#ii. ‘ first step into a larger world. ’ ┈ « past. »

[k-nayee]

In Silence, In Strategy The Hunger Games: The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes ii

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Coriolanus Snow sat rigid at his assigned desk.

The sun was filtering through the windows of the Academy classroom, catching the gold trim of his collar and glinting off his Plinth Medal.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t fidget. He simply watched.

Today had begun as a nuisance—another routine disruption in a year full of them—but now there was static in the air, a tension that made his skin prickle.

The source (unfortunately) was once again Sejanus Plinth.

The boy was practically skipping up the academy steps outside, loud as a trumpet and twice as irritating. His curls bounced with every hop of excitement as he waved like a schoolboy seeing his pen pal for the first time in months.

Coriolanus barely refrained from rolling his eyes.

Sejanus was always too much. Too eager. Too golden-hearted. His family’s money was real enough—capitol-bloated and wartime-built—but Sejanus still wore his District roots like an unlaundered collar.

Coriolanus smiled at him. Of course he did. But it was because Sejanus liked him.

And that was useful.

The Snow child didn’t like many things. And he especially didn’t like not knowing. He hated being locked out of a narrative.

“She’s really coming?” “She enrolled?” “Ithecian—like the war theorists?” “I heard she doesn’t even go to parties.”

Whispers crawled like ivy from every corner of the room. The name—Ithecian—sliced through the chatter like a ghost’s bell.

Coriolanus’ jaw ticked.

He’d visited the Plinth estate three times

Three.

And not once had he caught so much as the sound of her footsteps. Not even when he made it a point to linger past the expected hour, feigning extra questions about coursework or feasting on Strabo Plinth’s long-winded theories.

No photos. No glimpses. No profiles.

He’d even tried to butter Sejanus up with every trick in his charm manual. But the ever golden retriever was immovable and stubborn, brushing it off with the kind of oblivious tenderness that made Coriolanus want to throttle him.

“She’s just shy. Doesn’t like surprises. Said she prefers meeting people face-to-face and not through photos or stories, otherwise it makes her feel...commodified.”

He’d said it with pride—like your absence made you more mystical.

Coriolanus had nearly snapped, scoffing at the memory. She’s not a damn spirit.

And now...today of all days...

Coriolanus' gaze flicked to the desk beside him. It was larger. A dual-seater.

Not a mistake. Not a whim of the janitorial staff. It was deliberately installed, angled perfectly in place where Sejanus' usual spot was, the polished wood gleaming under the light.

He stared for a moment longer. Of course she’d sit with Sejanus.

Coriolanus schooled his features into something polite as Sejanus finally slid into his seat. He looked ridiculous. His sleeves weren’t even buttoned properly.

Coriolanus offered him a tight smile, the edges carved sharp enough to wound if one looked too long. “Big day?” he murmured dryly.

Sejanus flushed pink to his ears. “You have no idea.”

Before Coriolanus could deliver the cutting remark that had bloomed behind his teeth, the door to the classroom creaked open.

Every head turned.

In stepped Professor Highbottom.

His gait, while still bearing the usual sluggishness of age and disillusionment, carried an unfamiliar steadiness. His coat was buttoned properly. His hair, combed. His eyes bright. Actually present. Sober.

The man who hated everything about the world—including his own profession—looked almost proud.

And worse? He was smiling.

“Students,” Highbottom announced almost jovially, “we have a new addition to our cohort today. A very distinguished one.”

The door eased open again behind him as you stepped inside.

You moved with a serenity that could’ve been mistaken for grace. Not fast. Not showy. But smooth, calculated, and exact.

Your uniform was flawless: pressed white blouse, red pleated skirt, tie clipped perfectly beneath your collar. Stockings kissed the curve of your legs, shoes polished to a gleam.

Your posture never wavered. Spine straight, shoulders aligned, arms relaxed. Not stiff—controlled. Every inch of you rehearsed yet effortless.

Coriolanus’s breath caught.

This wasn’t what he expected.

You didn’t scan the class like a nervous debutante. You didn’t falter. You simply offered the room a light smile—small, closed-lipped, polite.

“Good morning. My name is ______ Ithecian.”

Every eye was on you.

And Coriolanus hated that he was no different.

He watched as you took your seat beside Sejanus without hesitation. It was if you’d already been here before. As though the floor, the space, even the air had been waiting to receive you.

Sejanus had already gone near-blind with joy—practically vibrating.

He leaned toward you and said something. You didn’t look at him but your expression shifted. The tiniest pull at the corner of your mouth. A nod.

Coriolanus studied it all. He didn’t move. He didn't blink.

Something in his chest tightened—subtle, sharp.

He didn't like this.

Didn’t like how prepared you seemed. Didn’t like that he’d heard your name for years and knew nothing of your face. That he hadn’t been the one to unveil your myth.

That distinction now belonged to Highbottom of all people. The old drunk was still smiling like he’d just witnessed sunrise.

Coriolanus forced his fingers to unclench beneath the desk. His expression stayed smooth. Passive. But his mind raced.

Who were you?

And more importantly—what was your angle?

*.·:·.☽✧✧☾.·:·.*

The bell rang like a slow ceremonial gong.

“Lunch,” Professor Highbottom declared, already rifling through a pile of outdated paperwork as if desperate for distraction. “Dismissed. Eat. Breathe. Whatever it is you do.”

His usually sluggish drawl held a strange spark of vitality, a flourish of approval that made even the most indifferent students blink in confusion.

He'd spent the entire lecture buoyed, practically leaning off the dais whenever you raised your hand—eager, alert, animated in a way that made Coriolanus Snow’s skin crawl.

Not just because of Highbottom’s enthusiasm. No. It was you.

The entire morning had felt like a chess match—only Coriolanus wasn’t sure if he was playing the game or was the game.

Not only had you answered efficiently—clean, succinct, surgical—but more than once you'd beaten Coriolanus himself to the answer. Before he could lift a hand.

Before he could even begin to shape his thoughts into something presentable, yours were already on display; threaded in logic and edged with theory that made him...pause.

He hated how often you made him pause.

You took the Academy’s oldest texts and wrung new meaning from them.

You pointed out lapses in popular interpretations of key Capitol doctrines, revisited archived strategies from the Dark Days, and questioned motives that had long been accepted as truth.

Not with defiance. Not even with fire. You spoke like someone who had already read the end of the book and pitied everyone else for still being stuck on chapter three.

Coriolanus didn’t care for your smile. Small, practiced, never smug but not humble either.

He didn’t care for the way Sejanus looked at you like you’d been carved from something sacred.

But most of all, he didn’t care for the way you made him think. Rethink. Reconsider. You disrupted the order of things.

And that made you dangerous.

Students rose in a loose scatter—chairs scraping, footsteps on tile, bags rustling. Some headed for the cafeteria. Others stayed, considering it beneath them.

Coriolanus, predictably, made a show of feigning disinterest in lunch altogether. “I’m not particularly hungry,” he folded his hands, regal even when sitting still.

Sejanus, already pulling out his carefully wrapped lunch bundle, blinked at the blonde. “You didn’t eat breakfast either.”

“I manage,” Coriolanus replied coolly. “It’s not as though I’m swinging a hammer at the Steelworks.” He regretted the words instantly. But Sejanus just smiled, used to the barbs.

“I left my lunch,” you look to your seat-mate, gentle and matter-of-fact tone. “Near the lockers.”

Sejanus blinked mid-bite, lips parting in a half-chewed offer. “Oh—I can come with you! Or I can give you mine! I don’t even mind, it’s enough for two—”

“Stay. I’ll be right back.” Your tone left no room for protest. He pouts at that.

Leaning down, you give the Plinth Son a kiss. It was a soft press against his temple. Light. Easy. Intimate in the way that made the air in the room evaporate.

Conversations died. Eyes turned. The whispering started almost immediately—ragged and frantic, like a spark had hit dry paper. Even Coriolanus’ lungs hesitated from the audacious display. 

“She kissed him—” “Did you see that?!” “Is the engagement rumor true?” “She’s never even—”

Sejanus turned molten red, his smile lopsided and dazed as you pulled away. “O-okay. Be careful.”

You rose and exited the room without another word.

Coriolanus watched your every step. How your shoulders didn’t hunch. How you didn’t glance back. How you glided.

The heavy silence that stretched behind you was dense and taut. But it didn’t follow you alone.

Clemensia Dovecote rose ten seconds later. Two girls followed. Then a boy. Then student another. Then another.

Seven in total.

They trailed out with lazy indifference etched on their faces—but their pace was too deliberate. Their exit too close to yours.

Coriolanus stood suddenly.

“I think I’ll wash my hands,” he said with a careless wave, dusting invisible crumbs from his sleeve. “Filthy desks.”

Sejanus was too far in the clouds to notice. “Sure.”

Coriolanus didn’t reply. Just turned and left, the door clicking quietly behind him.

Once outside the air changed.

The hallway was half-lit and quiet—its marble floors humming faintly under the fluorescent light strips. He walked with silent steps, the sound of distant chatter from the cafeteria echoed softly, warped by space and steel.

And then he saw you.

You stood at your locker. Alone. Perfectly still, your back to the corridor chaos you couldn’t have helped but hear.

Your form was composed—spine straight, shoulders relaxed, one gloved hand holding the latch of your bag while the other reached delicately into the open locker door.

You didn’t even glance at the half-circle of students forming behind you. Four girls, three boys.

Clemensia Dovecote strutted forward. Head of the serpent. Face of Capitol vanity.

“Well...look at this,” her voice had a sugary bite as she twirled a perfume vial between her fingers like it was a toy. “If it isn’t the Ithecian Heiress. Are you lost? I’m sure you meant to be with some private tutors.”

You didn’t answer. You continued retrieving your lunch from the bottom of your locker.

Coriolanus tilted his head slightly. He steps closer to the wall, lingering where the corridor dipped inward, just out of sight as Clemensia’s faltering smile returned wider and crueler.

“Or maybe you think that custom uniform makes you too important to match the rest of us?” She gestures vaguely toward your clothing. “White? Really? What are you—Peacekeeper chic?”

The other girls laughed. The boys chuckled too, one of them nudging the other in approval.

Mistaking your lack of reaction for fear, Clemensia took a step closer. “What? Cat got your tongue? Or is it that your voice only works when you’re showing off in class?”

Still, you made no move to acknowledge her. You simply adjusted the strap of your satchel, zipped the edge shut with calm precision, the metallic zip settling like punctuation in the air between you.

And that silence—it made her seethe.

Coriolanus saw it. How Clemensia’s fingers curled just a little too tightly around the neck of the vial. How her jaw ticked.

He leaned against the marble pillar with folded arms.

He didn’t step in.

He had no reason to.

A part of him, truthfully, wanted to see what would happen. Wanted to see what this quiet untouchable presence would do when the Capitol's spoiled teeth came close enough to bite.

“Don’t ignore me freak!” Clemensia’s voice pitched higher. “It’s bad manners.”

Ignore her you did.

That seemed to be her tipping point.

With a theatrical sigh, Clemensia suddenly holds up the dainty vial—clear glass etched with gold, faintly pink liquid sloshing inside. “I tried. Maybe a little Capitol welcome will break that icy facade.”

Uncorking the top and without warning, Clemensia flicked her wrist.

The liquid arced midair—catching the light—and splashed against your uniform. It rolled down your shoulder, dripping like a smear of sickly perfume on silk.

The scent bloomed outward in a thick wave.

“Oops,” she sang. “Clumsy me. Lucky for you it’s not one of the toxic ones and just a bad batch. Smells awful though. Should rinse out. Hopefully.”

Her entourage laughed.

You didn’t move at first. Your arm simply extended—closing the locker door with the softest click imaginable. Then you turned slowly and the temperature dropped.

Coriolanus felt it like a shift in pressure, a tightening in his chest that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with awareness.

You faced the group with a calmness so absolute it felt unnatural. Your expression was smooth—unbothered, unreadable. Not emotionless. Just...hollowed of the usual student nerves or theatrics.

“I know who you are.”

The smile vanished from Clemensia's face.

“Clemensia Dovecote. Daughter of the Dovecote bloodline. Perfume empire. Vanity alchemists. Your family builds faces for others to wear because they can’t stand their own.”

You took one step forward.

Then another.

“I also know you’re the one who’s made it your pastime to humiliate Sejanus.”

Clemensia’s nose wrinkled. “And what? You think he needs defending?”

She sneers, chin lifted with arms outstretched in false innocence. “Oh poor little Sejanus. Is this why you’re here? To play Capitol charity case number two?”

You tilt your head slightly as if indulging a child. “Its interesting how you talk so much. Truly—for someone who sells poison you seem to know little about your own rot.”

Her smile cracked.

“In case your instructors have never told you the truth—and I imagine they haven’t out of pity—your family is known not for their elegance, but for the fact that most of their best formulas were lifted. Your grandmother’s entire second line of perfumes was pirated from the remnants of a district apothecary after the war. Your uncle’s alchemical work was outlawed twice for contamination-related fatalities. And your latest vanity vapor formula?”

The hallway had gone silent.

“Caused three reported cases of skin hemorrhaging in preteen girls.”

Not a breath.

“I read the classified filings,” you continued, eyes locked on hers. “You should try it sometime. Or perhaps you’re too busy bottling your family’s shame in glass and selling it for sixty Capitol credits a drop?”

Clemensia’s face was red now. Splotched. Gone was the coquette—left behind was something far more raw and reckless.

“You psychotic bitch!” she snapped, shrill and cracking at the edges. “I’ll make you regret ever showing your freak face in this school—”

That’s when you moved.

One hand reached forward with practiced grace, and before anyone’s eyes could process it, Clemensia Dovecote was on the floor.

Her shriek was cut short as her knees buckled beneath her—back slamming against the lockers with a force that echoed.

Her friends screamed in confused fear as she thrashed and spasmed, jerking into a rigid curl as her hands flew to her neck.

Buried deep into the flesh just below her jaw was a needle. Tiny. Sleek. Black-bodied. No larger than your finger. The attached vial was already draining, each drop pulled by the heartbeat now screaming through her system.

Foam began to bloom at the corners of her lips.

You calmly retrieve the now-drained needle from her neck. Lifting high in the light as if inspecting glassware, you turn it in your hand as if you were admiring the curve of a crystal vase.

“Symptom one: vertigo. The vestibular system shuts down.”

You didn’t look down as you spoke. Your eyes swept across the semi-circle of classmates before you, watching their expressions shift from stunned belief to horror.

“She can’t tell where the floor is anymore. Her sense of balance has collapsed. The room is spinning and her instincts are trying—and failing—to reorient.”

Another lurch.

Her fingers clawed at the smooth ground, slipping and catching and slipping again.

Several students took involuntary steps backward. A few covered their mouths. One boy’s face had gone stark white.

Coriolanus' hand unconsciously curled into a fist at his side the longer he observed.

It was revolting....it was elegant....he didn’t know what it was.

“Symptom two,” you went on, still calm, still centered. “Ocular dilation.”

You turned your gaze downward with the same clinical detachment a doctor might offer an unfamiliar chart.

“Her pupils are expanding—reacting to light as if it’s pain. Her vision is nothing now. Just smudges. Flashes.”

As if on cue, Clemensia’s head jerked back.

Her eyes had gone wide—so wide the whites were nearly consumed by ink-black pupils that shimmered unnaturally beneath the fluorescent light. She was blinking rapidly now, hands erratically reaching toward things that weren’t there.

“She’s blind,” you said gently, “but her brain hasn’t quite accepted it yet.”

Clemensia let out a pitiful half-choke, half-wail that cracked midway through.

“Symptom three: vocal disruption.”

The Dovecote Heiress began to gag—softly at first, then violently. Her breath hitched as her hands flew to her neck, fingernails scratching like she could tear the tightness away.

“The vocal cords seize when the toxin reaches the larynx,” you narrated evenly as if from a script you had written long ago and memorized with care. “There’s no closure. No release. She may try to scream but the effort will strangle itself.”

Her mouth opened in a desperate O. And yet the sound never came. Just a choking wheeze as a cough ripped from her, sharp and wet causing a girl nearby to whimper.

Coriolanus felt a chill bloom in his bones.

It wasn’t just what you were saying.

It was when.

Each symptom appeared on cue—called forth by your words as if your voice alone was writing them into existence.

“Symptom four: Neuro-muscular confusion.”

Clemensia’s body jerked sideways. One leg kicked straight out violently, heel catching the base of a locker with a loud clang, her left arm shooting across her chest as though pulled by invisible wires. A hand slapped hard against the tile. One of her painted nails cracked audibly.

“The messages her brain is sending doesn’t match what her muscles are doing. They’re misfiring—out of sync without pattern or purpose.”

The convulsions intensified.

She slammed her elbow into the ground, then jerked again, shrieking through clenched teeth. Her shoes skidded, fingers flexed, and her back contorted in spasms.

Then—

Footsteps.

Each one rang against the polished marble floor with a low, almost ceremonial rhythm.

Coriolanus turned his head to the source.

Dr. Volumnia Gaul.

She emerged from the end of the hall with the weight of inevitability.

Her hair, a wild cloud of silver and smoke, framed her sharp face like the mane of some ancient myth-bound creature. Her eyes, painted in that uncanny inky black, glinted in a way that made blood run colder.

Her expression?

Almost amused.

There was no panic in her eyes. No disgust for the girl writhing at your feet. Just a glint of morbid fascination.

A kind of spark that said this—this—was precisely what she had hoped to find in a Capitol hallway on an ordinary school day.

Coriolanus watched as her gloved red hand clasped lightly at her back. She did not call out. Did not intervene.

She just watched.

And as she approached her eyes landed on you.

The cause.

The control.

And in return, you did not greet her.

You did not cower.

You acknowledged her presence the way one would a cloud that passed between sun and earth—something inevitable, something distant, and above all else, something irrelevant to the course already set.

“Symptom six,” you murmured, eyes drifting back down to Clemensia. “Neurological recession. The mind begins to lose grip on basic function—peripheral awareness collapses. Reflexes delay. Memory flickers. Eventually even pain becomes confused. The body remembers to hurt, but forgets why.”

Gaul’s smile curled upward, not wide, not dramatic—just enough to show that she was pleased. As if she were witnessing her twisted chalkboard philosophies playing out on tile and flesh.

Clemensia writhed, her mouth opening in silent agony, more foam streaking the corner of her lips as her torso seized again. A soft moan broke from her throat—not rage, not even pain—just the soft pitiful sound of someone unmade.

“She’s fading now. But it won’t kill her. Not unless I allow it.” You said it like a line from a lecture. Not a threat. A fact.

For a moment you say nothing and let them sit in the quiet. In the realization that none of this—none of what they just watched—was outside your control.

Only then did you move. 

You knelt beside Clemensia like a priest preparing a final rite. Gloved fingers weaving through the mess of her midnight hair until you found the base of her skull, your grip tightens as you lift her head from the floor just enough so she could hear you through the fog of her own undoing.

“Let this be a lesson,” You looked up. “Not just to her...”

Your gaze sweeps across the semi-circle of frozen students who’d borne witness to the entire descent. Some of them flinched when your eyes passed over them.

One girl released a soft sob, her hand pressed flat to her mouth to muffle it. Another boy had retreated so far against the lockers that the brushed steel creaked faintly under his back.

“To all of you.”

That was when your gaze moved directly onto Coriolanus Snow.

He didn’t move. Hadn't spoken. And yet the way your eyes locked on his, sharp as a scalpel, and it was clear—

You’d known he was there.

Clemensia's head drops back to the marble with a faint thock when you release your hold. At this point her convulsions had slowed, body was still twitching, but more weakly.

Hand moving again, it unfurls from your side revealing a new syringe sitting between your fingers—longer, thinner, the fluid inside clear and polished like crystal.

“I don’t have time...” There was no rise in volume when you spoke. There was no need to. Because the weight—the force behind the syllables—landed like a gavel.

“For games” You struck on that final word.

The needle pierced clean through fabric, bone, and skin, embedding itself in the center of Clemensia's chest with one perfect push.

You pressed the plunger down with a single motion causing the serum to empty itself into her bloodstream like water into dust.

Her body jerked once.

Arched.

Gasped.

Then crumpled.

A high wet sound caught in her throat—half gasp, half gag—but it faded. Her arms fell loose at her sides. Her lips trembled. Her lashes stopped fluttering.

She didn’t die.

But something did.

The syringe stood upright in her chest like a pin on a map—marking where pride had fallen and power had been claimed.

You stood and removed the syringe with one clean pull. Not a stain touched your gloves.

Then, without fanfare, you wiped the length of the needle on the edge of her blazer and tucked it back into your skirt pocket like it had never existed.

They watched as you retrieved your lunchbox from where it had waited quietly near your locker and turned to leave.

The attempted-bullies began to part before you had even taken a single full step, instinct bowing into them as you passed.

You didn’t look back.

Not at Clemensia.

Not at Dr. Gaul.

Not at the frozen crowd.

And certainly not at Coriolanus Snow.

You walked past him as if he were another body in the crowd. You didn’t even flick your gaze toward him.

You hadn’t needed to.

Whatever he had seen in you during class—the efficient mind, the intellectual precision, the quiet intensity—was nothing compared to what he had seen just now.

Behind him noise returned like a slow-rolling wave.

A girl screamed. Someone sobbed. Another dropped to their knees beside Clemensia’s limp body as they shook her by the shoulders. There were shouts for help. For instructors. For anyone.

But Coriolanus didn’t move.

He just stood there, watching your silhouette as it disappeared around the corner, the final click of your heels marking the moment the Capitol’s gameboard changed—permanently.

The corner of his mouth twitch almost imperceptibly.

[inthedoghousern]

11:45

part III of just this once (I) and okay (II)

pairing: oscar piastri x driver!fem!reader

summary: all eyes are on you and oscar after the monaco paparazzi pictures, and the two of you haven't been in the same vicinity since that night. after weeks of avoiding it, you two confront one another and your feelings.

contains: some social media, swearing, angst, fluff, brief mention of sex.

3.8k words

a/n: was going to end this angsty but i only got 1 comment on my last post and it was someone who wanted another part... so this one is for you @andruuu28

f1gossipofficial

Liked by mclarenfan3744 and 88,402 others f1gossipofficial Oscar Piastri and Y/n Y/l/n spotted together after the Monaco Grand Prix.

View all 31,288 comments

-

The rumors were in full effect. 

Your night with Oscar had taken social media by storm. The rumors were more than just you two being close friends, there was this notion going around that a potential romance was forming. 

The whole thing annoyed you, it was a moment that shouldn't have been public in the first place, a moment you should’ve been smart enough to avoid. 

It's been a few weeks now since Monaco, and you've done your best to keep the situation from growing even larger. No interaction with Oscar, denying any romance, reminding everyone that the two of you have known each other for years, that you're only colleagues and friends. Not everyone liked this response, especially since it's been clear that over the past few years, you and Oscar haven't really been friends, but rivals. But you stuck to the same explanation, and Oscar and McLaren gave the same one as well.

-

You're now sitting in a meeting with your PR team. Even though there have been multiple Grand Prixs since the photos started circulating, you were still getting questions about them. “If you're asked about it, don’t comment. If you feel the need to say anything, just remind them that you’ve known Oscar for years and you’re simply friends," your manager tells you. You nod in agreement.

You were used to having the spotlight all on you, but now you're having to deal with it being on you and Oscar together.

Your manager's advice had been to shut down the rumors and just focus on the races, it was the smartest move. But your mind couldn't help but drift to the memories of Oscar. You had known him for years and suddenly some pictures of one night in Monaco caused you two to be branded as more than friends by the public. It was all just so overwhelming. How being in the F1 world made every moment in your life a spectacle. 

“Alright…” your PR manager moves on, “speaking of Piastri, you have a panel with him today, alongside Tsunoda and Sargeant. Some sort of young driver thing.” 

Your heart drops a little, you'd been lucky enough up until this point that you hadn't had to do any media with him. You got to address the rumors, separately. The luck has run out. 

The panel was intended to showcase the young drivers, but now it was more than just a panel to you. You were scared it would become the focus of all the rumors and discussions about you two.

Obviously no one knew that the rumors had backing, that you had actually slept together, no one except you and Oscar. But it still made you nervous that you would be together, that every word you speak to each other during this conference, every look, is going to be dissected by fans and media looking to find out if there really is anything happening.

-

The walk to the panel brought you past fans and media alike. For the most part, they were asking questions regarding the races in the upcoming days, but one reporter got brave and decided to bring the rumors up.

"We all know about you two dating, when are you gonna go public with this relationship?" His question was loud enough to draw the attention of other reporters and fans. You're still walking as he asks, and the reporter is in step with you.

“Hey look, the only people I’m in love with out here are the ones who keep my car going fast,” you put your hands up in a joking surrender. You hope your humor towards the situation would show your indifference, make them see how ridiculous all the talk is. 

Your response was able to brush off the question without even really addressing the rumors. And it worked, he laughed at your joke and moved on, a few of the other reporters were even laughing at the joke, which made you feel a little bit better.

It was time to focus again because now you were nearing the panel and you still had to be focused on getting through it without all the attention being on you and Oscar.

You walk into the press room, journalists are sitting in their chairs, waiting for the proceedings to start. Out of the four of you, you're the first to arrive. One of the coordinators guides you to a seat and you put your mic on. You give a closed-lip smile and direct a nod at the room. Now it’s just time to wait for Oscar, Logan, and Yuki. 

The room was filled with chatter, the journalists were eager to get some insight into the young drivers of the grid. But the chatter soon dies down and the room becomes quiet, the silence only intensifying as Oscar walks onto the stage, followed by Logan and then Yuki. Because you were the first one to arrive, you were seated on the far end, and the coordinator that sat you led Oscar right next to you. Great.

-

As the MC introduces you all and opens the floor for questions, the photographers get busy snapping pictures of the panel. Oscar is right beside you, the two of you next to each other in full sight of the cameras, but he's busy looking straight ahead. So are you. 

He's trying to avoid eye contact with you, he doesn't want the cameras to catch on to how he wants to look at you.

A few questions come in from the journalists to each driver individually, Logan is asked a question, which he answers, and so does Yuki. You're asked a few about you're dynamic with Max, and Oscar is asked about his with Lando.

The panel continues to go around the room a few more times, when you, Logan, and Oscar are asked a question. 

“So, you three have been racing together for quite a long time”, he starts, “when can we expect a podium with the three of you? Imagine a moment like that!” He says passionately. I smile at his question. It was true, that during those early days of you and Oscar racing, Logan was there as well. You all had even driven for Prema together for a year. 

You answer first, “Logan when do you think…” you joke and lean forward to look at him. Your response is an obvious dig at him driving for Williams, a team that isn’t well-known for getting podiums. Even getting points. Logan gets the jab pretty fast.

Logan laughs and takes the bait, "Oh I can already feel a podium coming on this weekend," he jokes and everyone has a little laugh, including you and Oscar. 

You lean back again and reach to grab Logan’s shoulder, giving it a small squeeze. “No shade, Sargent,” you smile. While reaching back to grab Logan, your arm brushes against Oscar’s back. 

Logan smiles back, he knows it was just a little joke and doesn't take it personally. Oscar, on the other hand, is sensitive to your touch and feels a spark go through him when you brush against him. He can feel his muscles and body tense up just a tiny bit, he masks it by joining in on the joke, turning and smiling at Logan as well.

-

As the panel wraps up, you both feel a sense of some relief. Things had gone rather smoothly and the reporters were satisfied. And no one asked any questions about the pictures of you in Monaco. 

Oscar was just glad the session was over, now he could finish the rest of his press obligations and go back to the hotel. But as he looks around, he still sees you sitting there, looking away talking to someone on your team, and he is partially in disbelief that you just sat through an entire panel with him, acting like there was nothing wrong. Because for him, he can't stop thinking about you, during the whole panel he was focused only on you.

In contrast, you're focusing on the conversation with your team member, completely turned away from Oscar. “Okay, yeah sure,” you answer to one of your manager's questions. You put the mic on the table and stand up.

Oscar looks away as you stand up, he hopes he wasn’t staring for a noticeable amount of time. He takes his mic off as well, standing up and making his way to the McLaren team. 

It was a brief moment of eye contact, but when your eyes met with his, you could feel the intensity of everything between you and Oscar all rush back into your chest. It was just a look, a look that said a thousand things. A look that told you and Oscar everything that had happened between you. 

You're the first one to break eye contact, and you both walk away, exchanging no words, as each of you sticks closely with your teams on your way out of the room. 

Just two people who've had a lot of tension between them who were now trying to pretend like none of it ever happened. But neither of you were good liars.

-

The next day, you go through practice sessions like normal. You do more interviews, debrief with the engineers. Nothing special. Just business as usual. 

It's now later in the day and you're back at the hotel sitting on a couch, just scrolling on your phone, trying to let your mind relax. A few Red Bull employees had been sitting with you earlier, but they had all left to do their own thing at this point. You have been alone for a few minutes now, but you're suddenly disrupted by someone sitting next to you, his presence makes you tense up as you know who it is.

“Hey.” He says. “Hi.” You respond almost reluctantly.

Oscar could tell that you weren't really happy about him sitting down next to you, and he should leave, he shouldn't have even sat down, but he was going to stay for a little bit to at least attempt to have this conversation. 

He sat in silence for a few moments after you responded, before finally saying, "How were your sessions today?”

“Pretty good,” I answer. “What about you?”

"Yeah, mine were fine too." 

Very successful conversation. You both sit in silence again, and you look back at your phone. 

"How long are we going to avoid the obvious?" Oscar finally says, getting to the reason he sat down next to you in the first place.

You put your phone down. “I don’t know…” you trail off. “But it seems like whatever we’re doing now has diverted the media off our trail," you half-joke. You dance around his question. You're scared to talk about it. 

Oscar was tired of pretending, it was killing him to keep quiet and act as if nothing had happened. He didn't know how much longer he could take it. 

"That's not what I meant, you know what I'm talking about..." he said softly, his eyes just looking straight into you, trying to get you to look at him.

You lean your head on the back of the couch. You don’t meet his eyes yet. “Oscar I already told you… it was one time… we shouldn’t have let it even happen.” You're not sure if you really mean that, but you do regret that it was a door that you allowed to open. A door that you don’t want to close, but you have to. 

Oscar sighs, your excuses are falling on deaf ears right now. 

"Sure, we shouldn't have let it happen, but it did. So why are we pretending like it didn't? This is ridiculous." He said, his voice not raising, but you could tell he was annoyed with you.

"Is this really what you're gonna say every time we're together like this? That it was just one time? Because I'm not satisfied with that answer anymore."

“Okay okay," you surrender. “Look if we need to just talk this out, for once and all, get it out of our systems, fine. You tell me what you need to say. But you know we can’t do it here.” You lift your head and finally look at him. If he wanted to talk, okay. But you had worked so hard to dispel the rumors, and having a heart-to-heart in this hotel lobby where anyone could catch a listen was counterproductive. 

Oscar nods, he knows he can't really say anything in here either, too many ears, too many eyes. But he has been holding this in for a while, all of his emotions and thoughts building up over the past weeks.   

He wanted to talk through it, even just a little. "Okay. Where then?”

One of your hotel rooms was the obvious answer. But there was no way you were even going to consider that, not after what you two had already done together. It was too dangerous, too much could happen between you two if you were allowed to have each other all to yourselves.

You think. “There’s a pool here right? I’ll find out when it closes.” 

Sitting on the pool deck, outside, in public, seemed like a much safer location for you and Oscar’s impending conversation. Even if it was closed and no one was there, there was always the threat of someone showing up, passing by. Private enough to say what you needed to say, public enough to control yourselves. “I’ll text you when. Then just meet me there,” you tell him. 

Oscar was surprised that you suggested a place that was even more public. But it was a good solution because you are right. If your conversation was in a closed-off room somewhere, then there was always the chance that one of you would let yourself get carried away again. 

In a public space, with even the smallest probability of someone coming by, you two would be forced to keep your distance. 

"Alright," Oscar says, standing up and leaving the lobby.

-

to: Oscar Piastri

11:45pm.

from: Oscar Piastri (1 new message)

11:45.

-

The time comes and you slip into the pool area, trying to be discreet considering that it’s closed. And because you're meeting Oscar. He’s already here sitting on the edge of the pool. 

When you arrive, he looks straight at you, there is no need to try hiding anything right now. The whole situation was already obvious and you both knew what conversation was incoming, what it was going to be about. 

You don’t say anything as you walk over. Neither does he. You sit down next to him and put your feet in the pool, he does the same and keeps his legs straight so he doesn't accidentally touch your legs. There is a small amount of space between you two and you both stay quiet. 

“So…” you don’t know what to say. He seemed like he had something to get off of his chest in the lobby. You should just tell him to spit it out, but you don’t want to be hostile. Be mean. The whole situation is really fucking with your head already but you don’t want to make it seem like he’s the only one with feelings to express. Things to say. Just because you've been avoiding him, you've been better at acting like it didn’t happen, didn't mean you weren't constantly thinking about that night, thinking of him.

You can see he's not entirely sure where to start either. "Can we just skip all the bullshit and not pretend like we don't know what is going to be discussed in this conversation?" Oscar asked, just being blunt from the start. His eyes looking straight into yours, they were piercing, it showed to you that he was serious about discussing this right away.

You're taken aback by his response. You weren't expecting him to be so forward, maybe you should have. 

“Fine.” You turn and look at him. He should be the one to speak his peace first. He’s the one who pushed for this meeting back in the lobby. But you're sick of avoiding the confrontation. You'll confess first. 

“Oscar, I don’t regret Monaco. If I'm being honest with myself, I want it to happen again. But don’t you understand why I say it can’t happen again? You’ve been here, almost every step of my career. You know how hard it’s been for me. Not just in the car. And it’s stupid that it would be a big deal if we got together. Stupid that people are going to use it as a way to justify not taking me seriously. But you know it will happen. Just those pictures of us in Monaco were hell for me.” I pause and look forward. “And I don’t want to sneak around. Watch my back every time we are together.” You move your feet through the water.

Oscar listens to you with an intense look on his face.

“I understand. And you’re right, they’re always going to talk,” he responds. You look at him. “It’s inevitable. It’s not fair. But that’s how we’re living. I know you're concerned about your career and reputation, but you’re at the top. You’re a great driver. So fuck them," he says looking back at you.

You sit quietly, waiting for him to continue. 

“I’m sick of pretending like my feelings don’t exist, I don’t care if everyone talks about me and our relationship or rumors or whatever, I don’t have anything to prove to anyone.” The floodgates are open now. 

“I want to try. If you’ve already made up your mind and you’re done with this, then cut me lose now.“

Your mind is working overtime. You're trying to process his words and process your reaction to them. You know he’s right. If you keep running from relationships because you're scared of what people think, you're going to be alone until you retire. But your mind still runs to headlines. *McLaren and Red Bull. Competitors or Lovers?*. It’s not just the fans, the media. What about your teams? There’s no way things won’t get uncomfortable.

Oscar can tell your mind is racing, it's hard to take everything in so suddenly. If something were to happen between the two of you, you were right, a lot would change. 

But Oscar believed it was worth a shot. 

“What happened between us was only one night. But usually when people feel how we’r– I’m feeling, they get to explore that...” Oscar cringes slightly at his words. He's saying exactly what he means, but it sounds so corny out loud. 

“What I’m trying to say is that we could decide to actually spend more time together. Give us a shot. And it's a real possibility it just doesn’t work.” He looks up, trying to find the rest of the words to verbalize what he’s feeling. “But we can’t know that unless we try.”

He finishes his speech and looks away, his head lowered. The words were finally out there, there was no hiding from those feelings anymore. 

You can't find any words. He cannot look at you. All you two can do is sit there, waiting for the other to make the next move.

You look at the side of his face. His freckles and moles you had once traced. His hair. It was messy again, maybe he was running his hands through it before you got here. You continue staring at him, just examining.

Eventually, you look back at the pool. You sit for a moment before moving your feet in the water, tapping Oscar's next to you. 

He felt your foot lightly touch him in the water. He looks into the pool and he gives a small smile. His eyes travel to your leg, close to his now, and he pushes his lightly back into you. 

You still aren’t looking at each other as your legs keep touching in the pool. And now you can feel his hand nearly touching yours, and you inch it closer. You feel his slight touch back as your pinkies are now intertwined. 

It was so still and so quiet. All you could hear was the slight trickle of water, your legs and hands lightly touching, and the occasional small breeze that came by. 

You don’t know how long it's been when you finally turn to Oscar. He’s still looking at the pool. Your heart is beating faster and faster and you've made your decision. Is it the right one? Is there even a right decision in this situation? You don’t know. 

You move your hand away, your pinkies no longer intertwined. 

Oscar felt you move away, feeling a tinge of pain, it seemed like you decided to leave. 

He stays still, facing the pool. 

You linger for a second before you begin to trace your fingers on his back and up along his neck.

He looks over at you when you do this. Now that he's facing you, you run your fingers through his hair and rest a hand on his face, your thumb caressing his cheek. 

Oscar shudders slightly as your fingers go through his hair, it's such a tender and sweet gesture. His breathing started to slow, the tension that had built up this whole time and throughout this conversation was now subsiding. He can feel you gently touching his face and it feels so natural.

His hand now finds your face, lightly brushing a piece of hair behind your ear and then resting on the back of your neck. You turn your body more completely now, bringing one of your legs out of the pool, bent in between you two, while the other still floats.

Oscar feels your leg come out of the pool and is placed in between the two of you, the both of you are practically pressed together now. 

You feel his hand caress the back of your neck, as he draws you closer to him. You lean closer too. No words have been exchanged but it’s clear you've both made your decision. It’s almost as if with your simple action of leaning closer, a secret agreement between the two of you was silently accepted.

Your heads are touching now, your legs pressed tight between the two of you. No words need to be spoken to prove it, something had happened and now it was time for you both to embrace it.

You kiss him. Finally. 

He kisses you back.

Maybe this was the wrong decision. Maybe not. Either way, right now you and Oscar couldn't care less. All you wanted in this moment was him. All he wanted was you. The worries of being caught, the reactions of fans, your teams, and the media, and the fear that whatever this is would just be a fling, dissolved in the kiss. You were the only two people who mattered at this moment, the only ones who knew how you were feeling and what you had gone through just to be in each other's arms again. 

And as Oscar pulls you closer and smiles into the kiss, you know for a fact that this is the best decision you've ever made. 

-

f1gossipofficial

Liked by user4337 and 98,963 others f1gossipofficial McLaren's Oscar Piastri and Red Bull's Y/n Y/l/n spotted together again in the night leading up to the qualifying sessions of the Belgian Grand Prix.

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landonorris oh wow (deleted by author)

a/n: the end 😄 they are such idiots, how are you about to get caught AGAIN after your whole plan was to be incongnito!

[ghxstly-death]

here’s the first chapter of a sleep token fanfic i’m kinda working on called Bloodsport

There was something about this new vessel of Sleep. Something about his hair, his eyes, the way he held himself that Vessel couldn’t seem to look away from. They didn’t know his name, they didn’t ask and he didn’t tell. They called him III. This is how they were all named, after the order they came to follow Sleep. Vessel had been the first, II had been the second, and now there was III.

III and II had just come back from making III’s mask, Vessel didn’t go as he had to get the temple ready for III’s indoctrination. Vessel turned when he heard them enter the temple, and something about the way the ribbon of sunlight reflected off the bronze of III’s mask caught Vessel’s eye and he froze in place. He felt his heart flutter in a way that no one but II had been able to achieve before. The tall man seemed to have an aura of light as he made his way closer to the altar, closer to Vessel. This light, this warmth that followed III spread throughout Vessel’s body and he was grateful for the dim light of the temple and the mask covering his face.

Before Vessel knew it, II had taken his place by the door and III was standing in front of him. He placed a hand on the man’s shoulder, an act which felt so familiar. They locked eyes. He knew the other couldn’t see behind the mask, but Vessel was drowning in an ocean of deep blue. They stayed like this for a moment, both men felt as if the world around them had ceased to exist, as if nothing else had ever mattered but this moment, right here, right now. Vessel tightened his grip on III’s shoulder, applying a pressure that meant he wanted III to kneel. III did so willingly, never looking away from the six eyes of Vessel's mask.

Vessel felt another wave of warmth wash over him, he wondered if the other could feel it too. He let his hand drop back to his side as he turned to the altar behind him. He dipped his thumb into a small wooden bowl of white paint; Turning back, he took the kneeling man’s face in his hands. Vessel took in every detail of the mask, bronze paint with black covering the mouth and leading up to under his eyes. The mouth had small openings to allow III to breathe. Vessel ran a gentle finger over them taking in the way III’s breath brushed over his finger tip; he couldn’t stop himself from imagining the feel of III’s lips. Were they soft and gentle? Chapped and rough? He imagined their warmth and how they would feel against his—

Vessel cleared his mind. He carefully drew Sleep’s sigil onto III’s mask with the white paint. He turned once more, dipping both hands into a larger bowl of crimson paint. This time Vessel delicately placed his hands on either side of III’s neck, leaving his hands in place long enough to allow the red to stain the man’s skin.

Vessel lifted III’s chin and watched the new vessel’s eyes widen as the altar behind him lit up with a gentle white light. This was Sleep’s way of accepting III into the collective. Tendrils of light reached past Vessel settling over III’s body. Only now did III break his gaze with Vessel, holding out his arms to watch the tendrils twist around his arms. Vessel watched as the light started breaking off into small particles filling the temple. It was beautiful, he thought III was beautiful.

The light died out, receding back to the altar; Vessel took III’s hand and helped him off the floor. His hand lingered for a moment too long, only retreating when II stepped between the men. Vessel had been so caught up in sight of III he had forgotten II was in the temple with them. He watched II guide the other man out of the temple.

—

III followed II back to an old house where he was shown his room as well as a bathroom and kitchen. The house appeared old and run down but after taking a closer look III noticed the working power and running water, finely stained and polished wood floors, flowery wallpaper, and marble countertops. III assumed the shape of the house had something to do with the other’s devotion to his new God.

III settled in his room and couldn’t help but think of the warmth he still felt from his indoctrination and the man who had given it. III thought him to be intimidating at first, but he had noticed the lingering touches. Maybe it meant nothing, maybe it was strictly ceremonial, maybe it was simply a leader observing his new follower. It didn’t matter what it truly was, III wanted more of the other man’s touch, wanted to feel Vessel’s hands on his skin again.

This brought III’s mind back to the altar, back to the light, back to the warmth, back to Sleep. The way it looked, the way it felt. Kind and gentle and welcoming. He thought back to the way Vessel looked standing above him with the soft light pouring around him. The sight was angelic, divine, godly. And for a moment, III had wanted to worship him instead.

[silentium-symphony]

Now Watch Me Whip II (Link x Reader)

(a/n) this was supposed to be the last part but there's gonna be one more (linked here ofc). thanks for sticking around though, i really appreciate it :)

click here to read the first chapter

cw: afab!reader, reader having nightmares (contents of dream not explored), link comforting them <3, violence (not extremely explicit), link driven by and drowning in guilt aww

wc: 3.1k

♤♢ ~~ ♡♧

Dawn had just broken past the hills when Link began tying his sandals to his legs, his hyperactive mind focused on the sensation of thin leather nestling into skin. With the press of a button, the Purah pad sparked to life and he stared at the virtual beacon blinking faintly at the site of yesterday's battle. Resolve flooded his mind; he slung his shield over his shoulder and topped the thick metal with his sword.

Careful hands creaked his door open. He looked this way and that, slipped his lean form through the tiniest crack possible, and clicked the door shut. Not a soul in sight--the introvert in him grinned in delight. He crept forward, dully noting the idyllicity of morning light flowing through the inn; it grounded him and helped him purge all unnecessary thoughts from his mind.

He passed your door, his feet backpedaling and the fleeting thought of checking in on you flashed through his mind. He swallowed and his eyes rested heavily on the still doorknob. His racing, thunderous heart pounded his eardrums like an erratic war drum; the light snoring from the other side of the door strangely soothed him, however.

He'll be quick. He'll be back before daybreak. Before you wake.

But...

His mind was suddenly plagued by your panicked, shaking frame hyperventilating into him; he was so taken aback by the clarity of the memory that he staggered back and hit the wall. Your shoulder. Have you bled through your dressings? Have you shuffled in the middle of the night and reopened your wounds, currently bleeding out on the bed and blissfully unaware of your coming demise?

A quick look won't hurt...

He was surprised at the gentleness he showed the inanimate piece of brass, turning it slowly and peeping his head through. There you were, your chest rising and falling at a relaxed, even pace. A lilting sigh left his lips seeing the still-white cloth wrapped snugly about your shoulder. He pulled the door closed.

A whimper.

He froze, a petrifying chill racing down his back. Your cries grew louder and louder, turning into pained moans and shallow gasps for respite. He leaned the door open again, his heart and thoughts tied in a sickening race.

What in the world does he do? Would it be too forward to just waltz into your room and comfort your shaking self? Should he just give you space and pretend he didn't see any of that?

That last thought set his chest aflame, clearly at odds with his inner Spirit. How could he willingly turn a blind eye to someone clearly in the throes of struggle? He stepped hesitantly into your room, finding comfort in caressing the wall and staying off to the side as he crept closer.

He could see your twisted features clearly now. The beginnings of sweat beaded and glistened against your skin, contrasting the much larger globs of tears forming at the corner of your eyes. Your head shook to and fro, a rapture of hurried words leaving your throat with each groan. They weren't in a language he understood--perhaps they weren't even words at all. Regardless, the feelings laced with each agitated whine were the same--Hurt. Dread. Regret.

His heart somersaulted to the base of his throat as the sounds of a word very similar to his name gurgled out of your chest.

"Mm... Link..." Your tense brows and gnashing teethed loosened for his name. "Save... me..."

He felt his knees grow weak and he reached a trembling hand to you. Before he realized it, the rest of him followed. He sunk into the edge of your bed, unsure digits hovering over your wrenching form.

"Save... Help..."

"S-Shhh..." He hushed, surprised once again at the gentleness he could croak out (especially so early in the morning). "It's okay... You're safe..."

He wove his fingers through your hair and lightly scratched your scalp, eliciting a pleased moan out of your lips; a warmth kissed the surface of his cheeks, sinking through until it hit his chest. He didn't know if the sudden redness was from the heart-clutching mewl you cried out or from the shame of blushing in the first place. An innocent chuckle aired out, watching you melt under his touch.

"You're okay, (F/N). You're safe. I'll protect you, I promise--"

A stinging slap rang so clearly in his mind. What was he saying? He had just met you. Who was he to be making such proclamations of protection when he couldn't even protect the Princess, someone he had sworn to guard with his life?

He laughed dourly at his presumptuousness and continued stroking your head until your chest once again rose and fell at even rates. He pulled away, trying to ignore how his fingers craved the feel of your hair locked in his hands or the ever-present cold at his side that ached for the touch of another.

"I'll be back soon."

That he could promise.

♤♢ ~~ ♡♧

After an apologetic and thankful bow to the groggy innkeeper, he took Epona's bridle and led her further away from the inn. He plucked an apple from his pocket, humbly presenting it to his companion. She vacuumed the shiny red hungrily, a blast of fruity, sugary goodness hitting her just enough to get her spurring towards her rider's destination. Link "ho-ho'ed" and climbed atop her saddle. One look at the Purah pad to confirm his destination and he was off.

He enjoyed the morning breeze nipping his cheeks and the feeling of freedom ruffling his hair. He threw his arms to the side, relishing the gentle gust soaring past him; in that very moment, he swore he could fly.

The dips and divets in the landscape began to ring familiar to him and he tugged Epona's reigns slightly to the left, battle-hardened awareness substituting tranquil nonchalance as he neared a known corner. He steadied his thoughts before they could materialize the ghastly memory of what happened to you only a night ago. He didn't have a lot of opportunities to remedy his mistakes, so he was gonna take this chance and fly with it.

He rounded the corner and his heart steeled at the newly-colonized encampment, the scattering of its previous victims nowhere to be seen. That wasn't the only thing that remained to be seen as he threw his eyes this way and that for your bag. Where did you say it was...? By a wooden crate...?

Taut fingers knotted Epona's reins and he pulled firmly, slowing her to a halt behind a cluster of trees. He vaulted off her, tied her to a low-hanging branch, and turned his eyes to the dozing monsters. He saw the blue glow of a barely conscious Bokoblin on a watchtower, the monstrosity grunting closer and closer to sleep. His arm slinked behind him for his bow, knocking two sturdy arrows in place. His shoulders squeezed and stretched the bow into a thin, stiff crescent. He stilled his breathing. The muted glow in the Bokoblin's face was a handy beacon in the dawn's dark.

Just like target practice.

He released his fingers, the arrows cutting straight and true and through the eyes of the pig-like beast. An armor-piercing wail, followed by the death throes of the falling and now fallen beast. Its compatriots woke up in alarm, screaming at their once-living comrade now folded lifelessly before them. They gathered their weapons and the smaller Bokoblins huddled together while others (like the two Moblins) scouted the surrounding area. His eyes flashed to Epona, who was relaxedly grazing the forest floor. He scooted away from her and followed the monster's movements with cold calculation.

The Moblins neared his hiding spot, thankfully still unaware of his presence. He slotted his bow over his shoulder and drew his sword; the metallic melody of sword leaving scabbard was all the tell the Moblins needed to find their companion's murderer. Rabid reds met blazing blues and they charged at him, arms and weapons thrashing wildly. He darted to the side, leaping over a low swing in the process, and sprinted undeviatingly along his one-track course. One eye concentrated on the tattered bag inconspicuously tucked behind a wooden crate while the other darted about his surroundings.

He felt the stumbly footsteps of the titans bellow behind him and he readied his sword for a fatal encounter with the smaller Bokoblins. A chorus of shrieks rang in his ears and they brandished clubs and rusty weapons, a few initiating a mini head-on charge towards the hero. A gnarled branch whizzed for his neck and a dull, rusty spear lanced for his torso. He rolled off to the side, grunting from clapping the earth with his body. The top of his sword gored the branch-wielder's chest before smoothly connecting a succinct slice across the sword-wielder's belly. The familiar tune of a piercing death-scream tolled in his ears like the dirge of a bell.

He felt his body naturally turn into a spin attack, cutting at the Bokoblins that were beginning to flank him. The culling of their monstrous brothers threw the Moblins into a blind rage and they began chucking boulders at their murderer. The swordsman felt the air, disturbed by the sudden mass, and ducked just in time for the large rock to unceremoniously land in front of him. He clicked his tongue, his head swiveling around in time to see another grey mass trajected straight toward him. He coiled his body tightly, avoiding most of the boulder save for the sharp edges that dug into his bare shoulders. He felt the hot liquid race down the newly-formed cut as a familiar rush of light tingled his Zonai arm.

His immediate vicinity muted into a dull grey and he felt the bright tick, tick, ticking in his ears as he pressed the boulders back whence it came, lightly musing if he should snap a picture of this soon-to-be comical moment. With a snap of his fingers, time began its incessant march once more and the rocks that almost spelled his death satisfyingly crashed into the still-charging Moblins with the same ferocity and hatred they had intended for the hero.

Safe to say, they were no more--if their dying gurgles were any testament to that.

He cooly eyed the carnage around him and meandered over to the crate, peeking behind the rotting container to find your bag. He snatched the worn pouch off the ground and held it up victoriously. Success!

The twinkle of a small, metal rod slipped out of it--he was surprised to see it still falling as a long, trailing ribbon bunched atop its thin anchor. He picked up the rod gingerly, thumbing and tracing the scuff marks that riddled its exterior. Glints of shine shone off the well-loved metallic piece; the ribbon itself was a faded (F/C) hue, hung tightly to the rod and tapered off into a point. The ends were edged with neatly trimmed frays, no doubt from years of consecutive use.

The realization that he was handling something meaningful--sacred, even--to you dawned on him and he slipped it into your bag with great care. The faint glimmer of rupees hidden inside a haphazardly closed pouch caught his eye and he nodded with a 'hmph.' More success!

He thoroughly checked the area, literally overturning stones and such for anything else of note (he did find a few stray rupees scattered among the camp, which he happily slipped into your wallet). Taking one last look, he spun on his heel and swaggered toward the still-munching Epona, his chest puffed with pride and accomplishment.

♤♢ ~~ ♡♧

A soft couple of knocks rapt your door and you groaned, weakly reaching for your eyes.

"Urgh... c-come in..."

A blonde mane entered your vision, followed by a pair of cerulean that twinkled lovingly brightly when it saw you.

"Oh! Link!" Your lips were pulled from ear-to-ear. "Good morning, sir!"

That name's gonna be the death of him He held up a hand and, once again, waved off the formality.

"I-I'm sorry! Does that make you uncomfortable?"

Quite the opposite, actually--

He mentally jabbed himself in the gut and smiled.

"It just... makes me feel old." He laughed. "And I'm hardly older than you."

He kind of eyed your expression to see if you would let slip that his being over 100 years old was common knowledge. He didn't quite know how to feel about it if that were the case...

"I understand," you nodded, "I'm sorry about that."

He shook his head and "mm'ed."

"How're you feeling?"

"I mean... Not great, but nowhere near as bad as yesterday. That potion you left for me was a lifesaver for sure."

"I'm glad you pulled through. Truly." He moved to sit on the stool pulled up by your bed. Your eyes trailed down his... charred? glowing? wait glowing why was it glowing-- arm tucked behind his back. His gaze followed yours; you cast your eyes to the wall, the feeling of being caught prickling your chest.

"I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to stare--"

"No, it's okay." A dismal smile. "It's... complicated."

Your heart twinged with guilt. No doubt you've unearthed some unpleasant memories for the man. Your hand reached for his, rubbing shallow circles into the space between his thumb and pointer.

"You don't have to tell me. I'll take your word for it, Hero."

Stunned eyes rested on the simple motion your fingers made into his skin, and he wondered why his heart was currently performing theatricals in his chest. His cheeks grew hot, suddenly turning very thankful for the dimness that permeated the room.

"Oh, uh," he cleared his throat, hoping to draw his mind away from the 'Hero' bouncing around his head, "I... went out earlier this morning and, um..."

Without another word, he slipped a rustic bag--your bag--into your lap. You had to bite back a scream from the sheer relief that overtook your soul. Your face snapped confusedly to his, eternal gratefulness swimming in your (E/C) hues.

"I got this for you."

"Link...!" Your throat constricted and your vision blurred with tears. "Oh Hylia, Link...!"

Alarm aroused his features, followed by unfiltered panic.

"D-Did I forget something? I'm sorry, I thought I--"

"No!" With a whip of your arm, you pulled the man into a tight embrace, your profile resting atop his bare chest. "Thank you! Oh gods, thank you!"

You were mentally jumping up and down with the Hero wrapped in your arms and you swore you could, feeling the surge of strength flow through your legs. Just as quickly as you pulled him in, you pulled away to excitedly inspect the contents of your bag (not noticing the very deep red on the swordsman's cheeks).

Everything was accounted for--your wallet (which you happily noted looked clunkier since last you saw it), spare clothes, some snacks, and most importantly...

Your digits wound about the metal rod tucked so neatly towards the side and whipped it out, the faded (F/C) ribbon whistling a quiet psalm compared to the harsh, sober crack of your whip.

No air flowed through your room but the ribbon continued lingering over the air, hovering and quivering slightly over the entranced Link with a gentle sway of your wrist. You laughed, his eager eyes that lapped up your ribbon tricks reminded you of the small children in your village.

"Gorgeous..." He airily praised.

You chuckled, flicking your wrist suddenly and dipping the ribbon to tickle his shoulder. He gasped at the light, fleeting touch and felt goosebumps dot his skin. You snapped your wrist up again and gyrated it faster, tightening the ribbon into a vortex.

"You're really good at this." He sounded, proud.

"Oh, you should see me with my other hand." You laughed, only imagning what his childlike wonder would turn into if he could see the routines you practiced. A giggle of pure delight flowed out of his open-mouthed smile as he watched you and the glossy strip, his heart ablaze. The familiar twinge of guilt and sorrow knotted his abdomen, but...

You twirled your ribbon about his face, your delighted features lost behind a swirl of (F/C).

Maybe, just this once... he could be happy.

"Where did you learn how to do this?"

Your crinkled eyes laxed slightly, despondence tugging your eyelashes downward. Your ribbon fell delicately onto Link's shoulders and slid off.

"My village... We used to have a festival every year and I was their main ribbon dancer."

wel fuck

He had seen that thousand-yard stare on hundreds of faces before you--so why did it hurt the most seeing it on yours?

"... 'Used to?'"

You chuckled bitterly, throat dry from all the tears you've shed.

"It's gone now. Monsters and failed harvests made sure of that."

Both pairs of eyes honed in on the ground before them. The sunlight pouring into your bedroom had shown brighter now; the rest of the inn's guests were beginning to rustle awake, and you absently listened to the chatter of a family walking past. The soft, heated whispers of a couple slipped through the cracks in your door, muffling their words but not the love behind them. The idling chatter of friends and travelers buzzed lowly outside and filled you with a strange mix of longing and peace. Despite everything that's happened--everything you've lost--the world was still spinning. Life has moved on, but you're still caught in the grey limbo between destruction and recovery.

"I'm sure your festival," he glanced up at you slowly, "was something even the gods beheld with wonder."

"... Thank you." You sighed, eyes fluttering shut; you could still see the colorful banners and confetti catching the sun. "I think so too."

Link rocked back in his seat, his lungs releasing a long sigh as he stared up at the ceiling, then back down to you.

"You... said you could dance?"

Your eyes fluttered open and caught Link's enraptured gaze.

"Yes! I'm completely self-taught, actually." You did a poor job of hiding that smug smirk. "I can show you a couple of my routines sometime!"

"I would like that a lot, thank you."

A bright idea flared in your mind, sending energizing sparks throughout your body.

"Maybe... I can teach you. If you're up for it." You wriggled your eyebrows. Link's lips ovaled into an 'O' and his eyes widened.

"R-Really? You would teach me?"

"Of course! I don't see why not. Although... Some of the stuff I do takes a lot of practice, but we'll start with the basics!"

A long "hmm" drew from him as he stroked his chin thoughtfully. Of course he had more pressing matters to attend to, but the thought of dancing with you sent pangs of excitement through his core, dispelling the guilt that so commonly beat his chest. He felt giddy almost, the unfamiliar sensation getting his heart beating and swooning.

Maybe, just this once... he could be happy.

"I was never known to back down from a challenge."

[zdbztumble]

Yet Another Kingdom Hearts Revisit, Part II

Confession time: Olympus Coliseum has always been my least favorite world from the first game. My feelings about its source film have a lot to do with that. Hercules is a lot of fun. Hades is a hoot, the design sensibility is wild, and the concept of using gospel music for a tale of gods and heroes was brilliantly thought of and brilliantly executed. But I think Herc himself is the most boring protagonist Disney animation came up with in the 90s. He is what critics of Superman think Superman is (and what he frankly sometimes is in fact). The mishmash of Superman and Rocky for his story is an awkward one, and not being a big fan of sports or sports movies, I groan through all the beats of the sports movie formula the movie hits. With a hero that bland and a villain that charismatic and entertaining, the movie can't work the way it wants to. As enjoyable as many of the parts of Hercules are, it never gels into a satisfying whole.

Sora being a more compelling protagonist than Hercules himself, that bullet was dodged. And the vibe I get from Hades in KH I is that he was, if not the loser of the League of Disney Villains, the one who was least committed to the group and the most desperate to employ low cunning, which undercut his otherwise slick persona and made him more effective (and even a little pathetic) as a villain. But there is still a lot of the sports movie mentality in Phil's attitude toward Sora and company, and it's hard not to take all the tournaments as Sora and Donald assuaging their egos (Goofy comes off more as Sora's cheerleader in cut scenes). It's not exactly the meatiest story material in the game.

With all that said - "least favorite" doesn't mean I don't like Olympus Coliseum. I like it plenty. If only for variety's sake, I'm glad to have a tournament world, and unlike Atlantica in KH II, Olympus Coliseum executes its concept well and still connects to the larger story. When it does so, it's very effective. KH I's Cloud is still who I think of when I picture the character, and his and Sora's relationship is quite touching. The tournaments give good revisit value and the prizes are nice (though it does irk me that the Gold Match with the Ice Titan doesn't come with a prize). The cut scenes for this world also have a healthy dose of the cartoon comedy that's sadly come to be in short supply in the series.

However, Olympus Coliseum does have one of the bigger narrative hiccups in KH I. I'm sure I noticed this in a past playthrough, but it irked me more this time - having Sora declare that his friendship with Donald and Goofy is so strong that it would let them defeat even the mighty Hercules, and that friendship is what it takes to be a true hero, would be a wonderful sentiment if it wasn't immediately preceded by a fight with Herc where Sora tells his friends to step aside so he can go one-on-one.

It's more than a nitpick and less than a crippling flaw; Sora couldn't have gotten to that fight with Herc unless Donald and Goofy supported him through the Hercules Cup, after all (at least until the game lets you fight through it solo). And KH I has very few such issues. But it is there. And if there's any repeat world that I think KH II handled better narratively, it's Olympus.

[linuxgamenews]

Get to Experience 90s Adventure Gaming with Legends of Amberland II

Legends of Amberland II: The Song of Trees the next classic western RPG game is due to release on Linux via Proton with Windows PC. Thanks to the innovative team at Silver Lemur Games for bringing this experience to life. Coming to both Steam and GOG. Get ready for a ride back to the golden days of gaming with the upcoming release Legends of Amberland II: The Song of Trees. Due to release on Steam and GOG on December 5th, 2023. At launch, you can dive in if you speak English, German, French, or Polish, with more languages to follow soon. Coming to Linux via Proton, as with previous titles. Legends of Amberland II takes its cues from iconic '90s adventures, with a blend of Might & Magic, Wizardry, and Ultima vibes. Step into a world that's laid out like a chessboard, where every move is calculated and strategic. That's what you'll get – a classic first-person view, and a world where you navigate by squares. Also a turn-based system that keeps the action methodical yet engaging.

Legends of Amberland II: The Song of Trees TRAILER

Your mission in Legends of Amberland II? You're the leader of a seven-member crew you can either handpick or start with a pre-built team. Your quest is grand – due to confront the shadows threatening the peaceful realm of Amberland. Think of it as a heroic fable, brimming with epic moments and a touch of humor. It's an homage to when these adventures didn't demand endless hours or grinding to advance.

Features:

A retro first-person point of view and square-by-square movement.

A turn-based setup that covers both battles and exploration.

You've got a squad of seven heroes in Legends of Amberland II, each with different skills.

Swift battles, super fast when you're up against weaker foes.

Quick travel options to keep things moving without needless repetition.

A hassle-free way to manage your squad's gear, including a magical bag that carries all your extra items.

A vast world that's yours to explore.

Loads of quests to embark on, from the main journey to additional tasks.

A rich backstory that connects all the titles in the series, though you don't need to know the previous stories to jump into this one.

On the technical front, it's crafted to give you that nostalgic feel while ensuring it runs smoothly on today's tech – even older systems.

As for its place in the classic western RPG franchise, you can jump into Legends of Amberland II at any point. While it's part of a larger universe with a continuous history, each story stands alone. You might catch hints of past events, but they're just there to enrich the world, not to confuse newcomers. So, if you're into heroic tales with a lighthearted touch and a nod to the classic games, keep your eyes peeled for this release on Steam and GOG. It's all about recapturing that '90s magic while delivering a fresh, accessible experience. Coming to Linux via Proton with Windows PC on December 5th, 2023. No word on being Verified though.

[innerguidancehub]

Navigating the Path of Self-Discovery: Coping with the Realization of Narcissism

Introduction

The journey of self-discovery is not always easy, and sometimes it leads us to uncomfortable truths. Realizing that you exhibit narcissistic traits can be a profound moment of reckoning. It's a crucial step towards growth and transformation. In this article, we'll explore compassionate and spiritual approaches to coping with this realization, fostering healing and self-evolution.

I. Embrace Compassion for Yourself

The first step towards healing is to extend compassion to yourself. Understand that realizing your narcissistic tendencies is a sign of introspection and a willingness to change. Embrace this moment with self-love and a commitment to embark on a journey of transformation.

II. Cultivate Self-Awareness and Mindfulness

Developing self-awareness is essential in the process of change. Practice mindfulness to observe your thoughts, behaviors, and reactions without judgment. This allows you to gain deeper insights into your patterns and triggers.

III. Seek Professional Guidance and Support

Engaging with a therapist, counselor, or spiritual guide can be immensely beneficial. They provide a safe space for you to explore your feelings and behaviors, offering guidance and tools for self-improvement.

IV. Practice Radical Honesty and Authenticity

Embrace honesty in your self-reflection. Acknowledge your shortcomings and take responsibility for your actions. Authenticity becomes a powerful tool for transformation, allowing you to align with your true essence.

V. Engage in Self-Reflective Practices

Journaling, meditation, and contemplative practices provide avenues for deeper self-reflection. They create a space for you to explore your emotions, motives, and desires with clarity and insight.

VI. Cultivate Empathy and Compassion for Others

Narcissism often stems from a lack of genuine empathy for others. Engage in activities that cultivate compassion, such as volunteering or acts of kindness. Practice seeing the world from others' perspectives.

VII. Embrace Forgiveness, Starting with Yourself

Forgiveness is a powerful tool for healing. Begin by forgiving yourself for past behaviors and choices. Understand that growth is a journey, and you have the power to evolve into a more empathetic and authentic version of yourself.

VIII. Set Boundaries and Prioritize Healthy Relationships

Establishing boundaries is crucial in fostering healthy connections. Recognize when your behaviors may be impacting others negatively, and take steps to create space for their well-being.

IX. Embody Humility and Gratitude

Cultivate humility by acknowledging that we are all imperfect and continuously evolving. Practice gratitude for the opportunities to learn and grow, even in moments of discomfort.

X. Engage in Acts of Service and Contribution

Giving back to your community or contributing to causes larger than yourself can be transformative. It shifts the focus from self-centeredness to a broader sense of purpose and connection.

Conclusion

Realizing and coping with narcissistic tendencies is a courageous step towards self-transformation. It's an invitation to embark on a spiritual journey of growth, empathy, and authenticity. Remember, you have the power to evolve into a more compassionate and balanced version of yourself. Embrace this journey with an open heart and a commitment to healing.

[j-graysonlibrary]

The Xiang Chronicles: Book Two Chapter 2

Title: The Xiang Chronicles: Book Two

Author: Jay Grayson

Word Count: 98k

Genres: Fantasy, adventure, drama, LGBT+

Available on: my website

Synopsis: With another Xiang in the mix, for the first time in history, Pangu decides to reevaluate his methods and his place in the world. Along with taking his little sister Heidi as his last disciple, he also chooses to take the more political path in his efforts to end the discord throughout the land—particularly within Terra. (And gaining favor from the handsome Lord of Ultimos does not hurt.)

Heidi butts heads with everyone in the group, save Raine, and tensions are higher than ever. There are failed love confessions, in-group fighting, and demons from Kira’s past but that all comes to a head when they meet a servant of Shakti who is more than what she seems.

Could it be that the Mistresses of Shadow are more nuanced than previously believed? Or that the strict dichotomy between light and dark are, perhaps, a touch exaggerated? That and more begin to plague Pangu’s mind and his faith wavers…

Full chapter 2 under the cut

Chapter II:

The façade of the inn was just as grand as the rest of Ultimos but, at eye level, the building was nigh covered in posters and flyers for promotional events throughout the city. One was much larger than the others and had eye-catching colors. Pangu scanned over it to read “Have more stuff than you need? Sell it here!”  He tilted his head to the side in slight amusement. Of course, if there was a city in the world where the citizens might suffer from excess, it would be Ultimos.

The charming (although a tad disarming) poster only served as a temporary distraction for Pangu. He was still outside the inn and he still needed to walk through the doors and find his old mentors. He did not want to, not in the least, but he knew he needed to.

Tracking them down had felt task enough so he should see it through. With how many inns and hotels there were in the city, he had to use his energy to feel for them. Luckily, they had not been masking that aspect so their location lit up like a beacon. A small one—far across the city—but a beacon none the less.

Pangu blew out his exhale and then stepped inside.

People walked about, busy with their own lives, and he had to maneuver around quite a few bodies to find his old teachers. They were not holed up in a room as he expected but in a lounge area, surrounded by books and scrolls. And, although they were technically out in the open, no one else in the inn bothered them. Not even when Merra started to lift one of the books into the air without touching it.

Pangu had to only walk a few steps into their space before all eyes were on him. Merra dropped her book and sat up straighter to address him. “Xiang, hello.”

“Pangu,” Zhu said tersely and stood. “We were hoping to speak with you.”

At that, Hwang leaned over to Merra and told her, lowly, but still loud enough for Pangu to hear, “Go and practice in your room.”

The new Xiang nodded, collected an armful of books, and then left. Once she passed by the last table of the lounge area and into the crowd at large, a series of “ooh”s and “aah”s erupted and the people flocked to her as if they were seeing her for the first time.

“You seem confused,” Jun mentioned with a chuckle. He was talking, naturally, about the scrunched face Pangu was pulling as he watched the scene.

“We are hidden from sight,” Gong carried on explaining, “To the people, this area appears as a decorative fixture in the inn. That way only those we wished to see—you—could approach us.”

Pangu turned back to them and noticed a very similar expression across all their faces. He felt ten years old again so he slowly took a seat and set his hands on his lap. Just like when he was a child, he knew he had to say something but he did not know where to start.

Luckily, Zhu started for him. Unluckily, he was not in the best of moods. Although, to be fair, he hardly ever was. “You know what we will say…do you not?”

“That I have failed in my duties?” Pangu hazarded a guess.

There was no immediate answer though Gong did reflexively shake his head. At least one of them was willing to stick by him, Pangu thought.

He swallowed hard and tried again. “The spirits talked to me already…”

“And you ignored their council,” Zhu snapped back. He did not raise his voice or even have much anger present in his words but Pangu still fought the urge to shrink away.

“Why is it that you refuse to listen to them?” Hwang asked.

Pangu shifted his eyes between the four of them, unable to maintain contact. “I…I know my disciples. I chose them for a reason, and I do not intend to give up on them just because of their pasts. I would choose no others and I trust in my own instinct. I know it is not the best idea from your perspective but I believe in them.”

“One is a Chaaya, Pangu,” Zhu said and narrowed his eyes.

“He was one,” he corrected. “You could think of it this way: I am keeping an enemy closer and unable to do ‘evil’. You could even argue that I have reformed him.” Though Pangu, personally, did not think of it in such terms, he knew that particular framing could alter some of his mentor’s view points. Or so he was hoping.

The men exchanged glances. Then Jun asked, “You will not change your mind?”

Pangu shook his head and briefly let his eyes stay closed. “I am sorry, but no.”

Zhu let out a sigh that was loud and filled with frustration but, despite that, he moved on. “So, when do you intend to find a fourth disciple?”

It was a reasonable question and one Pangu had been thinking about quite a lot, especially during his recovery when he had little else to do besides think. Yet, he decided to turn the questioning to them. “Will Merra be getting disciples as well?”

“Yes, of course,” Hwang answered quickly.

“We will be helping her pick them out,” Jun added.

Pangu had a feeling that was due to his “failure” in the area. He straightened his back and returned to their question. “I was thinking of asking Heidi.”

There were several reasons as to why and the primary reason—which he would never tell her directly—was that choosing her would keep him from having to travel all the way back to Enlil any time soon. He would need to return eventually, of course, but he had a lot on his plate right now that would make the trip highly inconvenient. Then, there was the fact that he knew (or he hoped anyway) that his mentors would approve of her. They knew her resonance and her character so there would be no friction between him and the spirits about the choice.

Finally, there was the more personal reason. While Pangu found himself on edge around his sister and perpetually exhausted by her one-sided sibling rivalry, he did wish to do this for her. She had spent her entire life in his shadow, feeling left behind. Unlocking her ability to interact with the air around her and giving her a power to call her own would be, in a way, a type of amends.

The four old men looked at one another, a hesitant acceptance making its way onto their faces. Each started to nod at a different pace before Gong said, “I think that’s an excellent choice.”

Pangu smiled in relief. “Good. Now, once I have her as my last disciple, I was wondering what all you want of me. With another Xiang in the picture I…I was wondering if my role or my duties would change.”

There had definitely been some conversation about the matter with how their eyes met. In fact, they were probably carrying on a telepathic conversation right at the moment that Pangu could not hear.

He leaned in when Hwang opened his mouth, curious and nervous to hear the verdict. “Well, Pangu, the thing is…”

***

“It is not creepy,” Raine argued as he adjusted his hold on Kira’s hand. With the gloves off he could see the dark spots and the black on his fingertips and under his nails. It was not as bad as it had been right after the miasma burst through its hold but there were some stubborn splotches that refused to disappear.

“Is too,” Kira argued right back.

Raine half-rolled his eyes as he flipped the man’s hands over and pressed a thumb into each of his palms. The energy flow in him was stable and quite strong as well. He had, pretty much, completely recovered physically and spiritually. Although his attitude about spiritual topics was still an issue.

Apparently, the spirits being able to see and hear everything at all times was not a comforting thought to Kira. He saw only the negative side of it and would not be swayed.

Raine did not agree, of course, but he also could not fight the smile that pulled at the corner of his lips. “Honestly, I am just glad you did not state your opinion in front of the Heavenly Princes.”

“Anything I said or did would reflect back onto Pangu,” Kira explained with a sigh. While he had wanted to speak his mind, he knew it was a lot more precarious than it seemed. He would not just be hurting himself with any possible backlash from the obtusely powerful men but he could be hurting Pangu as well.

“That is very mature of you,” Raine commented and pushed his thumbs against the meat of his palm. There was no reason to keep holding onto him but he started to give him something of a hand massage anyway.

Kira noticed and thought of drawing his hands back but decided to indulge a little. He lifted his eyes up to the dark, almost midnight blue of Raine’s irises. He spent too much time looking at him, he decided, as he realized he knew all of the details of his face and was hard pressed to find something new to discover. But, instead of saying anything on his mind, Kira retorted, “I can be mature.”

Raine snickered. “Of course. I am just glad you picked the right time to show it.”

He continued to run his thumbs along the mounds and plateaus of Kira’s palm, making him gulp out of nervousness. The touch, while nice, was starting to breach into a more intimate territory which Kira was sure was not his intent. So he gently pulled back and asked, “Why do those heavenly princes disguise themselves as old men anyway? Why not walk around town with a glowing crown and a perfect face?”

“They were not always divine,” Raine answered and started to fidget with his hands now that he had nothing to hold onto. “They were regular men who ascended to their status so they keep a more human appearance. Something, I guess, is reminiscent of their old appearance.”

“Old?”

He chuckled. “Yes, I suppose. And, while they are directly under Tiandi, they are not meant to be worshipped to the same degree. That is why they take off the ‘Tian’ prefix in their names when they are in our realm.”

“Even Pangu treats them like regular old dudes,” Kira mentioned with a smirk. Had it not been for the Xiang using the men’s names and plenty of context clues, there was a chance he would have never figured out that his mentors were also the four Heavenly Princes. Pangu never stated so up front.

Raine returned with a quiet laugh of his own. “True. But they are also like his parents, in a way.”

“Hopefully they are not scolding him…” Kira had a feeling they were.

Raine did too. But he did not wish to linger on such a possibility, much less speculate on the matter. “We should meditate…like he asked.”

“I guess so.” Kira shrugged and then asked, “Is my spiritual body or whatever alright?”

With a quick pat to the shoulder and a persisting smile, Raine replied, “You are pretty much all better. Pangu should do a once-over in case I missed anything but I bet you will be back to typical training in no time.”

While the two of them settled down on the floor to begin their meditation, Baiya was on the ground level of the palace by the front entrance, trapped in a predicament of his own making. Well, partly Pangu’s making as well.

When the Xiang had asked him to collect information from Oli, he doubted he expected the young man to be so well versed. Baiya had only asked what he thought was a simple and vague question, “So, what can you tell me about Feng?”

As it turned out, everything.

Oli was far more excited by the question than Baiya had anticipated and even ran off momentarily only to return with an arm full of books and documents to help answer his question. He went over the history of the Feng territory, the previous clan leader, the current clan leader, the economic situation, information about the three major cities, their imports and exports, their crime rates, and even their delicacies.

It was an overload and Baiya was not sure when it had happened but he had definitely stopped listening. He was just nodding periodically and humming, “Uh huh” which kept the kid going a mile a minute.

Sweat even started to dampen Baiya’s hairline as he began to worry he would be stuck there forever. He longed for someone to return to the palace. He would even take a break from Viren. Or Heidi.

“Oh, and circling back to Lord Fei Kuta Sim, there are rumors about his wife being the one actually in charge. And of course these are just rumors so it would be wise to not mention them. I just thought I should let you know in case you notice it firsthand. That way you do not say something by accident and offend him, right? So, that is something to keep in mind too,” Oli rambled with a huge grin still intact.

The door to the palace opening was the reprieve Baiya was looking for and, even better than Viren walking through the entrance was Pangu. He could not help but jump up and rush over.

“Pangu!” He grinned and was tailed by Oli who continued to clutch a scroll between his hands. “How did things go?”

“Alright.” The Xiang shrugged. “Did Heidi come back?”

Baiya shook his head. “I have been here with Oli almost the entire time you were gone. No one has come through.” No one, he stressed mentally.

Pangu pursed his lips for a second before glancing up to the stairs. “Are Raine and Kira up there?”

“Yes, or, so I assume. We can check.” Baiya looked over at Oli. “Thanks for all of the information. I’ll make sure to pass it on to Pangu.”

The young man grinned from ear to ear. “Sure thing. And if you have any more questions…”

Baiya did not let him finish and started to lead the way up though Pangu caught up and matched his stride easily. “That boy is very passionate about politics,” he grumbled once they were out of ear shot.

Pangu held back a smirk but it still pulled at one corner of his lips. “Yeah?” he asked as he noticed the exhausted expression on his disciple’s face.

“He may normally seem shy but he can talk.”

They both shared a short, private, laugh before opening the door to Kira’s room. The two other disciples sat on the floor, facing one another, in a meditative pose but they slipped out of that relaxed state as soon as the door creaked open. Kira even scrambled to his feet while Raine sat up on his knees.

“How did it go with your mentors?” Raine asked.

Kira looked even more expectant. “They did not give you too hard of a time, did they?”

Pangu shook his head and looked between them. Heidi was still absent but he realized that was a good thing for the moment. It was only fair to let everyone know before he made the next, big step in his journey. First, however, he wished to ease their concerns.

The fact they were all clearly worried at all was a bit of a blow to his heart. Pangu pushed past that nagging guilt and moved straight to the good news. “Well, I talked about what my role is going forward and we all agreed that I can continue operating as I had been. So, all of our plans remain unaltered while they train Merra. We can set off for Feng in the morning and clear the miasma while seeing about an alliance between the lord and Viren.”

“They have no criticism on anything you’re doing?” Kira pushed with an arched eyebrow. He had a difficult time believing such a thing. There had not been direct hostility toward him or anything but he certainly felt a discomfort aimed his way.

“My methods differ slightly from expectations but there were no demands for change,” Pangu worded his response carefully. Technically, it was true. Not even Zhu told him that he had to disavow Kira or Baiya…he just suggested it. There was a difference.

“That is good then…right?” Raine finally stood as well and stretched his long limbs up, nearly brushing along the ceiling. “We can return to business.”

Pangu nodded. “I also want to add my fourth disciple.” Three intense gazes met his and he almost did not continue. But he shoved down the nerves and carried on anyway, “To help ease their worries, I am going to ask Heidi to be my Enlil disciple.”

“…You want to bring your sister along…?” Baiya carefully replied, not wanting to outright show his disappointment.

Kira, on the other hand, held nothing back. “She’s not a good fit. She’s just going to berate you the whole time.”

Pangu shook his head. “She is not always like you have seen her. This will be good for her…and me as well, I hope. Besides, being my sister, she has high resonance so her training will be smooth.”

Raine glanced between Kira and Baiya who both wore quite prominent frowns. He did not want Pangu to feel even worse for his decision so he slapped on a smile and said, “I think you are right, Pangu. We will not have to travel to Enlil either so this is the best course of action.”

Pangu appreciated his support and gave him a short lived smile in return. He was not sure how much of it was Raine’s true feelings or if he was simply attempting to make him feel better but he was grateful either way. Kira and Baiya certainly were not cheering for the development and, while Pangu did understand, he could not go back on his choice.

He would never say so to either of them, especially not Kira, but Heidi was, in many ways, his compromise for keeping the two of them as his disciples.

[newstfionline]

Monday, August 7, 2023

America is building chip factories. Now to find the workers (Economist) Judged by one metric, America’s new industrial policy is off to a roaring start. Enticed by subsidies, companies are pouring money into semiconductor plants and electric-vehicle factories as never before. With investment in manufacturing facilities running at a record high, President Joe Biden’s claim that the future will again be “made in America” seems more credible than it once did. But the next step in the process is less certain. America is building factories, but can it find the workers to operate them? With the jobless rate near a five-decade low, companies are already struggling to find staff. As scores of new factories come online, the gaps will grow even larger. The semiconductor sector is the most important test case for America’s manufacturing revival. Over the past couple of decades makers of computer chips largely left America. The country still has world-class semiconductor researchers and designers, but has been denuded of a workforce that turns silicon wafers into electronic circuits at scale.

A look at the amount of U.S. spending powering Ukraine’s defense (Washington Post) The United States has committed more than $60 billion in aid to Ukraine since the beginning of Russia’s full-scale invasion. That includes more than $43 billion in military aid. That’s more than the U.S. distributes in aid to any other country. Military aid is only part of America’s commitment to Ukraine. Billions of dollars in economic and humanitarian aid have also been pledged to the country. In total, the U.S. has sent Ukraine $66.2 billion in military, financial and humanitarian aid. The funding includes weapons, training, medical supplies, generators and rebuilding. And experts view the amount as a massive investment in a U.S. ally not seen since at least World War II. “These are off-the-charts numbers,” said Michael O’Hanlon, a senior fellow at the Brookings Institution. He likened the figures to U.S. commitments to European countries at the end of World War II. The Marshall Plan, when adjusted for inflation, came to about $150 billion over three years. The funding has eclipsed bilateral support for other U.S. allies, including Israel, Jordan and Egypt, some of the top recipients of U.S. support.

US dispatches warships after China and Russia send naval patrol near Alaska (Guardian) The US dispatched four navy warships as well as a reconnaissance airplane after multiple Chinese and Russian military vessels carried out a joint naval patrol near Alaska last week. The combined naval patrol, which the Wall Street Journal first reported, appeared to be the largest such flotilla to approach US territory, according to experts that spoke to the outlet. “It’s a historical first,” Brent Sadler, a retired Navy captain and senior research fellow at the Heritage Foundation, told the Journal. He also said the flotilla’s proximity to Alaska was a “highly provocative” maneuver given Russia’s ongoing war in Ukraine and political tensions between the US and China over Taiwan. The flotilla has since left.

Europe blinks in its commitment to a great green transition (Washington Post) Europe made big, bold promises to slash carbon emissions to slow global warming, but now the bill is coming due, and governments are starting to blink at the cost—political and economic—needed to power the great transition away from fossil fuels and toward renewables. Once far-off goals are getting more real, as Europe wrestles with how to tell Germans which cars they can drive, Italians which stoves are acceptable, Polish miners why they must abandon coal, and Britons why they can’t keep exploiting their country’s massive oil and gas reserves. Britain and the European Union have pledged to go “net zero” by 2050, with steep cuts by 2030. But across Europe—where this summer has brought brutal heat waves and raging fires in the Mediterranean region—a backlash is simmering against some of the world’s most ambitious green targets.

Russia promises retaliation after Ukrainian drones hit a Russian tanker in 2nd sea attack in a day (AP) Moscow promised retaliation Saturday after Ukrainian drones hit a Russian tanker in the Black Sea near Crimea late Friday, the second sea attack involving drones in one day. Ukraine struck a major Russian port earlier on Friday. Moscow strongly condemned what it sees as a Ukrainian “terrorist attack” on a civilian vessel in the Kerch Strait, said Russian Foreign Ministry spokeswoman Maria Zakharova. An official with Ukraine’s Security Service confirmed to The Associated Press that the service was behind the attack on the tanker, which was transporting fuel for Russian forces. A sea drone, filled with 450 kilograms (992 pounds) of TNT, was used for the attack, added the official. As Kyiv’s naval capabilities grow, the Black Sea is becoming an increasingly important battleground in the war.

Bangladesh battles its deadliest dengue fever outbreak on record (Washington Post) Bangladesh’s worst dengue fever outbreak on record has killed more than 300 people this year, overwhelming the country’s vulnerable medical system and prompting calls for a more coordinated response amid a spike in new cases. The mosquito-borne disease has claimed at least 303 lives and infected nearly 63,700 people across the South Asian nation, according to the latest government figures on Saturday, making this the deadliest year since the country started tracking dengue outbreaks in 2000. Most of the deaths were in Dhaka, Bangladesh’s densely populated capital, where hospitals are struggling to accommodate an influx of patients. Raman Velayudhan, who leads the World Health Organization’s program for the control of neglected tropical diseases, said about half the world’s population is now at risk for dengue, as a rapidly changing climate yields warmer and wetter weather that provides ideal breeding conditions for mosquitoes and risks exacerbating the situation.

China floodwater diversions to populated areas unleash wave of online anger (Reuters) Nearly 1 million people in China’s northern Hebei province were relocated after record rains forced authorities to channel water from swollen rivers to some populated areas for storage, sparking anger online over the homes sacrificed to save Beijing. The vast Hai River basin covers an area the size of Poland that includes Hebei, Beijing, Tianjin. Over a span of one week from late July, the region with a population totalling 110 million experienced its most serious flooding in six decades, with Hebei, particularly Baoding prefecture, the worst hit. “Beijing should foot the bill”, wrote a netizen on the popular Chinese microblog Weibo. In other posts on Zhuozhou, netizens said residents weren’t aware they lived in a flood storage area and the rights of the minority had been sacrificed.

Hiroshima marks a-bomb anniversary, calls nuclear deterrence “folly” (Reuters) Japan on Sunday marked the 78th anniversary of the U.S. atomic bombing on Hiroshima, where its mayor urged the abolition of nuclear weapons and called the Group of Seven leaders’ notion of nuclear deterrence a “folly”. The day to commemorate the victims of the world’s first nuclear attack comes as Russia has raised the spectre of using nuclear weapons in its war with Ukraine. It also comes as biopic “Oppenheimer”, chronicling the creation of the atomic bomb, has become a box-office hit in the United States. Some have criticised the film for largely ignoring the weapons’ destruction of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

In Lebanon’s south, on the Israel border, tension stirs fears (Washington Post) Every summer, the Lebanese brace for war. Border skirmishes and rocket exchanges with Israel have become almost commonplace throughout the year. But since the 2006 July War, fears of a serious escalation intensify as the months grow hotter. In Lebanon’s deep south, along its disputed border with Israel, this apprehension is especially sharp. Residents feel they are at the mercy of events beyond their control, including provocations by Hezbollah and clashes inside Israel, fearing they could soon lead to violence in their own backyard. They find stability in the instability, they say, comforting themselves with the belief that a full-blown war is too costly for either side. War “doesn’t leave our minds,” said Ahmed Deeb, the mayor of al-Wazzani, a village of 400 that has seen its population dwindle over the decades after each cross-border conflict. “Because the decision isn’t in our hands.”

Syrian baby born under earthquake rubble turns 6 months, happily surrounded by her adopted family (AP) A baby girl who was born under the rubble of her family home destroyed by the deadly earthquake that hit Turkey and Syria six months ago is in good health, loves her adopted family and likes to smile even to strangers. The dark-haired baby Afraa survived 10 hours under the rubble after the Feb. 6 earthquake crushed to death her parents and four siblings in the northern Syrian town of Jinderis. When she was found, her umbilical cord was still connected to her mother. After spending days at a hospital in north Syria, Afraa was released and handed over to her paternal aunt and her husband, who adopted her and are raising her along with their five daughters and two sons. On Saturday, baby Afraa was enjoying herself, swinging on a red swing hanging from the ceiling while al-Sawadi pushed her back and forth.

A Shrinking Footprint in Africa for France, the Former Colonizer That Stayed (NYT) The country’s president, a trusted ally of France, was taken hostage in the presidential palace by his own guards in late July. Protesters massed at the French Embassy soon after, setting it on fire and shattering windows. A colonel in uniform appeared late Thursday on state television and announced that the military was ending its cooperation with France. The chaos in the West African nation of Niger over the last 10 days was a repeat of earlier turmoil in nearby Burkina Faso and Mali—all three of which are former colonies of France, all struggling to put down violent insurgencies and all taken over by military juntas in recent years. The coups have fanned the flames of popular anger against France, a former colonial power that critics say never really let go of its former possessions. Now, France has become a scapegoat of sorts in a region buckling under the forces of poverty, climate change and surging Islamist militancy. “France did not see this coup coming, so they have not learned from Mali or Burkina Faso,” said Mujtaba Rahman, the managing director for Europe at Eurasia Group, a consultancy. “A clear domino theory for the 21st century.” Nearly half of the countries in Africa were at one time French colonies or protectorates. For decades, France has kept close albeit complicated ties with many former colonies, including a military presence, economic influence and direct access to heads of state.

Pet that dog (NPR) What's four-legged, furry, and often serves up a quick little mood boost? That's right, a dog. It turns out even short, friendly interactions with canines can be good for our health. I started pondering the power of dogs during one of my daily strolls around my neighborhood. Almost invariably, I'll run into at least one person walking their dog. If I get the OK to pet the pooch, it's a joyous moment of cooing and sloppy kisses. I always walk away from these canine exchanges feeling just a bit more relaxed, and happy. And that got me wondering, could these short interactions with other people's dogs actually be good for me? "Absolutely. I think it is safe to say that animals are beneficial to our mental and physical health," says Nancy Gee, a professor of psychiatry and director of the Center for Human-Animal Interaction at Virginia Commonwealth University. Gee says evidence is accumulating that levels of the stress hormone cortisol drop in people after just 5 to 20 minutes spent interacting with dogs—even if it's not their pet. "Also, we see increases in oxytocin, that feel-good kind of bonding hormone," she says.

[griefdestined]

tag drop

ii. ‘ tan robes and tea. ’ ┈ « aesthetic. » i. ‘ there will come a poet whose weapon is his word. ’ ┈ « character study. » i. ‘ the negotiator. ’ ┈ « visage. » i. ‘ behind blue eyes. ’ ┈ « desires. »   i. ‘ who is more foolish. ’ ┈ « thoughts. » i. ‘ if you strike me down. ’ ┈ « headcanons. » ii. ‘ be mindful of your thoughts. they betray you. ’ ┈ « relations. » ii. ‘ the hallways they echoed & groaned. ’ ┈ « music. » ii. ‘ skill is the child of patience. ’ ┈ « skillset. » ii. ‘ i see people turn their heads & quickly look away. ’ ┈ « wardrobe. » ii. ‘ first step into a larger world. ’ ┈ « past. »

x. ‘ everything’s under control. situation normal. ’ ┈ « mobile. »

iii. ‘ incoming transmission. ’ ┈ « answered. » iii. ‘ it was said you would destroy the sith not join them. ’ ┈ « meme. » iii. ‘ that time has passed. ’ ┈ « queue. » iv. ‘ i have spoken ’ ┈ « ooc. » iii. ‘ not the droids you are looking for. ’ ┈ « starter. » iv. ‘ i have the high ground. ’ ┈ « shitposts. » iv. ‘ hello there. ’ ┈ « promo. » iv. ‘ the force will always be with you. ’ ┈ « self promo. » v. ‘ y’all hear sum’n. ’ ┈ « psa. » iii. ‘ they beg me to write them. ’ ┈ « wishlist. » v. ‘ all you need is love. ’ ┈ « positivity. »   iii. ‘ i will not ask you where you came from. ’ ┈ « quotes. »   iv. ‘ a vast collection of knowledge. ’ ┈ « archive. »

[ndrayton]

Ghost Stories Postmortem!!!

It’s me, FieryGaze!!! Now that Chapter 13 is out and posted and my brain has freed up about 75% of its RAM, I wanted to make a post just to reflect on the journey, drop some fun facts, & explain the intent behind some of my choices. Here they are in no particular order.

Spoilers beware, obviously. I'm going to be talking about the whole fic here.

Episode Titles

Each episode title refers to two things at once – the monster or challenge the group is facing, plus one other important thematic element. “The Demon King” is the simplest one, referring both to the actual Demon King and then to Kim Dokja gaining that power for himself. The others are a little more open to interpretation, but were chosen with the intention of referring to 2 specific things.

Constant reappearance of the number “Thirteen”?

I’d like to say there was a lot of thought behind this, but there wasn’t. I just went “ooo, unlucky number” and ended up repeating it as often as possible. 13 years since KDJ and HSY met; 13 years spent in the spirit world chasing the Endless Cycle; 13 loops before KDJ met YJH. It was a lucky coincidence that the chapter count also happened to be 13 (I’d initially planned for twelve, and everything that happened in Unseen World was supposed to be squished into the end of Infinite Loop Part II. When I realized that was absolutely NOT going to give me enough space to resolve everything, I was delighted to realize that I could make the chapter count 13 and have it be thematically relevant and Not just a case of poor planning).

Lee Seolhwa also states that the number 7 is significant for certain spirits. I just think it’s fun that the total chapter count ended up as 13 and the total Episode count as 7.

Perspective and Tense Changes

From the beginning, the use of first person was actually a bit of a false flag—it’s meant to represent the ghost of Kim Dokja, trapped in the loop, imagining himself as the living version of himself going on these adventures. Kim Dokja as the narrator states this outright.

It was about time I stopped pretending that “I” was really this person called Kim Dokja. (Ch. 11)

Maybe I pretended for a while, for a long while, that it was really “me” who was fighting at your side. (Ch. 13)

The first person narration also tends to flip between present and past tense, especially in later chapters when Ghost!KDJ begins using second person to refer to Han Sooyoung and Yoo Joonghyuk, but also when he’s making general observations about the world. It’s not technically grammatically correct, but I was trying to grant a small step of separation between him and the other characters, whose perspectives are written more strictly in third person past tense.

The final monologue is also in present tense, unmooring it from the sequence of events of the story, hopefully making it feel a little more dreamlike/internal. I feel like I’m allowed to mess with tenses this much only because it’s an orv fic and I’m not afraid to get meta.

I also used present tense during almost all of chapter 10. I wanted it to feel like a whole separate fic-within-a-fic, and a lot of fanfic is written in present tense, so I was deliberately evoking that (including See You Yesterday, undeniably a MAJOR inspiration for this chapter). I also wanted to provide a sense of immediacy—Yoo Joonghyuk truly believes that what he’s experiencing in the dream is really happening to him, right now—that I could pull back on once he realized he was dreaming, returning to past tense and the main flow of the larger story.

As a side note, by the time I finally finished chipping away at chapter 10 I thought it was awful, so I was surprised and delighted when it became everyone’s favourite chapter, lmao. This is probably why people have beta readers, to get a little bit out of their own heads. Anyway, the positive response to that chapter really brightened my week.

… My favourite scenes 😊

The first scene I really had a blast with was probably the possession scene—what can I say, you don’t make a “Paranormal investigation AU” without wanting to play with a few of its standard tropes. That’s when I realized I could happily keep writing this fic for as long as it took to finish it (I initially planned for 2 months. It became 4.)

I also had such a fun time writing all of “Blank Message”, from the kids bullying poor Dokja to what amounts to me basically just drawing hearts around Yoo Joonghyuk’s name as he fails to use technology but also gets to be the most specialest boy in the world. That episode practically wrote itself, honestly. I accidentally wrote like 12,000 words of it in my phone notes app because I kept having ideas at work and had little else to do during our slow season.

My actual favourite scene, though, might be Yoo Joonghyuk cooking in Han Sooyoung’s kitchen in Ch. 12? I just thought it was sweet. Maneuvering those two into a position where they could be emotionally vulnerable with each other was a challenge. My notes for that section are funny to me, I’m just struggling to get to the heart of the scene and yelling at them to please be emotionally vulnerable.

... There was like 500 more words of this.

I can’t help but feel the yoohan corner of yoohankim got a little neglected in this fic, but it’s because they had so many unresolved issues that I couldn’t just leap ahead to the romance angle without first addressing them… and by then the fic was kinda over. Please understand, however, that they love and understand each other deeply despite (because of??) being the way they are. Maybe I’ll explore that more in future stories. Who could say.

Most challenging part to write?

Wrong Room Part II, Forgotten Boy Part II, and the first bit of Devourer of Dreams Part II before Kim Dokja showed up (it was way easier to write once he was there because the joongdok dynamic really pulled the plot along).

All three of these had significant rewrites and Forgotten Boy Part II took me like… an entire week to figure out. The Part II’s tended to be tricky because that’s when I was making all the setup from Part I pay off, but I wanted it to be engaging and exciting and not feel too paint-by-numbers. I learned a lot writing these!

What was Yoo Joonghyuk saying at the end of Blank Message that got censored?

“▪▪ ▪▪▪ ▪▪▪▪▪▪ ▪▪▪ ▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪ ▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪ ▪▪ ▪▪▪▪▪”

“Do you really not remember…”

Well, maybe you can intuit the rest from context clues (what Mia was saying just beforehand).

There was a bunch of other censoring when Kim Dokja was trying to explain to Yoo Joonghyuk where all his special knowledge of the time loop came from, but I didn’t actually note it down as it was all pretty much able to be inferred, like “the loop is actually based on a book series”.

There’s certainly more to find, but that’s all I have to say for now!

I fun with foreshadowing, but I’m not going to call out anything specific, because I think it adds to reread value. There’s an especially mean bit of “foreshadowing” in one part that had me absolutely cackling. Let me know if you find it.

Anyway!

I had no plans to put so much time and effort into writing fanfic this year, and yet here I am with 120,000 words in four months, which is… FAR AND ABOVE my normal writing pace, especially lately. What can I say? Omniscient Reader’s Viewpoint is a really special story and I don’t have any friends who have read it, which put my brain into an absolute pressure-cooker for which the only release could be writing orv a novel-length love letter.

I’m seriously thankful for everyone who read the story and left so many emphatic, excited, and kind comments. The readers absolutely transformed this experience from something I was plodding away at by myself just to see if I could do it into something I was really excited to share with others, and as a result I put a lot more effort and care into the story.

I do have a few other ideas for this AU—for which the seeds are actually already planted in the story—but, as I mentioned in my author’s note, I desperately need to take a fanfic break for a while. I can’t promise if/when I’ll get back to it, but I would definitely like to at some point.

IN ANY CASE, FOR THE LAST TIME ON THIS ADVENTURE….

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[narrowtriangle33-blog]

Conservatives, even when all of the facts are in your face, you still deny the reality of systemic racism.

"I mean really? What in the hell makes a group of people with a history of enslavement , genocide and apartheid in order to achieve what they have belive they have been so sucessful that they can lecture others. Without enslavement, genocide and aparthied, whites in America would have very little, if anything." "People in this forum have the opinion that blacks should do things like whites and if we do so, we can make it in America. So then what we need to do is orchestate a bloody coup, confiscate all property owned by whites, jail all whites who oppose the coup, write a new constitution that declare citizenship and it's protection only for non whites, make whites chattel for the forseeable future, make it illegal for whites to reald, own property or access information and create laws where if whites get out of line they can be beaten and killed." "Because this is how whites have done it." "In another forum, I stated that the root cause of the problems blacks face is white racism. One of the whites there decided to say this: “The root cause of the problems faced by most blacks today are people like you who misidentify or ignore the real problems they face to further their own personal agendas.”" "'This is another of the long, long line of idiotic comments made by right wing whites. White racism was determined to be the problem 53 years ago by the Kerner Commission."

""What white Americans have never fully understood but what the Negro can never forget--is that white society is deeply implicated in the ghetto. White institutions created it, white institutions maintain it, and white society condones it."" ""White racism is essentially responsible for the explosive mixture which has been accumulating in our cities since the end of World War II."" "But the excuse will be made about how that was 50 years ago, and that stupid ass song will be sung titled, "That was in the Past."" "On February 26, 2018, 50 years after the Kerner Commission findings, the Economic Policy Institute published a report evaluating the progress of the black community since the Kerner Report was released. It was based on a study done by the Economic Policy Institute that compared the progress of the black community in 2018 with the condition of the black community at the time of the Kerner Commission. Titled “50 years after the Kerner Commission,” the study concluded that there had been some improvements in the situation blacks faced but there were still disadvantages blacks faced that were based on race." "Following up on this, Richard Rothstein of the Economic Policy Institute wrote an op-ed published in the February 28th edition of the New York Daily News titled, “50 years after the Kerner Commission, minimal racial progress.” It had been 50 years since the commission made their recommendations at that point, yet Rothstein makes this statement: “So little has changed since 1968 that the report remains worth reading as a near-contemporary description of racial inequality.”" "So 3 years ago the same conclusion was made. "The root cause of the problems blacks face is white racism."" "On October 24, 2013, the Kellogg Foundation sent out a press release about a report they had done entitled, “The Business Case for Racial Equity”. This was a study done by the Kellogg Foundation, using information it had studied and assessed from the Center for American Progress, National Urban League Policy Institute, Joint Center for Political and Economic Studies and the U.S. Department of Justice."

“Striving for racial equity – a world where race is no longer a factor in the distribution of opportunity – is a matter of social justice. But moving toward racial equity can generate significant economic returns as well. When people face barriers to achieving their full potential, the loss of talent, creativity, energy, and productivity is a burden not only for those disadvantaged, but for communities, businesses, governments, and the economy as a whole. Initial research on the magnitude of this burden in the United States (U.S.), as highlighted in this brief, reveals impacts in the trillions of dollars in lost earnings, avoidable public expenditures, and lost economic output.” "The Kellogg Foundation and Altarum Institute In 2011, DEMOS did a study named “The Racial Wealth Gap, Why Policy Matters”, which discussed the racial wealth gap, the problems associated with it along with solutions and outcomes if the gap did not exist. In this study DEMOS determined that the racial wealth gap was primarily driven by policy decisions." "“The U.S. racial wealth gap is substantial and is driven by public policy decisions. According to our analysis of the SIPP data, in 2011 the median white household had $111,146 in wealth holdings, compared to just $7,113 for the median Black household and $8,348 for the median Latino household. From the continuing impact of redlining on American homeownership to the retreat from desegregation in public education, public policy has shaped these disparities, leaving them impossible to overcome without racially-aware policy change.”" Harvard. "“Racial inequality in the United States today may, ultimately, be based on slavery, but it is also based on the failure of the country to take effective steps since slavery to undermine the structural racial inequality that slavery put in place. From the latter part of the nineteenth century through the first half of the twentieth century, the Jim Crow system continued to keep Blacks “in their place,” and even during and after the civil rights era no policies were adopted to dismantle the racial hierarchy that already existed.”" "HOUSING DISCRIMINATION AS A BASIS FOR BLACK REPARATIONS, Jonathan Kaplan and Andrew Valls, Public Affairs Quarterly" "Volume 21, Number 3, July 2007" "McKinsey and Co. “It will end up costing the U.S. economy as much as $1 trillion between now and 2028 for the nation to maintain its longstanding black-white racial wealth gap, according to a report released this month from the global consultancy firm McKinsey & Company. That will be roughly 4 percent of the United States GDP in 2028—just the conservative view, assuming that the wealth growth rates of African Americans will outpace white wealth growth at its current clip of 3 percent to .8 percent annually, said McKinsey. If the gap widens, however, with white wealth growing at a faster rate than black wealth instead, it could end up costing the U.S. $1.5 trillion or 6 percent of GDP according to the firm.”" "Citigroup" "Cost Of Racism: U.S. Economy Lost $16 Trillion Because Of Discrimination, Bank Says" "Nationwide protests have cast a spotlight on racism and inequality in the United States. Now a major bank has put a price tag on how much the economy has lost as a result of discrimination against African Americans: $16 trillion." "Since 2000, U.S. gross domestic product lost that much as a result of discriminatory practices in a range of areas, including in education and access to business loans, according to a new study by Citigroup." "Specifically, the study came up with $16 trillion in lost GDP by noting four key racial gaps between African Americans and whites:" "$13 trillion lost in potential business revenue because of discriminatory lending to African American entrepreneurs, with an estimated 6.1 million jobs not generated as a result" "$2.7 trillion in income lost because of disparities in wages suffered by African Americans" "$218 billion lost over the past two decades because of discrimination in providing housing credit" "And $90 billion to $113 billion

in lifetime income lost from discrimination in accessing higher education" "Why this is just a bunch of liberal jibberish to to blacks in order to keep them voting democrat. Those aren't the problems, what we conservatives tell you is the real problem. Why if you just had a father in the home none of this would happen." "Black Workers Still Earn Less than Their White Counterparts"

"As employers in the U.S. tackle issues around racism, fresh attention is being given to the racial wage gap and why black men and women, in particular, still earn substantially less than their white counterparts. Nearly 56 years after the passage of the Civil Rights Act, "we find equal pay for equal work is still not a reality," noted Jackson Gruver, a data analyst at compensation data and software firm PayScale."

"Last year, PayScale analyzed differences in earnings between white men and men of color using data from a sample of 1.8 million employees surveyed between January 2017 and February 2019." 'Among the findings, Gruver reported: "Even as black or African-American men climb the corporate ladder, they still make less than equally qualified white men. They are the only racial/ethnic group that does not achieve pay parity with white men at some level."' "The study found that black men had the largest "uncontrolled pay gap" relative to white men, when comparing the average earnings of black men and white men in the U.S."

"On average, black men earned 87 cents for every dollar a white man earned. Hispanic workers had the next largest gap, earning 91 cents for every dollar earned by white men."

"To put that in perspective, the median salary of a white man in our sample is $72,900; the controlled median pay for black or African-American men is thus $71,500," Gruver said. "This suggests a $1,400 difference in pay that is likely attributable to race."" "So daddy lives at home and the family still makes less than whites. Because:" "NWLC calculations, based on the U.S. Census Bureau's Current Population Survey for 2016, revealed that when comparing all men and women who work full time, year-round in the U.S., women were paid just 80 cents for every dollar paid to their male counterparts. But the wage gap was even larger when looking specifically at black women who work full time, year-round—they were paid only 63 cents for every dollar paid to white, non-Hispanic men." "Stephen Miller, Black Workers Still Earn Less than Their White Counterparts, www.shrm.org/resourcesandtools/hr-topics/compensation/pages/racial-wage-gaps-persistence-poses-challenge.aspx" "So a white working couple will make 90 cents on every dollar while a black working couple makes 75 cents. To allow you to understand this reality a white female worker makes 80 cents on every dollar a white man makes. White females are demanding equal pay and rightfully so." "And you black folk really need to start taking education seriously." "Black unemployment is significantly higher than white unemployment regardless of educational attainment" "The black unemployment rate is nearly or more than twice the white unemployment rate regardless of educational attainment. It is, and always has been, about twice the white unemployment rate; however, the depth of this racial inequality in the labor market rarely makes the headlines." "Over the last 12 months, the average unemployment rate for black college graduates has been 4.1 percent—nearly two times the average unemployment rate for white college graduates (2.4 percent) and equivalent to the unemployment rate of whites with an associate’s degree or who have not completed college (4.0 percent). The largest disparity is seen among those with less than a high school diploma: while whites with less than a high school diploma have an unemployment rate of 6.9 percent, the black unemployment rate is 16.6 percent—over two times the white average." "The broader significance of this disparity suggests a race penalty whereby blacks at each level of education have unemployment rates that are the same as or higher than less educated whites." "Valerie Wilson, Black unemployment is significantly higher than white unemployment regardless of educational attainment, www.epi.org/publication/black-unemployment-educational-attainment/" "African Americans are paid less than whites at every education level" "While the economy continues to improve and wages are finally beginning to inch up for most Americans, African Americans are still being paid less than whites at every education level. As you can see from the chart below, while a college education results in higher wages—both for whites and blacks—it does not eliminate the black-white wage gap. African Americans are still earning less than whites at every level of educational attainment. A recent EPI report, Black-white wage gaps expand with rising wage inequality, shows that this gap persists even after controlling for years of experience, region of the country, and whether one lives in an urban or rural area. In fact, since 1979, the gaps between black and white workers have grown the most among workers with a bachelor’s degree or higher—the most educated workers." "Valerie Wilson, African Americans are paid less than whites at every education level, www.epi.org/publication/african-americans-are-paid-less-than-whites-at-every-education-level/"

"But to say white racism is the cause of things no matter how much proof we show your white asses, you have some kind of idiotic ass excuse, like we are blaming whites for our failures or;" "We misdiagnose and ignore the "real" problem to fit an imaginary agenda racists in tha white community invented so they can deny how THEY are the root cause of the problem." "You right wing scrubs are always talking about responsibility." "Take some instead of running your mouths."

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Seconding the 'mob guys watching over Chris for Paul's suggestion!

CW: References to murder/mob organization stuff, references to parental death, grief, referenced past whump of a minor

Every Tuesday at 9 am, just like clockwork, Sean Malley lumbers into a coffeeshop nestled into the corner of a flat featureless strip mall. Contrasting to the pale concrete nothingness of its surrounding, the little coffeeshop is painted  a warm, rich brown along the exterior, with heavy platers spilling over with purple and yellow flowers every few feet until Sean reaches the door.

It’s a welcome bit of individuality along this ring of small strip malls and larger big-box stores kept out of the city proper by a pile of zoning laws too draconian to fight. He’s been coming here for ten years now, more or less, and has seen the little coffeshop through its earliest days struggling for business right to now, where he feels reasonably certain he’ll be dead long before they close this place for good. 

He moves inside, the light immediately warm and slightly dimmed. The scent in the air of freshly roasted coffee beans and baked goods. The cannolis they sell came from him, Sean’s proud of that - his wife had a favorite recipe and he’d given it to them after she passed, hoping for one batch for the service. They’d just kept making them, having one ready for him when he popped in, and... well, they’ve sold them ever since. Even call them Christa’s Cannolis, handwritten in cursive on a little placard. She’d have been tickled pink, he thinks sometimes, to see it. 

One of his knees comes and goes as it pleases these days, giving his step a bit of a shuffle-scrape. He’s smiling, though, and humming as he goes.

Life is good for Sean Malley, all things considered. 

Truth be told, he hadn't actually expected to live this long. Keeping close to Conor and his family had paid off in the early days - just as his instincts had kept him safe when the Garden erupted in in-fighting, too. When the Clean-Up happened, during the Garden’s most vicious in-fighting, Sean had seen half the men he’d watched start as snot-nosed dumbasses taken out one by one, clearing the way for Conor’s fucking grandson to make his play for power.

Those kids who’d run lookout gigs and then moved on to guard duty or work with the cargo coming in... one by one those kids-turned-adults, with families of their own, had been removed from the picture. Fifteen, all told, a bloodbath stretched out over six months - sixteen, of course, if you count how Paul’s murder went all wrong. 

The one comfort had been watching Conor’s grandson lay the groundwork for his own comeuppance the whole time - promising favors for loyalty and then killing the ones he’d promised those favors to. That’s no way to start yourself as leader, and... well.

Trash had been taken out, in the end. Riley Higgs had gotten rid of the poison - and the poison’s friends - and his crew’s a damn sight better than Conor’s grandson’s people had been. 

Riley, for one thing, understands that an organization like the Garden works, in the end, on trust. On being a family.

Don’t kill your family without a good damn reason, now do you? 

Now Riley... he had a good reason. And Sean had made sure Riley Higgs knew a few very important facts that kept him on the man’s good side, and very much alive when the dust settled.

Even if he had did have to live with a bum knee. And back. And his hip’s started twinging every time it rains...

"Morning, Mr. Malley!" His favorite barista calls out, giving him a wave from behind the counter. She's a pretty thing, just cute as a button. Probably in her late twenties but when you’re as old as Sean is, everyone looks like a child playing pretend. 

Still, it always brings a bit of sun in the old man's day to see her bright pink hair before he ever takes his seat. He always tells her she should move on from here, do something with her life other than serve old men their coffee and watch them while away the hours.

But I like it here, Melody always replies, giving a little shrug of her shoulders. I like our regulars, too. Besides, this place pays better than the job I’d get with my actual degree. 

"G'morning to you, Melody!" He calls back, moving to have a seat in his usual spot, sinking gratefully into the plush armchair by the bookshelf in the corner. His favorite coffee table book, a heavy thing full of photos of World War II, is already laid out on the side table next to it, bookmarked where he’d left off last week. "Busy day, today?"

Melody is already heading his way, coffee in hand just how he likes it, one of Christa’s Cannolis on a small plate in the other. Sean’s doctor has been on him about cutting out sugar, and he’s done it just about everywhere else, but he still has his cannoli on Tuesdays. Christa had been so proud of herself when she’d mastered that recipe... 

"Not really,” Melody says with a shrug, breaking into his thoughts. “Just the usual morning rush and a couple college kids, wandered outside but they left their drinks, I figure they’ll come back. One of 'em looks like he got mauled by a real weak bear."

Sean feigns surprise. "Oh, does he now?" He takes a sip of his coffee and sighs happily. "Not too hot. You had it out already, didn't you?"

"I saw your car pull into the lot," Melody says, giving a little it's nothing gesture. “I knew you’d be in, so I kept an eye out for you.”

"You're a doll, Melody, and this place would be lost without you." He presses the twenty-dollar bill into her hand, and when she protests, he shakes his head, adds another ten, and closes her hand firmly around the cash. "Take it, take it. I'm an old man on my own, who've I got to spend it on, huh?"

"You're not that old, Mr. Malley," Melody sighs, an old song and dance between them. “You’ve got grandkids who could use it, too, you know.”

"Ha! Trust that my grandkids never want for anything, Melody. Besides, live the life I've lived, and sixty feels like eighty-two. Go on, then. Cilly'll be along in a bit."

He sits back to drink his coffee as she heads back behind the counter, watching through the front window the cars that pass along the highway, the scattering of people getting in and out of their own vehicles in the parking lot. It's a perfect, and perfectly normal, Tuesday morning. Just like any other.

A perfectly normal Tuesday where one creature of habit makes it a point to get a quick look at another. 

A flash of red catches his eye, and he frowns, watching a bright red Northern cardinal alight on the bench placed outside the shop, preening one wing briefly and then seeming to look towards the lot.

Sean follows its gaze, silently chastising himself for being so utterly taken by a simple bird, but... Northern cardinals are more or less unheard of around here, especially in the city. This one seems to cock its head in his direction. 

"Someone," He mutters to himself, "is a bit lost."

There's a peal of laughter, as the door opens, the little bell on top chiming to announce them, and there they are.

Two young people walking inside, heads tilted together. One of them has thick, wavy black hair, one of those haircuts the younger people like so much now, shaved on the sides but long on top. The younger guys in the Family wear their hair like that now and then. 

Sean thinks he liked it better when everyone kept things neat and tidy, but times change, and the Garden can't stagnate just because an old timer's got opinions. Riley’s take is he’d rather is people look like they could be anybody anywhere, and Sean has to admit the kind of haircut he’d like to see would stick out like a sore thumb.

Both of them are wearing all black head to toe, the black-haired one in a tank top and baggy pants, a large yellow lightning bolt on a cord settled just below their collarbone. Honestly, if he gets past the hair thing, they’re cute as a button, too.

Really, though, he’s not here because of them.

He’s here to get a good look at the young man walking in beside them. 

It’s funny - it’s been nine - ten? - years since he last saw Paul Higgs alive, the day before he and his sweet Ronnie were gunned down in their own home in the night... but tears still prick at the corners of Sean’s eyes when he see the ghost of Paul in his son’s narrow face.

There’d been a joke when the little one first came into the world, that somehow Paul and Ronnie had put together a child where her genetics simply skipped out entirely. He’d been a little clone of Paulie from the start, and he’s different as a man than he’d been as a child lining toy cars up at their feet in the warehouse on Saturdays when Ronnie needed a break.

Sean pulls his phone out, idly scrolling - his daughter had helped him to get Facebook and a couple other things besides, including some kind of app that had his favorite card games. He pretends now to be fascinated by something he sees, but in truth he pulls his camera up and starts recording.

“It, it, it could change everything,” Paulie’s boy is saying, breathlessly excited, hands moving through the air in a blend of gesture and general happiness. “You see? Everything! Make it, it, it-it safer, make... make things better.”

“I know, I know,” The other one replies, deep voice warm and thick with love, and Sean sighs, missing his Christa now more than ever. He consoles himself with a bite of cannoli. “I already told you I’m in, Chris, okay? I’m going to help you. You don’t have to sell me on it.”

Tristan ducks his head with a shy smile, and boy if he isn’t Paul’s spitting image in that, too. Paulie hadn’t smiled much, not like his kid does - maybe that’s what he got from Ronnie - but in a smile like that, well... you could see where he got it from. If you’d known Paul, of course.

Which the kid didn’t, not anymore.

“It could, um, be dangerous though.” They’re barely audible now as they go back to where they left their still-steaming drinks, sitting down on a nearby couch. “Nat’s worried. And, and, and you know Jake-”

“Chris, you could walk across a crosswalk when the light starts blinking and Jake would still worry about you,” The other one teases. Sean knows their name, but right now it won’t quite come to mind, lingering on the tip of is tongue, never quite landing. “It’ll be public, yeah-”

“Telling everyone who... who, who I am.” Tristan starts tapping his fingers on his pants, a peculiar finger-twist-tap-tap-tap gesture that Sean once knew as well as anyone, when the boy was small. But it’s the words, with a hint of nervousness lining them, that get his attention. “The... the whole world’s going to, to, to to-to-... to... to know about Tristan Higgs.”

Now that gets Sean’s attention. He cuts the video, sends it to Riley, and starts a new one. It takes work not to sit up, or drop his cannoli, or in some other way give himself away. 

He knows, then?

How?

Sean looks down at his phone, looking over the scar on Paul’s boy’s forehead, the only remaining evidence of what had been much more visible the first couple times they’d seen him out after it happened. Sean and Cilly had figured maybe a fight - people get into them, really. Paul wasn’t exactly gentle as a lamb, and why would his boy be?

But now... he wondered. His instincts told him the two were related, and of course he knew from the time they’d worked with WRU pretty closely under the table that those memory things they did sometimes failed. Sean had done a fixer job once for someone whose pet had recovered memories too fast and killed a servant in a panic...

“Oh, Paul,” Sean murmurs. “What’d your boy do, hm?”

“I’m, I’m going to to to t-... to tell everyone who I am,” Paul’s boy is saying, leaning forward and taking the hands of the other one in his own, squeezing them tight. “I’m... will, will, will you come with me? When, when I... so someone’s there?”

“What? Holy shit, Chris, go to the Olympics? With you?” They inhale and exhale, blowing some hair from their eyes, and smile. “You should take someone who knows more than I do about all that stuff, Chris, take Jake, or-”

“Jake has has to stay here. To, to protect the house. But... will you come with me?”

Sean cuts the video, sends it to Riley, and this time adds a message.

Olympics are in Chicago this year. What’s Paul Jr. planning?

He feels eyes on him and glances up to find Tristan looking over at him, an expression of uncertainty on his face. Sean’s been watching him for years, popping up in places, the way you sometimes see the same faces at the corner store, the mom-and-pop, a coffeeshop like this one. Now, he watches Tristan look him over, knowing he’s familiar but not knowing why. Part of him, with a pinprick of an old, old grief, wishes Paul’s little boy would recognize him now. 

Most of him knows it’s better if he doesn’t.

Tristan looks away, and goes back to talking, but his voice lowers and now Sean can’t quite pick up what he’s saying beyond a few scattered words. He gets a couple photos of the lovebirds with their head together, sipping coffee, and sends those on to Riley, too.

Job done, he settles back to finish his cannoli and drink his coffee. Tristan and-... Laken, his name suddenly supplies, only an hour after he’d started trying to remember it - get up and leave, Tristan’s arm around Laken’s waist.

Good for the kid, Sean thinks, with a smile. By this age Paul had an elementary school son running around, but you know, it’s good to take your time on these things, and it’s nice to see that all the shit they’ve had to stand back and watch still wraps up nicely into Paul’s boy living a pretty nice life indeed.

His phone dings just as Cilly enters - right on time at 10, like clockwork - and he glances down to open the message from Riley.

I’ll get one of our guys to look into it. This might give us the out on the business I don’t want to be in I’ve been looking for. Kid looks good, looks like Paul. Family genes run deep.

Sean greets Cilly, even older than him but a sight more spry, and glances out the window. The bird’s gone from the bench, of course. The day is bright and shining.

-

In Laken’s car, they’re halfway back to the house Laken shares with their roommates when Chris suddenly sits straight up. “Mr. Malley,” He breathes out, green eyes widening.

Laken jumps - he’d been silent, preoccupied and in thought - and nearly jerks the car into a curb. “Damn, Chris! You scared me. What’d you say?”

“The old guy, in, in, in the the the the-the-... the coffeeshop, who kept looking at, at me.” Chris rocks forward, hands on the dashboard, his eyes staring ahead but not at the road, they’re looking far ahead... or behind himself, back in time and not space, when and not where. “His name’s Mr. Malley. I, I, I knew-... my dad knew, my, my, my dad, my dad-” 

He winces, the headache splitting him apart, and Laken hits their turn signal, pulling into the parking lot of a generic fast food place, swinging into a parking space and turning to look at him. 

“Chris? You okay?”

Chris’s face has gone pale, cold sweat breaking out. It still happens, sometimes, and when they lean over to touch his shoulder he flinches back from them, instinctively.

Laken exhales. “Okay. Ride it out, Chris. Let the memory go if it’s hurting, it’ll come back to you. They all come back now.”

“No! No, I, I, I want-... Mr. Malley knew my dad, I went to-... work, with, with him sometimes, his his his wife babysat me, I... I know him. I knew him. I knew-” He turns to look at them, and they fight the urge to try and touch him again.

Not yet.

“Do you... do you think, think, think he knew me?”

Laken swallows. “I don’t think so. Wouldn’t he have said something, if he recognized you? If he was your dad’s friend? Are you absolutely sure that-”

“Yes, I’m, I’m sure. I know it was him. I, I, I know, he, he, he gave me me me Dinotopia books... for Christmas one year...” Chris jerked in a breath and let it out again, hands going up over his head, folding himself in half until his forehead rested on the dashboard, pressed to the cool molded plastic. “He, he, he, he came to their funeral, he hugged me, he said, you’re too young to to to to have to lose so much, and everyone said-... everyone said stuff I hated but but but not him, he said, he said-”

“Chris, please, don’t hurt yourself doing this-”

“He said grief gets worse before it gets better, and and and and he said-... he said... he said don’t let anyone tell you that R-Ronnie’d want you to to to be strong, she’d want you to scream your head off if you want to, your dad’d be proud if if if if-if... if you told us all to go to hell, and... and and and and it felt like he was the only person who who who knew them at all that day, everyone said, said, said stupid things but not him, not-... not him and not Mr. Cilly, not-... not my Aunt Jo, not anybody, but he-”

Chris chokes on a sob and when Laken throws their arms around him he melts into it this time, crying against their shoulder, the two of them uncomfortably arched over the center console and the gear shift. 

“It’s okay,” Laken whispers, running their fingers over the slowly growing fuzz of his hair. “It’s okay. Let it ride, Chris. It’s okay.”

“He, he, he was my dad’s b-b-best friend-... Why d-didn’t he, if he saw me, why wouldn’t he-... I s-see him all th-the the the time, why doesn’t he know who I am?”

“Maybe he’s like Akio,” Laken says, and feels him trembling under their touch. “Maybe he’s always thought you were dead.”

“I w-was,” Chris whispers “When I, I, I was Baldur. When I was training. When... when I... was good. I was dead.”

“Chris-”

“I was dead,” Chris says, and they kiss his head, helpless to think of anything else to do. “When my p-parents died, I died, too. Mr. Malley made m-me feel like I I I wasn’t. Why didn’t he kn-know me? Why didn’t a-anyone know I was alive?”

“I don’t know, baby. I don’t know.”

“Hurts,” Chris whispers. “Why, why, why didn’t anyone help me before she she she-... before I was-... why didn’t anyone help me?”

Laken’s own eyes burn, and they draw circles on his scalp with their fingertips. “I can’t answer that,” They say, low and soft. “I’m sorry. But you know you have people who can and will help you now.”

For a while, Chris’s only sounds are sobs, and Laken can only make soft soothing nonsense noises and feel like shit that it’s not enough.

“Ev, everyone knew she-she hated me,” Chris whimpers, and sounds younger than he ever has, and Laken wants to throw a punch or scream and they can’t do either, only sit in the car and glare at people who look in as they walk past. “Everyone.”

“Chris-”

“Everyone knew, why, why, why why why didn’t they stop her?”

-

Back in the coffeeshop, Sean and Cilly are in the midst of an argument about a baseball game that happened 30 years ago when his phone rings. He holds up one finger and picks it up, lifting it to his ear.

“I have a job for you,” Riley says, with his cheerful hint of brogue. Funny, to remember that this part of the family only came here a few decades ago. “It’s a job I know you’ll enjoy.”

“Watching Paul’s boy is my retirement gig,” Sean says amicably. “You know I don’t do the dangerous stuff any longer, Mr. Higgs.”

There’s a silence. “I’m going to do some looking into what you sent me. But in the meantime I need to give you a job, and you’re going to do it.”

“And why is that, Mr. Higgs?”

“Because you’re going to want to do this.”

“What is it, then?”

Another pause.

“I want you to find Joanne Botham.”

Sean thinks of the dour, angry woman who had ignored Tristan in his funeral suit, gathering mourners around her while she sobbed over Ronnie’s loss, Ronnie’s own son alone on a couch staring off into space until Sean himself had sat down and told him, don’t let ‘em say your mom’d be proud of you bein’ stoic today, kiddo. Ronnie’d want you to scream if you felt the urge. 

The kid had looked at him like he’d been given water in the desert, a starving man offered a bowlful of broth. Mr. Malley?

People will say a lot of real stupid stuff to you today, Sean had said. His eyes had gone to Joanne Botham, and Ronnie’s sister’s icy glare when she looked at her own nephew had made his blood run cold with anger even then. Likely in the future, too. But you just remember Paul and Ronnie weren’t saints. And they’d never want you to be, either. I’m sorry for your loss, Tris. No one on God’s earth has loved their kid like yours loved you. Should’ve seen his face when he told us your mom was pregnant with you. Could’ve lit the world with all the sunshine there.

A clap on the back, a whispered thank you, and that had been the last day Sean Malley had ever seen Tristan Higgs alive.

Until, of course, Riley had told him there was a boy living in a pet liberation safehouse who looked remarkably like Paul. Until, of course, Riley had shared that he’d known Tristan Higgs was alive all along. Until, of course, Sean had been told he couldn’t make a move because WRU was protecting all the players who had stolen his friend’s kid. 

Until... now.

“Mr. Higgs?” His voice drops, and Cilly sits up, alarmed at the sudden change in tone. 

“You heard me. Find Joanne Botham. I have a feeling we are about to get the opportunity we’ve been waiting for.”

The phone goes dead on the other end, and Sean slowly sets it down, finishing his second cup of coffee in a gulp. Then he looks at Cilly, and starts to smile. 

“Riley’s got work for us,” He says, and when Cilly’s eyebrows raise he doesn’t wait for him to ask for more. “Don’t worry. You’re going to like it. Finally get to do what we should have done ten fucking years ago.”

---

Tagging: @burtlederp , @finder-of-rings , @endless-whump , @whumpfigure , @astrobly @newandfiguringitout , @doveotions , @pretty-face-breaker , @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @boxboysandotherwhump  , @oops-its-whump  @cubeswhump ,  @whump-tr0pes  @downriver914 @vickytokio @whumpiary @orchidscript @moose-teeth @nonsensical-whump

[itsthenovelteafactor]

Superhero Gothic

Thanks to everyone who responded to my previous post (special shoutout to @jeyfeather1234 💛 ) about superheroes and gothic media! I know it’s been, like, a month, but here we go.

Here’s a bit of a look into some common gothic themes, and how they apply to Doom Patrol, The Boys, Watchmen (2019), and The Umbrella Academy. This one’s a bit long, not gonna lie, but I hope you enjoy! 

Part I: Let’s Talk About Gothic Media

There is not actually an all-encompassing definition for gothic media, or even a universally agreed-upon one. You’re probably familiar with some well-known gothic works (think Dracula, Frankenstein, Edgar Allen Poe, Stephen King) but there is a lot of debate on what exactly makes them gothic. 

There are some common themes in gothic works, though: families/characters under the control of a tyrannical paterfamilias, the crumbling of the established order/estate, long-buried secrets that have consequences in the present, and supernatural events that are stand-ins for/reflective of the emotional state/past actions of the characters. 

(Note: these aren’t all the themes of gothic works or even most of them, but for purposes here, I’d like to limit this analysis to them. I’d love to talk about other themes/ideas, though, if anyone has them. 😊)

So… superheroes (quick overview in case you haven’t watched any of them… spoiler warnings for the rest of this discussion)

Doom Patrol:

Five misfit superhumans attempt to rescue their mentor figure when he is kidnapped by an old enemy.

They are very, very bad at it.

Also features a singing horse head, a sentient nonbinary teleporting street (who is by far the best character) and the narrator is the fourth-wall breaking series villain. 

Beautifully weird but will also emotionally devastate you. Criminally underrated, tbh.

Watchmen (2019):

Story takes place after the canon of the graphic novel which is too much to summarize.

Alternate history (that should really feel more fictitious than it does) where white supremacist organization the Seventh Cavalry, masked police officers, and former superheroes in hiding all collide in Tulsa Oklahoma

Swept the Emmys this year and ABSOLUTELY DESERVED TO

The Umbrella Academy:

Washed up former child superheroes are forced to reunite when their father dies under mysterious circumstances 

Time travel, dysfunctional siblings, and a killer soundtrack

Basically a family drama with the superhero story as secondary (complimentary)

Probably the most obviously gothic of all of these it is aesthetic AF 

The Boys: 

Superheroes exist but they are corporate sellouts under the control of evil company Not-Amazon (AKA Vought)

Regular human protagonists try to hold them accountable for their actions with varying (read: usually minimal) success

Yes, it’s the one from those weird ads earlier this year

Billy Joel!! 

Part II: Niles Caulder, Ozymandias, and Other Terrible Father Figures

The Tyrannical Paterfamilias: 

Does not always mean a father figure explicitly, often relating to the notion of a patriarchal tradition, or family inheritance that plays a role in controlling the main characters. 

Sometimes, it is a father figure. 

Sometimes, it is a representative of patriarchal tradition/male head of pseudo-family unit.

So, uh, role call: 

Reginald Hargreeves (even in death) holds power over his children, and has shaped all of them into the adults they have become, and that drives the majority of the conflict. Each of the major character individually grapples with the after-effects of his abuse. Luther feels the need to be the leader and protect everyone and alienates his allies as a consequence. Diego constantly asserts himself as a hero (often to dangerous extremes) because it is the only way he was ever valued. Allison has to teach herself boundaries and responsible use of her powers after he encouraged her to abuse them for years. Klaus turns to drugs to cope with his childhood trauma. Five disobeyed his father with disastrous consequences and is constantly fighting to not become him. Vanya spent her entire childhood in the background, and never learned to assert herself in a healthy way. Thanks, Reggie.

Homelander says that The Seven are like a family. While whether or not this is accurate (it isn’t) is up for debate, he does occupy the tyrannical paterfamilias roles incredibly well. Homelander controls every member of the Seven, threatening them and their loved ones whenever they step out of line (read: do not do exactly what he wants in the exact way he wants them to do it.) He is also very closely tied with conservative/patriarchal rhetoric in-universe and at one point dates a literal Nazi. 

William Butcher less evil than most of the other characters on this list but the bar is also like, on the ground. Butcher tries to control the Boys in a similar way (Butcher and Homelander are character foils, okay? it’s actually pretty neat). He’s perfectly willing to sacrifice them in pursuit of his own goals, disregards their points of view and the well-being of their loved ones, and tries to cut loose anyone who disagrees with his methods (recall when Hughie tried to rescue his friends at the end of s1 and Butcher… punched him in the face? Yeah, that.) The difference is that the Boys can push back against his without being, you know, brutally murdered. (And also the Butcher isn’t a literal monster; I’m not anti-Butcher, okay? He’s an interesting character and the fact that he seems constantly on the verge of becoming that which he hates most is part of what makes him interesting.)

Guess what, folks? It’s hating Niles Caulder hours. He engineered accidents to turn the main characters into his test subjects, and then kept them conveniently hidden away in his large manor. Stole their autonomy and independence but paints himself as a benevolent father figure. And that’s not even including what he does to his actual daughter, Dorothy. He’s terrified of her growing up (read: becoming a young woman) and so he locks her away for almost 100 years and, when she is freed, yells at her constantly and makes her terrified of showing any signs of maturation (even though she’s 111 and clearly tired of being written off as a child).

The relationship between Ozymandias and his daughter, Lady Trieu, is integral to the final act of Watchmen. Heralded as the “smartest man in the world,” Ozymandias refused to acknowledge his daughter as his until he needed something from her. While Lady Trieu is more self-sufficient and independent than some of the applications of this trope, she goes to great lengths to prove herself, first to him, and then to herself when he rejects her.

Part III: Been a Long Time Gone (Constantinople) 

Gothic fiction is often associated with change, and particularly, the collapse of established systems of power. For example, many works like The House of the Seven Gables and The Fall of the House of Usher take place in old, crumbling manor houses. There is a reason for this! These kinds of estates are remnants of a past that is irreversibly gone, and their continued presence in decrypt forms serves as a reminder. 

Each of the four series takes place at a moment, either on a wide scale or on a personal scale (or both!), in which an established order is being questioned, and the constant reminders of that failed order are used to gothic effect.

The Umbrella Academy plays this most directly (In fact, there are TONS of parallels between the end of s1 of TUA and House of Usher that I don’t have the time to get into right now... lmk if you want that meta). We can see the Hargreeves mansion as a very literal example of this. While not worn down, the house is notably both very large and very empty. Shelves are filled with merchandise for a superhero team that disbanded over a decade prior, and portraits of a family that no longer speaks to each other. None of the family members ever seem truly comfortable or at ease in the house, and for good reason - every back corner is a reminder of their incredibly traumatic childhood. 

In The Boys, the story begins with the fridging death of the main character’s girlfriend, Robin, at the hands of a member of the Seven, a group of heroes so ingrained in the public consciousness that when they later hide out in a costume shop, literally every single costume is for one of Vought’s heroes. The Seven represent the system in power, which, at the disposal of Not-Amazon means corporate greed, shallow altruism, and the cultivation of public personas at the expense of actual humanity. 

From that moment on, the sheer presence of The Seven on everything from public billboards to breakfast cereal is a remainder for Hughie (and the audience) that this established system doesn’t work and is based on lies, which serves this effect on a personal level. In the broader scale, however, we also see that the Seven themselves are fracturing under an unsustainable business model. Even their name, “The Seven” starts to seem a bit dated when halfway through season one through the end of season two there are notably... less than seven of them. 

The main characters in Doom Patrol are all in recovery after the accidents that irreversibly changed their lives. We see through flashbacks the people that they used to be, and the difference is striking. They were each established in their own elements: Cliff a famous race-car driver, Rita a world renowned actress, Larry a hero pilot, Jane was involved in counter-cultural movements, Vic was a student and athlete. The foundations upon which their worlds were established are completely decimated by the accidents, and now they (save Vic and sometimes Jane) live mostly in isolation in Niles’ manor house, an estate that is far larger than would be necessary to comfortably house a group of their size.

And you feel the emptiness, both in the manor, and in the lives of the characters. They have barely created a shadow version of their own existence when the series starts, so fragile that a simple trip into town devolves into utter chaos. 

Angela Abar of Watchmen has also constructed a life following the terrifying act of terrorism on the White Night. It’s a bit of a double life, and we see that the balancing act is challenging for her, even before the story truly begins. The death of Judd Crawford, and the revelation about him that follows is not only traumatizing on a personal level (but it definitely is that), but also upsets her understanding of the world. People she’s come to trust are not just dishonest but truly monstrous. And the more Angela learns about what has been happening, the more her understanding of the world begins to unravel. Her memories, and the memories of those around her are cast in a much more sinister light, and the effect is genuinely chilling. 

Part IV: “I’m the Little Girl Who Threw the Brick in the Air”

In episode 3 of Watchmen, Laurie contacts Dr. Manhattan on the cosmic phone booth to tell him a joke. It’s a version of what TVTropes calls the “brick joke,” and it relies on set up taking place early on, other stuff happening, and then the response coming at an unexpected moment. 

So, yeah. Events of the past/buried secrets resurfacing with consequences in the present.

Continuing with the theme from Watchmen, the entire series is punctuated with the way the past and the present intertwine, with elements from both the original Watchmen graphic novel, and actual American history. One of the things we talked a lot about in my gothic lit class was the manner in which the overhanging specter of past atrocities casts a shadow over the present, and how many works cannot help but have gothic themes because there are so many horrifying things in the past that cannot be ignored, and provide both context and nuance for the discussions we have in the present. No series tackles these topics quite so directly (and with as much care) as Watchmen. (note: it does not always make for easy viewing, but if you’re in a place where you feel like you can engage with that kind of material, I highly recommend the show.)

In Doom Patrol, the past actions of the characters very much control the storyline (see: previous discussion of Niles Caulder), but the character whose storyline I want to talk about here is Rita (partially for plot reasons and partially because I just love Rita, okay?). We learn when we first meet Rita that in the past she was... not a great person. We know that the trauma of the accident that gave her her powers has changed her, we also know that she still holds on to the guilt and that her guilt has limited the scope of her world for years, but we don’t know what exactly it is that she’s done. 

Enter Mr. Nobody, all-powerful narrator who is not just aware of Rita’s greatest sins, but perfectly capable of manifesting reminders of them into the story. She is confronted with empty cradles, and the sound of crying children in the background of many scenes and we see how much it effects her, without a full understanding of why it does (see: The Tell-Tale Heart). Her past begins to haunt her physically, and she begins to crumble in response to it, until finally she is forced to confide in a stranger (and thus the audience). The past actions do not just inform the audience of Rita’s character - they show up to influence her behavior in the present. 

The ending of The Umbrella Academy season 1 is super evocative of the gothic genre with Vanya breaking open the soundproof chamber (wherein she was silenced for years) and rising from the basement to destroy the last remnants of the Hargreeves legacy (which would be awesome if the last remnants of the Hargreeves legacy didn’t include the rest of her family). Pretty much every mistake the siblings make over the course of the season feeds together to create the finale, but the primary cause isn’t something any of them actually did. It all ties back to Reginald Hargreeves’ complete inability to be nice to children. Any children. His own and random strangers that need help. 

In The Boys, while the extent to which people are making f-ed up choices in the present cannot be expressed enough, we see through the characters of Homelander that many of the present difficulties are a result of past mistakes. Particularly, the profit-seeking corruption within Vought. We learn in s1 through Vogelbaum that Homelander was raised in a lab by Vought as an experiment, only to be unceremoniously thrust into the spotlight and told he was a superhero (which... does not justify a single one of his actions but is still a major yikes). As the head scientist of the project, Vogelbaum is very aware that ignoring his conscious if the name of research has essentially created the biggest threat their world has ever seen. 

(Seriously y’all just stop raising your super kids in isolation) 

Part V: Put Them Together, and They’re the MF-ing Spice Girls 

Having the environment respond to characters’ emotions/mental states is pretty common in gothic works (it was a dark and stormy night = someone is probably not doing super well). One of the advantages of the genre’s tendency towards the supernatural is that, often, those elements of the stories, as well, are reflections of the main ideas of a work of fiction (see: Stephen King’s really unsubtle period metaphors).

Because all of these shows have a ton of supernatural/scifi elements by virtue of being, well, superhero shows, I thought it would be easier (and more fun!) to come up with a short list of elements, what they mean, and what cases they might apply to.

1. A Nonlinear Experience of Time

The Umbrella Academy: legitimately about time travel. Characters are attempting to fix the timeline but are unable to because they are both mentally and sometimes literally stuck in the past. 

Watchmen: In the episode This Extraordinary Being, Angela experiences firsthand the experiences of her grandfather, under the influence of a drug called Nostalgia. The episode touches on many themes, one of which being the impact of generational trauma in marginalized communities. Throughout the series, Dr. Manhatten is cursed with experiencing all time at once, and the episode A God Walks into Abar illustrates that, because of this, he is constantly facing the consequences of particular actions before, after, and while he is preforming him.

Doom Patrol: Mr. Nobody is able to physically travel to one of Jane’s flashbacks via his fourth-wall breaking powers, and gives Dr. Harrison an ultimatum for the future. 

What it implies: Events, particularly events that evoke guilt or conflict, are not as rooted in the past as one would like to think.

2. Powers/Abilities that reflect personal trauma/failings

Doom Patrol: Larry’s abilities/bond with the Negative Spirit have made it so that he is constantly covering himself with bandages/avoiding other people, which reflects his experiences having to hide his identity as a gay man in the 50/60s. Rita forced herself to walk a thin line, betraying everything in pursuit of her image; her abilities require constant effort to keep her entire body from becoming misshapen and out of control. Vic’s father with boundary issues can literally control his perception of the world through his cybernetic enhancements. Dorothy’s abilities manifest as imaginary friends because she was kept isolated for years at a time. 

The Umbrella Academy: pretty much all of the kids’ powers are representative of the interpersonal skills they were never able to develop. Luther is super-durable but also the most emotionally vulnerable of the group. Five can teleport and time travel but always seems to be too late to stop things. Diego can manipulate the trajectory of projectiles but cannot escape the path his father set out for him, not matter how much he resents it. Vanya always forced herself to stay quiet until the sound literally explodes out of her.

The Boys: Annie’s abilities allow her to control light, but she struggles (in the beginning) to bring to light the horrible things done to her behind closed doors. 

Watchmen: Not technically a power, but Looking Glass’ mirror-mask is a constant reminder of the hall of mirrors that both saved his life and traumatized him forever. 

What it implies: from a story perspective, these allow for an exploration of trauma/guilt to occur on a scale much larger than people simply talking about their problems (as if anyone on any of these shows knows how to talk about their problems...) It also means that the trauma/guilt of the characters takes on a physical form that is able to haunt them, and constantly remind them/hold them accountable for their past actions.

3. Diluted Sense of Reality:

Doom Patrol: The first season is narrated by its main villain, and throughout the season we see that the act of narration itself has an impact on the story.

Watchmen: The event that kicks off the plot of the story is hinged upon a paradox introduced by Angela near the end of the series when trying to speak to her Grandfather in the past through Dr. Manhattan.

The Umbrella Academy: The pair of episodes in season 1, The Day that Wasn’t and The Day That Was take the same point in time and explore two possible avenue for the future from there, with The Day that Wasn’t ending with the events of the entire episode being completely erased from the timeline.

What it implies: you can’t necessarily trust everything you see, even from the audience perspective, giving them a position not unlike that of the characters. The character’s uncertainty and confusion is magnified and reflected in the world that surrounds them.

Other examples: an apocalypse (The Umbrella Academy, Doom Patrol, Watchmen (of a sort)), ghosts (The Umbrella Academy - hi, Ben!), immortality/invulnerability (Watchmen, Doom Patrol, The Boys), and characters that look significantly younger than they actually are (The Boys, The Umbrella Academy, Doom Patrol). 

Part VI: Why Did You Write a Literal Essay Don’t You Have Real Schoolwork (yes... shhhhh...)

And... there you have it. I don’t really have some grand conclusion here. This is (clearly) far from a complete analysis but it is the most my finals-week brain can concoct at the moment. 

If you have other ideas, let me know! You can always add to the notes or message me – my inbox is always open!  If you got this far, thank you so much for taking the time to read this! Much love! ❤️

[hanmajoerin]

Chapter eight of my InuYasha fanfiction 1095 Days Without You is now out on fanfic and AO3. For those who are new, this is a series of interwoven drabbles that highlight moments during the three year separation where Kagome realizes that an InuYasha-less world is not one she can call home. You can start at chapter one or feel free to jump into the new chapter below!

Also, not that anyone was dying to know, but I updated all of my banners for the 1095 Days!Verse. I always love the colors that the anime gives us, but this story is a manga only deal. Nothing that happened exclusively in the anime or any of the manga scenes that were altered will be referenced or alluded to (as is the case for all of my InuYasha fics with the exception the of the Yashahime!verse.)

Chapter Eight: Forty-Five Days Without You

Winds that rivaled hurricanes slammed into Kagome while milky ways threaded through her fingers. The Meido Zangetsuha. She missed InuYasha’s hand. Her mind was spinning trying to process the past ten seconds but by the eleventh, her brown eyes opened to a Tokyo without time travel. The high-schooler still recalled trading collections of cosmoses for the pleats on her skirt. Her fingers raked against the stiff material, dazed. When her classmates called her name, Kagome forgot why she questioned her hand dropping at all.

Kagome lived as an ordinary girl for weeks, oddly misplaced but playing along nonetheless. She hadn’t forgotten the WacDonalds trips or asking her family about the mini-shrine with the dry well. Days kept passing but she was listless; homework, after school clubs, gossiping with her friends–it made sense but the world still felt off center. It was only after realizing that the Sacred Tree was missing its scar that she remembered.

InuYasha. 

With the half-demon in her mind, everything had no choice but to fall away. For the first time, Kagome became wholly unreachable. Gone was her life in the modern era, her new school uniform, and the stars that once lit her path. There was only the Sacred Jewel and the prospect of spending an eternity alongside it. 

 Lately, I’ve been wondering if my dreams are right and I’m still there, Kagome thought, lifting her gaze from the tree’s scar. Would it be that crazy for the jewel to show her a world where she lived normally but knew InuYasha? A place to make her desperate enough to wish. Was InuYasha trapped, too? Was he taken by a pillar of light and frozen in a reality she’d never walked in? 

Kagome remained tethered to this ground, staring aimlessly above the place where she met InuYasha five hundred years ago. Branches rolled with the breeze causing the leaves to chatter. His name rustled on their edges.

 “Inu–”

“Kagome?”

“Mama!”

“What are you doing out here?” Mama asked, prompting a lump to form in the back of Kagome’s throat. Her mother took purposeful steps, causing the lump to feel a lot larger than it probably was. There was so much Kagome hadn’t dared to address since she and InuYasha returned. There were fears and nightmares now that were beginning to feel larger than city skyscrapers. But the idea of letting those thoughts walk outside of her mind scared her more. She couldn’t answer. “Kagome...” The high-school girl continued to face the Sacred Tree, hesitantly stepping forward in part to continue distancing herself and in part to seek comfort in something familiar. 

Mama grasped Kagome’s shoulder and automatically Kagome’s hand sought the smooth feel of InuYasha’s former resting place. “Did I ever tell you that InuYasha was sealed by an arrow right here?” 

“No,” Mama replied, gently placing several plastic bags off to the side. Kagome’s fingers lightly traced the stripped bark while flashes of sturdy roots and wending ivy blew through her mind. Nothing in that forest stood out more than InuYasha and his trademarked gaudy red get-up. When they first met, Kagome never anticipated that such an ethereal boy would wake up and transform into a brash beast. He was quick to anger, sensitive but only for himself, impatient, unreasonable, jealous, and positively unbearable. And yet, InuYasha became her most faithful companion. He showed her his human heart and she would give anything to walk into her home and find him surrounded by their neighbor’s koi and way too many pigeons. “I—”

“Oh, Sweetheart, I miss him too.”

Kagome spun her head, accidentally making eye contact with what felt like a mirror. Mama always knew what weighed the high-schooler down and to see her worst fear reflecting in her mother–tears Kagome wished would wither flourished. “Mama, he can’t... he can’t be gone,” she stuttered, her hand drifting away from the only remaining part of him.

-X-

II Chapter One II Chapter Two II Chapter Three II Chapter Four II Chapter Five II Chapter Six II Chapter 7 II

[hold-my-hand-kuroo]

soulmates

i can’t believe i woke up two hours earlier to write for some 2d boy’s birthday-

this isn’t a soulmate au i’m sorry

pairing: shirabu x reader

i.

Shirabu Kenjirou doesn’t believe in soulmates, because by extension, that’d mean that things such as luck and miracles and even Santa would also exist. He likes to think that his hours of studying and sheer grit are the reasons that he was accepted into Shiratorizawa. What he lacks in talent, he’ll make up with his efforts and his efforts only; he doesn’t need something silly like magic, especially when said magic couldn’t come through when he needed it the most.

He replays the memory of Karasuno’s 10 over and over again in his mind, even after the third years have said their goodbyes. He remembers it all, the fatigue in his body, the lead of his legs, and the noise of the ball thudding up and down on their side of the court. He wonders what would happen if magic had really existed. Would he have been able to react faster then and save the ball?

Shirabu doesn’t like mulling over the past since it’s a waste of his time, but sometimes when he’s studying by himself, too tired to think straight, he finds himself zoning out. It’s not good for him, and he knows it, focusing too keenly on all his weaknesses and trying to find a way to fix them, but he can’t help it. Because he doesn’t believe in miracles, he only has himself.

If he’s feeling a little generous, though, maybe he’d consider you a little magical.

You’ve seen him around on campus, always studying alone by a corner and wearing a terrible scowl when someone got too loud or tried to pester him. Between majoring in sciences and the volleyball club, you realize two things: he’s an incredibly hard worker, and you’ve definitely been looking at him too much to know these things without ever having a proper conversation with him. There was just something admirable about the way he carried himself and how he’d always be working hard without complaining about being tired.

He’s quite the frequent customer at the cafe where you part-time at, and you’re not surprised. Someone with his lifestyle would need gallons of coffee to keep going, but you don’t think he’s there for the coffee. Perhaps it’s the quiet atmosphere where he can study. Maybe he’s escaping from a particularly loud roommate, or maybe the library seats are all taken. You don’t know for sure, but what you do realize is that he definitely at least knows of your existence with his short and curt nods for greeting. If you got lucky, he’d give you a quiet “Hey.”

He gets you worried. Sometimes, he’d be hunched over at his seat but without the usually concentrated furrow of his brow or his moving pen and graceful, yet quick flip of textbook pages. He’d just be staring blankly at the table, an expression unreadable, and he’d stay like that for moments at a time before shaking his head in frustration, pushing himself to his limit to go back to work. It’s hard to watch, and you almost wish you could do something, but you don’t. Not when he knew you just as the barista that went to the same university. You’d hate to pry.

It’s not until on one particularly dreary day that he walks in without so much as a nod that you realize the problem is larger than you feared it was. By now, he’s used to just handing over his cash, knowing well that you memorized his regular order, and as you turn around to grab a mug, you hear him clatter into a seat in the corner, sighing. The burst of freak courage that rushes through you almost makes you walk right up to him and ask what’s wrong, but you steel yourself. He hated being disturbed out of nowhere.

You place his coffee gently on a tray, sliding a piece of tiramisu on it as well before walking quietly over to his table. He doesn’t seem to take notice of you, hand running through his hair and staring a little bit too hard at the formulas taunting him on the paper. Silently, you leave his order on the table and leave without a word.

By the time Shirabu realizes that his coffee has long gone cold and that there’s an extra plate that he doesn’t remember paying for, you’re already gone, leaving your shift to someone else. He sits there, confused. Then, he spots a little slip of paper and reaches for it.

“You’re always working so hard, so I’m sure it’ll pay off. Don’t worry too much about setbacks, and remember to breathe! Also, I’m not sure if you like sweets or not, but don’t worry about the tiramisu. It’s on the house!”

Shirabu isn’t the kind of person to enjoy desserts; the sugar makes him crash sooner than he’d like, and it isn’t exactly good for his health. He’d much prefer something salty over something sweet, but after thinking a bite, he reconsiders. He doesn’t like it that much, but for some reason, he finds himself eating all of it. It’s good, but not because of the taste. He wants to know exactly why, but he’s reminded once more that he has a math examen tomorrow along with a paper due.

The following afternoon, Shirabu walks into the cafe and spares you not one word, but four.

“Hey,” he murmurs, looking away. His cheeks are slightly tinted, and he hopes you don’t notice. “Thanks for yesterday.”

ii.

Shirabu doesn’t believe in magic, because it’s unexplainable and unreliable. You’re close to half-magic because while you’re not entirely unreliable, your effect on him is absolutely unexplainable. It throws him in for a loop.

The first instance of your unpredictability is when the two of you are paired as lab partners. That gets things going between you two, exchanging numbers and talking more frequently than usual. Now instead of, “Hey,” he says, “Good morning,” “Good afternoon,” or, “Are you still up?” to you. It’s exciting, and you hope that he considers you a friend at the very least.

On Shirabu’s part, he finds that your energy is a good counter to the tired mornings he so often faces, and when you give him your signature smile, he feels his heart buzzing. He reasons that it’s because you’re such a breath of fresh air; it’s not often that he lets someone loud but not annoying into his life considering that his past experiences with energetic people were subpar. He likes being lab partners with you because you do your fair share, and he knows he can count on you during the rare times he needs help, and vice versa. You’re like the perfect fit for him, covering for his weaknesses, while he covered for yours.

He used to hate late nights of doing work since his eyes always got tired from staring endlessly at a screen of words and nothing more, but now they’re not so bad. He’ll find himself calling you if he knows you’re up, enjoying the sound of your whispers, as you’re afraid to wake your neighbors up at the dead of night. Sometimes the two of you exchange playful banter, and he’ll feel the weight being lifted off his shoulders, even if temporarily.

He enjoys a lot of things about you, and he almost finds it strange how even the smallest things you do get him a little bit happy. Just a little. Whenever you’re proofreading his essays, he finds that your comments, while still very helpful, are filled with energy. He used to think that exclamation marks were just a way to convey false energy in work and formal emails, but when he sees his paper littered with just hundreds, maybe even thousands of them, he can’t help but crack into a small smile over how silly it is. If you leave small doodles on the margin of his papers from when the two of you study together during lunch breaks or in between classes, he’ll always look at them fondly for a while before filing them neatly away.

He knows you’re busy as well, but after the first time he sees you wait for him outside of the gym for practice to end with coffee in hand, he begins to anticipate your appearance more and more. He likes how you don’t mind that he walks out disheveled, sweaty, and maybe cranky depending on how practice went, and his heart will always flutter if you comment on how good his sets were. You don’t know a thing about volleyball, and he’s probably aware of the fact, but when words like, “Cool,” or “Graceful,” flow out of your mouth, he thinks he must be going crazy. He feels like Goshiki getting all happy over just small praises and desperately wishes that he could stop being so lame.

“You don’t have to come by so often, you know,” he says one day even though he wants to ask you to stop by the gym every day. “You must be busy too, right?”

“I just study outside the benches while I’m waiting for you, so it’s not like I’m wasting my time,” you respond back, walking with an extra spring in your step. Whenever Shirabu walked you back to your apartment, you were always on Cloud 9.

He doesn’t say anything after and opts to revel in the comfortable silence that sits between you too. He wonders if you like being with a guy like him, someone so serious, so boring, and so critical of others. He’s blunt about almost everything, and he’s the driest texter alive according to Tendou. A part of him worries that you’ll get bored with such a bland and severe personality, and he’s not sure if you’re hurt by his directness. He thinks about other people that could probably serve as a better companion, and when he starts realizing how long the list is, he feels a bit of fear in his stomach.

“Is something wrong?” you ask, quick to pick up whether or not Shirabu’s silence meant content or discomfort. He appreciates it a lot.

“No,” he says quickly. You take it as a sign to drop the topic. He’d tell you later if he felt like it, and if he didn’t, it wasn’t a big deal. You’d help him cheer up without knowing what was wrong anyways.

“Today, there was this customer that walked in,” you start again, moving your arms slightly for emphasis in your story. Shirabu finds it endearing, but then he catches himself thinking it and comes to a frightful realization in the middle of your story.

Magic doesn’t exist, but love does. Shirabu doesn’t understand either of them.

iii.

In another world, if Shirabu did believe in magic and wished for his other half, he thinks they’d be exactly like you.

Still, he’s not entirely convinced that magic in this world exists, no matter how many times you make him watch all the Harry Potter movies with you. He needs a miracle to help him put into words how much he loves you because he thinks that by now, he should’ve said the L-word a long time ago, or at least enough to match how often you say it to him. It never loses its effect, though, and it always makes him flustered.

“Love you,” you’ll say to him randomly when the two of you are alone, and his face will go beet red.

“Me too,” is all he’ll be able to manage, but he wishes so desperately that he can return those same words one day.

You don’t really need him to verbalize it, though. He’s the type of person who shows his affection physically whether it’s running his fingers through your hair when you’re feeling down or gently squeezing your hand in public. His hugs are warm, and while it was a little awkward and stiff at first, they’re more relaxed and frequent now. You like how he’ll let you rest on his chest after a hard day and how he’d never let you go until he’s more than convinced that you’re fine. Whenever he brushes away your tears with a stray thumb, you feel all your worries and anxieties disappear.

In return, you’ll practically pull his figure into you whenever he comes home feeling frustrated or upset, resting his head at the crook of your neck while rubbing circles on his back. You let him vent, and after hours of him explaining to you how pathetic he finds himself, you’ll kiss him until he’s all better. In truth, he doesn’t think he deserves the love you give him, especially when he feels as if he can’t return it back tenfold despite trying his hardest.

It’s late at night like it usually is when he’s studying. You had gone to bed hours before, so it surprises him when he hears the bedroom door creak open and the shuffling of your feet against the floor. He turns his head around from his laptop, taking off his glasses and rubbing his dry eyes before giving you a proper look with the tilt of his head.

“You should be asleep,” he murmurs rather guiltily. “I’ll be in bed soon.”

“That’s what you always say,” you chuckle, voice tired. You rub your eyes too before taking a seat right next to him on the couch. “Still studying?”

“Sorry,” he sighs, moving an arm so that you can wrap your arms around his side and rest your head against his body. “I’ll make it up to you. I promise-“

“No, it’s all good.” Your eyes scan across the website he’s looking at, and you almost gag at the wall of words. “We can take a long nap together this weekend. After you ace your exam.”

He smiles softly, lowering his head to press a chaste kiss on your cheek before returning his attention back to the screen. He’d prefer it if you fell asleep back in bed, not because you’re distracting, but because he knows how the screen light distracts you from dozing off comfortably. You don’t seem to be willing to let go, though, and he isn’t going to tell you to leave him when he desperately wants you by his side at all times.

“Why don’t I read some of it to you?” you offer, stifling a yawn. You hear him laugh quietly and frown. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing, nothing,” he says quietly, caressing the side of your face. You lean into his touch. “It’s just that…you know that I’ll get distracted if you start reading to me, right? I’d probably fall asleep.”

“That’s the point.” He rolls his eyes playfully, pressing another kiss, this time on your nose because he can’t help himself. “I think you’re already pretty distracted right now, aren’t you?”

“Can you blame me?” His voice is low and tired, but content, and you enjoy how it vibrates from his chest. You see him eyeing your lips more and more at each word you speak, and you have to hold in your smirk. “I need to recharge for a bit.”

Setting aside his laptop, he bends down to press his lips against yours, pulling your body close to his. He feels your fingers run through his hair and against his scalp, tempting him to further the kiss. You’re the one to pull away first much to his dismay, and he lets out a quiet whine as you look and admire the red mess that you’ve turned Shirabu into.

“I’ll let you recharge more after you’re done working,” you tease, grinning. He breaks into a smile and reaches back for his computer, making a sound of agreement.

“I’ll be done soon, love.”

Shirabu doesn’t trust magic. Miracles and wishes and made up spells are silly figments of childhood imagination. Soulmates, though, he thinks, may be closer to reality than he had initially thought. He can’t say he minds it.