gimmicks like the cassette tapes take away from Melissa’s performance. She has perfect comedic timing, but I want to see her sit with her feelings every now and again because Melissa knows how to communicate that all on her own. She doesn’t need bells and whistles. To be clear, I despise ambiguity with a burning passion, but I also don’t like gimmicks that treat me like I’m an idiot. The Cherokee rose scene is sweet and I absolutely love seeing Carol recall the speech that started her relationship with the most important person in her life and I love the reminder of why this mission is so important to her. But then it occurs to me that Cherokee roses don’t grow in Maine. The only reason it’s on Ash’s table at all is to make me notice it and I think to myself, there had to be a more organic way to make this callback, right? It takes me out of the story. I'm also still angry that the scene where Carol finds a walker that looks like Daryl got cut, angrier actually, since we’re stuck with a forced and wildly OOC kiss between Daryl and a fucking nun. Carol/Caryl fans always seem to draw the short straw.

When Ash asks Carol if she thinks she'll even recognize Sophia, it's a warning that the person Carol is really searching for might not be the same when she finds him, which is by far the most infuriating part of the story and the most difficult to believe. Nevermind the fact that it's only been a few months according to Zabel and Daryl doesn't build connections that quickly. He's loyal. He wouldn't trade in his family for another, at least not the Daryl that I know and love. Not the Daryl that Carol would take her first flight and cross an entire ocean for.

The point of parallel stories is that they should, well, parallel each other. The point of soulmates is that they stay spiritually connected to each other. If Carol is determined to get to Daryl, Daryl should be determined to get to Carol. If Carol is manipulating someone to do that, then maybe we should see Daryl do the same, which would also reduce the harsh criticism that lands on Carol simply for being a woman. Instead though, Carol seems to embody both hers and Daryl's history, while on Daryl's side, he isn't shown to have any except for the quick mention of "people" back home. Other fans said they see Daryl trying to get back, but I don't. I just see him hovering in between and it makes me so sad. I feel like I'm saying goodbye to this character I thought I knew, who helped me overcome some very dark experiences in my childhood, because I know he's about to change in ways that I can't get past.

It makes me wish the entire episode had been given to Melissa. Maybe the entire season should've been given to her and left just enough space for the reunion at the end, picking up close to where Daryl left off in S1. Maybe that would've saved many of us, Carol especially, a lot of pain. Regardless, Melissa demonstrates over and over that she can carry a show, so the fact that she's not equally billed with Norman is just a crime. The fact that Carol's name isn't right next to Daryl's in the title is so offensive, I have no words left. I've been saying it for a year now and I'll keep bringing it up until it changes. This is Melissa's fucking show too. Act like it, AMC.

I know that the rest of the season has already leaked, so I will take a look at what I can. I still have no intention of watching the two episodes that destroy Daryl's integrity and I'm terrified of how it'll impact Caryl's story going forward. This is not how fans should be made to feel about a show they waited years for...

[aduckinpain]

Grief still knows my number

Tags: Character study style writing, heavily implied Lestappen, Symbolism, Hurt/comfort, Happy Ending, Very focused on dealing with Grief, Charles Leclerc centered, Charles Leclerc Analysis throughout the years, All the radios and quotes that people use to describe Charles are accurate

Word Count: 2.8k

This is also on AO3 by roianamustang (me).

Hardships and life go hand in hand. Walk side by side. Fall into step with each other. Bleed together. Sigh deeply. Rinse and repeat.

Time and healing go hand in hand. Presumably anyways, according to everyone. While the years have allowed the blood to gradually crystalize, Charles Leclerc doesn't think the wound will ever stop dripping on his pristine wooden floor.

Success, achievements, wins. All these things fly with glory. Trigger adrenaline. The blood pumps, moves. Colors seem brighter, voices seem simultaneously louder and quieter, blending in with the murmur of the wind, of the cheers. The heart doesn't stop, doesn't take a break. It keeps on going and going and going. If any tiredness is supposed to be felt, it seems non-existent at that moment. The trophy is cool, blending with the heat of his hands. The light reflects on the champagne bottle. The crowd roars, so does he. 

Man has never felt more godly than when he's soaked in red with the cape of history and legacy flowing down his back. Never felt more untouchable than when he's deemed irreplaceable. A hero from a legend coming straight to life. 

The highs reach the moon. 

So the lows reach the Earth's core. Bright, yet hot enough to incinerate, evaporate.

People die and the world doesn't bat an eye. Life keeps moving and time keeps flowing. But its core weeps molten metal, scalding. Dripping furiously, wondering, screaming. It seems so loud, yet no one notices. Why don’t they see it? Why don’t they understand? 

Every June, his phone rings. Echoes in the walls of his expensive apartment. No matter how much he pays, it soaks itself in the crevices between the tiles. Makes sure it follows him. Hangs heavy in his pockets, in his rooms.

The heart has four chambers, each one of Charles’ overflowing.

Every July, Charles hangs his heart, lets it air out in the Monaco air, near the sea. It never fully dries. It drips and drips and drips.

In 2014, F3 welcomed him with open arms, the sun shined bright and his career seemed to be soaring. The future clear.

On October 4th 2014, the present halted. It stopped. His heart dropped, yet it deafened his ears. Hands shaking and eyes unmoving, he heard the gasp of his maman next to him. From the corner of his eye he could see his papa get up and call someone in a fervor. He felt hands on his face and the panicked, yet soft voice of his mother. Everything blurred. 

Turned dark.

Blank.

He doesn’t remember much afterwards.

On July 17th 2015, Charles Leclerc’s phone rang at 4:03 AM. Jules Bianchi called him on a Wednesday’s waking hour for the last time. The sea was bursting in his room through every opening, every window. 

Jules was finally resting.

Charles couldn't wake up from this nightmare.

His heart swelled. The rush of liquid in its chambers sudden. Wrong. The first thing to fill up were the ventricles, allowing them to hang heavy at the bottom. Slowly over the years, with every drip, every leak, the atriums expanded with the never ending grief.

2017 was his year of change. F2 had kicked off with a grand slam and he kept racking up the points. One after the other, after a long and difficult time, Charles’ future seemed set. His road to F1 perfected already.

He wanted more. He couldn't wait to have it. He'd jump, leep, crouch and slide to achieve what he wanted, what he deserved.

He'd honor Jules, he'd make Papa proud.

He’d bleed red. Get submerged in. Breathe till the bubbles escaped his lungs to reach for the sky.

The high of Monaco still lingered on his skin. In the month in between he'd been counting down the days. Training, sleeping, hoping.

20 days left.

10 days left.

9 days, then 8.

7, then 6.

5, then 4.

Halt.

Stop.

Just stop.

Not again. It's too much.

No.

Not again. Not now. Why now? 

No.

The 21st of June’s sun peaked its rays on the cloudy sky, Hervé Leclerc’s eyes slipped shut and Charles Leclerc met his breaking point.

The quiet before the storm, then a boom was heard.

A sudden calm and then a supernova.

His phone rang on the 25th of June.

‘He’d lost his father earlier in the week. We’re talking literally 48 hours later, he was in the car. He then went out, fell to last place, fought his way through and won the race. This was a kid who’d just lost his father and he was a kid at the time, a teenager. To have that kind of mental strength, I’ve never seen anything like it.’

Charles Leclerc won the 2017 F2 Baku Grand Prix.

Charles and Hervé dreamed a lot together. He remembers the race nights, the Grand Prix, the atmosphere, the wins. The drivers and their celebrations, their fireproofs and livery. The success, the wins, the championships, the legacy, the weight.

They remembered the red.

They looked up to the red.

They dreamed of it.

Laid down their lives for a chance to look at it in the eye.

So he lied.

His father on his deathbed, sick and weak, still held that spark in his last words. That smile, that used to be his comfort, now lingered with a looming feeling of dread. Of knowing what's happening. 

So he lied.

And take him back in that moment right now, he would still lie.

With his own reassuring smile, Charles Leclerc looked at his dying father and told him Scuderia Ferrari signed him into F1. The horse pranced and jumped and bled Charles Leclerc, as much as his own family had bled for it.

So he lied.

And his father died happy.

His heart filled to the brim. Charles could almost sympathize with the weight of the horse on his back.

Soon enough it'd be his.

Soon enough he would be the horse.

Fury seeped from every pore, screeched in his head, escaped his lungs.

Everything he wanted was taken too early.

Not this.

He wouldn't allow this.

‘It’s very unusual for Ferrari to choose a young driver. But after a decade with no championship success, perhaps trying something a little bit different is going to reap its rewards.’

A year into F1, it became reality.

The wind howled, his heart soared. It dumped its contents on the ground. Blood red leaking down, slowly spilling over each step, each stair. He should be jumping in joy, flying through the sky. Climbing.

So why?

Why was it heavy?

He looked up hoping to see the Sun, catching glimpses of it in between the clouds.

He plunged.

Eyes wide open. Hand holding onto a hoof. Hearing the echoes of its neigh.

His phone rang. 

The sound made him pick up his head. Hazy, confused, he looked at the called ID. 

Papa <3

Charles Leclerc was drowning in molten gold. 

He didn’t swim.

He declined.

‘What Charles is doing is a continuation of Jules’ legacy. Charles has a mission. A mission to do what Jules should have done.’

It was never meant to be his seat. 

At least not like this.

He doesn’t know, if on that fateful day in Suzuka, rain hadn't been falling, a crash hadn’t happened, a life wasn’t lost, would he still be here? In this seat? 

Who was bleeding more red? Him, his father or Jules?

Can dead men bleed?

Are his achievements his own?

At the end of the day, the past has happened. Its consequences reaped.

Charles can’t revive the dead, but he can honor them.

In his second year in F1, Charles Leclerc became a Ferrari driver.

In his first year in Ferrari, Charles’ teammate was a 4 time world champion.

In his second year in F1 and first in Ferrari, Charles Leclerc won in Spa.

Anthoine Hubert lost his life a few hours before. A crash and a boom. A win and a trophy. 

Death is imminent. It favors none and follows all. 

And yet, Charles Leclerc at the age of 22, feels its shadow linger near. Never close enough to him, no. 

It lingers right there, on the podium, in the trophy, in his anthem, in his legacy.

It gazes, but never touches.

Some days he wished it did.

After all, no one can truly best the perfection of the dead.

‘You can see the celebrations starting. He’s got one more corner, the famous Parabolica to go. Mercedes threw everything at him today. Charles Leclerc has coped brilliantly! 

He won in Spa! He wins in Monza! 

Charles Leclerc is the winner of the 2019 Italian Grand Prix!’

Monza is another type of beast. It’s godly. It paves the way for anyone, but it spreads the ocean for scarlet.

The confetti falls gently. Lewis Hamilton bathes him in champagne.

He points at the sky. He points at his suit. He looks above. 

He sees the Sun.

He shakes his head, laughs in disbelief. Wipes his eyes.

Charles Leclerc wins.

‘On this Sunday afternoon, the Tifosis celebrate, what an epic race—’

Charles got so preoccupied with red he forgot about blue. Dark, mysterious, never ending blue. 

Always there. Never far.

This cloud of rain that followed him around, dripping on the track.

Drip, drip, drip.

A puddle was created.

He pushed blue.

Disqualified the both of them.

He doesn’t regret anything. If he’s not winning, no one is.

Austria 2019 was a blur of purple. A blur of hate. 

His blood was pumping. Pupils dilating. Eyebrows furrowed. 

The PR training didn't matter in that moment.

Charles Leclerc doesn’t just lose.

He opened Instagram’s purple icon, went to his followings.

Typed in ‘Max Verstappen’.

Pressed the button, made it turn blue again.

2020 comes and goes. The quarantine unfamiliar. Unknown. More people gain shadows, and there’s an inkling at the back of his mind that his might finally touch him.

But there’s no time.

He can’t wait and waste his time with things like fear.

Every win, every overtake is not his alone.

So Charles holds his breath and anticipates.

The sky sees. The clouds look back. His phone charges.

He’ll admit, while he doesn’t think he will ever have a teammate which he wouldn't deem his rival, Sebastian Vettel would always be a special case. Would always hold a special place in his pool of a heart.

So it hurt.

It wasn’t Seb’s fault at all. For the first time in his life, Charles Leclerc felt something else towards the prancing horse.

Admiration and hopes were temporarily hidden behind confusion and hurt.

This time the shadow didn’t touch or tap or even come closer.

So why was he alone again?

Why was he leaving?

Please don’t leave!

Don’t leave.

A ring cut through the silence.

He declined.

Charles knows hurt and sadness, anxiety and fear. But that’s too many things to account for, he can't be writing them all in his notebook. Seb wouldn't.

So he writes a piece of paper with ink, doesn't let it dry, crumbles it and puts it in a little red box. A label lays on it.

Rage.

2021 happened, that’s for sure. 

Shit car, shit luck, shit strategy, shit Charles.

Oh, and a new teammate.

A win stolen.

But it’s ok. It’s fine.

Patience is something he has learned the hard way, honed it to be his comrade.

Silenced, his phone’s screen flashed at 5:58 AM.

He ignored.

2022 is here and so is Charles.

Bahrain. A dream on the precipice of flowing over the rim of the glass.

He won.

He won!

The season had started off on a good note.

In a good car.

It was now on his shoulders to bear the expectations. Not just of others and his own, but also the expectations of the dead and their wishes.

Hope is a scary, scary thing. 

It runs along with failure and when you least expect it, it catches its arm while it plummets in the abyss.

Drags it along, one drag at a time.

Saudi Arabia was a close call, but the clouds overtook him.

That’s ok.

He’s just starting.

He’s got what it takes. He knows he does.

So, for the hundredth time, why?

Goddamnit, why?

Every time. Every time he lets himself want.

This happens.

Charles Leclerc wins in Australia.

Charles Leclerc loses in Imola.

Loses in Miami.

Loses in Spain.

Loses in Monaco.

Loses and loses and loses.

But he’s always been special to Austria.

And Austria seems like it wants to be special to him.

He’s always got a knack for the raging bull. Specifically the blue one.

He crosses the finish line and Charles Leclerc smiles. Eyes squinting in the face of the screams. Cheeks pulling upwards. He runs to that podium.

Charles Leclerc grins at the cloud, at the sky.

The cloud pours and Charles Leclerc laughs.

Turns around, shakes his head and looks at it in the eye. His one constant. Grief can't touch the fastest after all.

There is hope.

It was blatantly obvious after a few more races, that Ferrari had no clear vision on how to improve its car.

So he lost.

He had the championship cup in his hands, and it slipped through its fingers. Rolling away on a slope. 

So he lost.

He got second, but second was never what he aimed for.

This time, when his phone rang, Charles Leclerc anticipated it.

A thunk was heard. A crack was felt.

Whether it was his phone screen or his heart, Charles didn’t know.

He broke.

He doesn’t know if it will ever get better or heal. Everyone tells him scars heal with time, yet his is infected.

He can’t do this. Can’t hold this weight.

Why does he still call?

Why?

Grief still knows my number, and I don’t have the heart to block it.

2023 rolled around and there was nothing he could do about it.

There was nothing Ferrari could do about the absolute hindrance of a car that they had created. 

A tractor would’ve at least given him more consistency.

It was out of his hands, but maybe he never had it in the first place. 

His heart had been hanging out to dry for a while, yet the humidity kept it aching.

So for the first time in his career, summer break rolled around and Charles Leclerc breathed. 

The shadow has retreated.

So with that in mind, you could see how it was a pleasant surprise.

Pole positions, podiums. No wins yet, but the Sun was shining, the Earth rotating and its core waking up from its slumber with slow, but assured movements.

Mattia Binotto out.

Fred Vasseur is in. 

Finally for the first time in years, Charles felt the warm embrace of a calm figure in his life, who understood his struggles. 

Finally for the first time in years, Charles Leclerc was first. Not in the championship standings, in his own.

The dead may be honored, but they are gone. They can be remembered.

The living are here. They can’t be put to wait in line, life doesn’t wait for people to catch up.

His blood is rushing, his lungs expanding, eyelids blinking, thoughts running. 

He’s alive. He’s here. He’s important.

Charles Leclerc races in Las Vegas for himself. He fights for himself. He forgives for himself.

Max races after him to apologize but Charles has already moved on. He doesn’t hold grudges anymore. 

He wraps his arm around the cloud and reassures. He smiles, eyes sparkling in the Vegas lights. Blue meets green.

He remembers and looks at the sky. His heart returned in his chest, no longer in the hands of mother nature’s fickle decisions.

Charles Leclerc makes his own decisions. 

After Abu Dhabi, his phone rings again.

In the first time in 6 years, he answers.

It’s quiet for a while.

The number you are trying to contact is inactive. Please try again.

At least he tried.

A ping was heard. A message arrived.

Papa <3

impr0ud

He remembers the adrenaline, the confusion. He froze for a moment, but recovered quickly.

He replies. 

Papa? Are you there?

Unseen, unanswered. 

And yet, he’s content. 

He sleeps and dreams, and legacies don’t plague him.

He sleeps and he wakes up the next day, calls his maman.

“Hey maman. How’ve you been?”

Charles Leclerc is familiar with Grief’s number, as much as he’s familiar with his own. 

2023 ends. But he’s just getting started.

The winter break came and went in the blink of an eye.

Contract extensions, announcement dates, livery showcasings and more.

Air enters his lungs and he lets himself feel.

5 wins this year, that’s the goal for now.

A small step backwards for a giant leap forwards. 

Charles Leclerc is ready, has always been.

Rage in one hand and pride in the other, he steps forwards.

Blue on his side, as was meant to be. Blue meets green, understanding in between.

The crown on his head high and bright, and well deserved. His accomplishments and wins.

The cape down his back is theirs. He’ll let them have this.

After all, the championship will be his.

‘Charles Leclerc. Prince of Ferrari. King of Monza. Legacy of Monaco. What a star of the future! Celebrating wildly in the present!’

-End-

Please note that no matter how much I am writing here, it is all artistic speculation of what Charles himself has decided to show the world. Do not forget that these drivers are real people.

All of the italicized sentences that start and end with ' ' are actual words said for Charles, either by Netflix, Will Buxton, Crofty or other documentaries.

The phone ringing from a person that has already passed away, has happened to me and my mom. So it directly inspired me.

Time for some clarification of my analysis:

The wound is grief showing its head at the very start of this.

The cape is Ferrari obviously.

The Earth's core and its molten metal is always Charles himself.

Every correlation with a phone/phone call is Herve's, except the specific Jules one.

Every time the heart is mentioned it mostly means Jules grief.

The ventricles are the two lower chambers of the heart, which in this case filled up first, which is why it weighed him down.

The atriums are the two upper chambers, which are slowly overflowing.

Herve died exactly 4 days before his F2 Baku race, that is why the time stops at 4.

Red is Ferrari.

He holds onto the hoof and hear a neigh. This is Ferrari's prancing horse.

The Sun is hope, the unachievable.

The clouds and the color blue are always Max Verstappen, including the blue raging bull.

The sky are both Jules and Herve.

The shadow is always death in every mention.

Purple is the conflict and the brief pushing from Max on Austria. It shows an intriguing way of which even when they are fighting they are always in sync.

The notebook is the habit he picked up from Sebastian.

His one constant in life that will never leave is Max Verstappen. He calls him the fastest despite not knowing how the results of the 2023 season.

The message for anyone temporarily confused says: I'm proud. Its more of a sign that Charles has finally started racing for himself, has let go of some of the self-afflicted responsibility to hold the dead's wishes.

Every blue colored things is Max Verstappen.

Every red colored thing is the intense feeling that Ferrari gives him, every win makes him soar, but every loss digs him deep.

The title of this work is inspired by someone on social media showing their own experience of old phone numbers calling.

No one can best the perfection of the dead is a quote from Aya, in Bungou Stray Dogs season 5, which I thought was exactly what this fic needed.

Thank you so much for reading! It would mean a lot if I managed to get some reposts, comments or likes!

If you like this, I have written more stories that can be found on my Formula 1 masterlist. Including: Lestappen, Landoscar with more to come. If it manages to spark your interest, please go support those as well!

[mariacallous]

When US senator JD Vance, an Ohio Republican, was rolled out as former president Donald Trump’s running mate last month, the move had several seeming aims. It was a nod to rich supporters like Vance’s patron, Peter Thiel; a way to present the electorate with a more youthful face than Trump’s; and a play for the working-class voters around whom Vance grew up, as he wrote about in his bestselling book Hillbilly Elegy.

All of this was almost immediately undermined when comments Vance made in a 2021 Fox News interview, claiming the country is being run by “childless cat ladies who are miserable at their own lives and the choices that they’ve made,” came to light. There was, it quickly became clear, more where that came from.

Among other things, Vance has suggested that people in “violent” marriages shouldn’t get divorced. In a 2021 interview, Vance criticized abortion exceptions for rape and incest, saying that the unborn fetuses in pregnancies resulting from these situation were seen as “inconvenient.” Vance has said that US representative Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez had a “sociopathic attitude towards family,” claiming that the New York Democrat said it is “immoral to have children because of climate change concerns.” (She did not say this.) Vance also suggested in a 2021 speech that adults who have children should get extra votes.

“We have to go to war against the anti-child ideology that exists in our country,” Vance told the Federalist in an interview in 2021.

Vance and the Trump campaign have dismissed these remarks as taken out of context, but like many other comments related to women that Vance, Trump, and their allies have made, they do not exist in a vacuum. In fact, they almost perfectly echo the rhetoric of accused rapist and human trafficker Andrew Tate and members of the online misogynist community. (Tate, the most prominent and influential of a group of professional misogynist influencers, has denied the allegations against him.) And the Trump campaign is not just passively repeating the misogynistic talking points of the so-called manosphere, but actively engaging with it to court the votes of isolated young men—a group to which both Trump and Vance have a history of attempting to appeal.

Examples abound. Tate has, for instance, called women who don’t want kids “miserable stupid bitches” while telling the misogynistic Fresh and Fit podcast, in an episode now deleted from its YouTube channel, that “life without children [...] is inane and it’s pointless.” He went on: “If you sit here and genuinely think you’re going to work your ass off through your fertile years and by the age of 54, you’re not going to be suicidal, alone with a cat, then you are dumb.”

Trump, for his part, is reported to have repeatedly called Harris a “bitch” in private and has called women “dumb” as well as “crazy” and “low IQ” on multiple occasions. (In the past month alone, Trump has called Harris “low IQ” and “dumb as a rock” at rallies and in social media posts.) Trump once referred to former White House aide Omarosa Manigault Newman as a “crazed, crying lowlife.” He also called her a “dog.”

Tate has repeatedly compared women to dogs, telling Barstool Sports’s Dave Portnoy in an interview in 2022, “You can’t be responsible for something that doesn’t listen to you. You can’t be responsible for a dog if it doesn’t obey you, or a child if it doesn’t obey you, or a woman that doesn’t obey you.” (Portnoy, who is known for his own misogynistic views, responded to Vance’s suggestion that childless adults should pay more in taxes on X: “This is fucking idiotic.”)

“President Trump has empowered women throughout his career as a businessman and in politics, promoting women to senior roles in both his company and campaign,” Karoline Leavitt, national press secretary for the Trump campaign told WIRED, labeling the premise of this article “outrageous.”

“It's shocking to see rhetoric typically reserved for the annals of internet forums repeated by some of the most powerful politicians in America,” Nina Jankowicz, the former Biden administration disinformation czar, who is now CEO of the American Sunlight Project, tells WIRED. “Well beyond the presidential race, these sorts of attacks aim to denigrate women and their value as human beings, and aim to encourage women to stay out of politics and public life. They have no place in our politics.”

Of course, it should also be remembered that both Trump and Tate have been accused by multiple women of sexual misconduct. Trump has been found in court to have sexually abused E. Jean Carroll, and just last week Romanian authorities opened another investigation into Tate in relation to accusations of trafficking women as young as 15.

Trump and Tate appear to be aligned on another subject: porn.

Tate, who is facing allegations of sexually exploiting women by forcing them to make pornographic videos for financial gain, has long railed against what he sees as the evils of pornography.

“As masculinity has plummeted, a whole bunch of men are simply not having sex anymore, and then they become addicted to porn, which is cucking, effectively,” Tate told Tucker Carlson in an interview last year. “Two people are having sex and you’re just watching it.”

Should Trump succeed in retaking the White House in November’s election, he could seek to criminalize porn, according to the 922-page Project 2025 document that outlines plans for a second Trump term. (While Trump has disavowed the document, it is the product of his allies and of former Trump administration officials. One of the report’s authors, Russell Vought, told undercover journalists from the Centre for Climate Reporting in a meeting earlier this month that Trump’s efforts to distance himself from Project 2025 were just “graduate-level politics.” Vance also wrote a foreword to a since-postponed book written by Project 2025’s architect, Kevin Roberts.)

“Their product is as addictive as any illicit drug and as psychologically destructive as any crime,” Roberts, the president of the right-wing Heritage Foundation, writes of pornographers in the document. “Pornography should be outlawed. The people who produce and distribute it should be imprisoned. Educators and public librarians who purvey it should be classed as registered sex offenders. And telecommunications and technology firms that facilitate its spread should be shuttered.”

The links between Trump, Vance, and figures like Tate and the virulently toxic incel community appear to be, at least in part, strategic.

As Trump’s own campaign managers have outlined his strategy, “secluded, MAGA-sympathetic voters who have proved difficult to engage,” as The Atlantic put it, are one of the campaign’s primary messaging targets.

To that end, a pro-Trump PAC has launched a $20 million campaign to reach young voters that was kicked off with Vance’s appearance on the Full Send Podcast hosted by the Nelk Boys, a group of four men who have a huge following among young conservative males.

The Nelk Boys have in the past hosted Tate as well as Nico Kenn De Balinthazy, another far-right influencer better known as Sneako. De Balinthazy has fantasized about being allowed to hit women as men were 50 years ago. In one video uploaded to TikTok, he was caught on camera hitting a woman and responding that she had “been acting up all night.”

On their podcast, the Nelk Boys have repeatedly defended the misogynistic rhetoric espoused by both Tate and De Balinthazy.

Trump has been interviewed several times by the Nelk Boys, labeling their work “important,” and was recently pictured alongside Sneako at an MMA event.

Trump also was recently interviewed by streamer Adin Ross, an ally of Tate’s who infamously inadvertently tipped off authorities about Tate’s plans to flee Romania. He was also kicked off Twitch for showing "unmoderated hateful conduct" in a chat and hosting the white nationalist Nick Fuentes. During the interview, Ross gifted Trump with a gaudily-wrapped Tesla Cybertruck and a Rolex, which some experts say may have violated campaign finance rules.

Trump’s misogynistic worldview has bled into other areas of conservative politics, too.

Even before Kamala Harris officially replaced President Joe Biden as the Democratic Party’s presidential nominee, the right was demonizing her as a “DEI hire” —a phrase Tate has used to criticize women in the past.

Prominent right-wing media figures have similarly made numerous misogynistic comments in recent months. In April, Turning Point USA founder Charlie Kirk blamed birth control for creating “very angry and bitter young ladies” and falsely claimed that the medication “screws up the female brain.” Alec Lace, a regular Fox Business contributor, appeared on the station last month and felt it was OK to call Harris the “original Hawk Tuah girl, that’s the way she got where she is” before adding that she is a “DEI vice president.” And just last month, Fox News prime time host Jesse Watters claimed: “When a man votes for a woman, he actually transitions into a woman.”

At the Republican National Convention in Milwaukee last month, the speaker list featured Dana White, who was caught on camera slapping his wife, and Hulk Hogan, who has been accused of physically abusing his wife. (Hogan filed a defamation suit over the claims but asked the court to dismiss it five months later.) It also included a number of conservative figures who have sought to blame the victims of sexual assault, such as David Sacks and Mark Robinson. The speakers also included Representative Matt Gaetz, the Florida lawmaker who has been investigated but not charged by the Department of Justice for allegations of being part of a scheme to traffic a 17-year-old woman.

“Women who know and work for President Trump personally, like myself, know he is encouraging and generous to the women around him,” says Leavitt, the Trump spokesperson. “Most importantly, President Trump’s policies as president uplifted women across the country because they brought down the cost of living and made our communities safer.”

[yohibmbi]

missing spring.⠀

synopsis : ellie’s on a mission & you miss her so very dearly.

tw : toxic ex!abby mention.

Ellie was away. Maria had assigned her on patrol to retrieve supplies from the farthest outpost. Jesse could’ve easily done it but Maris requested Ellie specifically.

The one disadvantage to dating the best of the best in Jackson was everyone’s reliance on her to do the hard work.

Winter's bite greeted the world in the morning. Snow appeared from time to time. Regardless, the sun shone. She was cruel, slinking through the curtains and waking you up at all hours of the night.

You were buried beneath Ellie's blankets. Her bed was always warmer than yours. Most likely because the girl was always with you. She wasn't this time, though. And the cold crept in around the edges, nipping at your fingertips.

Almost e eyes your girlfriend risked her life protecting the community. You never knew what life was like outside the walls, being born and raised in Jackson.

Despite the fact that your parents were well-known patrollers, you never inherited their fighting ability. So it became your responsibility to work with the animals, tending to their every need. And, with spring approaching, there would be newborns for you to care for.

You were so excited.

After the third day, time seemed to slow down, and you grew increasingly irritated with each passing day.

It was stupid that she had to be gone for so long and that it affected you so much.

You cant help it though.

You just wanted your girlfriend.

You were an adult, and not hanging out with people on a daily basis came with the territory. You don't even see your parents as regularly as Ellie.

It’s even gotten so bad that you've only slept at your place twice in the two weeks leading up to your girlfriend's departure, and you've been wearing her clothes since she left.

You missed her terribly.

You hadn't gone more than four days without seeing the brunette since the relationship began.

You couldn't stand it. Not when she smiled so lovingly for you, held you so close, and took such good care of you.

Her love was unlike anything you had ever experienced. It was sincere. Nothing like your ex, who hurled abuse at you whenever you showed any sign of independence in one breath, and then threatened to kill herself if you left her in the next.

Six months later, here you were. Incapable of living without the stubborn girl. How history repeats itself. The sudden reliance terrified you, but the spell had been cast, and you had fallen fast.

To be honest, after the initial fright, you didn't seem to mind. Ellie could be trusted because she was nothing like Abby. She accepted you for who you were and never made you do anything you didn't want to. The relationship was built gradually on your own terms, and for that, you were so grateful.

Her touch carried such passion, that what once was scarred softened. She made you feel as if you were created to be loved.

Loved by her.

You pull the blankets further over your curled body, deciding not to face the world today. They press up against you, and it feels as if Ellie is right next to you.

You sink deeper into the mattress as you sigh into the cool air. Sleep sets in and soon enough you’re out again. Your dreams are filled with memories of your love.

You’re in such a deep sleep, that you don’t notice the door unlocking. Heavy footprints echo through the house, and even a voice calling, doesn’t shake you from your slumber.

Ellie sneaks into her bedroom. The sight of you snuggled in her bed, on her assigned side, instantly warms her frozen body. A fire ignited within her heart. just as it did the first time you told her you loved her.

She notices the cuff of her sweatshirt peeking out from beneath the mountain of blankets as you clutch them tightly. She undresses, tossing her damp clothes absentmindedly before moving on to her winter accessories, needing to feel you close.

The beanie and thick gloves, you made for her, did nothing to keep her warm or prevent her face and hands from turning red.

She swiftly slips into her pyjamas and curls up next to you. She nuzzles her face in your neck and inhales sweetly and her body relaxes into your warmth. Limbs tangle in an awkward embrace, but she doesn’t mind, as sleep creeps behind her eyes.

She’s finally home.

[breakfastteatime]

Today's Survivor request is "Abandoned" for an anon :)

It’s not sneaking out if you’re an adult in control of his own choices. That’s what Cal tells himself as he leaves the saloon’s basement. He does leave a note for Greez who will undoubtedly go charging in first thing in the morning. The guy never learned boundaries about not waking Cal up at the ass crack of dawn. BD huddles close and doesn’t make a sound until they’re clear of the Outpost.

BD has a lot to say once they’re clear of the Outpost.

“Shhh!” Cal can’t believe how far sound travels at night here. “We’ll be back before Greez can really work himself up to a panic.”

BD scoffs. He actually scoffs at Cal.

“If you’re gonna be like that, you can stay behind and explain where I am to Greez yourself,” Cal tells him as he grabs his nekko from the barn.

And how could BD tell Greez anything when even he doesn’t know where they’re going?

Cal chuckles, gently urging the nekko out into the night and across the fields of Koboh. “We’re going back to the old Jedi ruins. Above the literal lake of lava. And before you ask, yeah, I’ve got some cold drinks to go this time.” He pats the straps of his rucksack loaded down with cooling supplies. He’s in no rush to repeat last time’s heat stroke. He’ll take the back way too, higher up and less likely to roast him. “And like I said, I left a note. If Greez really gets himself worked up, Bode can fire up the jet and come get us.”

Not that Cal wants Greez or Bode to come and find him. This is a private thing he needs to do. Wants to do. Has to do. Koboh’s High Republic ruins are the closest Cal has come to real Jedi architecture in a long time. There are so many echoes, and he wants to throw himself into them and just bask for a moment in what once was. Maybe, if he does that, he’ll better appreciate, better understand, the work Cere is doing on Jedha.

He’s really missed Cere. All that angry talk about abandonment and quitting feels so foolish now. Cal’s a little embarrassed by his past self…

…maybe Cere has some regrets too.

They’ll talk soon. He’s ready. He wants to. They made a good start on clearing the air…

You never asked.

…and it won’t hurt to work on it a little more, if he can just understand everything that was lost. And he does get it, on some deep, disconnected level. He’s painfully aware of his personal losses, has a good sense of the scale of loss for the galaxy with the Jedi Order gone, however, what it means for the Jedi themselves that their history is fading, lost, annihilated? That he doesn’t quite get. It’s the nuance he’s missing.

He’s so lost in thought, he nearly misses the turn into bog where he can take the back way to the grand courtyard. Before, he’d focused on memories of Tanalorr, pushed away many more. Now, he’ll let the rest of the past speak to him, as much as he can take.

The sky is full of stars tonight, not a cloud to be seen. It’s warm too, even before they get close to the lava pools. Once quick relter ride later, Cal is on the fractured plaza, moving through all that remains of an old Jedi temple. He runs his hands over holobooks and furniture until the past takes hold and he’s there with the Jedi, clad in their grandiose robes. So much colour, so many design choices. Padawans race by, accepting admonishment from their masters with smiles and waves. What’s broken in the present becomes perfect in the echo, the soft scent of incense wafting through the air. Peace, serenity, and yet under the surface a feeling of disquiet, maybe even discontent.

The Council seems less dedicated to the mission now. Strange, when the Nihil still present such a danger to the galaxy. What, then, has all their work and training been for?

Ah, but they are Jedi, and they are subject to the will of the Force, not the other way around. And their work here cannot be for naught, for they are watching the Padawans learn and grow, have developed new methods of training, pushed themselves beyond old limits and found the new ones, improved engineering capabilities, pushed science and exploration further than ever…

It’s the middle of the day when the sky ignites and the moon shatters.

There is no time to escape.

There is nowhere to go.

Cal releases that memory before the inevitable, having no desire to watch more Jedi die. He wants to go back further, and he does, using memories from what must have once been a library.  It’s early in the mission, the library under construction, hope and excitement thrumming through the air. Their work has meaning here. They are going to expand the Republic’s frontiers, bring a new age of peace and prosperity that even the Nihil won’t be able to stop.

Another memory – small, contained – meditating in the dawn’s sunlight.

Another  – a Padawan plucking at her lyre, a gentle melody singing in the Force.

Another.

Another.

Another.

But none powerful enough to open the past and let him in. Not like Dagan’s dreams and memories.

The sun is up before Cal is finished, his head aching from all the other lives he’s dipped in and out of. He’ll never know these Jedi, never tell them that their work wasn’t for nothing, and in fact may be the greatest work the Order ever accomplished, even centuries later. Cal will finish what they started, create a haven for all those in need. That’s what the Jedi Order did best.

A gentle nudge from BD brings Cal back to the present. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m okay. Could use some caf and – ”

His commlink activates and the next thing he knows, Greez is bellowing loud enough to be heard from Pyloon’s without the tech.

“You get your butt back here right now, or so help me I’m sending Jetpack out to find you and put a bell on you so you can’t sneak out!”

Wincing, head thumping, Cal nevertheless can’t contain his smile. That’s Greez – ever the worrier. “We’ll be back soon.” Together, he and BD head back to the Outpost. They have a mission to accomplish.

[nishimura-writes]

Coriolanus x Reader

Echoes of Fate: PART 4

Paring: Coriolanus x Reader

Warning: Slow burn... REALLY SLOW BURN

Summary: In a surprising turn of events, you find yourself teamed up with Coriolanus Snow as a mentor for Lucy Gray. Although you seek change, your immediate task is to ensure her victory. As you and Snow strive for Lucy's safety, you both embark on a journey of understanding each other, for better or worse…

WORD COUNT: 1.5k

The L/N clan's residence radiated with a festive aura, bathed in a celebratory glow. Laughter and a vivid array of colours filled the air, creating a lively mosaic. The room buzzed with high-spirited energy as guests mingled in a jubilant dance of celebration. Under the gentle embrace of the bright lights, well-dressed elites added to the vibrant tapestry. Men in sharp, tailored blazers and women in flowing silks moved gracefully, their attire shimmering like jewels against the backdrop of the daylight.

These figures of elegance stood in stark contrast to your own attire – a uniform from the Academy, now dust-covered and wrinkled from the day's endeavours.

There, at the heart of the celebration, stood your family, always the flawless hosts. They raised their glasses, toasting to the Capitol's latest victories. Watching this scene of splendour, you felt a wave of disgust rise within you. It was a quiet rebellion, a silent scream against the extravagant merriment that seemed so detached from the stark realities that you know.

As you approach, the guards open the doors, revealing the elegant interior of your family's residence.

Immediately, you're greeted by the grandeur of the foyer. Overhead, chandeliers hang like clusters of stars, casting a warm, inviting glow. The pillars that support the high ceiling are majestic, each one intricately carved and holding up the sparkling lights.

Walking through the hallway, lined with portraits of ancestors, your eyes are drawn to one painting in particular. It stands out with its vivid colours and the lifelike depiction of a familiar face from your family's history.

A portrait capturing your uncle, President Ravinstill, and your mother draws your gaze, their painted eyes following your every move. Their painted eyes seem to follow you, compelling you to pause and look up. 

Just then, you hear the familiar sound of footsteps approaching – heavy, decisive steps that break the hushed silence of the corridor.

“(Y/N), my dear,” comes the voice you recognize instantly. 

Turning, you see your father, a lit cigar clamped between his lips. Despite your mother’s repeated pleas for him to give up his cigars, he never does.

“Father,” you greet him, a note of surprise in your voice. “Aren’t you supposed to be at mother's gathering?”

With an amused shake of his head, your father steps toward you, his gaze briefly caught by the portrait as well. He seems to dismiss your earlier question, focusing instead on a different topic.

“That Coriolanus Snow, the son of Crassus?” he asks, removing the cigar from his mouth to speak more clearly.

 “I’m not entirely sure,” you reply, your curiosity piqued as you tilt your head slightly. “Do you know him?” 

“Only by reputation. His father and I were business associates; our paths crossed often in those days. A pity about his death,” he muses, a hint of nostalgia in his voice. “The Snow family, they’ve always been known for their intellect.”

"I could tell that much," you respond, absently scratching your nose, a gesture betraying your mild dissatisfaction. 

“Do you think your partnership with him in the games will go smoothly?” he inquires, his tone making you feel somewhat belittled. “I saw him on the news with your tribute. The songbird, they called her.” 

“I hope it does. He seems calculated, always strategizing,” you reply, noticing a flicker of amusement in your father’s eyes at your observation.

 “Well then,” he says, casually strolling towards the bar area to your right, at the end of the hallway. “It seems the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

Abruptly, the doors swung open, and your mother burst into the room, a ray of sunshine personified, her energy instantly brightening the space. She was dressed in a flowing gown of bright purple that almost dazzled the eyes, yet the intricate designs on the fabric perfectly complemented the bold colour. The hues and patterns accentuated her features, making her stand out like a true gem of the Capitol.

Spotting the two of you, she exclaimed with infectious enthusiasm, “Oh, my dear (Y/N)!” 

Without a moment's hesitation, she wrapped you in a warm, exuberant hug. As she drew close, the faint scent of alcohol lingered in the air, but it was clear she was still very much sober.

Your grin broadens into a chuckle as your mother finally releases you from the hug, though her hands linger on your shoulders. 

“It was alright,” you respond with a nonchalant shrug, finding it the simplest way to sum up the experience. 

In the background, the unmistakable sound of whiskey being poured echoes from the bar where your father stands.

 “Just alright!” she exclaims with a playful pout. “Oh dear, I thought I taught you to be more expressive than that.” 

You can't help but snicker.  “You did, Mother, and I’m thankful for it. But really, it was just... alright.”

Changing the subject, she asks, “And how is that boy, Coriolanus, was it?”

From across the room, your father chimes in, “Snow’s boy.”

Internally, you roll your eyes. Back to this topic again. It seems that since you seldom speak to anyone other than Senjaus, your parents are eager for you to forge more connections within high society.

"Snow's boy, yes!" she responds, her voice bubbling with cheerfulness. "Is he kind to you?" 

As you make your way to the sofa and settle down, you're within earshot of your father, who's still by the bar. "He's alright, I suppose. Not as approachable as Sejanus, though." 

Meanwhile, your mother, still lively in her conversation, gracefully moves to join your father at the bar. She casually takes his glass and sips from it. He gives her a look that's part amusement, part annoyance. 

"He's a bit of an enigma," you continue, capturing their attention. "One moment, he's all charm and grace, and the next, he's distant, almost cold. It's hard to figure him out." Your words tumble out in a ramble. 

Sinking back into the sofa, you lounge comfortably, unconcerned about formalities. This is, after all, your home, your sanctuary.

"You've only just met him, haven't you? Give the boy a chance," Your father leans over to take a sip from the glass still firmly held by your mother, offering his advice with a tone of experience. She playfully refuses to let go, adding a touch of humour to the moment.

 Laughing, she adds, “Your father's right. He was quite the reserved one when we first met. Look at us now!” Her voice is bright, filled with mirth. 

You gaze up at the ceiling, lost in thought. Maybe there's a way to use Snow's position to your advantage, possibly to ease the harsh treatments of the tributes. 

“I’ll give him a chance,” you murmur, more to yourself than to them. 

The sound of the glass being set down breaks your reverie, though you’re not sure who did it. 

“Wonderful! Maybe we should invite him over one day. It'd be delightful to meet such a reputedly charming young man,” your mother exclaims, clearly excited by the idea. 

Your father snorts in amusement. “As if she'd want that. She doesn’t seem too fond of him.” 

“Clearly,” you echo dryly. But then, considering your mother’s suggestion, you add, “It might not be a bad idea. It could help me understand him better. He’s as guarded as a fortress – doesn't reveal much about himself.”

 “There’s the spirit! A green light from our very own general, our daughter, (Y/N),” she says, her words tinged with her smooth Capitol accent.

 Rising from her seat, she concludes, “I must return to our guests now, my dears. We’ll talk more about this later.”

You give your mother a lazy wave from the sofa, sprawled out like a ragdoll in the plush cushions. 

Moments later, you sense the sofa dip slightly as your father takes a seat at the other end. 

"Building connections isn't all bad, you know. Just be cautious," he advises in a low, thoughtful tone. "Watch your back and choose your allies wisely. But ruffle the wrong feathers, and you could find yourself in trouble." 

His words echo in your mind, urging you to ponder their weight. He might have a point. Is that the scent of change in the air, or just the lingering aroma of your father’s strong whiskey? 

A gentle kiss on your forehead from your father pulls you from your thoughts. You glance up briefly as he stands and walks away, his footsteps echoing softly into the distance.

As the day fades to night, you're left with a quiet hope, a yearning for a brighter tomorrow.

PART 3 II MASTERLIST II PART 5 (SOON)

[oliolioxenfreewrites]

novaxiom chronicles master-post: the world that sings itself apart

welcome to novaxiom, a place where every note hums with magic, every sound shapes reality, and silence? well, silence will probably get you killed.

the world here isn’t your typical fantasy landscape of lush forests and quaint little villages. oh, no. in novaxiom, it’s all about sound—sonoric sorcery runs the show, manipulating everything from the air you breathe to the ground beneath your feet. magic here isn’t just some flashy light show; it’s built into the very foundation of existence.

the origins—sound and fury

our story begins with aųrōlis, the goddess of sound and harmony. she shaped this world by plucking a perfect note from the void, creating a melody that gave birth to the sonorians—the unfortunate souls tasked with keeping everything in balance.

but balance? that’s boring. enter manœf, the shape-shifting god of infinite forms, and menþiš, the god of thought and manipulation. one played nice, the other… not so much. turns out, harmony gets a little screechy when power-hungry gods get involved.

menþiš, with his genius (read: psychotic) mind, decided sound alone wasn’t enough and twisted the sonorians’ magic into something darker—psinoric sorcery, the manipulation of thoughts and reality itself. because nothing says "i’m helping" like turning everyone into mind-controlled puppets.

cue the cacophonous wars, a symphony of destruction that nearly tore novaxiom apart, because why not ruin a good thing with a little chaos?

the aftermath—silence is deadly

when menþiš’s ambition finally hit a sour note, aųrōlis and her auxiliary offspring (elemental deities that are basically walking, talking mixtapes of power) intervened, casting him and his right-hand man, kørüx, into the dustbin of history. but peace? nah, not yet.

kørüx’s legacy gave rise to the dysonorians, beings who use dyssonoric sorcery—silence and dissonance as weapons. nothing says "we’re fine" like a bunch of angry mutes planning world domination.

a fragile peace—cue the dissonance

novaxiom now stands in the aftermath of the cacophonous wars, in a "peaceful" stalemate where the factions keep themselves busy with intellectual duels, magical sports, and the occasional assassination attempt. it’s a world of innovation—where sound and magic are at the heart of every invention and intrigue—but the echoes of war still loom large.

the players—the ones who can’t stay silent

syrin novachrome: i emerged from a crystal, not a womb, so excuse me if i don’t quite fit your definition of "human." i’m not here to save the world, but i might stick around long enough to watch it burn again. after all, history has a nasty habit of repeating itself, and i’m just here for the encore.

naia thalassum: water, blood, control. that’s my life in three words. if you think you can keep up, good luck. i’m not here to make friends—just to make sure no one underestimates me again. trust is a liability i can’t afford.

breeze harmonix: i’ve already won all the accolades that matter, so why the hell am i here? oh right, my sponsors. don’t get me wrong, i could blow you all away if i wanted to. i just prefer to stay above it all, literally and figuratively.

hymn cadenza: the world is broken, and i’m supposed to help fix it. no pressure. people think kindness is weakness, but the truth is, it’s the only thing holding this place together. if i can’t heal novaxiom, i’ll at least try to make sure it doesn’t tear itself apart again.

kova obsidius: reformed igniteri? sure, that’s what i’ll let you think. the truth is a bit more… complex. i’m playing both sides of this little war, and love wasn’t supposed to be part of the equation. i guess betrayal gets complicated when you start caring about who you're betraying.

the regions—each with their own sound

aurixian heartland: imagine cities made of sound, where every step you take echoes with history, magic, and the occasional screaming politician. resona, the capital, is a hub of intellectuals who think they can keep everything in harmony. spoiler: they can’t.

the viridian grove: where the trees hum with nature’s music and the verdant voices think their eco-magic will save the world. newsflash, nature can only do so much when the rest of us are busy trying to blow everything up.

shattered saskatchewan: where the dysonorians live in silence, plotting their next move. it’s a place of ruins, whispers, and enough cold stares to make even the bravest sorcerer shiver. silence is golden, or at least, lethal here.

the echoing isles: the ēbÿßmæ and vøçėrmäi merfolk call this place home, wielding sanguine sonorium and hydrophonic sorcery. here, water and blood weave together in complex harmonies most of the world can’t comprehend. but they’re not the only ones. the aeropexians also dominate the skies above the isles, their mastery over air and sound reshaping the atmosphere itself. they’re arrogant, proud, and love reminding everyone else that they’ve literally got the high ground.

igniteris volcanic range: think rivers of lava, molten magic, and people who enjoy blowing things up for fun. the igniteri are volatile, and their capital pyrospire is a glorified pressure cooker. if something’s going to explode, it’ll probably happen here.

the magic—because silence isn’t golden

sonoric sorcery: the manipulation of sound to shape reality. it’s the lifeblood of novaxiom, whether you’re healing a wound or leveling a city. everyone wants a piece of it, and everyone’s ready to fight over it.

psinoric sorcery: courtesy of our dear, departed (okay, just banished) friend menþiš, this twisted magic bends minds, alters perceptions, and, in some cases, warps reality. it’s like sonoric sorcery’s evil twin that no one really wants at the family reunion.

dyssonoric sorcery: silence is deadly, and the dysonorians know how to wield it. their magic thrives on dissonance and quiet destruction, proving that sometimes, it’s what you don’t hear that kills you.

so what now?

now we wait for the next disaster to strike—because in novaxiom, it’s not a matter of if, but when. the igniteri and dysonorians are gearing up for another attempt at rewriting the rules of magic, and let’s just say it won’t be a peaceful negotiation.

the sonorian council is calling all the shots, but there’s tension in the ranks. with our unlikely band of heroes (or anti-heroes, if we’re being honest), the future looks… well, chaotic.

will harmony be restored?

….probably not.

but it’s going to be one hell of a show either way. so stick around, grab a seat, and listen carefully—because in novaxiom, the only thing louder than the sound of magic is the silence before everything goes to hell.

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[wrencatte]

mini-fic 3! Cere POV. linguist!Cal, Mantis Crew as Family, Merrin & Cal bonding 1.2k words

“This one?”

Cal squints at it for half a second, says “yes,” then looks back down.

“What about this one?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t even look!”

“Greez, that’s the third time you’ve shown me that one.”

“No, it – oh, wait, haha, yeah it is. Okay. Let me see….”

Cere watches in fond amusement as Greez goes back to the shelves. Merrin comes over with a tome from deeper within the city library and angles it in a way Cal can look at it without straining his neck. His expression brightens and he takes it, running his fingers over the edges and corners.

There’s a slight twist in the Force that Cere’s beginning to learn means he found an echo. She has to focus pretty hard to feel it so she only pays it enough attention to be sure Cal’s not about to fall into anything nasty – not that she can do anything about it if he does, but she likes to be prepared – and tunes back into the softly murmured conversation between Merrin and Cal.

The Nightsister looks absolutely delighted at having found something in a language Cal doesn’t recognize, all quiet pride and subtle preening. Cere hides a smile behind her hand. Adorable. Cal flips the tome open and the two of them duck heads, Cal underlining a few words with his finger and saying something that Merrin repeats. He shakes his head and says it again. Her face twists in thought as she sounds it out before giving it voice and he nods rapidly, grinning. She smiles back, one of those small soft ones that pops up whenever it’s just her and Cal.

Cere is just about to go back to her own readings when Greez arrives, BD-1 whirling on his shoulder, a book held over his head in triumph.

“Ha! Try this on for size!”

Cal takes the book carefully. “I know this one,” he tells Greez, who groans in disappointment. “But, oh wow.” He flips through a few pages, lips moving as he reads the text silently to himself. “I can’t believe they have a book written in pre-Reformation Gwyrdd’tafodi. Do you know how rare that is? When they switched over, they deliberately destroyed all they could! An archivist hid this away for a hundred years in order to get it safely off the planet. It kept getting passed down the family line until one of them got passage on a ship.”

Greez crosses one set of arms, his free hands on his hips. He watches Cal fondly as the young Jedi’s excitement grows with every page flip. “You know, I would’ve never pegged you as such a gigantic nerd.”

“Jedi were scholars and peacekeepers before they were soldiers,” Cere says quietly. A hush falls on the group. Cal ducks down, shoulders hunching, eyes kept resolutely on the page though it’s obvious he’s not reading a single word. She smiles and adds lightly, “We’re all nerds.”

Cal laughs first, tinged with grief and legitimate delight. He tucks the book Greez brought under the one Merrin showed him, which makes Merrin throw Greez a smirk and for the latero to throw his crossed arms up in the air in a huff. Cere rolls her eyes fondly and catches Cal’s gaze. He grins, unrepentant, enjoying whatever contest is going on between their friends. It gets Cal more books without him getting up, so he’s not going to stop them.

Greez’s frustration is amusing to watch, especially when he snatches BD from scanning the book Cal has open so he can co-opt the droid’s database to help find a language Cal doesn’t know. It’s not helping. BD-1’s database might be filled with years and years of history and culture but knowing the intimate details of a language instead of just a simple dictionary is completely different.

Merrin listens to Cal read out loud for a few minutes, humming at all the right moments, but obviously thinking hard about something. Cere gives up on reading her book and focuses on the two of them, curious as to what’s going to happen next.

“How many languages do you know?”

Cal’s teeth click he stops talking so fast. “I don’t know,” he admits with a shrug. “Sometimes I don’t even realize I know a language until I see or hear it again. Sometimes not even then! It doesn’t always register it as a different language. It’s just…words I understand.”

She tilts her head, expression intense. “Could you learn Dathomiri?”

He grins and quips something in the smokey, gritty sounding language of Dathomir. Merrin’s eyes widen, and then, suddenly, they glimmer with a wetness both Cere and Cal pretend they don’t see.

Knuckles pressed to her lips, she breathes a very quiet, “oh,” before clearing her throat and adding roughly, “Your accent is terrible.”

“Is it though?” Cal asks smugly.

Merrin scowls. “I will teach you more…if you want to learn.”

Cal’s expression softens. “I would love to. Thank you for sharing it with me.” He adds something in Dathomiri at the end that has Merrin abruptly turning back to their shared book, expression pained and grieving.

Cere nudges the Nightsister with a tendril of the Force and gets a small smile in response. They don’t share the same bond as Jedi do, but theirs is enough for Cere to believe her. She settles back in her chair, musing on what her life has become, sharing a bond with a Nightsister, before she shrugs it off and fully intends on finally going back to her reading with Merrin and Cal’s back-and-forth as a background noise.

Except Greez comes back again, the book he carries is much thinner than any of the ones stacked around Cal like a barrier. BD-1 clicks excitedly and Greez is grinning smugly as he waves the book in the air.

“Did you know this place has an unknown language section? Guess who found it!” he all but brags. Merrin frowns, nose wrinkling while Cal laughs brightly and holds out a hand for the book.

Greez slaps it in his hand, earning a scandalized look from one of the librarians. Merrin and Cere laugh as he hunches down with quick apologies. Cal inspects the book carefully. If there are any echoes, they’re soft and quick. He grins.

“Congratulations, Greez, I don’t know this one.”

The latero cheers silently, all four arms thrown up in victory.

Merrin rolls her eyes. “You still lost. I found one first.”

Cal hums. “Best two out of three? This place is open for another five hours.”

The two of them exchange looks for a full second before Merrin jumps out of her chair and rushes into the depths of the library. Greez yelps and follows her as fast as he can without running. Cere hides her face, as though that will keep people from realizing they’re with her. Cal laughs, covering his mouth with his book. His eyes peek over, glittering in mirth. He pulls the book away, and holds it to his cheek, leaning in like he has a secret. Cere can’t help but lean in to hear it.

“I already know the language,” he admits.

Cere blinks at him then laughs loudly – nearly getting them kicked out of the library.

[sunboki]

when with you — h. jisung

Han Jisung x gn! reader

◌ word count — 0.65k

◌ genre — angst, exes to lovers..?

If we tried things again would it be the same? Is what Han typed into his phone.

A short break in the mixture of emotion panning every surface of him, of the man who wished he could run right back to you. This note was one of the many, a recollection of how you made him feel even after he shouldn’t feel.

Like one day he’d stand at your doorstep and confess to everything he’d written, no, typed in his phone.

As if.

Instead, Han Jisung sat curled up in bed, drinking in the rumble of Incheon’s daily radio station with music that repeated on loop. He didn’t mind, it’s not like he listened anyway.

Except at the end of all pretty things, it was you standing at your exes doorstep for a reason he was certain he’d never know or one he didn’t want to know.

A series of soft knocks echoed around the empty apartment and through mumbled insults he began storing up, the boy eventually clambered to the doorway.

“Changbin I can’t go to the gym with you I already told you- Oh.”

You’re crying. That’s what he noticed first. The red patches burning beneath your eyes, the sniffing, teardrops lingering around your waterline. Instinctively he shuffled to the side, a silent beckon to come inside.

To say it was difficult walking into the apartment didn’t quite sum up the feeling. That familiar smell, the furniture still right where it had always been. Walking into your exes apartment felt like a return to what used to be. Then again, the fleeting wonder of what it would be like to return to your relationship briefly piqued your mind regardless.

Your legs are pulled up to your chest, resorting to taking a seat on the far corner of the couch. It’s nice this way with the nostalgic concept of being at home. Whether home be Jisung or his apartment you didn’t know.

Han’s quiet as he shuffles around the kitchen, apparently deciding not to bother with questioning your appearance here. You’re grateful.

He hands you a mug of tea, shaky breath escaping his hoodie clad form you choose not to acknowledge when he takes a seat beside you, scared of disrupting this comfortable environment. You sneak a glance, pretending to pay attention to the show playing on the tv.

It’s hard. Being with Jisung is hard after your history. Whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean.

In this moment though, despite the anguish and obvious hurt sitting between you two, you don’t want to leave. Perhaps it’s toxic, but leaving him for a second time would crack you in half.

A whisper when you spoke,

“Can I stay the night?”

“..You know that’s dangerous.”

He doesn’t look at you upon replying, like he’s scared. You know him. You’ve known him, except tonight’s visit introduces you to him again.

“I do.”

Your smile is sheepish and he can sense his composure wilting without having to see your face. The brunette sighs, gesturing hurriedly towards your form while running a hand through tousled locks.

You’re already reaching to the hallway’s closet in search of pillows and blankets, something that really shouldn’t be diminishing your ex to tears but it does. Familiar. Everything is still so familiar like you never left in the first place.

“Goodnight Jisung.”

Unfamiliar. His first sign of this newness. Jisung. Not “Ji” or “Sungie”, but Jisung.

Tonight, he meets you again too.

“Goodnight Yn.”

The lights overheard flicker off, and you dream of the prospect of waking up beside him. Abandoning this reality to melt into the fond old memories. Wishing he wasn’t an old memory. You’ll stir awake and he’ll say good morning and kiss you with treasured sweetness and things will be normal.

With Jisung as your home, perhaps you can sleep peacefully even if you wake up alone. Even if it’s just for the night.

all rights reserved by @sunboki. repost and plagiarism will not be tolerated.

[thebluestbluewords]

Spike Time! Because I got inspired by this post:

“Question for you, Auradon boy,” Mal demands, thumping her bag down on the lunch table with more aggression than she should probably show at school. “I need info and none of my usual losers are available to get it for me.” 

Doug looks up from his book slowly than is strictly necessary, in Mal’s opinion. It’s not like she’s threatening him, she’s just pursuing an unusual avenue for information. Never mind that she doesn’t actually like Doug, because he’s the most likely source for the info she needs, and she’s going to get it out of somebody one way or another. 

Doug frowns at her. “What do you need?” 

“You’ve been to the city.” Mal says, swinging one leg over the bench so that she’s at least pretending to sit with him. They’re sharing a girlfriend, or whatever, so she can at least try and look friendly. “And you’re like, a nerd about buildings and stuff, right?” 

Doug’s frown crumples into a more puzzled look. “Sure. I wouldn’t call myself a nerd, exactly, but—“ 

“You care about the history of stuff,” Mal interrupts. “Right?” 

“Sure.” 

“So,” Mal starts, and then realizes that the hand she’s got resting on the table is shaking. She clenches it into a fist. She can’t afford to show weakness. “You know why the FUCK there’s spikes and shit all over every fucking flat surface in the city?” 

Doug blinks. “Spikes?”He echoes, sounding puzzled. “The anti-pigeon spikes are only on the top of buildings. They’re a tool the city planners use to keep the streets clean. If the birds can’t land, they can’t leave, ah—droppings. Everywhere.” 

“Bird shit.” Mal repeats, flatly. 

“Yes.” 

“The spikes are for bird shit.” 

Doug squints at her. “Yes,” he says slowly. “They’re designed to keep away birds and other pests. That’s what the city planning guides say.” 

Great. Perfect. 

“And there’s no other reason they might put spikes at ground level,” Mal says, just to be sure that she’s not the one going insane here. “Like, on every flat surface you could possibly want to sit on.” 

Doug shakes his head. “I haven’t actually been to Auradon city since I was a kid. If there's spikes around on ground level, I don't know why they're there." 

Ugh. Typical Auradon kid. They can list off every fact known to man about kingdoms hundreds of miles away, but when you need a tiny piece of information about your own backyard, they come up blank. "But you can look it up, right?" Mal pushes. "In one of your books, or something."

Doug lifts a shoulder. "I guess. Why?" 

Mal grits her teeth. She's been independent since she was old enough to hold a knife. It's galling to need help from any Auradon brat, much less the one that she's lost half of Evie's time to. She's been the one protecting her crew for years, and it's best if she won't let outsiders know the specifics. Injuries are safest when they're secret, when nobody can tell that you're nursing a weak spot-- 

When you know the lay of the land and can keep it hidden until you're healed. When your puncture wounds aren't infected and oozing gods-know-what all over your clothes. When you have the barrer, thrice-cursed thing that it is, keeping you alive even when your body wants to die. 

"We might've-- gotten hurt." Mal admits. "On the spikes. I need to know why they're there, so I can heal the puncture wound and then melt them down to a pulp." 

"Metal turns into smelt," Doug says, and then looks almost horrified with himself. "Not a pulp. Not that it matters. Is Evie hiding a puncture wound?" 

Ah. This is why Evie likes him. 

"No." Mal snaps. 

"Then--?" 

"I have other friends." 

"You don't." Doug points out, eyes big and wide and fully earnest. "And if it's not Evie, then it's one of the other Isle kids. I haven't seen you bleeding on anything lately, not that you'd show me if you were, and--" 

"It's Jay. Happy?" 

"No. Evie hates when people get blood on her clothes." 

"She's not--" Mal sighs. This sort of questioning is exactly why she doesn't trust Auradon kids. With anything. They'll just talk about things, and not get anything useful done. "She doesn't care about the blood right now. I need you to tell me why the spikes are there. Can you handle that?" 

Doug drops his chin into something almost like a determined expression. Mal's more used to seeing the look on the faces of little kids when they're challenging each other to jump off of something that'll definitely break their legs, but that's unmistakably what it is. "Yes. But I want to know why you're asking." 

"I told you already. I'm going to melt them down. It's stupid to put spikes all over the place where perfectly normal people want to be. We can't be the only ones who want to run around the fucking city without pointless spikes getting in the way." 

"You're from the Isle," Doug points out. "I thought you guys were all about pointless spikes." 

"For ourselves, not for the ground. It's stupid to keep them around wherever for no reason." 

"I'll look it up," Doug promises. "Can I report back tonight, or are you flying into the city to melt them before dinner?" 

Mal's face twitches without her consent. Funny. He's funny. "I can wait until after dinner. But come by Evie's room after then. You can report back once we've eaten." 

"Got it. Can I ask one more question?" 

Mal forces a frown. She's got a reputation to uphold. "I suppose." 

"Why are you asking me, and not Lonnie or Ben? You're friends with them, aren't you?" 

Ugh. The real answer is that Lonnie's off campus, and Ben's too busy to worry with a little thing like oozing puncture wounds from spikes in the city that they weren't supposed to be visiting, but Doug's not going to stop if she tells him that. 

"I'm friends with you," Mal lies instead. "Friends ask each other stuff. Normal questions." 

"Like why there's spikes on the ground." 

"Yeah." 

"Lonnie's not here, is she." 

Stupid perceptive boys. 

"She's off campus for a ROAR tournament," Mal admits. "Evie's not mad about the blood because we had to rope her in so she could forge a nurse's note excusing Jay from the tournament for a minor, normal shoulder injury. We need help, and we need in from you, because you're the next in like of people who don't hate us. Are you going to help or not?" 

"Oh, I'm going to help." Doug pushes his glasses up his nose in a way that Mal can only describe as ominous. "But you might not like whatever I find, and you can't rip my head off about it when I tell you what I've found." 

Mal lets her eyes flash green. "Deal," she says, and sticks out a hand. "Fairy's honor."