#while we're at it remember to leave the writers alone too

[magpienoises]

Yikes. I'm gonna need people to calm down about actors.

It's left deliberately ambiguous and it is not a personal attack or an attack against your ship. Whatever the actor is thinking, they're not saying (and we have zero proof of whatever it is they are thinking and that's not an attack either, it's not our business-- they are a person and deserve their privacy), and encouraging people to ship what they will.

Do not start attacking them. Good grief.

[foli-vora]

FOLI!!! CONGRATS!! you deserve the world and all the followers, you’re the one writer who has kept me reading on here!! i’m honored to be a part of your readers. thank you for sharing your talent and words with the world. i hope your inbox is full of prompts but i also love a good restful break for you haha. i would love a FLUFFY #16 (“You fainted…straight into my arms. You know, if you wanted my attention you didn’t have to go to such extremes.”) and i’ll let you pick with who! preferably frankie, din or ezra! or maybe frank or matt!

Hey sweet angel, thanks for your request! We're totally ignoring how long this took me, ok?? God I'm so sorry. Thank you so much for being here, I appreciate you! And I hope you enjoy your fluff-fest xo

attention seeker

frankie morales x f!reader

word count: 1.4k  warnings: no use of y/n, swearing, alcohol consumption, brief fainting spell, fluff and sweet drunken declarations, i have missed this man

The night is comfortable and warm, the buzz of the occasional mosquito flying by your ear as you recline into the cheap camping chair Benny had unfolded for you.

It'd been a while since he had successfully pried you out of your weekly take-out and true crime routine, but as he sits next to you now, yelling some shit at his brother across the table and spilling half of his beer in the process, you realise how much you've missed his drunken shenanigans.

And his hot friend pilot friend that you've been crushing on for an embarrassing amount of time that you've also struggled to say more than a few words to all night.

Maybe that's why you keep accepting the shots of tequila Benny keeps pouring. Liquid courage and all that. Maybe tonight's the night you'll go further than 'so how have you been?'.

“You’re wrong. Angel, tell him he’s wrong.”

“Don’t drag me into this,” you grin around your beer, shrugging loosely when Benny throws you a playful glare.

“You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“Leave the poor girl alone and just admit you’re wrong, you piece of shit,” Fish pipes up from beside Will, grinning widely at the way the younger Miller turns his gaze of betrayal on him.

He turns that smile on you and you swear you feel it in your damn bones.

"No, fuck the lot of you."

"Oh, Benny boo."

"No. Pope, fuckin' Google it."

"Man, let it go."

The urge for more snacks brings you to your feet and you laugh as the argument continues as you leave the table, the warm familiar rush of alcohol running along your limbs as you all but stumble your way into the humid air of the kitchen.

You hunt through the treasure trove of sweet and savoury treats in the cupboard before reaching for a bag of Doritos, groaning softly when they slip through your loose fingers and land with a light slap at your feet.

Life is too hard sometimes.

Your head spins as you bend to reach them, and you’ve either had too much to drink, or you stand back up too fast, because the last thing you remember is the dizzy spell that assaults your brain and the sudden blackness taking over your vision.

Vaguely you hear someone call out to you through the ringing in your ears, and you don’t quite know whether the arms that suddenly cradle you are real or just a figment of your imagination until you come to.

Sure enough someone’s there, sprawled out on the floor with you and pressed up hard against your back. 

“Hey, you good?” Fish asks, his voice tinged with concern rumbling into your ear. 

Oh, God. Of course it had to be him. It couldn’t have been Benny, or one of the other guys that you felt comfortably at ease around, no. No, it had to be the one that managed to get your stomach flipping and twisting if he so much as glanced your way. 

“I think so,” you mumble, raising a hand to rub along your forehead as the room swims in your vision before slowly coming into focus. “What happened?”

“You fainted—straight into my arms. You know, if you wanted my attention you didn’t have to go to such extremes.”

He’s teasing you. A heat bites at the tips of your ears as you smile, and you weakly slap at the arm curled around your waist. You swear it tightens for just the slightest second. Or maybe that's just the tequila swimming in your mind.

“Stop it. I’m so sorry—”

He chuckles, the jump of his chest against your back and your heart warms from the deepness of it. “Don’t be. I’m just glad I was here—don’t want you hitting your head.”

“You're my hero,” you sing quietly as he starts to untangle himself from you, backing away just enough to give you room to sit up on your own.

“Seriously though, are you okay?”

He’s frowning when you look at him over your shoulder, the concern back and twisting the edges of his features. He lifts a hand, the roughened pads of his finger tips dragging across your forehead and leaving butterflies in their wake.

“Do you need anything?”

“No, I’m good," you say, smiling as he pulls his hand away and gives you another grin. "Thank you for not letting me hit my head.”

"Happy to help," he shrugs, fixing the ever present hat on his head as he stands before offering you a hand. “You need help getting up?"

You take it gratefully, enjoying the slightest squeeze of his fingers around yours. "I think this might be my safest option."

The shots must be catching up on you all at once, because even with Frankie's hand holding yours, you struggle to stand steadily on two feet let alone find the strength to stand completely with the sudden knock of intoxication assaulting you from all angles.

“Maybe you should sit down for a few more minutes,” he laughs along with you quietly, both hands now steadying as you shakily sink back to the floor. You miss the heat of his hands as soon as they leave your skin.

Humming softly as you shuffle to lean against the kitchen cabinets, your head rolls and threatens to drop as the alcohol continues to swim through your bloodstream but you fight to blink up at him, smiling when you find him watching you with the shadow of concern lingering at the edges of his expression.

“You good?” he asks again, brows coming together.

“Yup,” you hiccup, grinning. “Can you keep me company, Frankie?”

He seems to soften at your question, the concern melting away the longer you manage to stay awake and upright where you’re propped up. He gives you a small smile, something softer, sweeter. 

“I will if you want me to.”

You tap the floor next to you, watching through slightly blurry eyes as he slowly drops into the designated spot and stretches his legs out with a long tired sigh. He must feel you watching him, and he meets your gaze from the corner of his eyes with a slight shine of hesitancy.

“What?”

“This is nice,” you murmur softly, warming when his eyes meet yours fully. “I never get you all to myself—Benny’s always in the way.”

His smile returns, and he dips his head somewhat shyly. “Do you want me all to yourself?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I? You’re cute as hell.”

He chuckles, hands smoothing along his jeans as he makes himself more comfortable beside you. “You’ve had too much to drink.”

“Nope, I’ve had just enough. I needed the courage.”

His eyes find you again, this time swimming with obvious curiosity as he studies your expression. “What do you need courage for?”

“God, to just talk to you. You make me all nervous.”

“I don’t mean to.”

“I know—you’re a nice guy,” you breathe, cheeks aching from your tired smile. “You’re a really nice, really hot guy.”

“Cut it out.”

He laughs again, his shoulder softly bumping into your own and you can’t help the drunken giggle that the small show of playfulness pries from you.

“No, that’s why I have a bit of a crush on you.”

The alcohol has the little confession falling from your lips before your mind even knows what's happening. You don't have time to regret it, though. You don't even think about regretting it. You'll worry about it in the morning.

But he doesn't seem to take the news badly, and it doesn't seem to make him uncomfortable. He merely makes a low noise of thought, the smile now wide along his lips as his head rests back against the cabinet door.

“That’s good to know.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I have a bit of a crush on you, too.”

The alcohol burns beneath your skin and you scoff in disbelief, unable to get rid of the smile still tugging away at your lips. Maybe you did hit your head on the way down.

“You do not.”

“I do. Just ask the guys, they give me shit about it all the time.”

“We need to address this in the morning when my brain isn’t so wobbly,” you murmur, your head finally giving in to the heaviness weighing it down as it settles softly on his shoulder.

The tell tale feel of lips press against your head before the soft reassuring warmth of his cheek follows.

“We can do that."

[redclercs]

DELICATE✰ CHARLES LECLERC.

v. i gave my blood, sweat and tears for this

— the one where both of you have given everything to be where you are.

warnings: misogyny, sexual harassment, this is how monaco went btw i accept no criticism. barely proofread, sorry. 3.7k words (+ article, podcast excerpts)

masterlist ✢ next

'Have we let y/n y/ln get away with way too much?'

By Alan Gomez

Yes folks, it might be our own fault, we have created a monster in the form y/n y/ln. Mediocre actress at best and with an even worse personality, if the latest events are any indication.

But how could we let this happen? Come on, we're smarter than this!

The thing is, y/n brainwashed us into believing that her doe-eyed, no-brain characters were actually her. Don't beat yourselves up over this too much, even I was a victim of those pretty eyes. But now that the blindfold has fallen, we have come to realize we have let y/n get away with everything!

You might know y/n from Supercut, the romantic comedy that took the world by storm in 2019, where she starred alongside Aidan Kim and it lead to these two becoming one of the general public’s most cherished couples. At least until two months ago, when their breakup was announced via Inside Out. Although there haven’t been any official statements, given the circumstances, we believe it was the actress who broke it off with Kim.

RELATED:

→ Aidan Kim and friends at Cannes Film Festival

→ Y/N supports alleged boyfriend at charity football match

But whether she’s dating a new guy now or not, why do we keep letting her do whatever she wants?

How did she actually brainwash us into thinking she’s anything close to an “it girl”? After Supercut, all she’s done is the absolute bare minimum to keep people talking about her, it’s all RomComs and no effort. I didn’t want to be that person, and you have to believe me on this, but Aidan Kim made her.

Let’s remember Aidan built his career from the ground as a member of Star-5 the early 2010’s boyband that split in 2018. He was the ‘someone’ in the relationship. How can people even compare having the hit song “Round and Round” in your résumé to being in Scream (Netflix) and The Mist (again, Netflix)?

Aidan made us like her and the writers of Parisian Valentine, The Hating Game and Last Night In Love, did her a HUGE favor by consolidating her as the “Queen of RomComs” by what standard? Well, don’t ask me.

The truth is, we accepted y/n into our hearts and homes, thanks to Aidan Kim and an unbelievable amount of luck, and we haven’t held her accountable for anything ever.

Here’s what I’m talking about, if you’re still wondering what the point of this article is, click on every link to be taken to the whole context, you’ll thank me later:

❍Y/N yells at paparazzi to leave her alone as she walks around Beverly Hills with Victoria Presley.

❍ Y/N praises Taylor Swift while tearing down several male artists for writing songs about their personal experiences.

❍ Y/N says in interview with ELLE that not every movie has to be “profound”.

And just for fun:

❍ A collection of Y/N’s disastrous looks.

It’s time we realize y/n y/ln is talentless, has a horrible personality and feigns innocence she certainly doesn’t have. You will NOT continue to take advantage of us, y/n! It’s all over for you, so I’m glad you’re dropping your pathetic career to become a WAG. #Y/NIsOverParty.

↺ FROM ❛WE WATCH❜ PODCAST

Paul Byrnes: Can y/n really do another role now, after all she’s known for are romantic comedies?

Anna Sanchez: well, I really liked her in The Mist, she did great as character in a horror it was—

Paul Byrnes: No one cares about The Mist, Anna, just you.

Anna Sanchez: all I’m saying is she’s a good actress, she can do other things. That was your question, Paul.

Paul Byrnes: Well, in my opinion she can't and that's it.

↺ FROM ❛IT TALK❜ PODCAST

Greg Zane: Let's talk y/n y/ln and her fashion choices now that she's an F1 WAG. What do we think?

Riley Green: She's a what now? How long has it been since she broke up with Aidan Kim?

Martha Vincent: I think she's looking great, I just wish she'd let go of the ugly caps.

Riley Green: No seriously, how long did she stay single?

Greg Zane: I agree Martha, but caps are big in Formula 1, nothing we can do about that. I'm wondering if she'll go for a more glamorous look in Monaco.

Riley Green: guys? hello?

Martha Vincent: Oh Riley, we're not talking about her love life, let it go.

↺ FROM ❛HOLLYWOOD VIBES❜ PODCAST

Pauline Oscar: [cont.] I'm just so curious about the reason of their breakup, why hasn't anyone said anything?! It must be juicy.

Brenda Yim: I feel like it's bad for one of them, most likely y/n. Hello, can anyone offer one of their friends some money? Just like old times!

Pauline Oscar: [laughs] Definitely! We need to know! Can it get any worse than the fact that she's already with another guy? What's his name? Charles Le what? She soooo cheated.

liked by charles_leclerc, vicpresley, mati.bassi, carlossainz55 and others.

ynfreesia UM THE LIKES?

xxynbaby it's "monaco" of course

aidanluvs you don't even have the decency to pretend like you're alone? fuck you

ynredstar i cannot defend you if you pull this shit girl

mati.bassi great view for breakfast with my best girl!💕

ynredstar oh ynredstar nevermind thanks mati ↳ feels4aidan don't be so gullible she's obviously covering up for them

THE COMMENTS FOR THIS POST ARE DISABLED.

May 27th, Montecarlo, Monaco.

THERE are tears in your eyes, and despite your best efforts not to let them run down your cheeks, it's futile. The worst part is that you're the one doing this to yourself. There's zero need to read 'articles' from pseudo journalists on how a man gave you your career and how you're tossing it into the trash for another. Not to mention the cascade of curses you received for a picture on instagram, where everyone thought you were with the other man.

Has your life really come to this? People don't talk about you unless a guy is involved? You loathe it. Your career was never about Aidan, and it's not about Charles now. Who only makes things worse every time he shows up and yet you can't manage to bring it up to him.

It's embarrassing. You don't want to walk up to him during whatever free time he has in a hectic weekend, and ask him if it really doesn't annoy him everything the press has made up about the two of you, or if he's really that unbothered by being paired up with you in the wildest scenarios, and tell him that he can shut them down whenever he feels like it (you wish he would already), and let him know you won't mind whatever he says about not being involved with you.

But no, Mr. Leclerc is busy giving unclear answers at interviews and liking your instagram posts, as if this isn't already a wildfire.

You put down your phone and pick it back up almost immediately, Vic's ringtone fills your hotel room and you wipe away your tears before answering her FaceTime request.

"Were you crying?" it's the first thing she says, moving her sunglasses to the top of her head. There's a lot of noise in the background and you can barely make the words out, but she comes so close to the phone that all you can see is the tip of her nose. "Why were you crying?"

"It's nothing, Vic. What's up?" you sigh, rubbing your eyes only makes things worse but you don't want to worry about that now.

"I just got to Monaco, babe," the phone is at a safe distance from her nostrils again and you can see around her, the airport where you landed a few days ago. "I'm with my parents," she rolls her eyes, lowering her voice. "But if you could get me into the Ferrari Suite I can hang out with you tomorrow!"

They allowed you one guest and the spot has already been taken by Mati, so there really isn't much you can do in terms of getting her into the Ferrari Suite. "Well, let me see what I can do, okay?"

"Okay," she sounds unsure, you know Vic enough to be sure she expected a different answer. "I mean my parents have Lounge privileges but it's more fun to be with you."

Had she said something about coming to Monaco you might have been able to do something, but as far as you were concerned she planned to stay in France all week, enjoying Cannes and mingling.

"I'll do my best Vic, but you know how they are," you exhale heavily, "Plus it's a crazy-ass weekend."

"Isn't it always?" she's yawning now, "We can meet for dinner later and you can tell me what's up alright? Being with my parents is so boring."

You shake your head, "Be nice, they just want to hang out with you. I'll call you after Quali," you check the clock on top of the nightstand, it's 10 am. You have to get ready for FP3, which you don't care about attending or not but Stuart Schaffer asked to see you, so you haven't got much of a choice.

"Sure babes, love you." Vic pulls her sunglasses down again and blows a kiss to the screen.

"Love you too," it's your turn to yawn as you tap the hang up button.

You look at the special edition Ferrari cap you received as a gift yesterday on top of your suitcase and immediately discard the idea of wearing it. No caps. And then the wave of disgust invades you, are you seriously going to do what some random man said on a podcast you came across by accident?

The answer is yes, unfortunately.

─────────

You would rip your leg off if you could, at least it would mean you’d be able to get out of this chair and away from Stuart. But his palm resting on top of your knee feels like a death grip and you’re frankly afraid to move in case it goes further up.

Mati decided to skip FP3 and you’re really hoping she’ll be on time for Quali because you have no one else to talk to, Stuart is just parading you around again and keeping you way too close for comfort because he’s in a great mood since both Ferraris maintained their top spots and things are looking hopeful for Qualifying.

You know it’s your chance to ask if you can bring Victoria around tomorrow, and you know the answer will be yes, but you don’t. You don’t want to ask things from this man, he’s the type to never forget a debt.

You barely catch a glimpse of Carlos and Charles as they walk by on the way to their debrief and Charles waves at you quickly, with a single-dimpled smile. He’s wearing the same cap you refused to put on.

“I’m going to call my friend,” you blurt out once Charles is out of sight, finally moving your leg back to make Stuart’s hand drop. “She had the worst hangover, I have to check up on her.”

“Oh, you girls get wild in Monaco,” Stuart cackles as you sprint away from him, actually resisting the urge to wipe your knee clean.

"Hey y/n!" Mati's voice can barely be heard above the EDM playing wherever she is. "What's up?"

"Where are you?" you whine, looking back inside the Suite. "Help."

"What's wrong?" you picture her frowning as she tries to walk away from the noise helplessly.

You feel guilty for worrying her so you sigh. "Nothing, I just hate being here. Are you coming here for Qualifying?"

"Yep," she pops the 'p' and laughs. "Listen, why don't we have lunch here at the yacht and then go back for Quali?"

"Yes!" once again you look over your shoulder to where the Elix men are laughing at their own jokes and patting each other's backs. “I’m on my way, okay?”

“I’ll be right here, also don’t scare me like that again, please.”

“Sorry,” you chuckle, embarrassed. Maybe you’re a bit dramatic at times, but it’s really all good-natured. “See you in a minute.”

You turn to the door of the Suite, giving a short jump back when you open it at the same time as someone else.

“Oh, god,” you sigh, stepping inside as Charles moves out of the way to let you in. “Thanks.”

“Sorry I scared you,” he smiles, closing the door again once you’re fully in. Charles is once again holding a closed Elix can, tapping his fingers on the side.

You eye it suspiciously, wondering if the thing has really grown on him. After all, one of the first things he told you was how much it disgusted him.

“It’s alright. I thought you were in your debrief?” You grab a can of Elix yourself, looking good in front of the sponsors cannot hurt.

“It was a short one. Keep doing what you’re doing kind of thing,”

“Right. Well, good for both of you,” you look around for Carlos but he’s nowhere to be seen. “Would it jinx it to say ‘good luck’ for later?”

You know many sportspeople take their jinxes and rituals way seriously, and you don’t want to be the one to blame if something goes wrong for the local star.

Charles considers this for a second and then shakes his head no. “Wish me luck,” he smiles.

“Good luck, Charles.” You beam back at him, enjoying—despite yourself—the way his eyes burn into yours.

─────────

You’re back at the Suite with Mati 10 minutes before Qualifying starts. The tension that had seeped out of your body in the form of laughter and loud singing with Mati is already making its way back to your back and jaw. You’re not ready to be around the Elix people again, but you must. However, first, you make Matilde promise she won’t leave your side.

Stuart Schaffer is already patting the empty seat next to him when you make your way through the refreshment tables. You smile at him, a muscle in your cheek falters as you walk past him on your way to the balcony, to catch both Ferraris leaving the garage.

“Oh don’t drink that,” you whisper when you see Mati walk your way, two cans of Gold Elix in her hands. “Don’t.”

Matilde snorts, “You’re literally the ambassador of this thing, and you don’t like it?”

“SHHH!”

“Fine, but those guys are looking at us so we have to at least sip it.”

You groan, opening the one she offers you and then taking a huge gulp. “Yum,” you mock.

Mati laughs again before her face goes sour with the taste. “Oh my God,”

“Warned you,” yet you take another sip. You think that if it grew on Charles it might grow on you, but you don’t really see it happening.

Q1 and Q2 go by smoothly, at least for Ferrari and you’re on the edge of your seat for Q3. This is the race you’ve been more excited for, but it’s not like you’ve attended many others. Still, Monaco just hits different.

The end of Q3 almost gives you a heart attack, although you also blame your almost empty Elix. You didn’t even notice how much you drank, but the thing that really gets your heart jumping out of your chest is Victoria’s ringtone.

Begrudgingly, you turn away from the track. She has texted you a thousand times, without exaggerating, since Quali started and you know it’s because she’s bored out of her mind at the Lounge with her parents. But you’re starting to find this genuinely entertaining and you are bothered by the distraction.

“I told you I’d call you after Quali, Vic,” you singsong, looking up at the screens inside the Suite.

“Well Quali is almost over, no one cares about the last three minutes.”

You do, Max Verstappen is in first place, then Charles and Checo in P3. You’re crossing your fingers for Charles to manage to get above both Red Bulls. And for Carlos to squeeze in there too.

You don’t say anything else, too enthralled by the battle on the screen.

“Y/n?” Vic raises her voice, “Are you listening to me?”

“Yes Vic, what is it?”

“We’re going to be at Ferrari together tomorrow, right?”

You wince, glad she chose a phone call instead of FaceTime this time around. You haven’t asked and you don’t intend to. Vic still has VIP Lounge access, she’ll be fine.

“They said no, Vic.” You lie, your eyes scanning the screen, it’s the last lap before they get the checkered flag out. “I’m sorry.”

“What? Why? Did you tell them I can give them publicity? I have one million followers!”

“Monaco is different from Miami,” you explain gently, “But you’ll still be at the VIP, you have a great view.”

“Yeah, whatever,” she’s beyond annoyed now, as it happens every time things don’t go her way. You can’t blame her, but you also think it will be good for her to spend some time with her parents, whom she refuses to visit although they live in Malibu and pay her mortgage. “We’re still up for dinner though, right?”

“Yep! I’ll meet you at your hotel.”

“Okay see you then, babes.”

By the time your eyes return to the screen, Charles is in P1, Carlos in P3 and the Ferrari Suite is exploding in cheers.

YOU’RE up painfully early the next day. Vic and you went back to your respective hotel way past three am and you’re exhausted, but at least you had enough self-control to avoid today’s hangover.

Nevertheless, the morning goes by in a blur between breakfast with Elix people, calls with Mildred and Walter, your manager, and two casting agents that tell you that no, you don’t need to go for an in-person casting, you’re not getting the role.

By the time you get to the Suite you have a headache and the knot on your throat is progressively getting harder to swallow. You only make things worse by rage-reading tweets with your #IsOver hashtag.

People claim, with more force every day, that Aidan gave you everything and you are starting to regret ever meeting him.

You have worked your ass off for years, taking on small roles, commercials, stock-photo deals. Learning scripts and going to castings and taking classes, you have been criticized and rejected for more things than just “not fitting the role”.

You have given everything you are and everything you have, and people assure what you got in return you owe it all to some man.

“Hola y/n!” Carlos is the first one to get back to the Suite and you wish he would rub off some of his good mood on you. “How are you today?”

“Hi Carlos, I’m alright and you?”

“You definitely look it,” he says, semi-sarcastically. “Something on your mind?”

The knot is back in your throat so you shake your head no. “And yours?”

“Nada de nada.” he smiles. You’re still growing on each other, but this is the most comfortable you’ve been while sharing the same space.

Charles arrives while Carlos, Mati (who is hungover from her party at the yachts) and you are comparing workout playlists. Wearing what now seems to be like his comfort cap, and a pair of ugly ripped jeans, he smiles brightly at the three of you.

You’re happy to see both Ferrari boys so smiley after the past couple races. Miami especially. And you hope they’ll do well; but you’re particularly scared for Charles, and whatever it is that made him unlucky in his hometown, you don’t want this day to end on a sour note.

You spend about an hour talking to them about anything, your movies, their races, Mati's tour with Romeo and Juliet. Music, hobbies and quirks, Charles and Carlos have an opinion on everything and they are actually quite fun to be around. Then, a Ferrari Team member comes to get them for the Drivers Parade so you wave them goodbye, wishing them a smooth race.

"You're not going to wish me luck, y/n?" Charles asks, the smirk on his face is one you identify as mischievous, and it makes a small wave of anxiety run down your back.

Mati stops the bottle of water halfway through her mouth to ogle at the two of you, and the palpable tension that has installed itself in the space.

"Good luck, Charles," the smile you return falters in one corner, but Charles doesn't seem to mind as he adjusts his cap and says thank you before leaving behind Carlos.

Mati has forgotten about her need to hydrate and is staring at you with both eyebrows raised. "I thought you were not doing that?" she gestures with her head towards the door through which both drivers vanished.

"I'm not doing anything," you reply, defensively. "He's being—"

"y/n, you could cut the tension there for a minute," Mati finally takes a swig of water and you wait for her to continue talking. "Like I said, I don't recommend it but... you're free to do whatever you want." she isn't unkind while wording that last part, but it still stings you with annoyance.

"Thanks, Mati." you bite the inside of your cheek, leaning back into the sofa.

─────────

The Ferrari Suite explodes in cheers once the checkered flag is out. After a frankly insane race with rain, crashes and too-long pit stops, both Ferraris have crossed the finish line, and most importantly Charles has finally managed to get rid of his Monaco curse. His enlarged picture appears on every screen with P1 right in the middle. Carlos is P4, but the points are extremely important in the long run, so people celebrate nevertheless.

Before you know it, Mati and you are being dragged down to the track for the podium celebrations. You're buzzing with excitement, holding Matilde's hand as you run to one side, where the mechanics can't crush you as they jump up and down.

Even above the general screams of happiness, you can hear talks of 'Charles deserves this so much', 'It was about time' and 'His hard work is finally paying off at home'.

At least someone's blood, sweat and tears are valued.

YOU are probably not living down the Charles dating allegations this weekend. Which is not your fault, honestly, had they enlarged the picture, it would have shown Mati just as excited for Ferrari as you were. She's Italian, and she bleeds for Ferrari.

But right now, surprisingly, you're not overwhelmed with whatever it is they're saying on Twitter. Although it took Mati snatching your phone away and tossing it in her own purse before sitting you down to retouch your makeup for the celebration party.

Victoria is joining you too, because a 'the more the merrier' applies to any sort of party happening in a Monaco club, especially if it is for the unofficial prince.

It is the first time in three months you let go of your worries, even if it is for the shortest amount of time as you dance with Victoria and Mati and drink anything you please and whoop every time the DJ mentions Charles and Carlos.

You're happy to be with your friends, away from Elix and celebrating two people who can become something more than coworkers to you. Although through the night you see them on a few occasions, Carlos waves at you as he passes by a few times only stopping in the third time to let you congratulate him with a quick hug that's more of a shoulder squeeze than anything.

Charles is obviously harder to approach, and to be fair, it's not like you're even trying. He's surrounded by his hometown friends and by anyone who wants to have his attention for a minute, for a picture or a dance or to buy him a drink.

It's past three am when Victoria is beyond buzzed and you're starting to feel exhausted so you decide it's time to leave. Mati has found someone to take home so she's been gone for around forty minutes, minding her business.

"Come on, let's go," you are grabbing Victoria by the wrist as her ankle twists. "We've both had enough," you laugh, Victoria joins your laughter as you snake through the crowd of people pumping fists in the air, some of them point and wave at you and you smile back at them politely.

You hear your name being passed around a few times, but you focus on finding the exit while keeping Victoria by your side, who has started to whine about not wanting to leave.

Once you break into the outside, you take a breath of fresh air, the coolness makes your skin rise in goosebumps and you shiver, letting go of Victoria to lift the hair on the back of your neck.

"It's too early!" Victoria complains once again, her eyes are glassy and she's just as sweaty.

"It's not, plus you're drunk, we should leave," your ears still feel drowned in the sound of music. “My feet are killing me.”

The exit opens again, and a couple stumbles out laughing and they tell Vic and you goodbye in drunken French. Before the door shuts again, Charles is out on the street too.

"I heard you were leaving," he says in what you're sure it's a too loud voice. But your ears have barely stopped ringing, so you can't blame him. "Are you two okay?" he eyes Victoria, who is starting to lean down on her knees to soothe her dizziness.

"Oh we're alright, we've just partied enough," you smile at him. Charles is rosy, bright-eyed and sweaty. Is it corny to describe someone as painfully handsome?

"I didn't get to congratulate you," you add, trying to keep your attention on Charles while being aware that Victoria might start retching at any given moment. "You did amazing."

Victoria straightens immediately, her glassy stare focusing on Charles. "You're such a good driver, Charles, for real."

"Thank you," Charles nods awkwardly a few times as Victoria pokes him with her left index finger. "And thank you y/n."

"Come on, Vic," you chuckle, keeping her hand away from Charles. "Seriously though, I'm happy for you."

Charles smiles again, running a hand through his hair. "Thank you, really. I'm sorry I didn't see you earlier," he points behind him, to the club.

"It's your party, you can't be everywhere,"

Vic is yawning loudly, and you roll your eyes, amused. "We better get going."

"y/n, when are you flying to Spain?" Charles blurts out, the moment you turn to lead Vic down the street.

"I'm not sure, Wednesday probably?"

"You know, I can still show you a place or two in Monaco. If you want." He sinks his left hand in the front pocket of his dark jeans, and you wonder where the mischievous aura from what seems like ages ago went.

You pause, letting Vic put her whole weight on your shoulder as she finally gives up to the exhaustion. "Um well..."

The same tension that appeared at the Ferrari Suite is back, and the more you hesitate, the thicker it becomes.

Victoria pulls you down with her as she throws her head back, yawning again. Charles is just in time to hold you back up, his other arm pulling Vic back to a standing position.

"Only if you want," he says, he is far too close now and you can smell the mix of alcohol and cologne on him.

And maybe it's the alcohol in your own system, and you'll regret this once you sober up and realize that you told Matilde several times this is exactly what you were not going to do, but you say yes.

─── team principal radio: ❝thank you for reading! I hope you've enjoyed this chapter. I want to say thank you to everyone who interacts with this series, it means a lot to me to know that you're enjoying it!♡❞

✰ paddock club members: @majx00

[huntershowl-moving]

Positivity hour! Tell us about your favourite RP partner and your favourite thread! <3

OOH! i love positivity hour! cut for length because WORDY BITCH DISEASE STRIKES AGAIN APPARENTLY!

i don't think i could pin down just one favorite because i'm so incredibly lucky to have so many amazing partners during this sephblog golden age. this is only a few of the ppl who have touched my presence here and live in my brain rent free rn, i wish i could remember all of them but a shortlist will have to do o7

i will shoutout @harerazor and @tewwor for being my OGs, my rp besties, the truest mfs who always stick around through my year-long (sometimes years-long) absences and whenever i come back to discord or the dash, it's like we never left <3 AND for following me into my hyperfixation zones omg. writing windbreaker and jjk muses would be so much more lonely without u two in my life. <3

on the topic of OGs, @spiritcrown, @never-surrender and @bcdomens are the CREW!!!!!!!! THE FIRST PPL I EVER WROTE WITH AND SOME OF MY FAV FOLKS ON THIS HELLSITE you guys are the best. ily. connecting with u guys again felt like coming home.

@favorskill has ascended past the title of rp partner and into the title of friend. rio is one of my favorite people ever, genuinely, he's so cool and so skilled with writing/worldbuilding/watching his DICE MAKING SKILLS GROW has been so amazing too??? i care u so much rio. biting u. even when my brain is hopelessly deep in the fixation hole i am thinking about u and ur muses always <3

also shoutout to my wife @vsagis / @theixth (bc ik uve been on this one today) for just being like??? overall such a lovely person and an amazing writer??? our main dynamic is so deep and expansive we're starting to develop an extended universe for them. i love them i LOVE THEM TO DEATH. alex u match my freak ily i hope i get this job so we can hang out irl <3

speaking of matching my freak, @koseigu and i get along like a house on fire, and i don't think the world is truly ready for us. the more dynamics we develop, the more dangerous we become. everything we do with geto & sephsho ROCKS and i am terrified (excited) to see where seph and sukuna lead us in our newest explorations. we get up to some absolutely nasty (hot) shit with our creatures and it's always an amazing time. hehe

@chaoslulled hol you are so so so special to me. i owe u so many things and im so sorry omg but i literally never stop thinking about our threads & dynamics they're soooo good. i think you're one of the only partners i've actually been able to maintain Main Threads with over a long period of time?? there's something about the way we write together that makes that actually work in my brain which is super unusual JSDKJDHJKD i'm not complaining though, i love it so much. also your ocs are spinning around in my head on a daily basis, especially char because seph, chiaki and geto all like her very much. <3 ALSO. U ARE THE REASON I WRITE GETO. I HATE IT HERE HE WON'T LEAVE ME ALONE HOW COULD U DO THIS TO ME (affectionate). ur satoru is always the one he and seph come back to first because he is the original.

@quillheel and i have been mutuals for a while but didn't start regularly chatting until recently, and geto has been keeping me hostage in our 1x1 server over the last week or so, it's a problem, please help me. please. my crops are dying. also ur my current record breaker on "most fucked up start to an rp dynamic" with sukuna and rusa and im gonna be real i think u might hold that title for a while KJSDHIUSDHSJDHSJKDHJSKDH

@hinodae gray i think i would follow u to the ends of the earth. our little accidental threads have been some of my favorites ever, and i love to PIECES every one of our ship dynamics so far. thank u for being just as much of a slut for ships as i am, i feel like we match each other's energy and vibe so well!! TUMBLR BETTER UN-SHADOWBAN U SOON OR IM GONNA THROW HANDS >:'O

@eraserisms and @rcguish u two are like a package deal in my brain. D.A., the fact that we exist on the same chef wavelength always makes me so happy. i love seph and shota so much, they make me Hurt in all the best ways and i'm lookin forward to getting more into todoroki's voice so we can keep building out shota becoming his dad i mean mentoring him! and rys!!! i know ur absolutely going thru it rn so we haven't been talking as much lately, but i'm still just as feral for our dynamics as ever. seph and shouta's broken friendship. shou and orion's blossoming romance. seph has so many feelings and thoughts about silver that i don't even know how to articulate but that might need its own separate post. blowing u kisses.

lastly but not leastly, @gomannakami we only connected recently but we've already got this absolutely TRAGIC AND BEAUTIFUL set of pairings going on. satoru and chiaki are so stupidly cute and so so sad. seph and suguru are still in the beginning stages but i LOVE writing them sort of dancing around each other, the mutual pining is so spicy and delicious.

AS FOR THREADS!!!!!

ooh. hm. fuck. i think my first thought is always gonna be my longer-running threads with @chaoslulled — the one that stands out the most in my mind rn is the thread where satoru found seph on the brink of collapse after a hellhound kill. it was only the second thread we ever wrote together, and i ACUTELY remember how nervous i was that it was too intense and i was gonna scare hol away with it because that's happened so many times before. SJDHKSJHD

another one that comes to mind is one of my first threads with @tewwor's litho, which started with the simple inbox prompt "can't sleep?" and ended up turning into one of our longest threads to date and spiraling out into the longest fucking slowburn of this blog's career. i loved it. i'll never stop thinking about that apple.

[cantsomeoneelsedoit]

Ch 51: Hero

Teacher just assigned a group project and then left.

The chapter starts with a Fuuko flashback:

The way her parents are looking at her in the picture 😭

Fuuko's grandpa's hat! So that's where she got it! That's too sweet. She's lucky to have had such a thoughtful person to look after her once her abilities manifested. He shaped the way she thought about herself and how she dealt with trauma, too.

You-Me was with her even when she was all alone. It was there whether she was happy or sad, and it was full of people she could care about without worrying about hurting them.

Too relatable. Anno Un gave Fuuko a reason to keep fighting, and Fuuko had unknowingly given Akira a reason to keep fighting decades before. Writers sustain readers and readers sustain writers.

Rip calls Anno Un a man here, even in Japanese. It's the first time we've heard him gendered. Everything about him has been so ambiguous!

Speaking of ambiguity, we're beginning to see another side to Rip. Maybe he's just being curious, but it seems like he's acting a little more vulnerable around the others now.

Fuuko lists all the things Anno Un did for them even while he called them the "heroes."

Fuuko is right about those things being necessary to defeat Autumn, but they're all a smaller part of defeating God! Will Rip's team join the Union cause?

Andy's definitely a Teamster.

Anyway, the point is that despite the fact that Anno Un called them heroes, Rip doesn't want to play that part.

We see Rip, Latla, and Leila at some point in the past walking in a forest of maple trees. Rip has a doctor's coat and is smiling while pushing Leila's chair. Note the leaves on either side of Leila--one is upside down and the other right side up.

Leila is smiling back at him and wears a plaid scarf and at least one of the earrings current Rip wears. Latla has on what looks like a high-neck, ankle-length dress, which means she's either rich or goth, lol. Probably rich, judging from the way she currently dresses. I really love how she looks in that top panel. So soft!

Andy takes the lead and assigns roles for the group. He's already analyzed how to best use everyone's abilities and how to use them in a complementary way. Bunny agrees right away, but Rip and Latla balk at being told what to do.

Andy has the best one liners!

Autumn absorbs its Juniors to level up! And things get weirder. Phase 2 Autumn attacks Andy, and he almost gets crushed in a book. Meanwhile, Rip is remembering Leila.

This might be crazy, but we've had maple leaves appear a lot in this arc. Of course they're a symbol of Autumn, but look how the one in the last panel of Leila resembles the Under symbol Latla wears in her hair!

Also, the Under symbol is the kanji for "Un-" 不 turned upside down. Doesn't it kind of resemble a maple leaf? It's so perfect for this scene!

So that's why Rip was so shocked when Anno Un called him a hero! Does he attack out of anger, or out of newfound commitment to being a hero??? (Also, Andy's face)

Such a cool spread! A rare sly smile from Latla, too! Her reverse-prediction restored everyone's spirit. And we finally get to see the broom-cycle up close! I wonder how they acquired it.

Looking back through this chapter, there are so many new facial expressions from Rip. There's a side of him that he doesn't show--we as readers see it, but Latla is the only other person who really knows him. He's cultivated this image of someone who can drop others in a heartbeat, but that's only because of someone he can't forget.

Masterpost

[brevityisnotmywit]

Soldiers Of The Fall Series (RvB)

General Warnings: Locington, Angst

3 Fics

WAR

CW: Nightmares, Coping,

The first note is discovered when Locus is going through his current alias’ mailbox. The paper isn’t crisp, but there’s a clear exactness to the way it’s folded over itself. The same can be said of the cryptic contents within.

[‘Do you remember standing on a broken field

White crippled wings beating the sky

The harbingers of war with their nature revealed

And our chances flowing by’]

-We need to talk.

The writing is, at a glance, flawless. When Locus looks more closely, there’s a delicate tremble running throughout the pen strokes. The only thing that’s clear cut is that the bulk of it is made up of song lyrics. Probably some locals pulling a prank. A small part of him wants to save the letter, for some reason.

Locus elects to burn it instead.

---

He’s on another Earth-controlled planet when the datapad is slipped to him. The man hardly gets anything at this place, so he’s not ‘blown away’ when the text flickers to life. Unprepared, yes. Awestruck, no.  

[‘If I can let the memory heal

I will remember you with me on that field

When I thought that I fought this war alone

You were there by my side on the frontline

When I thought that I fought without a cause

You gave me a reason to try ’]

-Not as hard to track as you think you are.

Well, if they found Locus predictable, they were going to learn just how elusive he could really be if he put his mind to it. The ex-mercenary leaves everything but his armor and vanishes into the night.

---

Locus has come to the understanding that his enigmatic letter writer is equally equipped to roam the universe as he himself is. The song gradually winds its was towards its end, be it on paper, digital media, or in one instance a singing-telegram service. (The poor sap almost pissed himself when Locus came to the door.)

If he can’t put a stop to it, Locus might as well put forth some effort in deciphering the meaning of it all.

While it was simple to find the song that contained the lyrics, Locus is doubtful it will help him in the long run. He’d started to pick up on a trend running through the whole debacle. Locus pulls out a pen, noting the underlined words and which notes they belonged to.

1st) WORDS- Remember, Crippled, Nature revealed, chances. NOTE- We need to talk.

2nd) WORDS- Memory, Will remember, Thought, Frontline, Thought, Try. NOTE- Not as hard to track as you think you are.

3rd) WORDS- Something new, Torn, Stunted view, Dogs, Memory heal, Remember. No note, just an outdated map of North America.

4th) SINGER- Kid handed me the directions he was given. WORDS- Thought, Alone, My side, Impossible, War, Without, Reason why. NOTE- Having a good trip through the stars?

Then the fifth arrived on a flashdrive. It was a clip of the rest of the song set to footage of Chorus. The words were superimposed over top of the video, underlines still present as in all before it.

[‘With no-one wearing their real face

It's a whiteout of emotion

And I've only got my brittle bones to break the fall

When the love in letters fade

It's like moving in slow motion

And we're already too late if we arrive at all

And then we're caught up in the arms race

An involuntary addiction

And we're shedding every value our mothers taught-]

Suddenly the video shifts to the footage of Felix monologuing to the-...no. There’s no way they could have pulled this off...could they?

[‘-So will you please show me your real face -]

Then it shows a scan of the North American map he’d been given. As the last of the words flash by, it slowly zooms in. By the time it stops, Locus feels like a fool for not connecting the dots sooner.

[-Draw the line in the horizon

Cos I only need your name to call the reasons why I fought.’]

The ending goes unheeded by Locus because the map is centered on Washington State. The theme of emphasizing terms relating to thought and memory all makes sense now. As if he was unsure if Locus had finally come to the solution himself, an all too familiar steel and yellow gauntlet slides a datapad into the feed of the map with clear coordinates. Below is a final, rather slyly worded note.

-Memory is the Key, Locus. Don’t keep making me wait.

---

When Locus approaches the rendezvous spot, he notices that someone (Presumably Washington.) had taken great care in selecting the site. It wasn’t in the middle of a field where snipers like himself would feel on edge. Yet, it isn’t caged in by the region's well-known mountain ranges. It was a fairly young forest, with trees unsuitable for gunners to take as vantage points.

Leave it to ever paranoid Washington to be sure he had at least some form of advantage, regardless of however minor it may be. Anything to compensate for that perceived lack of skill.

Speaking of the agent, Locus hears a shrill whistle and whips around. Washington is beckoning the cloaked man over, seemingly uncaring if it looked like he was waving at thin air to anyone who didn’t know better.

Locus hesitates before dropping his invisibility and it takes a shamefully large amount of restraint to suppress a childish pout. “I am unsure why I even bother at this point, if you just continue to spot me.”

"Can't be sure myself. " Washington’s voice sounds rough, like the bad end of a faulty transmission. It couldn’t just be the helmet to blame, not when Locus had witnessed the crimson spraying from the agent’s throat first hand.

Locus was pushing A’rynasea as fast as it could manage with one hand. The other was occupied with trying to keep pressure on Washington’s wounds. The agent lets out a wet sounding whine, struggling to move. Before Locus can push him back down, he makes out the man trying to speak.

“Mn? Mhn?” There’s not much beyond that, as the hospital looms ever closer in Locus’ line of sight

-

Locus hid, unseen by the staff and listened to what the doctor was going to report to the Reds and Blues.

“So he’s getting the hang of that new vocalizer I whipped up for him, now that he’s coming around from the anesthesia. Hey, Parker, did you catch the one that dropped him here?”

The medi-vac pilot glances at her like this was a frankly silly thing to ask, and shakes his head.

“Well that sure is a shame, huh? He keeps asking for us to go find Maine and wants to know what the deal with his new armor is!”

Locus freezes.

“Buuuut, he’s also having an ‘Autotune fight with the Autobots’ in his words, so it’s probably nothing!”

“Hey, Earth to Locus? You went all quiet. Not even your broody kind, either.” Washington has moved right up to the edges of Locus’ massive personal space bubble.

The former mercenary clears his throat, still coming off a touch sheepish. “My apologies, Agent Washington-”

“You know it’s okay to use Wash, right?”

Locus huffs a bit, looking off into the forest. “Why are we here?”

“Because you saved me.” The freelancer leans on a tree trunk, visor not hiding how he intensely watched Locus’ every move. “I’d like a chance to say thanks.”

“You tailed me across the cosmos to say that?”

Washington laughs like a worn down toy’s voice box. (Likely because he now spoke with one.) It wasn’t like the old footage Locus had snatched from the PFL servers. Before he would laugh in this breathy way that sounded like sunshine felt. Locus tries to shake that comparison from his mind, frowning.

“Of course I didn’t. You forgot to yank the standard issue GPS out of that new helmet of yours. Simmons gave me a hand in tracking it. I’d send you something once you stayed put for more than a month.”

“Fuck.” Locus hissed to himself. He was getting lazy now that Fel-...hmph.

Washington shrugs. “I’ve also got an offer for you.”

Locus waves in a ‘well don’t let me stop you.’ way.

“I’ve got a place you can use. I don’t stay there, so I want you to have it.” The agent kicks over a rock at his feet.

Locus scoffs, shaking his head. “I don’t need your charity. I’m not poor by any stretch of the imagination.”

“Did I call you poor?” the older man challenges. “I’d feel better knowing you’re nearby.”

The ex-mercenary sighs, turning on his heel. “Is that all, Agent Washington?”

“For now. Here.” Washington chucks a ring of keys to Locus. “I know you have my contact info, so keep in touch, yeah?”

“We will see. Goodbye, Agent.”

“See you soon.”

---

Locus found the cabin convenient. He had no other reasons for why he stayed as often as he did. (He had many reasons.) It was well stocked with dry firewood, electricity, and a spacious kitchen to make it comfortable for extended use. The first time Locus wandered into the house, he was taken aback that the fridge was brimming with his favored foods.

Locus likes to think he’s not a fool. He’s mulling over the discovery in his mind when he hears the distinctive crunch of tires on snow. In an instant, he’s cloaked and slinks out the back.

There’s a beat up SUV out front and it doesn’t take a sniper's eye to spot Washington in civilian clothes sliding out of the cab. Locus silently stalks around so Washington is sandwiched between himself and his cabin. Locus knows better. Locus knows the agent is too aware of his surroundings, but still he reaches out for the freelancer’s throat as he checks his phone.

Just before he can make contact, “Evening, Loc’s.”

Locus goes still on the snowy drive. Silence reigns for many long moments. “Why are you doing this.”

Washington glances over his shoulder at the invisible sniper. “Because I’ve been there, Locus.”

“Not your problem.”

There’s a scoff, wispy clouds escaping Washington’s teeth. “I don’t care. You need someone on your side. I know I did.”

That gives Locus pause. His silhouette shimmers before fading into nothing. With some thought, he settles he hand hovering near Washington’s chin onto his shoulder. This soldier was watching out for him, the sheep standing guard over the sleeping wolf.

Locus finds the attention is not unwelcome.

---

Washington turns up a few weeks later, one small bag at his side. “I just need some time off from the Reds and Blues. Let me go set up the futon, can you get the fire going? A storm’s rolling in sometime tonight.”

Locus nods quietly, trying to stamp out the panic bubbling up into his throat. ‘Washington isn’t going to care about seeing your face.’ He scolds himself. ‘You get to see his face, it’s only fair.’

There’s a pathetic, rusty shriek of hinges when Washington pulls at the frame of the longer of the two couches. After a minor struggle, it gives up, flopping open  The freelancer rasps out a chuckle. “Y’know, this is the only thing I have from before I enlisted. Kept it in a storage unit we all shared during PFL.” Something shifts in his tone so subtly it almost went over Locus’ head. “Everything here used to be in it. I couldn’t stand to see it rotting away in there.”

Locus glances around with a deeper understanding, and things make a bit more sense. “Are you willing to elaborate?” He asks while striking a match to set the tinder alight.

The futon creaks loudly when Washington sits on it. “Yeah, I can. The stuff in the kitchen came from pretty much everyone outside of Tex. Even the freelancers the Director didn’t give a shit about, Like West and Indi’s crew. The table was C.T.’s that’s why it’s covered up. She used to stab the shit out of it when she was learning knife skills. The butcher block is hers too, but she took good care of it for obvious reasons. The bed’s Carolina’s, didn’t even remember we had that unit when I asked to go get everything from it.” The older man smiles softly, staring up at the ceiling.

“York had the barstools, the chairs at the table were Wyoming’s. Florida had the other couch, and a few of the quilts. The deck chairs were from Illinois. North had a couple bookshelves. South had the footlockers and the old ass TV.” Washington's voice wavers, going faint. “...Maine had the rest of the blankets and the dressers.”

Locus resolutely focuses on arranging the logs, watching how the sparks swirl throughout the hearth.

“You look like him…” is whispered, as if the freelancer is scared to admit to it. “...but your skin is darker, less scars, more hair. Your eyes, they’re the biggest difference. His were like those little bits of amber they sell at museums.” Washington's voice trembles. “Sorry…”

Locus shakes his head. “Don’t be. It’s quite apparent he meant a great deal to you, so I consider it a compliment.” He sneaks a glance over his shoulder.

Washington has thrown an arm over his eyes, but the corners of his mouth draw up into a wistful smile. “That’s what I was going for with it.”

The fire pops, and the conversation ends.

---

Locus is startled awake by a panicked, broken scream. When he throws open the door, pistol in hand, he sees Washington arching off the futon, fingers clawing at the back of his neck.

“Agent Washington.” The ex-mercenary tries, stalking over to the freelancer. “Agent Washington!”

The noises that tumble from Washington can’t be classified as words. In the dark of night, it’s all too clear how lasting the damage had been. Locus can’t let this continue, lest Washington lose what little recovery he had. The man strides forward, grabbing an arm as it swings out without a thought.

Washington’s eyes fly open, still foggy with sleep. He expertly breaks Locus’ grip before twisting the younger man’s arm violently.

On reflex, Locus jerks away, thankful that Washington didn’t have the leverage or brute strength to snap his wrist. “ Wash! ”

The freelancer stills, blinking up at him in confusion. “Who?” He sounds even more off than before.

“You. I was speaking to you.”

“Use my name then, dipshit. You the new rookie, or something? Name’s Church, so get it right next time.” Washington scowls at him in a way that is very unlike himself.

Locus wished he was less understanding of what was going on, but the freelancer wasn’t the only one with wicked night terrors. In that mindset, anyone could lose themselves. The key difference was that Locus didn’t have someone else's memories to sift through. Maybe he could help somehow.

“No, I’m not a new recruit, and your name is not Church. You go by Washington. You are in your cabin in the middle of a snow storm.” Locus is treading carefully, wary of how the older man would react.

Washington just searches him with a haughty air of suspicion. “I’m just expected to buy into that?”

On a hunch, Locus points to the mirror hanging behind the living room. “Look at yourself, if you don’t.”

Washington tsk’s, lazily throwing a look over his shoulder, then double takes. “I-what the fuck?” Then he looks at his hands, flexing them many times, like they’re a puzzle in need of solving. Eventually, Locus can see the haze dissipate from his eyes. Once more he searches Locus for something only Washington knows.

“I had a nightmare, didn’t I?”

Locus nods, stopping Washington, predicting his reaction. “Don’t beat yourself up over it. I’m glad I could help out.”

In the dark cabin, Washington looks so very small. His eyes are watery, catching the barest hints of light. “...Will you stay with me?”

There’s not even a fraction of hesitation before Locus says, “Of course.” He sits carefully at the edge of the futon, not expecting a trembling hand to close around his arm.

“Thank you.”

Sharing a bed with Washington is so fundamentally different from sharing a bed with Felix, it gives Locus emotional whiplash. Felix usually needled him relentlessly, only stopping when he had what he wanted from Locus. (Sex, usually.) When he eventually did sleep, Felix as always jabbing with an elbow or a knee, all points and hard edges.

Washington allowed Locus the space he always craved. All he seemed to require was to hold onto Locus’ hand until he fell back to sleep. That was some how intensely more intimate than anything Felix had ever done to Locus. Maybe it was that Washington let Locus decide for himself. It bothered Locus too much to think about it.

---

Locus learned many things from the year that followed.

Locus always felt the cabin was too big when Wash wasn’t visiting.

Wash showed up every other Sunday with fresh food.

Locus worried more than he should about Wash’s safety.

Wash had a caffeine problem.

Locus had adjusted to civilian life better than Felix said he could.

Wash liked to sit on the same couch as Locus, but didn’t touch without his permission.

Locus liked how Wash curled against his side when he did give permission.

Wash wanted to help him get better, but allowed Locus to decide if he was alright with going to a therapist.

Locus realized he might have gotten in too deep when he stopped calling Wash ‘Agent Washington’ in his head.

Wash liked Locus for the ways he wasn’t Maine, rather than liking him for the ways they were the same.

Locus liked Wash. He liked him quite a lot.

CHILDREN OF THE SUN

To say Locus was apprehensive about meeting the Reds and Blues was technically accurate. Accurate in the same way that a rocket could be called a big firecracker. There was a reason the ex-mercenary left after making certain that Wash was safe. He wasn't a foolish man by any means. After the clusterfuck of Chorus he had no intentions of ever contacting them. Life had other ideas, clearly.

Locus isn't sure why his ship started malfunctioning when it had, but it led him to Grif babbling like a lunatic to a set of sports equipment painted in a childish manner. When they'd taken off, the endless stream of questions about Locus’ intentionally secretive life began. Things the man never wanted to think about again under normal circumstances.

They meet at a coffee house that is a favorite haunt of Wash. He'd cashed in a favor and after it had officially closed for the night, the Reds and Blues were huddled inside to avoid the brutal January weather. Outside, Locus can see them from the window, able to mostly guess on their identities. Sarge was fairly obvious with his bright red polo and buzzcut. The tall one with thick, messy curls must be Caboose. Simmons arm gave him away, despite the long-sleeved sweater doing it's damndest to hide the well oiled chrome, though the long braid trailing over his shoulder was a surprise. Tucker was the one who tried to spend as little time as possible in his armor, so Locus was quite familiar with his cropped hair and dimples. Carolina was almost exactly how she had been in Freelancer. Shorter hair, but still red as fire. Grif was snoring away on a couch, with who Locus thinks must be the medic and some fellow in a pink parka.

He's startled from the old habit of memorising people's faces by a hand slipping into his. Wash glances up at Locus with one of those tired, lopsided smiles he seems prone to.

“C’mon. Let's get this done.” The older man inclines his head to the door, gently tugging Locus along.

The door chimes when Wash opens it and everyone's attention is on the pair in an instant. Locus’ lingering doubts snap at him. Mentally he chides himself, “ You agreed to this. You promised no armor, remember? Wash is right there, you’ll be fine.”

“What the fuck , why is Locus a trashy romance novel beefcake?!” Tucker balks, nearly spilling his drink over the table.

The room erupts in a mix of cackling and irritated demands for silence. Locus clutches Wash’s hand firmly, his desire to remain hidden growing into a nigh unbearable need. A sharp whistle slices neatly through the din.

“All of you shut up and pay attention.” Wash rasps irritably. “Locus isn't here for you to gawk at. You asked to meet him, so get on with it.” The Freelancer's calloused fingers tighten around Locus’ palm. At some point he had placed himself between the ex-mercenary and his comrades.

The sheep diligently watches over the wolf.

“Fine-” Tucker sniffs dismissively. ���-how about what the hell were you thinking, running off like that?”

“I don’t-” Locus tries before Sarge snappily adds on.

“It ain't rocket science, kid. Y’ could’a stuck around fer a few days, at least. Hell, what if we needed yer help with Susie Spec’ Ops’ over there?” He grumbles, nodding to Wash.

The man in question looks offended, opening his mouth to interject when Caboose cuts him off.

“Oh oh! Can I also have another hug??”

Everyone throws dirty looks at the Blue trooper.

“So Tucker can call him a book but I don't get a nice hug?” Caboose pouts dramatically.

They drop the subject. Grif rolls over, unkempt hair flopping into his eyes. “Sup Locs. Sorry I went nuts on you before... actually I'm not, but whatever.” He shrugs a shoulder. “You probably do owe Simmons a 'good job’ since he helped Wash track your dumb ass.”

Locus glances over at Simmons, finding he isn't the only one who wasn't thrilled with the whole situation. The thin soldier wrings the tail end of his braid, practically jumping out of his skin at the mention of his name.

“I-It was no big deal, don't worry about it!” He stammers rapidly, shoulders hunching, giving the impression that he was sinking back into his turtleneck.

“It was a big deal, nerd!” Grif retorts, pushing away from the lumpy overstuffed sofa, arms folded across his chest. “You kept bitching about how it was gonna be a pain with our old tech!”

Before another squabble can break out, Wash lets go of Locus’ hand to intervene. There’s a clear exhaustion threaded along the bow of his spine. He’s holding his arms out, glaring at both of them. “Don’t start. I need everyone to cool it.” The Freelancer drags his fingers through his hair, sighing. “Let Locus get a word in too. This isn’t an intervention, it’s a conversation.”

The medic pipes up from the far end of the sofa. “This is pretty normal for us, remember?”

“Of course he remembers, what a stupid question.” Locus thinks, shoving his hands into the pockets of his slacks. He’d grown used to Wash’s personality when it was just the two of them in that cabin. He wasn’t like the overly intense facade Locus had observed in the limited recordings of his time chasing the Meta. Not the intimidating soldier that had been sent after Epsilon, or the (admittedly lovable) goofball from the Freelancer era. He was quiet but shouted at the appliances when they didn’t work well. (The oven had been the target of many rants.) He didn’t sleep well but would pass out on Locus’ lap when they occasionally watched movies. He made dry-jokes, chuckling to himself quietly. He certainly wasn’t a pushover. They had argued like anyone with their histories would. Wash could be a force to reckon with if he was so inclined.

Yet here in this little room, he seemed to wilt. It was as though the intensity of these people made him lesser somehow. He didn’t feel able to fly his true colours. A memory flickers, triggering many more.

“I just need some time off from the Reds and Blues.”

“Hey, sorry, needed a bit of quiet time.”

“I’m fine, Car’s just...y’know.”

"I can't sleep, can we go do something?"

"I needed a peaceful place."

It’s just enough to push the ex-mercenary to speak.

Locus clears his throat, squaring his shoulders. Wash’s head snaps up, eyeing the ex-mercenary cautiously. “Normal changes sometimes. It isn’t exactly...efficient to argue all the time.”

“Part of our charm, numbnuts.” Tucker snorts, a snide smirk on his face. “Did you miss the memo?”

Locus wants to punch something.

He takes a breath instead. “It’s not the most charming habit, if you want my honesty.”

“Yeah, because killing people totally charms the underpants off’a folks!” The one in the pink parka taunts.

That thread holding Wash in check snaps in an instant. “Donut!”

The blonde jumps, upending his mug onto the floor.

“All of you can say what you want but Locus is trying. He’s known war just as long as we have, if not longer.” The Freelancer starts pacing (A nervous habit.) around an empty table. “We’ve all been assholes to each other so what makes him any different than me?”

“You weren’t a mercenary.” Carolina coldly states from the booth she’s taken over.

“I-” Wash stumbles over the tip of his boot, eyes a fraction too wide.

“You didn’t perpetuate a planet wide civil war, or spring a prison ship-” She calmly adds a finger for each reason, ignoring the way Wash tries to interject. “-You didn’t plot an elaborate trap to kill our troops, didn’t murder them, and you didn’t betray your own-”

The sheep had kept the wolf safe for so long now. Time to return the favor.

Locus steps between the two, putting a hand on Wash’s shoulder. “If I recall properly, Project Freelancer had just as bloody a record as I myself did. You may not have sent a government into death throes as was done to Chorus, but you did ruin countless lives. Wash and yourself are evidence of that fact.”

Carolina levels him with a glare, cheeks darkening. She starts to speak, but Locus isn’t exactly invested in hearing out her predictably fragile argument.

“From my research of the footage, you raided many innocent cargo vessels without thinking twice. Orders are orders . Right Agent Carolina?” Locus drones, brushing hair from his eyes. “While it was by no means as elaborate as what you’re alluding to, you and Wash have both done harm to these simulation troopers. If you want to argue that I’m wrong, I have numerous instances I can bring up. Though they weren’t fully successful, I have a remarkably clear clip of Wash shooting one of the Red troopers point blank in the stomach.”

“Oh yeahhhh, you did try to kill me Washy! I almost forgot about that…” Donut chuckles, scratching at his belly through the down coat.

Locus wasn’t sure why he didn’t remember this being the same soldier but it does give his words a solid weight with which to fight. Felix used to claim the best way to win an argument was when someone on the opposing side willingly vocalized you had a point.

“A point-” He claimed. “-is how a knife so easily slides into a beating heart.”

Not everything Felix had taught him was bad, it seemed.

“Maine.”

All eyes are on Wash again. Carolina blinks owlishly, tilting her head. “Wash what-”

“I betrayed Maine. I had a chance to save him, and I didn’t. I saved myself.” Wash glances over at the Reds and Blues. “I saved them. Not before I betrayed them, though. I took the offer that I was given for a chance at freedom. I turned on them, and…” He bites his lip, gaze drifting aside. “In all honesty, I didn’t feel bad about doing it. It gave me an insight into how the world really works. Everyone can be good and bad. They’re not a mutually exclusive thing. The Reds and Blues aren’t heroes, but they changed a lot of things for the better. They can be douchebags but also save a planet. I can be the mean Freelancer but also try and support these troops because I don’t have to pick one. I just have to adjust to what they need me to be. Maine wasn’t a monster but he made a choice at the end. I made my choice.”

Wash exhales, the very sound itself laced with deeply repressed hurt. “We promised we’d stop looking back Car’. That we would better ourselves. That’s why we all left. We needed time to be ourselves again. Not just soldiers, or war heros, or guns for hire. Just...us.” He looks up at Locus, a fleeting smile crosses his face. “ All of us deserve another chance.”

Locus stills, glancing to Carolina. He’s not expecting how steady his voice is when he starts. “I’m here to make amends. If that means you choose not to speak to me after this, that’s acceptable. All I need from you is to promise me you won’t intentionally prevent my goal from being reached.”

The room is by no means silent, Grif ‘whispering’ to Simmons, Caboose humming absentmindedly, Tucker sighing, Sarge grumbling a string of curses. It’s the quiet  that Locus has come to associate with these troops. They always had something going on, but the fact that they thought to lower their typical volume meant quiet to them.

Carolina huffs softly, thumb running over a small metal object tucked into her palm. She looks up, sharp green eyes catching the light from the lamps overhead. “Fine. If you really want to do better, I won’t be the one to mess it up.”

On a rare impulsive whim, Locus asks, “I’d also like it if you tried to work on your relationship with Wash. He seems to almost cower when it comes to you. He deserves better than just playing dumb to avoid your temper.”

Wash startles under his palm, stammering. “I mean I-I don’t think you’re...I don’t-...uh…” He fidgets with the edge of his jacket until Locus gently nudges him forward, yet still keeping a protective grip on his shoulder. “I mean, playing dumb is kinda harsh, but Locus has a point.”

Hopefully the point hit home for once.

“We’re equals in this Car’. I’m all too quick to just give you the right of way because of the Freelancer days. I shouldn’t roll over and let you take responsibility for all our choices because that’s not how communication works. There’s only so much I can do, though. We should all feel free to ask for things. That we can speak up when we feel we’re being neglected. Car’...it’s time to let us grow up. We’re not kids any more.”

There’s an overly dramatic gasp from Caboose. “Whaaat?! You two were brother and sister this whole time?” His voice turns smug. “I knew it allll along, I said you know they don’t look it but I’m telling you Washingtub is Carol-Timer’s baby brother!”

Wash yelps, “Wait, what?! No! It was a metaphor, we’re not related! Also I’m older than her by a long shot!”

Caboose just keeps grinning and repeating, “I called it.”

The rest of the night went better, by the end Simmons had rigged a monitor to run some terrible movie called Thankskilling which had the room erupting in horrified laughter and repeated cries of ‘WHAT?!’. Wash ended up taking Caboose aside to make hot chocolate and they emerged with a stack of paper and a fistful of crayons from the depths of the kitchen. A clever ploy to avoid traumatizing the Blue soldier.

By the time the credits rolled, Simmons wrestled the controller from Grif threatening to break his arm if he didn’t let them change channels. Considering the power in his cybernetic limb, it wasn’t the emptiest of promises. Wash drifted back over with Caboose in his wake. The young man excitedly shows Locus a crude (yet oddly charming) scribble of what he claimed to be all of them. The ex-mercenary takes it gently, taking it all in.

The biggest was Caboose who was the only one who had hair of them all. He was labeled as both the ‘best!!’ and ‘me!’. To his right the medic and Red team. The medic (Locus really needed to get his name at some point) was in his signature purple, smiling with an outdated headband that Locus is fairly sure was worn by dentists rather than doctors. He was described with ‘nice!’. Then Donut, grin breaking from the confines of his face and hands thrown over his head, the descriptor this time is ‘hapy’. Shouting next to him must be Sarge in fire engine red. His head is square for some reason, and he’s noted for being ‘angry’. At the bottom right corner are Grif and Simmons, the former of which looks like he swallowed a balloon, the latter with one green eye. Surprising attention to detail there. When he takes another look he realizes Grif seems to be kissing Simmons. If they thought they were being subtle, they failed to fool even Caboose’s notice. Grif is simply stated to be ‘fat’ and Simmons is ‘smart!’.

The rest are to Caboose’s left, starting with Carolina. She’s got a rather grumpy look on with exaggerated eyelashes and her hands on her hips. At her feet is the word ‘mean’. Then to her left is Tucker who is either doing his recently named “finger guns” or flipping someone off. Hard to tell. In faint crayon above him he’s credited with being ‘dum’. With his grey body and yellow limbs, Wash looks almost depressed compared to the rest of the bunch. He’s just named ‘tub!’ rather than any actual description like the others. Oh, Locus was part of this too. His arms and legs are a forest green along with the detail of his scar. The rest of him is grey with an irritated look on his face. Above him in grey is the word ‘scary’. Below him in green however, it says ‘hug’.

When he squints he realizes he’s holding Wash’s hand. Maybe Caboose was more observant than he gave him credit for. “You...you did a good job.” Locus says finally.

Caboose lights up light a firecracker, bouncing on his feet before delivering a crushing hug to the ex-mercenary. He can hear the room burst out into laughter, even catching the wheezy edge of Wash’s own chuckles.

“Okay, Caboose, he needs some air now.” Wash swallows another giggle fit, patting at his shoulder.

When he’s released Locus knows everyone’s staring. They keep staring and they don’t scowl like they did before. With an unusually nervous chuckle he shrugs at the rest.

“It’s not exactly the first time he’s done that to me.”

FALSE KINGS

CW: Nightmares, Suicidal Thoughts

To say Locus was apprehensive about meeting the Reds and Blues was technically accurate. Accurate in the same way that a rocket could be called a big firecracker. There was a reason the ex-mercenary left after making certain that Wash was safe. He wasn't a foolish man by any means. After the clusterfuck of Chorus he had no intentions of ever contacting them. Life had other ideas, clearly.

Locus isn't sure why his ship started malfunctioning when it had, but it led him to Grif babbling like a lunatic to a set of sports equipment painted in a childish manner. When they'd taken off, the endless stream of questions about Locus’ intentionally secretive life began. Things the man never wanted to think about again under normal circumstances.

They meet at a coffee house that is a favorite haunt of Wash. He'd cashed in a favor and after it had officially closed for the night, the Reds and Blues were huddled inside to avoid the brutal January weather. Outside, Locus can see them from the window, able to mostly guess on their identities. Sarge was fairly obvious with his bright red polo and buzzcut. The tall one with thick, messy curls must be Caboose. Simmons arm gave him away, despite the long-sleeved sweater doing it's damndest to hide the well oiled chrome, though the long braid trailing over his shoulder was a surprise. Tucker was the one who tried to spend as little time as possible in his armor, so Locus was quite familiar with his cropped hair and dimples. Carolina was almost exactly how she had been in Freelancer. Shorter hair, but still red as fire. Grif was snoring away on a couch, with who Locus thinks must be the medic and some fellow in a pink parka.

He's startled from the old habit of memorising people's faces by a hand slipping into his. Wash glances up at Locus with one of those tired, lopsided smiles he seems prone to.

“C’mon. Let's get this done.” The older man inclines his head to the door, gently tugging Locus along.

The door chimes when Wash opens it and everyone's attention is on the pair in an instant. Locus’ lingering doubts snap at him. Mentally he chides himself, “ You agreed to this. You promised no armor, remember? Wash is right there, you’ll be fine.”

“What the fuck , why is Locus a trashy romance novel beefcake?!” Tucker balks, nearly spilling his drink over the table.

The room erupts in a mix of cackling and irritated demands for silence. Locus clutches Wash’s hand firmly, his desire to remain hidden growing into a nigh unbearable need. A sharp whistle slices neatly through the din.

“All of you shut up and pay attention.” Wash rasps irritably. “Locus isn't here for you to gawk at. You asked to meet him, so get on with it.” The Freelancer's calloused fingers tighten around Locus’ palm. At some point he had placed himself between the ex-mercenary and his comrades.

The sheep diligently watches over the wolf.

“Fine-” Tucker sniffs dismissively. “-how about what the hell were you thinking, running off like that?”

“I don’t-” Locus tries before Sarge snappily adds on.

“It ain't rocket science, kid. Y’ could’a stuck around fer a few days, at least. Hell, what if we needed yer help with Susie Spec’ Ops’ over there?” He grumbles, nodding to Wash.

The man in question looks offended, opening his mouth to interject when Caboose cuts him off.

“Oh oh! Can I also have another hug??”

Everyone throws dirty looks at the Blue trooper.

“So Tucker can call him a book but I don't get a nice hug?” Caboose pouts dramatically.

They drop the subject. Grif rolls over, unkempt hair flopping into his eyes. “Sup Locs. Sorry I went nuts on you before... actually I'm not, but whatever.” He shrugs a shoulder. “You probably do owe Simmons a 'good job’ since he helped Wash track your dumb ass.”

Locus glances over at Simmons, finding he isn't the only one who wasn't thrilled with the whole situation. The thin soldier wrings the tail end of his braid, practically jumping out of his skin at the mention of his name.

“I-It was no big deal, don't worry about it!” He stammers rapidly, shoulders hunching, giving the impression that he was sinking back into his turtleneck.

“It was a big deal, nerd!” Grif retorts, pushing away from the lumpy overstuffed sofa, arms folded across his chest. “You kept bitching about how it was gonna be a pain with our old tech!”

Before another squabble can break out, Wash lets go of Locus’ hand to intervene. There’s a clear exhaustion threaded along the bow of his spine. He’s holding his arms out, glaring at both of them. “Don’t start. I need everyone to cool it.” The Freelancer drags his fingers through his hair, sighing. “Let Locus get a word in too. This isn’t an intervention, it’s a conversation.”

The medic pipes up from the far end of the sofa. “This is pretty normal for us, remember?”

“Of course he remembers, what a stupid question.” Locus thinks, shoving his hands into the pockets of his slacks. He’d grown used to Wash’s personality when it was just the two of them in that cabin. He wasn’t like the overly intense facade Locus had observed in the limited recordings of his time chasing the Meta. Not the intimidating soldier that had been sent after Epsilon, or the (admittedly lovable) goofball from the Freelancer era. He was quiet but shouted at the appliances when they didn’t work well. (The oven had been the target of many rants.) He didn’t sleep well but would pass out on Locus’ lap when they occasionally watched movies. He made dry-jokes, chuckling to himself quietly. He certainly wasn’t a pushover. They had argued like anyone with their histories would. Wash could be a force to reckon with if he was so inclined.

Yet here in this little room, he seemed to wilt. It was as though the intensity of these people made him lesser somehow. He didn’t feel able to fly his true colours. A memory flickers, triggering many more.

“I just need some time off from the Reds and Blues.”

“Hey, sorry, needed a bit of quiet time.”

“I’m fine, Car’s just...y’know.”

"I can't sleep, can we go do something?"

"I needed a peaceful place."

It’s just enough to push the ex-mercenary to speak.

Locus clears his throat, squaring his shoulders. Wash’s head snaps up, eyeing the ex-mercenary cautiously. “Normal changes sometimes. It isn’t exactly...efficient to argue all the time.”

“Part of our charm, numbnuts.” Tucker snorts, a snide smirk on his face. “Did you miss the memo?”

Locus wants to punch something.

He takes a breath instead. “It’s not the most charming habit, if you want my honesty.”

“Yeah, because killing people totally charms the underpants off’a folks!” The one in the pink parka taunts.

That thread holding Wash in check snaps in an instant. “Donut!”

The blonde jumps, upending his mug onto the floor.

“All of you can say what you want but Locus is trying. He’s known war just as long as we have, if not longer.” The Freelancer starts pacing (A nervous habit.) around an empty table. “We’ve all been assholes to each other so what makes him any different than me?”

“You weren’t a mercenary.” Carolina coldly states from the booth she’s taken over.

“I-” Wash stumbles over the tip of his boot, eyes a fraction too wide.

“You didn’t perpetuate a planet wide civil war, or spring a prison ship-” She calmly adds a finger for each reason, ignoring the way Wash tries to interject. “-You didn’t plot an elaborate trap to kill our troops, didn’t murder them, and you didn’t betray your own-”

The sheep had kept the wolf safe for so long now. Time to return the favor.

Locus steps between the two, putting a hand on Wash’s shoulder. “If I recall properly, Project Freelancer had just as bloody a record as I myself did. You may not have sent a government into death throes as was done to Chorus, but you did ruin countless lives. Wash and yourself are evidence of that fact.”

Carolina levels him with a glare, cheeks darkening. She starts to speak, but Locus isn’t exactly invested in hearing out her predictably fragile argument.

“From my research of the footage, you raided many innocent cargo vessels without thinking twice. Orders are orders . Right Agent Carolina?” Locus drones, brushing hair from his eyes. “While it was by no means as elaborate as what you’re alluding to, you and Wash have both done harm to these simulation troopers. If you want to argue that I’m wrong, I have numerous instances I can bring up. Though they weren’t fully successful, I have a remarkably clear clip of Wash shooting one of the Red troopers point blank in the stomach.”

“Oh yeahhhh, you did try to kill me Washy! I almost forgot about that…” Donut chuckles, scratching at his belly through the down coat.

Locus wasn’t sure why he didn’t remember this being the same soldier but it does give his words a solid weight with which to fight. Felix used to claim the best way to win an argument was when someone on the opposing side willingly vocalized you had a point.

“A point-” He claimed. “-is how a knife so easily slides into a beating heart.”

Not everything Felix had taught him was bad, it seemed.

“Maine.”

All eyes are on Wash again. Carolina blinks owlishly, tilting her head. “Wash what-”

“I betrayed Maine. I had a chance to save him, and I didn’t. I saved myself.” Wash glances over at the Reds and Blues. “I saved them. Not before I betrayed them, though. I took the offer that I was given for a chance at freedom. I turned on them, and…” He bites his lip, gaze drifting aside. “In all honesty, I didn’t feel bad about doing it. It gave me an insight into how the world really works. Everyone can be good and bad. They’re not a mutually exclusive thing. The Reds and Blues aren’t heroes, but they changed a lot of things for the better. They can be douchebags but also save a planet. I can be the mean Freelancer but also try and support these troops because I don’t have to pick one. I just have to adjust to what they need me to be. Maine wasn’t a monster but he made a choice at the end. I made my choice.”

Wash exhales, the very sound itself laced with deeply repressed hurt. “We promised we’d stop looking back Car’. That we would better ourselves. That’s why we all left. We needed time to be ourselves again. Not just soldiers, or war heros, or guns for hire. Just...us.” He looks up at Locus, a fleeting smile crosses his face. “ All of us deserve another chance.”

Locus stills, glancing to Carolina. He’s not expecting how steady his voice is when he starts. “I’m here to make amends. If that means you choose not to speak to me after this, that’s acceptable. All I need from you is to promise me you won’t intentionally prevent my goal from being reached.”

The room is by no means silent, Grif ‘whispering’ to Simmons, Caboose humming absentmindedly, Tucker sighing, Sarge grumbling a string of curses. It’s the quiet  that Locus has come to associate with these troops. They always had something going on, but the fact that they thought to lower their typical volume meant quiet to them.

Carolina huffs softly, thumb running over a small metal object tucked into her palm. She looks up, sharp green eyes catching the light from the lamps overhead. “Fine. If you really want to do better, I won’t be the one to mess it up.”

On a rare impulsive whim, Locus asks, “I’d also like it if you tried to work on your relationship with Wash. He seems to almost cower when it comes to you. He deserves better than just playing dumb to avoid your temper.”

Wash startles under his palm, stammering. “I mean I-I don’t think you’re...I don’t-...uh…” He fidgets with the edge of his jacket until Locus gently nudges him forward, yet still keeping a protective grip on his shoulder. “I mean, playing dumb is kinda harsh, but Locus has a point.”

Hopefully the point hit home for once.

“We’re equals in this Car’. I’m all too quick to just give you the right of way because of the Freelancer days. I shouldn’t roll over and let you take responsibility for all our choices because that’s not how communication works. There’s only so much I can do, though. We should all feel free to ask for things. That we can speak up when we feel we’re being neglected. Car’...it’s time to let us grow up. We’re not kids any more.”

There’s an overly dramatic gasp from Caboose. “Whaaat?! You two were brother and sister this whole time?” His voice turns smug. “I knew it allll along, I said you know they don’t look it but I’m telling you Washingtub is Carol-Timer’s baby brother!”

Wash yelps, “Wait, what?! No! It was a metaphor, we’re not related! Also I’m older than her by a long shot!”

Caboose just keeps grinning and repeating, “I called it.”

The rest of the night went better, by the end Simmons had rigged a monitor to run some terrible movie called Thankskilling which had the room erupting in horrified laughter and repeated cries of ‘WHAT?!’. Wash ended up taking Caboose aside to make hot chocolate and they emerged with a stack of paper and a fistful of crayons from the depths of the kitchen. A clever ploy to avoid traumatizing the Blue soldier.

By the time the credits rolled, Simmons wrestled the controller from Grif threatening to break his arm if he didn’t let them change channels. Considering the power in his cybernetic limb, it wasn’t the emptiest of promises. Wash drifted back over with Caboose in his wake. The young man excitedly shows Locus a crude (yet oddly charming) scribble of what he claimed to be all of them. The ex-mercenary takes it gently, taking it all in.

The biggest was Caboose who was the only one who had hair of them all. He was labeled as both the ‘best!!’ and ‘me!’. To his right the medic and Red team. The medic (Locus really needed to get his name at some point) was in his signature purple, smiling with an outdated headband that Locus is fairly sure was worn by dentists rather than doctors. He was described with ‘nice!’. Then Donut, grin breaking from the confines of his face and hands thrown over his head, the descriptor this time is ‘hapy’. Shouting next to him must be Sarge in fire engine red. His head is square for some reason, and he’s noted for being ‘angry’. At the bottom right corner are Grif and Simmons, the former of which looks like he swallowed a balloon, the latter with one green eye. Surprising attention to detail there. When he takes another look he realizes Grif seems to be kissing Simmons. If they thought they were being subtle, they failed to fool even Caboose’s notice. Grif is simply stated to be ‘fat’ and Simmons is ‘smart!’.

The rest are to Caboose’s left, starting with Carolina. She’s got a rather grumpy look on with exaggerated eyelashes and her hands on her hips. At her feet is the word ‘mean’. Then to her left is Tucker who is either doing his recently named “finger guns” or flipping someone off. Hard to tell. In faint crayon above him he’s credited with being ‘dum’. With his grey body and yellow limbs, Wash looks almost depressed compared to the rest of the bunch. He’s just named ‘tub!’ rather than any actual description like the others. Oh, Locus was part of this too. His arms and legs are a forest green along with the detail of his scar. The rest of him is grey with an irritated look on his face. Above him in grey is the word ‘scary’. Below him in green however, it says ‘hug’.

When he squints he realizes he’s holding Wash’s hand. Maybe Caboose was more observant than he gave him credit for. “You...you did a good job.” Locus says finally.

Caboose lights up light a firecracker, bouncing on his feet before delivering a crushing hug to the ex-mercenary. He can hear the room burst out into laughter, even catching the wheezy edge of Wash’s own chuckles.

“Okay, Caboose, he needs some air now.” Wash swallows another giggle fit, patting at his shoulder.

When he’s released Locus knows everyone’s staring. They keep staring and they don’t scowl like they did before. With an unusually nervous chuckle he shrugs at the rest.

“It’s not exactly the first time he’s done that to me.”

FALSE KINGS

CW: Nightmares, Suicidal Thoughts

Locus knows something's a miss when he hears the rusty shriek of the brakes on Wash’s SUV that Monday morning. The freelancer should be at his job by now. Wash was well known to never miss a day.

The engine cuts off and the car door slams. Heavy work boots crunch over the gravel that makes up the driveway. Wash shoulders open the screen door, glancing around the cabin. (The habit of checking for threats still stuck with the stout man.)

With no words, the older man strides over to his well loved coffee machine. He gets it set up to brew espresso, drumming his fingers on the countertop.

The stormy silence reigns until the shadows on the porch grow long, hints of starlight peeking through the blue sky.

“I lost my job.”

Locus glances up from the fruit he’s slicing for a pie. “...How?”

“Had a flashback. Thought my supervisor was the Director. Broke his jaw.” Wash grumbles, opening a tin of pain relieving gel.

Locus makes his way over, taking the container before the freelancer can dip his fingers into it. The ex-mercenary drags a thumb over the surface of the balm to work into the shoulders of his boyf-

The thought skids off the rails. He had never considered Wash as a boyfriend, a partner, even with the clear relationship they had. Was Locus allowed to think like that? It makes his chest ache as he returns to the task at hand.

Rough fingers massage scarred, tense shoulders. The distinctive smell spreads throughout the cabin.

They don't speak for the rest of the night.

---

Wash has a whiteboard because his therapist insisted that it was a good idea for Wash to write his thoughts after an episode. The only times Locus saw it being used was when Wash woke from nightmares. (Often writing as if he was someone else.)

The words he finds this morning sends a stab of familiarity through his heart.

[Getting lost singing their song.

Caught up in, all I've done.

It's all I know , but not what I need.

Cut by my love, cut till I bleed. ]

Locus takes a photo of it on instinct. The next time he walks by, the board is clean. The ex-mercenary gets the feeling that this was just the start of something new.

---

A month passes, and Wash gets a new job. He’s there for two days before he’s fired again. The company refuses to pay him, and Locus knows all too well that the seething freelancer won't take the matter to court.

That night, Wash wakes up, referring to Locus as Maine for three hours.

The whiteboard gives up more when Locus gets up at noon to make pancakes for lunch.

[So I want to run to your shelter tonight.

Run to your shelter tonight.

United in silent resistance,

Of bowing to false kings.

So let me run to your shelter tonight.

Run from this meaningless pantomime.

I'll swallow my pride, give up the pretense,

Of bowing to false kings .]

Locus takes another picture and starts his motorcycle.

The tall man seeks out Tucker, because he knows the man's crude jokes are a thin veil for how deeply he cares about the freelancer.

The sim trooper gnaws at his thumb as he reads. “Loc’s this is like...this shit scares me.”

For once, Locus wholeheartedly agrees with Tucker.

“I need you to help me find a decent place for him to work. Some place that helps veterans. You know the town better.” Locus pleads softly. “I need- no, Wash needs all the assistance we can offer.”

Tucker nods, eyes glinting with steely determination. “I've got this.”

---

It's a week before the next part shows up.

[ Bought their smiles, liquid and smooth.

Took their words, for the truth .

Edge of light and shade.

My broken soul , once more enslaved -]

It trails back into the chorus, and Locus goes looking for a pen. He still has his notes from the first time Wash used music to relay a message. He already knows that the tone had taken a far darker tone this time.

Lost, All I've done, I know, what I need, I bleed.

Want to run, tonight, run, tonight, silent, false kings, run, tonight, run, I'll, give up, false kings.

Bought, took, the truth, edge of, shade, soul, enslaved, let me run, tonight, run, I see, I see, end.

Alarmingly when Locus walks into the living room, there's more scrawled across the windows. His heart sinks like a stone.

When, cold blood runs, without grace, do I, soar? Need, your, new ways, end, wars, I'm yours.

Want to run to you-, run, tonight, united, kings, let me run, from, my pride.

Locus abandons his notebook, going to search the bedroom. He can hear Wash's rattling snores from where he stands, fear lacing through him like puppet strings that compel him to check Wash's vitals. Regardless of the knowledge that the freelancer could, and would likely see him as a threat in Wash’s sleep addled mind. The ex-mercenary doesn't care if he gets busted up as long as Wash is safe.

The instant the door latch clicks, the snoring stops. Rough muttering is muffled by the bed clothes.

Locus goes to draw back the quilt and can't quite avoid a strike to his face. It's a glancing blow, but it still stings like a bitch.

Wash pauses, blinking a few times before squinting at Locus. Guilt sinks into his frame. “Shit, I'm sorry Loc’s…”

Locus shrugs lamely. “I'm well aware of the risks of startling you. Especially from sleep.”

“Oh...why did you wake me up?”

The ex-mercenary takes a breath to soothe the tremble threatening to creep into his voice. “The writing.”

Wash sighs in a way not in line with a man being confronted over dark thoughts. “Did I do more?”

Locus nods. “You moved to the windows this time.”

“Son of a bitch.” Wash grouses, dragging a hand down his face. “Sorry, I'll go clea-”

“I didn't wake you up to make you clean up. I'm worried that…” the tall man stills, biting his lip. “The words you underlined this time paint a... significantly darker picture than before.”

Wash stops mid-stride. He stares up at Locus, so intense it's overwhelming. The younger man looks away from the other. “...You think I'm gonna kill myself.”

There's no question to be found. A cold, hard statement of facts.

Locus holds out the notebook, still unable to meet Wash's eyes.

The freelancer skims the page, shoulders slumping. “...Locus, you know I'd never go through with it.”

“What I know, is that nothing is certain. I... I love you too much to just ignore something like this.”

Wash's cheeks flush darker, head ducking down. “I-I mean, when you put it like that... yeah, it makes sense.” With a tiny snippet of static from his vodacoder, the older man adds, “Thanks for looking out for me. I love you too. Sorry if I’m bad at showing it.”

“You’re not bad.” Locus insists. “You show affection how you feel is right. You’re fine.”

Wash hesitates before holding out his arms to ask for an embrace.

Locus pulls the freelancer close, holding fast to him. Wash’s hair smells like the regulation toiletries that he must have stashed from the years of military service. Maybe he even ordered it online for the sake of consistency. The older man tucks his head under Locus’ chin, evening out his breaths. His ribs expand and contract smoothly under Locus’ palms.

It’s a nice sort of calm that settles over them after that lingering fear. Then Locus’ phone shrieks out some bland, royalty-free nonsense.

Jolting, Locus extracts himself from their embrace. Glaring at the screen, it kindly informs him that Tucker is calling. Locus swipes the answer button, responding with a snappy, “What is it.”

“I found Wash’s dream job, and they’re hiring.”

---

Leave it to Tucker to find the one cafe Wash didn’t know about. It goes by the title of Research Roasts. Apparently some big-shot Smithsonian scientist bought the building where the cafe was now located, then badgered her friend into taking his coffee house idea seriously. Low overhead in a high class part of town would do that to most people. Totally free overhead would get just about anyone to bite.

The real kicker for Locus was they only hired veterans. Especially ones suffering from mental issues after their experiences with the war. It sounds better with every word out of Tucker’s mouth.

They get Wash an interview with the promise that Locus would get to accompany him as well. Whatever it took to pull Wash from his most recent spiral was perfectly acceptable.

The place is what one expects at first. Posters with microscopes and technobabble, the table of elements and beakers. Science stuff. Yet when Locus takes a closer look, he also sees diagrams of many standard issue firearms from the war.

The man behind the counter is slender, with fluffy dark hair piled into a messy bun. He’s got what Locus likes to call ‘Felix Syndrome.’ Basically, when someone looks perfectly normal, attractive, or otherwise harmless. Yet something gives away a glimpse of something altogether dangerous, if not downright lethal.

“You’re the ones that called, yeah?” Even his voice is perfectly soothing, but leaves a lingering sense of paranoia. Sibley (that’s what his name tag says.) nods towards the back. “Go on. Boss knows you’ll be dropping by soon.”

Wash mutters a nervous thanks, whereas Locus gives a simple nod to the mysterious cashier as they pass.

Everyone they pass by either has Felix Syndrome, or looks like they’d fit right in with Wash and Locus’ crowd. Tired eyes with exhausted smiles. They were, however, pretty clearly happy. Happier than Wash had been for many months.

They reach the door mentioned in the email and Wash’s hand hovers an inch or two away from the wood. He swallows around the lump in his throat. Locus takes his free hand and squeezes it.

“I’m here.” He offers gently.

Wash knocks.

Instead of being told to come in, Locus hears the squeak of a chair, leading to uneven footsteps. The door swings open, and Locus’ spine stiffens.

Siris. Mason fucking Wu himself is looking back with an equally startled expression.

“I-...Locus?” Siris whispers just loud enough for his former teammate to hear.

There’s a nod that straddles the line between polite acknowledgement and nervous tick. “Siris.”

Wash looks justifiably baffled, but Siris just brushes the hair from his eyes and beckons the two in. When they do, the door clicks shut.

“We worked together.” Locus answers Wash’s question before his partner can even ask it.

“Oh.” Is the only reaction Wash gives, taking a seat in the nearest chair.

“You…” Siris starts, trying to focus. “You must be Wash.” He extends a hand. “Mason Wu. I’ve been accused of running the show here.”

That does earn a weak chuckle from Wash, though it doesn’t get a smile. He does take Siris’ hand, shaking firmly. “Hope the rumors are true.” He offers dryly.

Siris smirks at that, sitting at the chair behind the plain desk. He’s still warily keeping Locus in sight. In all honesty, Locus is doing the exact same thing.

As they get down to brass tacks, Locus actually finds himself desperately hoping Wash gets this job. He knows Siris. Siris is the sort of man who would get through to the paranoid freelancer just by chatting. He was who taught Locus many of the essential tools that he used to keep Wash happy and healthy.

Two wolves circling the sheep. Both know their own motives. They haven’t a clue of the other’s thoughts.

They speak.

---

It seems to go well. From where Locus sits that is. He’s almost certain Wash got the job. Before they can go, Siris grabs Locus’ arm.

“I’m trusting you, Ortez.” he whispers sternly. “Don’t make me regret that.”

“Funny. I was going to say something similar.” Locus realizes that that may have come off as sarcastic. He scrambles, tacking on, “Wash means a very great deal to me, so-”

Siris snorts, patting Locus’ arm. “I know what you meant, kid.”

Locus’ cheeks darken with embarrassment. “I’m not that much younger than you.”

“Ten years isn’t something to sneeze at.” Siris grins slyly.

Out of the corner of his eye, Locus sees Wash trying to hide a matching grin of his own behind his palm.

It’s a good start.

[my-supernatural-rewatch]

Episode Seven: Hook Man

Dean Winchester in the Supernatural episode Hook Man

I was racking my brain trying to remember this episode as it began. The synopsis I read didn't ring any bells and the opening seemed completely unrecognizable to me. I guess after watching 300+ episodes multiple times you're bound to forget one or two.

So I was a little excited to get into this one and see what I forgot.

Sam and Dean investigate murders seemingly committed by the Hook Man of urban legend.

Another episode where we see Dean on the laptop looking for jobs. Sam is worrying that they can't find John and that there has been no sign of him at hospitals or morgues. (Weird thing to be worried about, Sam, but okay.)

Dean has a revelation that they both end up forgetting about before the season is over:

"I don't think Dad wants to be found." Dean is seemingly (and oddly) okay with this.

So the first dude the Hook Man kills is a frat boy which means Dean and Sam get to pretend to be frat boys to infiltrate the kid's inner circle. More of Dean as a frat boy would have been fun but, yeah, I get it, this is about Sam's journey this week.

Sam can relate to the girl whose date got killed (you know, because his girlfriend is dead. Did you know Sam's girlfriend is dead?) except Sam is a lot more broken up about Jess than this one is about her dead boyfriend.

When Sam tells Dean he believes the girl's story, we get a line from Dean because the writers want to bang it over our heads that Dean is a womanizer.

"I think she's hot too."

This is me rolling my eyes.

Daen does a lot of research in this one.

So FINALLY I start to remember this episode when the actor whose name I missed at the beginning of the episode shows up: Dan Butler. The minute I saw him I yelled "Bulldog!" and then remembered what the outcome of the episode was. Yeah pop culture clues!

Interesting note about canon/lore/whatever we're calling it. Up until now, Sam was not aware of using rock salt packed shells to shoot at spirits to slow them down. So sometime after Sam went to college John and/or Dean figured this out?

Oh, it was Dean. Who gets another great dig in at his brother when Sam, impressed with the rock salt shells, asks, "You and Dad think of this?" and Dean replies:

"I told you, you don't have to be a college graduate to be a genius.'

You fucking go, Dean.

So Sam gets arrested (man I hope no one is reading this for a true summary of the episode) and Dean gets him out by telling the sheriff they were in a frat and Sam was being hazed.

Dean to the fucking rescue again - and using his big brain too.

Two co-eds walk by Sam and Dean at one point, prompting Dean to exclaim, "Dude, sorority girls! Think we'll see a naked pillow fight?"

Because of course someone wrote that line for Dean.

Weird little thing that happens in this ep that never gets mentioned even as Dean takes it off the windshield, the Impala gets a parking ticket. Now there's no way Dean ever pays a parking ticket and they keep the same license plate for years so I guess the whole thing about Chuck watching out for them really did start in season one, huh?

They hit a frat party that Dean actually (begrudgingly but voluntarily) leaves to go to the cemetery and look for the unmarked grave of the Hook Man while Sam goes and stares at Dan Butler's house waiting for the daughter to do something unhinged.

This is the first episode where a body gets salted and burned. (They've tried in other eps but this is the first one when it gets done.) Dean uses matches. I'm sure it's noted in some wiki when they start using the Zippo but I'll wait.

Also, Dean digs the grave alone, prompting him to say, "Next time I get to watch the cute girl's house." (And in this case, the line is perfect.)

Sam gets to kiss a girl who isn't Jess! But it's only because she's so fucked up about all the death stuff...and it doesn't matter because he's not feeling it because of the whole dead girlfriend thing.

So the girl is the one inadvertently sending the Hook Man/Violent Spirt dude to kill people who are doing wrong...it's a little whackadoo as far as reason go but we're going with it because it's Supernatural.

When the Hook Man comes to get the dad (for having an affair with a married woman) Sam and Dean figure out just burning the bones didn't help and we learn that no one thought to get rid of the hook...you know, the thing doing the killing. Yada yada yada, Dean comes up with the idea to check the church records to see if the church had it...it did and they melted it down to the chain Sam's new girlfriend (joking!) is wearing.

But first Dean gets to save Sam's ass by shooting the spirit when it is about to attack him...then Dean burns the chain.

Let's be honest, Dean does most of the work in this episode.

At the end of the episode, Dean is in the Impala waiting for Sam to day goodbye to the girl (whose name I have already forgotten). He's visibly disappointed that Sam makes no attempt to SAY goodbye if you get what I'm saying.

Once Sam gets into the car, Dean offers to stay - presumably so Sam can get some (although in fairness, I think Dean really does think Sam made a connection and is running from it) - but emo Sam is back and all he does is shake his head sadly...which is what Dean does too before they drive away.

Some notes for posterity:

The significant music from this episode comes from Quiet Riot: Metal Health and Boston: Peace of Mind

The brothers pose as fraternity brothers from Ohio transferring to the school in Iowa. They use their real first names when introducing themselves to everyone.

This is the first episode in which Sam gets arrested

Movie References: Sam mentions The Invisible Man, Dean calls Sam "Dr. Venkman" (from Ghostbusters), the naked pillow fight comment is most likely a nod to Animal House, and Dean gets a TV reference in as well by calling himself Matlock because he talked down the sheriff.

This hunt takes place in Ankeny, Iowa.

Dean wears John's jacket but not through the entire episode.

Recognizable Guest Stars in this episode: Dan Butler

[annabthesolitarywriter]

August 20, 2024

It's my birthday today and literally everybody else is more excited about it than I am. I wanted my birthday to be a normal day. Birthdays stopped being fun a while ago.

Google wished me happy birthday (even a software is happier about it than I am). Remember that I said I wanted it to be a normal day? Well, it's...that time of the month. Couldn't it wait another day? One more day? I'm blaming Manwë and Eru for this. I am mad at you, guys. Both of you.

Is this my punishment for making Elenwë suffer? It that's case, I might accept my fate.

My dad wants to buy me a cake. He basically woke me up screaming happy birthday at the top of his lungs. I was still half-asleep so I literally muttered an unexcited 'thank you' and got off the phone. I kind of feel like crap because I know my parents just want to celebrate but...I'm not in the mood? People are coming over today because they're moving into our house in a few days and we have to leave.

We've been packing stuff and other things for a while...I wish I could say that's the reason why I am still not done with my one-shots for Tolkien OC week, but I'll honest and say that I'm an extremely slow writer... also, one of the one-shots is literally turning into a chapter. Not at all what I had intended, but...yeah.

My fur baby brings me happiness as usual. The Prince of Ireland has always been a very good kitty. He's still asleep in my bed. We're obviously taking him with us to new apartment and I wonder how he will adjust. He's lived in the same house for sixteen years so I hope the sudden change is not too traumatic for him. He's been shedding so much fur and has been acting a little weird ever since he saw boxes lying around the house and people coming and going. He's become obsessed with grooming and I'm told it's because of stress. The only time he acted this way was when my mom broke her hand a couple years ago.

Apart from that, he's been very good and he's become extra clingy aka he won't leave me alone (he sleeps next to me and it's so cute).

I'll update this post throughout the day, I guess.

Do send birthday asks. You can ask anything. It can truly make my day better.

I promise I'll answer.

Thank you 😊

[chromatic-lamina]

i’ve got a few picks for the fanfic writer asks if you’re up for it! totally up to you if you want to answer a few or all of them.

11, 58, 65, 71, 76, 91

thank you!! <3

Bepo's Fanfic Answers 3!

Thank you for dropping into Bepo's ask box! and your interest in my much acclaimed Bepo's Beptober!

It's so wonderful to get the recognition. No matter how many times I say NO GARCHU UNTIL YOU COMMENT the comments are few and far between (although, not as low as on Clione's fic, but he stole the idea from me, so that's fair, isn't it?!?). <-- That's called an Interrobang, or maybe the other way around, and No, Captain had to tell me, it doesn't mean sex between species...or in Wano prisons (*not a spoiler cos it's fiction!). Learn something new in Bepo fanfic world everyday! Now, onto your asks.

58. what is the last thing that a fic made you google when you were writing it?

How deep penguins can dive and for how long, say, if they were an Emperor Penguin (not that there are any Emperors on our crew—and maybe only two leaders, if we're being honest) and, some can dive to about 565m which is deeper than the Tang usually goes!

Some hold their breath for just shy of thirty minutes too! So, if you needed to catch a bird, say, for sustenance purposes, considering that some Minks that might resemble polar bears can only dive to about 13 metres at a stretch and only hold their breath for a minute or two, it's best to nab those kinds of meaty birds on the surface. Purely for research purposes.

XrTEPppp <-- Sorry! I drooled on the keyboard and was just wiping it away. (I'm thinking of venturing into the gore genre, but I don' t know, I think that BBC documentaries might've already covered it).

65. what is your favourite title for a fic you’ve written? 

I don't really have a favourite but: Beptober Day 8: Mutual Mastication seemed to get a lot of attention! (Like cows do it, seems pretty common, and better than that regurgitation thing penguins have going on. But, y'know, different courses for different horses, I guess).

71. how do you balance writing and life? do you ever feel overwhelmed by the amount of writing you have to do? I find that if I get overwhelmed, I get the crew to drop me on some ice and I wait by a seal's breath hole, and I wait for them to poke their head through the ice, cute whiskers quivering, and, then, if I'm fast enough, I catch them and enjoy them à la sashimi style, but without the filleting and with all the fur. Crew tends to leave me alone for a while after that. My head's also wonderfully clear, and sometimes I can clack out 10,000 words without knocking over an ink pot once, or accidentally unplugging the word processor.

76. what is one essential thing to remember when writing a villain? 

That they wear pink feathered coats.

OR, y'know, have bright red hair.

91. how has your writing style changed over the years?

I think I might be one of a kind and I'm thinking of patenting the Bepo Brand™

If you want to check out my previous answer, it's here! and here! and here!

6, 11 & 17 ; 58, 65, 71, 76, 91 answered.

Original post here.

[violet-prism-creatively]

good omens s2 episode reactions: 5

i'm watching season 2 one episode at a time and posting my reactions. e1, e2, e3, e4, e6 (links will be edited in as i post them)

here's episode 5:

aaaaah plot is happening! as much as i liked the minisodes, the plot really does move so much faster without them. 

nina is officially single and dancing with maggie! they're very cute. nina is very crowley-coded. when she said she's going to sit alone at home and get drunk, i could practically see crowley thinking "yeah i've done that." nina also has more insight into crowley's love life than crowley himself does. the writers seem to be setting up that crowley and aziraphale will end up together as a couple! they dance together! 

crowley is protective even more in this episode! and aziraphale isn't helpless, he just likes to let him because it makes crowley happy. well, not happy exactly. i like the scene where crowley confronts gabriel, telling him that he remembers "shut your stupid mouth and die" and holds a grudge. but then jim tries to jump out the window just because crowley told him to, and you can see crowley's internal struggle. yeah, okay, he'll get jim hot chocolate. while still hating gabriel.

gabriel's memory is in a matchbox! the resurrectionist matchbox that muriel found in the first episode! it's all coming together... 

the party is delightful. everyone except nina and maggie falling into jane-austen-style speech patterns is fun. especially the "seamstress." (is that a terry pratchett reference or a normal euphemism?) gabriel/jim explaining that he's offering free food is also great. 

i wonder why the austen-ness and aziraphale's miracles in general don't affect nina and maggie. maybe because the point of the ball is to make them fall in love? but they also stay behind in the bookshop when the rest of the humans leave, despite aziraphale telling them with a miracle sound effect to leave. the weirdness of everyone around them being sort of hypnotized into the ball and literally all doing a dance they've never learned could be seriously creepy if played differently. 

i hope the humans just forget all the demon stuff. they must be really confused and scared. with any luck, it'll be like the weirdness of armageddon't and it will fade away. rip to the guy who tried to call the police on the demons, a karen but brave for using that karen-ness against the forces of hell. 

aziraphale speaking french to the restaurant lady was fun for me to watch. i didn't see what was so amateurish about it, but i also have an easier time understanding slow, english-accented french than understanding a native speaker, so i'm pretty biased. 

a few jokes i thought were good: "smited? smut? smitten?" the demon wearing a covid mask and having it ripped off to reveal a grotesque mouth. the angels trying to remember jim and uriel saying "no, it's aziraphale who likes books." 

what's crowley's plan with going to heaven? gabriel would probably be safer there than in hell, but the angels don't recognize him. they did that miracle too well! also crowley is putting himself in danger by going to heaven- though i think we're going to see the angel disguise from the trailer. 

my overall rating: 9/10. i'm so excited to see the next episode and know how it will end! 

i'm actually posting this right before i watch episode 6! i've unfortunately seen some spoilers already but i'm still excited to see how it will play out!

[novelmonger]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Let’s spread the self-love 💗

Make Me Whole (Captain America chapterfic) - AU of TWS where Steve decides to save the Winter Soldier before discovering his true identity. He helps him leave Hydra, and together with Sam they go into hiding while helping "Winter" reacclimate to normal life and deal with some of his issues resulting from the incredible amount of trauma he's suffered. This was the first time I wrote a story and felt really strongly that I was supposed to write it. Usually it's just a matter of, "No one else is doing this, so I guess I have to." But with Make Me Whole, I realized pretty early on that I didn't care if fifty other people got the exact same idea, I wanted to be the one to tell the story, because no one else would tell it quite the way I wanted to see it done. It has blessed my life and improved my writing in more ways than I can name.

Remind Me Who I Am (Captain America oneshot) - AU of TWS where Bucky doesn't get any of his memories back after the last wipe, but he tracks down Steve anyway because he's intrigued by the way Steve treats him. It's all about identity: Who are you if you can't remember who you were? I'm really proud of the way it turned out, especially because it was a bit of experimentation with second-person POV.

Let This One Remain (Avengers: Endgame oneshot) - A fixit fic for the ending of the movie. I loved the movie, but didn't love Steve's wildly OOC ending. Within the first hour after seeing the movie the first time, this fix presented itself, proving that I and my dear friend @sergeanttomycaptain are better writers than everybody at Marvel - or at least we know this character better :P Basically, the movie just ended about five minutes too soon, and this is my headcanon for what really happened.

of skulls and secrets (FMA oneshot) - Postseries fic about Ed and Al coming back home after a year of traveling separately and seeking out the secrets of alchemy. Most of it deals with Ed's story of a famous alchemist's laboratory he investigated in Creta, and why he's reluctant to tell Al about any of it. I had a lot of fun worldbuilding what Creta might be like, and brought everything back around to the brothers, as it should be. (Also this is the only time I've tried out the pretentious all-lowercase title :P)

The Other Side of the Coin (FMA chapterfic/series of oneshots) - My FMA genderbender, where Ed and Al are girls, and Winry is a guy. This is just a really fun project I dabble in from time to time, exploring what might be different about the story if we're following Elaine and Adelaide Elric instead. How does Elaine navigate joining the military as a twelve-year-old girl? Does she still throw tantrums about her height, or is it something else? What if, just like eating and sleeping for Addie, she also suffers double the share of menstrual cramps? And how does Addie feel about being stuck in a huge scary suit of armor, where no one can even tell that she's a girl, let alone a pretty and nice one? I also indulge myself with exploring how different EdWin (ElWin, in this case) is, when it's the guy who has to wait at home for the girl; and having fun with Parental!RoyEl, because Parental!RoyEd is second only to the Elric brothers in my heart <3

[popculturealchemy]

black hole prism feeling too batman too something creature in the night dead parents . feeling like we are all parents to each other and nature . observing and helping . parents being a flexible word... people........... taking money transferring it.. elsewhere. storing. value... gamestop. physical value. protecting myself somehow bullet proof jacket to help sheild other people besides just me. just norms. norm. a goofy uncle of my uncle. uncle norm, card player goofy mean. don't like that I shared that don't want to see myself as goofy mean cinderella shoe fitting every time maybe everytime can't commit charlie brown missing the football . on my back again falling off the bike feelings come on kid you got this . . I feel like people should feel like how I feel sometimes spead the weight things feel really scary but i'm kind of okay not sure how to unsee . remembering the point. lucas explains it all I have an explanation. just wait. an explanation for an explanation. this was all planned. I just don't feel anything maybe or maybe I do but I don't know how to explain it. I might need a lot of help. or just. help.exe learning to program recognize my body needing crying out in some sad way looking for.. validation attention. dark prism neil gaimen worlds on paper virgin energy secret club of writer's pretending to rape in order to gain attention as a rapist to get more attention from the women he's looking for to escalate the hyperbole even further. . weird family acts not raising family mexico family values working here and doing it well working around heavy obstacle your lives matter you're also making dinero and sending it across the border vacuum south america hording tech something.. hapenning. reliant on people I don't want to be reliant on reliant k memecoin the point. . a blog that is positive even though, I consider, negative to not necesarrilasl;fdas;ldkf lucas explains it all stuff how do you talk and not explain over explainer underfeeling cockroach needing warm in the ice somewhere making myself a thing worth defrosting caveperson. leave that one alone maybe Idk. caveperson. feeling like. alternative to man. healthier I'm not playing fred born again fred flint stone slightly amish values feeling like a stern in search of a ship worth sailing. . long journey. . perhaps just one . for sailing . . honeymoon in my head honey pot poohbear hands in his pants too long feeling just slow and hating myself basically. . notes to my porcelain head, glass heart, throwing glass prism . shooting the moon looking up the phrase collecting all the hearts difficult, trick the game of hearts obscure majong strategy chinese algebra, next level game. . throwing darts at people catching them with their teeth while dancing in your shadow. . knowing the ground on you stand on forgot how much I was relying on people they we're actually making it worse like ankle weights sad memories gaslit monster from the deep sea . perfect specimin for space travel my friend not scary but feeling scared of it oregon beach 2024 they didn't blow it up I don't think 1970s or something whale story on the coast oregon. need to look that up again, detective, interesting maybe. marrion berry, twin peaks thoughts tart solitary glass peaks uphill waterslide never going back events

[otherportraits]

Yikes!

I just read Alien Daughters Walk into the Sun by Jackie Wang and it made me so happy to see posts from Tumblr put into a book. Like it's something that I've always thought worthy of doing, but to actually see it done and popped up in the windows of my local bookshops is another thing. I think the immediacy of writing for Tumblr is something that we're told as writers to avoid. That is, you should instead take time to dwell and edit and construct a text. And yes, I know that largely this is how good novels and collections are made, but sometimes I think my best work comes from just dumping my thoughts all out onto a page. Because that's what I think. That's who I am. For me, that exactly summarises how I think. I'm tryna write some kind of novella/story atm and I am struggling. So maybe that's why I'm now like y'know what FUCK intention what comes out is what comes out. There has always been this thought that exists inside of me that is like I'll never be able to construct a piece of writing that I've planned. I'll never be able to plan what I write. I'll never be able to properly finish a piece of writing because before halfway I'll be like this is hot rubbish. Or I'll literally just start thinking I'm not gonna finish this and I won't. That is the practise though, pushing through despite every outward and inward signal telling you to stop and do something else. Which is also why I'm here, writing this down in the first place because I'm avoiding what I'm actually meant to working on. Yikes!

Plummeting down the text box though is a different feeling in entirety. This sudden, immediate writing fuels me, makes me feel unstoppable that I can just spill myself out here without knowing what the result will be. Looking back at the end of the paragraph being like these are the things that are actually on my mind. Sometimes Conor can pick up on a mood and ask what's up and I literally don't know how to say it because I don't know what it is. Sometimes my thoughts just float around my head and I try and try to grasp onto them, to turn them into something tangible that I can work with or ask others to help with, but I can never. They leave and I'm left with a head full of nothing, embarrassed that I'm so low without a way to communicate this without sounding like I'm turning into my Mother. Because that's where I've seen this vacant behaviour before, in my Mother as I'm talking to her in the passenger seat while she drives me to school, and she's nodding at the correct times but she's miles and miles away. She'll eventually admit she's thinking about something else. But more importantly there's incidents where she's in the middle of talking and will lose it, will lose the thought and it's impossible to get back. There's a few seconds of an attempt to remember, an embarrassed shake of the head, then finally an immediate task to distract herself from the idea that she's lost that thought. She'll usually go back to folding washing or reading a cookbook or leave the room entirely. It happens to me too, and it happens to my Mother, and it happened to her Mother. My Nana so bright and full of love but without her thoughts. I don't remember much of her when she was my Mother's age, but towards the end of her life she was without them entirely. What do dementia patients think about when they're alone? Do they reflect on their own lives or somebody else's? Do their thoughts become more external than internal? I worry my Mother is headed for this, and I worry that I am too.

So these posts are important because they are how I think. They document my thoughts, and I look back each time a couple of years later and go oh, I guess I did feel that way, because sometimes I genuinely do not remember. And without this form of writing, I would not remember. I'll have moved through it all without knowing how, without knowing where it is I have moved from, without remembering how to connect the dots.

[lasnalgas]

Yikes!

I just read Alien Daughters Walk into the Sun by Jackie Wang and it made me so happy to see posts from Tumblr put into a book. Like it's something that I've always thought worthy of doing, but to actually see it done and popped up in the windows of my local bookshops is another thing. I think the immediacy of writing for Tumblr is something that we're told as writers to avoid. That is, you should instead take time to dwell and edit and construct a text. And yes, I know that largely this is how good novels and collections are made, but sometimes I think my best work comes from just dumping my thoughts all out onto a page. Because that's what I think. That's who I am. For me, that exactly summarises how I think. I'm tryna write some kind of novella/story atm and I am struggling. So maybe that's why I'm now like y'know what FUCK intention what comes out is what comes out. There has always been this thought that exists inside of me that is like I'll never be able to construct a piece of writing that I've planned. I'll never be able to plan what I write. I'll never be able to properly finish a piece of writing because before halfway I'll be like this is hot rubbish. Or I'll literally just start thinking I'm not gonna finish this and I won't. That is the practise though, pushing through despite every outward and inward signal telling you to stop and do something else. Which is also why I'm here, writing this down in the first place because I'm avoiding what I'm actually meant to working on. Yikes!

Plummeting down the text box though is a different feeling in entirety. This sudden, immediate writing fuels me, makes me feel unstoppable that I can just spill myself out here without knowing what the result will be. Looking back at the end of the paragraph being like these are the things that are actually on my mind. Sometimes Conor can pick up on a mood and ask what's up and I literally don't know how to say it because I don't know what it is. Sometimes my thoughts just float around my head and I try and try to grasp onto them, to turn them into something tangible that I can work with or ask others to help with, but I can never. They leave and I'm left with a head full of nothing, embarrassed that I'm so low without a way to communicate this without sounding like I'm turning into my Mother. Because that's where I've seen this vacant behaviour before, in my Mother as I'm talking to her in the passenger seat while she drives me to school, and she's nodding at the correct times but she's miles and miles away. She'll eventually admit she's thinking about something else. But more importantly there's incidents where she's in the middle of talking and will lose it, will lose the thought and it's impossible to get back. There's a few seconds of an attempt to remember, an embarrassed shake of the head, then finally an immediate task to distract herself from the idea that she's lost that thought. She'll usually go back to folding washing or reading a cookbook or leave the room entirely. It happens to me too, and it happens to my Mother, and it happened to her Mother. My Nana so bright and full of love but without her thoughts. I don't remember much of her when she was my Mother's age, but towards the end of her life she was without them entirely. What do dementia patients think about when they're alone? Do they reflect on their own lives or somebody else's? Do their thoughts become more external than internal? I worry my Mother is headed for this, and I worry that I am too.

So these posts are important because they are how I think. They document my thoughts, and I look back each time a couple of years later and go oh, I guess I did feel that way, because sometimes I genuinely do not remember. And without this form of writing, I would not remember. I'll have moved through it all without knowing how, without knowing where it is I have moved from, without remembering how to connect the dots.

[itsbellat]

Rainbow Hearts: My Journey of Love and Acceptance

Hey there, my fabulous readers! Today, I'm gonna spill the tea on a rollercoaster ride of emotions, heartbreak, and self-discovery. So, grab your tissues (and maybe a tub of ice cream) 'cause we're about to dive into my coming-out story. Buckle up, lovelies, 'cause it's gonna be a bumpy ride!

Picture this: high school drama, butterflies in my stomach, and a heart that beats to the rhythm of teenage crushes. I had this major crush on Sam, a classmate who made my heart do somersaults and my mind go all mushy. Little did I know, Sam was bi-curious, and things took a steamy turn when we found ourselves making out in my bedroom.

But, oh honey, plot twist incoming! Just when I thought my dreams were coming true, life pulled a fast one on me. One fateful day, while Sam and I were caught up in the heat of the moment, my dear ol' mom decided to make an unannounced entrance. Yeah, talk about the ultimate buzzkill! My mom's eyes widened, and her jaw practically hit the floor when she saw us locked in a passionate embrace.

Sam had to make a swift exit, leaving me alone with my mom and a million emotions swirling inside me. But let me tell you, my mom? She's an absolute queen. She looked me straight in the eyes and reassured me that she loved and supported me, no matter who I loved. I could see the worry in her eyes when she told me that my dad wouldn't understand, so we had to keep our little secret between us. Mama bear was ready to protect her cub, and I couldn't be more grateful for her love and acceptance.

Heartbreak, my friends, is a real kicker. In the aftermath of the Sam saga, I discovered that Sam had a crush on this blonde dude from our history class named Zack. Talk about a twist of fate that felt like a punch to the gut! It felt like someone had played a cruel joke on my heart, leaving it bruised and shattered.

But being the passionate soul that I am, I couldn't let my emotions fester inside me. So, I did what any writer with a heart on the mend would do—I poured my feelings into a love letter. You know, penning down all those raw emotions, the highs, the lows, the what-ifs, and the what-could-have-beens. It was like bleeding my heart onto paper, putting every ounce of my vulnerability into words.

Now, let me share with you a snippet from that heartfelt letter:

"Dear Sam,

There are a million thoughts swirling inside my head, like a tornado of emotions that I can't seem to tame. It's crazy how the mere thought of you can make my heart dance a wild salsa, and how your smile feels like a ray of sunshine on even the gloomiest days.

But, my love, fate has thrown a curveball that has left me spinning. Discovering your crush on Zack felt like a dagger through my heart, shattering the dreams I had woven around us. It's like watching my favorite rom-com, only to have the ending rewritten without me in it.

Yet, despite the ache, I want you to know that my heart still carries a flame for you. Maybe it's foolish, maybe it's reckless, but it's a fire that refuses to be extinguished. And if one day, when the stars align and the universe whispers its secrets, you find yourself wondering about what could have been, remember that my heart will always hold a special place just for you.

With love, Bella" After pouring my heart out into that love letter, I couldn't muster the courage to give it to Sam. Fear and doubt crept in, playing tricks on my mind. What if it was too late? What if it would only bring more pain? So, that heartfelt letter remained hidden, tucked away in a secret drawer, carrying the weight of unspoken words and unfulfilled dreams.

But here I am, sharing this intimate story with all of you in the vast expanse of the blogosphere. It's funny how time has a way of shifting perspectives and healing wounds. I've realized that sometimes, the act of writing about our experiences can be just as cathartic as sharing them with the world. My hidden treasure of emotions, unveiled and released into the universe. It's a testament to the journey of self-discovery, resilience, and finding solace in the power of words. Life may not always turn out the way we expect, but it's in those unexpected detours that we uncover our true strength.

And there you have it, my friends—a glimpse into the rollercoaster of emotions that was my coming-out story. Life has its twists and turns, and sometimes love takes us on unexpected detours. But through it all, I've learned that being true to yourself and finding acceptance in your own heart is the greatest love story of all. Now, let's raise a metaphorical glass and toast to vulnerability, to love's unpredictable dance, and to the beauty of embracing our authentic selves. Here's to you, dear readers, and to the courage it takes to share our stories, even when they bear the marks of bittersweet memories.

Stay fierce, stay fabulous, and keep embracing the beautiful chaos that is your journey. Love is a wild adventure, and I'm here cheering you on every step of the way!

XOXO, Bella

[writerdream22]

requested by: no one, but I hope you like this anyways 💛🌻✨

pairings: Thomas Shelby x reader, Arthur Shelby x reader (platonic), John Shelby x reader (platonic), etc.

warnings: cursing

a/n: this came out more like a one shot, tbh, but I really liked writing this piece so I got carried away!

feedbacks are always appreciated!

There wasn't any other place like Small Heath. That little yet full of life suburb in Birmingham had something that enthralled you and made you go back each time you were able to get some time off from your job as a writer.

Something. Or rather, someone.

That someone being none other than the second-born of Polly Gray's nephews. Thomas Shelby. You could say that he played a great role in your life; a central role, even.

You fiddled with the ring that you wore on your left hand's index finger and took a deep breath before walking into the Garrison pub. It was nightfall, and the place wasn't as crowded as you remembered it to be.

“May I— oh, Y/n! Didn't recognize ya for a moment!” Henry, the pub's owner, exclaimed, as you stepped closer to the counter. You smiled at the familiar face, then, before you could even formulate the question, the auburn-haired man pointed to the private room that was usually reserved for the Peaky Blinders “They're having a meeting. I suggest you wait here, but I doubt they'll shoo you away”.

You muttered a 'thanks', smiling once again before turning to the door that led to the aforementioned room. You knocked twice, then paused and knocked three times more.

There was a distinguishable chattering coming from the inside, and more than one of the Shelby brothers cursed in annoyance. After a few moments someone asserted that you could come in, and you did so almost immediately.

Fuck. If you'd been able to say that word out loud, you definitely would've.

The first thing you set your eyes on was the bottle of Gin that was on the table, along with a few glasses and cigarettes.

“Y/n.” those words made you raise your head in order to meet the man's eyes. It was Thomas himself who'd spoken, whereas his brothers were speechless. “Thomas.” you responded “Arthur. John. It's a pleasure to see you again”.

Silence reigned in the room, and you fiddled with your ring once again. You were starting to regret going back to Small Heath— maybe, you thought, you could go to Galway instead and find new sources of inspiration there.

“Uhm... I'm writing a new novel” you began “Yeah. That's why I'm here”.

“You're lying” John pointed out, smirking “We all know why you're here, Mrs. Shelby.” “ You and Tommy have some unfinished business, eh?” added Arthur, who was promptly invited to fuck off by his younger brother.

After a few interminable moments of silence, John turned to Thomas and not-so-discreetly asked him whether he and Arthur had to leave the two of you alone. Thomas nodded, and soon after it was only the two of you inside the room. You sat down in front of him, and he softly smiled when he realized that the ring you were wearing was the one he'd gifted you many years prior.

“Mrs. Y/n Shelby... that sounds nice, eh?” Thomas observed, while lighting a cigarette. You nodded in response, and he kept on talking “We should have made the leap, a long time ago”

“Yes, we should've” you replied “But we were too young, Tom. The war— it has changed the both of us. Me, after the serving in the Red Cross. You, after the battle of the Somme. We couldn't take such an important decision when we were about to be sent off to God knows where and didn't know whether we would have come back alive or in a casket”

Thomas took a drag of his cigarette and puffed out the smoke before he spoke.

“Well, now that we're back... What do you say we continue from where we left off?”