#i DID say i had 10 hours to think about this

[wethotcrazy]

CAN'T CONTROL IT

pairing: Franco Colapinto x Fem! Driver! Reader

word count: 739

just something a little short and sweet for franco colapinto. also i think the can't control their mouth and can't control their face would suit him well?! idk bro

The F1 social media team had a new favorite hobby: catching YN's reactions to everything Franco Colapinto did.

It started during pre-season testing in Bahrain. Franco, fresh in his Williams racing suit, had spun on his installation lap – a rookie mistake that had the paddock chuckling. The TV director, whether by instinct or divine intervention, cut immediately to YN in the Alpine garage.

Her expression was poetry in motion: eyes rolling skyward, lips pressed together to suppress a smile, followed by a head shake that somehow conveyed both "I can't believe this" and "that's my idiot" in one fluid movement.

The clip went viral within hours.

"Have you seen this?" Franco bounded into the Alpine hospitality area, phone already extended. "'Every Time YN Dies Inside Watching Franco Colapinto: Testing Edition' – they even put sad violin music over your faces!"

YN didn't need to look. She'd already seen the compilation – a masterfully edited collection of her various reactions to Franco's testing adventures. Her personal favorite was the slow-motion zoom on her face when he'd described his first F1 car as "spicy."

"I'm starting to think you do these things on purpose," she muttered, but her treacherous face was already softening at his enthusiasm.

"Maybe I just like seeing your reactions," he winked, dropping into the seat beside her. "Remember in F3 when you said your face wasn't that expressive?"

"Remember in F2 when you said you'd learned to think before speaking?"

His laugh echoed through the hospitality area. "Some things never change, no?"

The Australian GP brought new material for the ever-growing collection of "YN Can't Control Her Face" content. As Alpine's reserve driver, she was in the garage when Franco scored his first F1 points – a remarkable P8 in a chaotic race.

His radio message was pure, unfiltered Franco: "P8! P8! YN, are you watching? Better than that time in F2 when you said I'd never score points because I was too busy talking!"

The cameras found her instantly: pride blooming across her features before she could school them into professional neutrality.

"Every time they show your face, the comments explode," Esteban teased later. "I think you've got more screen time than some of the actual drivers."

YN groaned. "Don't remind me. Someone made a TikTok trend out of my different 'Franco Reactions.'"

"At least you're not 'Can't Control His Mouth' Colapinto," Pierre chimed in. "Did you hear him in the press pen? He spent five minutes explaining how you once bet him he couldn't qualify top 10 without talking on team radio."

"Did he mention he lost that bet?"

"No, but your face when they asked you about it said everything."

Monaco was where things reached new heights. Franco, running in P6 during practice, had been providing commentary that somehow always circled back to YN:

"YN's watching, no? Tell her this is how you take the hairpin properly—" Franco spoke through team radio confidently before scraping through the hairpin.  "Ah. Maybe not like that."

The camera cuts to YN's perfect face-palm, followed by a head shake that somehow conveyed both "I knew it" and "why am I even surprised" in one swift motion.

The resulting clip went viral on Tiktok and became F1's most-watched social media post of the weekend.

"You know what I think?" Franco asked one evening, as they shared takeaway in the quiet of the paddock after everyone else had left. The cameras were finally off, but YN's face was as expressive as ever in the dim light.

"That's a dangerous start to any conversation with you."

He grinned, nudging her shoulder. "I think you like that I can't control my mouth."

"And what makes you say that?" she asked, trying and failing to keep her expression neutral.

"Because every time I talk about you, you make this face – like you're trying not to smile but can't help it. It's my favorite one."

"I do not have a special face for when you talk about me."

"Si, you do! You're making it right now!"

She threw a napkin at him, but her smile – soft and genuine and completely uncontrolled – gave her away.

The next day, during the drivers' briefing, Alex caught Franco staring at YN with an expression that mirrored all of hers – soft and fond and entirely unguarded.

The photo went viral with the caption: "Looks like neither of them can control anything anymore 💕"

[fakenewsfactcheck]

What IS normal is that in some cultures, statements like that are made almost poetically: not meaning that there are literally children dying of heart attacks, but that it feels as though children are dying of heart attacks, dying of fear, in these grave and tragic circumstances. And in other cultures, such statements are either made as facts, or as "close enough" to the facts.

And I think that OP was speaking poetically, metaphorically, expressing what feels like a deeper truth, rather than presenting something you can fact-check.

I also think that the majority of the 17,500 notes on here are assuming it's literally true.

Unfortunately, what is also normal now is that people will immediately, 100% believe a completely unsourced factual statement that Palestinian children are dying from heart attacks. With zero evidence. Zero numbers. Zero examples.

Zero critical thinking, is what I'm saying, as nicely as I can. I realize that people are believing this out of an immense amount of concern and compassion.

But also, it's very clearly not true.

Heart attacks aren't caused by fear. Heart attacks aren't caused by nervous system exhaustion. Not without preexisting heart problems.

And no part of Palestine has experienced anything like near 24 hour bombardment for even one month, much less eleven.

If you go to Google News and put in, say, "Gaza" "children" "heart attacks" --

Okay, so one Israeli child died from a heart attack. Triggered by the rocket alert sirens. A few weeks after Israel was invaded by terrorists who tortured, mutilated, and burned their way across an area larger than Gaza in just one day.

But the fact that the shock of yet another siren caused her heart attack (in a country that has gotten an average of 4 missile attacks per day since 2001) probably means she had an unknown preexisting condition.

Dr. Noa Rosenfeld, the manager of the emergency children’s ward at Assuta, told the Ynet news site that incidents of heart attacks are rare, but some people are “very sensitive to adrenaline in high doses that can cause them a cardiac problem.”

Nothing else in the news about heart attacks in children. Not from any source, from CNN to Al-Jazeera.

I did find one about strokes in children during war:

"We see strokes in children aged 12 to 13,” Liashko said. “Before the war, such cases were really unique. But now, our health system has children with strokes.”

Inna Ivanenko, Director of Patients of Ukraine, the nation’s largest patient organization, added in an interview she knows of even younger stroke victims.

“Ten,” she said quietly.

The surge in pediatric strokes is just one facet of the escalating health crisis affecting Ukrainian civilians, the country’s health minister said. Years of war have left the entire population, not just children, at higher risk due to extreme stress and untreated post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD).

“People have strokes 10 to 15 years earlier,” Liashko said. “Also heart attacks, 10 to 15 years earlier.”

If you all remember the months and months of "Israel has killed more people in Gaza than Russia did in Ukraine!" You might be thinking something like, "if this is happening in Ukraine, it's gotta be happening in Gaza too!"

First, Ukraine is MUCH bigger than Gaza. That means a MUCH larger number of children, which means more tweens who might have strokes.

Second, Russia'a current invasion of Ukraine has been going on for two and a half years. And it actually began its attacks on Ukraine ten years ago.

Third, its attacks are far closer to genocide.

Genocide often includes forced population transfer:

The transfer of hundreds of thousands of people from Ukraine is part of a deliberate and systemic strategy, laid out in Russian government documents.

An “emergency mass order” describes the ��distribution” of 100,000 Ukrainians to some of the most remote and impoverished regions of Russia. None was to be sent to the capital, Moscow....

One refugee, Bohdan Honcharov, told the AP that about 50 Ukrainians he traveled with were sent to Siberia, so far away that they effectively disappeared with little chance of escape.

Genocide typically includes the attempt to erase all evidence a culture even existed:

Eight months after Mariupol fell into Russian hands, Russia is eradicating all vestiges of Ukraine from it – along with the evidence of war crimes buried in its buildings, such as the famed Drama Theater where demolition started Thursday.

The few open schools teach a Russian curriculum, phone and television networks are Russian, the Ukrainian currency is dying out, and Mariupol is now in the Moscow time zone.

On the ruins of the old Mariupol, a new Russian city is rising, with materials from at least one European company, The Associated Press found....

Russian authorities in October dismantled Mariupol’s memorial to victims of the Holodomor, the Soviet-engineered famine in the 1930s that killed millions of Ukrainians, according to video posted on Russian television. They also painted over two murals commemorating victims of Russia’s 2014 attack on Ukraine, images obtained by the AP show.

And most relevant here, genocide involves killing a massive percentage of a group: usually between 30%-90%.

The repeated statement that Israel had killed more people was, factually, entirely untrue. It was based on the UN's count of deaths that it had been able to independently verify, something that has largely stalled in both places because war.

As of August 2024, the UN has verified almost 12,000 deaths in Ukraine. But in Mariupol alone, just in the first three months of 2022, the AP found that the death count was probably over 75,000. Which is still almost twice the deaths in Gaza over the past year.

Back in May [2022], when the city finally fell, the municipal government in exile estimated 25,000 people at a minimum had died. But at least three people in the city since June say the number killed is triple that or more, based on conversations with workers documenting body collection from the streets for the Russian occupation authorities.

In short, there are many reasons that Ukraine is more likely than Gaza to see children having strokes.

I'm just giving that sort of detailed comparison so people can understand why there also haven't been reports of children in Gaza having strokes. (And yes, I did check.)

I know, nobody will see this. But in the hopes that I will one day be wrong, there it is.

palestinian children are dying of heart attacks because of the constant fear and nervous system exhaustion of near 24 hr bombardment. for ELEVEN FULL MONTHS palestinian children have been dying of heart attacks. dying from fear.

[python333]

after hours — python³

― ― ― ―

synopsis you've been stalking ghost for a while now. the issue? you didn't even know you were stalking him.

relationships platonic!ghost & gn!reader.

characters ghost.

word count 4.02k

warnings usage of [name] as a placeholder for your name, 2nd person pov [you/yours/yourself], ghost's pov, stalking, nonconsensual photography of ghost [nothing crazy, just taking pictures of him while hes out and about]

note i have a tummyache :(

You’re very troubled.

Bright red lights dull to a darker, velvety color as they reach a stark black flooring. They illuminate beige twine that’s strung over clean counters and square plates of clear water, twine that carries several photographs held up by clothespins. It’s very monochromatic, the color schemes in the room. The more vibrant, more lively colors are contained in developed polaroid film, labeled with dates, names, and locations. Your most recent one, labeled as 10/30, Riley, Heaton Park, was taken on the very date, in the very place, and of the very person you’ve labeled it with. Organization has always been very important to you.

It’s a weird contrast, your organization against your troubledness. On one hand, you like to keep everything in check, finding joy in having all of your belongings put together through some sort of connection they have―color, size, name―but on the other hand, something about that cleanliness throws you off sometimes. An unsettling ripple will center itself in your chest and create a circular wave that leaves the tips of your fingers tingling and your head a mess, your brain barely in control of your actions anymore, your hands somehow moving on their own and ruining everything you’ve organized. There’s been moments where your pictures have been ripped from the pins and thrown across the room, landing in water or on the floor or in the large vent in the corner of the room.

You’ve been able to keep it under control for a while, though. You haven’t had an episode in a while now. You scan the photos hung across the length of the twine, searching for a date, then finding one that sounds right. 08/17. So it’s been two months and fourteen days since your last outburst. A pretty good accomplishment, if you do say so yourself. 

“‘s been a while,” you mumble under your breath, your index finger and thumb pinching the bottom of the polaroid, observing it. This one is labeled with Riley as well, taken in a tattoo shop somewhere in Sheffield. It’s a long ways away from where Riley lives, funnily enough. The tattoo artist must be good for him to drive so far. You’ve only seen a few of his tattoos, and wonder if he has any that he’s hiding from you. From you, you mentally scoff, as if he’s thinking about you at all. 

He’s only seen you once. Riley’s a particularly mysterious character, at least to you. He only comes into the shop every other week, buying some variation of beef or pork. Two weeks ago he came in for pork belly, about two kilograms of it, and through some painful small talk, you learned he was making a pork dish for a gathering. He didn’t specify family gathering―he never does, which makes you think that either every gathering is a family gathering or no gathering is a family gathering―so you assume he’s talking about some kind of friend get-together.

Considering the dish he was making, all belly porchetta, you think he’s using around half a kilogram of pork belly per person, since that’s what you saw in a majority of the recipes you looked up. Assuming he did, you can guess that he had about three other people over, four if he didn’t make any for himself. You’re pretty confident that you know who the other three are. You’ve seen Riley around a few other people before, and it’s always the same three, and they have these weird nicknames for eachother. 

Or, at least, you used to think they were just nicknames. The more you heard them talk, though, the more you realized that they weren’t just nicknames. They were titles. Ranks, even. Riley is Lieutenant, or L.t., his friend Price is Captain, one of his other friends is either Gaz or Sarge, and his other friend Mactavish is Johnny. That, you think, is an actual nickname, but still. So they’re military. You’ve never dwelled too much on that fact, knowing that it doesn’t change much of what you already know about their friend group. 

You’re drawn to this friend group like a magnet to steel. You’ve taken a particular liking to Riley, though, who you’ve heard been called Lieutenant, L.t., and Ghost. Riley, who wears a black balaclava and has a blonde buzzcut that screams military so loudly you’re shocked you didn’t pick up on it earlier. Riley, whose dog tags hang on the coat rack near the front door of his flat, the black silencer around them rough to the touch. Riley, who chose the worst building to live in, considering the state of their locks. 

You release the polaroid and it sways a little where it’s suspended in the air, before stilling. You feel an itch. An itch that follows the lines of your fingerprints, swirling, a corn maze-like pattern being used as a guide for it. Your I-2 stays hung around your neck by a thick strap, and your hands go to it almost immediately, fitting in the worn grooves that your fingers have created over the years. 

Suddenly, causing you to lose your grip on the camera, the bell rings. Shit. Despite thinking about Riley, you forgot that this is his usual time. You take the camera off immediately and haphazardly set it down on the counter, dusting your hands off on your apron and rushing out of the room. The light outside is almost blinding, an ugly reminder of the outside world, and you squint for a moment to get past the too-white artificial lights and soon your eyes adjust to it. You walk up a few steps and open the door, walking a little further to get to the cash register, before seeing Riley patiently waiting near it. His card’s already in his hand. 

“Sorry about that,” you apologize for the wait, grabbing a pair of latex gloves from under the counter and putting them on, “what’re you looking for today?”

Riley hums and watches you put on the gloves, “‘bout two half-kilos of ribeye, if you’ve got any.” 

“We have exactly that much left, I believe,” you look up from your hands and give Riley a smile, “guess you’re taking the last few.” 

“Guess so.” He’s a man of few words, but you still savor every one he speaks. It’s satisfying, the sharpness of his tone; it almost reminds you of cutting the fat off of a slab of meat. A thin blade against fatty tissue, cleanly hacking away at the white flesh, though leaving rough marks at some points. 

You walk to the back, painfully aware of the window that allows Riley to see your every move, and see a partially butchered prime rib. There’s just enough for a ribeye and a rack of ribs, so you grab a clean meat cleaver from off the wall and chop off a good half kilogram of ribeye, laying the cut on a paper-covered scale and seeing that it’s just about half a kilogram. You trade off the cleaver to your non-dominant hand and reach for a sheet of paper, your gloved hand transferring the ribeye over to the brown paper and setting it off to the side. 

You repeat the process again until you have two half kilo ribeyes, both wrapped in butcher paper, and you take off your gloves before putting on a new pair, not wanting to get meat juice all over the paper. You stack one on top of the other and carry the papered ribeyes out of the room, the door opening and closing behind you as you walk over to the register and set the two down. Riley watches you intently. You revel in the feeling of his eyes on you.

“Date night?” you ask, curious. You wonder if there’s someone new you’ll be able to observe. Maybe someone who can help you learn more about Riley.

He huffs out a laugh, something that makes you hold back a smile, and shakes his head, “No, not a date. Just a night.” “Just a night…” you hum, not prodding further even if you want to, reminding yourself that you can’t poke too much or else he might never come back, “whatever you say.”

“I’m sure he wishes it were a date night,” Riley mutters, to which you let a smile crack through. 

“Good luck with your not-date night, then,” you bid him farewell and Riley nods, leaving you with a “have a good night”, the bell above the door ringing as he exits the room. You let out a breath. Jesus. 

— 

Ghost doesn’t think you know how obvious you are. Given your youth, he supposes he shouldn’t be shocked at this level of ignorance, but still. 

He’ll catch you in the corner of his eye. He thinks you think you’re being discreet, but that little camera you keep around your neck always seems to be swaying, and every time he looks a certain way, he can hear the small click and shutter of the camera. He can put two and two together. He’s not stupid, despite what you must think of him. 

Ghost keeps the packaged meat in his hands, not bothering to conceal them as he makes his way back to his flat. It’s a pretty basic building, with picked-to-bits locks and door hinges in desperate need of some WD-40, something he didn’t really think about too much until you started coming around uninvited. He’s not sure if you’ve noticed the various cameras set up around his flat. If you have, he isn’t sure why you wouldn’t take them out―he’s sure that you can. That you have the ability to. Or, he might just be overestimating you. It’s hard to tell at this point.

Ghost wants to confront you, desperately so. He wants to walk up to you in your own shop, wants to hear you greet him and ask him what he’s looking for that particular day, and wants to see the look on your face as he asks you to bring some lithium grease the next time you come around to rid those doors of their squeakiness. He hopes that you’re frozen when he says it, like a deer in headlights, unable to think until he asks you if you really thought he wouldn’t figure it out. It sounds a little cruel, but he thinks, given everything he’s experienced, he’s entitled to a little cruelty, especially if it’s towards his own stalker. 

You can handle it. He’s sure of it. He hasn’t been stalking you for as long as you have to him, but he’s essentially trained for this type of thing, so it comes much easier to him than he’s sure it does to you. As far as he knows, you haven’t gone through the same training as him. You don’t know what to look for. Given the inexperience you show in your actions, Ghost wants to assume that you’re self-taught, and picked this up recently. He doesn’t know if he should be flattered or not by the possibility of you getting into stalking because of him. Since, for some strange reason, he chose to go to your butcher shop instead of the one he would usually go to before the stalking. 

You’re young. Younger than him, at least, by a lot. You’ve never told him your age or anything, but it’s not too hard to tell by looking at you and seeing the way you talk to other customers. You always seem to be a little more polite around him, less joking, aside from today. You’re more laidback with other customers. He wonders if your stalking habits prevent you from acting normal around him, so you compensate for that by trying to act too normal. Except, it doesn’t work, because he can see how you act around other customers. He’s seen your normal. He knows it’s not what you act like around him. Sure, it could be that you’re only normal around him and no other customers, but he’s seen you outside of work too. The only other possibility would be that you only act normal around him specifically, but that just wouldn’t make sense.

Ghost wonders if you get something out of this stalking. He doesn’t look into statistics too much, so he doesn’t really know if stalking is just more popular among the younger generation, or if you’re just special in that way. It could be a hobby, but he’d think that you’d be a little more careful if it was. A little more experienced, even. It might be that it’s an addiction; maybe you feel ashamed of your stalking, but you just can’t help it. However, if you did, Ghost doesn’t think you’d be so obvious about it. No, he thinks that you’d hide it more, that you’d be more nervous around him. While you’re anything but normal in his presence, you can still make conversation with him, and try your best not to bring up things that you know about him that you really shouldn’t. If you felt any kind of shame about it, he thinks you’d slip up more, because even though you’re sloppy, you still managed to go unnoticed under his radar for however long until he caught you for the first time.

The only reason that he knows it wasn’t your first time when he caught you was because of something that you could’ve easily avoided. You tend to mutter to yourself, whether on purpose or on autopilot, and when you’re taking photos of him, you like cursing out the camera when it somehow malfunctions or whispering directions under your breath. Left, get that thing he’s holding, he’s heard you mumble, oddly loud for someone who's trying so hard to be discreet, right… down… good. 

It was disturbing at first. Ghost doesn’t find many things scary these days, but this came a little close to being scary; the thought of someone always watching him, documenting his every move, studying him like a researcher to a labrat. He’s never liked that caged feeling. Being unaware of your observation, not consenting to any of it, unable to consent to it because he’s not supposed to know that you’re stalking him at all. 

The worst part, he thinks, is that he feels a weird sort of sympathy for you. Again, you’re young, you sell meat for way too cheap despite its quality, you probably barely understand the severity of your actions. He doesn’t want to underestimate you. God knows he’s done enough of that. But, for some strange reason, he feels so strongly that you don’t grasp exactly what you’re doing. It makes him feel a little bad for essentially fantasizing about confronting you, knowing how conflicted you must feel, being so obsessive over someone as mundane as him. Truly, he hasn’t told you anything to pique your interest, so it has to just be something about him that’s got you so eager to witness every little thing he does.

He doesn’t know what it is. He hopes that he’ll find out soon. Maybe that confrontation shouldn’t stay a fantasy. 

Two weeks pass by like a short gust of wind. Quick, but still leaving Ghost a little disgruntled. He’s on his usual walk towards your shop, a small tingle on the tips of his fingers, an itch that won’t leave his palms, lingering on his hands like pins stuck in the cushion. The feeling is inexplicable, only noticeable by the time he had spotted the sign hanging over the red awning outside of your shop. He feels like he needs to grab something. Maybe he’s just that excited to get his hands on the pork tenderloin he intends to buy. Maybe he’s thrilled by the idea of asking you why he hears a camera shutter open every time he goes out in a relatively populated area.

The door bells ring as he walks in. You’re leaning against the counter, fidgeting with your gloves, your head whipping up when you hear the bells. You try to conceal it, but Ghost can see the ghost―haha, get it, ghost? Like his callsign? Oh, whatever―of a smile appear on your face. It should make him feel sick, but for whatever reason, it only makes the itch grow. Ghost looks around the shop, seeing the empty place, and walks up to the counter.

“Busy day?” he asks, making you breathe out a laugh.

“Very,” you reply, your words short but always having that sense of incompletion, “what’re you looking for today?”

“Half a kilo of pork tenderloin,” Ghost answers, leaning against the counter as you nod and head to the back. He watches you through the glass, biting his tongue.

There’s so much he wants to ask. 

You come back quickly, just a few minutes later, and Ghost finds himself face to face with a packaged pork tenderloin. You’re quiet as you type up his receipt, but he doesn’t bother to pull out his card. The itch is bothering him. The itch starts to crawl up his wrist, curling around it like a handcuff, running along his veins and making the hair on his arms stand up. It reaches his shoulder and hits an old scar from a fight a long time ago, then reaches his neck, manages to wrap itself around it like a rope, and suddenly―

“Why’d you take that picture of me?” Ghost’s voice interrupts the calm silence, replacing it with a sort of tension. He sees the way you freeze up, your head slowly lifting up, your eyes locking onto his, all confusion and nerves. 

He doesn’t repeat himself. He just waits.

— 

You blink. What? 

“Sorry?” you laugh nervously, but Riley doesn’t budge. He only stares at you. You’re tempted to utilize your right to refuse service, but he isn’t technically servicing you, only talking to you. 

“You know what I’m talking about,” Riley responds, not getting threatening, but still leaning forward a bit and narrowing his eyes at you, “‘bout two or three weeks ago, Heaton Park?”

You stay silent, because despite your excessive planning, you never accounted for a possibility where Riley actually caught you. You guess you were so caught up in observing him that you never thought about what you would do if he ended up confronting you about it. You just didn’t think you were obvious. Maybe you aren’t obvious. Maybe Riley has developed a habit of being more aware of his surroundings or something after being in the military for so long, so much so that he was aware enough to detect your presence despite you keeping your distance.

Whatever it is, it has you choked up. You never imagined that you’d be in this position. It always felt like it’d be him who was confused, maybe even paranoid―but, surprisingly, it’s you.

When you don’t respond for a few more seconds, Riley doesn’t let up. He doesn’t go easy on you. He leans back but the state of his eyes don’t change, they don’t get any less skeptical or stormy, the gray-blue irises staring at you like two camera lenses. You swear you can hear a faint click every time he blinks, like he’s taking pictures of your every move, just as you had done to him. Like he’s observing you just as much as you observed him. You wonder, briefly, if this is how he feels when he senses your burning stare on him.

“Are you scared?” Riley asks, like an English Billy Loomis, “Did you ever think I was scared?”

You can feel a little sweat cultivating on your forehead. You’re sure Riley can see it too. His eyes flicker all over your face, and it feels like you’ve switched roles, with him being the researcher and you the subject. 

You can’t respond. How are you supposed to? You’re not scared, you’re dreadfully curious, wanting so badly to grab the camcorder you haven’t used in a good few years and just record. You want a stenotype and a chair, with a body double to act as yourself, to watch yourself have this conversation and take notes. You need order. You need a judge, jury, and executioner, to be allowed to be the reporter, to copy every word that exits Riley’s mouth. 

This is so out of his element. You knew he was confrontational, but―

“Do you never turn it off?” What? “The stalking?”

Stalking? “I think you should leave,” you force yourself to say, even if it leaves a suffocating feeling in your chest, forcing Riley away like this. 

“I’m not mad,” Riley tries to reassure you, “I’m a little disappointed, though.” 

“Disappointed?” you can’t help but repeat, despite your shock.

“Just a little,” Riley hums, so uncharacteristic of him, so unlike what you’ve seen from him. It’s so fascinating, yet horrifying. 

You’re quiet again. He’s disappointed? You should be more scared of the fact that he knows what you’ve been doing, the hobby that you meant to keep under wraps until you managed to get to a place where you no longer needed to participate in it, but you somehow find yourself more saddened by the fact that your subject is disappointed in you. It makes no sense. You can’t put it into one of the little boxes you’ve folded up in your head.

“Does it make you mad?” What? “Knowing that I know what you’ve been doing?’

You can’t find the words to respond.

“Do you understand what you’re doing?” Riley asks with a level of understanding you could never foresee hearing from him, especially directed at you, “Did you know that you were stalking me?”

That word makes you actually freeze. You stop breathing for a moment, switching from automatic to manual, all because of that word. Stalking? It feels foreign even in your mind, feeling so taboo just to think, the word barely a part of your vocabulary. You can’t recall ever using it to describe what you’d been doing. 

You don’t know if Riley senses this, or if it’s just the look on your face, but whatever it is, something seems to tell him that no, you weren’t aware of that. You don’t know how you didn’t know. Yeah, no shit, of course you were stalking him, how didn’t you know until now?

You genuinely don’t know what to do. Riley’s looking at you like you’re some kind of lost street dog, your palms are heating up, there’s a loud buzzing in your ears, and you think your voice box has somehow been turned off. You want to say something so bad. You want to apologize, even if you don’t entirely understand what you’re apologizing for. You want to defend yourself, because you weren’t aware of what you were doing. You want to do something. Anything.

“I’m gonna leave,” Riley sets a few tenners down on the counter, “but I need you to know that I’m not mad, okay?”

Oh, right. You’re not mad, just disappointed. Which is somehow worse than you being mad. “... Okay.”

Riley looks at you, scanning your face, searching you, “Okay?”

You nod and Riley exhales, picking up his pork tenderloin. “Have a good day.” 

When he’s gone, you feel a wetness on your cheek, and bring your fingers up to your face with furrowed eyebrows. You’re crying.

— 

Ghost doesn’t leave. He stays and watches you close up the shop, watching to see if anyone else stops by. He’s been doing it every few weeks after finding out about your hobby, always justifying it by telling himself he’s just looking out for you. It’s dangerous around here. It’s why he doesn’t live around these parts. You clearly don’t know that. Shit, if you were so unaware of your own stalking, how could you possibly be aware of the dangers around you?

You leave the shop and Ghost watches. You don’t even spare a glance in his direction, and that very fact tells him everything he needs to know. You’re vulnerable out here. You need his protection. You need it. 

Ghost gets up from his kneeling position and dusts his hands off on his knees. He can protect you.

[footnoteinhistory]

Time for my big NYC Marathon 2024 recap post!! This post is very long, roughly organized borough by borough, and mostly for my own personal record since I don't feel like putting pen to paper rn

And because so many of you have supported me through all of this (like... all of everything in my life for a long time), I thought maybe some of y'all would be interested. Here is my detailed experience (+ some photos!) <3

Got up Sunday morning at 4:30 am, on the Midtown bus to the start by 6 am. My start wasn't until almost 11 am but I was so anxious about logistics I was happy to get to the start village earlier and sit around bored rather than later and panicked. Fortunately my charity team had a heated tent where I killed three-ish hours by people watching, forcing myself to eat bagels w/ peanut butter and bananas and graham crackers until I couldn't stomach any more, and meeting Meb Keflezighi (!!!). I've read Meb's book twice this year and was too starstruck to say anything to him other than thank you but! What a neat surprise to start the day. A grizzled volunteer held out two water bottles and I took one, then he gave me this look and shook the other bottle at me until I took that one, too. He knew. Trust the volunteers.

I was battling serious nerves leading up to the start line, which I'll skip for brevity's sake bc this is going to be a long post anyway. But by the time we lined up on the Verrazzano Bridge (I was on the lower level), I felt good. Excited. The anthem, the helicopters, the cannon, Frank Sinatra, crossing the start.

As you might know bc I've agonized over it extensively on this blog, my training did not go according to plan this year. I hurt my left leg in April, possibly a fracture, and struggled throughout the summer. I wrestled with the idea of deferring. Finally I decided that I would finish the race, even if I had to walk the entire thing. After a few weeks of speed-walking and rebuilding my strength, I felt okay enough to put a little more pressure on my leg and jog occasionally. I hadn't *run* more than 2-3 consecutive miles since the spring. Literally took a photo of my leg in the starting village with the thought it might be the last time it ever looks normal in case my shin snapped in half in some horrific freak stress injury mid-race. Peak anxiety brain.

So starting slow on the Verrazzano's uphill, I was so anxious I would feel that familiar twinge in my leg. I've felt it for months. Sometimes I'm not sure it isn't a phantom pain now. But I didn't feel it that first mile. Or the second, leaving the Verrazzano and thinking "oh, this could be fun." Or the next mile, entering the first neighborhood. So I ran for the next 10 miles straight.

Brooklyn: The first half of the marathon goes through Brooklyn. It was such a fucking party the whole way. Our wave ran through some quieter streets and neighborhoods before hitting 4th Ave, but it was the perfect warm up. Everyone in the world and their mother tells you not to go out too fast in a marathon but it is IMPOSSIBLE not to—not only was I overjoyed to be running without pain for the first time in weeks, I was zooming around giving as many high-fives to the kids as I could.

I had my name pinned to my shorts and it was 100% the right decision. I've heard from runners who say it was too overstimulating or they had trouble locating friends and family when everyone was screaming their name, but I needed it. I'll get into that later, but even at the start it was such a boost. A woman on a highway overpass shouted "Hi Emily, welcome to Brooklyn!" The first kid I high-fived smacked my hand and said "LET'S GO EMILY"

The entirety of 4th Ave was incredible. I loved running through Brooklyn during the half in 2023 and I loved it this time. So many kids, funny signs, people offering tissues, live music, flags and banners. There were many Israeli and Palestinian flags throughout the course, which wasn't a surprise but still stirred up feelings. There was an older man standing alone with a Palestinian flag and we connected (I don't know how else to describe those fleeting interactions between runners and spectators but I had many; it's not quite a wave, sort of a nod, mostly eye contact, you just both know you're focused on each other for a moment). He yelled "stay strong, run for peace!"

Around Mile 8 at the Barclays Center I felt a cramp in my right calf. I assume this was a consequence of not having run more than eight miles for months before (better to go in undertrained than overtrained, they say, but perfect-amount-trained would've been great). That cramp stuck with me for quite while until every muscle was so cramped they were indistinguishable. But we will cross that unfortunately literal bridge when we come to it.

I managed to stretch it out, walk it off, and power on through until I met my family for the first time just before Mile 11. I liberally applied some Biofreeze to my calf and accidentally dropped my bag of SaltStick chews—a crucial error. Goodbye proper sodium intake for the second half of the race 😰

But I was still blissfully unaware of that mistake, running through the Orthodox Jewish neighborhoods and the rest of Brooklyn. Until I realized it on the Pulaski Bridge headed into...

Queens: If Brooklyn was a party, the two miles I spent in Queens were a brutal reality check. My calf cramp was not getting better, I was mad about losing my saltsticks, passing the halfway point was more intimidating than heartening. My half time was around 2:50, which is MUCH faster than I was expecting, but I knew I couldn't keep it up. I really do not remember Queens. There is a 25-minute gap in my camera roll from the Pulaski to the Queensboro. I recall it being loud, and I was a little overstimulated. I hadn't used headphones yet but put them in to check on the Bills game. We were losing, which did not help my mood.

Queensboro Bridge: I train in a hilly area, so I wasn't too scared when people spoke in hushed whispers about how difficult NYC's course elevation is. But the mood swings I experienced on this fucking bridge. First of all, it's never-ending. It goes up and up and up and up. I thought of Jareth, because they loved Simon & Garfunkel and The 59th Street Bridge Song is on the playlist they made that I listen to when I miss them. My calf was cramping in such a way that stretching could not reach, let alone fix. I started settling with myself—10 miles left, okay, I don't think I will be able to run again, I can walk the whole thing.

But then—we're going downhill again. I'm walking a little faster. We're taking the ramp off the bridge into Manhattan. I'm jogging. We're passing the 16-mile marker—from here on out, every step is the farthest I've ever run in my life. I'm running again. We turn onto roaring 1st Avenue!

Manhattan: 1st Avenue is very long. Everyone warns you about 5th Avenue, when you're close enough to the end you might fool yourself into thinking it's the home stretch—but no one (except Meb) warned me about 1st Ave, which feels uphill! Is it uphill?? It is also a 3.5-mile optical illusion. You look as far ahead as you can and that mass you see cannot be runners, that can't be where you're going, that is so far, the bridge to the Bronx must be closer than that. And yet.

My family also did not see me on 1st Ave as planned, which was kinda disappointing. They just didn't make it to the post we'd picked out ahead of time. I didn't want to be grumpy or ungrateful because they did travel all the way to New York for me, and I'm glad they were enjoying shopping and stuff on the UES, it's their vacation too! but like... you travelled all the way to New York for me. Maybe you could prioritize seeing me 🥺 BUT I was perhaps entering the mouth of the pain cave at this time. I'd been running for over 4 hours, the longest I'd ever done, I didn't have enough sodium.

The spectators were awesome. All along the whole course they were great—if it ever felt like too much, I just walked in the middle of the course and tuned them out fine. There's no way I would've finished without not just their vocal support but material support as well—a bag of pretzels was like manna from heaven. Spray-on Biofreeze. Drinks between the official hydration stations. Alcoholic drinks, too (I did not partake, but boy if there's ever a time to break your sobriety...). Tissues. Bananas and orange slices, cookies, Halloween candy, an angel who had my fave kind of Honey Stinger chews. I'd been eating my own gels every 30 minutes on the dot but I was starting to get sick of them. I took everything that anyone shoved in my hands, Gd bless the people of New York City and their generosity, foresight, and kindness.

The Bronx: Going up the Willis Ave Bridge I didn't know if I would be able to finish. I hadn't run in a couple miles. I looked over to my left and saw runners crossing the Last Damn Bridge and it looked unfathomably far away. I had over 6 miles to go, there was just no way. I wanted to lie down in the middle of the street, find a way to tell my family to pick me up here. But there was a woman on the bridge, the first spectator in the final borough, rocking a well-swaddled baby that couldn't have been older than just a few weeks in her arms, welcoming us to the Bronx. I had to keep going after that. I kept telling myself to just keep walking, step by step, and eventually I would finish.

I hoped crossing the 20 Mile marker would be a boost but it made me feel like crying, if I had been hydrated enough to cry. The Boogie Down Bronx was popping but I could not match their energy. My legs were not going to run another mile. I was literally staring at the road taking one step at a time, my head down.

Then out of nowhere I felt someone next to me. Another runner, a middle-aged guy I'd never seen or spoken to before, came up beside me and patted me on the back and mumbled something I didn't hear before jogging off, something short like "keep going," "you got this," etc it could've been anything we runners say to each other on the course from time to time. It doesn't really matter what he said because just that pat on the back gave me fresh legs. Literally it was like I was on the start line again. I cannot explain it at all, I am tearing up just remembering it right now, the most powerful moment of my race. I immediately picked my head up and started running again and ran the rest of the Bronx. Everything hurt, but I could run through it.

I thought about getting his bib # and looking him up but I decided not to ruin the magic. My literal savior. We bobbed around each other a few more times but I lost him when I stopped on...

The Last Damn Bridge: There's an annual hype squad on the 3rd Avenue Bridge, the final bridge of the marathon that takes you back into Manhattan, and I've connected with some of them on FB. Their project this year was putting the names of runners' late loved ones on posters to give us an extra boost at Mile 21. I'd completely forgotten about it until I started passing the boards, then backtracked to find Phil's name ❤️ The organizer saw my name bib and said "Your name is Emily? My name is Emily, too! We have to take a photo!" so we did :) That interaction gave me a boost out of the Bronx and onto…

5th Avenue: You hear many warnings about the subtle but brutal elevation on 5th Avenue, which takes you from Harlem down almost 50 blocks to Central Park. I did not notice the elevation at all, or at least did not register it as elevation. I was mostly focused on trying to stay conscious. I wasn't ever urgently concerned that I was going to pass out, but if someone had bumped into me I probably wouldn't have gotten up. I was fighting back dizziness—but having fun again? Fun might not be the word but I have pretty positive feelings looking back on 5th Ave. The Bills won—I listened to part of the fourth quarter bc I needed to mentally be anywhere else for a few minutes. My walking speed was about equal to my "running" speed at this point so I mostly settled for walking.

Fun crowds, lots of people saying my name. Saw my family for the second and final time! I only stopped for a moment—my cousin said "How do you feel?" and I kind of fake smiled/laughed (?), my eyes not really focused on any fixed point, and said "I just need to keep going" and stumbled away into a jog. AND THEN I SAW MY FAVE TIKTOKER? I am not big into tiktok but if any of you know Dutch (dutchdeccc) I ran past him, did a double-take, TURNED AROUND and went up to him?? I spit out something incoherent like ohmygdiloveyourvideos, he was so sweet he grabbed my hand and said oh my gd thank you so much you are doing so great you are amazing! and I ran off into Central Park 😭

Central Park: There were making the miles longer here. I need to see the numbers and cold hard facts about the course measurements because these miles were longer than the other miles. I hated every second of miles 24 and 25 in the park. THAT was the pain cave. That was, of course I am going to finish because I came this far, but I have never felt this bad in my life. Running would get this over with sooner but my legs are no longer functioning and I might end up eating asphalt so we are walking 16-minute miles until we're out.

I knew certain ways my body would react to the distance because I've done long runs, but I didn't know most of the ways. Like, of course I have a calf cramp, that's what happens. But your legs spasming like in those videos you see of shaky runners who collapse right before the finish line—suddenly oh shit, I understand how that happens. It's not just one foot in front of the other, if I can't run I'll walk—at some point you cannot walk, but you have to figure out how to keep walking.

Central Park was fucking The Long Walk by Stephen King. I keep trying to remember specifics but I think my brain is blocking them out on purpose.

Central Park South: I'm crying again just recalling this. The final mile. You leave the park and run from Sherman's statue and the Plaza Hotel to Columbus Circle before reentering the park for the .2 finish. The hugeness of the marathon and achieving this goal finally hit me and I started crying, like actual tears—but my chest was so tight and achy that crying made it very hard to breathe, instantly, which was actually scary, so I stopped crying QUICK. Gathered myself. Most people were sticking to the right-hand side of the course, along Central Park, mostly empty of spectators. But I fucking needed people.

I can't overstate the power of the crowds at the NYC Marathon. Of course hype spectators are fun at any race, the cheering really is uplifting, the signs are funny. But at 25.7 miles you need more (at least I did) and New York City fucking delivered. I started walking along the barricade on the left, lined with people, and stared as many of them as I could dead in the eye. Literally forcing eye contact with these strangers lmao. It happened throughout the race—you catch a spectator's eye and connect with them, they say something right to your soul and you believe them. But I swear that entire barricade came through for me. It was sunset but still light enough they could read my name on my bib. I started jogging, high-fiving the kids, just looking from one face to the next begging them to talk to me, kept running just to see the next person. And they were smiling and cheering and it worked. I felt like the only person on the fucking course. I kept running even when I had to go right back into the park, uphill .2 miles to the finish.

I kept thinking "this is so fucking hard this is the hardest thing I've ever done if you just keep running to the finish you never have to run ever again." I truly felt like I sprinted across the finish line fast as Usain Bolt, but looking back at the video I was hobbling slightly faster than my 92-year-old grandmother.

The finishers area kinda makes you feel like a toddler, which is fitting because at that point, mentally, you can't think clearly. Like, your brain doesn't have any fuel left to process what's going on after running for 6 hours so the volunteers shepherd you through like a preschooler. Here is your medal, great job!, let me get you a warm poncho and wrap it up tight for you, do you see those big green signs over there, just follow them, yep!, is this bag too heavy for you, are you sure, okay, you did so good today. We must look like stunned baby deer.

Walked to Lincoln Center to meet my family. Nightmare bc once you're on the streets you directly encounter non-runners for the first time all day and most of them do not give a fuck. And as I said, you are physically and mentally struggling already.

But getting that medal is really fucking cool. And worth it

I won't bore you with the rest of the night (mostly ouch ouch stairs ow big step ough lying down hurts standing up hurts shower hurts eating makes me nauseated sleep is impossible) but over 24 hours out, I've never been sore like this. Just uncrossing my ankles hurts. I've always enjoyed the ache of a tough workout but this is something else. Proud of it though. However, unfortunately, I will be losing a toenail. Some may say that is a rite of passage for a distance runner but unpleasant and painful and kinda makes me dizzy nonetheless.

I've still barely had time to emotionally process any of this. I've wanted this for so long. Even as I was doing it, and trying to live in the moment, I could not believe I was actually running the New York City Marathon. And in 2024—this year I've dreaded for so long, the 10th anniversary of Phil's death, a year that's been unexpectedly brutal on me in so many other ways, too. But Phil was with me every step of the way, literally.

I've been wearing the medal all day even though it rubs against the sunburn on the back of my neck, trading little smiles and nods with my fellow runners. We fucking did it. I had no idea what that meant two days ago, what it took. If I did, I'm not sure I would've even tried. But we fucking ran the marathon babyyyyy

This is kind of the only thing I want to talk about so if you want to talk about it or have any questions or anything just let me know 🥺

[butchlifeguard]

something i was thinking about on stand yesterday.. danganronpa shsl lifeguard who tries to save a dying person they find, bonus points if they dont come clean about it at first because they think they actually killed that person with their efforts

[tofixtheshadows]

Hello, op! While I do find your reading of Kabru’s self sacrifice and how little he eats really good, im curious why you consider him the deuteragonist? He is a foil to the protagonist yes, but still a supporting character.

I think its pretty clear Marcille is the second most important character in DM, and her story has much more weight than Kabru’s.

Hello! I've mentioned this on my blog before, but I actually consider Marcille and Kabru to both be deuteragonists to Laios's protagonist. I just wasn't talking about Marcille in that post.

Technically this term is meant to be used in playwriting, and the Greek tradition at that, so I'm playing a little loosey goosey with semantics and my argument would sound different if I were writing an academic paper. But this is tumblr dot edu and I'm trying to get a point across on my little blog, and part of the idea of a deuteragonist is that they support the protagonist. "Secondary main character who has their own importance in the narrative while bolstering the protagonist" works well enough for my purposes.

I think Marcille and Kabru are both playing specific and complementary roles to Laios. Marcille is at his side, facilitating the A plot: namely, "save Falin", which requires Marcille's magic, and then Marcille's method of resurrection ropes Thistle in, so the continuation of "save Falin" necessitates confronting the Dungeon Lord and conquering the dungeon (the B plot).

Kabru only intersects with Laios, but he is tied from the beginning to the B plot- and with dragging basically everyone else into it. Actually, the fact that he brings in this extremely loaded B plot despite only having brief face time with the protagonist should be seen as significant. In a sense, Kabru represents the surface world and all its concerns.

Before I talk about that more, I want to continue with the complementary line of thinking and point out that Kabru and Marcille have very similar background motivations.

Laios wants to save his sister first and foremost, and it's only along the way that he starts to consider what he'd do with the responsibility of Dungeon Lord. Coming to the conclusion that he wants to create a home for disparate peoples to live in harmony has connective tissue to both Kabru and Marcille's desires.

Marcille is the only one in their party who starts out with a greater motivation other than saving Falin (Izutsumi is a special case, but she's ultimately along for the ride), one that she keeps hidden for a long time. Because she is a mage, and because she is driven by a very personal tragedy (my dad died; I am terrified of outliving everyone), she is looking for a miracle to bring the different races closer together.

Kabru comes from a background of personal tragedy as well, but it's also a far greater, more political tragedy than just the death of a parent. It is not a coincidence that Kabru is a brown boy from an exploited region that suffered despite and because of military intervention from a first-world power, nor that he was adopted by a white woman whose coddling/dehumanization of him represents the paternalistic oversight of these world powers.

Thus, Kabru's motivations are both personal and political: if they, the short-lived races, can finally access the secrets of the dungeons, then not only can they have agency in stopping tragedies like Utaya's, but it will also give them a greater power of self-determination.

Marcille and Kabru have both correctly identified and set themselves against a problem that is greater than saving the life of one girl, greater even than sealing this one dungeon.

Despite Marcille's hopes, there is no grand magic solution to this. Only small, slow, backbreaking, ordinary solutions, the kind you labor over in kitchens and bedrooms and throne rooms and meeting houses and hearths and negotiation tables. The kind you run a kingdom with.

There is a reason why Dungeon Meshi ends with Marcille and Kabru on either side of Laios's throne.

Okay: back to Kabru (under the cut).

I've talked about this a little before, but I'll reiterate here: I consider Kabru to be the counterweight to the back half of the story. In a very literal sense too, as he pulls the focus up from the depths to the surface not once, but twice. Dungeon Meshi builds itself on the premise that the traditional "dungeon" must function as an actual ecosystem, and the monsters in it are biological actors in that ecosystem and not merely magical obstacles independent of their environment. The first couple dozen chapters are focused on this. Like regular animals, monsters have needs and instincts and unique behaviors, and they can be killed and consumed as part of a food chain.

And then Kabru comes along and he reminds us that humans are also part of their own special ecosystem, with their own needs and instincts and unique behaviors, and that beyond the biological drive of the literal food chain there are also complex social issues influencing these behaviors (like capitalism). Tansu's visit with the governor introduced us to these ideas, but Kabru is the one who carries them.

The way he and his party break down Laios's party also serves an important function. I think most readers are so busy being shocked that Kabru is "so wrong" about our goofy boy Laios that they don't realize that he isn't actually wrong about anything (he's only missing the context of what drives Laios, which he admits to and is part of the reason why he pursues him). We've gotten only Laios's view of things so far, and Laios is pretty tunnel-visioned. The narrative, through Kabru, is telling the reader this is how our protagonist actually comes across to his community.

We like Laios because we are following his story from his inner circle. We know he's naive and struggles with people but that he has a good heart and is ultimately just a big silly guy who won't harm anybody if he can help it. But we only know that because we're seeing him with his inner circle, in his environment. Outside of the dungeon, Laios is anti-social to the point of rudeness; he misreads situations and misjudges people, he acts in ways that cause friction, and he accidentally aligns himself with people who make his whole enterprise look suspicious: a prominent half-foot community leader, a mysterious foreigner literally surrounded by spies, the disgraced daughter of a criminal who now has to shoulder the burden of her father's reputation, and an elf in a land where there are no elves. And they seem to be very good at what they're doing. Yet this whole time, Laios acts as if he doesn't care about profit or taking the kingdom, the only logical reasons why anyone on the Island would gather up such a party and throw themselves into this death pit day after day.

Yeah of course Kabru finds this suspicious and interesting. Of course people don't know what to make of Laios. This all reiterates the question that Zon the orc already raised: What will you do, Laios, if you defeat the Mad Mage? If you gain control of all of this? Can you be a leader? Laios himself doesn't know yet.

This is all necessary context for our protagonist and the journey he has to go on, and it's fittingly brought up by the most socially adept character, who is so concerned with human ecosystems and the bigger picture of the dungeon. There is a reason why Kabru, as a character, is connected to large webs of people as he moves throughout the narrative: his own party, Toshiro's party, the Canaries, the denizens of the first floor of the dungeon.

Kabru is responsible for bringing Toshiro down to Laios's party. Toshiro is not a big mover and shaker in the story itself, but his confrontation with Laios is a huge part of Laios's character arc. His detour down to the lower levels also allows Izutsumi to escape and join Laios's party later.

We also have this very important moment:

It shows the first inkling- to the audience, to Kabru, and to Laios himself- that Laios is willing to do a painful, necessary thing to protect other people, that he won't just allow them to become collateral for his sister/monsters. That he can listen, and that he can assess a situation beyond his personal feelings. Again, fittingly, big-picture-thinker Kabru is the catalyst for this.

And then, not content to leave him as merely a device for Laios's character growth, the focus slingshots back up to the surface, and we follow Kabru.

The Canaries were going to go into the dungeon soon anyway, and they were always going to stir up the crowd in order to lure Thistle to them. Unless Thistle had given up right then and managed to slip away, the story could have very easily ended here:

Falin, immobilized and surrounded by Canaries, would have certainly been killed, and there would have been no way to ever resurrect her. Thistle would have been neutralized. The dungeon would have been taken by the elves, and anyone they could get their hands on would have been imprisoned at best. And maybe the dungeon would have been managed safely ... or maybe something would have gone wrong, and more lives would have been lost. Remember: the Canaries arrived in Utaya one year before the tragedy.

This is a huge moment that changes Laios's life forever, and he doesn't even know it. Kabru single-handedly keeps the story on course by sabotaging the Canaries, and he does it not just for Laios's sake, but for everyone's sake. For his friends and companions in the dungeon and everyone else outside it. Laios is a part of his motivation, a key player in Kabru's hopes, but Kabru has his own desires, his own agenda. He's trying to change the world. In a way, he succeeds. And while the Canaries might wish it were otherwise, as an entity in the narrative they are always anchored to Kabru's character. The two forces collide because of Kabru. The unsealing of the Winged Lion and Marcille's emergency ascension to Dungeon Lord happen indirectly because of Kabru.

While I have talked so much already that I don't want to give a detailed breakdown of it, I do want to mention Kabru's unique interiority as a character. That is to say: we see the inside of Kabru's head more than anyone else. Every character in the main ensemble gets their own moments of inner monologues or fifteen minutes in the limelight, but for Kabru, it's constant. He's always thinking, talking, narrating. His POV chapters always stand out for how first-person they feel compared to most others.

Notably, the only other character I could compare that to is Marcille, specifically during the dungeon rabbit debacle and her ascension afterward, which is when she really takes center stage as a character.

I hope I've explained my reasoning without becoming too insufferable.

To cap off my thoughts with a nod to my original post, I cannot stress enough how significant it is, thematically, that Kabru's relationship with food is the inverse of Laios's. It isn't just that Laios is the main character in a story about cooking monsters and Kabru happens to be his monster-hating foil. The artistic choice to deny the reader the visual of this character ever enjoying food, and only ever putting it in his mouth in situations where it hurts him, in a manga that gives so much attention to eating and the pleasures of meals, cannot be understated.

[littlelightfish]

As I said I would, I drew my oc with yours my beloved @clawdouobit

My pretty girl likes to infodump your pretty girl about the smallest things. She's like a reel, talks a lot but most of it is meaningless.

Close ups and more info because I can't shut up ehtier under the cut <3

20 years old and engaged to a half-foot. They're waiting to gain some more money to get married and leave the dungeon. Note: they're best friends but idk if what they have going on is truly romantic love or just a very good friendship.

Quite skilled at upper levels, but wouldn't go to lesser levels. She isn't skilled enough to make her party survive there.

Her race is a mix between gnome and half-foot. Idk if that's possible but I don't think it's not.

If I had to guess, she's 13/14 on half-foot standars. It's unclear whether she's an adult or not, but she's preety mature most of the time. Most.

Flushed cheeks always. Also very pale.

She's 109 cms tall, a lot more than avarage on haflings, but lot less than avarage on gnomes. Since she hangs out mostly with haflings, she's a giant woman. This gives her some problems with traps so her BMI is 18 due to diet.

Fwens with Shahad. Who knows why tho. We gotta figure that out ;}

[gemharvest]

Hate thissss I feel like I haven't been properly productive today (somehow posting two art things Doesn't register properly in my mind) so I wanna stay up to get as much as I can down, but I also need to go to sleep in case I'm called in tomorrow because fuuuuuck going to work on little sleep that shit sucks. But also, the possibility of being called in makes me wanna stay up even more, so I can finish art in case I don't have time tomorrow. So now I'm sat up at 12:30 tired as shit but unable to draw or go to bed. The never-ending cycle of hell.

[nervousmonolith]

thinking about the whole twt scam situation ™ again ough

[faaun]

ok let's catch up quickly

[beaversatemygrandma]

Interview. Interview. Oh Another interview. Interview. Interview. Guess what's next? An interview that a manager is like "Today at 2pm sound good?" which I took bc yeah, it was good...

I'm tired.

Now will ANY OF THEM ACTUALLY Call Me Back???

[xxlelaxx]

I don't think my husband understands that there is a big difference between the kind of sleep I've been getting and the kind of sleep he's been getting. It's starting to make me very angry

[euphor1a]

Best 4 hours of my life, with the loml ♡

[lord-squiggletits]

One of the thing I love about IDW Op is that he's technically an atheist war pope. It's interesting that he didn't believe in religious aspect himself but was willing to use it for the power. Made his character more complex to me. Do you have opinion on this topic?

I have a lot of mixed feelings about it tbh. On one hand, I think being an atheist/agnostic fits IDW Optimus' character well (I've tried to imagine him as religious and just...can't), but on the other hand, I kind of have a problem with the way most media depicts religious people, and it's a bit disappointing that the Matrix has canonically been associated with multiple miracles (reviving OP and Hot Rod from death, creating new sparks, even Primus/Rung being able to make them) but Optimus still calls the Matrix 'nothing but a bauble' at some point like. Really bro? So there is a part of me that is disappointed at the Matrix being treated as a Plot Device rather than a proper, respectable religious thing. On the other hand, that's just not what the story is about, and I can't call a story/character bad because it didn't go in the exact direction I wanted.

TLDR: I think Optimus being agnostic/atheist makes sense for him, but I really dislike the way it was handled in the story because it feels more like it was used as a plot inciting device than some sort of journey of Optimus trying to discover his purpose. Also, the way he interacts with other religious characters had a lot of wasted potential, so I just feel like it wasn't written in a very interesting way? Basically, the writing is such a mixed bag of interesting concepts with mediocre/bad execution that I can barely focus on the in-universe implications and mostly just get mad at Barber's writing.

My feelings are also complicated by the fact that I don't like Barber's writing at all (it's like 90% dislike and 10% like) because of how bad he is about prioritizing plot over character emotions and stuff. Earlier on in phase 2 it seemed as if Optimus was genuinely curious about his religious role as a Prime and asked the Camiens for guidance on who he should be as Prime (Windblade, Aileron, the Mistress of Flame). In Death of Optimus Prime, OP literally wished he was dead when he woke up. He made a very big deal about how he's Orion now, not Optimus. In Dark Cybertron he had a whole crisis about whether he's Orion or Optimus. Basically, he was set up to have a huge identity crisis (especially since the war is over and leadership of Cybertron fell to Starscream), but any amount of introspection was quickly derailed into PLOT PLOT PLOT OPTIMUS ANNEXES EARTH AND FIGHTS GALVATRON. The story just devolved into bullshit plot on Earth that was just action, action, plot, things happening, with pretty much no room for the characters to stop and breathe and talk and have relationships with each other. I barely felt any emotional investment for most of exRID.

I think the only scenes we got with Optimus actually getting to reflect on this new role of his was 1. when he first met Aileron and asked her and 2. when he's telling Aileron he doesn't believe and then Pyra Magna comes in and gets mad at him.

Speaking of Pyra Magna, the story writing also annoyed me because from the moment she was introduced, Pyra Magna was SUPER self-righteous about how she should be the Prime instead of Optimus and she said that she would try to make Optimus into a better Prime. But then guess what happens? Her and Optimus barely talk and Pyra Magna is basically just there to form Superion and punch people :/ And then later on when Onyx Prime is introduced, all the sudden Pyra Magna goes from having strong opinions about what a True Prime should be and believing she's destined to be the true Prime........ to talking about how she's never trusted Primes and she left the Mistress of Flame for trusting a Prime too quickly??? I know Pyra Magna isn't Optimus, but the reason I'm bringing her up is because she seemed truly religious and opinionated, she SAID she was going to "teach" Optimus things, she seemed like she was set up to be a rival to Optimus, but instead they barely have interactions and the ones they do have early in the series end up being retconned later by Barber's shitty writing that puts plot over consistent character development so. :/ I really expected Pyra Magna and Optimus to have some meaningful interactions, some mix between a rivalry and a mentor/student situation, but instead all she does is shit on him like half the case of exRID/OP and it just made me mad.

(There was also Slide who went from worshipping Optimus to saying that his leadership style is "literally fascism" and monologuing about how Optimus is a conqueror while fighting Unicron and Trypticon is being killed in the background. She's so fucking annoying and comically stupid that I genuinely thought she was going to betray them or do something evil just because she was so unhinged.)

But if you want my actual in-universe opinion on atheist pope Optimus, I do think it's an interesting concept. It shows off Optimus' sense of duty where even though HE doesn't believe, he thinks that what other people think of him his more important. He sees that being a religious figure can help him do what he thinks is right, so he willingly plays that role as a means to a greater end. He's already a "patriot and hero" to the Autobots thanks to his military feats; he's used to being venerated (sometimes to unhealthy degrees) and knows how powerful his influence can be whenever he makes political decisions. I think that he basically saw the Camiens' worship of him as just a new form of the admiration he was already used to receiving. He's spent his whole life commanding armies so simply adopted the colonists into his ranks as well.

(Also, side note, it's so fucking hypocritical for Pyra Magna to call Optimus a piece of shit for "using belief, but not believing" only for her herself to admit a few volumes later that she's never trusted Primes. Why do you wanna be one so badly then if you think Primes are so awful? If it's because you think you could do a better job than past Primes, that literally makes you the same as Optimus, who is also trying to redeem the title of Prime, so you have no right to be punching Optimus in the face lmao. But I also genuinely can't tell if that hypocrisy is supposed to be deliberate or if Barber just did what he usually did and ignored character emotion/motivation/self-reflection in favor of shoving some backstory in for Pyra Magna that tied her to Onyx Prime.)

At least Optimus tried to discourage the blind worship and used the Camiens to do things he had already spent his whole life doing (fighting genocidal colonizers aka Decepticons and protecting organic lives) so I don't really see it as out of line for Optimus. It shows how IDW OP can be a politician as well as a military leader. I think it shows how Optimus can be clever and take advantage of his reputation to achieve his political goals (protecting Earth) and it makes him a more realistic character. Sometimes things that are good aren't done through noble means. Sometimes people do good things by being not very nice.

Also, for what it's worth, I think IDW OP is less manipulative than someone like Starscream, who constantly flaunted his "Chosen One" status while admitting he didn't believe in it (or wavering in his belief) and doing things like creating secret police and trying to kidnap sparklings. Like damn at least Optimus risked his life in the same battles he asked his followers to fight in, he ruined his reputation for the sake of protecting Earth from the Decepticons. Even if the guy is an atheist pope at least he puts his own ass on the line for things he believes in for the sake of protecting people who pretty much hate him lmao. That's why I'm more inclined to view Optimus sympathetically; he's living a lie for political means, but his politics are literally "protect humans and Earth from the bullshit war and destruction Cybertronians forced onto their planet", and the burden of leadership is making him depressed and passively suicidal, and eventually he literally sacrificed himself by jumping into a black hole to save millions/billions of people so like. Let the guy fucking rest lmao.

[fingertipsmp3]

The amount of people who seem to enjoy spending time with a lot of people for a long period of time baffles the shit out of me man

[wishful-seeker]

I would like to see more people talk about how jobs treat disabled employees.

I used to prep, wash dishes, and cook at mellow mushroom. I had chronic pain that wasn't NEARLY as bad as it is today, but it was still very debilitating. I told my employer "i cannot stand more than 4 to 6 hours. I CANNOT do shifts longer than this due to my illness." And even though i made my boundaries VERY clear, everyday i worked it was 8 hours at the least and 10 or 12 at the most. I would go up to my manager and say "look i really need to leave, my shift is over, my chronic pain is killing me." And he'd say "we really need to here, you HAVE to push through." And so i did, and after one, ONE month of that job my crps got incredibly worse to the point where i could no longer walk my dog around the block which was .5 miles. I quit, and that was FOUR years ago, and ever since that day I HAVE BEEN BEDRIDDEN AND HAVE TO USE A WHEELCHAIR. It is my biggest regret in life.

My best friend who has seen my whole journey has recently developed undiagnosed chronic pain, and she is in the EXACT same scenario i was 4 years ago. Busting her ass at a pizza place with extreme pain that hurts her so much she tells me "im in so much pain i don't even feel like a person." She doesn't feel LUCID. And her manager and coworkers are saying the same thing "if you don't help us you will let us down, we'll be in the shit."

That job thats hurting you isn't fucking worth it. I promise you no money is worth losing all your physical abilities and never getting them back. Your coworkers and boss do not give a shit about you, so don't you dare suffer for them. They will never understand your struggle and they will never try. They truly think being understaffed is worse than whatever pain you experience. They would rather you permanently damage yourself than inconvenience them. FUCK THEM. DON'T FUCKING DO IT!