jal supremacy!

Ruby Red Wishes and Impenetrable Shields

Coach lifts his hand, palm out. "Stop right there. You can't run on my field with those."

Jay stops. He doesn't actually give a shit about authority, or whatever, but Coach is a big guy, and he's not dumb. He's not gonna risk aggravating one of the few teachers who doesn't actively hate them yet. 

Coach points at his shoes.

"Go get your cleats on, kid. You can't be on the field in those. It's the rules. No street shoes on the field." 

Jay looks down at his feet. He hasn't actually read the rulebook. He has a copy now, sitting on his shiny new school desk along with the textbooks he got from math class and science class (Biological Sciences, whatever that means), and the packet of papers that Fairy Godmother gave each of them after their first Remedial Goodness class. 

He's looked at the rulebook. He's looked at it a lot, actually. It's got a black cover, with white writing on the front, and the whole thing has diagrams inside, along with all of the rules for Tourney written out in a long list with things like i and il and iu at the start of them. 

It's not like he doesn't want to read it. He's just been busy with other stuff. 

"I, uh."  Jay tells his boots, before wrenching his eyes up. He's from the Isle. He's not scared of some boring Auradon guy. Coach can't actually kick him off the field for wearing the wrong shoes, that's stupid. "I forgot 'em."

Coach looks at him. 

Jay glares back. 

Coach breaks first. He jerks his head towards the locker room. "Okay, kid. There's a bucket of spares in the shed. Go take whatever fits for now, and let Sammy here know what size you need after practice. If you wanna stay, that is."

A round-faced kid waves at them. Jay files this away as the mysterious Sammy, who probably stole his first pair of cleats out of his fucking bag in the first place. There's no other logical reason for him to have a spare, but what-the-fuck ever. He's not gonna stir up any shit about it. 

He pops off a messy two-finger salute to Coach, the kind that his father fucking hates. Adults here are weird though, so he might get results from being a smartass. "Yessir! Will do, sir!"

Coach laughs. "Call me Coach, kid. We don't do sir on my field. And go get your cleats on. These warmups aren't going to run themselves." 

"Yes, Coach," Jay tries. The words don't feel right, but it's what the other boys shout whenever Coach tells them something. "Will do." 

He swallows the sir that tries to come out at the end. This man isn't his dad. He's not some little lost goose, imprinting on the first not-white adult he's seen here. He's sixteen fucking years old. (Probably. Ish. He's not really sure). He doesn't need to pretend he's got a dad again. He's better than that. 

He runs. 

First to the shed, where sure enough, there's a bucket of cleats. Most of them are scuffed up, but there's no holes in the toes, and the laces aren't broken. It's better than most of what they got back home. There's still numbers on the flaps too, but it's not like Jay's ever had a pair of shoes with the size still on them, so he doesn't actually know what number will fit. 

He's a normal size guy. He picks a pair that looks normal-ish. There's one spike broken off on the bottom, but he's already faster than most of the guys he was outrunning yesterday. He can still beat them with a broken shoe. 

What he can't do is lose his boots. According to Fairy Godmother, Auradon Prep is a school full of goodness and rainbows and pretty princesses who would never hurt a fly. He should be able to put anything he owns down, and come back later to find it in exactly the same place, no matter how many people walk by it, no trouble at all. 

Which means, obviously, that his last pair of cleats grew legs and walked out of his bag on their own. Because nobody at Auradon Prep would ever dare stoop to stealing from another student, not even them. Because of the goodness and princesses and happy sparkles and shit. 

So. Either Jay's magical now, and it's spreading to all his stuff like a virus through a preschool, or Fairy Godmother is wrong and somebody's fucking with his shit when he's not looking. 

He's willing to put money (not his own, he doesn't have any of that shit) on the second option. 

So. 

His boots fit in the bottom of the bucket with the spare cleats. They're the only black ones in the pile, but you've gotta be looking for them to see it, and he'll take those odds. If someone wants to take his shit again, they can grab the first shoe-shaped thing they see out of his bag, which is about to be a second pair of fucked-up spare cleats. Then the pretty princes can have so much fun explaining where they got stolen school property from, and-- 

who is he fucking kidding. It's not like any teachers give a shit about other kids stealing their stuff. They're villains. They get what they deserve. 

Jay runs back to practice. 

He spends a lot of time running. 

"Kid," Coach calls. "Hey, kiddo. Come over here."

Jay jogs to a stop in front of Coach. He's wearing his cleats. They're a little darker than they were when he started practice, but that's what happens when the hole in your sock lines up with the ripped part of the cleat and the plastic sticks into your heel and fills the shoe lining with blood. It's barely visible from the outside, so that can't be why he's getting singled out again. He's following all the rules he can figure out. He only slammed into one guy today. He's blending in. 

"Nice job out there," Coach says, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "Good hustle. You've got some speed on you." 

Jay stands up straighter. "I try."

Coach claps his shoulder again. He's got big hands. Strong. He could probably get one most of the way around Jay's neck if he wanted. "You did good. You read that rulebook yet?" 

Jay laughs. He knows how to react to this one. Keep it light, keep complaining, like he's a spoiled princeling who can't be bothered. 

"Hah. Not yet, Coach. Too much homework to get through first." 

Coach frowns. "Kid. The rules are important. Take some time this week, sit down with the book, and lock in. It's not long. You didn't loose it too, did you?" 

Jay must've been pushing too hard with all the running today, because his stomach hurts all of a sudden. Probably from running too hard and stopping too fast. He's gotta do something to wind down, like how he used to spend some time after a hard thieving run doing backflips off his favorite roof for a while, until his heart stopped pounding and he wouldn't drip sweat on the goodies. 

 "Uh. No, Coach. I have it. Just need the time, y'know." 

"Well. Maybe once you've read it, you'll understand why it's so important to remember your cleats," Coach says. "You need to wear them to practice every time, not just when you feel like it. We had the loaners here for you today, but you need to get in the habit of bringing them with you." 

cw: mild depictions of blood; near death experience

hold me tight (it’s getting cold)

Jay wakes to Mal’s boot prodding him in the back. He sits up, blinking in the dingy light, and meets her eyes, where she’s standing over him, arms crossed.

“Your turn,” she says, barely waiting for Jay to untangle himself from the thin blanket before flopping down on the mattress.

Jay hovers for a moment. Her long sleeves disguise the deep cut on her bicep, and already her face is beginning to bloom into purples and reds.

It must be early morning. Not that anyone ever particularly keeps track of time on the Isle, as the sky is a constant dismal grey and there isn’t particularly much need to know the exact time for anything. There’s a little clock on the bottom right corner of the UKA News Channel, if you’re really desperate, and if you have a TV.

Usually, Jay would slip out now, and hit the streets for late-night stragglers or early-morning risers, when it’s still dark and people’s defences are down. But Mal’s in a state and he doesn’t want to leave, which means he’s got a couple hours to kill until she wakes up and he can interrogate her on what the hell happened for her to get so beat up like that.

MAL'S CORONATION OUTFIT

i’m much too old for this / but i’m not over it

anyway in my heart this is a group chat after Mal was invited to do a fancy solo event as a Royal Girlfriend, which is why she’s the first to experience the blasphemy of Blue Cheese Tray

VKS ALL DAY (group mms) 

Mal: TERRIBLE TIMES HAVE BEFALLEN THE NOBLE HOUSE OF MAL

Mal: HYPOCRICY RUNS RAMPANT THROUGHOUT THE LAND

Mal: THOSE WE ONCE CALLED COMRADES HAVE BETRAYED OUR TRUST. SACRED BONDS OF RESPECT HAVE BEEN BROKEN. VIOLATED. THROWN AWAY. 

Mal: MUCH LIKE THIS BULLSHIT SHOULD BE 

[Photo message] 

[photo message] 

[photo message] 

Mal: WHEN WE EAT MOULDY FOOD IT'S ""BAD""" and ""UNSANITARY"" and ""OHHHH YOU DON'T NEED TO DO THAT ANYMORE 🥺🥺🥺""" 

Mal: BUT WHEN THESE FUCKING HYPOCRITICAL ASSHOLES (message not sent)

Mal: FUCK (message not sent)

Mal: is there a language filter on the school network 

Evie: Yes 

Carlos: yes 

Mal: disgusting. Much like this so-called food. It’s VILE. When these ungrateful royal morons bother to notice what they put in their own mouths it's "'FINE"" because THEIR mold is ""CULTURED"" but when I DO IT I AM PATHETIC????? 

Mal: I am going to shove their mold cultures so far down their throat that it can touch the stick they all seem to have up their royal behinds. 

Carlos: yeah it’s gross 

Mal: wait when did you get to eat this stuff 

Carlos: uh 

Carlos: I am invoking my right to remain silent. I’m also invoking my right to a lawyer @ evie?????? 

Evie: [blocked message]

Evie: [blocked message]

Evie: oh I actually can’t serve in a court of law unless I get my retaining fee of one Hundred William Dollars first. 

Jay: I’ll be legal counsel 

Mal: BETRAYAL ON ALL SIDES 

Mal: anyway it’s gross and Audrey laughed at me when I tried to send it back even tho I asked the waiter dude SO NICELY to tell the kitchen they messed up