#conferrence

[adelle-ein]

officially a college grad ;.;

[princepestilence]

I've decided to submit my dissertation on Hallowe'en this year so I can become a doctor of monsters on their special day.

[s4pphicyearning]

we can wait for yall~ dont worry love

also a google doc would work? we can all conferr about what we would like😌

-🧸

youre gonna be waiting for a whiiile ...

[megasynnex123-blog]

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[dreamydrifts]

zitti e buoni: charles leclerc

| pairing: charles leclerc x reader

| genre: f1driver!charles, f1journalist!reader

| stefy's note: i've written and rewritten this fic since last year, from october. and this time i had some help from @ellieisque (with feeding my charles delulu scenarios) so this is for both important girlies in my life @violletsareblue and @ellieisque , so enjoy girlies ;)

| warnings: swearing, manipulation (by the media), toxic behaviour (by the media), hardships of journalism, mentions of make out, minors dni

| face claim: sabrina carpenter

| word count: 6.2k

[ BACK TO MASTERLIST ]

The vivid memory of your boss giving you the opportunity to cover the Monza Grand Prix by yourself, still lingers in yout mind. Being here is what you waited for since you looked at races with your father. He made you see the sport from a different perspective, which you then realized you could use for pursuing journalism.

Checking and memorizing the stats followed by writing freelance articles late into the night for several years must have payed off because they were the reason you were given your first major Formula One assignment. The same day, the boss called you in his office handing you this opportunity with a warning. "Don't mess this up."

And you didn't plan onto. That's what you had planned. No distractions. No drooling over drivers. You'll be focused only on work.

"The Italian Grand Prix at Monza is considered a whirlwild of scarlet-clad, Tifosi along with the roaning engines and the intoxicating scent of burnt rubber." Opening the notebook, you started writing after clutching the paddock pass tightly as you looked curiously arounf the paddock.

Coming from a small but ambitious media outlet most of the time meant no exclusive interviews with the drivers, but the usual a meeting room. You couldn't complain a lot as the meeting room was quite spacious but the amount of questions you could ask were limited. Limited to none.

The spacious meeting room you were promised in the official Formula One email was nothing compared to reality. The meeting room consistend of a small square table and a chair right in front of it. As soon as you entered it, the image of hundreds of phones openly recording the famous Ferrari driver, Charles Leclerc talking about his expectations about the race.

Checking the time once again you realize that you were given the wrong or the supposedly wrong meeting hour. From the ten or fifteen minutes you thought you had none left, making you late to the interview all together. As soon as you entered the room, all the eyes were on you for a split second. All judging you for being late. But it wasn't your fault after all.

The pre-race conferrence is packed with reporters from major networks, but you manage to squeeze into the third row. With your phone raised to record Charles Leclerc's answer, you could feel his dark eyes scanning the room as he discusses the strategy. His voice is calm, but there's something beneath it. An intensity. A quiet confidence that sends a shiver down your spine.

Then, disaster strikes.

Your phone slips from your sweary grip clattering onto the floor interrupting the press conference. The sound is deafening in the momentary lull between questions. Fuck. What a way to catch his attention. Heat floods your cheeks as you bend to grab it, but before you can, a hand - sleeve rolled to the elbow, a silver watch glinting - plucks it up effortlessly.

Charles Leclerc himself.

He straightens, holding your phone out with a faint smirk. Your fingers brush as you finally take it back, and then subtle - barely there - he winks at you before returning back to the table. To the other journalists's questions. The room erupts into judging eyes, but your pulse still hammers in your ears.

For the rest of the press conference, you were nothing but focused. Your mind replays the moment over and over again. The warmth of his hand. The playful glint in his eyes. Was it just politeness, or did he actually notice you? Did THE Charles Leclerc notice you?

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

"The air in the Monza paddock crawled with the anticipation as qualifying began. The Tifosi packed the grandstands, their scarlet flags waving in unison as their chants of "Forza Ferrari" echoing through the trees of the old royal park." You continued writing in your notebook as the atmosphere was totally different that you have expected. It was nothing like you had imagined.

You stood at the edge of the Ferrari garage, your press pass dangling from your neck, your fingers gripping the notebook as you watched the screen intently. Ferrari had been strong all weekend, but so had McLaren. Charles' first runs in Q1 and Q2 were clean, his lap times consistently near the top. But Q3 - the fonal shoutout for pole - was where the real drama unfolded.

On his first flying lap, Charles was purple in Sector 1, his razor-sharp Ferrari through Curva Grande. But then, a slight lock-up into the second chicane cost him a tenth. He crossed the line P2, just behind Lando Norris.

Then the radio icon of Charles pops up into the screen seeing what the engineer had told him on the radio: "One more lap, Charles. Push for everything."

Come on Charles. Come on.

You held your breath as he began his final attempt. The car was a blur of red, howling down the main straight, the RPMs screaming as he breaked impossibly late into Turn 1, but then -

A sharp of oversteer exiting Ascari.

Fuck. Not again. So close.

The rear stepped out, and for a heart-stopping moment, it looked like he might lose it. But Charles caught it his reflexes almost supernatural. The mistake did cost him precious time.

When the checkerer flag fell, the standings flashed on the screens:

1. Lando Norris (McLaren)

2. Oscar Piastri (McLaren)

3. George Russel (Mercedes)

4. Charles Leclerc (Ferrari)

A groan rippled through the Ferrari garage. So close.

The media immediately swarmed the drivers after the session. You positioned yourself near the back of the scrum, listening as Charles faced the press.

"Charles, P4 - how do you feel about that?" A reporter asked.

He wiped the sweat from his brow, his expression calm but his jaw tight. "Not ideal, but not a disaster. The McLarens are quick here, but our pace is strong. Starting on the second row means we'll have options for the start."

Another journalist cut in. "That monent in Ascari - did that cost you pole?"

Charles exhaled, a flicker of frustration crossing his face before he schooled it back into professionalism. "Maybe. But that's qualifying. One small mistake, and it's over. Tomorrow is what matters."

Then his eyes scanned the crowd - and landed on you.

You haven't raised your hand, but something about your quiet focus must have caught his attention. He tilted his head slightly, as if waiting for you to speak.

Heart pounding, you seize the moment. "Charles, you were talking about a wider line through Parabolica all session conpared to last year. Was that a deliberate change to manage tire wear for the race?"

A beat of silence. Then his lips curled into a small, appreciative smile. "Exactly right." He said, his voice warmer now. "We're expecting high degradation, so we adjusted the line to keep the tires alive. Smart observation."

The other reporters glance at you, some with curiosity, some with annoyance. Charles however held your gaze for a second longer than necessary before turning back to the next question.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

"Race day dawned under a blistering Italian sun, the air thick with the scent of fuel and Tifosi anticipation. The sea of red in the grandstands rippled like a living thing, their chants of "Forza Ferrari" shaking the old royal park." You wrote down in the small notebook you always kept with you. You stood once again at the edge of Ferrari garage, your paddock pass sticking to your shirt in humidity, as you cletched the notebook.

"Plan A", you could hear coming through the Ferrari garage. "One-stop. Hard tire start. We go long."

A gamble.

When the lights went out, Charles launch was electric. He rocketed past Russel into Turn 1, his Ferrari's nose edging alongside Piastri's McLaren through the Rettifilo chicane. The crowed roared as the scarlet car emerged P3 by Curva Grande.

While Norris pulled away out front, Charles bibed his time. His hard tires, durable but slower early on, needed laps to settle. He held his position, his lap times metronomic - 1:24.5, 1:24.3, 1:24.4 - never pushing too soon. Never letting Piastri breathe.

Lap eighteen. Norris pitted first, swapping for mediums. McLaren expected Ferrari to cover them. They didn't.

"Stay out, Charles. Extend the stint." The icon of his radio pops up again. They were really going for it.

He obeyed, his pace now scintillating - 1:23.9, 1:23.7 - as his hard tired, now in their sweet spot, devoured the track. By lap twenty two he'd built a twenty two second gap to Norris.

Then Ferrari struck. "Box now. Box now. Soft tires."

A flawless two second stop. Charles rejoined ahead of Norris, whose fresher mediums couldn't match his soft-tire grip. The Tifosi erupted.

Now P2 Charles hunted down Piastri. The young McLaren driver defended hard, but on lap forty two, Chsrles feinted left into Curva Grande before jinking right, darting past through the Roggia chicane with a move so bold Mclaren's front wing nearly clipped his rear.

The italian commentator could be heard speaking through the barely heard speakers "He's through! Charles Leclerc is leading the Italian Grand Prix!"

The final laps were a masterclass in tire management. His softs were fading, Piastri closing at half a second per lap, but Charles was working his magic. He took every curb perfectly, his voice calm on the radio. "Tell me the gaps."

"1.2 seconds. Two laps to go."

The main straight on the final lap was a wall of sound. Piastri's McLaren loomed into his mirrors, DRS wide open - but Charles crossed the line 0.8 seconds clear, his fists already pumping into the cockpit.

As the Monegasque anthem, followed by the Italian anthem blared, Charles stood atop the Monza podium, champagne soaking his fireproofs, the Tifosi singing in exstasy. In the garage, engineers hugged; in the stands grown men wept.

And in the media pen, your hands shook as you scribbled your notes.

This is why you loved racing.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

The Monza podium celebrations had been electric - Charles drenched in champagne, the Tifosi roaring as he held the Italian frag high. Now, in the press conference room, the atmosphere was more subdued but still buzzing with energy.

You sat at the back, your small media outlet's logo barely visible on your pass compared to the Sky Sports and ESPN badges surrounding you. Most of the questions so far had been predictable: "Charles, how does it feel to win at Monza?", "Can you walk us through the overtake on lap forty two?", "Do you think Ferrari can keep this momentum?".

Charles answered them all with the usual polished charm, but you noticed the way his fingers tapped the microphone - just slightly - when questions got repetitive.

Then, the moderator pointed to you.

"Question from Y/N Y/L/N, Trackside Media." A flew journalists glanced back, eyebrows raised at the unfamiliar outlet. Charles gaze flicked to you, and for a split second, you could swear that his lips twitched into recognition - the girl who dropped her phone.

You cleared your throat. "Charles, you took a different line through Ascari on your final push lap compared to your earlier attempts. Was that a pre-planned adjustment or something you felt in the moment?"

Another beat of silence, just like before.

Then, Charles smiled - not the polite press smile, but something sharper, more intrigued. He leaned forward. "It wasn't planned. The car was understeering a bit early on, but after the last pit stop, the tires came alive. I felt i coild brake earlier, carry more speed through double apex. So i went for it."

He held your gaze just a second longer than necessary before adding. "Glad someone noticed."

A murmur rippled through the room. Your cheeks burned, but you grinned as you scribbled down the answer.

As the conference ends you pack your gear, satisfied with the footage you could have gotten and had got already - until a familiar voice cuts through the noise.

"You dropped this earlier."

You turn. Charles stands there, holding out your press pass - the one that must have fallen during your fumble. Up close, he's even more striking, sweat still glistening on his brow, his race suit unzipped to reveal the scarled Ferrari fireproofs.

"Oh - thank you." You stammer.

Charles studies you for a beat, then tilts his head. "You're not with the usual press."

"No. Small independent outlet." You admit, bracing for dissmissal.

But Charles grins. "You seemed....different. Not asking the same questions everyone else does." A pause. "Would you be interested in a proper interview?"

Was he really asking you this? Was this a joke? Your breath catches. "Seriously?"

"Yeah. How about my place? Less...chaotic."

The invitation hangs between the two of you, electric. Before you can overthink it, you nod. "I'd love to."

You couldn't believe it. You just scored an exclusive interview with THE Charles Leclerc. And not only that?but at his house also.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

Charle's Monaco penthouse was nothing like the sterile press rooms you were used to. The elevator opened directly into a sun-drenched living space, all warm wood accents and floor-to-ceiling windows framing the Mediterranean like a painting. A vintage Ferrari poster hung beside modern abstract art, and a well-loved piano sat in the corner, sheet music splayed open - his new song.

He greeted you barefoot, in dark jeans and a sofr gray sweater pushed up to his elbows, a half drunk espresso abandoned on the kitchen counter. "You're early." He noted.

"Professional habit." You answered him, suddenly hyper-aware of your own outfit. A silk blouse and tailored slacks, dressed to impress bout now feeling overly formal.

"Relax." He murmured, as if he was reading your mind. "This isn't Sky Sports." He led you the living room, where a low leather couch faced the sea. Instead of the expected table-and-chairs interview setup, he'd arranged two microphones on a coffee table, a single camera on a tripod angled to capture the view behind the two of you.

"No press team?" You asked, while you sat your bag down.

"I sent them home." He handed you a glass of sparkling water lime wedges floating atop the ice. "Figured if we're doing this, we do it right."

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

"You've said before that racing is as much mental as it is physical. What does a bad day in your head look like? The kind no camera catches." You ask the question before checking once again your notebook to see if you read it correctly.

Charles exhaled, rubbing his jaw. "It's...like static. You know every move you're making is wrong, but you can't stop it. Your hands feel heavy on the wheel. Your foot hesitates on the pedals. And the worst part?" He met your gaze. "You know it's happening, and you're powerless to fix it."

Your pen hovered over the notebook. This wasn't the polished answer he gave Sky Sports.

"You grew up watching Schumacher dominate in Ferrari red. What did you feel the first time you sat in a real Ferrari cockpit?" You continued asking the questions you had prepared.

A slow smile spread across his face. "I cried." At your raised brow, he laughed. "Not in the garage - I waited until I was alone. But it was...overwelming. That childhood dream? Suddenly it was real. And the weight of it hit me all at once."

"What a mistake you made early in your career that still keeps you up at night?" You knew this would be a deep question for him as it can turn back to the races he lost in his career.

"Baku. 2021." The answer came instanty his voice tight. "I was leading , got greedy and crashed in qualifying. Threw away a sure win. Now? I never push quite as hard on thag corner, even when i know i can." A rueful shrug. "Fear stays with you."

"You're one of the best qualifiers on the grid. What's actualky going through your mind during a pole lap?" You wanted to ask this questions for years, it was a question both you and yout father were curious about.

"Nothing." Your surprise made him grin. "That's the secret. When it's perfect, your brain shuts off. You're not thinking - you're just doing. It's the closest thing to flying i'll ever feel."

"Ferrari's strategy calls have been...controversial. How do you stay calm when you hear something you dissagree with over the radio?"

Charles leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "You don't. You rage - but only after the race. In the moment? You trust. Even when every instinct screams not to." A bitter chuckle. "Doesn't mean i don't yell into my helmet sometimes."

You laugh for a moment along with him. "What's something about Formula One that frightens you?"

Silence. Then, quietly. "Being forgotten." He looked away, out at the harbor. "Not the crashes. Not the pressure. The idea that one day, no matter what i do., the sport will move on without me."

"You're known for being hard on yourself. What's one thing you're proud of, no asterisks?"

"Monaco. 2024." His voice softened. "Not the race - the qualifying. That lap was mine. No luck. No favors. Just...perfection."

"If you could erase one rumour about yourself, what would it be?"

"That i'm cold." His jaw tightened. "People think i don't care because i don't show it like others do. But the fire's there. It just burns quieter."

"What's a piece of advice you'd give your sixteen-year-old self?" You looked once again at the notebook checking to see if you were on time with the questions.

"Enjoy it." A sad smile. "I was so focused on the next step, I forgot to live the dream."

Last one. "What's something no one knows about Charles Leclerc?"

He held your gaze, suddenly serious. "I hate being alone. The silence after the race? It's the hardest part."

As the final question faded, you realized that your notes were abandoned. This wasn't an interview anymore - it was a confession. The Charles Leclerc the world saw - the focused, composed race winner, was just the surface.

The man in front of you? He was human. Flawed. Fearful. Real.

"That's it." You whispered shutting off the camera.

Charles slumped back into thr couch a hand running through his hair. "That was..."

"Honest."

Your eyes met. Somethibg unspoken passed between the two of you - an understanding.

Then with a shaky laugh, Charles gestured to the camera. "Please tell me that thing was off for the last part."

Your lips curved. "Wouldn't you like to know?" You say as you sat back next to him in the couch after shutting off the camera.

Impulsively then Charles says, as he catches your wrist where you hold the memory disk of the camera. "We should do this again. But without the cameras."

You froze. "Are you...asking me out?"

Charles blinked, as if startled by his own words. Then, with a slow, deliberate smile. "Yeah. I think i am."

A beat. The camera was off. No PR, no audience - just you and him.

"Good." You whispered. "Because i'd say yes."

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

The moment TrackSide Media uploaded the interview, the internet lost its collective mind.

Your phone erupted in a symphony of pings before you even had time to process what was happening. Twitter, Instagram, Reddit - every platform had already dissected the final thirty seconds of footage where Charles Leclerc, Ferrari's golden boy, had looked directly into the camera and said. "We should do this again. Without the cameras."

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

| INSTAGRAM POST - SEP 3rd

F1Gossip

Liked by charles_leclerc, lando and 969,670 others

F1Gossip Charles Leclerc just publicly asked out a journalist. I REPEAT: WE ARE NOT SURVIVING THIS

View all 15,786 comments

user1 Lecler's PR team currently drafting a statement: Charles was merely being hospitable while Charles himself is texting Y/N 'so dinner tomorrow'?

user2 if this woman doesn't say yes, i will personally fly to Monaco and accept on her behalf

user3 who is she? some nobody trying to get some clout?

user4 charles could do so much better

user5 she's actually kind of cute though

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

You stomach twisted as you scrolled. You expected some reaction, but not this. Not memes of your stunned face, not think pieces analyzing Charles body language, not hate messages flooding your DMs.

Your editor's text was the final nail in the coffin

| Mark Y/N. The video's at 500K views in two hours. The board wants a follow up. Are you actually dating him?

You threw your phone onto the bed like it had burned you.

For the next forty-eight-hours, you existed in a state of suspended disbelief. Charles had texted you immediately after the interview dropped, "Ignore the noise - They'll move on by next week." but the noise was deafening. Every major sport outlet had picked up the story. Even Sky Sports had a segment titled "Leclerc's Love Life: What this means for Ferrari's Season."

Your inbox was a warzone. Interview requests. Podcasts invites. A People Magazine editor asking if she'd do a Getting Ready For My Date with Charles" spread.

By the time Friday rolled around, you were half-convinced you should cancel. It was too much. Too public. Too dangerous.

Then your phone buzzed.

| Char❤️ Still on for tonight? I promise i won't let Autosport crash our date

Against all logic, you smiled.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

The cobblestone path twisted away from the glittering harbor, the air thick with the scent of salt and frying garlic. Charles led you by the hand, his fingers warm and calloused against yours, his other hand shoved casually in the pocket of his dark jeans. He wore a simple black t-shirt, the fabric stretched sloghtly across his shoulders, and a silver chain glinted at his throat in the dim glow of the streetlights.

No sunglasses. No pretense. Just him.

"You're taking me to a back alley?" You teased, your heels clicking against the uneven stones. "Should i be worried?"

Charles glanced over his shoulder, a smirk playing at his lips. "Only if you're scared of the best socca in Monaco."

He stopped in front of an unassuming blue door, the paint peeling slightly at the edges. A handwritten sign above it read "Chez Manthieu" in faded script.

"This is your idea of a date?" To say the least that you were skeptical about his ideas of date and how he saw them, but in the same time intrigued.

"Better than some overpriced terrace where they serve three scallops and call it dinner." He pushed the door open, the warm hum of conversation and clicking silverware spilling out into the night.

Inside the restaurant was all cozy-checkered tablecloths, chalkboard menus, and the rich aroma of simmering tomato sauce and fresh bread. An older man with a flour-doused apron looked up from behind the counter, his face splitting into a grin. "Charles! Enfin!"

Charles laughed, releasing your hand to embrace the man in a quick, back-slapping hug. "Mathieu, this is Y/N."

Mathieu's eyes twinkled as he took you in. "Ah, so this is why you called ahead."

Charles rolled his eyes, but his ears pinked slightly. "Ignore him. He thinks he's funny."

Mathieu led you to a small corner table, half-hidden by a shelf of wine bottles. "I'll bring you the usual.", he said already walking away.

"The usual?" You raised your eyebrow at him. The usual would mean that he must have come here often enough.

Charles leaned back in his chair, his knee brushing yours under the table. "I come here when i don't want to be Charles Leclerc."

And just like that, you understood.

The socca arrived still sizzling from the oven, its golden surface blistered and crisp at the edges. Charles watched as you broke off a piece with your fingers, the stream curling between them.

"Careful." He murmured, catching your wrist before you could burn yourself. His thumb brushed against the delicate skin of your inner wrist - just ince - before releasing you. "It's hotter than it looks."

You blew on the chickpea pancake before taking a bite, the flavours exploding - wood-fired crust, sea salt, rosemary. Your eyes fluttered shut. "Oh my god."

Charles lips curved as he leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight. "Told you."

Mathieu appeared with two mismatched wine glasses and a carafe of something deep ruby. "The '98 Bandol," he said pouring without asking. "Charles's favorite when he's celebrating."

You asked, accepting the glass. "And what are we celebrating."

Charles knee bumped yours under the table. "You not running screaming when i took you to a back alley."

Not long after bringing the appetizer, Mathieu comes back with two delicious plates, a tender octopus confit, handmade ravioli oozing sage butter. Charles plate looked at appetizing as yours, it's like he knew that the two of you would share them.

"I used to keep a notebook for every driver's helmet design," You admitted, swirling your wine. "Had this whole rating system. Schumacher's 2000 design? Perfect ten. Villeuve's 1997? A travesty."

Charles nearly chocked. "You rated helmets?"

"Still do." You tilted your head, studying him. "Yours is a solid eight."

"Eight?" He pressed his hand on his chest in mock outrage. "The prancing horse? The Monegasque colors? The -"

"Too busy," you interrupted, stealing a bite of his raviolli. "Sometimes less is more, Leclerc."

He caught your wrist as you pulled back, his thumb tracing the pulse point. "Next season's design," he said quietly. "You'll help me with it."

It wasn't a question.

The tiramisu arrived, dusted with cocoa powder still trembling from the impact. Charles pushed it towards you. "You first."

The first spoonful was pure bliss - espresso-soaked ladyfingers, mascarpone so light it dissolved on yout tongue. You moaned without thinking.

Charles fork clattered against his plate. When you looked up, his eyes were dark, fixed on your mouth, "You're killing me." he muttered.

You dragged your spoon through the dessert slowly deliberately. "Problem?"

"Yeah." His voice dropped an octave. "Big fucking problem."

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

The warm Mediterranean night wrapped around them like silk as the two of you left the restaurant, Charles fingers laced loosely with yours. The harbor lights danced on the black water, painting liquid gold across the waves.

"This way." Charles murmured, tugging you gently down a narrow alleyway away from the main streets. The cobblestones glowed under the antique iron lamps, their footsteps echoing between centuries-old buildings.

"Taking the scenic route?" You teased, your shoulder brushing his arm.

Charles smirked, his thumb tracing absent circles on the back of your hand. "Avoiding paparazzi. And...maybe showing you my favorite view."

The alley opened suddenly into a hidden terrace overlooking the entire bay. The city spilled down the cliffs like scattered diamonds, the yachts bobbing like toys in the distance. Charles leaned against the stone railing, pulling you gently in front of him, his chest warm against your breath.

"I come here when the world gets too loud." He admitted, his breath stirring your hair at the temple. His arms circled your waist, loose enough that you could pull away if you wanted. You didn't.

You leaned back into him, watching the moonlight carve silver paths across the water. "It's beautiful."

"Not as beautiful as-" He cut himself off with a quiet laugh, his nose brushing your ear. "That sounded better in my head."

You turned into his arms, your faces suddenly inches apart. "Smooth, Leclerc."

"I'm a driver, not a poet." His gaze dropped on your lips. "Though right now i'm thinking of several very creative-"

You silenced him with a finger on his mouth. "Show me the way home, hotshot."

Charles caught your finger between his teeth, biting down just hard enough to make you gasp before releasing it with a grin. "Your funeral."

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

The hotel hallway was too bright, too quiet after the intimacy of the night. You fumbled with the keycard, paintfully aware of Charles leaning against the wall beside the door, watching you with dark eyes.

"So," You said, the word hanging between the two of you.

"So," he echoed, pushing off the wall to stand before you. The dim lighting caught the stubble along his jaw, the faint scar above his eyebrow.

The keycard slipped from your fingers

Charles caught it before it hit the floor, his other hand coming to rest against the door beside your head. "Nervous."

"No," you lied, your breath coming faster as he stepped closer. His cologne wrapped around you - salt and something woodsy, with the faintest hint of wine.

"Liar." His nose brushed against yours, your lips a breath apart. "Tell me to leave."

Your hands found his waist, fingers curling into the soft cotton of his shirt. "Make me."

Charles made a low sound in his throat before closing the distance.

The first kiss was soft - testing, questioning. The second wasn't.

His hands cradled your jaw as he backed you against the door, his body pressing yours into the wood. You gasped as his teeth caught your lower lip, your fingers scrambling for purchase on his shoulders. The keycard dug into your palm where it was trapped between the two of you, forgotten.

"Charles-"

"Tell me to stop," he murmured againsy your mouth, though his hands were already sliding down to grip your thighs.

You arched into him instead, your nails scraping through his hair. "Never."

The elevator dinged down the hall.

Charles pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, both of you breathing hard. "Fuck," he whispered, his thumb brushing your swollen bottom lip.

You stole one last kiss before twisting the keycard from his grip. "Goodnight, Charles."

You slipped inside before any of you could change your mind, leaning against the closed door as your heart threatened to beat out of your chest. Outside, you heard Charles exhale sharply before his footsteps retreated down the hall.

Your phone buzzed into you clutch

| Char❤️ Karting. Tomorrow. Wear something you can lose.

You bit your still-tingling lips as you typed the reply. "Only if you're ready to lose too."

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

The private karting track nestled in the hills above Monaco smelled of scorched runber and adrenaline. You stepped out of Charles black Ferrari 812 in the golden afternoon light, squinting at the row of gleaming karts line up like racehorses at the starting gate.

"You own this place?" Your fingers tightened around the strap of your duffel bag as you took in the grandstand, the timing towers, the Ferrari-red barriers lining every corner.

Charles emerged from the driver's side, his aviator sunglasses hiding his eyes but not only his smirk. "Not own. Let's say...the manager owes me favors." He tossed you a helmet - custom-painted in matte black with a single prancing horse on the side. "You'll need this."

The helmet was lighter thank you expected. "This is carbon fiber.

"And you're avoiding the question." He stepped closer to you, his shadow falling across you. "Scared?"

You met his gaze evenly. "I grew up racing motorcross in the Australian outback. Your little go-karts don't scare me, Leclerc."

Charles grin turned funeral. "We'll see about that."

The engines screamed to life beneath them, a chorus of mechanical wasps buzzing in the pit lane. Charles had changed into a tight black racing suit, the fabric staining across his shoulders as he adjusted his gloves.

"Rules," he shouted over the noise. "First go ten laps. No bumping. No crying when you lose."

You yanked your hair into a hasty ponytail before sliding your helmet on. "Winner gets bragging rights and picks dinner."

Charles eyes darkened before his visor. "Deal."

The starting lights flashed red...red...green.

Your kart rocketed forward, the acceleration slamming your back into the seat. The wheel vibrated violently in your hands as you took the first corner flat-out, your knee brushing the concrete barrier. Charles pulled alongside at the hairpin, their wheels inches apart as you dove into the turn.

"Inside line." His voice crackled through you helmet comms.

"Eat my dust!" You braked late, forcing him wide.

By lap three, sweat trickled down your spine. Charles was relentless, drafting you on the straights, his front wheels kissing your rear bumper through the chicanes. Every time you glanced in your mirrors, there he was, his driving mirror-perfect and infuriatingly patient.

On lap seven, he made his move.

You took the sweeping right-hander too wide, just half a meter, and Charles pounced like a shark scenting blood. His kart slipped up the inside, the wheels interlocking for heart-stopping second before he pulled ahead.

"Merde!" You slammed your fist on the wheel.

Charles laugh echoed through your headset. "Told you i'd destroy you."

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

You yanked off your helmet, your hair sticking on your neck in damp curls. "You cheated."

Charles was already unbuckling his racing suit, the top half tied around his waist, leaving only a sweat-darkened white t-shirt clinging to his chest. "How exactly?"

"You-" You gestured wildly. "You distracted me!"

"By being better?" He stepped closer, the scent of gasoline and warm wrapping around you. "Admit it. You liked watching me win."

Your pulse pounded in your ears. "I liked watching you sweat."

Charles gaze dropped in your mouth. "I'm sweating now."

The pit crew suddenly found something very interesting to do on the other side of the garage.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

The locker room was all white tile and stream, the air thick with the scent of citrus body wash. You stood under the scalding spray, willing your racing heartbeat to slow.

The curtain rattled.

"Occupied!"

"Relax, it's me." Charles' voice, closer than expected.

You whipped around to find him leaning against the sinkoutside your stall, his reflection blurred in the fogged mirror. His shirt was off now, his torso a masterpiece of leaned muscle.

"You lost," he reminded you, tapping the tile wall with one knuckle. "Winner picks dinner, remember?"

Water suiced down your back as you glared through the mist?. "And?"

Charles smile was pure sin. "I'm starving."

The curtain yanked open.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

Charles killed the Ferrari's engine, leaving on the crash of waves against the cliffs below. The leather seats creaked as he turned to you, his fingers drumming an uneven rhythm on the steering wheel.

"Come with me." His voice was oddly strained.

He led you to the edge of the lookout, where the wind whipped at your clothes. The sun hung low over the Mediterranean, painting his profile in molten gold. When he dropped to one knee, your breath caught-

"Wait!" Charles fumbled with his pocket, producing a small black box. "Before you panic - not that kind of question."

Inside lay a silver key, it's teeth grinting.

"I practiced this," he admitted, running a hand through his windswept hair. "Pierre made me do it twelve times last night. Still fucking it up."

You laughed for a moment before regaining your posture as you then focused on him.

"I don't share," Charles continued, his thumb brushing your knuckles. "Not my toothbrush, not my Playstation, certainly not my home. But i want you there. Waking up to your hair in my face, your terrible coffee mugs..." His voice cracked "So will you? Be mine officially?"

The key warmed in your palm. Somewhere below, a speedboat carved white lines into the blue.

"Only if you swear Pierre won't be best man at our wedding." you whispered.

Charles laughter echoed off the cliffs as he kissed you, his hands cradlling your face like you were the only solid thing in a spinning world. "Good because I already told Ferrari you're coming to Silverstone."

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

The Ferrari garage froze when you stepped inside to be supporting your now boyfriend at the practice sessions.

Mechanics paused mid-wrench. Engineers' tablets dimmed. Carlos Sainz eyebrows dissapeared under his helmet.

"Putain," someone muttered.

You clutched your "Guest of Charles Leclerc" pass like a fineline. The scent of burnt carbon fiber and warm electronics wrapped around you as you edged past the gleaming car parts.

Then - chaos.

Charles emerged from the driver's room, his fireproofs unzipped to the waist, revealing a sweat-darkened Ferrari t-shirt. His eyes lit up.

"You came." He closed the distance in three strides, ignoring the team's stares to press a kiss to your temple - just as a photographer raised his lens.

Flashbulbs erupted.

Charles, of course, was oblivious - too busy shoving ice cream cones into your hands between sessions.

"You're insufferable," you hissed as the cameras clicked outside the motorhome.

He licked a stray drop of chocolate off your wrist. "You love it."

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

| INSTAGRAM POST - JUL 4th

F1Gossip

Liked by charles_leclerc, yourusername and 689,233 others

F1Gossip Charles Leclerc brings mystery woman into Ferrari garage (PS: it's that journalist)

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user1 Ferrari strategists when they realize Charles new performance coach is actually his girlfriend

user2 she's so pretty

user3 she's such a clout chaser. charles could do so much better

user4 THE SAME JOURNALIST

user5 he's so down bad for her

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

The media scrum surged as Charles entered, still damn with champagne. He ignored Sky Sports microphone, making a beeline for-

"Question for TrackSide Media," he announced, grinning at your stunned expression.

Reporters swarmed.

"How does it feel," Charles continued "to be my good luck charm?"

The room lost it. Flashbulbs popped like fireworks.

Your cheeks burned. "I think you did the driving, Leclerc."

"Nah." He tugged you closer, his lips brushing your ear as cameras exploded. "This one was all you."

The clip hit 10M views before the two of you even left the circuit.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

You pressed Charles against the bedroom door, your fingers tangled in his still-damp hair. "My good luck charm?"

"Oui." He nipped at your jaw. "Got a problem with that?"

You bit his earlobe, hard. "Only if you ever call me that in public again."

Charles laughed, flipping both of you so your back hit the door. "No promises."

His mouth found yours, tasting the champagne and victory. Somewhere outside, the team cheered for their golden boy's victory.

© DREAMYDRIFTS — do not translate, plagiarise or claim any of my works as your own.

[resident-idiot-simp]

Origins A/B/O

Logan was an Omega and everyone on the team are weird about it.

Wade however desides this is going to be his Omega. Everyone else is low key trying to do the same but Wade is determined and possessive

Wade is trying to prove he'd be a great alpha but not in an incredibly pushy way just being there and helping when he can.

Logan appreciates it because he's so used to everyone all but forcing themselves into his space.

Wade however Is the constant reliable presence and fuck off Logan doesn't start getting attached.

He also runs interference when when the others start getting too pushy. He's told Logan before that he knows he can take care of himself. He however shouldn't have to do it all the time.

Logan didn't think he'd find that as comforting as he did.

Logan doesn't realize as they get closer and closer and definitely doesn't realize himself starting to accept Wade as his alpha.

Logan doesn't realize he starts to gravitate to Wade either. He's drawn to him like a moth to flame. Wade realizes however he sees it and can't help but smile so glad this perfect Omega has chosen him.

Only when Logan ticks over into preheat does does he actually accept more physical touch. Half the reason is because he doesn't want anyone else doing it.

They want to he knows they dothey look at him like they're starving. Wade however is enough to ward them off if Wade is at least touching him.

He knows it's kinda pathetic but he's started for this kind of physical attention and being an omega only makes it worse. The need for touch is so prevalent so necessary that being without it is near painful.

Wade Is all too happy to give him whatever he wants though.

Logan is soaking in the physical contact and as his heat grows closer do does his need for physical contact. It doesn't take long for Logan to be attacked to Wade at all times.

Sitting at camp? Logan is making himself conferrable in the others lap.

Sleeping? Logan has already made himself a place for them to curl together.

Wade is just as happy as can be about it. Praising him and saying what a good and perfect Omega he is. Logan soaks in the praise like a sponge.

He's never been treated this well by an alpha before and he's loving every minute of it.

Finally one night Logan wakes up in a sweat heat seeping from him in waves his body burning. Wade wakes up to his whining and writhing.

Logan doesn't remember much of his heat besides mind numbing pleasure and Wadewadewade.

He comes out of the heat with a mating bite and an excitable Alpha. Over all a good deal.

[annabelle--cane]

I don't really know what this bit is trying to do but they spend a while in the last act of s5 setting up this weird little miscommunication about helen between jon and melanie. in mag 190, when melanie and martin are talking, she brings up of her own accord that helen has turned dangerous and she feels like a fool for having liked her, and martin tells her jon killed helen as a type of reassurance. this conferral of information clearly does not get passed to jon, because when he meets up with basira in mag 195 and tells her that he killed helen, she says that melanie will probably take it badly when she finds out because the two of them were pretty close a while back. finally, in mag 199, melanie says that jon should be capable of killing elias "like he did to helen," and jon clearly starts to respond as though that were some passive snipe that he needs to apologize for before the conversation moves on.

like. what purpose do you think this is trying to serve? the effect is that jon believes, with fairly good reason, that melanie thinks worse of him than she actually does, but I can't place a finger of why. I'm having difficulty scruting it, as it were. thoughts?

[witchpassing]

I offer for for consideration a doll bound not to a typical mistress, but to an estate, itself. Tasked with maintaining and repairing a grand manor by a power no lesser or greater than the aging collective of walls and floorboards that keep her eternally safe. Quiet conferral with the aging wood and porcelain in an eternal dance of keeping eachother in as pristine shape as can be. The perfect symbiosis. Does this spark joy?

.

[visd3stele]

Theo Raeken cannot remember the last time he had a dream. Not a weird, vivid, life behind his eyelids as he sleeps, though with how many nightmares he had lately – in the past decade – a nice dream would be a nice change.

No, Theo doesn't know if he ever had a dream.

Liam, Mason, Alec and Corey were talking loudly about it in the Dunbar-Geyer's basement as the puppy pack gathered together to play videogames. The werewolf was picturing a crazy tableu of travelling from site to site, dodging ancient curses and creatures awakened by archeological digging – "It's completely believeable, ok? After everything we've been theough you can'r draw the line at Indiana Jones being right about some stuff, Mase!" – while the human argued towards a more realistic life. He himself, Theo learned, would preffer an academic carrier. Perhaps mythological research, though physics was his first choice before all the hell broke loose in Beacon Hills.

Corey took the longest to reply, pondering the question over and coming up empty handed. He's never done well in school and his parents' job was so taxing, made him feel so unimportant and unseen, that Corey declared lawyer the worst path flr his future. He proudly announced he'd like some peace and quite. "Perhaps a nature photographer?" He sounded unsure, but even as he said it and the dream barely took shape, a smile stretches from ear to ear on the chameleon's face.

Alec had plenty to choose from. And luckily for him, plenty of time too. "An astronaut," he dropped, seriously. "Or, one of those people that swim with sharks and flip the over to redirect them," he supplied excitedly. "Or, or, no! I know! A superhero!"

At the quizicle looks he received, the younges of the pack bristled. "What? It's not like it's impossible! I have super strength, super speed, super senses. I could totally fight crime and help people."

"You could also go into law enforcement like a normal person," deadpanned Mason.

"Yeah," Corey added. "It's easier. And I'm sure the Sheriff would help pull some strings for you."

"Pfft! If not the Sheriff, then Scott's dad deffinitely would. Guy's trying so hard to get into his son's good graces..." Liam scoffed, though a hint of bitter jealousy sneaked in his voice. Brushing it off as quick as it came, the beta decided that was the perfect timing to involve Theo into their heated conversation.

"What about you, Theo? You're oddly quite."

The chimera smirked and if his heart skipped a beat at the sudden inclusion – or rather at the subject at hand – he didn't let notice of it. "What's with the smooth speech, Li? Practising for that archeological conferrences you'll held?"

"Haha," Liam dedpanned. "I can say "oddly", it's not weird. I use fancy words all the time."

"If you think "oddly" is a fancy word, then no, you're not."

Liam lounged towards the annoying chimera, landing a punch in his bicep and climbing on the taller boy's back to hook his arm playfully around his neck.

"Take that back, Raeken! Admit it, I'm smart and smooth and fancy. Say it!"

Theo shook with laughter. He still could remember a time when such a touch would sent him spiraling, have his more animalistic instincts deal with the danger. But now? Now Theo was at ease. He rolled over, trapping Liam under his body and pressing down his neck, with not enough force to harm, not even enough force to bruise a normal, unsupernatural, person.

"You were saying?" He drawled, smirk growing when Liam batted at his arm.

"Let go! Get off me, you big brute."

"Whatever you say, Indiana Jones."

Theo took back his spot on the couch, as Liam fought his hair back into some semblance of arranged.

"But seriously now. What do you want to do after highschool, dude?"

"I- don't know," Theo reluctantly admits. "I guess I never though about it. It was something quite... iconsequencial, I guess."

It happened every now and then. Theo would use a word from the Dread Doctors' vocabulary so nonchalantly, so naturally, as if it was his own pattern of speech. At first, the pack thought it is just his way of talking. Years with pseudoscientists ought to change a person's... everything. But then it became clear it wasn't the case. Theo has his own speech, his own personality, tainted, but not changed, but them. He only ever used their words when they stole something from him and he had no other way of expressing it.

And this time? They stole his dream.

"Well, it is consequencial now." Liam argued, making a face as he struggled to sound out the weird word.

"Yeah, dude, they can't control you anymore," Mason supplied. "There's gotta be something you want to do with your life."

"Maybe you don't even know it yet. Like painting! Maybe you could be a painter," suggested Corey, when it was clear Theo fell into his thoughts. They tried to keep that from happening too often. When Theo fell into his thoughts, he could stay silent, debating his own mind, for days on no end. It was eerie and creepy and devastatingly sad to witness.

"Oh, I know!" Alec announced. "You like biology. And you're, like, a bilogy supernerd. Why not something in that fiel-auch!" The youngest werewolf drew his hand to where Liam hit him over the head.

"Shut up," the older werewolf hissed.

When Alec tried to protest, Corey touched his wrist gently. "Read the room," he whispered and Alec's eyes widened in horror.

"Oh, my God, Theo! I'm so sorry. I wasn't thinking..."

Liam shot him another murdereous look, but to their surprise, Theo shook his head, fully present. "No, it's ok. You're not wrong. I am good at biology. And chemistry. Maybe I could be a doctor." He shurgged.

The room fell silent, the three other boys drawing in a breath at the same time and deciding – at the same time – to never release it again.

"Theo? Are you sure? There are a million things you could do with your future."

"Yeah, man. A lot more that you don't even know about yet. Things you could be good at. Even better than bio."

Wheels spinned in Theo's mind, making up a world from all the thoughts and questions and answers forming in his head.

"No, think about it," he insisted. "I could," he licked his lips nervously. He almost backed down, closing in on himself, drawing away from everyone present, but Corey was the first to react. He gripped his shoulder and squeezed reassuringly. Liam threw an arm over his free shoulder and Mason placed his hand over his boyfriend's. Alec jumped from his place on the carpet in front of the TV and engulfed Theo in a hug, hooking his legs over the first chimera's torso and his arms dangling over his neck.

"Yes...?" Liam asked, gently, at the same time Alec demanded impatiently "Go on, Theo!"

"I could use all this information, all this things I had forced upon me, inside me, for good. Take the evil of the Doctors and make it mean something else. Save lives," Theo was on a roll now, letting free every thought, even the small, unfinished ones, encourraged as he was by the pack, his pack.

"Maybe I could open some sort of hospital wing for the supernaturals. It can have staff trained specifically for our biology and maybe some training facilities for newbies..."

Theo's voice trailed off. As the night grew older, the dark sky fading off to sunlight, the five boys' voices muddled and muffled together, each more hopeful then the former, spinning tales of bright futures.

And so, a dream was born in the wake of nightmares. And so, Theo's dream took the place of his nightmares at the forefront of his mind, lulling him to peacefull sleep every night.

@spillthebea voila! my apology fic. did it work? if not i have one with actual (happy) tears at ready.

[isfjmel-phleg]

For the YJ (and adjacent) kids, there are four ways that you can acquire a codename:

Taking a predecessor's codename on by choice: Tim and Cassie both step up to take on a role that has previously existed but is currently unfilled. But it's not as simple as declaring oneself the new Robin/Wonder Girl. It requires the mentor's blessing as well as that of the predecessor to be official, along with a ceremonious conferral of a costume. This is always something to be proud of, and although taking on a previously used codename comes with its share of pressures and insecurities, Tim and Cassie consistently see their roles as a honor and privilege.

Having a predecessor's codename conferred on you: Kon, Cissie, and Ray all inherit their codenames from someone, usually a parental or authority figure, who has assigned them that role, and for all of them, these names are, at least initially unwelcome. Kon was created to be a new Superman but after Clark's return is given permission to call himself Superboy. He at first sees his codename as an insult but comes to accept it as something that he has earned and can make his own. Cissie has been raised to take up her mother's mantle and instructed to emphasize to the media that she is "the new Arrowette," but she ultimately rejects the name her mother has forced on her and never returns to it. Ray is expected to take on his father's codename; there's never any question of calling himself anything else. But he actively dislikes being called "the Ray" and prefers to drop the article so that the codename is identical to his given name.

Choosing your own codename: Bart, Greta, Slo-bo, and Grant either have no connection to a legacy or prefer to distance themselves from a predecessor and thus get to choose their own codenames. These chosen codenames are indicative of how they see themselves and often suggested by something that somebody said about them. Bart openly rejects the opportunity to be Kid Flash and names himself Impulse based on a disparging comment of Wally's (the name will later be attributed for Batman, for some reason). Greta calls herself Secret because that's what she is when Tim, Kon, and Bart fake her death to free her and tell no one. Slo-bo feels like an unworthy successor to Lobo and accepts a more humble version of the name after mishearing something Greta says. Grant decides to call himself Damage because "what I do is who I am"--a reflection of his poor self-esteem.

Using a preexisting name given by someone else as your codename: Anita goes by Empress because it was her childhood nickname, given by her late mother, and it's a way to honor her mother's memory while maintaining a unique identity.

By contrast, the kids created to be villains don't even get the option to name themselves. Match and Inertia seem to have been assigned their codenames: Match because he was made to match (and surpass) Kon, Inertia as an opposite to Impulse (resistance to change vs. a motivating force). Match doesn't even have a personal name, and Thad's personal name is identical to his creator's. Individuality is not an option.

[talonabraxas]

Surya "Aditya" Talon Abraxas Surya is known by many alternative names and epithets which include Vivasvat (Brilliant), Savitr (the Nourisher), Bhaskara (Light-maker), Dinakara (Day-maker), Lokacaksuh (Eye of the World), Graharaja (King of the Constellations), and Sahasra-kirana (Of a 1,000 rays). Vishnu, who later largely replaces Surya's function in the Hindu pantheon, is referred to as Surya-Narayana in his incarnation as the sun. Surya Mantra

“Om Mitraya Namaha,Om Ravaye Namah Om Suryaya Namaha, OmBhanave Namaha Om Punshne Namaha, OmHiranya Garbhaya Namaha Om Marichaye Namaha,Om Adityaya Namaha Om Savitre Namaha, OmArkaya Namaha Om Bhaskaraya Namaha”

This mantra signifies that I am saluting the friend of everyone, the radiant one, the cause of human existence, the one who illuminates the earth, the one who travels swiftly across the sky, the one who nourishes the world, the lord of dawn, the son of Aditi (cosmic mother), lord of creation, the conferrer of wisdom.

Surya Beej Mantra

Powerful Beej Mantra of Lord Surya gives positive vibrations and grace from the Lord Sun.

“Om Hraam Hreem HraumSah Suryay Namah”

Meaning: ‘I salute the Great Sun God for his Divine grace.’

Benefit: The Surya Beej mantra has the magnificent power to create a life of abundance & fame with prosperity & austerity and also has the healing powers to remove diseases and negative impacts of any nature.

Surya Gayatri Mantra

Best time to chant this most powerful Surya mantra is during eclipse of the sun and Sunday mornings at sunrise.

“Om Bhaskaray Vidmahe Martanday Dheemahi Tanah Surya Prachodayat”

Meaning: ‘Om, Let me meditate on the Sun God, Oh, maker of the day, give me higher intellect, And let Sun God illuminate my mind.’

Benefit: This liberating mantra when chanted every day with full concentration in praise of the Sun God, produces positive energy and divine blessings from the Sun God.

[endlessandrea]

"There’s a thin line, I think, now, between adding to the general intellectual milieu of a show or of an event and being what Stefano sometimes calls a ‘content provider,’ where you are literally being, in a sort of sense, a set of ideas are being extracted from you in order to provide a kind of intellectual content maybe that the show would not or the art would not nearly have. And that’s an uncomfortable feeling. I can’t say that I’ve felt it a lot, but sometimes I’ve felt it and I don’t like it and I think it’s really problematic.

There’s a thin line between the providing of intellectual content and the conferral of a certain kind of monetary value. Somehow, you’re being asked to legitimize the artwork on a marketplace, and that I have no interest in doing whatsoever. I don’t begrudge artists their right to sell their work, but that’s just not my job, you know?

When I write about art, what I like to believe is that I’m involved in a collaborative process with the artist, even if I don’t necessarily talk to the artist. I’d like to think that I’m trying to think along with the artist and make something with the artist."

[30-th-century-man]

theyre googling rtvs bits sweating screaming pacing around big nasa conferrence room goingf What are we missing what are we missing..

[reverieblondie]

Okay, but have you considered how hot it would be for Raphael to use his claws to "undress" Tav? Or him dragging those claws all over Tav's body?

Oh Anon, How did you know I'm going through a Raphael phase?

I have a feeling that most of Tavs dresses are being ripped off them on a pretty consent basis. Raphael can't help himself, when he sees them there standing in his office he just needs to see them in all their bare perfection...

Most the time he does it casually, slipping behind you, his hands tracing up your back then right as he gets to the hem...His voice whispers in your ear, "Let me...help you relax...get more conferrable..." Then down comes the claw, and now here you stand bare and ready for him to devore, but not before some agonizing teasing. His hands laying you down against the silk sheets, your legs being hooked over hid shoulders as he recites erotic poetry, then is claws hooking under your underwear and with effortless motion slicing them off. To reveal your sex swollen and dripping with need. With a wicked smirk he slips his fingers through your tight entrance, watching as you sex practical throbs more more that his eager mouth can't wait to suck. Best prepare to be there for hours, Raphael is selfish and he wants to drink from you till there is nothing left to give.

Other times he's ravenous, he can't control himself from ripping the clothes from your body and taking you as roughly as he desires. Raphael's tongue licking long stripes on your sex, taking deep whiffs of your scent that just makes him want to devoir you whole. Though for now he settles on marking your with quick bites and sucking bruises. Though his favorite way to do so is to leave long dark marks on your body, that makes some of them start to bleed... Then that spurs him on more, the sight of your beautiful blood running down your smooth skin. He wishes he could paint his name with in on your body, a constant reminder of who you belong to...who loves you...and who would do anything for...

[yatagarasuhonyaku]

The Raven of the Empty Coffin: Chapter 1 "Shigemaru" Part 2

Disclaimer: This is a fan-translation japanese-english of the original novel. The events of this novel follow after what's already covered by the anime. For an easier understanding, I recommend first reading the few scenes of previous books I've already translated.

Blog version

For the Index, you can find it HERE

Previously: Shigemaru (Part 1)

⊛　　　　　⊛　　　　　 ⊛

Chapter 1: Shigemaru (Part 2)

“Hey, wake up you idiot! The bell rang a long time ago!”

The next morning, Ichiryuu’s angry yelling shook Shigemaru back to the waking world. Ichiryuu had even taken his futon away. Shigemaru blinked, dazzled by the sudden brightness.

“Good morning……”

“You have some guts to loaf around when your seniors are already up and about, you hopeless baby! Get yourself ready, we have to go to breakfast.” 

Ichiryuu had the distinctive look of someone who was enjoying himself a lot. His speech now over, he promptly left the room. Shigemaru rubbed his eyes, taking in his surroundings. The futon beside his own was already folded and Yukiya, who had ditched the nightwear for his feather robe, was sitting all proper at his bedside.

“Good morning, Shige.”

“Ah, good morning. You sure are an early bird.”

“No, just a very light sleeper, that's all. The morning bell woke me up instantly,” Yukiya laughed and offered him a wet towel to clean his face. “Apparently, breakfast today will be earlier than normal because of the entrance ceremony. We better hurry.”

“Oh, yes! Let's go.”

They all went and had their breakfast. Afterwards, the seniors, including Ichiryuu, left the Seeds behind in the dining hall. They had been instructed to remain there, standing in a line according to their height.

It took a while, but finally an administrative officer walked into the hall at a brisk pace. “The preparations are done. Stay in line and follow me, no dillydallying and no talking!”

The man first stood in front of them, and then started to walk out of the room. Following the instruction, Yukiya, who was first, immediately followed him with the rest of the trainees right behind. The administrative officer guided them towards the massive hall Ichiryuu had shown them the day before.

At last, it was time for their entrance ceremony.

The Saplings and Evergreens were already there, standing in rows at both sides of the room—leaving enough space for the Seeds in the middle. A group of older men, most likely their instructors, also waited in a line close to the seat of honor by the altar. Every single person in the room was dressed in strikingly similar feather robes. A true sea of black, the monotony only broken by the many colors of the instructors’ sashes. 

The ceremony started with a salute to Yamagami's altar. The seniors quickly bowed on command, followed by the newcomers’ panicked attempt at imitating them. In comparison to the former’s perfect synchronization, clearly borne of habit, the latter were in complete disarray.

Once that was done, one of the instructors finally welcomed them to the Unbending Reed Monastery, the purported main purpose of the event. It didn’t last long, however, as his speech soon moved on to a variety of general advice, rules and warnings on the lifestyle of the Monastery instead.

Shigemaru, who was the tallest among the Seeds and hence the last in line, had a privileged view of the room during the whole affair. He caught sight of some of his fellow newcomers fidgeting in place as the speech went on, completely distracted. He also noticed that none of the seniors even budged. They stood firm, their backs straightened, resolute and unwavering.

The difference between the seniors and the Seeds was clear as day. Would he too be the same a year later? As Shigemaru was entertaining that thought, however, the instructor’s speech finally came to an end.

Next in the schedule was the symbolic conferral of their ornamented blades. For this particular occasion, a different man came to the front. He looked to be in his late sixties, his black hair covered in white strands—Shoukaku, the director and leader of the Monastery's instructors. The man had woven his feather robe in the shape of priest vestments, and resting on top of it was a deep purple sash, covered in golden embroidery. One could hardly define him as physically fit, but the wisdom in his stern-looking eyes was clearly visible.

The chosen representative for the first years was Akeru, the Western House boy who had gone after Yukiya during introductions last night. He personally received his ornamented blade from the director, brimming with confidence and self-assurance. With that attitude, it was hard for Shigemaru to believe the boy was actually younger than him.

Once Akeru had finally returned to his original spot, the director started to speak. “To our newcomers, I first want to express my gratitude for choosing the Unbending Reed Monastery. Congratulations and thank you.” Unlike Shigemaru expected, the director's speech had quite the conservative start.

“We all welcome you.” He had a beautiful voice, firm and deep, especially so for his age. As he spoke, the unfocused eyes of the distracted Seeds started to gather back at him.

“There were many candidates this year. You succeeded in the trials and managed to be selected among them all—your talent is beyond question. You are this institution’s hope, the ones that will shape its future. Keep in mind that the Monastery operates on two fundamental principles—that of complete autonomy, and that might makes right,” the director proclaimed to them.

“We shall not be bound by external powers and, as long as you have the talent and skill required, nothing shall limit you. We have sworn our loyalty only towards the Imperial Family and the Golden Raven, and nobody else,” he continued quietly.

“Yamauchi is about to face unprecedented peril,” the director stopped talking for a moment, his gaze going over the entire hall. “You'll most likely face battle to defend the Imperial Family, and Yamauchi with it, more than any of your predecessors. Be ready, as you'll be risking your lives to protect everything. As this Monastery’s trainees, I expect you to work hard so as to not embarrass our institution.” That sentence marked the end of the speech, a surprisingly short affair. Afterwards, the director returned to his original spot and, inwardly, Shigemaru sighed in relief. 

The rest of the ceremony went on in a similar solemn manner. When only the closing speech remained, however, a ruckus started right outside of the hall.

“Director, Your Excellency, we have a problem—” An administrative officer frantically came running in. Shigemaru couldn’t tell what he told the instructors, but they were clearly panicking as they started to move.

“Open the way!”

Following the instructors’ orders, the confused newcomers abandoned the center of the room. Who were they opening the space for, nobody told them. Fortunately, the mystery didn’t last long. A colorful group of people walked through the doors a short while later. 

The entire hall was shaken at the sight.

“Lord Natsuka……!” Among a multitude of whispers, one stunned voice stood out. Natsuka—in other words, the man who gave up his position as Crown Prince to his younger brother. His Lordship, the eldest son of the Imperial Family!

Shigemaru turned around. The first person who stuck out to him was a man of truly abnormal appearance. He was massive—Shigemaru was already a large man, yet even he was dwarfed by the man’s stature. His huge bulging muscles were visible even with his feather robe on, which was fashioned after high-class traveling robes, even if he wore no crown(1) to go with it.

He had haphazardly tied his hair back, which made it look like a tanuki's tail in the middle of winter, and sharp canines which peeked through his smiling lips. His nose was hooked and his eyes had a spark to them. It was truly a striking gaze.

——He didn't look like royalty.

As he realized that, Shigemaru noticed another young man walking right behind, as if protected by the one in front. Anyone could feel the characteristic aura of the Center's aristocracy from him. He was attractive and quite tall, although not as much as the man walking in front of him.

His long hair was cut evenly, untied as it fell down his back. For dress, he wore a monk's stole in lavish gold over his purple priestly robes. His features were elegant, yet stern and chiseled in the way you would expect of a warrior. From their respective clothes, one could surmise that the one in the back was none other than Lord Natsuka, and the man in front was simply a bodyguard.

Immediately, the director came up to the middle of the hall to greet them, accompanied by the rest of the instructors. “Lord Natsuka, we heard it would be impossible for you to visit this year.”

“We took care of things as quickly as possible to come here,” the bodyguard in front spoke with a grin. “Rejoice, director. He comes to represent His Highness Wakamiya.”

“That's enough. Stand back, Rokon.” Natsuka moved to stand in front of the director, as if pushing his bodyguard—the man named Rokon—aside. “To tell the truth, His Highness Wakamiya planned to come personally at first. His Highness had to take care of some matters at the Imperial Court, however, so I was entrusted with this task in exchange. Do please forgive me for the sudden intrusion.”

Natsuka spoke with a composure unusual for his age. Faced with the imperial prince's apology, the director gently shook his head. “Do not worry yourself. We members of the Monastery, including the Yamauchi Guard, belong to everyone in the Imperial Family. It is our utmost honor to welcome you, thank you for coming all the way here. Now, if you may follow me.”

The director guided Natsuka to the seat right in front of the altar, which was reserved for the exclusive use of the imperial family. Yet, Natsuka made no attempt to sit in it and instead turned to look at the trainees. Rokon naturally walked after him, followed by his subordinates, taking his place right behind Natsuka.

Natsuka’s eyes passed over the entire room, as if studying the trainees, and he started to speak. The instructors didn’t even get the chance to formally introduce him.

“First of all, I wish to congratulate the new Seeds on their admission. It’s a joy and honor to meet you all here today,” Natsuka declared in a clear voice. “The bond between the Monastery and the Imperial Family has grown weaker in recent years. Which, I feel, is a terribly unfortunate situation for both sides. Although it was impossible on this particular occasion, it’s His Highness' wish as well to come visit the Monastery whenever the opportunity presents itself in the future.”

Natsuka continued to speak, his expression unflinching. “Times are changing, and the harm the Monkeys bring cannot be ignored. All of us, the Imperial Family, the Monastery and the Guard, cannot stay the same as we have been until now. You all must adapt and act according to the times. This applies not only for the new arrivals, but all trainees gathered here today.”

He frowned as he kept a watchful eye on them. “Both you and I are in the same position. It’s our duty to become the Golden Raven's swords and shields. We shall protect our Master and keep peace in Yamauchi by doing so. No swords shall be entrusted to those who feel no pride in this duty. As part of the Monastery, I expect you to stand as the Golden Raven’s most loyal followers.”

“Salute!” a thundering voice shook the room.

“Yes!” The trainees moved in an instant, saluting in answer. Their hands overlapped under their chest, their palms raised upwards. The pose was supposed to represent the act of lifting up their bird form's third leg in offering.

Natsuka watched as all the trainees in the hall dedicated their invisible third legs to him and finally nodded, satisfied. After the closing speech that followed his own, his group left the hall with the director at their side.

“Lord Natsuka truly seems to get along with His Highness,” Shigemaru commented.

With the entrance ceremony over, the Seeds all went back to the dining hall to wait for instructions on their following classes. There, Shigemaru finally got his chance to approach Yukiya, who had been at the very front of the line, again.

“Yes! He can be a tad overprotective, but there’s no doubt that Lord Natsuka is His Highness’ biggest supporter.”

“You know, that was my first time meeting someone from the Imperial Family, and… How should I put it? He was so… dignified, I guess? His self-importance was on another level.”

They were talking and enjoying themselves when Shigemaru caught sight of someone’s figure by the door. Before he even got a chance to determine who it was, he heard the man deeply inhale.

“I see. You dipshits don't realize you're already Monastery trainees, huh!?” The man's shout was so loud the hall’s pillars trembled.

Silence filled the room. The startled Seeds stopped chatting immediately, yet it was too late—their instructor, followed by a group of assistants, had already entered the dining hall. 

The man’s yelling didn’t stop at that, blue veins bulging in his forehead. “Look at you, twittering your lives away! Don't get cocky, you brats! You're no more than nestlings, incapable of anything but chirping, waiting and pleading for someone to put some food in those open mouths of yours!”

For a warrior, the man yelling at them was fairly short, yet the muscles in his arrogantly crossed arms were huge enough to make one doubt their eyes. Shigemaru felt himself shudder, thinking of what would happen to him if the instructor were to punch him.

The instructor looked only a little younger than the director, but they couldn’t be any less alike. The director looked stern, but had an air of thoughtfulness that only came with age. The man in front of them, on the other hand—with his sunken, round eyes and his upturned nose—was the very picture of a frightening outlaw. His skin was like well-worn leather, and not a single strand of hair was left on his shining head.

“What are you doing, sitting in front of an instructor!? Stand up!”

Following his orders, the so-called nestlings stood up all flustered. Reprimands kept on coming from all directions as they did it. ‘Too slow’, ‘stop dillydallying’. It seemed to never end. At some point during this entire process, more than four assistant instructors had moved to surround them. The men frowned at the trainees, scrutinizing their every move.

“I'll be in charge of all your practical courses. I'm Instructor Kashin,” the man introduced himself as he walked in front of them, a consistent downwards glare on his face. “You truly are like a bunch of nestlings, eggshells still stuck on your asses. I get headaches just from looking at you, but this is, alas, my duty. I’ll answer to your ceaseless tweeting, and stuff enough food into those constantly open beaks of yours till your bellies explode.”

“So,” Kashin kept explaining as he turned around, “you better pay attention before it comes to that. Take the knowledge of how to hunt and fly on your own from those who feed you. If you bother to close your beaks and savor the food we give you, you'll eventually get the strength to actually fly before you burst open.”

Kashin stopped all of a sudden, face-to-face with the closest trainee. “Hey, you.”

“Y-Yes!”

“Tell me, what are the basic skills required of the Yamauchi Guard?”

“Huh?”

“The Monastery's entrance exams are categorized according to them. Go on, tell me.”

The trainee in question could only tremble uncontrollably, incapable of answering.

“Too slow! If you don't know, just say so!”

“I-I don't know!”

“Then better learn from this. Next!”

The next trainee, standing right beside the other, floundered as he attempted to answer. “Swordsmanship, archery and… horsemanship……?”

“That's all?”

“That's… all I know.”

“What are you, a chicken!? Incapable of remembering even what you have done?”

“I'm sorry!”

“Don't apologize so easily! Hold your head high, even if it's just for show. Don't ever give others such a blatant opening to attack you, make them work for it. Next!”

“The skills required of a member of the Yamauchi Guard are what we call the Six Arts, Four Techniques and Two Studies(2),” the trainee answered calmly.

For once, Kashin didn't scream as he looked back at the boy. “And that means?”

“The Six Arts refer to the following: Etiquette, Poetry and Music, Archery, Riding, Writing, and Accounting. The Four Techniques are composed of Strategy, Swordsmanship, Martial Arts, and General Combat. Lastly, the Two Studies are Medicine and Law.”

It was such a smooth answer that the others gasped in admiration. The third trainee Kashin had singled out was none other than a beautiful-looking redhead—Akeru of the Western House. Kashin gave him a good, hard look, yet the boy’s gaze remained fixed in front of him.

Finally, the instructor nodded. “Correct. Just as he said, we refer to a Guard's skillset as the Six Arts, Four Techniques and Two Studies.”

The Yamauchi Guard had the authority to act as legitimate Court Officials in cases of emergency. The Six Arts were considered to be essential in order to properly exercise such a right. They were divided into five different courses: ‘Etiquette and Poetry’, ‘Archery’, ‘Horsemanship’, ‘Writing’, and ‘Accounting’.

Then, there were the Four Techniques. ‘Strategy’, to learn to lead troops; ‘Swordsmanship’, to perfect their skill with a blade; ‘Martial Arts’, to master the ways of fighting unarmed; and lastly ‘General Combat’, which covered any other weapons such as spears and throwing knives.

Finally, the Two Studies. ‘Medicine’, to be capable of mending one’s wounds if necessary; and ‘Law’, to understand the Court's regulations and the extent of the Guard's area of action and any associated limits. In total, the Monastery had eleven subjects, and the further their studies progressed, the more their lessons focused on practice and less on theory.

“Five of them are labeled as practical courses: Archery, Horsemanship, Swordsmanship, Martial Arts, and General Combat. Once you become Saplings and Evergreens, Strategy will also be included in this category as you start with mock battles.”

In other words, out of the existing eleven subjects, Kashin was responsible for a total of five—almost half of them. “I won't be nice to you. Don’t expect me to hold back. If you want to leave, please do so. If you want to run, feel free. The Unbending Reed Monastery isn't so lenient a place as to stop those who have no will to keep going,” Kashin suddenly said in a low voice. The boy in front of Shigemaru gulped.

“Now, to continue, I'll give you all your ornamented blades. When I call your name, speak up and come to the front.”

Immediately, the Seeds saluted and, one by one, went on to receive their own blades. Shigemaru couldn’t help but to wonder just how many people had owned them before. The cord of the ornamented blade they gave him was new, of that there was no doubt, but he could see small scratches all over the rest of it.

Once all trainees had received their blade, Kashin called one of his assistants to the front. “From here on, coming to lessons in whatever feather robe you prefer is forbidden. Look at what he's wearing and weave an identical one. Right now.”

The assistant instructor stood in front of the trainees, following Kashin's orders, and he extended his arms to make the robe easier for them to see. Then, he slowly spun around just once to show them the details. The look was completely different from what the instructors had worn at the ceremony, or the feather robes Natsuka's bodyguards wove for themselves.

Instead of the usual kimono sleeves, these were shaped like a tube, getting narrower from the elbow downwards. Below the knees, the hakama was melded with the gaiters and tabi with no opening whatsoever. A band of wrapped fabric with a pouch(3) covered the body from chest to thighs and was held up by an obi belt. At first glance, it made the outfit have some undeniable resemblance to the garments worn by court officials and high nobility. 

Shigemaru wove his own to match the example as closely as possible, yet one of the assistant instructors, who was walking among the trainees watching for any mistakes, still gave him a warning.

“Don’t just imitate the shape. Make the fabric on the shoulders and elbows thicker and fit it as closely to your own body as possible. At the very least, it must be more or less as thick as the soles under your feet.”

“Thicker…?”

“It’s to protect the joints. It will help absorb the impact when you get hit, so make sure to make it again and overlap several layers.”

Oh, so that was why. Shigemaru was weaving his feather robe anew when Kashin, who was also walking among the trainees, started to explain. “The uniform’s shape is designed to be as minimalistic as possible so it won’t impede your movement on the battlefield. It will help protect your vital organs, I can guarantee its functionality. On top of that, as long as you weave it properly, it will ensure that any hick of a raven looks decent, proper even. It's a garment fit even for attending official ceremonies and rituals.”

Once most of the trainees had finished fixing their feather robes, Kashin insisted once more that, as trainees, they had to wear these at all times. “Now, we'll see how to strap on your ornamented blades.”

A warrior had to be capable of transforming and taking on the role of a horse in case of an emergency. In order to not drop their weapons and to not impede their own shapeshifting in the process, they had to tie their swords in a very specific way.

“You'll learn more about this during your ‘Horsemanship’ lessons but, if you know how to tie the straps properly, your katana or tachi can even become replacement stirrups and bit. However, if any of you just tie it down haphazardly and end up incapable of using it in times of need, I'll come find you personally and use my sword to turn you into dirt.”

How one could turn the ornamented blade into stirrups and bit was a mystery to Shigemaru, but he made an effort to tie it on his hip exactly as instructed all the same. By the time the assistants had given them all their approval once again, they had finally morphed into proper-looking Monastery trainees.

By the time it was all over, the sun was still high in the sky and so the instructors brought the Seeds out to the plaza in front of the great hall. Finally, the training was about to actually start—or so Shigemaru thought. Reality proved to be a whole different story.

The rest of their day was spent on two orders only, delivered by Kashin time and time again: ‘group up’ and ‘line up’.

The newcomers, wholly uncoordinated with each other, kept on moving as instructed. They lined up and then dispersed, changed places and grouped once more; then lined up just to disperse again—the same actions on repeat, over and over again, until the sun finally set.

“That's all for today!” Kashin said by the time dinner preparations were about to start.

By that point, the Seeds were completely exhausted not physically, but mentally. “What was that…?”

“Why do that? What's even the point?”

Everyone was complaining after spending their entire day repeating the same two things. It was beyond boring and, to their displeasure, it proved to not be limited to their first day either. It was all they did past afternoon the following day and the day after that as their instructors hammered in the technique behind moving efficiently as a group. They saw no other form of training until one single command was enough to make their bodies move on reflex.

The simplistic and apparently unending training drills were still ongoing by the time theory lessons started and, as far as Shigemaru was concerned, those were a much bigger problem.

The morning courses consisted of six subjects: Etiquette and Poetry, Writing, Accounting, Strategy, Medicine, and Law. Shigemaru didn’t have many chances to even read back at home, so every single one of them was nothing more than gibberish to him and, to make matters worse, the amount of homework was beyond staggering.

He returned to his room as soon as he was done with dinner and his bath, even skipping sleep to dedicate himself to it, and he was still incapable of finishing it all. Shigemaru wasn't the only one struggling either—most of his fellow commoners seemed to be having the exact same problem as him. 

From the second day onwards, Yukiya started helping him out and, as soon as the rest of the commoner trainees got wind of that, they too put their shame aside and came to ask for help. Yukiya gladly welcomed them and actually did his best to teach them all. However, they found a massive hurdle in their way.

——Yukiya was, in fact, utterly hopeless as a teacher.

“To think I would have to face my own inadequacy like this!” ‘Don't worry, it'll be easy’, he had once said, yet all that initial self-confidence was now long gone. Confronted by his own inability to translate thoughts into words, Yukiya held his head in despair.

“It's fine, Yukiya, it's really fine. We know you're trying your best to teach us…” The trainees gathered in the tenth room cried, well aware of the scolding that awaited them the following day. Meanwhile, a pained Yukiya could only watch over the scene powerlessly.

“It is not fine!” he insisted.

In the end, Yukiya let them copy his own homework.

Theory lessons were Shigemaru's natural enemy, yet there was one specific subject that stood out among them all—‘Etiquette and Poetry’. Their first class was the day immediately after the entrance ceremony and doubled as their first theory session. Once they were finished cleaning up their breakfast trays as they usually did, the trainees went on to distribute the long desks resting in a corner of the room throughout the dining hall and sat there, waiting with frayed nerves, for the instructor to arrive.

“Good morning, everyone. I hope you had a good rest last night,” their new instructor greeted them with a smile as he arrived.

His appearance was unlike anything one would expect from a Monastery instructor. He seemed to be past his forties and his silky-looking hair was loosely gathered and tied down. His gentle face was decorated with laugh lines and his feather robe was woven for comfort, its fit good but loose. All in all, he gave off the impression of a young retiree who had since lived a good, sequestered life. Unlike your average retiree, however, his right arm was nowhere to be seen.

——Their Etiquette instructor was an amputee, one noticeably younger than he looked.

“My name is Seiken. I'll be in charge of your ‘Etiquette and Poetry’ classes for this year. Don’t hesitate to ask me if you have any questions or requests about anything concerning your studies. We'll be spending a lot of time together, so it’s in our best interest to make it as productive as possible.”

After Kashin, with his intimidating appearance and the entire evening he had spent screaming at them, the Seeds found Seiken’s smile anticlimactic and, while most of them were simply perplexed, others had obviously started to look down on their apparently humble instructor.

“Instructor,” a boy quickly raised his hand. He had been among those complaining about the amount of theory they had to study before the class had even started.

“Yes?” Seiken turned towards him, a smile on his face.

The trainee promptly asked. “I don’t understand. Why do we have to learn something like ‘Etiquette and Poetry’ in a place like the Monastery?”

“Oh, now that's a problem,” Seiken muttered with a frown. However, he didn't seem angry in the slightest.

Emboldened by the instructor’s reaction, the trainee started to get carried away. “I mean, isn't swordsmanship the most important skill for a Yamauchi Guard? But we weren’t even allowed to touch a bamboo sword yesterday. If we are going to waste our time on such things, shouldn't we frequent the dojo more?”

It was undeniable that, even out of the theory subjects, ‘Etiquette and Poetry’ seemed like the most meaningless of them all. Shigemaru himself could still understand why they would study Writing or Accounting. A Guard had to be able to read orders or handle their unit's finances, after all. That made sense. Etiquette, however? Proper manners and dress? Court ethics? Hearing that, he didn’t have the slightest idea of what they were supposed to even do.

The rest of the trainees, also unhappy with their current workload consisting exclusively of group movement drills and theory, started to whisper in unanimous agreement. 

“Besides, what happened to your arm?” the boy asked out of curiosity.

At that, Seiken forced a smile. “I had quite the eventful youth.”

“But you're a Monastery instructor, aren't you?”

He didn’t have to voice it out loud for everyone to know what he truly meant. How could someone like him, who was missing an arm, guide them, warriors-to-be?

Now, Shigemaru was the first one annoyed by the sheer amount of theory, but that and this were different matters altogether—that last question was just insensitive. The boy's attitude was out of place and unbefitting of a Monastery trainee.

Shigemaru waited, wondering how Seiken would react to the provocation. The man, however, didn't lash out or even try to blame his student.

“Thank you for your concern, but I'm already retired from active service. As you have already well noticed, I’m not fit for anything resembling proper work in my state anymore,” Seiken didn't seem to be troubled at all by the question. His expression was more concerned than anything, and a few trainees scoffed at that.

“And yet, society is truly a marvelous thing,” as Seiken kept speaking, the laughs suddenly stopped. “The right man for the right job, you know? As long as you have actual talent, there will be somewhere for you to make the most of it. I lost the qualifications to be a Yamauchi Guard myself, but I turned out to be a good fit to train future ones. Which is why I'm now standing here as your tutor.”

His expression was just as gentle as before, yet the tension filling the hall could be cut with a knife. “The Yamauchi Guard holds the power to act as actual Court Officials if the situation calls for it. You aren't aiming to become plain old soldiers here. What you'll be learning in these ‘Etiquette’ lessons isn't how to acquire power, but how to best use said power—or, in other words, to not misuse it.” Seiken then murmured with clear emotion. “But, well, that can be said of all the other subjects as well.”

Just like that, his young students found their attempts at ridicule entirely shut down by him.

“You must not become power yourselves. There is no meaning in that,” he finally said resolutely. Seiken faced the now silent trainees and gave them a sweet smile. “Don't misunderstand me. If it all boiled down to physical raw strength, you would become no different from the roughnecks of the Ravine. You aren't outlaws, and this Monastery definitely doesn't exist to raise people like that either. This class's purpose is precisely to turn a bunch of irrational beasts prone to violence into splendid Yatagarasu,” Seiken's tone of voice was totally calm, yet firm.

“If you still have any issue with this class after having heard that, I won't stop you from leaving. I'll respect your decision. However, if that’s the case, you better leave this place. You'll only get in the way of the other trainees.”

Etiquette and Poetry was both a hard requisite and the first course to be taught out of all of the theory ones. The moment someone left the room, he would have no option but to return to his dormitory room in order to pack his belongings. It would mean saying his farewells to the Monastery altogether.

“......Any other questions?” Seiken looked over the frozen trainees as he held an oppressive silence. Finally, he gave them a faint smile. “Very well. Let's begin then.”

That day, the lesson only went as far as the trainees’ self-introductions and going over the class schedule. Seiken didn't raise his voice even once in the entire process, always gentle to a fault. However, most of the trainees seemed to share the same opinion of him by the time the bell rang and they got to leave the dining hall—Seiken was, actually, way more terrifying than Kashin.

Then, the next day in Accounting, they learned that Seiken was, in fact, their main instructor for anything concerning theory subjects.

Group drills and theory were their constant for a while. By the time the trainees were able to follow Kashin’s commands to perfection, the cherry trees, in full bloom when they had arrived, were already covered in green leaves. At last, practical courses could truly start in earnest.

First was Horsemanship. In short, the subject was all about riding horses and driving flying carriages. However, in the specific case of the Yamauchi Guard, they had to be able to perform both the role of the rider and of the horse. The ultimate goal was to be able to cover very long distances in pairs by switching between rider and horse midair.

The early Horsemanship lessons consisted, however, of marching drills. The instructor and his assistants led the way or stood side by side with them as they ran around the Monastery's grounds, shifting to fly when the situation called for it.

Yatagarasu lost their power to change forms once the sun set, so they would be stuck in bird form if that ever happened, unable to turn human again until the dawn of the following day. The opposite was also true, of course. It was for this reason that lessons finished as soon as the sun started to sink, yet that didn’t make them feel any shorter. Even with breaks along the way, it was still endless training from lunch to nightfall, shifting over and over again.

At first, Shigemaru was worried for Yukiya, wondering if he would be able to keep up with this kind of training. As a commoner, Shigemaru was very much used to shifting forms, but he had heard that plenty of Court Ravens spent their entire lives without ever consciously transforming. In fact, Akeru seemed to struggle quite a bit with these marching drills despite his otherwise excellent performance.

The closer to the Center Yatagarasu lived—or the higher their rank—, the more ‘shame’ they felt regarding their bird form. Part of it was because of the horses, people who were incapable of surviving in human form and who were forced to spend their lives working in bird form. The other main reason was the punishment referred to as ‘Disarticulation’(4)—the heaviest penalty possible right after death and exile from Yamauchi itself. The punished were forced to take bird form with no going back, toiling as a horse for the rest of their lives.

Their third leg, which was only visible as ravens, was widely considered to be the ‘proof of their Yamagami-given divinity’ and the single most important organ of a Yatagarasu. This was also the reason behind the salute performed by the warriors of Yamauchi, designed to mimic the act of holding the third leg out in offering. If said leg were to be cut, they would be incapable of taking human form ever again.

The reigning theory was that this played a huge part of why Court Ravens, who could easily afford to live without transforming, disliked the idea of doing so in public so vehemently. However, as far as the commoners were concerned, their bird forms made travel much easier and helped them work more efficiently, so avoiding it over shame of all things was plainly idiotic.

According to what they had talked about, Yukiya was a rural noble, so where did he land in this particular dichotomy? When the drills first started, Shigemaru had been quite worried about that, yet it all turned out to be wholly unnecessary.

In their entire training routine, the hardest hurdle to overcome was the bamboo grove. The Monastery actively maintained and thinned it out so that the gap between the trees was just wide enough for a bird Yatagarasu to barely fit through when flying. On top of that, the instructors kept watch from up in the sky and would immediately correct anyone who tried to bypass the exercise by flying over the grove instead.

Those skilled with their wings could pass it by flying, while the rest were left with no option but to return to human form midway and keep running—or end up crashing against the bamboo stalks. If you got stuck there in your bird form, you could end up blocking everyone else's way, so even Shigemaru, who was used to flight, struggled with this part.

Left with no other option, Shigemaru switched to his human form and started to run, ornamented blade in hand, just as he felt a disturbance in the air over his head. A bird’s shadow passed right over him. 

And what an adept flier he was. He didn’t go particularly fast, true, but he flew as lightly as a swallow even with the other lamenting trainees, the many feathers swirling around, and the flapping wings that overtook his sight.

The raven moved ahead, nimbly dodging every single obstacle. He had come all the way from the rear, yet he somehow managed to reach the vanguard group by the end.

As he took human form, Shigemaru noticed the dandelion-like fluffy hair.

There was no mistaking it, that was Yukiya.

“Good job, Shige.” Once the lagging Shigemaru finally arrived at the finish line, Yukiya approached him. He looked as fresh as ever, not even the slightest hint of fatigue in his face.

“You're amazing! You were among the first to arrive before I even noticed, I didn't expect that.”

“Well, I may be a rural noble in theory, but mine is a warrior family—I was taught the fundamentals ever since I was a little kid. A warrior who isn't accustomed to using his own bird form would be useless in an emergency.”

It would take Shigemaru a while to realize, but for someone like him, who had so far trained entirely on his own, befriending someone like Yukiya from a proper warrior family had been quite the stroke of good luck.

Next: Shigemaru (Part 3)

—————————————

1: The traveling robes here refer to Kachie (褐衣), a variant of the Hou (袍), the outer layer typically worn by high-ranking men in the Heian era. The Kachie was typically worn, between others, by warriors lacking any kind of official rank. The crown refers to a Kanmuri (冠), the hat typically used along with a Hou by adults back then.

2: The Rikugei Shijutsu Nigaku (六芸四術二学) are modelled after the historical Rikugei (六芸), the arts considered essential for noblemen and high ranking people in Ancient China, said to originate during the Zhou Dynasty. Shijutsu (四術) had a similar usage, as the four paths an intellectual had to master in ancient times. Unlike the Rikugei, which are a copy virtually word-for-word, Yamauchi's Shijutsu has nothing in common with the historical Shijutsu beyond the name.

3: The original description is a doumaki (胴巻き), which were essentially money pouches, attached to a ran (襴), which was the wrapped fabric forming the lower section of the aforementioned Hou (袍). This is why, in the eyes of Yamauchi’s society, it helps make the outfit look more suitable for formal events.

4: As a note, this is the first time Disarticulation or Leg Cutting (斬足) was mentioned in the novels. The finer details of Hamayuu’s past were significantly revamped for the anime.

[finalfullmoon]

@verseandrhyme asked: As she removes a book from one of the shelves, Mitama catches a glimpse of the newest library. Ordinarily, this is a situation which is not worth remarking on. Librarians come and go, just like many other staff members at the Academy. A new face is not worth commenting on, unless it is a familiar one. Ordinarily, however, they do not appear so sickly. After a moment, she sighs heavily, knowing it will irritate her if she allows sleeping dogs to lie, before quietly approaching the staff member. "Excuse me." She keeps her voice low, as befitting the library. "I do not intend to intrude, but are you alright? You appear to be a bit..." Hmm, telling him to his face that he looks ragged is likely not wise. "unwell. If you require assistance, the infirmary is not far off."

※— THE FIRST THING HE NOTICES IS NOT THE STARS BUT THE BLEED OF HER HAIR. It is pink and awfully, awfully rare in Jugdral. And better yet, she craved his attention in a way many others did—a case of compassion lended to his flesh, as if he were human. As if his ailment could even be conferrable to the kind a mere infirmary could seek to heal. Still, he should not degrade her outreach—if his pallor had been so evident, he was surely down on his luck.

Her whisper reached him. Isn't she fortunate? "...Oh." His eyes clasp with kindness, wrinkling like the strings holding up his mother had lent its pull to him.

"Yes, I'm..."

I am no mere charity case.

The polite clearing of his throat dropped, sounding more and more like a heavy case of wet lung. He floated his hand to his throat, wincing, before bringing up a handkerchief to cover his mouth.

The coughing fit never comes.

"Thank you for your concern. You have discerning eyes, don't you?"

Pulling down two books from his end, he leaned in. Closer. Handkerchief still up to his mouth. Eyes not reflecting the stars, but the pink hair that no one coveted in Jugdral.

"Sorry for worrying you."