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theferrarieffect · 2 days

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snickerdoodles, chapter 3: drifting apart, keeping in touch, a bar near-miss and a senior year surprise (4.9k words)

previous chapter here!

warnings: a bit more angst followed by fluff, the slowest burn (sorry)

chapter 3: let them eat macarons (or cake)

The cookies sit heavy in your bag, straps digging into your shoulder, while the foam of the orange headphones that have been on your head for more than an hour now squeeze your temples uncomfortably. But you don’t notice either of those things, because your eyes are glued to the monitors showing everyone’s track position, and your heart hammers in your chest not unlike the way it does when the anesthetist announces there’s five minutes to go before rewarming.

Oscar tries to negotiate Lewis in Turn 15, but even you can see that Hamilton pulls a dirty defensive move, squeezing Oscar dangerously close to the wall. The radio beeps.

“Man, Hamilton is trying to kill someone today.”

A chill runs down your spine. When you streamed the races from the comfort of your own couch, you hadn’t realized, really, exactly how fast these drivers go. But watching and hearing them take sharp corners at the speeds you take your car on the motorway when you’re hurrying to the hospital…Oscar’s right. He could kill someone. Literally.

There’s no way you could work for motorsport, at least not in a capacity where you have to come to all the races. But then, you feel a crazy compulsion to come, as if you need to be there, need to make sure nothing bad happens to him.

Lewis attempts to chase Lando down, but Lando, daring and hot-headed, doesn’t budge, and you cheer internally for the papaya team. Look at yourself. Already biased, already fangirling.

“Okay, Oscar,” Tom says into the radio. “You are within DRS, you can push, last lap.”

Your nails dig crescents into your palms.

Oscar edges the car near Lewis, tries to take the inside line…

…and Lewis swings wide, retaining his lead. Oscar crosses the line not half a second behind, P4.

You sigh with relief as he slows on his way into the pit lane.

“Okay, good job Oscar, P4, P4,” Tom tells him.

“Fuck,” Oscar’s voice crackles through the radio. “I’m sorry guys. Fuck.” True to Oscar form, even in rage, he sounds downright placid.

“No worries, Oscar, it was a tight race. Good drive. Lando P2.”

A heavy sigh. “Well, congrats to Lando at least. Good for the team.”

When Oscar extricates himself from the car and walks over into the paddock, you’re waiting for him. He pulls off his helmet, then the balaclava underneath. His brown waves point in every direction, matted with sweat, but his frown melts as soon as he sees you.

“I’m gross—” he warns, but you’ve already pulled him into a tight hug.

“Congrats,” you whisper into the rough fabric of his suit.

“This wasn’t the race I wanted you to see,” Oscar says, dully.

You pull away, but move your hands from his back, holding him by his biceps. “It was the one I got to see. You’re incredible. It’s like you become a different person out there, you know that? You’re just so…in your element.”

Oscar chuckles. “Too bad the second the suit comes off, I’m the dorky bloke who likes cookies way too much.”

“Funny you should mention,” you say, reaching into your bag, producing the snickerdoodles you’d gotten up to bake at the crack of dawn with a flourish.

You swear Oscar’s eyes just light up, and he pulls you close to him again.

The paddock is much more relaxed after the race, more disorganized. Papaya mixes with navy which mixes with scarlet, green, pink; you shake many hands attached to many people you’ll never remember, all the while searching for Oscar, even though you know he’s probably tied up with press. Luckily, Logan makes a beeline for you and herds you around, introducing you to more of the guys on the grid.

“Oscar’s being held hostage by Sky Sports,” he says with a grimace.

You grin. “I figured.”

Charles, equally as beautiful as his teammate—does Ferrari hire drivers or models?—presents you with a tiny, squirming golden puppy. “His name is Leo,” he beams, waving a diminutive paw. “Say hi, Leo.”

You nearly melt, stroking Leo’s head gently with two fingers, which is about the most you’re willing to do with a creature that miniscule.

“Ay, cabrón,” Carlos practically shoves Charles out of the way. “That dog is just his excuse to flirt.”

Logan rolls his eyes, stunningly reminiscent of Oscar.

Fortunately, only the Ferrari boys seem hungry for your attention. Pierre actually apologizes for Charles’ antics—”he ees so desperate”—oblivious to Yuki yanking one of his shoelaces and bounding away. Fernando fulfills your plea to witness one of his famous celebratory dances as Checo and Max roar with laughter. And you’re pleased to be able to tesitfy that Danny Ric’s smile is as blinding as they say it is.

“How’s trauma service treating you?” Logan asks conversationally as you walk back towards the McLaren motorhome.

You shrug. “It’s alright—” Huh. “Wait, how do you know I’m in surgery?”

Logan reddens, as if he’s accidentally revealed classified information. “Ah—well, I mean, Oscar talks about you a lot.”

Talks about you so much that Logan knows what department you’re currently rotating through?

As if he read your mind, Logan straightens up, clears his throat. “Suppose you weren’t aware.”

“Aware of what?”

“Of how…invested Oscar is. In your life. In you.”

Your heart begins to pound. “I mean, we’re good friends.”

Logan raises his eyebrows. “Nothing more?”

You shake your head, lips pursed.

He looks thoughtful. “What?” you demand.

“Well…nothing.” He notices your suspicious frown. “Okay, well, the way he talks about you, you’d think the guy’s a little nuts about you. Like, he’s not exactly the most chatty dude on the grid, but I swear if someone mentions a TV show, it’s suddenly your favorite show. And we’ve all learned not to ever bring up anything medical, or else we’re about to hear a whole ass lecture on how cool you are, how you’re a real doctor. And don’t even get me started on cookies, or cakes, or come to think of it, baking in general…”

You don’t know whether to laugh, or cry, or crawl into a cave and never come out. But now it’s Logan’s turn to appraise you shrewdly. “So…are you interested in him?”

Well, the cave option sounds pretty good now.

“No! I mean—I don’t—we’re just not like that,” you stumble clumsily. Is Logan Sargeant really interrogating you about your love life right now? “We’re friends. We’ve known each other for ages—”

Before you can continue to dig yourself an even deeper grave, Oscar mercifully emerges from the motorhome’s front doors. “Hey.” He nods at Logan. “Thanks for babysitting her.”

“Hey, I didn’t need babysitting—” you say, and then see the faintest whisper of a smirk on his face. You give him a playful jab in the side with your elbow.

“I don’t know,” Logan says innocently, “by the way you were wandering around, looking like a lost sheep…”

Oscar laughs, really laughs, and then you know Logan’s actually his friend, even off the track. That laugh is sunshine. That laugh is the crest of a wave on the Australian beach.

“Let me guess,” Logan says. “Lando’s already drunk.”

“He’s halfway to the bars in London,” Oscar chuckles.

“When are you heading to?”

Oscar glances at you, then back at Logan. “Actually, I was thinking of sitting this one out?”

“What?” you say. “Why? You should go celebrate. It’s an off week next week too.”

“You on nights this week?” Oscar turns to face you.

“Yeah, although I don’t see how that’s relevant,” you retort.

Oscar hums. “Welllllll…hypothetically, it’d be good for you to be staying up late, right? To prepare.”

You have to laugh at that. “Are you saying you want me to go to your team’s afterparty?”

Logan says nothing, eyes flickering back and forth between the two of you, an infuriatingly knowing smile plastered on his face.

You imagine taking a few tequila shots—something you haven’t done since uni, really—and jumping up and down on the dance floor with a bunch of strangers. Logan’s eyes search your face imploringly.

“I guess I could go,” you say hesitantly. Oscar brightens. “But I’m not staying late, or going crazy. That’s all on you.”

“Deal,” Oscar says.

“Deal,” Logan smirks.

You’re not sure what you’ve just signed up for.

“Sweetie,” your mom says one day, “the almond flour’s about to go bad. Weren’t you going to make macarons?”

Yeah, with him, you think bitterly. “I guess so. Haven’t been baking much recently.”

“Not as fun without Oscar, huh?” your mom’s voice softens. You try hard to fight back tears, even though it’s been nearly a year since he packed his bags and left for London. You shake your head.

“Well…Nicole was asking about you. I think she misses seeing you too, honestly.”

Nicole? Oh. Mrs. Piastri—Oscar’s mom. You sigh, remembering all the times you’d walked over to his house together, balancing plates wrapped loosely in clingfilm, Tupperwares full of baked goods. Oscar’s little sisters crowding around you while you watched TV on the couch, begging you to let them braid your long, thick hair, which had reached nearly to your waist. You tug on the newly short, barely-skimming-the-collarbone ends now—another thing, you think, Oscar wouldn’t recognize.

“S’pose I could bring her some macarons,” you mumble, and your mom smiles.

It’s not as fun without Oscar, of course, but you get the job done, and forego the drive in favor of a walk. A perfect March day in Melbourne—crisp, cool, and dripping in autumn foliage. London must be cold and rainy. It certainly is today; you check the weather there before here every morning without fail.

Oscar’s mom answers the door almost right away—your mom must have given her a heads-up about your impending arrival—and immediately scoops you up into a hug. “You’re all grown up!” she cries, and you feel a wave of guilt, remembering your mom telling you that she’d noticed your relative disappearance. But Mrs. Piastri waves you through the door as if no time has passed at all. A picture of Oscar, no more than ten or eleven, beaming in a tiny racing suit and perched on top of a kart, stands on the mantle. It’s been there forever. You realize why you’ve been avoiding baking, avoiding going to see Oscar’s family—because they’re just more reminders of the fact that Oscar himself isn’t here.

Mrs. Piastri gushes over the macarons, calls Oscar’s sisters down to enjoy the bounty, and your chest aches a bit at how much you’d missed this.

“What happened to your hair?” the youngest one whines. You smile apologetically, tell her you’d chopped it off for track.

Then Oscar’s mom asks about your senior year, college applications, and you swallow. Actually, you’d applied in Year 11, having frontloaded an obscene number of classes, done pretty much nothing but study and build up your résumé and get applications together. Honestly, it’d been a pretty good distraction from…well, other things.

You remember how, right at the beginning of term this year, you’d squeezed your eyes shut as you clicked the button to open your decision, read “Congratulations! University of Oxford is offering you a place for Medicine in the 2017 term”, heard your parents shout jubilantly, felt your mom’s tears on your neck as she whispered how proud she was of you.

“Actually,” you say, “I’m graduating a bit early, and writing medicine at Oxford in the fall.”

Mrs. Piastri’s mouth forms a tiny O, which quickly morphs into a beaming smile. “Oh honey, congratulations!”

“If anyone could do it, it’s you,” she continues, and you blush at the compliment. “Oscar always said you were going to be a doctor, no, the best doctor—”

You freeze at his name, and she’s definitely noticed, because then she asks if he knows. You remember how you’d immediately reached for your phone, realized the only person who you wanted to tell was currently halfway across the globe, no doubt too busy with karting and his new school and his new friends for you to be so much as a blip on his radar. You’d called a few times, texted back and forth when he’d first moved, but they’d gotten sparser and sparser, until by the end of Year 11, there were hardly any messages at all.

You shake your head apologetically. “We’ve been pretty bad at keeping in touch.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it—he hardly even calls me,” she laughs. “He misses you, though, he always makes it a point to ask about you when he does call.”

Mrs. Piastri’s probably being diplomatic, so you just nod. But when you finally stand up from the dining table to leave, she tells you in earnest, “Give him a call, will you? I think it would really, really make his day.”

At home that night, you stare at his contact photo. In it, Oscar’s wearing one of your mom’s aprons, brandishing a piping bag like it’s medieval weaponry, looking goofy as hell. Maybe he’ll think you’re weird for calling. Maybe he won’t pick up.

Here goes nothing, you think, and click on the Facetime button.

One ring, two rings, and Oscar’s face suddenly fills your laptop screen. Your hands immediately starts to tremble.

“Whoa,” he breathes.

His voice is almost unrecognizable, no longer the reedy drone of a teenager’s, and his hair, no longer so cropped, dips in a smooth wave over his forehead. You had no idea his hair was wavy.

“Hi.” Your voice cracks; you clear your throat. “Been a while.”

“You cut your hair,” Oscar observes, his eyes darting around the screen, taking you in as you did him.

“Yeah. It was getting too hot for track.”

Oscar’s eyebrows fly up. “Since when do you run track?”

You shrug. “Since Year 11, I guess.”

“You hate running,” he says softly, and you feel a pang at the fact he remembered, and another at the realization that you’d joined the team because you needed something to take up your time on your newly vacant evenings. Then, louder, “I like it. You look…older.”

“Thanks. And I don’t hate running anym—well, I’m trying to like it,” you correct yourself, and both of you chuckle awkwardly.

“So,” Oscar says abruptly, all business. You feel a little prickle snake up your arms as he crosses his. “I heard something from a little birdie.”

“Whaddya hear?”

“I just—is it true you got into Oxford? For medicine?” His voice rises about two octaves on the last word.

“I—ah, yeah,” you stammer. Clearly, Mrs. Piastri had wasted no time in exposing you.

“Oh my god,” Oscar all but shrieks. You’ve never heard him this worked up before. “Congratulations!”

“Thanks,” you say, feeling suddenly shy.

“You’re excited, right? Why don’t you sound more excited?” he demands.

You swallow. “I am. Excited.”

“And why didn’t you tell me about it? I can’t believe I had to hear it from Mum.”

“I wasn’t sure if,” you take a deep breath. “I wasn’t sure if you’d care,” you finish, lamely.

Shit, you think, as the smile fades from Oscar’s face.

“Oscar—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say you don’t care, or that you’re a bad friend—”

Oscar looks down. You see him chewing on his lower lip, and for a second you think he’s going to yell, or cry, or cuss you out.

But he just hangs his head. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

“Why are you apologizing?” you demand, horrified.

“Because…it’s true. I’ve been a shitty friend.”

“No you haven’t,” you plead. “I could’ve—should’ve—told you myself. I just assumed you were busy, and that you had better things going on—”

“Exactly.”

“What do you mean, exactly?”

“If you assumed I was busy…” Oscar says slowly, “I was the one who should’ve reached out.”

You shake your head.

“I thought you were too busy,” he blurts out suddenly. “All I do is race. But you…you have so much. Top of the class, every club under the sun…you don’t have time to sleep. How could you have time for me?”

And even though Oscar’s face is marred by the pixelation of the screen, the red that rims his eyes isn’t lost on you. Too quickly, the screen isn’t the only thing blurring your view.

“But I—” Your voice cracks; you swallow, resolute. “Oscar. I’ll always have time for you.”

You think that in another universe, one where Oscar stands a few meters and not oceans away, you’d show him how much you mean it. Pull him close and breathe him in and hang on for dear life.

Maybe Oscar hears you anyway.

He drags his forearm across his nose, tries to disguise his sniffle in a laugh. “Do you still bake?”

“Not without you…but hey, I did today,” you quickly amend, as he quirks an eyebrow.

“You should start again,” Oscar says. “I’m gonna call you next week and you can tell me what you’ve baked.”

You open your mouth to protest, then realize what he’s said, how there’s going to be a call next week, and think it’ll be the longest week of your life. Might as well bake something to pass the time.

Oscar’s drunk. You’ve had a beer together, maybe a glass of wine with a cheese board, but you’ve never seen this Oscar, his hair sweaty and matted against his forehead, cheeks flushed from dancing and yelling over the thumping bass, his eyes a little glassy. You’ve been nursing a cocktail he’d bought you for the last hour, pleasantly tipsy, taking it all in.

Logan bounds over and plants himself on the stool next to you. “Why aren’t you dancing?” he gestures exaggeratedly to the mass of bodies undulating to the music.

“I’m old,” you grin, knowing full well Logan has you beat by a few months. His eye roll tells you he’s all too aware. “And I have a real job, remember?”

“But Oscarrrrr,” Logan drawls.

Your heart does a little lurch.

“What about Oscar?” you ask carefully.

“He wants you to daaaance,” he singsongs.

No way. Boy’s making stuff up. “I was gonna leave soon, anyway.”

As if summoned, Oscar shoves his way past a small throng gathered near the bar, stumbles up to you and Logan. You stick out an arm to steady him.

“Whoa there, cowboy,” you tease. “I’ve never seen you so gone before.”

Oscar grimaces. “Not that gone.”

“Good thing you showed up, though. I was just telling Logan I’m about to head out.”

He blinks slowly, as if you’d just woken him from a nap. “You’re…leaving?”

“I’m working tomorrow,” you remind him.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Logan wink, slide out of his chair, then slink away to the mosh pit.

Oscar shakes his head, pushes his damp hair up his forehead. One strand remains stubbornly stuck above his right eyebrow. You resist the urge to brush it out of the way. “I’ll go too.”

“What?” you say, alarmed. “No. This is your party. Come on, Osc.”

“Then I’ll walk you out,” he says, and something in his voice tells you he won’t take no for an answer.

So you let him lead you out of the bar—although maybe you’re the one doing most of the leading, Oscar leaning on you, an arm wrapped around your waist. You try not to pay too much attention to the way his hand feels, gripping your side firmly.

The night air is cool, and you feel little bumps prick on your arms. You shiver involuntarily.

“Cold?” Oscar asks. Before you can respond, the arm around your waist moves up, wrapping itself around your shoulder. Another arm joins it around the other shoulder, two hands clasping together around your chest. Oscar rests his chin on your head, and you feel the heat radiating from his chest onto your back.

You giggle, a little giddy, maybe from the drink, maybe from him. “You make a great jacket. But I need my arms to call a cab, ya know.”

Oscar’s grip slackens, and you think he’s freeing you, but then he spins you around and suddenly, your face is buried in his chest. He smells like his cologne, intensified by the dampness of his shirt. “Thanks for coming.”

Your chest feels tight. “Of course,” you manage.

His eyes roam over yours, your cheeks, finally settling on your lips, and your heart hammers a painful staccato against your ribs. He slowly brings up a hand to your face, thumb lightly brushing the corner of your lips, index tilting your chin up. Your faces are mere centimeters apart.

He’s going to do it, you think.

But his shoulders sag, and his hand drops. You search his face desperately, wondering what he’s thinking, try to hide your disappointment.

“I’m drunk,” he says quietly. “And stupid. I’m sorry.”

You shake your head. Not ten seconds ago, you’d felt like you were suspended in the air, before everything came crashing back down. Now you just want to…run. “You’re not. Stupid, I mean.”

Stupid. Kissing you would be stupid of him. He is drunk; anyone could be standing in front of him right now. Maybe he wishes someone else was.

Oscar’s lips disappear in a thin line. A shiny black cab rolls up to the curb.

The last thing you see before you turn the corner is Oscar’s stricken face. You bury your face in your palms, still slick with his sweat.

“A cake?”

“It was Nate’s birthday,” you retort.

“Oh yeah, and I bet Nate was so much happier to get your girly-ass flower cake over peanut butter cookies. I know they’re his favorite.”

You can’t help but chuckle at the pride in his voice at knowing your brother’s favorite cookie. “I’ll have you know he ate three slices at dinner last night.”

Oscar’s face softens. “In all seriousness, that cake looked pretty fire.”

“Thanks,” you say, blushing a little at the validation. You had to admit you were pretty proud of the orchids you’d painstakingly piped over the bottom of the cake—no cheating with fondant in your kitchen.

“How’s formal stuff? I saw some schools already had theirs. You’re going, right?”

“Nah,” you say, “it just wouldn’t be the same without—” You catch yourself just in time.

“Sorry, I think you cut out,” Oscar says. “It wouldn’t be the same what?”

“Nothing,” you reply hastily. “I just don’t really feel like going.” You picture him frowning on the other end of the line. “Do you have a formal at your school?” you attempt to change the subject.

He’s quiet for a second. “Yeah,” he says. “Same weekend as yours.”

Somehow, an image of him dancing with a pretty British girl materializes in your mind, and it prickles at your chest. Oscar would have no trouble getting a date to his formal—you remember the picture he sent you of him on holiday, tall, tanned, broad-shouldered, with the same grin that had so endeared you years ago.

Rustling on the other end. “Hey. Still there?”

You force yourself to snap out of it. “Yeah, sorry, got distracted.” Then, in as casual of a voice as you can muster, “Are you taking a date?”

“I dunno,” Oscar replies, his tone blasé. “Some of my mates are. I haven’t really thought about it.”

There it is again, Oscar asking the imaginary girl to be his date, her blushing and nodding yes.

“You should,” you say despite yourself. “Anyone would say yes to you.”

Your mom’s voice faintly echoes up the stairs, calling you down for dinner.

“Gotta go, Osc.”

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll talk to you later.”

You tap the button to end the call, feeling a little like you’d just made a terrible mistake.

You tie the satin laces of your dress together behind your back in what you hope is a proper bow, fasten the straps of your heels around your ankles, and slick on a layer of lip gloss before inspecting yourself in the mirror. Not too shabby for someone who would rather be doing pretty much anything else than going to Year 12 formal with some strange boy and friends who are a lot more excited about it than you.

In the end, it was Jessica who had relentlessly begged and wheedled you to come, and you’d acquiesced, mostly to stop her from yapping your ear off.

But two days before formal, she told you at lunch that she’d found you a date.

“What?” you’d snapped. “Jess, I don’t want a date.”

“Please?” Jess widened her eyes. “I just think it’d be so much better for pictures, you know, if we all had a partner.”

You shook your head in exasperation. It wasn’t like you could do anything to change her mind. “Well?” you said, irritated. “Who is it, then?”

Jess smiled, a tad apologetically, mostly not. “I can’t tell you.”

“Jess! I swear to God—”

“Sorry, sorry,” she waved your words away. “I promise he’s not ugly and I promise you won’t hate him...you’ll just have to wait and see.”

You aim your phone at your mirror, and snap a selfie for Oscar, just like he’d asked. He was probably just waking up now...if he was actually awake. It was a Saturday, after all. And Oscar Piastri was not one to ever wake up earlier than 10am by his own will.

But this time, your phone pings right away.

Oscar You look great!! :)

And that’s all you need to feel a little better about this entire formal situation.

You descend the stairs cautiously. You can already hear your friends chattering downstairs with each other, interspersed with a few unfamiliar voices you assume are some of their dates and all of your parents. One of them sounds vaguely like Oscar, and you wrench your thoughts away from him. Nope. Not tonight. You know you’re just going to be miserable if you keep thinking about him like that.

Jess notices you first, and squeals. “You look so good!”

The other girls crowd around you, complimenting your hair, your makeup, your dress. You think to yourself that it’s fun to dress up every once in a while. Be something other than your everyday self, forget about physics finals and the looming threat of college and boys who are going to other formals a thousand kilometers away.

“Jess is right,” a voice says behind you.

You whirl around.

Oscar is standing there, dressed in a black suit, the blush pink of his tie matching your dress, grinning from ear to ear. He’s holding a little box with a corsage inside of it.

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

So you just launch yourself at him instead.

Oscar drops the box, picks you up by the waist as easily as if he was picking up his backpack, and spins around once, twice. Some of the guys whoop, and you can’t help but giggle, even though you feel tears on your face.

“What can I say?” he says, gently putting you back down. “Someone told me I should go...and that anyone would say yes to me.”

You press the heels of your hands into your eyes, knowing your mascara is probably ruined for good.

“So,” Oscar continues softly. He bends down, picks up the corsage. “Does that apply to you too?”

Your heart feels like it’s about to burst. “Yes, Oscar,” you laugh, “yes it does.”

Oscar beams, takes your hand, sliding a little bouquet of creamy orchids up your wrist. Jess takes picture after picture of the two of you.

The smile doesn’t leave his face for the rest of the night, not as you cram into the backseat of one of your friends’ minivans, not as you jump up and down to the music at formal, not even as he passes out from the travel-induced exhaustion on the ride back.

You’re pretty sure it doesn’t leave yours, either.

taglist: @sideboobrry11 @helloooobroo @fangirl125reader

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spaceorphan18 · 3 days

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Romy Fic: Intrusive Thoughts

Rating: T for suggestiveness and one bare ass ;)

Summary: Taking place during XM #4 post-Basketball game. How exactly does Remy get Rogue to agree to go on a date?

Notes: Next piece in my canon series. Wanted to write about how we got from the charged (literally and figuratively) basketball game to Rogue agreeing to actually go out with him. Thus this scene was born. Also, it was an excuse to write Remy in the shower. ;) Thanks @ludi-ling for the beta!

I decided I'm adding a panel to go along with each entry...

****

Intrusive Thoughts

Remy LeBeau is in the shower, deep in thought. It had been a hot day but that hadn’t stopped them from playing a good game. It had almost felt like being among friends instead of teammates. Who would have guessed Jubilee would be good for his ego? And showing up the Wolverine is always a plus. The physicality had felt good, so much more satisfying than the drills in the Danger Room the professor made them run. Even as the game intensified, it had all been in playful fun. They had been accepting of him more than he realized.

Unintentionally, his mind starts to drift. Starts to dig around in the dark parts that he prefers to keep hidden. They tolerate him now, but if they knew…? There are so many factors that may come into play, so many that may blow over his carefully stacked house of cards. The Thieves’ Guild, would they take him back? (It’s been long enough - surely they would welcome him home?) Sinister might want another favor. (The screams of those poor mutants still keep him up at night). Belladonna… (He doesn’t want to think of Belladonna… How long has it been since they’ve spoken? How long has it been since they’ve touched…).

He closes his eyes, trying to reach out onto something that isn’t connected to his past. She is the first thing that enters his mind. Rogue. She has been on his mind constantly since he had arrived at the mansion. A welcome distraction to the darkening intrusive thoughts that have been haunting him lately.

Stormy had brought him to the X-Men, misguided faith that she had in him. And it’s been nice, for a while, pretending to be the hero. Pretending that there is some actual good in the world he could do. Pretending that this might be a family worth keeping. He knows his track record though, and if he was to be smart about it, he’d take off and not look back. It’d be better for them in the long run. Maybe better for him, too.

For as much as he feels the need to go, he doesn’t. Because she’s there. A beacon of light enticing him. A smirk climbs on his lips as he thinks back to the court, about holding her in his arms, about what it would be like if she were really under him. Or above him. Or anywhere close to him would do. The beautiful apple of Eden; forbidden to touch despite knowing how sinfully delicious the taste would be. He knows better, he does. But she’s not just another pretty girl. There’s something more going on with this one. He just doesn’t know what it is yet.

…Or maybe he does just have a death wish.

He turns the shower to cold, needing to cool off. They are, after all, community showers.

The sound of a muffled jazz song floats through the air. Intrigued, he finishes his shower. He then grabs a towel off the rack, giving himself a quick dry down, before wrapping it loosely on his hips. If he’s hearing it right, the music is coming from the room next door. And he knows whose that is. He steals a quick look in the mirror, grinning at his own form, wondering how she will react when she sees him.

Just his luck, Rogue’s bedroom door is wide open and welcoming. The stereo on her dresser is playing a slow, soulful tune as she sits curled up on her armchair, reading a book. She’s changed out of her uniform, and looking relaxed in a pair of sweats and an oversized t-shirt that hangs off one shoulder. God have mercy on his soul. She doesn’t have to do a thing to be breathtaking. Wanting her is a constant state he doesn’t mind having to contend with.

She’s so buried in her book that she doesn’t notice him standing there, casually leaning up against the doorframe. He takes a moment, just to watch her, just to enjoy the wonderful creature that she is before he lets himself be known.

“That a good book, chere?” he asks.

Startled, she looks up, finally noticing he’s there. Her eyes bulge when she sees him, in shock but not with disinterest. It’s enough to make him grin wider.

“Gambit,” she says. There’s a blush on her cheeks as she turns her head away. “You have no clothes on.”

“I was just walking by from my shower,” he says, ignoring her observation. “And heard Glen Miller on the radio. Beautiful sounds that old boy makes, I just had to stop and listen.” He takes a step into the bedroom. Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t stop him. “Surprises me, though. Figured you’d be the type who’d like something a little more…country.”

She rolls her eyes at him, but smiles. “I’m allowed to like more than one thing, you know.”

“So, country isn’t off the table?”

She bites her lip, looking towards the ceiling as he walks in a little further. “What do you actually want, Gambit?”

He comes in close and leans over, nearly whispering in her ear. “You already know what I want,” he says. Her entire body tenses as he lingers over her. He makes her nervous. He enjoys that he makes her nervous. He knows when to push and he knows when to stop. The fact that she hasn’t kicked him outright from her bedroom is a score for the day. With Rogue, it’s the long game he’s playing. “What’s this book that has you so engrossed?”

“Oh,” she finally faces him, surprised. “It’s nothing.”

“A Duchess in Need,” he says, intrigued by the title. “A romance book?”

“I doubt you have any real interest in my book.”

“Nothing wrong with a good romance book.” he licks his lips. “I find them inspiring.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“So, you wouldn’t mind me having a look?” He makes a grab for the book. She tears it away, just out of reach. He goes for it again, this time using both hands. The lunge forward causes the towel drop.

“Gambit!” she cries, dropping the book in order to cover her eyes. She’s scandalized but he doesn’t much care as he scoops down to pick up the towel and grab the book. He loosely holds the towel up to cover himself as he flips open the book. He knows his ass is hanging bare. He knows, as she peeks through her fingers, that she can see it in the reflection of the vanity mirror. He wants her to.

“Oh, this be a dirty book,” he says, very amused as he starts reading. “Her lips tremble and quiver with desire…”

“Gambit, give it back.” She jumps out of her seat, attempting to get the book out of his hands.

“His manhood throbs in her hand...”

“Gambit, I swear, I’ll…”

“She finally submits to her lust.”

“Gimme that.” She finally tears it from his hands, pulling it close to her chest. “I get that this may seem silly to you, but I’m allowed to enjoy my books.”

He may have pushed a little too far this time. She is more closed off than ever, holding herself tightly, her eyes once again looking off in the distance. Only this time there is anger. “Chere, this book - it’s no good for you.”

“Why? Because they should only be reserved for perverts like you?” Her voice is sharp. Cutting.

“Because it isn’t real romance,” he says. It’s the seriousness in his voice that gets her to pay attention. Up until now it’s been all flirty games and teasing words. Most women he’s encountered, that’s all they need. Not Rogue. She’s going to need more. How far is he willing to go? He isn’t sure. But he knows there’s something stirring in his heart. Something he can’t quite figure out.

He wants her. He’s known that much since the day he met her. But he’s learning he may want all of her. And that’s a much more dangerous game to play.

“Like you know what real romance is,” she spits out.

“I do.” He takes a moment to pull the towel fully around his hips, securing it tightly. The gesture is not lost on her. “We get dressed up nice. I take you to a nice dinner. We can find some live jazz and dance in the moonlight. We can talk…”

“And then?”

He gives her a suggestive glance. “And then I take you home like a proper gentleman.”

She scoffs at him. “I doubt that.”

“Your call, chere.” He plays it nonchalant, but his chips are all in.

A long moment passes. Her eyes flicker as the wheels turn in her mind. It’s like he can see them. Whatever she’s thinking…

“Okay,” she says carefully.

“Okay?” He almost can’t believe it.

“But if you try anything, I’ll break you in two.”

“I would expect nothing less.”

He turns to leave, knowing that her eyes are lingering on him, and smiles.

#xmen #x men #rogue #gambit #anna marie lebeau #remy lebeau #romy #rogue and gambit #roguegambit #s.o. writes things #i need to come up with a name for this particular series

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ecoamerica · 2 months

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youtube

Watch the American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 now: https://youtu.be/bWiW4Rp8vF0?feature=shared

The American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 broadcast recording is now available on ecoAmerica's YouTube channel for viewers to be inspired by active climate leaders. Watch to find out which finalist received the $50,000 grand prize! Hosted by Vanessa Hauc and featuring Bill McKibben and Katharine Hayhoe!

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cryscendo · 2 days

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klaine and a risky kiss between forbidden lovers…..perhapssssss…perchance……

so you said “forbidden lovers” and i heard “angel and demon au” naturally. so that’s what this is i hope you enjoy <3

Pairing: Kurt Hummel/Blaine Anderson

Word Count: 1596

Rating: M (for minor sexual themes)

if you’d like to request a fic, check out the prompt list here!

fic can be read under the cut <3

Kurt is the worst, Blaine has decided. He’s arrogant and entitled and absolutely goes against everything that Blaine stands for.

And he’s also a literal demon from Hell. That feels important to mention.

Things have settled between Heaven and Hell in the recent decades. Which, by all accounts, is a good thing. However, that is not to say that there isn’t an undercurrent of something sinister brewing, quite literally, just beneath the surface. Hell has been a bit too quiet and that is setting off some serious red flags to the angels upstairs. So for that, many angels, Blaine himself included, have been sent down to Earth for reconnaissance purposes.

Kurt should not be here.

And not because demons shouldn’t be on Earth. That goes without saying, but they traipse the human-land all the time anyway so it’s not really worth discussing. They’re going to do whatever the hell they want.

No, Kurt shouldn’t be here. Around a collection of other angels that most definitely are not going to be too fond of seeing him. See, Kurt wasn’t always a demon. But as it would turn out, falling from grace can have some very complicated side effects.

Blaine could sense him immediately. How could he not? Kurt managed to be all around him at all times. It was as frustrating as it was intoxicating. Blaine allots himself so little decadence in his life that when Kurt enters his psyche, it becomes a bit overwhelming.

An angel’s job is to serve — to be subservient. Which is probably why Kurt never fit the mold.

But Blaine could practically taste him now. Granted, he’s had practice.

Blaine did his best to slink away from the other angels that congregated in this little run down dive bar. Hiding in plain sight; that was always the methodology. To an innocent, naïve onlooker, Blaine and his fellow men were just a bunch of guys getting drinks together. That was all just a very well-placed façade however. Blaine was working, for lack of a better term. Or rather trying to work, if it weren’t for the incessant presence nearby.

He should ignore it. He shouldn’t entertain Kurt in this way.

He found him. Kurt was tucked away in a corner at the bar, just out of sight of the tables of angels. Any of them would be able to sense Kurt if they were searching for him. He was playing a dangerous game, but Blaine suspected that Kurt already knew that.

“What are you doing here?” Blaine questioned, not interested in playing any games.

Kurt, however, didn’t seem to have the same sentiment. He merely sipped his drink casually before turning towards Blaine, haunting silvery-blue eyes meeting his own. “What, can’t a guy get a drink every now and again?”

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Blaine stated, giving off an air of no-nonsense.

Kurt sighs in exasperation, rolling his eyes. “Is it such an ordeal that I should want to come see you, angel? I heard you were coming down to visit, and I just couldn’t stay away.”

“How’d you hear that?”

Kurt grinned up at him pridefully. “I happen to still have friends in high places,” he said pleasantly. “Next time you see Mercedes while you’re prancing around up there, let her know that I’d love to see her soon. It’s been far too long.” Kurt pats the open seat next to him at the bar. “Now sit. I doubt we will have long before your little friends come looking for you, and I’d really like to chat for a minute.”

Blaine considered rejecting Kurt’s offer. He most definitely didn’t need the distraction. However, after looking back at the table of angels and deducing that they had yet to notice his departure, he apprehensively sat down. Kurt looked all too excited about this.

“So I’m going to ask again, what are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same question,” Kurt countered, tipping his drink towards Blaine to further punctuate his statement. “I must say, angel, this isn’t really your scene. I picture you more in a white gown singing hymns in a cathedral while the heavens open up and cast a glimmering light right down on you. However, this…” Kurt tugged playfully at Blaine’s bowtie. “… is an adorable look on you as well.”

It was then that Blaine was finally able to properly take stock of what Kurt was wearing. Red and black always suited him, and it looked beautiful on him now. Black lace-up boots with black jeans only allowed for his crimson button up to stand out vividly. He looked every bit the demon that he was supposed to be. Alluring, feline, Blaine was painfully familiar with it.

“Working,” was all that Blaine offered in response.

Kurt scoffed. “Aren’t you always? That’s all you seem to do these days.”

“You know how the job goes,” reminded Blaine.

The sigh that Kurt released was one that indicated that he really did in fact know. “Well, that’s a damn shame. I’ve missed having you around.” Kurt set down his drink on the bar and moved his hand to slide up Blaine’s thigh. He looked incredibly relaxed like this, but Blaine could feel the tension Kurt was feeling from having so many angels that hated him in such close proximity. Kurt looked past Blaine towards the table and gave a brief moment of hesitation.

“You really shouldn’t be hanging out around here, y’know. It’s not safe. They’ll kill you if they see you.” Kurt didn’t let on how nervous he was, but he didn’t need to. When Kurt fell, he sacrificed a lot of his power in the fall. He was no match for an angel, no matter how coy he played.

Kurt gave a squeeze to Blaine’s thigh. “I don’t know how you stick around with that crowd. Are you not miserable?” It wasn’t a question that necessitated a response, so Blaine didn’t give one. “They’re all so truly obsessed with me.”

Blaine couldn’t help but grin at Kurt’s comment. “Well, I suppose that’s what happens when you end up on Heaven’s Most Wanted.”

“I’m wanted?” Kurt asked, obviously leaning into a teasing tone. “Well, I must say I’m flattered. But unfortunately for Heaven, I fear I am already spoken for.”

“That right?” Blaine questions, allowing himself to play along with Kurt’s game just this once.

“Oh sure. The guy is a real angel,” Kurt taunted, sparing another look towards the group of divinity, ensuring they weren’t catching wind of Blaine’s absence. They hadn’t yet, but they surely didn’t have long. Then, Kurt’s tone shifted into something far more serious and subtly desperate as he lowered his voice to a whisper. “Leave them and come with me.”

Blaine knew this was coming, but that didn’t make it any less unpleasant. “You know I can’t do that.”

“Why not?” Kurt interrogated, his voice hushed and grave. The hand on Blaine’s thigh slid up to cup over his clothed crotch, though Kurt made no move to squeeze as he had been before. Kurt’s actions and his words contradicted one another, furthering the reality that Kurt was a storm of contradictions. “You can’t honestly tell me you’re happy like this? Serving a being who you’ve never met and likely doesn’t give a fuck about you.”

“Well, are you any happier now than you were before the fall?” Kurt bit at his lip then, casting a glance at the table of angels and then back to Blaine. Then, Kurt finally pushed on, giving a quick squeeze of Blaine’s cock through fabric, earning a low groan past Blaine’s lips. To an outsider, they just looked like a couple that was getting a bit too handsy in public. Unfortunately, it went far deeper than that.

Kurt whispered, his lips just a few short inches away from Blaine’s. “I could be. I miss you,” he confessed. Blaine missed him too. He really, really did. He slid a hand along Kurt’s arm, feeling the tense muscles there. They didn’t really have time for this.

“You need to make yourself disappear,” Blaine lamented a bit painfully.

Kurt bristled at his words. “Fine,” he said in a clipped tone. He pressed against Blaine’s cock with his palm again with determination, earning another muffled noise from the angel. “But understand this, Blaine, you’re going to realize that Heaven isn’t all it's cracked up to be one day, and when you do, I’ll be the one that you’ll seek out for guidance. It’s always going to be me.”

Suddenly, as if they were forced together by the magnetism of heated glances and adrenaline, their lips crashed together in a forceful kiss. It was always like this, with them saying a bitter goodbye that is sealed with star-crossed affections. That certainly didn’t make it any easier no matter how many times they played this game.

But Kurt was right. It was always going to be him.

The kiss lingered for some time. The touch, which had started off as rough and primal, melted into something a bit more gentle, emotional, intimate. Blaine allowed himself to sink into the taste of Kurt on his lips. He tasted of alcohol mixed with something venomously divine.

Eventually and far too soon, Kurt moved away. They locked eyes for a moment before Kurt finally stood.

“Well, until next time, angel,” he said simply. A hand grazed gently across Blaine’s cheek as Kurt brushed by him. But when Blaine turned to watch after him, Kurt had already done what Blaine suggested, and made himself disappear.

#glee #kurt hummel #blaine anderson #klaine #my fic #klaine fic #my stuff #ask prompt #i went a bit out into left field with this one but that’s okay 🥰

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befuddledcinnamonroll · 5 hours

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Catching up on My Stand In episode 6, and I gotta say - I understand Joe.

I'm not talking about whether he's made all the right decisions or not, there's a lot to consider on all sides, but I do understand why he would take the deal with Ming.

It would be lovely to live in a world where it's possible to borrow money from friends & family without strings, but we don't. The nature of our society's relationship to money doesn't allow it.

There's a reason so many marriages fail due to money. There's a reason groups of siblings will stop talking after their parents' estates are distributed. There's a reason friends will fall out over 50 bucks, much less thousands. Money changes relationships.

Because it's never just money.

Sometimes the strings are ones of love, and guilt, and shame, worries that you are letting someone down, or holding someone back.

Look at the relationship between Joe and his new mom - absolutely one of unconditional love. And they are both utterly wracked with guilt about the financial cost the other one incurred due to their illnesses. His mom was ready to fucking die! Over money!

Taking money he doesn't feel like he's earned causes pain for Joe, because it is a huge fucking deal and he knows it. There will be strings. And it will change things.

And I know Joe is a trusting dude and only consciously thinking of not being a burden, not bringing his problem to people he wants to keep as friends, but also, subconsciously, it makes sense there would be hesitance with them.

Wut has been helpful to new Joe, yes, but when old Joe revealed he had been literally kidnapped, what was Wut's response? Sorry, can't help. He didn't even try to talk to anyone, didn't try to problem-solve, come up with a way for Joe to still work - maybe he doesn't go to sets, maybe he trains the new crop of stuntmen, maybe he learns to do something else. The point is, Wut just shrugged and said sorry. That's when old Joe decided to take the dangerous job. And sure Wut feels guilty now, and is trying to make up for it, but - but what would he do when the chips are down? What would he do if Joe struggled to pay him back? If it impacted his wife, his kid?

And sure, Sol may generally be a "good guy", but he still didn't give a shit about knocking Joe to the ground while fighting Ming. He's not entirely selfless. And what happens if he decides he likes new Joe? Wants to date him? You think Joe would feel like he could say no? Striiiiings.

Those relationships would never be the same.

But with Ming - Ming already destroyed his life. There's no guilt in taking from Ming. Joe sees it as going to work, to once again being a stand in. The strings are laid out upfront, he knows just who Ming is, and thinks he can manage it (which of course we know is not true, but he's trying to believe it!)

So yeah, I get it Joe.

#my stand in #my stand in the series

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anonymousewrites · 3 days

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Burden of Truth Pride Special 2024

Father Figure! Marc Spector x Teen! Reader

Father Figure! Steven Grant x Teen! Reader

Pride Special 2024

“So, what adventures did you get up to today?” said Steven, smiling at (Y/N).

“I found a skatepark. I met other teenagers,” said (Y/N), taking a bite of their apple.

“That’s lovely,” said Steven. “I keep telling you to try to meet new people your age, make friends. Will you see them again?”

(Y/N) tilted their head. “How would I know?”

“…Well, you make plans with friends. Or, well, you make friends first, and then you make plans,” said Steven.

“How do I do that?” asked (Y/N).

“Uh, you—”

“Don’t act like we know how to make friends,” interjected Marc from a mirror.

Steven grimaced. “Okay, maybe we don’t…Still, that doesn’t mean (Y/N) shouldn’t have friends.”

“You guys are my friends,” said (Y/N) plainly.

“I feel bad for you if we’re your only friends,” said Marc.

“I have Layla,” said (Y/N).

“She’s cool,” said Steven, brightening.

“Can you name literally anyone who wasn’t involved in illegal activities?” said Marc.

“I don’t meet people outside of illegal activities, so how would I know anyone like that?” said (Y/N), tilting their head.

“Maybe we should have insisted you go to school…” said Steven.

“I already know everything, though,” said (Y/N), blinking.

Marc sighed. This was going in circles because (Y/N) still had no idea that the way they interacted with people wasn’t what most considered “normal,” and, as a teenager, they should have friends their age who don’t nearly get themselves killed. Unfortunately, (Y/N) simply did not see things in that way and did not see social expectations as anything more than a confusing script they didn’t have.

“I’m going to send you to a karate dojo or something. Maybe that will help,” muttered Marc.

Steven chuckled. Marc was so protective but wanted (Y/N) to have a good life. They both did. “Despite all that, I’m glad you had some fun. Any plans for adventures tomorrow?”

(Y/N) pulled on their sweater sleeves, and Marc and Steven recognized the telltale sign of anxiety.

“What is it?” said Marc, instantly on edge.

It wasn’t like (Y/N) to put make stupid decisions, but they did have a bad habit of putting themself in danger in order to help others, so he didn’t want them to start doing that again if he could help it. (Y/N) was in London with them to have a normal life, free of danger. He wouldn’t let (Y/N) lose that.

“London Pride is tomorrow,” said (Y/N) quietly. “I…I wanted to go.” Still couldn’t lie.

Steven smiled. “I’ll take you. Or Marc. Whoever makes you feel more secure.”

“You would want to come?” said (Y/N), glancing at him.

“Yes,” said Steven. “Marc and I support you. Every part of you. Of course we’d want to come.”

“We don’t care about that,” said Marc. “You’re (Y/N). That’s what matters to us.”

Truth.

(Y/N) smiled slightly. They were glad they had Marc and Steven.

(Y/N) and Marc walked towards Pride. Steven and Marc had bickered over who got to front while they went to the parade, but they ended up agreeing to let Marc go with (Y/N) in case someone was rude to (Y/N) due to their identity. Marc was the right person to handle that—and he’d do it with pleasure. No one hurt (Y/N) on his watch.

(Y/N) walked hesitantly towards the parade, and Marc nudged them forward. As it went by with music playing and confetti falling through the air, Marc kept an eye on them. If this was too overwhelming a crowd, Marc would get them out.

But instead, (Y/N) began to smile. And Marc did, too. In the reflection of a window, Steven smiled as well. Marc noticed a stand beside them and stepped over. Quickly, he bought something and brought it back over to (Y/N).

They were still staring, spellbound, at the people celebrating their identity. After so long with just having a purpose as an Avatar, (Y/N) got to be themself. More accurately, they were discovering who they were. And they knew part of it wasn’t like some people. Their presentation to others didn’t fit the binary, and the way their brain worked was different, too. (Y/N) understood that.

But they could be who they were. And these were people who were proud of themselves. (Y/N) could be proud, too.

Marc returned to their side and draped a rainbow flag over their shoulders. “There you go, kid.”

(Y/N) looked at it, blinked, and held it closer around their shoulders. “Thank you.”

“No problem, kid,” said Marc, smiling.

“We’re proud of you,” said Steven, smiling in the window.

(Y/N) smiled and leaned into Marc. They were discovering who they were. And they had a good family support group with them.

Taglist:

@jaytheaceenby

@severussimp

@dmitrytherat

@slytherinroyalty16

@grippleback-galaxy

@alexpangender

@thewittyfanficreader

@aew-kun-age-regression

@oscarissac2099

@amberforest08

@kyalov

@yyourmotherr

@im-making-an-effort

@the-toskaverse

@wra-1-th

@noodleryworld

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so-long-soldier-writes · 2 days

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drabble #13 - the massage

kai parker x reader

summary: kai's sure he'll win the bet. you're positive he won't.

tags: massage, teasing, clingy!kai, minor mention of murder (bc it's kai)

word count: 835

a/n: idk why i'm in my cheesy fluff era of writing, but here's more

“Relax,” you giggle, feeling his muscles tense.

“I’m trying! It’s weird.”

“It’ll feel so much better if you stop moving around.”

“What are you even doing?”

“Trying to help you relax.”

Kai sighs, clearly unsatisfied with your answer. Nevertheless, he stops adjusting his position and takes a deep breath.

“There you go.”

He mumbles something incomprehensible, but you don’t respond. After a second, you start again. The massage tool in your hand makes a slightly squeaky sound as you run it up his back. You make circles on his shoulder blades, then inch up to his neck. He shrugs his shoulders uncomfortably.

“Kai!”

“I’m sorry!”

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No! Yes! I don’t know!”

“Pick one. Tell me to stop, and I will.”

“Don’t stop. I like it, it’s just weird.”

“I can be more gentle.” You do, but he only mumbles more.

“Now I can’t feel it at all.”

“Well then you’re going to have to sit still.”

“I just… what are you even holding?” Without much warning, he flips around to face you. The massage roller in your hand receives a weird stare that makes you laugh. “What even is that?”

“It’s a little tool that helps you relax by easing the knots in your neck and back. Now do you want me to continue, or not?”

“Where do you buy something like that?”

“Literally anywhere. Dollar Tree. Target.”

“I’ve never seen that in my life.”

“Your life has never lived in this decade, Malachai. You lived in the nineties for twenty years.”

“Rude.”

“I’m just saying! Things are different now. We have massage rollers.”

“Weird.”

“Unless you’d prefer to go to an actual massage person, but I bet you’d chicken out.”

He gives you a look. “Me? Chicken out? Do you know who you’re talking to?”

“Um, yes, actually. I’m talking to someone who would absolutely chicken out if anyone but me was touching them.”

“Bet you twenty dollars you’re wrong.”

“You don’t even have twenty dollars.”

“Yes I do.”

“From where? You-”

“Borrowed some the other day.”

“Borrowed?”

“Stole,” he corrects.

“You- Kai!”

“It’s okay! He was using it anymore!”

“Now why’s that? Is he dead?”

“...Maybe.”

“Kai, you can’t-”

“He shouldn’t have made that comment about you within my earshot. He had it coming.”

“Good lord, boy.”

“So twenty dollars I can get through this message-”

“Massage.”

“-thing you’re talking about. I win, you owe me.”

“Probably won’t happen.”

“Guess we’ll see.”

You’ll admit, Kai being anywhere without you gives you an extreme amount of anxiety. Not only because he’s a sociopathic serial killer, but also because you’re overprotective of him almost to a fault. Despite his bully-like attitude to many, he’s a child at heart. He’s gone through so much to make him the way he is, starting in early childhood, and you can’t bear for him to have anymore trauma. It’s probably toxic, thinking of him in such an endearing way, but you can’t help it. You love him.

“It’ll be one hour, okay?” The massage therapist says as she takes him back. You nod your head at her and Kai’s little wink, then she brings him to the back.

He bonded to you immediately. Maybe it was because you could see past the bad boy persona he donned on to gain respect. Maybe it was because you were the first to give him a second chance after the merge. Regardless of the reason, he learned you were a person he could trust, so he did. And even though all your friends tell you you’re brave to be friends with such a dangerous person, you’re there for him anyway. He’s pretty sure he loves you, even though he’s afraid to admit it.

You pull out your phone to pass the time with a game, but no more than ten minutes later, the therapist returns to the waiting room. She catches your attention with a cough, to which you look up questioningly.

“He’s asking for you,” she says. “I think he’s nervous.”

A little smile creeps on your face at the knowledge that you’ve won. You were right, and he was so determined he could beat you. “Okay.”

She brings you to the room where he’s lying down on the table. You can’t see his face until he pops up slightly to look at you.

“Hi.”

“Hi there.”

Neither of you bring up the bet. Boy, he does look nervous. A non-joking Kai is a worried Kai, and for a split second, you wonder just how bad of an idea this is.

“Can you just stay here?”

“Of course.”

“I’m gonna need you to relax,” the woman says, seeing the tension in his muscles before even touching him.

You take his hand in hopes to reassure him. A little squeeze elicits a deep breath, and a lot of the strain drops.

“Good. Let me know if you need anything.”

He shakes his head despite the awkward position on his stomach. “No,” he mutters, rather muffled, “just them.”

#another lil drabble while i work on requests and bigger things #this has been sitting in my head for weeks and i've just now been able to write it out #it's just cutesy clingy kai #kai parker x reader #malachai parker x reader #kai parker drabble #kai parker fluff

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ecoamerica · 2 months

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youtube

Watch the 2024 American Climate Leadership Awards for High School Students now: https://youtu.be/5C-bb9PoRLc

The recording is now available on ecoAmerica's YouTube channel for viewers to be inspired by student climate leaders! Join Aishah-Nyeta Brown & Jerome Foster II and be inspired by student climate leaders as we recognize the High School Student finalists. Watch now to find out which student received the $25,000 grand prize and top recognition!

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feroluce · 1 month

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So I'm well aware this is probably a case of "it isn't that deep" but I love looking at all the fiddly little accessories and bits and bobs of Hoyo designs and trying to justify them. Sampo's is particularly funny, because. What even is all that dkkxjdkd

His outfit has so many straps wrapped around him, like they're restraining or holding something in to keep it from bursting at the seams, and not all of them look like they're even connected to anything! But I'd like to think they are useful in certain situations, like if Sampo takes a hit out in the Fragmentum from one of the monsters.

He's hurt, his arm is bleeding, but he is ALMOST done, he just needs a couple more things to fulfill his quota to Natasha and he doesn't want to turn around and go back now. So Sampo frees a strap from his shirt, winds it around his arm above the cut, pulls it tight with his free hand and his teeth. He'll treat it properly in a minute, once he's done scavenging.

There's also the strange chains that resemble snake spines. Given how they're way longer in his splash art and the way they wind around-

I'd like to think they can extend somehow, and Sampo can use them to scale heights. Firefly clocks him as a covert fighter without even being within 20 feet of him, so it would make sense for Sampo to have ways to get around that don't involve usual/obvious methods, like stairs. Think assassin skill sets.

He's also the only one known to be able to get between the Underground and the overworld, and while he's pretty tight-lipped about his method, having some sort of device to help traverse vertical heights is probably insanely helpful there.

And the little metal ornaments across the backs of his wrists! You can see it a bit better in his reference sheet (everyone say thanks @/dragaliareferencearchive!) as opposed to his splash art-

they aren't flat, they stick up a bit off his arms. And so I wonder if Gepard has ever gone to arrest Sampo, and found that they interfere with his handcuffs haha

The ornaments don't match, the one on his right wrist is actually shorter and doesn't extend down to the back of his hand. Which probably doesn't make it nearly as annoying for handcuffs as the left one, but it would make sense for Sampo to have them like that, since he seems to be right-handed! I think a certain proficiency in being ambidextrous is necessary to dual wield daggers like he does, but. Sampo uses his right hand to

hold his blade in his splash art

throw his blade in his skill

play/show off with his dagger in his idle

lob smoke bombs in his technique

cross over his heart when he bows

and to flip his bangs during the cutscene where he saves the trailblazers from Bronya

So a shorter guard on his right hand would help him keep his wrist's flexibility to be able to do all that unimpeded (loving the thought now that Sampo is naturally right-handed and still better with it, but he practiced constantly with his left until he could do things passably ambidextrous).

I also love them because I wonder if they're in the perfect place to help block a hit, along with the chain wrapped around his left forearm.

Like I love the image of a hired killer soundlessly sneaking up behind Sampo in some shady dark alley, knife sloooooowly raising, and then all at once, they strike!

And instead of feeling the blade sink into his back, they get the unpleasant resonating of metal-on-metal shivering up their arm and rattling their bones, because Sampo has turned around at the last second and raised his crossed his arms to let the knife glance off the guards on his wrists.

And the mercenary is left to realize that oh, they are fucked.

#sampo koski #hsr sampo #hsr sampo koski #hsr #honkai star rail #now that I think about it is there literally ANYTHING in canon that says Gepard carries handcuffs or do we all just need to be bonked skzjm #things I lay awake thinking about at 3 AM ☆#I would actually love to see Sampo use those guards to block a blow from Gepard because hhhhhh #gepo fight scene! gepo fight scene!#Gepard trying to bring Sampo down only to get held off at the last second #adrenaline pumping breath quick faces close together eyes wild and bright breathing right in each other's space #ahem #anyway #but I can't see them like REALLY fighting because Sampo mostly just commits fraud and theft and I don't think Gepard would resort to-#-violence over that. Geppie is a good boy he probably wouldn't get violent with Sampo unless Sampo was putting other people in danger.#looking at his splash art this closely also gave me a really funny revelation which I'll maybe post tomorrow #Sampo is such a little shit I love him NSMKDNDMD

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hum--hallelujah · 9 months

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don't want to kill time like it doesn't matter - 3.5k words, (platonic) funkobra hurt/comfort

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Ghoul is actually younger than Kobra. They always forget it though.

At least, they usually do.

Kobra's stopped shooting upright and reaching for his blaster whenever someone wakes him up at night. Stopped two years ago, honestly, when him and Ghoul started sharing a room. That was a collective decision that is very much not discussed. It left the old office as a perfect room for the Girl, in the end. Between Ghoulie and Girlie, the former of whom has wild, sleepless tendencies and the latter liking to scramble her way into bed with somebody else every other night of the week, Kobra's knee-jerk reaction has become more of a lack of reaction.

"Yo," hisses a pitchy voice. It's dead daylight, the heat of the day. This is the time of the year when you sleep while the sun's up, wait until the darkness falls to do anything or else it's too miserable or too dangerous. "Kobes."

Kobra utters a verbose "Hrrmngg?" and rolls over. He cracks an eye open to see Ghoul standing at the end of his bed. If it hadn't been light out, he'd be doing a good job of living up to his name. His hands are shaking, but when aren't they?

"You good, man?" Kobra asks groggily. He's half awake, half asleep, drifting in between the two states of being. Ghoul is shifting his weight back and forth on his feet. It makes the floor creak. It makes him look even smaller than he is. "Ghoulie?" He mumbles again when he gets no reply.

Ghoul makes a noncommittal half-whispered sound. "Wanna go for a joyride?" He asks instead of an answer.

Kobra blinks himself more fully awake and pushes up on one elbow. "Mirage or the 'Am?"

Ghoulie shrugs. Won't meet his eyes. Oh shit, that's not good. Something's got him worked up. It's too late for this. This is why they share a room now. They didn't used to, but Kobra refuses to let him sleep alone anymore. Kobra knows how he got that wicked scar that runs from the corner of his mouth nearly to his eye.

"Either," Ghoul says. "Doesn't matter much to me."

"Mirage," Kobra decides. He'll never say no to a late-night joyride. Not this kind. Party'll have his neck for sneaking out on the bike without letting anyone know, but the 'Am is too conspicuous when strange crews are out and from the look of him, riding double on the motorcycle will be good for Ghoul.

It's still too hot to be out. But going for a spin won't take too much exertion, getting to someplace with shade, so long as it's away from here, won't take too long. Ghoul's gonna get sunscorched. Maybe that's the point. While Kobra covers up with his jacket, Ghoul is still in the loose, half-covering clothes he sleeps in.

The sun glints painfully off the sand when they climb quietly out the window. No reason trying to get past Party when they've got an exit right here. Ghoul clambers out first with a probably accidental but surprisingly graceful roll and then flinches, violently, when Kobra jacket catches on what's left of the glass in the window and he tumbles haphazardly to the ground. They both hold still for a long dozen seconds, Kobra staring at the diner wall and straining to tell if anyone heard them, and Ghoul staring at Kobra and shaking.

When Party doesn't come along, eyes glinting with annoyed amusement, and yell at them for sneaking out, Kobra sits up and checks the hem of his jacket where it caught on the sharp edge. "Great," he mutters when he sees the tear in the lining. He'll have to sew that back together later. "Ghoul, you good?"

Ghoul shrugs and stands up. "Aren't I always?"

"No."

They stare at each other for a few seconds while Kobra rubs his palms together to clear the sand off them and reaches into his pocket for his gloves. "You're wearing a helmet," he says flatly.

Ghoul rolls his eyes and sneers. It crinkles the scar running up his face. "No way."

"Fine." Kobra doesn't push. Half the time he doesn't even wear his helmet. He's the driver. He'll keep them safe. It was worth a try, though. "Come on."

The heavy bay door of the garage makes too much noise to open without being caught. They slip in the side door and Kobra brings Mirage carefully back through it. He wears a helmet this time. Ghoul stands and waits, bouncing impatiently on the balls of his feet, while Kobra starts the bike and, out of habit, does a couple checks.

"You ready?" Kobra says, with the visor of his helmet flipped up.

Ghoul grins, but it's lacking in heart. So often, Kobra thinks he's not all there. So often, Kobra thinks this is his best friend. "Born that way," he replies.

"Come on then," Kobra says and nods for Ghoul to get on the bike with him. "Hey, hey. Hey, Ghoulie-" he says, when Ghoul is standing right at his shoulder, about to throw a leg over Mirage and climb on. "You okay?" He asks again, because he needs to know how safe any of this is.

Ghoul doesn't respond. Just settles himself behind Kobra and wraps his arms, tight, around Kobra's middle. Kobra stays there a second, until he's sure Ghoul's grip is solid, so that he can feel Ghoul breathing against his back, before he kicks off. He doesn't care if Party and Jet wake up now, they won't catch them. The bike's tires kick up a fountain of sand as he spins a loop, leaning into the turn until Mirage tilts close enough to the ground that Kobra could touch the sand if he reached out. Ghoul asked for a joyride. This is that.

"What the hell, man?!" Ghoul yells over Kobra's shoulder, muffled by the engine noise and his helmet. Kobra feels Ghoul's hands grab at the fabric of his shirt as he pulls around the first turn, bringing them around the back of a sand dune at full speed.

"Trust me?" Kobra shouts back. He's getting into it now, relaxing into each wide, showy swerve and fishtail. He slows down just a bit when he can feel Ghoul's fingernails start to bite into his skin. It makes him edgy when Ghoul is like this.

Ghoul sniffs sharply. "Well, yeah, but I've seen you crash out enough times at the track-"

"Aw, shut up," Kobra snaps back, without venom. Ghoul's his mechanic. He's seen his best wins and worst losses. "Where you wanna go?" He asks, after a few random turns, just drifting around in the sand. Ghoul is quiet. Kobra reaches back with one hand and smacks him on the leg after awhile. "Ghoulie, where we goin'?"

"I'm thinki-" Ghoul cuts himself off and when he speaks again his voice is flat and so quiet Kobra has to strain to hear him. "Turn right up here."

There's the remains of a road cutting across their path and Kobra hops Mirage up onto it, swings right and follows the pavement. Ghoul's grip around his chest has loosened, but Kobra can feel the fast, shallow rhythm of his breathing and the shaking of his hands even still. The road goes on for ages, long enough that it starts to feel infinite. This must have been a highway, back before the wars and BL/ind. At some point, Ghoul leans forward and puts his forehead against the back of Kobra's neck. Kobra can feel him pressed just below where his helmet sits.

"Get off at this turn," Ghoul mumbles suddenly, but not soon enough because Kobra completely overshoots the exit. He flips around the empty lanes of the highway, admittedly showing off mostly just to make himself feel better.

The group of buildings along the former highway off-ramp isn't really a ghost town. It's a cluster of old stores and restaurants, like the diner but mass produced, and down at the end is an ancient truck stop and gas station. Kobra slows the bike to a crawl as they drive down the street, struck with an eerie sense of deja vu. He's been here before. They both have.

He pulls over and stops in the middle of the road, beside what used to be a coffee store. Coffee is usually made in the form of compressed, dried out shots now, called Motor Juice in the Zones when rehydrated. They don't have coffeeshops in the City. They have prescriptions.

Ghoul is off the bike and Kobra's back suddenly cold even under the heat of the sun before Mirage even comes to a full stop. "Ghoul-" Kobra snaps, angry for reasons he can't even say and unsettled in ways he doesn't want to. This is a ghost town. Just not in the normal way. "Ghoul. What are you-"

But Ghoul is walking away, his back to Kobra and the bike as he moves toward the gas station as if it's a magnet and he's the blade of a knife, trembling so hard with the pull that it might break. Kobra hesitates, then swings his leg over Mirage and bumps out the kickstand. Ghoul is standing stock still, or as still as he can, on the faded pavement of the gas station parking lot. Kobra's glad it's faded. He doesn't want to see the bloodstains.

Ghoul looks small as he approaches, absolutely miniscule. He's got his arms wrapped tight around himself and Kobra can hear the harshness of his breathing even from several strides away. He doesn't want to get too close too fast. Ghoul's enough like a wild animal that it could turn out badly, and Kobra for once really doesn't want to fight him today. Not out here, at least.

They're within two years of each other, Kobra and Ghoul. They usually forget they're not the same age. But right now Ghoul looks so small and so, so young and Kobra doesn't know what to do.

"Gh- Ghoul. Ghoulie." Kobra calls carefully, stumbling over his tongue. He clamps his teeth together, takes a deep breath. "Ghoul."

Ghoul doesn't turn, doesn't look away from the door into the gas station he'd been found in, back when Kobra and Poison and Jet were a crew of three and Ghoul'd been even more feral than he is now. The gas station where Ghoul watched his entire family die and he was helpless to do anything about it. He still thinks he hadn't done enough. Kobra knows that. Ghoul always thinks he didn't do enough. That one kid with a blaster and wild eyes could take down a full squad of Dracs and two Crows.

Kobra doesn't know how to tell him that if he'd tried, he would be dead too. Kobra doesn't know how to tell him he's glad he didn't. When it comes down to it most, Kobra finds he can't speak.

"Ghoulie," he says again. "Hey. Hey." He moves closer, pulls off the helmet he'd almost forgotten he still has on. "Ghoul," he tries, one more time, as gently as he knows how even though it's not that gentle. He's never been good at this. Some of the scars scattered across Ghoul's body are from him. But Kobra had stitched up Ghoul's face and he's not going to give up now.

Ghoul finally turns and Kobra breathes a sigh of relief. Just a response. Proof of life even though he's still standing. And then Ghoul steps toward him and suddenly he's right there, shaking but otherwise just as eerily still as this entire place, like he's trapped in frozen time just like the rest of it, and he collides with Kobra's chest in a way that's both surprising and yet entirely expected.

"Oh." Kobra drops his helmet, dangling from one hand, and his arms hover uncertainly in the air for a moment before he carefully closes them around Ghoul. "Oh. Okay. Okay." He says quietly, startled, but not really. He'd felt the way Ghoul was holding onto him as they rode Mirage all the way out here.

Ghoul unfolds his arms from around himself and grabs onto the unzipped sides of Kobra's jacket. He doesn't cry, not out loud at least. He's just shaking, so much, and so, so small. Kobra's not good with words. He's even worse with them under pressure. Anything Jet or Party could say to make it better, that kind of stuff gets stuck on his tongue when Kobra tries to say it. So he doesn't. He just holds on.

"You plan on coming here?" Kobra asks eventually, even though he has a feeling the answer is no. Unless it's an engine or a bomb, Ghoul never really plans on much. Ghoul shakes his head, hair scrubbing against Kobra's shoulder and neck where his head's pressed. "You wanna... y'wanna go inside?" He asks then, against his better judgment. But then again, he's never been known for that, has he.

Ghoul tenses, but it momentarily stops the shaking. "Can we?"

Kobra huffs. "Nobody stoppin' us, and even if there were, we'd do it anyway, wouldn't we?"

Ghoul pries his fingers from their hold on Kobra's jacket and turns back toward the station. "Should we?"

"Dunno." Part of him thinks it might help. Part of him remembers exactly what happened the last time they were here. It's the Killjoy way to call death ghosting. It means some part of you lives on even when you're gone. There's a lot of ghosts in this pavement. "It's your-"

He can't think of what word goes there. Choice. Past. Grief. Place. So he stops talking. He shrugs, bends to pick up his helmet. "I can." He sucks a breath through his teeth. He's going to say it again. "I can... I can go with you. If you," he shrugs one shoulder again. "If you, uh, want to. I'm not- I'm not trying to force you," he adds, like it needs to be said. "It's your... yours."

Because that's all that really can be said. This place, the place that made Fun Ghoul what he is. The journey, however brief, that brought them here. Even, kinda, Kobra himself. It's all for Ghoul, here and now. Kobra drove, but he's just along for the ride. Weird how that happens.

Ghoul steps toward the station. Magnetism, again. And Kobra follows, because how could he not. He feels sick at the though of letting his friend go in that place alone.

The doors are gone. Shot out years ago. It looks to Kobra exactly as it did back then, but Ghoul probably remembers better. There are shelves toppled and glass and plastic broken all over the floor. Whatever hasn't been scavenged is broken and shattered. Ghoul walks toward the back of the store, the corner that's not so much a mess. Kobra stays back a bit, trying to give his friend space.

It's where they found Ghoul. Or, where Pois had found him. Ghoul was half in shock, terrified and scarred and fighting, and Party was the first one of their then three-strong group to notice the dark shape watching them hopelessly trawl the carnage for any survivors. It took Pois physically restraining the much smaller kid to keep Ghoul from going for all of their throats.

Kobra has a lot of bad memories of Ghoul. None are as bad as remembering the way he'd screamed when they first met.

"Y'okay?" Kobra asks after a while.

Ghoul has his moments. They all do. Sometimes, you wake up bad in the night and it's hard to pick yourself up. Sometimes you just gotta hit the bottom before you even can. But Ghoul's a fighter. "Yeah," he says, walking back and forth between fallen shelves once stocked with food and stupid trinkets. He crouches to pick up the shattered remnants of something once made of colorful glass and when he looks back over his shoulder at Kobra, he doesn't seem quite as small.

"'M sorry," Kobra mumbles, not knowing what to say now. Somehow, the shaking and the touch are so much easier than having to talk about it. He's never been the talker. That's Party. And he knows his brother regrets not getting there — here — sooner that day, but there's a sick, selfish part of Kobra that's too glad to have Ghoul to want anything different. But really, it's all he can say. If there's remnants of bones that haven't been carried away by carrion-eaters, he doesn't want to see it.

Ghoul slowly stands up from his spot on the floor, staring intently at the broken knick-knack in his palm. It might have been a glass teddy bear, once, something a parent might grab up for a child waiting at home. It's partially shattered, though. Half of its cartoonish smiling face is gone. The heart shape it once held in its paws is cracked down the middle. Kobra isn't great with metaphors, but this is pretty fucking obvious.

"I didn't save them," Ghoul says quietly, his voice grating through the charged, silent air. "I didn't save her."

Something clicks into place. They all know that the crew he lost was Ghoul's real actual biological family. He's a sandpup. He was born and raised in the Zones. He doesn't talk about it much. Kobra's shocked he even came back here, let alone with anyone else. Ghoul doesn't talk about his family, but they've all figured for a while that he had a sibling. You can see it in how he treats the Girl.

"Your sister," Kobra says. It doesn't sound like so much of a question when he says it out loud, but he knows Ghoul will understand it as one.

Ghoul nods. "Yeah." He steps over some toppled displays, sun-bleached ads that used to be bright colored, and slips the shiny piece of broken glass into one of Kobra's pockets since he doesn't have any of his own. Kobra can already see the sunburn forming on his friend's shoulders and the tops of his knees. "She was like, eight."

That's all the more he says about it, but Kobra slips his hand into the pocket and runs his fingers over the broken glass toy still warm from Ghoul's hands, and hears the years of grief and bitterness in the few words. Ghoul's more talky than he is, but he's cagey, too. Kobra can hear him, though. He gets it. Doesn't mean he knows what to say, though.

"Shit," he spits. He wants to say I'm sorry again, but that feels fuckin cheap. He wants to say stop beating yourself up about it, but that sounds even stupider. "Fuck." Sometimes that's all he can say.

"Yeah," Ghoul replies. "Fuckin shit."

"Exactly," Kobra agrees, fiercely relieved that Ghoul gets all the shit he's trying to say. "Hey, uh. Y'know I'm-" He stumbles over the words, cringes at himself for the inability to get past a stupid two-letter word. "I'm glad I know you." He manages, as selfish as it sounds standing here in the ghosted wreckage where Ghoul's family was killed. But if that hadn't happened, they wouldn't be here now. They wouldn't be friends. And Kobra needs Ghoul to know he's glad that any suicide run to save his family failed. The pain sucks, but he's grateful for the outcome. He hopes Ghoul can understand that.

Ghoul doesn't reply. His acid green eyes bore straight into Kobra's for a few seconds while Kobra's heart hammers in his chest. Then he kicks at some dust and looks at the floor and shrugs. "Let's go, man. I don't wanna stay here."

"M'kay."

Kobra's almost tempted to reach out as they walk back out into the glaring sun, grab onto Ghoul like he's a ghost, too, and the light might evaporate him. But he doesn't. He can't.

He thinks the feeling of Ghoul hanging onto him as he steers Mirage away, back up the ramp to the road they came down in the first place, will make him feel better. It doesn't. Ghoul holds on much looser than he had on the way here, and it makes Kobra nervous. He wonders if he should have made him wear a helmet, and steers more carefully around the turns.

And then Ghoul adjusts his seat and throws one arm up over Kobra's shoulder, loosely hooking around his neck. He leans up forward and shouts, "C'mon, Kobes, let's play with it!" Like he's itching for the risk that a couple hours ago had had him holding on for dear life. Kobra's used to thinking his best friend isn't all there. But he's also familiar with the times he is. Sometimes, he forgets they're not the same age because Ghoul is so larger than life.

He tips his head to the side in acknowledgement, and punches the throttle. He even pulls a couple of tight, quick loops. He can't slide on the pavement the way he would on sand, but he can catch a little air when there's a thermal bump in the highway. Ghoul clutches onto him, but it's not scared. Something's cleared up in the gas station. Maybe it was closure. Hell if Kobra knows.

When they pull Mirage off the highway and the diner finally comes back into view, just a small glint of signage, Kobra slows his pace and can feel Ghoul sigh more than he can hear it. His friend's arms stay firmly around him. "Hey, Kobes?" Ghoul says, just barely loud enough to be heard over the engine.

"Yeah?" Kobra says, a bit louder to be heard past his helmet.

Ghoul hesitates, then says in a rush, "I'm glad I know you too. Like, really glad." And then he squeezes Kobra a little tighter for just a second and Kobra can't even say anything in reply. It's been a long night at the wrong time of day. And they're almost home.

#yes I know kobra is doing that annoying ''r u ok'' thing very repetitively he's like me he repeats himself A LOT it's ok. we still love him #I cannot express this enough. kobra has a stutter. literally sometimes the only word that will come out is just. F bomb.#the others have gotten very good at translating him skskskddkfj #btw wrt kobra's speech patterns just know I'm cutting WAY back on the amount of repeating I do irl #like I'm giving him my (mild) stutter but cutting down the repetitions by a lot bc it looks weird on paper #so whenever he's repeating himself and stammering? yeah it's a lot more like a scratched CD than how I typed it out #in my head it's like SUPER noticeable. like everyone knows this happens and that sometimes he has to stop and be quiet #and take a minute before he can get on with what he's saying. it's just a thing #ok now that I'm done rambling about kobra kid having a stutter- :)#btw they're like 16 and 17 here. they are children trying to navigate these very big emotions and I love them so so dearly #next time I need to emotionally or physically hurt kobra skfjfnskdn I keep going after poor ghoul #ok I think that's all I have to say for now #she speaks!#she writes!#danger days #the true lives of the fabulous killjoys #danger days: the true lives of the fabulous killjoys #ttlotfk #kobra kid #fun ghoul #this isn't really funkobra just bc I don't actually ship ANYONE here skskfjdghkdjgfkd #I'm much more compelled by platonic relationships that are kinda the Secret Third Thing than I am by romance. so. yeah

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vaugarde · 3 months

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i think its always worth thinking about how women are portrayed in certain stories, from fictional narratives to reddit posts presenting themselves as true stories. is every woman in the narrative either antagonistic or shallow? are most or all of the men portrayed as sympathetic and competent, moreso than the women, even if they commit the same crimes?

#i read reddit stories bc i love rotting my brain apparently and this is SO constant in those #one literally ended like ''i have concluded that i cant trust women bc theyre all lying cunts unlike the men who helped me here''#and the comments were like ''wow.... makes you think....''#like wc is a good litmus test. why are only the women in crookedstar's story held accountable while the men in power are shrugged off #why do all of the women get twisted into shrill harpies for nightheart's arc while all the men who commit the same pressure on him #get idealized and held up as fantastic and awesome and sympathetic #why is the man in this story calm and collected while being horrible while the woman is hysterical and emotional and loud #how come the fat woman in hh is seen as annoying and terrible and a danger to their cause bc ''she brought danger to them''#while the snake guy outright attacks the place twice and tries to hurt them but is an uwu cinnamon roll who deserves a chance #echoed voice #like... an antagonistic woman isnt a bad thing. women can be horrible irl. absolutely but its important to try and see when this is a patte #pattern #when theres just straight up a double standard

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dmclemblems · 2 years

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Honestly people in the fandom always say Faerghus is the least progressive of the three, but they’ve honestly been the most progressive? People say Edelgard’s way is the best future for Fodlan because of the Crest system, but it’s... really not. Faerghus has been steadily working to dismantle the Crest system for years in Hopes, and in Houses it’s something Dimitri plans to formally work on (and doesn’t get the chance to yet in Houses until after the war because of what happened in the five year timeskip) in the future.

Also, the class system was being fixed as well in this regard, and the whole “outside of Fodlan’s border” thing was being worked on by Lambert and only came to a temporary halt because he was murdered for attempting change (outside of TWS, TWS had help in the form of other Faerghus nobles who didn’t like the change Lambert was attempting). Dimitri would have continued Lambert’s efforts sooner if he could have, but as the prince/not yet king he couldn’t, and then the war happened for five years so even when he came of age he wasn’t able to take the crown yet.

When it comes to hiring people and whatnot, Dimitri has Dedue as his “vassal” as far as Duscur hating background NPCs would call him and what Dedue tries to insist he is. Dimitri is already trying to get people from outside of Faerghus as well as commoners into high positions. He can’t officially do a whole lot as the prince, but in his ending he does fix Faerghus.

In Hopes, he’s actively working on the power system for the two years and they’re succeeding rather quickly, both with the Crest system and the disparity between royalty, nobility and commoners. The only reason Faerghus wasn’t able to do that sooner in Houses is because Dimitri wasn’t the king yet, and when he became king it was during a war so it was a bit less “official”. There was no formal ceremony for it until after the war.

If Edelgard felt the need to use war to get rid of the problem, it means Adrestia wasn’t able to solve that problem internally on its own, and the Alliance wouldn’t have done so either with the roundtable, so when the Alliance becomes part of united Fodlan under Dimitri or Byleth (depending on the route), that fixes the Alliance’s issue with it, but ultimately Faerghus had a better progression of the Crest system and the class system overall.

Also, the whole thing about Rhea not allowing outside influences isn’t true at all. Shamir, Cyril, Petra and Dedue were at the Academy even if for different reasons, but Rhea didn’t have to hire a foreign mercenary or bring in a foreign orphan. She didn’t have to let Dedue in considering he was from Duscur and everyone basically knew loads of people hated Duscur (and she could’ve easily reasoned that it would cause problems and drama with him there, whether she thought his people were responsible or not. Even if she knew 100 percent he wasn’t involved, she could’ve tried to turn him away when Dimitri brought him in, reasoning that it wouldn’t be good to have someone people would be suspicious toward). She didn’t have to let the princess of a foreign land come to the Academy.

That’s important because the Church is closest to Faerghus out of the three lands and has the most power over Faerghus, but it’s Faerghus that’s progressing toward a weaker Crest system the fastest. Rhea definitely is trying to keep Fodlan’s borders relatively closed up from threats, but she doesn’t disallow people from outside of Fodlan to enter it (and she lets people in right where she lives, so she obviously isn’t worried that any of these people are going to try to kill her/anyone from the Church). Fodlan just has more security in place, and Claude is under the impression it’s just too much security if he wants Almyra and Fodlan to be more openly friendly. It’s true that Rhea’s past experiences led her to keeping Fodlan from advancing as much as it could have, but she’s not completely disallowing people from outside of Fodlan to enter it.

The fact that the Church is closest to Faerghus makes it easier for Faerghus to be able to sway the Church if even necessary at any point to let the change gradually kick in.

Also, I’m not saying Claude didn’t or couldn’t help enact change in the Alliance, but that Faerghus had begun progressing its future long before Claude was even living in Fodlan. It just came to a temporary and screeching halt when Lambert was murdered by TWS who also had help from some angry baby nobles that didn’t like the thought of change. In other words, Faerghus was already heading toward that future before the Alliance was too.

tl;dr faerghus is the good shit and they’re all about that change and all the great stuff and they gonna do that shit peacefully and sylvain is a huge part of that and here in this house we love him for it even if it’s bc his dad is a dummy dumb and made both his kids have to suffer bc of the system to make sylvain so intent on changing it like bruh why’d u have to go and do that but don’t get me started on miklan bc i care him and hopes made all my headcanons a reality

also tl;dr faerghus is the good shit and they’re all about that change and i want dimitri to run my country too but then again that might be awkward bc imagine saying u have the hots for the president of ur country like man what a thought

#Three Houses #Three Hopes #Faerghus #yaaaay faerghus for saying fuck the class system u can move up in the world REGARDLESS of birth #and REGARDLESS of social status and REGARDLESS of religion and we don't even have to go to war for it!!!#we still have Sreng to worry about OH WAIT we have Sylvain and he's a Smooth Talker he can deal with that #no need for Crests when you have Sylvain who doesn't even have Crest Babies that he passes anything down to #oh no Almyra might attack the former Alliance territories oh right we have Claude he's gonna take care of that from inside Almyra #don't need Crests and nobles to take care of Almyra at the border either!#it gets me when ppl actually say Edelgard waging war was the 'best thing for Fodlan' like LMAO BRUH #Dimitri literally wipes out everything Fodlan was with the power/class systems and starts them anew during his reign #change started in Faerghus not with Edelgard's war. if she talked to Dimitri beforehand she would've known that #i.e. a war wasn't necessary to achieve any of that stuff bc Dimitri did it anyway and Faerghus had been working on it anyway #and when I say Faerghus I mean all the people in power were working toward that future and didn't care about the systems in place #ALSO they always say Lambert was making extreme decisions and the like so it's entirely possible that had something to do with it #He was trying to become more friendly with places outside Fodlan and there's no indication he actually cared about the system #and based on how people reacted to him bringing about sudden and powerful change it proves that just #doing it without slowly phasing into new things wasn't how Fodlan needed to be. they needed gradual change #people who took part in helping with Lambert's death were people who felt his decision making was opening up Faerghus to danger #the point is that Lambert had good intentions and very good plans but he tried to push it all into the system too fast #which tbh checks out perfectly with the way he's been described as a person in both games personality-wise #obviously killing him wasn't the answer bc he was trying to go about change peacefully but again it was too fast and people reacted #basically Lambert was already starting the change Claude wanted but a few nobles stuck sticks in their own asses and got angry abt it #anyway i love faerghus it's also nice and cold there and i would never have to deal with the heat again #DCB Comments

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