#i cannot live like this another year but I have nowhere to go

[aishangotome]

DO NOT HARASS OTHER TRANSLATORS!

I don't know why this has to be said. I woke up with someone letting me know in DMs that there was some translation crossover drama, and this is not what I care to deal with first thing in the morning.

All translators put in a lot of time and hard work into their tanslations. No one OWNS the intellectual content; only the company does (Cybird, NetEase, Tencent, etc.). All fan Translations are that, fan Translations - this means we each use our own free time, our own experience and knowledge, to produce work that is often meant for OURSELVES and here to share with you all as a secondary reason.

For over a year, I've put in my pinned post that I don't mind other translators doing similar work. Everyone is different with their own interpretations, style, and timeline. Unless someone is blatantly copy and pasting another translators work and passing it as their own, no one should gatekeep what someone can or cannot translate whether it has or has not been done before.

For my LN translations, I've linked Jin's first translations of Ch 1-14, yet I've also announced that I will be translating the same chapters on my blog anyway for my own collection. You, as a reader, can still choose to read Jin's version or mine - I don't care, because this is ultimately my hobby, for myself, just made public to share with everyone else as a courtesy. I still share her work, and that's ok.

I sincerely hope whomever has been harassing the poor translator will stop. We do not condone this type of behavior; translators are real people with real lives, real feelings, and we are all in a shared community to support each other, not shit on each other for liking the same characters and stories.

I am thankful that I've been told early on to close off anonymous asks because of trolls who come after certain game translations. I highly suggest this for all translators to keep their peace of mind.

For those who think its ok to bully or harass others behind a computer screen for sharing free entertainment out of their own kindness and free time, unfollow me.

TLDR; support all translators. Translators will like the same characters, stories, and do similar Translations. That's ok. If you are someone who will harass another translator for translating the same story, please unfollow me.

UPDATE: Yes, I have been shown the reblog going around. Yes, I saw what they said about me. I think they're just really frustrated for being attacked out of nowhere, which yes, I do feel attacked as well that they insinuated my work is sloppy just because I work fast. Those who know me know that I type 170+ WPM and have always worked really fast naturally; I still spend 12-16 hours a day translating and proofreading to make sure everything is grammatically, contextually, and culturally accurate. By no means is my work sloppier just because I work faster. I chalk this up to frustrated speech. Everyone needs to respect each other, stop being so hostile at people you don't even know, and stay in your own lane. Read our translations if you want, scroll past if you don't want to. It's literally that simple.

I'm done talking about this.

[n0tamused]

How elves deal or even feel jealous? What/how easy is to make them jealous?

A/n: Hello, yes I can! You didn't specify which elves you wanted this for, so I just picked a few of the ones I thought would go nicely with this idea. Also, I am trying these different styles of hcs, so let me know if you prefer lenghtier headcanons or shorter ones like these? I'm trying to find some balance with requests and my ability to write them in time.

Contents: (all separate) Thranduil, Legolas, Lindir, Haldir, Glorfindel x GN! Reader. Jealousy hcs, not proof read lol

⋆𓄃Thranduil

-Thranduil can be quite jealous and, more so, protective over his beloved and he does not care to ever admit it. He is quite avoidant of his subjects and feels a bit shocked (or looks like it, he did expect you to point it out eventually tbh) when you point it out to him

-Would make sliding comments about your attention lingering too long on someone, or even something at times. 

-A play of words is sure to ensue if you keep pressing him for his reasons, and throughout he never raises his voice or anything of that sort, he is rather calm and eventually you come to understand that he is enjoying this, both the banter and the attention. This can be sometimes flustering or frustrating when he begins to smirk and offer sass and teasing words. 

-The Elven king has seldom ever expected to ‘fall into’ love like this, or to behave like this while loving someone, but even through his long years of living he is still learning some things. 

-Thranduil is quite wary of others, especially outsiders even if they are his distant kin. So he may keep you away from meetings or tedious dinners with any delegates or visitors that may seem like ‘too much’ for you to be exposed to them.

-He is stubborn, so chances are it would take a long time for him to let up on his views, as he deems it all necessary for your protection and happiness

-But even he cannot deny that he does carry a great weight on his heart and consciousness, and long, late night conversions are not something rare with him. He enjoys them more than anything else because he feels more justified to be vulnerable when the rest of the world falls asleep. He is more open to physical touch as well, and he tells you his worries and his feelings clearly then. 

🍃Legolas

-The prince of Mirkwood is still quite green in the area of emotions and how one deals with them, despite his years. But he is notably much softer in comparison to his father. 

-He would find it odd that he feels this way and would hide it away from you for the longest time until he can bear it no longer. It is like poison to him

-Although you would be able to see it all happening and coming down on him with the way he stares out at nothing, sometimes at the people besides you, the way his lips pull into a deep carved frown and how his jaw sets, almost uncomfortably, even for an elf - especially for an elf. His shoulders are so tense you can put a table on him

-Once he expresses his feelings to you he does apologize as well, he doesn’t want you thinking that he doesn’t trust you or that he believes you’d go behind his back and take the offer of another heart - he truly can’t explain the feelings and where they stem from.

-It’s multiple things all at once - he wants you safe and happy, and the people around may not have the purest intentions, but at the same time he feels odd that you sometimes seem to be having much more fun with someone else than him. So there’s quite a lot to unpack with him, but he is not impatient or unwilling to learn.

♬Lindir

-Lindir is more prone to fits of jealousy that strike seemingly out of nowhere, he is quite dense with it too although not nearly as secretive as he would like himself to be. He may be quiet, but the face he stays quiet with is a completely different story..

-His jealousy does stem from a sense of insecurity in his own ability to be a good partner for you, it eats away at him at times and he can take up to saying witty responses to the individual/s that he perceives as sources of his feelings. He is never malicious of course, neither to you or them, as he understand these feelings can quickly turn to poison

-He may require some more support from you at times like these, and in private he feels utterly defeated in face of his own jealousy. He is not the one to openly ask for attention from you, but at times like these he may ask you questions that may reassure him again. Hold his face in your hands and just kiss the elf, that would be my advice, plainly delivered 

-He would grow flustered at such actions, and he may even give you some sass for it, but he is never refusing your advances at pouring some more of your love on him 

°˖➴Haldir

-The Marchwarden of Lorien is not the most open when it comes to his own emotions and it can be difficult to read his exact trail of thoughts at times. But jealousy is not foreign to Haldir, he knows how it feels and he has long since come to truly dislike(hate) it.

-It is unbecoming of his station and just of his own character in general. Nonetheless, this jealousy he feels holds its roots in worry for your safety rather than any kind of distrust of you, and it's greatly amplified by the distance between the two of you when he is away on duty. 

-Haldir doesn’t act out on his jealousy, although he makes his opinion known if he agrees or disagrees with you on your choice of companions. If he is at home with you, he would also tag along with you, if you so desired or if he just really, really did not like the company you’re going to be with. He knows nearly everyone in Lorien, and so he knows who to be wary of. That is not to say anyone from there would be a liability when it comes to physical harm, he knows that much is less likely to happen, but when it comes to needs that are more from within, love, need for attention - then he is not so sure. He cannot read the minds of others, and everyone changes over time, even elves. 

-His jealousy does lessen up when he is with you, as he is not as worried when he has you in his eye. If there is danger, Haldir would do whatever was in his power to eradicate the source of it. 

-You may notice this particular mood on him by the stiffness of his jaw and the hard look he sometimes directs at no one in general, as if holding an internal monologue with himself over what he’s experiencing and feeling

☼Glorfindel

-The Slayer of Balrogs is not susceptible to jealousy, and he was never a jealous individual to begin with. And that’s also without mentioning that he trusts his partner as well, otherwise he would not be with someone he did not trust.

-After his re-embodiment he may come off as a little clingy - he stays with you for as long as he can, not letting any moment go to waste, even if you are an immortal being as he is. He leaves kisses on your hands and your forehead when no one is around to see, it is intimate and he simply wants you to know that you will always have his love and support

-He is also very clear in his communication with you, and trusts that you’ll tell him if anything is bothering you, although sometimes he does know to postpone telling you something if he believes it could put a strain on you. 

-He is quite free spirited though and open minded at that, just a chill guy, the chillest on this list I dare say

-All in all.. 10/10, would recommend 

Ⓒ n0tamused. Do not repost, translate, edit, and/or copy any of my works. Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated.

[firawren]

Yes, the Prince should have let the Enchantress inside

Time for another Disney Beauty and the Beast 1991 rant, because I'm feeling real salty today.

I'm tired of seeing people saying the Enchantress was awful for cursing the Prince because he was a child and shouldn't let strangers inside his house.

No. He 100% should have let her inside.

First of all, he probably wasn't a child. The only evidence he was a child is Howard Ashman's "10 years we've been rusting" lyric because Howard wanted him to be a kid. The two directors of the film wanted him to be like late teens, and all other evidence in the film points to that. So, he has no canonical age at which he was cursed. (And no, him being a kid in Enchanted Christmas doesn't count as canon within the context of BatB 1991 and analyzing the original prologue.)

BUT HEY EVEN IF he was a child, you're mistakenly thinking of him as an ordinary child in modern times and the castle as a modern ordinary house. Neither of those things make any sense. He wasn't just some kid, he was a prince, a leader, a guardian for his people that he was supposed to protect, no matter his age. The castle was his home, yes, but it was much more than that, practically a public place, for his subjects to gather. Any of his subjects should be able to come there and ask to enter.

BUT HEY EVEN IF he was a modern child in a modern house who was taught about "stranger danger," remember that there were dozens if not hundreds of adults in the house with him. He wasn't home alone, nor did he live in a modern normal neighborhood. If you live in the middle of nowhere with no shelter anywhere else for miles, just a forest full of deadly wolves and bears and who knows what other scary shit, and a frail old lady comes to your house at night in the freezing cold, and asks nicely to come in, because she is 100% guaranteed to die if she doesn't, and there are like 87 adults around to make sure she doesn't get up to any mischief inside your house, and you have tons of space and food for her, are you honestly telling me you'd be cool with your kid turning her away to die? No! You would have wanted your kid to let her in and your servants to take care of her. It doesn't matter that you don't know her. You don't go around committing manslaughter when you can save someone's life with zero risk, cost, or inconvenience to yourself.

It was so fucking cruel and sadistic for the Prince to turn her away. There was literally no reason to do it, absolutely zero downside to letting her in. Any halfway decent person would have let her in. Hell, even a dick like Gaston would have let her in. It would be insane for anyone to turn her away in modern times, let alone back then, let alone if you're her fucking leader who has a responsibility for her well-being.

You can still debate whether that horrific mistake was enough to warrant getting cursed over (though we know from the prologue it wasn't a one-off, but I digress), but you cannot debate that it wasn't a horrific mistake. It was. It was dead wrong. Period. And the Prince was a complete sack of shit for doing it, child or no.

[citrustan]

slipping through my fingers [1] (myg)

title: will i ever see you again?

pairing: min yoongi x reader genre: dilf!yoongi, exes and co-parents au, angst!, fluff, smut summary: yoongi usually has an explanation for everything. why can't he talk you through this? warnings: [it is important that you read the prologue before this]

It takes you a good five minutes to gather yourself. Yoongi doesn't dare to disturb you.

Still leaned against the wall, you take a few steady breaths.

You don't know why but you don't cry.

The news of him dating another person is enough for you to have an intense breakdown, let alone marrying someone.

This will forever serve as a reminder that you weren't enough for Yoongi.

You kind of just want to go straight to bed. Pretend this never happened. Just deal with it later.

After your break-up, a big part of you always thought you'd end up getting back together. And that no matter how long it takes, Yoongi would be your endgame. He was it for you.

Over the past year, your contact with Yoongi had reduced. He was always busy when you called. Always working.

But now that you think about it, it was you who assumed that he was working. He never claimed he was.

For all you know, he could've been dating.

Pfft. 'Could have.'

He most definitely was.

And he didn't tell you. Not even your friends told you about it.

You don't know what's worse.

You're pushing yourself away from going into a dark place. Where you begin to wonder.

The only question that refuses to budge is: What does she have that you don't?

In all honesty, you wish he never told you. You don't want to know what type of a person his future wife is. You do not want to know if they'd have children together. You do not care if they buy a house together, or if they already have one. You don't want to know.

And you don't want to think about what it'd do to Nao.

When you begin to truly register the possible consequences of Yoongi's marriage, you feel anger. It spreads through your veins in a millisecond.

Had Nao already met this woman? You doubt that because she never told you about it.

Would it be confusing for her to understand what's going on?

Is that woman going to be parenting your child too? You violently shook your head. You won't allow that.

You are her only mother.

The pressure in your chest only deepens the more you think about this.

Yoongi has stolen your peace.

How are you to move on from this? And you hadn't even confronted half of the thoughts you're having. The anger never subsides.

He's going to send you right back to therapy.

"_____?" Yoongi comes looking for you.

You cannot afford to lose your composure in front of him. You don't want to give him more reasons to be grateful for your break-up.

You had to step away for just a bit longer, "I'll be right back."

You were about to turn and hide in your room when you feel Yoongi yanking your arm back.

With a surprised yelp, you pull it back just as forceful.

"Talk to me." Yoongi pleaded with his eyes.

No.

"I...-" You trail off. The words were caught in your throat. I don't want to see you again, ever.

This was such a disaster.

How does one move on from this?

"_____. I'm sorry." He tried again.

Yoongi had it all planned. He was going to sit you down and ease it in on you.

Instead, he chickened out and ended up dropping a bomb on you out of nowhere.

He's usually the more composed one out of the two of you, and he screwed it up.

You sigh, "I don't know why you're apologizing."

After a moment, you swiftly walk away from Yoongi and peek into the living room.

Nao's attention is still on the movie.

"Has she met Nao?"

Yoongi shook his head profusely, "I wanted your permission first."

At this you're confused.

Unable to separate your emotions, you sarcastically laugh. "My permission to let your daughter meet her father's future wife?"

It's like a bell ringing in your mind. Your laugh transitions into a bit of a manic one, "What if I told you no? What happens then?"

Yoongi kept his calm, "Then she won't meet her now." You scoff.

Immediately, you give in, having no interest in continuing this conversation. "Then do whatever you want. She's your daughter too. I can't make decisions for you."

You start to walk away from him when he stops you, "_____. Let's just... talk."

“I don’t want to.” You sternly announce.

This would be a lot easier to handle this if he just got mad at you. It’d be easy to hate him if he were being unreasonable. In all honesty, even then you’d probably never be able to truly hate him.

“_____, I’m sorry,” Yoongi softly brings your attention to him. His eyes were directed towards your feet.

It doesn’t phase you. His blanket apology for whatever happened doesn’t make up for anything.

You want to ask him what he was apologising for. But you don’t really want to go there. Not in front of Nao.

You cannot subject her to this instability anymore than you already have.

“Ask your daughter if she wants to meet your wife,” you spat, “Not me.”

Yoongi knew you were angry. He also knew exactly why. Still, he can’t bring himself to talk you through it. It’s too soon. He needs to let it simmer.

As much as you don’t want him to think (know) that you’re just bitter for very obvious reasons, that ship has already sailed.

You don’t think you can do a whole lot to salvage it. Might as well ride it out for now.

With the risk of sounding pathetic, you turn your body towards him. “How come you’re marrying someone else?”

Yoongi’s mouth opens and closes a few times before he sighs deeply.

“_____...” He coos, “I’m sorry. I don’t want to hurt you.”

There's a pause, a moment where the air seems heavy.

The noises from the TV sound muffled. Time slows down for you to hold yourself together.

“I don’t want you to ever doubt yourself, _____.”

That’s not under his control. Hell, you yourself can’t help it.

“I don’t,” you lie.

“I want you to know that it wasn’t an easy decision. I just… She broke me. I don’t know how but I changed.”

…

That’s what you get for respecting his boundaries.

This is a slap in your face. He better not be saying what you think he is.

“She convinced you?” You question him pointedly.

So, you could’ve ‘broken’ him too? So much for not being an overzealous girlfriend slash baby mother.

“No! I just changed my mind about-“

You wouldn’t let him finish, “No.”

“No?” Yoongi was starting to get a little agitated.

“I… don’t want to know.”

“Okay. That’s okay. Let’s talk tomorrow,” Yoongi agreed.

The two of you take a little break from the almost heated conversation you just had.

“I’ll finish up in the kitchen. Are Mimi’s bags packed?”

“Yeah, just need to get her toothbrush after she’s done.”

Your ex-boyfriend’s nickname for your daughter was Mimi, and you preferred Nao. Nao prefers Nao too but she’d never break her daddy’s heart like that.

He gives your arm a subtle squeeze as he moves past you to get back to the kitchen.

You head to Nao’s room to get her bag as she excitedly follows you in.

Turning to her, you tilt your head towards her, “Did you turn the TV off?”  

“Yes! And I unplugged the wire.”

“Good girl.” You give her a genuine smile.

You don’t know what your future is going to look like with Yoongi’s wife in the picture. What if Nao doesn’t like her? What if she doesn’t like Nao?

Your heart drops at the thought of them having a kid. What if she pushes Yoongi to leave you and Nao?

No, he’d never. You’ve got to give him more credit than that.

Wait.

Is she pregnant? Is that why he wants to marry her?

You were pregnant too.

You already know you’re going to kick Taehyung’s ass for not warning you about this new woman in Yoongi’s life.

“MOMMY.” Nao’s scream brings you back.

“I’m sorry! Mama’s here. W-” - “Daddy’s calling.”

Okay. Deep breaths. You're unbreakable.

“Go on ahead, I’ll bring you your bag.” You then instruct her to scrub her paint-covered fingers well but brush her teeth at her dad’s because it'd take too long. And you'd rather not spend any more time waiting with Yoongi.

Nao hugs your waist, burying her head into your side. It tickles a little.

Then, she runs off to find her father.

Soon, you follow her and drop her bag by the door.

Yoongi reappears from the kitchen, drying his hands with a paper towel. He stops in front of you and waits as Nao jams her feet into her pink Crocs.

Seemingly in deep thought, you stand by them. You don’t want to end tonight on a weird note. Even though you’re hurting, you can’t let him see it. For so long, you just assumed you’d find your way back to each other even though you never actively put effort into it.

Now, it seems downright outlandish.

Your next moves are not to save face but an attempt to actually move forward.

“Yoongi!” You call out to him as if he were miles away.

A little startled, he raises a brow at you in question.

“You should introduce them.” You nod, mostly to yourself.

At this, his expression changes. It’s softer and… almost aching.

“And congrats.” You added shyly. “You deserve to be happy.”

Your vision began to blur.

NOOOOOO. Not now. Please. PLEASE.

You gulp and smile. Yoongi knows the smile. He begins to extend his arms, inching towards you, as if he were about to embrace you.

“Mommy.” Nao winks, blows you a kiss, and runs out of the apartment, breaking whatever moment the two of you just had. You scrunch your brows at the now-empty doorway.

Yoongi scoffs in amazement.

“You should go,” you urge him out of the door, not allowing him to respond to you. “Now. Bye.”

Yoongi simply allows you to push him out, still a little stunned by the two of you.

“Make sure she does her math homework!” You get the last word in as you slam the door in his face.

Had your daughter not distracted you, you don’t know what you’d have done.

₊˚.🎧 ✩｡ underwater by red velvet ₊˚.🎧 ✩｡

note: these song recommendations go great w the story!! u should give it a listen :*

thank u for all the love and attention you've given to this little project 😍

[nijigasakilove]

Oh my goodness what an episode. Non-stop chills throughout. Everything’s finally coming together, even plot points from season 1! It all leads to this arc’s climax. The Shishou rebellion is upon us. Is Jinshi finally going to embrace his birthright to save the kingdom and the girl he loves?! Couldn’t write better drama than this 😭

Acting job of the year goes to Shisui. There’s very few people who have genuinely outsmarted Maomao, but she did. Who would’ve thought the silly ditz who always popped up out of nowhere, broke ice sculptures, etc., would be one of the most intelligent and strategic people in the whole series? The Loulan connection seems so obvious in hindsight like Maomao said, but it never dawned on me until a few episodes ago!

So to be 100 percent objective with Shenmei, I know we all on the “she needs to die” page and I do think she’ll have to die narratively, but we only see her AFTER she got back from the palace. We know the sort of shit young girls went thru once they got to the palace so what made her this evil? She came back from that ordeal and saw her husband remarried and had another kid and wife living there, I think anyone with the sort of mental trauma she probably had would snap too. Doesn’t make it right, but I’m gonna wait till we potentially see more to REALLY judge her.

I do feel awful for the abuse that Suirei has had to endure for the simple crime of being born. Putting she and her mother out and using them as servants is evil, but again could be the deeds of a deeply broken woman. I just want she and Shisui to get a happy ending, but it’s going to be a big ask given everything going on. My heart broke during the flashback where Shisui talked about how she thought by being the perfect daughter it would stop her mom, but that can’t save her. She’s too far gone.

Back in the palace for the end of the episode and this was one of my fave stretches in Kusuriya so far. Seeing Lakan just not gaf at all about Jinshi’s status and go full protective dad on him was so cool. He wants his daughter back! We also got to see both of Maomao’s dads on screen together which was so cool, it’s funny how Lakan is so respectful with Luomen and crass with Jinshi lol. But the scene of Lakan getting on his knees and pleading in the most sincere way for Jinshi to stop the rebellion and assume his rightful place was incredible.

Y’all I cannot wait to see how this arc plays out. One way or the other, things are NOT going to be the same going forward in this story and I’m so excited.

[lastoneout]

I try not to talk shit about boycotts even if they are the kind that historically don't do any good because I believe in harm reduction and every little bit helps, and also bcs I don't want to discourage people from taking action...but the people saying we just have to keep up the economic blackout for the rest of the foreseeable future and if you need anything just get it from "local/small businesses" clearly all live in cities and/or are not disabled.

Sometimes Walmart is legit your ONLY option for groceries in small towns, and that's because Walmart intentionally drove all the independent stores out of business. I spent a lot of my childhood in a village with a population of 200(and I've spent a lot of my life living in different small towns) and the only local restaurant was open like a handful of completely random days out of the year and when the owner died they closed. If you wanted to buy anything you're either driving to the nearest bigger town to shop at a Walmart or Food Lion or Win-Dixie or Safeway because those are your only options, or buying stuff online and hoping the shipping fees don't cost more than the product itself/that they deliver to your neck of the woods AT ALL.

And that's not even getting into how disability can complicate this. Try buying everything you need at small local businesses when you don't have a car, don't have good/any public transit, the nearest post office is in a different town, you likely aren't getting proper treatment because the only specialist who can help is a 2 hour drive away, your mobility is limited/you're in a wheelchair or use another mobility aid, and you get like less than $1k a month in gov benefits and like $200 in EBT. Most local businesses have to upcharge because they aren't Walmart and $1k a month is NOT enough to shop at them for all your needs. Barely enough to shop for one of your needs, tbh. And these people cannot just leave because that $1300 bucks goes a lot farther in the ass end of nowhere than it does in a city that could actually meet your needs. There's no winning.

(Also sorry if someone has autism or ARFID and all they can stomach is McDonalds or idk Hot Pockets and Uncrustables then I think they deserve to be left the fuck alone to eat whatever food they can. Disabled people get a pass on this, because disabled people suffering and dying is bad and society already treats us like subhuman freaks. Fun tip! If you see your disabled friend who has food texture issues eating chicken nuggets from McDonalds you can try leaving them the fuck alone about it! Hope that helps!! (Like dude I hate shopping at Whole Foods but that is the store with the biggest gluten free section. And I need to eat.)

And like the most annoying thing is that NONE of the people posting about this are suggesting like, any form of mutual aid to support people who can't currently take part for one reason or another? Which is why it doesn't fucking work. Capitalism makes you complicit, it destroys all your other options so that you have to buy from big corporations, and lobbies to ensure this is legal and also all of your non-private options for transportation and necessities are shit and get replaced by slightly better private options BUT only until they reveal they were only being "good" to destroy their competition and now are going to be even worse than the places they ran out of business.

(Also like, I love local businesses too and try to shop at them as much as I can...but they aren't always more ethical than the alternative and acting like they are is profoundly disconnected from reality. In 2016 when I lived in Flagstaff, AZ we voted to raise the state minimum wage to $10 an hour, and Flagstaff specifically voted for $15. This was needed, rent on a studio apartment in 2016 was like $1k and that was BEFORE utilities and internet. And it almost worked, only a coalition of small business owners threw such a massive fit about having to possibly pay their employees enough to survive in an insanely expensive city to live in that the city council REVERSED THE DECISION. Flagstaff is honestly a ridiculously classist city, beat only by the evil rich people paradise that is fucking Sedona(which is almost entirely local businesses, who are owned by people who voted against setting aside one parking lot at a charity for PEOPLE TO SLEEP IN THEIR CARS because you cannot live in Sedona unless you're rich, and the rich people there don't really care if the person working at the crystal shop can't afford to eat or is living out of their car.) Anyway, the poor people in Flagstaff had their say, but our say was not considered good enough, and was fucking overruled to protect the interests of rich assholes who would absolutely love to continue to be able to treat us all like shit and pay us nothing. So yeah. Small/local does NOT mean ethical. I've seen franchised fast food restaurants treat their employees better and pay them more than some small local ones do. And that's not even getting in to how a lot of local businesses are NOT accessible for people with mobility aids. Half the stores on 4th Ave are so small my wheelchair can't fit comfortably inside or have stairs at the entrance. It's always more complicated than just "buy local".)

The people who can afford to avoid stores like Walmart are probably already doing it(you couldn't pay me to go into a Walmart unless it was absolutely necessary, I fucking hate that place SO goddamn much that it legit gives me panic attacks if I'm in there for too long) and the ones who can't afford it can't afford it, and you are offering absolutely no support to help fix that. It's just "shop local! don't go to Walmart or use Amazon!! don't use your debit card!!" with no acknowledgement of those intentionally being the only options a lot of people can fucking afford or that exist at all. That's how capitalism works!! You can't fight it by refusing to accept how it controls people's lives, and pushing people to take part in a broad, directionless boycott with no consideration for the reality of living in America right now or help offered to vulnerable people who legit cannot just shop local is doomed to fail.

If you can shop local(and know the local shops aren't run by power-mad capitalists playing pretend as feudal lords and are not at all better in terms of ethical business than Walmart) and avoid Target and Walmart and McDonalds, by all means, do. If you can help your friends, family, or community members do the same then DO IT. But if your only suggestion is just "stop shopping at anywhere owned by a capitalist" then I'm sorry you have no idea how boycotts work, shouldn't be organizing one, and absolutely should not be pressuring people who cannot reasonably take part without mutual aid offering to support them for however long it goes on for to just, idk fucking starve themselves and die for the greater good.

The Montgomery Bus Boycott worked because the community came together to make sure everyone who took part had a way to get to work and school and the grocery store and the doctor's office. It's just like a strike, you need mutual aid and money to make it possible for people to do it at all, and it does need to be targeted if it's going to register as anything more than a blip on the radar. Pooling money to split a Costco membership with your roommates or neighbors or family and giving them rides there when they need it so you can all spend at a company that has stood up to Trump instead of caving, or idk vandalizing all the Teslas in uh, Minecraft, does more to take money out of the pockets of companies like Walmart and Target and Tesla than shouting at marginalized people on BlueSky about how if they don't figure out how to shop local they're complicit in the evils of capitalism and clearly don't care about building a better world.

[wyn-n-tonic]

That's a Real Fucking Legacy: The Marks You Saw

Pairing: Joel x f!reader (formerly Tommy x f!reader). Word Count: 2.1k+ Warning: Alcohol mention. Drugs mention. Emotional word vomit. Author's Note: And you can tell a friend to tell a friend...she's baaaaack. Not really but I have been dealing with some heavy stressors at work and in my personal life that has stunted my writing so it felt good to get something out that I'm actually proud of. I think? Anyway... no beta, we die like men.

“Do you ever see me?”

Leaning back, you assess the man across from you—the scar that’s nicked into his eyebrow, the freckles that are scattered like spray paint across his nose.

The deep brown, almost black, of his eyes that match his brother’s.

Your daughter’s.

“I'm looking at you right now,” you say and it’s immediately apparent that’s not what he meant.

But you knew that.

“No, sweetheart—“

“I asked you not to call me that,” you remind him. “That's not who we are to one another anymore, Tommy.”

A terse nod.

“And no, I do not see you when I’m with him.”

“Did you ever?”

Did you ever?

Did you?

It’s been so long.

Pushing out a breath, you suggest that maybe you did in the beginning. “I was devastated, Tommy,” you say. “I was imagining the worst things possible, I was having waking nightmares which”—you laugh—“says a lot given the state of our world today. Especially in the Zone.”

His eyes take on that glassy look, the one he gets when he thinks too hard or sits for too long. The same way his brother’s do.

Something you hope your daughter will never mirror.

“But never me? Never now?”

He’s so still, you wish he would move or stand—breathe. It’s still so weird to see him breathing, to see him talking. Instead he just sits there on the other side of the small living room where the only thing that seems to rise and fall is his gaze on every part of you not covered by the threadbare fabric of twenty year old clothes.

“Tommy, I saw you dead and then I saw white, hot blinding rage. But I didn’t go to your brother as a replacement for you, I went because you told me to. If you’re still holding a grudge, I suggest you find whatever’s left of a mirror and confront yourself about it because I didn’t do anything wrong and neither did he.”

“But—“

“Tommy,” you cut him off, “I will always love you but I will never again love you like I did.”

Another nod and he finally does move, readjusting himself slightly in the chair as if he’s uncomfortable. But this discomfort is his own fault. You tell him so as soon as he even dares to say it.

“At some point, Tommy, you have to find closure because we cannot keep having these conversations—“

“Because it’ll hurt my brother’s feelings?”

“Because it’s hurting you, it’s hurting me to hurt you like this over and over again. And, yes, it hurts Joel. If I had ran into your arms when you showed up out of nowhere, he would have stepped to the side and remained quiet and let you back into my life. He still would. He is still afraid that I will decide he is too far gone and too fucked up and he will wake up to an empty bed and an empty crib because I went back to you.”

“Because I’m so easy?” He asks. And, somehow, it’s the first time you smell the whiskey stuck so heavily to him.

At no point during the day have you seen him drinking. Not out in the gardens or the community center. He didn’t even smell like this when he showed up here and you didn’t think his presence was due to anything other than not wanting to be alone.

But that’s as far as memory can serve. Because your attention and all your senses have been occupied by other activities.

Like the smell of the stables when Miri wanted to see the horses.

Or the smell in the crook of her neck, the smell that lingers in her hair.

Pulling her sleeping form tight to your chest, you inhale it again—the soft baby smell that’s going away.

“You are far from easy, Thomas Miller,” you say. “An easy man wouldn’t torture himself like this. But that’s what you’ve always wanted, Tommy. You want to be some complicated soul who saves the day. You already did. Me, Joel, Miri… we’re all here.”

Tommy inhales, deep, and stands to his full height. “I should leave you,” he says, before laughing and pushing both hands through his hair. “I guess I already did that though, huh?”

“Tommy…”

Stopping at the door, he takes another deep breath, his broad back expanding and deflating just as fast as he says, “more and more, I see my brother wearing the same marks you used to give me but it’s different.” A hiccup escapes its way from deep within his chest and he turns until his back is to the door. “He is covered in you in every way I always thought I was.”

“Am I supposed to apologize?”

His head shakes. “No, I-I think I’m trying to apologize to you.”

Looking down again into Miriam’s fragile, sleeping face, you see all the parts of her father truly starting to take shape across her features. Golden skin with a smattering of freckles; a strong nose set against soft cheeks—perfect, gentle little girl who looks like such an imperfect but gentle man.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” you say but when you look back for Tommy, he’s already slipped through the door to make the short walk back across the street to his own home.

Purple blooms beneath the golden skin just below his ear, in that spot that smells most like him. By now, it’s about as permanent as any tattoo ever was because you spend your days and nights putting it there.

But not just there.

He has marks along his collarbone, marks bitten into his chest and shoulders and the side of his hand.

Some happened as a byproduct of stifling your pleasure against his skin. Others because you didn’t catch the moans in time so he had to do it for you. But, if you’re being honest, all of them are a subtle way of saying back off.

Not just to the curious eyes of the horny, lonelier women in the compound but to the world, too.

After all, all these bruises sucked into his flesh are the same purple-red of the knotted scars that have risen like unwelcome mountains across his body.

Your way of saying lust-filled eyes can’t have him and neither can the earth.

Your way of saying mine.

He came home far too late with eyes way too tired. He showered, rubbed mint soap across his body and tried so hard to be quiet on his big, heavy feet. But you were already up, eyes open to stare at the wall while you waited for him to come to bed and the only thing that kept running through your mind is Tommy’s question.

“He asked me if I still saw him,” you whisper across the short distance between where you lay.

“You see him all the time,” Joel says lazily, one arm draped across your body. “Hell, you could go see him right now. Just open the window and throw a rock at his.”

“Joel, you know what he meant,” you say.

“I do,” he affirms. “And I think about the possibility enough already so I don’t need to commiserate it with the target of all my greatest fears.”

A beat passes and his breathing begins to even out and, when you ask him if Tommy is really his biggest fear, you hope he’s already asleep so he doesn’t have to answer it.

So you don’t have to hear it.

Instead, Joel pushes up onto his elbow, body coming to hover over yours as he flips you back into the mattress and says, “he is now.”

“Why?” You ask, circling the edge of one of those darker patches etched into his skin. “Why would Tommy be your biggest fear when you know what’s out there?”

He shrugs and the movement of his body slips your touch further down, over the ridge of the scar to shatter the illusion that it could’ve been just another one of yours. They all look the same in the dark.

In the dark, he was never hurt.

“My brother is always going to love you and he’s always going to think our daughter should be his,” he says. “He's always going to be the first one of us that you loved.”

“That Tommy is gone,” you say. You don’t know how many times you have to say it.

“I see the way he looks at you.”

“It should be the way I look at you that matters,” you tell him. “It should always only ever be the way that I look at you.”

Joel smiles, that lone dimple pocketing his left cheek, as he drops himself down across you and all of his weight from all of this world comes down with him as your arms wrap around his neck with fingers tangled into wild, unkempt curls that have gone so gray.

That’s when his breathing does even out, soft snores overtaking him as you keep lying there and looking at the ceiling.

In the dark, he was never hurt and it hits you then that the dark is the only place Tommy lets himself hurt.

Sunrises aren’t your thing but you’re already up and dressed by the time it comes around. Usually, by the time you wake, most of the compound is up and working—playing in the sun where you don’t like to be.

For so long, night hasn’t been safe. Not even back in Boston. But here? It’s safe for you. He was never hurt in the dark, your face was never gray and bloodshot in the dark. Miri never had to see her parents falling apart in the dark.

That’s where Tommy finds you. Sitting on the rickety old bench outside in his yard, watching your breath swirl through the air in the early morning light, your feet kicking like a little kid’s.

“You're up early,” he drawls. He sounds like shit.

“Couldn’t sleep,” you say.

“You want coffee?” He asks.

“That depends,” you say, “you still slipping Seth’s rust bucket”—your nose scrunches—“whatever he has the audacity to call that in there?”

Tommy smiles for the first time in a while. “It's alcohol,” he says.

“It's piss,” you retort. “And no, I don’t want that or the coffee it goes in. I just need to say something to you.”

He moves to sit before you stop him, pulling back further into the old, worn wood as you push your hand out. If he’s hurt about that, he doesn’t let it show.

“I’m giving you until the end of the day to toss every drop of everything you’re hoarding,” you tell him. “The pills, the booze. I find it incredibly disconcerting that we’ve made it this far in a world without everything that you’ve been able to find it.”

“Swee—“

“No,” you cut him off. “I let you do a whole lot of speaking last night, Tommy, and I let you hurt me. I have continued to let you hurt me and hurt my husband and I will not let you do that any longer. I don’t care that you’re a grown man, I don’t care that you blame me for this broken heart of yours, but I do care about you. Because, yeah, I put myself all over him. I dig my nails and my teeth and the heels of my feet into him every chance I get. But I do it because of you.”

“To make me jealous?” He asks, eyes narrowed.

Laughing, your head shakes. “Because I lost you,” you tell him. “All I had was a note that said you wanted better for me and all I thought about was how it really meant you wanted better than me. You pushed yourself out into this world without so much as a goodbye and you had no parts of me stuck to you reminding you to come home. I don’t make that mistake with Joel.”

“He's the better for you.” It’s not a question. Tommy Miller may be a lot of things but he is not a dumb man.

“Yeah,” you affirm, pushing off the bench to stand, “and I need you to get your shit together so you can find the better than me.”

He doesn’t speak, there’s no response even as you step back towards your own house across the street but it doesn’t matter and you won’t hear it.

Quietly, you push the door closed, toeing off your shoes at the entrance and pulling each layer from your body before crawling back into the bed you left an hour ago.

And if Joel noticed, if he woke up, it didn’t keep him that way. He doesn’t stir when you force your cold body back beneath his either. It’s enough to bring a very silent prayer forward from your lips to the same ceiling you stared at for so long last night.

The Tommy that could’ve been died in your heart a long time ago and it’s about time the one who scares Joel does, too.

[degloved]

so one thing that i noticed immediately reading sotr is that yes, they're poor, but they're not katniss-poor (and the everdeens were one of the better off families in the seam at that.) in only 25 years, they all collectively went from "getting by" to "starving in the streets like dogs." that's not a natural progression of things.

clearly, obviously, even before katniss, snow has had d12 in his sights in a very real but subtle way. you look at the state of d12 and see a dirty starved depressed population fenced in like cattle, and you think "this is a place forgotten by its master." but it's not. it's never been. he is systematically, one lost penny by another, breaking them down. taking their resources and killing them off slowly, torturously.

but you can't do that to your workers if you want to reap the fruits of their labor, especially not those who work intense physical jobs like coal mining—where their life expectancy is reduced even more so due to chemical exposure and explosive accidents. unless... you don't really need those workers, right? unless their output isn't that valuable. unless you can get coal from, say, district 2. or elsewhere. the living conditions of d12 are unparalleled in their misery—nowhere is as bad as there, because nowhere else is being punished. people are poor, but they get by. even 12 used to get by once.

my next point—snow could've bombed d12 at any point. he did not need them, he needed them even less than he needed d13 & yet 13 is gone but 12 stands. and, well, turns out one can come by "graphite" (nuclear energy) some other way. i'm sure that ever since then and maybe before that, they've known they can't put their eggs all in one basket. further proving 12's meager coal output doesn't exactly make the whole panem go round.

we can reasonably conclude that the districts 11, 12 and 13 have historically been the most troublesome. in sotr, d11 tributes refuse to join the careers—they walk around with an air of indifference about the games. loulou, the hijacked 12 year old—also from 11. so, her parents were... rebels? traitors? someone that "warranted" this (nevermind that none of those horrors can be called warranted in the first place.) in cf, d11 openly show a smidgen of rebellious energy during katniss' victory tour, being sort of the embers of a possible uprising. clearly, this is a district that is & has been less likely to cooperate than the others. d12—same thing. haymitch, katniss, lucy grey, and probably dozens of people before them and between them—especially of the covey.

they're... scheme-y. and snow knows this. and so it follows that it's not shocking, can't be, that those so-called "outer districts" are said to be the poorest. they're kept down, systematically, with hunger and poverty, because when they're not hungry and impoverished, they Do Some Shit. hell, they do some shit even when they are. but snow, equally, cannot resist sadism. he could bomb them immediately, yeah, wipe them clean off the face of the planet like he did d13. he doesn't need them, their output, their workers. really, having peacekeepers there and such is just a waste of money. but he loves taking his resentment out on them, he loves to see them suffer, he loves to reap their children. and that eventually costs him everything. because he didn't—couldn't, for his own twisted reasons—destroy them when he still had the chance.

edit to add: i can't believe i forgot this (i was tired) but let's not forget reaper in the 10th games, the district 11 tribute, who (1) killed a peaceekeeper back home and (2) tore a panem flag off the wall to make a morgue for the fallen tributes within the arena. i fear d11 has BEEN that girl !!!!

[snzydarling]

omggggg can i request megumi who gets hit with a cursed spirit that makes him sooo sneezy and he’s so grumpy that he cannot control it

Hi I want you to know that im actually in love with you for this request..... thank u so much....

Safe as Houses

megumi, yuuji, established ita/fushi (JJK) cw: snz kink content !!!! lots of mess notes: hi i litr feel like i hijacked this so I hope u still like it (;´∀｀) i rlly tried to just let myself write however I wanted to which is what you can thank the mess 4.... ... obvi this takes place post - canon in the pro sorcerer / evb lives au !! Hope u all enjoy (^ー^)

All things considered, Yuuji was having a great day. 

They were called to a small cluster of grade-1 curses hiding out in an abandoned factory, weak enough that the two of them had split up early on. Megumi had summoned his dog and went off to a side hallway while Yuuji travelled down the main path. Besides the faint warbling of curses, everything had been silent in his direction. 

Yuuji was traveling with an extra hop in his step. It wasn’t often they got to do jobs together- the shortage of sorcerers was never-ending, even though the number of curses was nowhere near what it used to be. It was their last job of the day, too, so they had the rest of the night together. He’d just finished off the last curse- some big, hulking thing, and was wiping thick blood from his hands when his phone started ringing. 

It took a second for him to find it. His screen lit up with Megumi’s contact name and picture- one of him with a hint of a smile on his face, on his birthday, with frosting smeared on the corner of his mouth. 

He answers, and there’s nothing besides breathing. “Megumi? What’s up?” He can’t pretend there isn’t worry seeping into his voice. The veil must’ve lifted, but he still could’ve been injured. He tries again. “Megs? Are you okay?” Finally, some noise comes. Sniffling, then more breathing, then sneezing. 

“hH’cshh - tZch - i’tzhh -! H’tszh - tzchh-!” Megumi gasps for breath, and it crackles through the phone. “ ‘tzshh - t’SCHhiew-  ! YuhH - Yuuji-” Yuuji sighs with relief, and clutches his heart. It hammers against his palm. 

“Megumi! Bless-“ he’s cut off by another gasp, then a flurry of sneezes. “ ‘tZSHh - ‘tzsh - ‘tschh - i’ZSCHhi-!” “Bless you!” He tries again. “You okay?” 

“k’tCHh - i’tZCHh-! I can- can-tSZHhi-! Shit!” The sound of wet, vigorous scrubbing comes through the speaker. Yuuji frowns. “Where are you?” He brings the speaker up to his ear to listen for Kuro barking, but he's silent. 

“Don’t come over-” He breaks off into coughing. Itchy, breathless coughing, like he’s allergic to something. “ ‘ktZCHh-! I’kszhh - tzshh-! i’tZSHhiewh-! Ugh. Don’t come over, Yuuji, i’IZSHh-! ‘ktzshh- tZShh-! I’m not-iZSHhih!” Yuuji can hear him throw an angry hand up. “Megumi, what’s wrong?” 

“ N - Nothing! Just go - iH’KZSHhi-! Just go home. hH- it’TCHhi-!” Kuro growls at something in the distance. Probably just expressing his owner's irritation. Something must be wrong, but he can’t find Megumi like this. His energy is too faint.  

He can’t just leave him, though, even if Megumi is too stubborn to realize that. His sneezes are always fitish and pitchy, but this is a different level. He can’t seem to even communicate, so something must be wrong. Kuro seems fine, so he tries something else. 

“Kuro, speak!” Obedient, it barks. Yuuji had been trying to train him like a dog for years, and it's finally worked out. If Megumi was okay, he’d tell him he told him so. 

Yuuji makes quick work of finding Megumi. Kuro meets him in the doorway, tail wagging. The curse is gone, so he must’ve already eaten. 

Even though he loves Kuro, he's not his priority. He has to scan the room for a second to find Megumi, hiding in the corner. He looks like he's sulking. The lights are on in the building, but they’re old, so he's shrouded in shadows. His head is down, and Yuuji kind of feels like he should approach him like a scared animal. 

The floorboards are old. They creak under his step. Megumi jerks up- weird, because he should’ve already felt his energy, but Yuuji doesn’t get the chance to figure out what’s wrong. 

“ ‘tSZhhi - tSCHhih-! ih’TZSHhih! ikZSHh-!” His energy crackles and pops, almost like it's mad. Megumi curls over into his elbow. “ ‘tZSHhi-! ’iSSHh - iZSHhi-!” When Yuuji tries to approach, he’s met with a shaky palm, like some kind of barrier. Kuro barks at him from the doorway. “  iH’kZSHhi-!  iH’TzCHhi-! G-hH! go away, Yuuji’tZSHhi- ‘tzsHh-!” Poor guy. He’s not reacting to him, is he? Just to test it, he steps back, but Megumi keeps sneezing. 

“ ‘tZCHh-! I’kTZHhh - i’tZSHhi-!” If he can get near, he’s fine to touch him, right? Megumi pulls away when he sits next to him, but he can’t do much else. 

Gently as he can, Yuuji pries Megumi’s face from his elbow and lifts him up. As much as he wants to respect his privacy and everything, it kind of seems like he can’t breathe right now. He’s sniffling all needily, nose scrunched like he's trying not to sneeze again. It doesn’t last. 

“ hH - hI’tZShhi-! ‘zshh - kZSHh - k’tChh-!” He tries to turn away, hiding the next flurry in cupped hands. This one gives him a second to breathe, thank God. Each inhale is punctuated by sniffles. 

Yuuji can finally get a good look at him then. His face is flushed red and wet. Tear tracks run down his cheeks, and there’s dampness under his nose that he's trying hard to sniffle back. Yuuji tries to find some tissues, but comes up empty. After just a moment, Megumi suddenly starts writhing away. 

“ ‘iZSCHhi- ! Yuuji-!” He’d kind of forgotten he was holding him. He lets go with a sorry that Megumi probably doesn’t hear. “ k’ZSCHh-! ‘Izshh - tzSHh - hHi-! hH’iZSCHh-iew!” Each release is messier than his typical sneeze. Megumi confirms this with a string of mess clinging to his lip when he pulls away from his hands. 

Megumi jerks away even further, face beet red, but he doesn’t really care. He just wants to get Megumi out of here. 

Yuuji tries to think as Megumi tries to clean himself up. The material of his uniform is rough, leaving his nose red, and it irritates it even more because the next fit is Megumi’s most desperate yet. He gasps into it, and it sounds like a whine. 

“ ‘tZSHhi-! hI’kZSHh - i’kZSHhi-! it‘TZCHhi-!” It’s times like these when Yuuji wishes they knew sign language, like Inumaki and Yuuta do. They can both say things like ‘yes’ and ‘no’ and ‘okay’, and he’s pretty sure he remembers most of the alphabet, but Megumi obviously isn’t okay, and he probably couldn’t keep his hands free for long enough to say anything. The same goes for their phones. 

“  iH’KZSHhi-! ‘iZSCh- t’ZSCHh-iewh-!” Finishing off the yet irritated and kind of loud for Megumi, clears him out in the form of glistening wetness down his chin. His sleeves are already wet and clearly not helping much, but the fabric of Yuuji’s outfit is softer. He offers his sleeve quietly, and Megumi kind of snarls at him and scrubs his nose against his shoulder instead. 

It leaves a wet patch, and Megumi hitches again. Yuuji thinks he looks cute when he's trying not to sneeze, usually, all fluttering eyelashes and parted lips, but he’s too worried to cook over it right now. He hopes the last one gave them a second to talk and tries again. 

“Megumi, what happened?” He gets a sideways glare, but Megumi eventually stutters out “A curse.” It’s breathless, like his lungs are too busy fluttering to give him enough air to talk. “Can I see your face?” If Yuuji asks, maybe he’ll be less snappy. It doesn’t work. 

Instead, Megumi shakes his head, unable to actually answer. It’d probably be kind of mean if he could. When he discovers it again, seconds later, it's turned even further away from Yuuji. 

“ h’tZSCHh-! ‘izshh - tzSHh - iSCHh-  hH-! hI’iZSCHh-iew!” It seems like holding them back really isn’t doing him any good. The hand he puts on his back only lasts until he's done sneezing, then he gets shoved off. 

“Why are you being so weird?” He asks, before he can help it. They were over this months ago, Megumi’s tendency to push away. The wall between them is physical now.

”Because-” Megumi breaks off to sniffle desperately. “I’m gross,” he murmurs. There’s something deeper there; he can hear it in Megumi’s tone, but Yuuji doesn’t feel like pushing. He’d rather focus on the more physical problem. 

Every time Megumi sneezes, his cursed energy pops and sparks, and Kuro phases with it. When Megumi muffles a rapid “ ‘kZSHh - i’ZChh - i’tZCHhi-!” into his shoulder, Kuro warps into half-melted shadow before returning to normal once he's done, so he can’t carry Megumi. That means all of the shadows are out of the question, and Yuuji can’t summon any shikigami. Looks like Megumi is gonna have to suck it up. 

“I know-“ “ ‘IZSHh-u!” “Bless you! I know you don't want to, but I’m gonna have to carry you.” Megumi scowls. “I can walk.” He grumbles, standing up tall like it’ll prove a point to Yuuji. Jeez, he's in a bad mood. 

They last all of a few seconds like that. Megumi, face flushed and scrunched and quivering, and Yuuji hovering awkwardly. It isn’t much of a surprise to either of them when Megumi breaks the silence, no matter how hard he's fighting it. 

“hI’tZShhi-! ‘zshh - iZSHh - k’tChh-! hH-! iZSCh - zSHh - tZSHu-!” He takes in another rapid set of gasps, taking the time to glare at Yuuji’s concerned face. “ ‘IZSHh- ‘ZSHhi - hHi’TZSHh-! hI - idZSHh - tzSHh - tSCHhi -!’

God, he can’t stop. Something about trying to hold them back, maybe? The next set is broken only by a need for air. Yuuji grabs his shoulders, holding him steady while he sneezes and sneezes. 

Once he catches a lance of Megumi between cycles of gasping breaths and rapid releases, there’s strings of mess clinging to his lips. The next inhale is basically a whimper, head Theon back like he's praying for something. The fluorescent light shines against the dampness painted on his face.

“ ‘tZSHh - iH’tZSCHh-iew!” Immune system or curse or whatever it is momentarily satisfied, he slumps a little against Yuuji. One hand comes to scrub at his nose, mess ticking against his skin. Yuuji rubs his hand along his shoulder, frowning when they’re already trembling with uneven breaths. 

“Just try to let them out.” He says and hopes Megumi is too tired to keep fighting him. He gets a look beneath weighed-down eyelashes. His face crumbles again, but it's a little softer this time. 

“hH’iSHhi-! i’ZSHh - it’ZSHhiew-!” Once again, he's left sniffling the mess for a second. Yuuji breathes with him. “Bless you! Can we go home now?” It’s starting to get chilly, and Megumi’s in need of a good mose blow. He sort of wants to call Ieri too, and see if they can do anything about this. 

Megumi shakes his head. “Ill- iZSHh-yu! I can’t really walk.” Yuuji pats his shoulder a few times. He looks really pathetic. Megumi shrugs him off, like he can read his thoughts. “I’ll carry you!” 

“I’ll sn-i’ZSHh- ! Sne-e’tZSHh-yu! Damn.” Megumi sighs, gesturing vaguely instead like he is saying ‘you get the point.’ Yuuji does. Frankly. He’s had enough of Megumi on him that he’s beyond caring, but he might shove him away if he says that. 

“Bless you! I don’t mind, promise.” Even if he did, his worry about Megumi would’ve overpowered it. It’s not like they have much choice anyway. Megumi huffs. He opens his mouth to say something, probably argues more, but he takes a quick breath and dissolves again instead. 

“ hH’kZSHh-! ‘dZSH-yh!” At least they’re softer, even if they drip snot down his lip. “ ‘dshh - tZch - i’tzshh -! hd’tSh-  H’dtszh-iew!”. The rapid-release flurry seems to drain whatever fight’s left in him. 

   Yuuji kneels, wincing when the coldness of concrete seeps through his pants. Megumi presses against his back for a second, about to get on, but then Yuuji feels his chest expand and the contact is gone again. 

“hD’zZSHh-yu!” Megumi sniffles lots of times behind him. When he gets on his back, Yuuji can hear his stuffy breath in his ear, warming his neck. 

They make it about a minute before he's sneezing again, long enough to make it a few paces down the street. If the way Megumi’s chest has been stuttering against him is anything to go by, it's only because he was holding back again. 

“‘dZShu - iZSHh - ‘tZSHh - iD’ZSHh-yh!” Megumi’s elbow brushes against his back. A couple droplets of mess land on his neck, sending goosebumps down his spine. With every release, Yuuji feels tired muscles clench against him. Another rapid triple finished off this set, all contained in one breath. Megumi sighs out a “sorry” at the same time as Yuuji calls back a “Bless you!” 

Yuuji tried to keep track of how much Megumi sneezed on the way back, but he lost track pretty quickly. They’re slowing down, just enough for him to get a sentence in. Two, if he talks quickly. 

After a moment of fumbling with the keys, Yuuji deposits Megumi on the couch and finds him a change of clothes. He blows his nose for a long time, muffles a percussive “ d’zshhi - ‘dtZShh - idT’SHhi-!”, then has to blow again into a new tissue. Yuuji sits in the kitchen watching him through the steam of the kettle. The congestion has all settled, which has been making him cough and his voice crackle in his throat. Besides, Megumi’s getting annoyed with all his worrying, so the kitchen is probably a good place for him to be. 

Megumi jumps a little when the kettle blows. Yuuji’s pretty sure he was starting to fall asleep, which is really cute, but he's got to stay awake long enough to talk and shake and take a bath. He grabs a box of tea that’s energy boosting, according to the box, and puts a bunch of honey into Megumi’s, because that's supposed to help irritated throats. 

He’s sneezing into the sleeve of a worn sweatshirt when he enters back into the living room. Softly, a tickly sounding “ hH’tzshh - ‘tsHh-iewh!” that seems a lot better now that he's not so stuffed up. 

He takes the cup with both hands, nodding his gratitude. There’s already a damp spot on his sleeve. Yuuji plops down with a contented sigh, bumping their shoulders together. He sips his own tea, some blend of citrus and vanilla that warms his whole body. 

He gets so comfortable that he almost forgets about calling for a second, just until Megumi starts tensing next to him again. 

“ ‘tzsHhih! hH’zshh-! i’tSHh-yu!” He moves his face from cotton to tissues, sniffling. “Bless you,” Yuuji says, fumbling around for his phone. He thinks he dropped it for a second, heart sinking because having to get a new phone would really suck, but it turns out he had just moved it to his jacket pocket before picking Megumi up. 

Ieri answers on the fifth ring, voice soft and tired. “Hey. What’s up?” Looking at the time, it's actually pretty late. He doesn’t get to apologize, though, because another voice cuts through. 

“Itadori! Yeah, what’s up? Your mission go okay? Gojo. Megumi stiffens next to him, sending a look that’s watery and a little distressed. Telling Ieri you can’t stop sneezing is one thing- she might huff out a laugh, but it's right to business after that. Gojo is an entirely different beast. 

“Hi! It went well! It’s just, um.” Megumi kicks him in the shins, albeit gently. Looking over at him again, his nose is twitching with a promise. “Just what? Are you embarrassed about something?” Megumi mutters something like ‘mute the phone’ between breaths, but Yuuji thinks that might make him even more suspicious. 

“No! Mgumi’s got kind of an issue. He got hit and now he-" “ ‘IZSHh- ‘dZSh - hHd’TZSHh - ‘dZSHh-yh!” Megumi interrupts him in rapid succession.  giving him just a second to breathe before his eyelids flutter shut again. Once he finally finishes sneezing and starts sniffling into a tissue, his ears are red. Yuuji murmurs “bless you” and gets a glare as thanks. 

There’s silence on the other end. Yuuji can almost see his face. Ieri, half disgusted and half curious, and Gojo. Grinning ear to ear because Megumi’s unlucky enough that his sneezes are so obviously him. 

“Woah, Megumi! Bless you! You catch something?” He can hear the smile. Megumi sniffs, moving the tissues away from his face to talk. “No.” Is all he says. Ieri sighs.

”So what’s going on, seriously? I’m too tired to guess.” Fair enough. So Yuuji tells her, mouthing a sorry to Megumi, who’s glaring hard at nothing. When he finishes, Ieri hums, tapping something against a notebook. 

“It's not super uncommon for curses to have this sort of effect. Megumi, you said you felt fine?” Yuuji brings the phone closer to him, and he clears his throat before answering with a simple “yeah.” Faintly, he can hear Gojo cackling. 

“I think you're just going to have to wait it out. Some allergy meds might help with the congestion, but that's about it.” Megumi hums. There's an unpleasant noise coming through the speaker for a second, then Gojo's voice is loud. 

“Poor Megumi!” He coos. Megumi scowls, scrunching his nose for a second. “I wish I got to see it! How cute!” Megumi makes a move to hang up the call, but his body gets the best of him. 

“hd’zshh-! ‘dZShhi - id’tSHhih-! hH - ” Gojo babbles something. “ h’iZSHh-iewh!” He had to duck into the collar of his sweatshirt, since those were so quick. He's frowning deeply when he resurfaces.  

“Thank you, Ieri.” He says, cutting off whatever nonsense Gojo is chattering off. “Goodbye.” He hangs up the phone in Yuuji's hand and slumps back against the couch. Yuuji sets it down and takes Megumi's hand, rubbing his thumb along soft skin and bone china-white scars. “You want to take a bath? Might help.” 

They ruled out some kind of pollen or spores when Megumi changed, but a bath should at least make him feel a little better. 

Megumi nods, then twitches into his wrist a few times. “ h’ISHh-! hiD’tzshh - id’ZSHhi-!” Yuuji gives his hand one last squeeze before he goes and starts the bath. 

It's a pretty quick affair. Megumis sensitive and tired, and something about the strands keeps sending him into itchy, rapid fits. When Yuuji puts shampoo in his hair, he gasps and lets out a rapid flurry of sneezes, and doesn't stop until he rinses it out. 

Once Megumi's dry, hair mussed, he looks like he could fall asleep standing up. Yuuji drags him to bed, since it's pretty late anyway, and Megumi watches him quietly through puffy eyelids. 

They curl up in bed a couple of minutes later. Yuuji rubs his back when another fit overtakes him, and hands him a tissue when he pulls away from his sleeve. Megumi's asleep minutes later. 

Yuuji stays awake to watch him, just to be sure. He's still stuffy, even though the bath helped a little, lips parted and breathing through his mouth. His nose is red-rimmed and abused. Every so often, it twitches, like he's itchy even in his sleep. 

Yuuji follows him to sleep, and neither of them wakes up until noon. Megumi's fine, if a bit sniffly, and Gojo texted at around 9 this morning, reading ‘Good morning ( ^-^)ノ☆ !! Guess who took you two off the roster for today?? Rest up (*≧∇≦)ﾉ’, so Yuuji texts back a ‘thank u (^○^)’ through bleary eyes. 

Gojo responds quickly with a ‘Megumi OK??’, so Yuuji snaps a sneaky picture of him. He's blinking away sleep, sporting a terrible redhead. Gojo hears it and starts typing, but he puts his phone down and watches Megumi instead. 

“You hungry?” He asks after a while, once Megumi’s awake enough to listen. He nods, bumping Yuuji's chest with the top of his head. He's always quiet for a while after he wakes up. 

He kisses Megumi softly, and his lips are a little chapped. They twitch upwards against Yuuji's own. They're always okay together. 

[fastlikealambo]

The third wife of rhaenyra targaryen.|| rhaenyra targaryen x black!fem reader

In the five years since Queen Rhaenyra The Conqueror, Bringer of New Valyria, triumphed over the usurper without losing a single dragon, the realm is at peace. Having no need of husbands and taking two other wives, Queen Alicent and Queen Mysaria, the dragon queen is in need of a third and final wife to rule the seven kingdoms at her side.

You were just a girl from nowhere, watching the sky fill with dragons at peace, destined to be a scullery maid in a vicious household and the future wife of a ratcatcher until fate and blood decide your future for you. 

History will remember Rhaenyra Targaryen as the great unifier, the second coming of Visenya Targaryen who brought another golden age of dragons out of war. But they will sing songs of you, the smallfolk who ascended to fire and blood as the queen’s favorite, the one they tried to kill so many times, the third wife of rhaenyra targaryen.

Some notes: Aegon, Aemond, and Daemon are dead but their dragons were saved, Alicent and Haelena were sent to Oldtown, and Otto Hightower and Criston Cole spontaneously combusted, I don’t know what to tell yall. Luke lived, Jaehaerys lived, Baela and Rhaena are happy goddammit. 

Some other notes: This is dark, Rhaenyra is in her Paul Atreides era, and I drew some inspiration from Cinderella and Hurrem Sultan (the fictional representation of her from the show's magnificent century but nobody I know watches that show). Rhaenyra is in her thirties and reader is in her twenties. 

Trigger warnings for violence, murder, abuse. MINORS DNI

This is a rough teaser chapter to see if there’s any interest in this fic so if you like it please reblog it or leave a comment! Feedback is how I write :)

Chapter One: the fate of a flea. 

 “I heard she fed her husband to Syrax!”

 “I heard she burned the last two wives!”

 “She's going to choose me, there’s no doubting that.”

 “ Yeah, to be her cupbearer!”

You tried to block out the chatter of your employer and her daughters and concentrate on mending one of their hems, but each bump  from your place on the floor of the rickety carriage, made it near impossible.  

“Hurry up Flea, we’re almost there!” One of the daughters said, her slipper meeting your ribs to make you go faster but you dared not complain. 

You would have been there an hour ago but the decision to take the carriage was not your own. You would have much preferred to watch the dragons arrive with your mother in the market, far from the crowds that propelled them towards The Red Keep. 

 You needed the coin and being some rich lady’s maid who couldn’t afford the proper ones with training but could afford you instead kept good bread on the table. 

Or at least it did.

The Lady hadn’t paid you in two weeks.

  “Remember to smile when you’re presented before the Queen, smile and be silent. Perhaps if you do well, she’ll want two wives instead of one and we’ll never have to rewear a gown again. New gowns and maids who actually know what they’re doing.” The Lady said and you didn’t have to lift your gaze to know she was staring at you.

  “Don’t worry Flea, you’ll have a place in the dragon queen’s court. We’ll put in a good word with the ratcatcher!”

All three of them exploded with laughter at that and when the carriage came to a sudden stop you were too happy to watch them slide all over the carriage.

  “I’m sorry mistress, this is as far as I can go.” The driver said.

The daughters adjusted themselves before leaving the carriage, ignoring their mother’s calls to wait for her,

It was now or never.

“My lady, I need to speak with you.”

  “You’ll stay in the carriage, the queen need not see you.” The Lady said, starting to move towards the door.

  “My lady, you have not paid me. I have waited and waited and happily assisted with all the preparations but I cannot go home without coin today.  Please, my mother needs me, I’ll take half if you have that right now but we have no more bread.” You said quietly but firmly.

   “You haven’t earned your pay for the full day yet so we’ll discuss this no further.”

    “My lady, my mother is-

    “Your mother will have to make do as the rest of the smallfolk do. Perhaps she can have that bowl of brown I always hear about. I’m sure she’ll-

You’re not quite sure what happened next but it ended with The Lady dead on the carriage floor, her neck at an odd angle, face bloody and concaved.

You sank to the floor beside your dead employer, your fearful cries went unheard as the sound of Syrax’s roar filled the air around King’s Landing.

Queen Rhaenyra had arrived.

Her daughters would see you dead for this, your mother would starve, your life was lost.

Unless it wasn’t.

As luck or the gods would have it, The Lady bled into her own hair and not a single drop had spilled on the crimson colored gown. 

It seems you have time to finish the hems after all.

“You stand before Queen Rhaenyra of House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, Princess of Dragonstone, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men,  Lady of The Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, Bringer of New Valyria.  Why should you sit by her side?”

The same question had been asked of every lady in front of you who entered the throne room and each dismissed moments later either by Princess Rhaenys, the Hand of The Queen or Queen Rhaenyra herself. You could not bring yourself to look at the queen each time the doors opened and closed, a single glance in her direction would bring you to further ruin.

Both The Lady’s daughters could not see you but you could see them each leave the throne room in tears. 

A chance to be queen would not be the only thing they would mourn today. 

The doors opened and you found yourself escorted into the throne room. 

“You stand before Queen Rhaenyra of House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, Princess of Dragonstone, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men,  Lady of The Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, Bringer of New Valyria.  Why should you sit by her side?”

You looked at the dragon queen in all her beauty and might upon the Iron Throne and instantly it all became clear.

You would not leave this room in tears. 

  “I wish to be anointed.”

the story continues here.

@asvterias

@nxcxllxsevens

@newcaptainofsquad9

[blorbocedes]

Hiii - for the fic prompts:

girlcedes - 7. Trapped in a room/closet/elevator

Lewis is glaring at Nico like she orchestrated this.

"I have places to be too." Nico says out loud, in her general direction. They're standing as far you can socially distance on an elevator. An elevator that the intercom buzzed in and reported would take fifteen minutes to send in the guys to fix. That was twenty minutes ago. Such glitz and glamour to live in Monaco.

"Not you. Claustrophobia." Lewis grits her teeth. She's sitting in a corner, squatting in her Dior running shoes. Probably showing off her knees can still take it.

Nico's leaning by the glass mirror because she's wearing a white pantsuit.

Oh right. Claustrophobia. Nico always forgets because it's always funny, the cars they drive in is more cramped than the spacious elevator. But it's about control, she gets that. Lewis in a Formula 1 car is just an extension of her body. But Lewis would always keep the door of the drivers room open, back in Mercedes.

"How are you scared of this and not jumping off a plane? It should be child's cake to you. Hm, that's not right. Child's play?" Nico frowns trying to locate the metaphor in the medley of languages in her brain. She speaks mostly to keep Lewis distracted. Nico herself is not, her positive outlook mantras covered this. Negative thoughts cannot happen if you don't let it. That's why she never checked her portfolio after the AI company she invested in rugpulled millions. It simply does not exist if she doesn't give it the power to.

"Skydiving is incredibly safe," Lewis bites the bait, "It's safer than scuba diving. And you're in control the whole time."

"All it takes is one parachute not opening." Nico shrugs. Even the thought makes her shudder. Absolutely not.

"Good thing they strap you with two then." Lewis drawls. She doesn't say it, too graceful these days, but the idiot is implied.

Nico rolls her eyes but is beaten in the marketplace of ideas.

She turns to the mirror, her shoulder length blonde hair bouncing. There's a pimple cropping up under her chin, she can feel it. She presses down on it, warning it to stay there.

"Don't do that - you look fine." Lewis is frowning, looking up at Nico from where she's crouched.

Nico used to obsessively poke and prod at her face staring at the mirror as a teenager. She's a little embarrassed Lewis remembers from their days of sharing rooms during karting.

"It's the only mirror time I get. Vivi and I are very mindful of not passing any body insecurities to the girls. Entering the pre-teens is a very impressionable time." Nico explains. She doesn't need her daughters rubbing off on her complexes.

Lewis gets up, lithe like a cat, in her oversized crewneck. She looks pointedly at the lack of ring on Nico's hand. "How's the divorce going?"

Nico purses her lips. "Conscious uncoupling. Very well, thank you. How's Ferrari?" She switches the subject. "Learn any Italian yet?"

"I've downloaded Duolingo." Lewis smiles, sheepishly, the gap in her teeth is still charming even after all these years.

"I remember teaching you some." In bed, tangled up in each other, another lifetime ago.

"I'm sure none of that was usable, man."

"Hm. You should try ti va di fare dolce su e giù?" Nico smirks.

"What does it mean?" Lewis asks.

Nico just smiles in that way when she knows something Lewis doesn't. "I'm sure Leclerc will be down. Happy to... accommodate." The double entendre in her voice gives it away.

Lewis takes a step closer, her hand on the railing where Nico is standing. And suddenly, the elevator feels like a much smaller space, with nowhere to hide. She shakes her head, the rings on her tattooed hands glittering. Nico feels strangely naked without hers. "He's not my type."

Nico leans forward. "And who is?"

The elevator doors ding open. They are on Lewis' floor.

[wincore]

indelicate | liu yangyang

pairing: yangyang x fem!reader

synopsis: missing the last train out of new shanghai was not on the to-do list. however, your project partner liu yangyang promises fun, dazzling lights, and the warmth of a human connection for this festive weekend. perhaps even in the era of diamond and steel, the human touch means something after all.

genre: oriental cyberpunk, f2l, fluff

warning(s): swearing & several innuendos. also out-of-date jokes sorry guys i wrote this in 2021

words: 11.9k

a/n: this is just a rework of an old fic i posted here with another character! if you find any inconsistencies, it's probably because of that LOL also this is not a wincore revival but i did miss everyone on here !!

i. city plaza

Some idiot, somewhere along in history, decided to renovate a city into something so dazzling that the population shoots up to a hundred and fifty percent of what was before, and the rest of the damage comes along with the people. Promises are made and broken to build this city of extravagance. You have the belief that the more people there are in one place, the more difficult it gets to live there. This dazzling hellscape means colliding into too many people on the streets, too many bright lights outside your dorm room when you’re trying to sleep and the god awful sound of deafening firecrackers at every new year celebration.

Another idiot somehow roped you into his ‘midnight adventure: traditional version’ once he heard you missed the last train ticket out of the city. Liu Yangyang has a terrible way with words—but he has a way.

You were, by some unfortunate gamble of the gods, partners for a project that accounted for sixty percent of the grade. While that affair is over, you still haven't rid yourself of the predicament that is Yangyang. Gorgeous, yes, but too overwhelming. You smack your head against the car window only for him to jump in his seat beside you, hand gently driving over your forehead to check for damage. The neon city lays around you, and festive light projections float across the sky in intricate shapes of the ox and written messages. This is going nowhere. You came to this city sacrificing everything and yet suddenly, everything’s hanging on a string again.

The city lights of New Shanghai are cruel. Everything in this place is cruel.

Which is exactly why you’re in Yangyang’s car, parked by the middle level city plaza on New Year’s Eve. It is, in fact, illegal to hover by the city plaza on New Year’s Eve but Yangyang seems to either not care or simply doesn’t know. You forget the law doesn’t exist for rich kids. Out of all man-made wonders, rules are the most interesting. 

“Shall we go?” he asks, voice bubbly as ever. Every morning, he chirps like the alarm birds outside your window. Yes, it has made you want to sleep forever at times.

“It’s just one night. And I’ll be with you, so you don’t have to be afraid.”

“I’m not afraid,” you snap. 

“Not afraid of the dark either?”

You pull your jacket closer to you. Here, the cold streets of the techno-jungle make you shiver more often than not. If you dare go out without friends, a city so grand will inevitably drain the life out of you. Your body alone cannot withstand the dazzle. And—you can’t be afraid of the dark after you’ve complained about the lights.

You look at Yangyang and back to the cityscape outside—large conglomerative blocks of buildings, some hosting advertisements with the faces of inhumanly beautiful models and some with the ‘Happy New Year!’ text animation floating about in increasingly complex patterns. You see the revolving top of one of the grandest skyscrapers, a Dior hotel, not the tallest but certainly the most pleasing to look at. It gleams from red to orange like the pulsating heart of a giant metropolitan beast. There are more funky buildings to look at, some not even the shape of austere corporate skyscrapers.

“Do you wanna go there?” Yangyang asks all of a sudden. “I heard the lounge is closed off from eleven. I can call some friends and we can book a room though—”

“No. No way. I’m not going to spend new year’s eve in a Dior suite.”

He grins. “Thank god. It’s so boring there. Only models and businessmen and whatever freak shit they do.”

You sigh. Liu Yangyang is a whole story in itself. He’s rich and popular—a dream of many—but so few are as welcoming as he is. When you’re in that position, you’re bound to have a little metal seep into your heart. Some hidden part of you, however, tells you to loosen up when you’re with him; just let it go and have a good time. There’s no reason why you shouldn't. The economy is on a steep incline, the people are happy and no other city compares to this place. You could learn a thing or two from Yangyang.

He looks at you questioningly, eyes waiting and the curve of his lips still. You notice his platinum blond hair is more styled than usual, you can almost smell the gel on it, and for a moment, you wish you looked as good as he does. A dark leather jacket accentuates his shoulders, the plain T-shirt underneath not of the flashy type. He looks like he’s ready for club-hopping and you, anything but. If you knew earlier that you’d be by the Strip around midnight on New Year’s, you'd have dressed better. 

“If you stay any longer in my car, people are going to assume we’re…y’know,” he states, quirking his eyebrow. “I’m pretty sure it’s illegal, though. Like, who thought fu—”

You were wrong. There is absolutely nothing to learn from Liu Yangyang. 

“I would get out of this car immediately and fall to my death before I let that happen,” you retort, crossing your arms.

“No, hey. What an inauspicious sentence. Besides, and I’m not bragging but you should know I’m really good at using my assets—”

“Don’t say a word.”

The heat of embarrassment flows into your cheeks at his implication. You look out the window, weighing out the pros and cons. The scenery is so bright that sometimes it hurts to look outside. It’s not midnight yet but the main streets are already getting crowded for the processions; the sound of laughter and conversation ring in the air. It makes you somewhat sad to not be home for this. But as they say, living in a big city can only be done if you sell your soul to it.

You’re directly above the level one city plaza, the people below looking unsettling in the way they’re so small and far away—they don’t even seem human at this distance. You wonder if you look like that to the people above this, to the level three elites who sit on top of the whole city..

You look back to your companion, who’s transfixed on the bakery across the road—either that, or just really, really zoned out. Knowing Yangyang, it could be either. When you tilt your head, waiting, you find that he has pretty features—a shaped nose and round, curious eyes, all in perfect alignment with plump, pink lips. His metallic ring earrings shine when the light hits them right. No wonder you get girls asking how close the two of you are often. Even in a world pushing manufactured love, boys like him make others daydream. You wonder why you’re the one he loves to drag in with him.

Yangyang flinches when he finds you staring at him. You clear your throat, looking away and hoping you can sweep this under the rug.

“Are you- are you by any chance mad at me?” he asks, a nervous smile awkwardly tugging at his lips.

“I- what? No. I’m not mad at you.”

“You look like my mother when I don’t clean my room. Or Ten's cats when I try to kiss them.”

A tiny laugh escapes you before you get back your poised demeanor. “I’m- I’m not mad at you.”

He smiles at you wordlessly and you feel a little conscious. You glance outside when the plaza music starts to get loud and look back at him, debating whether you should just give in.

“So… you’ll let me brighten your life now?” he asks in his regular baritone, grinning wider. “The semester’s over and it’s festival time! I bring good luck, I promise.”

Liu Yangyang is not a happy serendipity. He simply cannot be. However, he does make you laugh more often than you’d admit.

“Whatever. Go ahead. I just don’t want to be hungover on a Friday.”

“You don’t- you don’t have to drink to have a good time.” He laughs. “I would know. I’m sort of a lightweight. I don’t know why I told you that. I’m supposed to be cool.”

You giggle, taking a moment to think.

“Fine then. Show me your magical access key to our beloved Mobius Strip, the mightiest, grandest structure in all of New Shanghai.”

“Well, if you put it that way… I am pretty cool, huh?”

His smile is too harmless for you to roll your eyes. He’s too gentle, you realize all of sudden, to be as awful as all the uni frat boys you’ve had the misfortune of talking to. You watch him as he drives; his arm moves with ease and he tries to make conversation but you can only hum and respond in singular words. The closer you are to the Strip the more nervous you get. It’s like visiting all those dark places that your mother explicitly warned you not to visit as a teenager—but you’re an adult now. No one owns you. No one should be able to own you. The determination builds up slowly over neon lights and hazy street shops.

Nights here are the fun part. Everyone says that. Other than the fact that you can barely make out the colour of the sky under the vivid city lights, there’s something very enticing about the streets, the upper streets that wind around the city.

Yangyang drives the car to a level three street, the behemoth structure of the Strip now so close that all you can see beyond your window are its placid, white walls stretching out to infinity. You can see little gardens and shops, peeking out from between each strip and one of the shopkeepers wave at you the moment you pass. Yangyang says something along the lines of “thanks for the free noodles” to the woman, before gliding higher. 

“Grandma makes the best glass noodles here,” he says, excitedly. “I’ll take you sometime. If you like.”

You hum, noting the joy he expresses at the idea of something so simple. 

Level three streets are already thousand and a half feet above the ground. You try not to look down; heights aren’t something you’re very fond of even if you love the sky. You note construction work for street levels four and five, shivering at the idea. The winds of change are fucking cold.

Yangyang swerves the car off-road at one point and you clutch his arm by reflex.

“What the fuck? Don’t do that without warning me,” you say, breathing quicker. You do not do well with: sudden movement, jumpscares and boys with pretty smiles.

“Sorry,” he says, looking at you with concern. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

You let go of his arm, more embarrassed at yourself than mad at him. Driving the car closer to the Strip, he brakes carefully by the parking lot. The walls are covered in red wallpaper, a few lanterns attached to drones, floating along the path inside. It looks like a rooftop parking lot, though the mysterious dim lighting makes you walk closer to Yangyang.

“I heard this is gonna be a really cool event—they’ve got the latest AI tech hosting and crap but let me tell you the best part.”

He pauses for dramatic effect. 

“The food!” He says, spreading his arms and grinning. “The food at private events is the best thing you’ll ever taste.”

You open your mouth but close it again in part horror, part confusion. “You’re… taking me to a private event?”

“Ah, don’t look like that. It’s really fun, promise.”

“I’m not even dressed for it,” you blurt, embarrassed.

Yangyang shakes his head. “Don’t worry about that. It’s for rich kids, you know? If I’m being honest, none of them know how to dress.”

His confident statement gets a giggle out of you and you relax a little. You walk with him, further into the square platform and away from the cars. The sky disappears behind the dark roof and for a moment, you feel like you’ve entered a different dimension. It’s like the architecture models that your professors had on display for the Shanghai History class in your freshman year. Old stuff, that is. Before this place even had the first skyscraper.

You turn to your side and narrow your eyes at Yangyang, suddenly wondering how he finagled his way into bringing you here. Your iron-clad will is not so much iron after all. It’s not even steel, you think, once you catch yourself staring at Yangyang a bit too long.

You step forward to find the entrance to the club; it’s a little lonely to look at in the beginning. Then it clicks that it’s probably the back door. The red pillars encase a black door between them, the overhang of the gateway just a little above Yangyang’s head. You can see the hip-and-gable style roof of the larger building behind, looking like a skyscraper instead of the usual historical buildings you’ve seen on the internet. In glowing red letters, it displays a blinking ‘Club 2’ near the top of the door.

The moment you step on the stairs, a bunch of advertisements pop up on the door, bright bubblegum colours hurting your eyes. Yangyang taps at the little x at the corner of the display till it disappears and finally the door is a regular door. The colour is jet black like any other screening platform. 

“I thought the rich were exempted from ads,” you say.

“They’re… more likely to buy things though.”

You make an ‘ah’ sound in contemplation when a whirring makes you jump into him. A little spherical drone flies its way out of an opening in the wall and stops right in front of the two of you. 

“Sicheng-ge!” Yangyang says, waving frantically at the camera.

The little drone circles around Yangyang’s head before stopping right in front of his face. It runs a scan before turning sharply and beeping at you. 

“My plus one!” Yangyang declares, pulling you by the waist. “Or whatever it’s called.”

Your ears feel warm but you don’t push him off. The camera focuses on your face, likely scanning to identify your age and occupation. When it’s done, a beep resounds and the door slides open to reveal a dimly lit pathway. The main entrance is much brighter, Yangyang promises, but for now it’s just the warm glow of the lanterns, Yangyang’s neon red striped jacket and the mechanical whirring of some sort of device in the darkness.

“What’s that sound?” you whisper and Yangyang stops. 

He pauses to think. “Oh, they’re Sicheng-ge’s drones. He’s got like a million of them. I'll introduce you—he’s hosting this club event, by the way.”

He smiles at you reassuringly. If Yangyang’s not bothered by it, you’ll follow his lead. Though, you do take more nimble steps and stay close to him like he’s your lighthouse. (In a way, he is, with all that neon shining on his jacket.)

You’re surprised to find a garden, but then it gets stranger when you see brighter lanterns in the middle area. You see figures and before you can react, Yangyang takes your hand and into the central platform.

ii. orchid club square

Yangyang was right. None of them know how to dress.

The two of you stand in the middle of a crowd, who are in fact dressed either for: a) an impromptu pool party or b) a Sunday morning lecture. You blend in somewhat well given the variety though Yangyang’s painted looks have attracted the attention of quite a few giggling, murmuring onlookers.

You clench your jaw in mild annoyance. 

“This is a tour,” Yangyang whispers to you. “I thought… you’d like to know what everything’s about.”

You feel grateful to him for once. Having some sort of knowledge about what you’re getting into makes you feel better about any situation. A set of mechanical clicking fills the air.

A woman—no, an AI bot is the first to greet you. She has pale white metallic skin and her dark strands of hair are in a traditional updo. Her lips are imperial red, shaped in a way that makes her seem as though she’s smiling but also not at the very same time. She holds an extravagant fan by her face at the perfect right angle, the patterns on it painted to imitate an ancient cherry blossom tree. 

“Good evening, everyone,” she says, her voice pitched up and enthusiastic. It’s a little funny to imagine metal so lively.

You smell oranges and lavender as soon as she flicks her fan once and precise. 

“Welcome to the New Shanghai nightlife!” The bot continues jovially. “The oldest surviving city on planet earth, the birthplace of the human race.”

“You are in virtual space,” she informs. “It might look like a courtyard stretching to infinity but it is only an illusion. However, the club is five hundred and sixty one metres wide and six hundred and twelve metres long. It is large enough to hold twenty-one blue whales in a line. That is, if they still existed of course.”

She giggles algorithmically.

“Where you stand right now,” she says, turning her head in a swift mechanical motion to you and you flinch. “This place is called the orchid club square. As you know, only VIP access lets you in.”

You glance at Yangyang worriedly and he shrugs. There’s no way she could know, right? That was oddly specific. But then she moves her head left to right to address the whole crowd in perfect grace. When her movement starts to get a little too eerie to watch any longer, you fix your eyes on the garden instead. You have no way of telling part real flowers from virtual ones and even so—all of them are beautiful. Maybe reality doesn’t make things any prettier.

However, when you look at Yangyang, the thought gets tossed out. You shake your head, in an attempt to get rid of the image of his face. It’s a little too late to be feeling this way. Either that, or the night is taking its toll on you already. The day was exhausting, considering it was the end of the semester.

The AI guide’s chatter fades into something quieter when you move the club square. It’s a rather empty space, fitting for a rave or just housing large crowds. The decorations are for the new year celebrations, banners of the ox in auspicious colours and a few drones projecting the rest. There’s a garden of evermore orchids lining the area in a perfect square and it’s so precise that it’s pleasing to look at. There’s a door at one edge, similar to the one you encountered before entering the club square.

The music that wafts through the air is so gentle, you almost forget there’s a celebration. The beat makes it livelier and even so, the rhythm of your heartbeat matches it in a soothing sort of way. Turning around, you spot the musical ensemble. It’s another AI, peering over a guqin with trained habit.

She looks the same, except she wears an electronic mask over the lower half of her face. It displays a blue musical note made up of noticeable pixels. She has no fan—instead, her fingers strum the guqin rhythmically, programmed with precision and grace. The sound is accompanied by the woodwind notes of a flute, though you’re not sure where that sound emanates from. There’s also a soft drumbeat which seems to come from the guqin bot herself.

You gasp when a few painted goldfish float through the air, almost real to look at if it weren’t for the glitch effect of holograms. One of them swims closer to you, opening and closing its mouth in rhythm and you giggle at its face.

Yangyang laughs, long finger pointing at the critter in amusement. “That’s adorable.”

He looks like a little kid and you giggle at his expression, with wide, delighted eyes and mouth open in focused mirth. He pokes at the goldfish and it makes a bubbling sound, gears shifting in ticking time before suddenly biting at his index finger. Yangyang lets out a low yelp, retracting his hand before clearing his throat in embarrassment.

“You’re like a cartoon,” you tell him, in between laughs. “No way are you real.”

He grins, in that same way he always looks at you and you look away, feeling hot in the face. It’s too enamored a way to look at someone. But of course, that couldn’t be true—he’s Liu Yangyang and you’re you. Parallel lines do not meet, even if they’re headed in the same direction.

“I think you’re unreal,” he mumbles.

iii. club 2

The doors open to a rather spacious arrangement, with several tables one one side and a sort of dance arena on the other where people are trying to out-dance each other. The intensity makes you move further away from it. It seems a little too festive and you can feel the energy slinking away from you. The music is more upbeat but you suppose the DJ tried to make it sound more eastern; the result is pleasing. He wears a smooth black helmet with a neon red beat visualizer on it, with written SFX appearing from time to time. Two pulsing golden horns glow at the sides of his head. You stare at it for longer than you’d like before composing yourself. You’re very impressionable when it comes to parties. 

There are two floors to the club, above the bottom floor itself. The other two floors mostly seem to consist of private booths, however, covered with gossamer silk that glow iridescent. A few floating lanterns sway by the upper floors. The ceiling is open to a midnight blue sky and the stars look much larger than you’ve ever seen them—you suspect it’s an AR mesh over the ceiling. A few light shows project little dancing dragons and coins over the sky and you find them too cute to not stare at.

“Wow,” Yangyang says, right after walking in. “Why is Dejun on the table?”

You look where his eyes are focused on, though it’s difficult through the crowd of people, and find Dejun and Kunhang in some sort of old anime transformation pose atop one of the tables. It’s surprising that they’re not the weirdest pair here. 

“Now, bear with me, it’s going to be boring as hell till the countdown and the fireworks,” he explains, waving his hands around. “But it’s a good place to have fun and make friends. You know?”

“Friends?” you ask, a little nervous. You’re not very proficient at making friends and it makes you anxious.

“Yeah! Don’t worry. ” He makes a strange gesture, bordering between posing for a beer ad campaign and looking like a motivational speaker for the army, before furrowing his eyebrows. “You just have to be confident! I’m learning too!”

He lets out a sweet laugh and it makes you laugh in turn, hand covering your mouth so you don’t embarrass yourself too much. You don’t believe the words much, but the glow over his cheeks makes you reconsider.

“You look really nice when you laugh,” he comments, a bright glint in his eyes.

“Whatever,” you reply, punching his shoulder lightly.

Just then, you feel a gentle tap on your shoulder to find Lana from your ethical AI class, smiling at you warmly. She looks a little tired, of people more than the time. Like you, she is also a scholarship student—and not a day has gone when she hasn’t soothed your anxiety about your classes. In stark contrast with Yangyang, you would trust her over him for most tasks. Even if you weren’t partners, you’re okay with the outcome. You glance at Yangyang.

“(name)! Oh my god, I didn’t know you were coming here,” she says. “Did Yangyang kidnap you?” 

“I mean, sort of.”

“Hey.” Yangyang looks at you with betrayal.

“And how did you even manage to do that cool ass project with him as your partner?” she continues, squinting at him.

“Honestly, I don’t know either. He can be surprisingly helpful though.”

Yangyang looks from Lana to you in exasperation. “I’m literally right here,” he grumbles. 

Lana laughs at his expression, patting his shoulder sympathetically. 

“I just can’t believe you let him kidnap you and not me,” she says in mock indignance. “I’m a much better chauffeur, you know?”

“Do you even have a driving license?” Yangyang asks, laughing.

“I got mine before you, rat. Anyway, (name), I’m playing the guzheng. Do you wanna come see?”

“No,” Yangyang interrupts, suddenly grabbing your hand. “I… I mean you guys can go, of course. It's just the countdown’s close, so we have to go to the viewpoint.”

“That’s exactly where—ah. I see.”

"We'll join you another time, Lana," he says quietly, a cute grin on his face like a little boy would make to an older sister for more shares of chocolate. 

"No, no. I actually remembered I left my friends in the corner. See you!"

She leaves her epiphany unsaid, offering you a smile and taking her leave abruptly.

“I thought you told me to socialize,” you complain to Yangyang. 

“Yes, I’m so proud of you for that.”

“Yangyang, I swear if you treat me like a kid—”

“I’m not, I’m not. Sorry,” he says, scratching the back of his head. “I just need to borrow you for tonight. After all, I promised you, didn’t I?”

You sigh. “Fine then, what’s this viewpoint you’re talking about?”

“Oh, we’ll get there.”

Someone’s watching you. You turn around a full three-sixty but find only the same crowd of college-age kids. No one sticks out much, apart from Dejun, Kunhang and Ten, who are at this point performing some sort of strange ritual unbeknownst to any new year tradition, with a hell load of yelling.

“Oh my god, you’re dancing too?” Yangyang says, grinning ear to ear. “I didn’t know I’d have that much of a positive influence. Wow.”

“I’m- I’m not- never mind.”

Yangyang furrows his eyebrows. “What did I tell you? More confidence! See—”

He takes your hands in his, pulling you further onto the dance floor. You feel a rising panic but swallow it. There’s a beat of silence in which the two of you look at each other. Yangyang proceeds to perform the stupidest sequence of movements you have ever seen, certainly too awkward for his body to accept as natural but it doesn’t seem like he cares. He’s having fun.

You find yourself laughing. Taking timid steps, you try to loosen up although the inevitable embarrassment arrives in flushes of heat across your face. There are stars in Yangyang’s eyes when you join him—not the artificial jewels in observatories but the real kind that you used to see in your hometown.

You take a wobbly step back. It’s starting to get disorienting. If it were the real sky above you, you might even have felt better. Perhaps the purpose is to get dizzy.

“I’m a little thirsty,” Yangyang says, motioning to the table with food and drinks at a corner. “I’ll head over and be back.”

Unsure what to do, you follow him like a lost lamb and though it would be embarrassing at any other time, any other place, now and here are not part of that.

The red and golden lights of the neon patterning the walls don’t seem as harsh anymore and you let your eyes rest on the boyish figure of Yangyang. You haven’t figured him out yet. Something tells you he’s more than a shallow image of the party-loving rich kids of Shanghai. In fact, in quiet, personal moments, he looks more out of place than you do—despite all that bright neon. You open your mouth to ask something when you’re interrupted by a dizzy Yangyang spinning into you. 

“Sorry, (name),” he says, rubbing the base of his palm against his forehead. “I genuinely thought I was going to win that game.”

You shake your head, letting him get back to whatever spinning game they were at. He smells like wine and something tells you he’s poor at holding his liquor. The stakes must be high for that game, you figure, because you see Yangyang set aside his beloved shoe on the floor. To be the only scholarship student here suddenly feels scary and awkward.

Yangyang once again tugs at your arm, the touch reassuring as though he understands how you feel. But it isn’t true. There’s no way someone like him can understand someone like you.

“Yangyang,” you call. “Do you come here every year?”

“No, no. I do come for drinks though. I’m only here right now because a friend is hosting this.”

You shrug.

“And you,” he adds and you feel a hot flush rise to your face. “New years are the only time this place is PG-13.”

“I’m not a child,” you snap.

“My mom says childish people say that.”

“Then it's very rich coming from you, Liu Yangyang.”

He laughs heartily, leaning away. A creeping thought grows in your head that you missed out on a lot. But then again, you’ll always miss out on things if you’re not rich enough for them.

Yangyang flinches suddenly, almost knocking a plate off the table. He moves quickly, turning so that his side leans against the wall and the other arm cages you between him and the wall. His frame covers your view from whatever, or whoever arrived at the entrance that made him react so obnoxiously.

However, his lips hovering just a little over yours makes your breath hitch in your throat. This is the worst possible position you could've gotten into. The smell of mint interrupts your thoughts and you look at him with as annoyed an expression as you can muster over the heat of your face.

"Yangyang, what the fuck do you think you're doing?"

“I am… admiring the wall. Ooh, it’s got velvet over it, did you notice?”

 “You’re going to have your head in it too if you don’t tell me what’s going on.”

"Just… sorry. Let’s stay like this for a few moments."

He flashes you an apologetic smile, his face close enough to make yours grow even hotter. A nervous chuckle erupts from his lips. 

"Oh my god, get off. People are going to think we’re making out."

"We could do it for real." 

"I'm going to scratch your eyes out."

"Sorry, sorry."

“Who are you even hiding from?”

“I’m not hiding… okay, forget that. Bodyguard-watcher-dude. It’s kind of hard to explain.”

“You have a bodyguard?”

“More like a babysitter.”

You try not to laugh, considering the proximity between your faces. “How come you have a babysitter? Actually, wait, I think I know.”

He huffs over your face and you restrain yourself from landing a swift uppercut to his jaw. Now you know the minty smell comes from mouth freshener.

“He’s a prosecutor. It’s weird that he stalks me in his free time. Even- even if… my parents are paying him.”

“They think you’re doing something illegal?”

“No. I don’t think I am.”

You rest your head back against the wall, rolling your eyes. “Really? That’s your answer? God, your brain cells rotted somewhere along the way, didn’t they? It’s all those parties.”

“I’m starting to feel like my mom hired you too.”

He looks back, and noting the absence of his so-called babysitter, he pulls back from you. You didn’t realize you were holding your breath and you let it out in a shallow effort.

“Your babysitter’s gone?”

“Not a babysit—I regret saying that. Look, I really don’t think they appointed him because they think I’m doing something illegal. I have never done anything illegal. Except that one street race but that’s because Lucas told me it was perfectly legal.”

“The what?”

“Anyway, the point is, let’s look forward to good fortune for this year, hm? Leave all the burdens to last year.”

“Fortune doesn’t favour fools.”

“I’m not stupid,” he complains, spreading his arms to express it further. “Mostly.”

 You laugh, turning your attention to  the food table.

“Ooh, pineapple tarts,” he exclaims, hand reaching out to grab one when you smack it.

“You’ve had, like, fifteen already.”

“Mhm,” he says, with a few more stuffed in his mouth.

There’s a pause.

“It’s me, isn't it?” you ask quietly. “I’m not supposed to be here.”

He gulps, lips parting and closing. “I brought you here. So you don’t worry about it.”

Rich people suck. You believe that strongly. But sometimes, just sometimes, when you have everything you can ever want, you start to want the same for everyone around you. Some people are special. You find Yangyang genuinely fascinating for being someone who makes friends when he’s supposed to be making more connections. You find him fascinating. 

It makes sense for someone like him to be the way he is.

iv. fireworks viewpoint

“That’s the old Shanghai Tower,” Yangyang points to a building in the distance. “It used to be the tallest building once but… well, it looks like the little guy now.”

Lunar New Year’s celebrations are a big, big deal in New Shanghai. It means a break from university, work and every other affair to have as many priorities sorted in anticipation of the new year. And the impact is evident from this height, when you can see the city in its golden glory. It looks warm out there for once—although you’re not very sure if it’s because of the warmth that comes from right beside you. The little wooden boats float by on the river a little far off, various images blooming as holograms above them. You giggle at the large animated fishes swimming above the river with blank expressions and painted button eyes. 

The golden clock shines bright in the sky, its holographic hands ticking down to midnight. It looks like something out of a fantasy movie, scattering golden pixels everywhere with each minute passing. The size of it alone reminds you of the scale of this city.

This is an empire. It's owned by the kings and queens who built it over the bones left from sacrifices. It's going to be owned by heirs and heiresses. You feel a looming sense of dread come over you. It's so beautiful and it can never belong to itself. It must always belong to someone. It’s the terms and conditions of human creation.

"Hey." Yangyang taps you on the shoulder and you try not to flinch. "What are you thinking?"

You hum. "Stuff."

"This place is pretty cool, huh?"

That, you can agree with. "It is. It's so amazing that I can't believe I'm here sometimes."

Yangyang laughs slowly. "I hope more people can live here. Not in level one. You know. No one should live in desperation."

You hold back a scoff, though you end up frowning. What does a rich kid know of desperation? He might as well be prince, and princes do not know how to beg. It must be something of a saviour complex. You shrink away from him. The new year music is starting to ring a little too loud in your ears.

"That would be difficult," you mutter.

"Not if you lower the cost of living conditions—ah. Sorry." He pauses and you feel a flicker of surprise in you. “It’s not appropriate to discuss. Or so my parents tell me…”

The expression comes from empathy. You’re sure of it. There’s some sort of passion and not the kind of coloured fire that flames up in parties, but a different one. The kind that says, if you can’t bear the heat then you can’t learn how to forge. You scoff. Which prince has possibly known heat?

“I- I get angry too,” you say quietly. “I think it’s something to be angry about.”

He smiles at you, leaning against the balcony railing. 

You’re interrupted by a man in the attire of a waiter and it causes the two of you to jump away from each other. It’s not like you were very close in the first place but the proximity of shared words can play tricks on people. The man offers the two of you a screen and Yangyang’s face lights up almost immediately.

“We can order food with this,” he says. “Or book a table. The top strips are all reserved for members of the club. That’s the big daddy restaurants.”

“That’s… pretty cool,” you say, leaning in to glance over the browsing menu. “But don’t say that phrase to me again.”

“I can. And I will.”

“Ugh. Move on.”

“Okay, so we should drop by the convenience store for some ramen. I heard they taste better in the middle of the night,” Yangyang suggests all of a sudden, leaning in further.

It gets difficult sometimes to not be bothered by him, especially when there is a lack of distance. You look at him, pause and then sigh. “Sure. I guess. Are those free too?”

He opens his mouth in sudden realization and grins sheepishly at you. You roll your eyes.

“Do you have money then?”

“Uh.”

“How do you not have money? It’s the New Year!”

“I… uh—”

“Okay, you don’t have to answer that. But I’m not paying for you,” you complain. “You could always ask your parents for some money. What’s the point of being a party kid?”

‘Party kids’—it makes you laugh in amusement—is the colloquial term given to the children of businesspeople who had a direct hand in the economic progress of New Shanghai. You would sell your kidneys to be one and it still wouldn’t be enough.

His smile wavers at your statement but he shakes his head. “If I call my mom, she’ll start scolding me again about how my apartment room needs to be cleaner. Blah, blah, blah. You know.”

“She’s right- wait, you don’t clean your room?”

“Don’t take her side, (name).” 

You bite down a smile and he offers you his biggest one. 

“Oh, that place looks new,” Yangyang exclaims, a long index finger pointing to the preview of a sushi restaurant. You glare at him, his face nearer to yours than you would prefer but his eyes are fixed like a child ogling halloween candy.

“Let’s go,” he urges, looking directly at you. 

You furrow your eyebrows, shaking your head vehemently. “We don’t have money. Or bit-credits.”

He sighs, deflating as though you just snatched the candy right from his hands. “But… I haven’t been there before.”

“So?” You exhale, pinching the bridge of your nose. “You don’t have to try every food place in the city.”

“I need to eat,” he says as though it’s a very reasonable response. “I’m still growing!”

“Not mentally.”

He drops his smile, looking at you blankly. “You don’t have to get so smart with me, let me tell you.”

You snicker at the ‘offended’ expression on his face.

In the next moment, your attention shifts to the sudden crowd of people rushing to the balcony. Yangyang pulls you closer to avoid getting pushed by them, and you look around confused. It all makes sense when they start chanting the numbers, counting down from ten. You can only stare in awe at the clock and the otherworldly glee in the rhythmic chants. It’s like they don’t feel anything but joy at this moment. You let yourself smile.

The clock strikes twelve. The sound of the bell resounds throughout the city and the firecrackers burst into a thousand shades of red and gold across the sky. There’s moving images of animals, floating text and other animations which make the night sky seem like a screen. The sparks of the fireworks look like golden snow, or even happy little pixels.

You point your finger to the sky excitedly but when you turn, Yangyang’s eyes aren’t on the sky but on your hand outstretched towards it. He faces you, rather hesitantly as though caught red-handed.

“You’re- you’re… so pretty,” he says, softly and shrugging as if answering a question.

You wish he wouldn’t look at you like that. It’s the lonely speaking, right? The euphoria of human connection in this time and age—it can make you believe anything. There’s a myriad of colours blooming in the sky behind you, a city dazzling with diamond and ruby lights, people with much more stories to tell than you do. This city, this city, this city. This city will break your heart. 

“It’s kind of crappy,” you mutter, to which Yangyang quirks an ear.

“Wh-what is?”

“This city. It’s got bright lights and fun and all those promises of success. But all I see are people desperately trying to survive. All I see are the same faces at the top and—I’m sorry. I’m getting carried away.”

“No, no.” He makes a vague gesture. “I’m listening.”

“We’re at their mercy,” you whisper. “My life is not my own. That’s crappy.”

Yangyang hums in response. “You're right. What’s the point of living a life that’s not your own?”

Looking at him again, you see the entire figure of his being against the fireworks and all the beautiful creations of the human race. His almost silver hair falls perfectly by his forehead, the contact lenses looking like glazed frost over his eyes. Just as vibrant and excessive as the city itself, Yangyang belongs here. This is his kingdom. 

No, that’s not quite right perhaps. Yangyang belongs anywhere because he brings warmth. You're suddenly grateful he's with you because no one you know would possibly go out of their way to make you feel comfortable like this. You know Yangyang loves people and crowds. No one would do that for you at the expense of their own enjoyment. You smile at the prospect of solving the blinding mystery that he is.

"We… should leave," Yangyang says, all of a sudden. He eyes a man at the corner of the balcony, dressed in a business suit and looking blank. He sticks out like a sore thumb. You're not sure why he's in that getup.

"Okay," you say, not sure why you're so agreeable tonight.

Maybe it's the night. Sometimes all you can do is drag your feet over the asphalt and hope it'll be sunnier tomorrow.

v. two-four-seven convenience store

College boys are the most god-awful creatures on earth.

“Hey, do you always reach class on time?” Yangyang asks, eyes curious. He keeps asking a question every five minutes or so, trying to keep up conversation. You've already told him he doesn't have to. However, it makes you strangely comfortable to hear the sound of his voice periodically. You won't tell him that.

You nod, returning your gaze to the window, though the advertisements block your view. You can always try skipping the ad every five goddamn seconds. 

It's your first time riding the train that travels through the Mobius Strip, and certainly the first time in a luxury cabin. Since it’s free for members of the new year club, you can heave a sigh of relief. You will never in your life, even if it’s genetically elongated, ever be able to afford a luxury cabin.

"Oh, that looks so good," Yangyang says, large hand smacking against the window to get rid of the colourful advertisements. 

"It's a convenience store, Yangyang," you say. "It's got everyday ramen."

"No, look. It's a different brand. And they're giving a burger for free with two ramen cups!"

You furrow your eyebrows at him. "Well, I guess it's cheaper too."

"Oh, we can go to one of the upper restaurants too. They're free, remember?"

"I like convenience stores," you mumble. There's something about the lack of even lighting and crowds that made them a comfort spot for you.

“Quick,” he says, pulling you off the seat when the train stops.

“Yangyang!” you warn. He's so easily excitable that you find it hard to believe he's real sometimes.

However, when he turns around with his big puppy-dog eyes, you curse at yourself before you curse at him. Sighing, you follow him down the steps, his hand tenderly holding yours. Sometimes, you wonder if the human touch means anything at all in this diamond and steel era. Yangyang’s palm is warm against yours.

The ramen tastes awfully delicious on stolen time, and you would complain more if it weren’t for Yangyang looking at you with so serene a look. It annoys you and you try to grab his attention by waving your chopsticks in front of him. When it doesn’t work, you resort to swearing. You’ve never seen anyone respond with a smiling hum after being told to “eat shit”.

“Oh, this tastes so good,” he states, cheeks puffed with food. “I think I’m going to cry.”

“I- I think you’re crying because it’s spicy.”

“Oh.”

As usual, Yangyang pokes and prods at you with questions about your daily life, like you’re the most interesting thing in a city full of blinding lights, world-class robots and cyber-enhanced technology. You don’t understand how he doesn’t just grow tired of asking every single detail about you.

Apart from the fact that Liu Yangyang is most certainly an environmental hazard, some part of you cannot believe that he's truly terrible. There's something innocent about him, but all at once, something quiet and mysterious. 

“Why are you always so curious, Yangyang?” you ask finally. “Why are you always running off to different places?”

“Because experiences never come twice,” he answers after some thinking. It seems to be a little difficult for him to articulate, deep contemplation over his features when he continues. “This city… all the lights and clubs and arenas, all of it will be gone someday. Like we don’t have telephones or those big computers anymore.”

You rest your chin on your palm, leaning in.

“This moment, right here with you… I’ll never experience it again,” he tells you. “We can have more midnight convenience store ramen sometime later but… each time will be different. I’d rather live now.”

You smile softly. “That’s a funny thought to live by.”

“Yours isn’t any better,” he says, patting your head. “Also, I’m like hot and young and popular and not a cyborg—how can I miss parties?”

You shake your head, laughing. He’s ridiculous. He’s completely ridiculous. In that moment, when you look at him, Yangyang seems to be smiling in a daze, eyes on your face.

“You look nice when you smile,” he says quietly.

"Thanks," you respond. "I should keep it a secret then, huh?"

"Not from me," he says, smiling. 

Somehow, the extra minutes you have at the convenience store turn to a few multiplayer games and then, ditching technology, to an arm wrestling match.

"I feel like this game is kind of unfair," you say after losing almost immediately. He's clearly got stronger muscles. Does he work out? Probably against his will, you bet.

“My right arm’s a lot stronger than my left arm,” he says, before looking a little horrified. “That wasn’t a masturbation joke, by the way. I am so sorry.”

You roll your eyes. "Give me your left hand then- wait. You're right-handed?"

"That's not the- uh." He thinks for a moment, trying to gather words. “That’s not the reason.”

“I, uh, I heavily damaged this arm when I was a kid—don’t look like that, there’s a fun part to this. It’s made of titanium! And some other things. The names are too complicated.”

You drive your fingers over the arm, so warm and real and flushed red, anything but metal and code. You find curiosity blooming in you more than ever before.

“You know why I’m not with family,” you say, straightening. “But why aren’t you celebrating with your family?” 

He gets quiet, thinking to himself for a few more moments. You almost regret asking when he answers, a hesitant sound leaving him first.

“None of us, uh… none of our parents can spare more than three hours. They’ll come in the afternoon tomorr—today.”

You can’t exactly respond to that very well.

“So all of us go hang out at the New Year’s Club.”

You frown. "But it's not a celebration without family!"

"We have new year lunches. And… it's the future. Traditions die. Very few grieve them for fear of being stuck in the past."

You feel partly horrified and partly dismal. "I… You could come with me next year, if you like."

You're not sure where the offer comes from but Yangyang lights up at the idea.

"I can? Oh, we'll have so much fun!"

"Slow down. There's a year to go."

Yangyang laughs. It's surprising the way he turned out. He must have gotten tired of waiting by the door. And now you know all the things about him that his parents don’t.

You smile at him, warming up to the idea of you and him as friends before scoffing at it again.

Right in the next moment, Yangyang dips suddenly to the ground, crouching below the table. You look around in surprise and fall to your knees with a yelp at the tug on our wrist from Yangyang.

“What the hell?” you hiss. “You’re starting to act really weird.”

“I- Sorry. It’s an emergency,” he says, but there’s no sign of distress in his voice. He simply smiles at you. Perhaps he’s never heard of the emotion as of yet.

“Your babysitter?”

“I say that once and on accident—yes, it’s my babysitter.”

You chuckle. He’s simply too cute at times. 

“We have to be discreet now, okay? It’s like—what’s the movie called? Oh, Mission Impossible.”

“I’ve never seen that.”

“What? How can you not? It’s a classic! It’s got so many cool—ah, I’ll show you another time.”

You hum, staring at Yangyang’s facial features tense up and relax again as he scans the vicinity outside the window of the convenience store. It’s full of people, even at this hour so you can’t possibly know who’s looking at you from there.

Yangyang turns back to you. “Have you ever been to blue moon station?”

“The one with the pretty walls? No. No, I’ve never even gone beyond Strip Two.”

Yangyang smiles at you and right then, you feel like you’re about to resent whatever’s going to happen next. It’s in the ebb and flow of tonight’s itinerary, however, and you relax your shoulders just as he does a roll across the floor, looking back at you with a grin for executing it flawlessly. 

“You’re so silly,” you mutter. 

“I heard that,” he whisper-shouts back.

You’re not as afraid as before, you realize. The lights are absolutely mesmerizing.

vi. blue moon station

It drops a few degrees in temperature once you step foot onto the platform. You can see a bunch of scattered tourists, cameras hanging around their neck and a look of awe over their faces. 

Yangyang takes off his jacket, shivering immediately but offering it to you nonetheless. When you refuse, he places it gingerly over your shoulders.

"Is that a…?"

"A tourist bot, yes."

"Oh my god, it's so cute," you say, crouching by the little red robot, a teal-colored smiley face popping up on its monitor.

"A lot of tourists in this station," you note.

"Yeah. It's very… visually pleasing."

That's true. The walls are screens with three dimensional graphics, immersive enough to catch one's eye. A single tree grows through the middle of the station, evergreen and alive with holographic flora and fauna. The sun shines eternally over the tree. It's so beautiful that you had trouble taking your eyes off it at first.

The walls next to you are currently displaying a walk through a fantasy forest, crafted by a visionary artist, no doubt. A blue butterfly flies past you and you stare at it before zoning out.

Sometimes, the lights are too disorienting. You start to feel dizzy, massaging your forehead when Yangyang brushes the tips of his fingers against your shoulder.

“You good?”

Yangyang crouches beside you with watchful eyes.

You nod, turning your attention to the tourist bot. It displays a plethora of information about the architecture of this place which you're sure no tourist will bother to read beyond the first two lines. 

“You can make it do cool tricks too,” Yangyang says. “Watch.”

Yangyang pokes at it with his index finger, drawing a pattern over the screen. The bot proceeds to do an old internet dance, waving about its arms and hips. You laugh at it and Yangyang looks at you with the pride of a third grader with first place on their science project.

The colours on the walls change and you see the animation of a man and a fox, furrowing your eyebrows as you try to recall that image. They seem to be broadcasting fables through the holograms. You can’t deny that they’re pretty—glowing with auspicious colours and as animated as the real world itself. As if by compulsion, you hold Yangyang’s hand. It’s nice to feel the human touch real once in a while, especially in the overwhelming loneliness of city nights.

Yangyang looks at you brightly and right then, you feel less inclined to leave him.

“You know, I could teach you better ways to flirt than just grab my hand,” he says, grinning like an idiot.

“What?” 

You move your hand. “I’m not flirting.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean that,” he responds quickly. “Can I please have your hand back?”

You shake your head, laughing. He worries you. Some part of you says you shouldn’t be worried. It’s not like you’re close friends. (Friends, maybe. Close, not yet.)

The night has a different opinion.

—

“Found you,” a voice declares, and the two of you jump into each other with a scream.

The man in the suit looks at you with a fatigued look in his eyes, hair somehow still neat though he breathes like his lungs are on fire. 

“Care to tell me why you’ve been skipping my calls?” he asks after catching his breath. “It’s not like I wanted to follow you—you just needed to tell me.”

“I… I was busy?” Yangyang flashes a smile. “Kun-ge, I honestly had no idea you called. I don’t even have my phone.”

The man shakes his head. “Fine. Just head over to Jasmine for the night. And you can bring your date too.”

He gestures at you and you want to deny it as quick as you can. You do not, however. It’s almost like you’ve warmed up to the idea of it rather well.

“Okay,” Yangyang answers quietly. 

vii. jasmine private lounge

You enter a lounge with the capacity of around a hundred people. Despite that, there are hardly five present. The walls are black with neon jasmines pulsating from blue to red. A grand piano lies still in all its elegance in the middle of the lounge, played by a plain white AI. It feels like an expensive place to be, and more so, it feels like someplace you’re not supposed to step foot into. There's a bar table at one side, opposite to the entrance which glows a hypnotizing purple. A flat lettering on the wall declares the time to be 3 A.M.

You and Yangyang sit a little too close on the artificially warmed couch, waiting for Kun to return. Yangyang reassures you that you haven't done anything wrong but the illicit outing of yours certainly says otherwise. You contemplate tasting the cocktail Yangyang ordered before finally giving in and find it pleasantly warm to taste. You take another sip.

“It’s a little strong,” Yangyang warns. “Don’t have all of—you had all of it.”

You shrug. Your throat certainly feels better now. This lounge is fucking cold.

"You know, Yangyang," you say with the warmth of confidence on your face. "You're a really nice guy."

He smiles incredulously. "Thanks. You're really nice too."

"And you're pretty decent-looking—"

"I know that."

"—and also popular. So why are you always hanging around me?"

"Uh, that's your question?"

You nod. Placing your cheek against your palm, you try not to sink into the couch.

"Because you're really cool!" He answers before clearing his throat. "I mean. I think you're fun to be around. You make me see things clearer."

"And what exactly are you wanting to see clearer?'

"You."

You blink aside your astoundment, straightening. "What?"

Your question is left unanswered because a man enters and sits across the two of you, a loud huff of annoyance leaving his mouth. It's not just his disposition but the architecture of his face that grabs your attention. He looks like an AI robot so perfectly crafted with coloured lips and flawless skin that you end up staring till Yangyang elbows you.

“He’s not an AI,” Yangyang whispers.

You furrow your brows and notice it is, in fact, true that he's not an AI. There are no ridges over the joints or hollowness in the eyes. He wears the same frost-patterned smart lenses as Yangyang does. However, it doesn't change the fact that the man is beautiful to look at.

“I’m never hosting a new year party again,” he mutters, sinking into the couch.

“It actually sounds kind of fun,” Yangyang interjects. “I can’t wait for my turn.”

“I’m sorry. Good luck standing at Longhua temple for three hours till midnight just to make sure nothing goes wrong. Without dinner.”

Yangyang makes a face at that.

"That's Sicheng-ge," he says, turning to you. 

"Ah," you say in response, remembering the name vaguely. 

"He let us into Club 2," Yangyang says, noticing your lost expression.

"I think Kun's looking for you," Sicheng says, eyes trained at the back. 

His hands fidget with the dim blue buttons at the edge of the table, till a small compartment reveals itself under the glass. An old world-style cigarette is slowly pushed up and Sicheng picks it up. He offers the next one to Yangyang, who accepts it hesitantly. No one smokes tobacco anymore when nicotine is so readily available. Alas, human nature is to want things deadly and out of reach.

“So how’s Cat?” Yangyang asks, fumbling with the plasma lighter he picked from a compartment on the side.

Sicheng smiles a little, the smoke from his cigarette snaking around him as he raises a hand to dissipate it.

“She’s doing fine. Running everything as usual.”

“Of course. Boss lady.” Yangyang does an awkward salute.

“Oh, a new hair color too. As pretty as flower fields in the spring of ‘22.”

Sicheng’s lovesick rambling is interrupted by Yangyang hacking his lungs out. You turn to him and he avoids your gaze, reaching for a crystal blue  glass of water one of the helper bots offer. So, he’s not even a smoker? Why did he think you would care? 

“Anyway, Kun is glaring daggers at me now. You better get out of here.” Sicheng grimaces.

You turn around to see Kun by the bar table, gesturing towards Yangyang to come. You're not sure why but either of those men make you nervous. 

"I'll be right back," Yangyang says, scrambling up and leaving you in a long awkward silence with Sicheng.

“So, uh, I’m assuming you’re oblivious to that lovestruck puppy following you around?” Sicheng asks, raising an eyebrow. “Or is this some game you guys are into? I’m not judging you for that.”

Your face heats up and you fidget with your collar. “The- A what? Game? Uh? I- huh?”

Sicheng tries to press down his smile but it’s evident enough for you to see. Did you say something funny? Did Yangyang say something funny about you? Oh, you’re going to kill him.

“For all that he talks, he’s kind of terrible at pulling together his own love life.” 

“I- I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

It still unnerves you to look at him. He certainly looks more android than human when he’s not making any particular expression.

“Don’t mind me,” he says, offering you a reassuring smile. “You should find Yangyang before he lands the two of you in trouble.”

You turn to look at Yangyang through the glass and turn back nodding. Sicheng offers you a parting smile and you hesitantly make your way to the bar table.

"This isn't in my job description," Kun tells Yangyang just before you arrive. "I didn't know being a lawyer included babysitting."

The tips of Yangyang's ears heat up when he notices you.

"It's not babysitting," he murmurs. “Also, you’re not my mom.”

"You, Ten, Kunhang, all of you give me such a hard time," he continues but pauses right when he notices you. 

"Oh, hello. (Name), isn't it?" He says, smiling politely. He's quite young and handsome for a lawyer. "Yangyang talks about you a lot."

"Oh," you respond. "Really?"

Yangyang glares at the older man. "You don't have to say everything, Kun-ge."

"You interested in law?" Kun asks, offering you a seat between him and Yangyang.

You make a face. The law is a tool for the rich and powerful. But then again, what isn’t? The world is in your hands when you have billions to spare. However, you still can’t imagine being a rich man's guard dog your whole life.

Kun chuckles. "You kids are interested in tech more, aren't you?"

Yangyang interrupts, "You talk like you're fifty years old."

Kun grimaces, resting his face against his hand. Shooting a glare at Yangyang, he finishes the rest of his wine.

You're not exactly interested in tech or engineering or the big kid jobs either. You just want a way to survive this man-made food chain. Rich eats the world till there’s nothing left on the plate. Then again, you'd rather be a pet than get eaten.

"Anyway," Kun turns to Yangyang. "If you see Ten, give me a call."

Yangyang signals with a thumbs up gesture, watching as Kun’s figure slowly makes its way out of the gate. It’s the two of you again and suddenly, you feel a strange sort of feeling overcome you. Leaning your throbbing forehead against Yangyang’s shoulder, you take some soft breaths and skip the part where you question your actions. It’s pleasant, at the very least. He shifts his chair closer, extending his arm around you so that your head rests against his shoulder more comfortably.

“You must be tired,” he mutters.

“You didn’t answer me,” you say. “Answer in a way I understood, at least.”

“Hm?”

“Why do you hang around me?”

“Do you not… want me to?”

“No. I like your company, actually. I can’t believe I said that out loud.”

Yangyang laughs. “You’re… you’re really perfect. As a person. At least to me, you seem that way.”

You scoff. “You’re a long way off there.”

“No. No, you felt like clockwork,” he continues. “When I first met you. I couldn’t believe you were real.”

You do work like a delirious robot on clockwork steroids. But you’re not very proud of it. You don’t think overworking is a good personality trait to have—even if it’s for survival. However, the faraway look in Yangyang’s eyes suggests that’s not what he means.

“I felt like I understood you,” he continues after a short pause.

You find it unbelievable. That’s the one sentence you could never imagine coming from him to you, much less agree with. But right then, as his warmth seeps into you, you want to agree desperately.

Yangyang feels an unexpected trickle of doubt down his throat. No matter how many times he’s practised in front of the mirror, the words don’t come out right when you’re with him. With everything you do, he feels more drawn in. There’s something familiar and something honest. And if he’s honest himself, he just likes you. What sort of a hypocrite should he be categorized as, to tell his friends to ‘just confess’ to their crushes when he’s a complete idiot when it comes to you? It can’t be that little voice from his childhood that tells him to stay in order.

Yangyang understands that there are rules to this world but he doesn’t get what those have got to do with him. He sighs, the sound somewhat grim when it comes from him.

"I've seen it before," he says, "People come from all over the country with hopes and dreams, and they get their hearts broken by capitalism."

You frown.

"I don't want you to go anywhere," he mumbles. "I hope you'll stay… even if- even if you feel like that, you know? If you're feeling lonely, I could—"

"Yangyang." You smile. "I’m quite comfortable here."

When you bury your nose into the crook of his neck, Yangyang thinks this is it. This is how he ends the sorry excuse of flirting he’s been trying with you and says something he regrets. It was never this difficult with the other crushes he’s had. He’s always left opening his mouth and then promptly closing it like a goldfish out of water every single time he wants to bring up dating with you. He’s always honest. So, what’s the big deal this time? This is so horrendously not cool of him.

You straighten. “We should get back home.”

“Can you- Can you not move so far from me, please?” Yangyang murmurs, hands gripping yours.

You smile, to yourself more to him but that’s one he likes the most.

“You’re a really interesting person, Yangyang.”

“I am?” He clears his throat and repeats the question. 

“How are you so nice to people?”

“I think people are nice.”

“Why do you like parties?”

“They’re fun.”

“When the party’s over, who do you go to?” you ask, words mushing into each other.

“Home,” he answers, gulping down what seems like more words. “Like always.”

A hush falls between the two of you. You’re asking quite the questions.

“I’m sweaty,” you mutter. “I hate being sweaty.”

“You look wonderful though,” Yangyang mumbles, more to himself than to you. “Not that being sweaty makes you wonderful. You’re just nice.”

There’s another hush, the notes of the piano playing a faraway, romantic tune. He turns away and looks back at you again, but right in that moment, you lean forward to press your lips against his. It’s so sudden that he almost falls over backwards, his feet planted firmly on the ground the only thing preventing that from happening. The next thing he thinks is that your lips are on fire and it’s the most comfortable feeling he’s ever experienced. 

The two of you fit into each other like clockwork, Yangyang thinks. It’s the one thing in his life that feels whole. Not that he isn’t whole by himself—he just loves your warmth. For a moment he feels like he’s on cloud nine and the next, his heart plummets when he feels you go limp in his arms. 

It breaks his heart a little but he doesn’t—can’t bring himself to say much. He’s not this bad when he’s drunk, is he? Pulling you up by the waist, he texts Kunhang to bring his car down to the lounge.

This is going to be a long night.

viii. home 

You wake up to the sun in your eyes and immediately know you're someplace you shouldn't be. This isn't your bed. The sun doesn't reach your bed in the morning. This isn’t the dormitory. You see a cubical alarm clock, a pixelated smiley face on it as it displays 10 A.M.

You get up and immediately shriek. You’re not wearing any clothes. Pulling the blanket up to your chin, you look around the room. It’s huge; the walls are multicolored with a little section opposite the bed reserved for photographs. There’s a lot of junk all over the floor that you don’t pay mind to when you notice Yangyang.

“Yangyang?!”

He rouses blinking slowly, hair going every which way and his eyes still unfocused. He looks like he’s had a difficult night.

“Why are you on the floor?” you ask, shrinking further into the ridiculously soft bed when he gets up. Massaging the back of his neck, he looks like he's looking at a mirage instead of a real live person. Unfortunately, he’s not wearing a shirt and you look away after a prolonged minute of staring. This is getting ridiculous. What are you doing here?

“Yangyang!”

“Huh? Oh!”

He seems to be finally awake. You should pop the question before it eats you alive.

"Did- Did we…?"

Yangyang blinks at you in confusion before a loud "oh" erupts from his mouth.

"No!" He says in between laughter. "No, we didn't. Oh my god, you’re so funny. You took off your clothes saying it's too hot and smacked me with them. I didn’t look, by the way.”

Your jaw drops. You can’t even form words through the pulsing headache.

“Your clothes are on the chair. And I didn’t touch your underwear. Out of respect."

You avoid eye contact in embarrassment. 

“And… well, you did kiss me once. Twice.”

You look up alarmed and he raises his arms in defense. 

“You- you were drunk so I had to push you off. You cried a little after that. Sorry.”

“Oh god.” You cover your face with your hands, sitting down on the bed. That has to be the most embarrassing thing you could have done.

“You- Don’t worry about that. You’re a good kisser. I was kind of surprised,” he offers in an attempt to make you feel better but you only grow hotter in the face.

“And- And I liked it,” he adds in a panic. “Wait, I don’t mean it in a creepy way.”

“I’m glad it wasn’t anyone else.”

“What?”

“You. It’s okay if it’s you.”

You give him a weak smile, still not over the embarrassment.

Yangyang laughs. “I… I think I should’ve said this before but… can I take you out on a date?”

“What were we doing last night then?”

“Well, that was- ah. You’re teasing me. Motherfucker.”

You giggle into your palm. When he takes a seat on the bed, you make a distressed sound and he jumps up immediately.

“My clothes,” you hiss. “Get out of the room so I can wear them.”

“Right,” he says, pointing an index finger at you.

He turns around right then. "By the way…"

You shriek, pulling the cover up all the way to your nose.

"Sorry," he says, averting his eyes immediately. "If- if that was a date, did you like it? Do you wanna go on another one?"

You can see him practically sweat bullets and you laugh at the innocuous questions. He’s too cute. You can’t believe you made yourself shake off the thought every time it crossed you. However indelicate his touch is, you welcome it nonetheless.

"Yes. Yes, I'll go on a date with you. You annoying, stupid, bratty idiot." 

“Okay, that was mean.”

Watching his figure leave through the door, you relax your shoulders. In the end, people will always be people. No matter what shiny new toy you give them to play with, people will always search for happiness, and they will laugh and cry and fall in love with people and places and things over and over again. It's lovely to be human in an era of diamond and steel.

[e-squared-what-is-my-life]

From What I've Observed, the ENA Species Cannot Die or be Mortally Wounded

That being said... it's been a while since I've served up some angst in any fandom. Why not see if I've still got it? (Webseries ENA will be ENA, BBQ ENA will be RENA)

It was no secret to anyone that if there was one word to describe the ENA species, it would be "Hated". Most saw ENAs as nothing more than troublemakers with hair trigger tempers or excessively dramatic displays that left most uncomfortable. It was unfair to them, and everyone knew it, but it was easier for the general public to silently agree with this hatred than try to figure out the mysteries that came with the polygonal figures.

Said hatred had eventually become so common that most ENAs found themselves able to ignore it upon hitting a certain age. Sure, they would be hurt by the stereotypes and assumptions as young children, but their lonely teen and young adult years typically hardened them to the aggressive reactions their mere existence earned them. It was a sad existence, one that none of them asked for; some had been so targeted by this hatred that they attempted to do the impossible.

They did anything they could to die.

After years of trying, however, they would eventually come to accept that this was just the cards they were permanently dealt. Did the knowledge hurt? Of course it did, but when you can do nothing to change everyone's minds about you, you learn to just... live with it.

With all of this in mind, RENA stared down at the tiny sapphire blue and ruby red baby ENA that was sleeping in a specially made crib. Claire, the little angel that quite literally came out of nowhere, was one of the few things that kept RENA going. Her girlfriend, a perky yet sensitive ENA and the birth mother of their little girl, was another. Together the three made a (mostly) happy little family, one that kept to themselves more often than not.

Claire didn't deserve to be treated like her mothers, didn't deserve to be heckled and sneered at just because of what she was. It was for this reason that ENA and RENA did all they could to keep Claire's existence relatively secret. Only a select few were allowed to know about her, and even they lived on thin ice when handling the baby.

"Watching over her again, my love?"

RENA smiled at the question, her heart pitter-pattering in a way that would have killed her had she been any other creature. She loved the sound of her beloved's Happy voice, kept the sound close to her heart and cradled it the way she cradled their child.

"Like a hawk." RENA calmly replied, settled comfortably in her Salesperson Face. The side's usual charm and work-based intent was toned down, something that normally happened when both sides were content. "She's sleeping well. Not a single peep."

"Then come to bed, my love. It's late, and you need your rest just as much as she does." ENA cooed, wrapping her arms around RENA with a happy sigh.

"A little hypocritical, coming from the other person wide awake at this ungodly hour, wouldn't you say?" RENA teased, letting her head swivel around owlishly so she could press her face against her girlfriend's in their sweet imitation of a kiss.

"Mmm, I suppose." ENA hummed as they parted, the light blush on her cheeks enough to make RENA practically purr and turn so they could walk to their bedroom together. They stayed silent, yet a peace settled amongst them that was still fairly abnormal. Peace for them was a rarity, and one they were still having trouble comprehending. "Come now, my love. You deserve the rest."

"Funny, those two sentences aren't ones I normally hear together~" RENA chuckled, smirking at ENA's gasp and absolutely scandalized huff. "I'm joking, dear. And I must agree, a night of rest does sound enticing."

ENA nodded, looking as if she'd just won some difficult game. "Glad to see we're in mutual agreement."

RENA opened her mouth to let out another teasing remark, but was stopped by the sound of glass shattering and frightened wailing.

Claire's frightened wailing.

"Love, get to the room." RENA ordered, feeling Meanie practically clawing her way into the open. The final push for her appearance was ENA's frozen stature. "NOW, GODDAMN IT!"

ENA yelped, wanting to both do as told and rush to help her baby. Judging by the look on RENA's face and the increasing urgency, however, ENA decided that listening was the best option. She turned and raced into their shared room, sobbing and opening their closet. She climbed into the small space with frantic breaths, scrambling to find and prep the small handgun RENA had taught her to use in emergencies such as this. The likelihood of it needing to be used was slim, despite their living situation, so neither of them truly expected it to ever be used.

Oh, how glad ENA was that she’d given in to RENA's wishes and taken those shooting lessons.

Loud shouting and sounds of a fight sounded from farther in the house, and while they sounded like they were getting farther from Claire's room, that only meant that the next person the intruders would attempt to off was ENA. With this knowledge, the panicking woman held her gun out, making sure everything was correctly placed and handled should she need to send a bullet into some unsuspecting grunt.

"GET OUT OF MY HOUSE, YOU BASTARDS!" RENA roared, the sound of gunshots and slicing of blades following her order. ENA heard her grunt a few times, an indication that the intruders managed to get a good hit or two on the soldier. RENA could hold her own, and ENA knew that, but something was bugging her.

Why wasn't Claire crying anymore?

In a moment of maternal instincts and foolish naivety, ENA dropped her gun (something RENA would absolutely yell at her for) and pushed her way out of the closet. She strained her ears to try and see if Claire's crying had just been drowned out by the fighting, and was horrified to learn that her fears were valid. Claire wasn't in her room.

Someone had taken ENA's baby.

A fit of rare rage fueled ENA as she ran out of the room and past the feuding group, ignoring RENA's scream for her to come back. The moment she was outside, ENA looked around frantically, and she contemplated tossing her head in the air to try and get an aerial view of the land. In the end, she didn’t have to do that (thank goodness, it always made her nauseous when she did), as she caught sight of someone running off with a wriggling bundle in their arms.

ENA let out a furious scream, a distorted and disturbing sound that glitched and echoed, stopping the kidnapper in his tracks for long enough for ENA to catch up and pounce on him. The two scrambled for dominance instantly, Claire tossed into a patch of grass and screaming in terror.

"I'LL MAKE YOU PAY FOR TRYING TO TAKE MY DAUGHTER!" ENA screamed, using her detached limbs to her advantage and managing to wrap both hands around the kidnapper's throat. She felt nothing but white hot rage and saw nothing but the struggling man under her as she choked him with all of her might. It wasn’t much, but it kept him pinned and her in enough control. "People like you don’t deserve to live! You don't deserve to die! You deserve every kind of suffering designed!"

Loud choking was what ENA was met with, keeping her focus for much too long.

That is, if the sudden and sharp pain in her back had something to say about it.

A loud cry of despair mixed with ENA's screech of pain. It was almost odd enough to distract her, considering how she hadn’t had a personality glitch in a while, but that thought was banished quickly as the pain spread through her upper body.

This didn't make sense; why was she hurting so much? Why was she suddenly so dizzy? Wasn't she supposed to be practically immune to this sort of pain?

"STUPID, EGOTISTICAL SUNUVA BITCH! I'LL KILL YOU!" RENA's shout was the last thing ENA heard before her vision blurred and eventually went black. It was quiet after that, near silent, save for the harmonious singing that echoed around her.

"Hello?" ENA called, looking around in confusion. "Is an offering required for one's presence in this place? What, exactly, is this place?"

"A place of peace and serenity." A calm voice replied. A large ball of light with wings seemingly encircling it appeared in front of ENA, watching her without eyes. "Fear not, young ENA. Your journey is not yet over. That is, if your lover has anything to say about it. You lot are resilient, something I admire about you. I'd say your species is one of my proudest creations."

"The Great Runas..." ENA gasped, eyes wide as she realized who she was talking to. "Ancient lord of time and wishes, what has brought you here?"

"Why, you, of course." Runas chuckled. "When I heard one of my dear ENAs was on the brink of death, I knew something wasn't right. I came to see what was happening, and I find you with a corrupted blade in your back. Vile things, those are."

"A... corrupted blade?" ENA furrowed her brows in confusion, wondering what this meant for her and her family. With this knowledge, ENA was now more than aware that their assumptions that they couldn't be hurt were far from untrue. "They attempted to assassinate me. My family."

"Indeed." Runas simply replied. "But, worry not. I enjoy seeing your little family peruse these lands. As such, it is in my best interest to let you continue in this life. So go, reunite with your bonded ENA and your darling daughter. Make a show for me I won't ever forget!"

"What? A sh-" ENA was cut off by the sudden feeling of pain, one so intense that she found her eyes flying open and her chest rising and falling rapidly. She looked around, temporarily mute as RENA sobbed and hugged her with as much care as she could muster. "My... My love..."

"Oh, sweet darling. I am so sorry." RENA cried, the Meanie side of her face pulled into a frantic and pained frown. A feat considering it wasn’t the side in charge, but one both weren't necessarily surprised by. "I let you down, I let Claire down- Both of my babies were hurt because I couldn't hold those hellbound monsters back."

ENA gasped, attempting to sit up and groaning as RENA held her in a still (but lovingly comfortable) position. "Claire; she's hurt?"

"It's only a few scrapes and bruises. She seems fine for the most part, otherwise." RENA assured. "And now that you're awake, I need not worry about those heathens any longer."

There was no response to the statement; ENA knew it meant the attackers were either dead or close to it, even without visible or verbal confirmation. In all honesty, that was the last thing on her mind, the first being the knowledge she'd gained in her encounter with her world's creator.

She could finally die.

[cal-daisies-and-briars]

🍎 🍎 🍎 🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎

114 for 🍎:

---

Old friend? Like, from his childhood? Someone who knows a part of Eddie no one else knows? Buck hates them. He hates them! They get to know Eddie. They got more years with Eddie. They get to be here with Eddie when Buck is not! 

Wait. 

Buck cannot spiral about Eddie’s friendships right now. He came here to spiral about Bobby. He can worry about Eddie replacing him later. 

Eddie guides Buck into the house, towards the living room. There is a very handsome man sitting on Eddie’s couch. Like a smoke show, really. Cheekbones and sharp features and… Yeah. Eddie, bless him, probably has no idea how hot his friend is. 

“Uh, Manuel, this is Buck,” Eddie says. “Buck just drove from LA because of a, uh, family emergency, so-”

“Say no more,” Manuel smiles, standing. “Nice to meet you, Buck. Eddie, we’ll catch up later.”

Buck doesn’t look at Manuel. He looks at Eddie’s coffee table, where there are two stemless glasses of red wine. 

Weird.

Eddie drinks beer with his friends. Maybe tequila. Why is he drinking wine with this guy? Obviously this guy, this Manuel, doesn’t get Eddie. Buck’s doubt is assuaged. 

“Bye, Manuel,” Buck says, waving. 

Manuel raises a curious eyebrow, but allows Eddie to walk him out. They say a quick goodbye, then Manuel is gone. 

Eddie shuts the door and walks back to where Buck is still just standing, staring at him.

“So, by old friend, how old?” Buck asks. “Like, is this your childhood best friend, or…”

Eddie narrows his eyes. “Seriously? You drove across the country with the news that our captain is your biological father only to ask me about how I know Manuel? Nothing I say could be nearly as interesting as what you’re holding onto.”

“You’re right,” Buck says.

“You sit down, I’ll grab beers,” Eddie instructs. 

“Not wine?” Buck teases. 

Eddie’s cheeks go a bit pink. “Nope. This calls for beer.”

🍎

“Charles Timothy Nash, likely uncle?” Eddie reads the DNA profile match.

Buck nods. “Bobby’s brother. He doesn’t have any other siblings. I’d just met the guy, coincidentally.”

“Wow,” Eddie exhales. “What did Bobby say?”

“Nothing,” Buck replies. “I didn’t tell him.”

“What?” Eddie demands. “Why the hell not?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Buck asks, jaw tensing.

“No!” Eddie exclaims. “Buck, this is the same Bobby who was there for you when you found out you were adopted. Who stood by you through all your injuries when your parents were nowhere to be seen. He already loves you. You already know him. This is a good thing!”

“That’s the exact reason it’s a bad thing!” Buck insists.

“Literally how?” Eddie asks.

“Because he gave me away!” Buck shouts. His eyes spill over with tears. “He is the first person who ever made me feel like I had a home or a place in the world, and it turns out he’s also the first person to leave me.”

Eddie’s shoulders slump. “Buck… He would have been young.”

“Older than you with Chris,” Buck states.

“Yeah, and I’ve done a great job,” Eddie huffs.

“You have,” Buck argues. “Because he knows you love him, even if he’s mad.”

Eddie sighs. “I think you owe it to yourself to hear his side of this. We didn’t even know he had another kid. Maybe he doesn’t either?”

Buck hadn’t considered that. Did Bobby used to be the kind of guy who could get a woman pregnant and not realize? Buck used to be that kind of guy. There’s not a zero percent chance he has a kid out there he doesn’t know about. Maybe he inherited the behavior… 

But it doesn’t sit right with Buck. The image he has of Bobby isn’t someone who would ever be like that. Catholic, responsible, very monogamous. But clearly there’s a huge part of Bobby that Buck just doesn’t know at all. 

Then there’s the other thing. 

What if Bobby finds out, and he’s disappointed? What if Buck is fine as a friend, a coworker, an employee, but not as a son? Buck can and has handled rejection from a lot of people. Including his parents. But he thinks coming from Bobby, it just might kill him. 

“No,” Buck says. “I’m not telling him.”

Eddie sighs. “I mean, it’s your choice.”

“Yeah,” Buck agrees. “It is.”

“But, for the record, I think it would go well.”

“Can I stay here for a bit?” Buck asks, ignoring that. 

Eddie nods. “You can always stay here, Buck.”

[thesagesjournal]

[Birthday] Oz (April 27th, 2025)

Twitter thread | Bluesky thread

...It's you. Worry not, you didn't wake me. I was just thinking about you. I expected you to come and congratulate me first thing in the morning, so I decided to wait for your arrival. ...I have come to know you better, if only this much.

Birthday Morning

Oz: Sage, why are you out of breath? Happy… birthday? Ah, I see.

Oz: …You came running to wish me a happy birthday first thing in the morning even though I, myself, have forgotten?

Oz: I must thank you, Akira.

Voicelines

Oz: Am I excited for my birthday? Not particularly. I have lived a long life. Even if another year passes by, I will remain the same. …However, I cannot overlook your efforts in preparing a celebration for me. Thank you, Sage.

Arthur: Master Oz! This sash is for you. It’s apparently a tradition in the Master Sage’s world to don one that says “Birthday Boy” for your special day, so I had Chloe show me how to make one. I know birthdays aren’t a big deal to you, but would you be willing to wear it for me?

Cain: Happy birthday, Oz! …Whoa, you're giving me these chestnuts, caramels, and canelé​ as thanks? It's okay, I'll pass. …No, really! H-Hey, Arthur? Does Oz seem weird to you? …He had too much to drink, but you gave him water, so he’ll be good in 30 minutes? Alright then...

Riquet: I made a kusudama for you just like the ones the Master Sage told me about! Hmm, I think we’re supposed to cheer when it bursts open so… Hip-hip-hooray! Happy birthday, Oz!

Snow: Sage, have you seen our dear Oz? We’re planning a grand celebration for him, but our birthday boy is nowhere to be found. Hmm… Did he figure us out and go into hiding? If so, we might have to pivot from a birthday party to a manhunt…

White: Would you like to join our grand birthday surprise for Oz? ...Oh, we’re simply planning to shower him with flowers as soon as he steps into the lounge. However, we can’t hide there since he’ll sense us, so the plan is to make a mad dash for it as soon as he comes in sight!

Mithra: Oz, let’s have a fight to the death. Wouldn’t it be an incredible story to say I defeated you on your birthday? …Huh? We can’t fight because there’s a party happening? How could that possibly be more important than me?

Owen: Oz often comes to break up our fights, but recently, he’s begun giving us candy too. I don’t know what he's scheming, but I don’t need his charity. Today’s his birthday, isn’t it? Well then, he can suck on his paltry stash of penny sweets alone.

Bradley: It’s Oz’s birthday, ain’t it? Whaddaya say we sneak into his castle and give it some festive flair? I can getcha there, but after that we can just do our own thing. …Heh, like I’d tell ya what I’m plannin’. It’s called “surprise” for a reason, ya know?

Faust: Happy birthday, Oz. Do you remember our last joint lesson? Shino took quite well to your more hands-on style of teaching. Since then, I’ve occasionally incorporated some of that into my own lesson plans. Let’s keep doing our best, from one teacher to another.

Shino: Happy birthday, Oz. After your party with the Central wizards is over, you should come to Shylock’s bar. I’m gathering all the members of “Jet Black Dawn” to make a toast for you. It’s fun to reunite every now and then, right?

Heathcliff: Arthur asked all the younger wizards to help him plan a birthday surprise for Lord Oz, but I’m worried he won’t like or appreciate it. Now that we’re this far into the plan though, I think we’ll just have to go through with it. Alright, you can do this, Heathcliff!

Nero: The Central kiddos have been buzzin’ around all day ‘cause of Oz’s birthday. …Whoa, did Cain just slap Oz on his back? And Riquet keeps tuggin’ on him, too. …They’re braver than me, for sure… But, I guess that’s just how much they trust each other.

Shylock: I have plenty of your favourite alcohol in stock today, so please, feel free to indulge to your heart’s content, Oz. …It doesn’t stop there, though. Once we get to the bar, I plan to show off my skills as the owner. I hope to keep you entertained all night long.

Murr: Ahaha, I look like a bagworm, right? I was hidin’ in Oz’s room to surprise him for his birthday, but he caught me right away! It’s kinda fun danglin’ around all tied up like this, though! Do you wanna give it a try, Master Sage?

Chloe: Ha~ppy bir~thday, Lord Oz~! …Wait, Lord Oz!? Did you hear that!? Rustica suggested I make a song for your birthday since you like music so much, so I've been practicing for it. ...You want to hear more? Well, if you say so! Here I go! This is “Oz’s Birthday Song”!

Rustica: Lord Oz, you put such care into each and every one of your conversations. Every word you utter is full of sincerity, beauty, and strength. And there is no better proof of that than the joy on Chloe’s face when you praised him. Thus, I wish you a very happy birthday.

Figaro: Y’know Oz, I really do enjoy our chats together. …I’m the only one who ever does any talking? Ahaha, you’re not wrong about that. But you always listen so attentively that I always have a good time regardless. Speaking of, why don’t we have a little meet-up tonight?

Rutile: Happy birthday, Lord Oz. …Oh, are these roasted chestnuts for me? Why, thank you. That’s so kind of you, even though it’s your birthday today. …Children need to eat? Oh, I get these caramels and canelé​, too? Wait, are you dru— No, it couldn’t be. Well, thank you again!

Lennox: Happy birthday, Lord Oz. Thank you for taking care of the sheep that wandered into your room the other day. Since then, they’ve been trying to go back… I think they enjoy the warmth of the fireplace and the comfort of your peaceful presence.

Mitile: Oww! I pricked myself again… Oh, Lord Oz! I gathered all these chestnuts for you, but removing the burrs is harder than I thought it would be… Wow! You finished the rest of them in an instant!

[ababanerb]

Soldier On

summary: Freshly discharged from the Ferngill military should be a relief, now that the war is over. But Safiya finds that surviving nine hellish years as a child soldier and battle mage is only half the fight in life. With nowhere to go but her dead grandfather's farm, and no family to speak of, she arrives in Pelican Town. Armed with nothing but PTSD and a fierce will to survive, she goes through the painstaking ordeal of relearning how to live.

note: this is a multi-chapter fic, you can find the master list for this fic here

read on AO3

Here’s the thing about war –- there are no more orders to follow when the fighting’s stopped. And for Safiya, that’s an entirely new war. Ferngill and Gotoro were both guilty of using child soldiers to make up squads of battle mages and field medics, finding and using children as young as fourteen.

When the war ends, albeit on tense terms, the world is surprised, and most of the people Safiya knew during her time in the military know exactly where home is for them now that they’ve been sent home for reunion and reintegration.

But Safiya is set adrift.

“Here you are, Colonel,” Her commanding officer says, smacking her in the face with her release papers where she’s laying on her cot in the barracks, “You’re free to go.”

Safiya nods her thanks, nine years of disuse outside of barking orders and short briefings has rendered her voice useless. She reads her dismissal papers soundlessly, and even though she’s glad to be going home - especially when she knows that most infantry won’t be going home for another six months at least - she doesn’t even know where home is anymore.

She packs her things quietly, her personal belongings are military issued uniforms and a ceremonial saber, everything else she’d brought with her as a fourteen year old girl lost to the person she’d become in the war. Her pack had been light when she’d been drafted and deployed as a girl, and it was even lighter now. The feel of her half empty pack bouncing against her back as she leaves the military base has a pang of melancholy racing through her, made even worse when she collects a stack of letters from the administrative office on her way out.

Most of them are from her grandfather, her mom’s dad, and she tears open the newest one right there in the administrative office, then quickly wishes she’d waited to get on a bus to open it.

To my dearest Saf,

It pains me to know that you did not get to see your mother again before she passed, that this war has taken so much from you at such a young age. Even moreso, I am sorry that I do not get to see the woman you’ve grown into.

In the event that you’re reading this, it means that I have passed and joined your mother on the other side of the veil. I hope that I do not see you there anytime soon.

My dear girl, you have always been strong, but you’re allowed to be weak in the peace. I know you haven’t known peace in many years now, and I cannot imagine how long you’ve gone without a moment's respite by the time this war comes to an end. So, assuming the war has ended by the time you read this, do this old man a favor— enjoy the peace, my girl. Revel in it as I know you haven’t in many years, and then find peace for yourself.

Enclosed in this letter is the deed to the farm. Our farm. The Valley is full of magic, if you remember, and Atwood Farms is rich with it. I think, like Yoba, that the magic in the Valley is benevolent, and you will find exactly what it is that you need. I can only hope that I’m right about this, but as you know all too well, my dear Saf, magic is fickle.

Perhaps you should ask Rasmodious about it should you move to Pelican Town? I’m sure he’d be delighted to indulge you.

If you do choose to come to the farm, know that it’s still being maintained. Rasmodious has been kind enough to make sure that all of Atwood Farms will be taken care of. It shall remain exactly as it did when you were a girl, and as it does now.

Find peace here as I did, and as your mother did.

All my love,

Grandpa

PS — Call Lewis and let him know you’re coming, dear girl. And tell him and Willy I say hello.

She really wishes she’d stepped away to read it as tears brim in her eyes, but they do not fall. She takes the first bus she can out into the Valley, and she curses at the price of the ticket for the connecting bus ride into Pelican Town. But she forks the fifty dollars over anyway, and she sits and has the worst lunch she’s ever had in the bus station terminal.

It’s all vending machine food, stale trail mix and a flat cola, and she realizes how strange she must look, still dressed in her combat uniform as she hunches over her crappy meal as she dials the number listed on the town’s website she’d found on her phone.

She’s half-tempted to turn to the few people in the terminal and tell them that if they think she’s strange now, then they should also know that this is her first time using a cellphone since she was fourteen. The technology has changed since then, and while she’d had a touch screen as a girl, flip phones had still been pretty much the norm when she was drafted. Now, her phone scans her face to unlock, and the touchscreen is nowhere near as clunky as she’d remembered them being as a kid.

The line rings maybe three times before Lewis picks up, his gruff voice jovial as he answers, “This is Lewis, with whom am I speaking to?”

Safiya has to clear her throat before she starts - get her vocal chords at least a little warm to save Lewis from the grate of her voice, “This is Safiya Atwood, I’m calling in regards to Atwood Farms. My grandfather, William, left me the deed.”

She hears a quiet clattering over the line, and as she strains her ears, it sounds like he might be in a bar, “My goodness, Safiya, it’s good to hear your voice! Are you looking to sell the old farm?”

Safiya nods, humming into the receiver as she chews on a handful of stale nuts, “Thank you, but no, I’m actually looking to move onto the property. I’ll likely be there by sundown today. I was hoping you might have the keys?”

There’s another scuffling in the background, a door creaks and shuts, “Uh- Yes, I do. I’ll meet you at the bus stop around sundown, Miss Atwood.”

She mutters her thanks, and the call ends with a quiet beeping in her ear. She leans back on the bench as she picks at the crappy trail mix, sighing as she waits for the bus. The silence is weird, now, having spent so many years listening to the sound of gunfire and combat going on around her.

It’s unsettling, really, as she watches people walk past her, just living their lives. Most of them not even batting an eye at her appearance, or even really caring that it’s so quiet. Hell, the hissing of the bus’ hydraulic brakes has Safiya jumping in her seat when it pulls into the bus stop. But nobody else bats an eye at her.

She takes a seat near the back of the bus, which is empty save for the maybe ten people scattered about, and they all give her as much of a wide berth as she gives them. She ignores the odd stares she gets, settling in to look absently out of the window. She knows she must look strange, still in her military issued mages combat uniform, the deep black and brilliant gold detailing would give away her status in the chain of command if any of these people cared. But it’s the dead of winter, and most of these people have either just finished up some last minute Winter Star shopping or are heading home to spend the holiday with their families.

Safiya hasn’t celebrated any holiday since she was thirteen, but she can still remember the distinct joy of unwrapping gifts so painstakingly wrapped by her mother and grandfather. And though she’d never participated in the yearly tradition of brewing a hot cup of tea to drink out of their finest china, she had burnt her tongue on many cups of hot cocoa as a girl.

It feels like forever ago now, a glimpse of the past through the break in the treeline as the bus flies down the highway — another piece of her lost to the war. Shot to pieces and left to be buried in the mud of the battlefield.

The world moves on though, and the bus comes to a halt at its first and only stop between Grampleton and Pelican Town, in another rural town called Pine Valley. Where Grampleton is quaint and cozy in a touristy way, with all of its original downton architecture intact and well maintained; Pine Valley is Grampleton’s pothead cousin. Safiya had heard her mother make the joke a hundred times over as a girl, when she hadn’t quite understood the joke, but as an adult, the joke is an apt comparison.

There’s nobody left when the bus pulls out of Pine Valley, Safiya the lone passenger on yet another lonely journey.

It reminds her vaguely of when she’d first been drafted. Most mages lived out in the countryside in larger towns, or out in the boonies. But Safiya had spent most of her childhood in Zuzu, with her mother. Smaller towns and villages might have a few mages, or even whole families, but most anybody with any affinity for the arcane tended to stay away from cities — where the magic became too muddied with other people's energies to do anything useful with it. But Safiya had felt the magic strongly in Zuzu, not as strongly as she did out in the valley, but she’d felt it there — humming just below the surface, some wild untamed thing, so different from the smooth flowing calm that mages were used to out in the valley.

So, she’d been a rare breed in a breed already rare in its own right. One of the few mages that the government had been able to find in cities, and she had been the only passenger for that bus ride too. Armed with nothing but the shaky promise she’d made to her mother.

I will not relent.

The promise had followed her through her brief military training, and at some point in her training, the mantra had changed to soldier on.

It plays in her head even now. As the sun begins to set and paints the sky alight with brilliant shades of red and gold, and as the bus rolls to a stop next to a beaten down bus at a bus stop that looks more like a patch of dirt on the side of the road. There’s no need for those words now, she reminds herself, as she collects her few things and steps off of the bus, but it repeats regardless.

There is no one waiting to greet her at the bus stop when she steps off of the bus, the driver wasting no time to shut the doors and make a sharp u-turn back to where he came from, but she doesn’t mind. She knows that if she were to follow the path West she’d stumble across Atwood Farms, and the tiny village center is off to the East.

She doesn’t move. Instead, she opens the side pocket of her bag, grabbing for the carton of cigarettes she’s been carefully smoking her way through for the last two seasons. For every mage she knew, every single one of them had their fix in the military. The single pack was the first she’d ever laid hands on, given to her by her commanding officer just before the war had come to a ceasefire. The first time in years since their barracks had seen any real use outside of the bare necessities for living.

She’s been savoring them since.

The sun has only just begun to set, but Safiya knows it only takes forty-five minutes at best for the sky to go completely dark, and she keeps an eye on the dirt road leading into the village square as she holds the cigarette between her lips and lights it up with a small flame on her fingertip. The smoke burns on the way down, particularly bad in the cold, even worse with so much snow on the ground.

Snow is good, the colonel, the soldier, inside of her says, Harder for the enemies to sneak up on us. Crunchy. Visibility is high with the snow.

She tells the colonel to shut up and let her enjoy one of her last few cigarettes before the carton is empty and she goes back to living the cigarette free life she’d been living before. The colonel doesn’t shut up, she smokes her cigarette anyway and sends it off in a plume of smoke and ash when she’s finished with it, letting the wind carry away the remnants for her.

It’s as she watches the tiny specks of black and gray be carried off by the wind that the crunching of footsteps meets her ears. The colonel yells for her to get low, to grab for a rifle, raise a shield, shoot off a quick blast of fire, anything, and she forces herself to ignore it. To curl her hands up tight at her sides and just observe the squat old man walking down the dirt road.

“Miss Atwood?” He calls to her, the same jovially gruff voice she’d heard over the phone some hours ago, and it takes her a moment to realize that this must be Lewis. So much older than she remembers him being.

“Yes, sir,” She addresses him stiffly, though she does not salute, her hands relaxing at her sides, “Am I right to assume you’re Lewis?”

“That would be me,” He nods happily at her, stretching his hand out towards her for a handshake when he reaches her, she just puts her hand over his, gently pushing his outstretched hand back towards him.

“I’m rather jumpy with my recent dismissal,” She says, tone apologetic, and she hopes that is enough explanation for him, not wanting to get into the details of how she could very well accidentally kill him with how on edge her magic is. Not knowing friend or foe in this new battlefield off of the battlefield.

Lewis nods again, smiling wider, and she relaxes upon seeing he takes no offense to it. It’s maybe the most pleasant interaction she’s had all day, not having to worry or explain away the quirks of war, “Thank you for your service, Miss Atwood.”

Scratch that.

Safiya internally cringes to her grave and back, “Ah, sure,” She mutters, and her fingers tap at her palms, “It, ah, it’s really not anything you need to thank me for.”

Especially not when it hadn’t exactly been her choice to go out and fight in a war she didn’t care about. Not when she was fourteen, and especially not now, not when the war is over. The casualties on both sides had been brutal. Good people had been lost for a conflict that hadn’t needed the force either side had responded with.

But—

“Here we are,” Lewis says, rifling through the pockets of his well-worn coat, pulling out a keychain she immediately recognizes as her grandfathers, the Junimo charm handcarved by her grandmother some decades ago, “Billy left these in my care. He’d always hoped you’d be ‘round some day to get ‘em.”

Safiya clears her throat, finding it suddenly hard to swallow around the thick, viscous, lump in her throat as she eyes the little Junimo keychain. Originally painted granny smith green but faded with time and chipped in places from being dropped, and the small chip of yellow paint from when her grandfather had set his keys on the still wet paint of her childhood paintings.

“Well,” She manages to get out, voice gone thin and reedy, “I’m sure he’d be pleased that I came back at all.”

It’s a morbid joke, one that usually gets laughs in the barracks in the warzone, but Lewis doesn’t laugh. He just chuckles awkwardly, handing the keys to her and avoiding touching her bare hands with any part of him.

“Billy loved you dearly, Miss Atwood,” Lewis says after clearing his throat, “He’d be happy you’re here, no matter where you were.”

Here. Not here, here.

Here. Like, alive, here.

“Ah, right,” Safiya agrees, and she wonders how much bigger the lump in her throat can get, “I suppose you’re right.”

“O’ course I am,” Lewis laughs, a hand on his belly like he’s Santa off the clock, “Your grandpa was my best friend, you know!” Her lips tilt up in the smallest of watery smiles, and Lewis smiles at her from beneath his thick mustache, “Anyway, Miss Atwood, I must be gettin’ back now. Have a happy Winter Star.”

She watches him go, snow crunching under his boots as he walks away, and she stares at the faded Junimo charm on her keychain. It’s weighty, if only in sentimental value, and she rubs her thumb over the faded green wood and the yellow spot of paint, a bruise of color.

She sighs, turns on her heel and makes the short walk through the snow to Atwood Farms.