#i loathed last year's winner

[shmreduplication]

kinda became a tradition on accident for me to go see the oscar nominated animated short films at a movie theater (they play them all as a group, it's nice)

tl:dr--they were not good this year and Our Uniform should win but it's going to go to War is Over

last year the worst one by far was the winner, The Boy the badger the fox and the horse, or something like that. It had an incredible cast of A-listers and every line of dialogue was like the moral in a children's picture book. "what do you want to be when you grow up?" the badger asks the boy, he replies "kind" ugh excuse me while i puke so hard my eyes pop out of my head so I don't ever have to watch it again jfc.

this year's disgustingly saccharine and obviously very expensive equivalent is "War Is Over! Inspired by the Music of John and Yoko" which about a pair of soldiers on the opposite side of a trench warfare who are playing chess via carrier pigeon. The two trenches charge each other, the two soldiers figure out that the other person is their friend and they see the pigeon get hit by a bomb and die. They read its final message and stop all their fellow soldiers from fighting. Not the worst and the juxtaposition of chess against an actual war is so cliche that no one does it, which makes it novel again. But then john fucking lennon starts wailing as it's revealed to the audience that the message said "war is over" and you only have a beat to take that in before the fucking children's choir joins in. Not to be a flanderized Liz Lemon but *eyeroll* oh brother

anyway they'll probably all go online in a couple weeks, rn they're hard to find w/ a 2-minute google search. The special commendation Wild Summon was good too, gross but effective

oh yeah also the issue with this year's noms is that they. uh. IDK how to phrase it but there's a type of vignette-y meandering plotless story that I'm ok with in short stories but i have a higher bar for visual mediums so like Totoro is nice for nostalgia reasons but multiple stories in a row animated by different teams where I Do Not Know What The Plot Is Or Why I Care About These Characters is. not my thing. So Pachyderme, Letter to a Pig, and 95 Senses were just an absolute drag to watch in sequence. Our Uniform was also vignettes but at least I knew for a fact waht the fuck was happening at any given moment. Kinda wish we just got the four losers from last year again this year so they could get the recognition they deserve

[theonottsbxtch]

Hi again! It’s 🐴

I have a request for youuu. What if there is a spy!reader that has been at blows with spy!Oscar Piastri? They’re enemies that will eventually turn to lovers perhaps? 👀 I do love me a good enemies to lovers trope sometimes.

SKYFALL PT.1 | OP81

an: hello again sugar! oh my god the fun i had so much fun writing this, it's a short series. i wrote it all yesterday when i was on a massive coach trip up to see my friend and i am now in love with spy!oscar piastri RAHHH, i also had to name this skyfall because that's like the trademark song for formula one

wc: 2.5k

The rain was relentless, a steady downpour that washed over the narrow Italian streets, cloaking everything in a hazy mist. The city had always had a certain charm, but tonight it felt like a battlefield. She moved swiftly through the shadows, the collar of her coat pulled up, shielding her from the cold rain. She’d memorised every turn, every alley. There was no room for mistakes tonight.

She approached the dimly lit café, her pulse steady, her mind sharp. This was supposed to be an easy job—retrieve the data, disappear. But in her line of work, things rarely went as planned.

Inside, the familiar hum of quiet conversations filled the air. Tourists sipped espresso, locals lingered over wine. She took a seat by the window, her eyes scanning the room beneath her calm exterior. The contact was late. She hated late.

Just as she began to grow impatient, the door swung open, and he walked in.

Her breath caught in her throat. Him.

Oscar Piastri.

Of all the spies in the world, it had to be him on the same mission as her.

He strode in with that same infuriating confidence, the same icy precision that made her blood boil. His eyes flicked toward her, and for the briefest moment, a spark of recognition passed between them, but his expression remained unreadable. He was good at that—masking every emotion behind that cold, calculating demeanour.

They had a history, and it wasn't a pleasant one. Their agencies had been at odds for years, and every time they crossed paths, it ended in a battle of wits, and occasionally, fists. Oscar represented everything she loathed—arrogance, superiority, and an unnerving calm that made him impossible to shake.

She kept her eyes on him, but her heart raced faster now. She couldn’t afford to lose focus. He was here for the same reason she was. The data. The intel. A mission neither could fail.

Oscar made his way to the counter, seemingly unaware of her presence, but she knew better. He never missed anything. Every move he made was deliberate, every step calculated. When he glanced her way again, their eyes locked, and this time, the tension between them was palpable. It crackled in the air, sharp and electric, drawing a few curious glances from other patrons. It could have been cut with a butter knife.

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. He knew.

Of course, he knew.

She clenched her jaw, forcing herself to remain still. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her riled. Not again. Not like last time.

But that smirk. That damn smirk was infuriating.

He slid into a seat at the bar, casually ordering a drink. His back was to her, but she could feel his attention on her, a subtle challenge in the air. They both knew what this meant. Their agencies might have sent them for the same intel, but there was no sharing in their world. It was winner take all.

The only problem? He was as skilled as she was. And maybe, just maybe, he was a little better.

The waitress approached, handing her a folded napkin along with her coffee. She didn’t need to open it to know who it was from. She unfolded the paper carefully, her hands steady despite the irritation bubbling beneath her skin.

"Looks like we’re playing this game again, sweetheart. Try to keep up this time."

Her fingers curled around the napkin, crumpling it as she glanced up at him. Oscar didn’t turn around, but she could sense the amusement radiating off him.

He was baiting her.

This was how it always started between them. A game of cat and mouse. Only neither of them was ever quite sure who was which.

She stood up, throwing a few bills on the table when she noticed her contact. If he wanted a chase, she would give him one. But this time, she wouldn’t let him win. Not again.

She stepped outside, the rain cooling the heat of her frustration. As she disappeared into the night, she could feel his eyes on her back, watching, waiting.

But if Oscar Piastri thought he could outsmart her this time, he was sorely mistaken.

She moved through the rain-slick streets, her mind racing ahead of her. She knew Oscar wouldn’t wait long to make his move. He never did. This was a game they’d played too many times before, and she knew the pattern. He would strike soon—he had to. They were after the same intel, and neither of them could afford to let the other get ahead.

She ducked into a narrow alley, her hand resting lightly on the concealed weapon at her side. Her eyes scanned the rooftops, the windows, anywhere an ambush could come from. Oscar was as subtle as a shadow, but she knew his tricks.

Her ears caught the faintest scrape of a shoe against wet pavement, and she spun around just as a figure emerged from the dark. Oscar, dressed in black, his eyes gleaming under the streetlight’s faint glow.

“Took you long enough,” she called, her voice dripping with challenge.

“I thought I’d give you a head start this time,” he replied smoothly, his deep voice cutting through the rain. He stepped closer, his movements fluid, predatory. “How kind of me, don’t you think, sweetheart?”

She scoffed, her muscles tensing as she prepared for what was coming. Oscar was many things—arrogant, infuriating, dangerous—but slow wasn’t one of them. He’d never given her a head start in his life, and he wasn’t about to now.

The brief moment of stillness stretched between them like the taut string of a bow, tension building, unspoken. Then, without warning, he lunged.

She darted backward, her reflexes sharp, as his fist cut through the air where her face had been seconds ago. He was fast, faster than most, but she was ready. She countered with a sharp kick aimed at his ribs, but Oscar caught her ankle mid-air, twisting just enough to throw her off balance.

Before she could react, he yanked her toward him, spinning her in a blur of motion. Her body twisted through the air, her legs wrapping around his neck as she locked her thighs, using his own strength against him. For a split second, she thought she had the upper hand, feeling his body jerk in surprise as she clung to his shoulders, her weight dragging him downward.

But Oscar was quick to recover. He snarled under his breath, his hands gripping her waist as he spun, using the momentum to slam her back-first into a nearby table of a cafe that most certainly didn’t deserve this. The wooden surface cracked beneath the force of the impact, and pain shot through her spine.

He didn’t stop. His hands were on her throat before she could regain her footing, the pressure cutting off her air as he loomed over her, his expression dark and dangerous. His body was close, too close, and the heat radiating from him only made the fight more intense.

She struggled beneath his grip, her vision swimming as his fingers tightened. She had to admit, he was stronger than she remembered. But she wasn’t going to lose this one.

A wicked grin spread across her lips, even as she gasped for breath.

"Careful, Piastri," she rasped, her voice teasing despite the situation. "If you wanted me on my back, all you had to do was ask."

For a fraction of a second, his grip faltered, his dark eyes narrowing in irritation. That split-second was all she needed.

With a sudden, powerful twist of her hips, She used his distraction to break free, her legs kicking up to hook around his arm. She yanked hard, flipping him off balance and sending him crashing into the ground beside her. She rolled, agile as ever, and landed on top of him, pinning him with her knee pressed firmly into his chest.

Oscar gasped, his chest heaving beneath her weight as she leaned down, her face inches from his.

"Guess I still have the upper hand, sweetheart," she whispered, her tone mocking, breathless, but victorious.

He glared up at her, lips pressed into a thin line as he struggled beneath her, though the gleam in his eyes betrayed a mix of frustration and something else. Something darker, deeper.

But she didn’t linger on the moment. She leaped off him, her body moving like liquid as she darted toward the edge of the alley, knowing she needed to escape before he recovered.

Oscar was strong, but she was faster. He wouldn’t stay down for long, though. They both knew this was far from over.

As she melted into the shadows, her heart pounding, she couldn’t shake the feeling that tonight had shifted something between them. The game they’d been playing for years now felt different, more dangerous. The stakes had always been high, but now, there was something else simmering beneath the surface—a heat neither of them was ready to acknowledge.

Not yet, at least.

************************************************************************

The sterile lights of the Mercedes Headquarters flickered overhead, casting sharp shadows on the cold concrete walls. Her footsteps echoed down the narrow hallway as she approached the director’s office, her mind replaying the events of the night. She hadn’t expected to run into Oscar—certainly not like that. And yet, here she was, about to explain why she had come back empty-handed.

Her stomach knotted, not from nerves, but frustration. She’d let him get too close. She’d let him distract her. And now, there would be hell to pay.

Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the door to her boss’s office. The room was dimly lit, with a desk cluttered with files and a single lamp illuminating the figure seated behind it—Director Wolff. He didn’t look up as she entered, but the air around him was heavy with expectation. She had been here before—too many times, honestly—but something about this time felt different.

“Agent,” Wolff said finally, his voice low and gruff, as he finished signing a report and set the pen down with deliberate precision. His piercing blue eyes lifted to meet hers. “I take it you have the intel?”

She stood straighter, her jaw tightening. “No, sir.”

The silence that followed her words was thick, suffocating. Wolff leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled in front of him as he regarded her with a look that was both calm and dangerous.

“No?” His voice was soft, too soft, and that made it worse.

She shook her head, holding his gaze. “There was... interference. Agent Piastri showed up. He’s working for—”

“I don’t care who he’s working for.” Wolff’s words cut through hers like a knife. “I care that you don’t have the intel you were sent to retrieve.”

She swallowed hard, knowing there was no good explanation for this. “We fought. He got in my way, and the situation escalated. By the time I—”

Wolff slammed his hand on the desk, making her flinch. “You let him distract you.” His voice was low, but laced with fury. “This isn’t the first time Piastri has interfered with one of your missions, is it?”

She gritted her teeth. “No, sir.”

“And yet, every time you come face to face with him, you come back empty-handed.” Wolff stood, walking around his desk with a measured calm that only added to the tension in the room. His tall frame cast a long shadow as he stopped in front of her. “I’m beginning to wonder if you have a weakness for him, Agent.”

Her eyes flashed with anger. “Absolutely not. He’s a distraction, but—”

“But nothing,” Wolff snapped. “You’re one of the best agents I’ve got, but lately it seems like Piastri has you off your game. Why is that?” He raised an eyebrow, scrutinising her in a way that made her feel exposed, vulnerable. “Why is it that whenever Agent Piastri shows up, you forget your mission?”

“I didn’t forget my mission.” Her voice was sharper than she intended, but she couldn’t help it. The insinuation that she had been anything but focused stung. “He ambushed me, and it slowed me down. I was going to—”

“You were going to what?” Wolff’s tone dripped with disappointment. “Let him slam you into a table again?” His eyes flicked over her, taking in the faint bruising on her collarbone, the subtle strain in her movements. He knew. Of course, he knew. He always knew. “I heard what happened, Agent. And don’t tell me he caught you off guard, because that’s not an excuse I’ll accept.”

She clenched her fists at her sides, biting back the anger that threatened to bubble over. He made it sound so simple. So black and white. “He’s not just anyone, sir. You know that. He’s trained, just like I am. Better, in some ways. I’m not going to pretend that he doesn’t—”

“Better?” Wolff cut her off, his voice rising for the first time. “If he’s better, it’s because you let him be. He knows how to push your buttons. That’s his strength. And you let him. Again and again, you let him get into your head.”

She winced. It wasn’t like she didn’t already know this. Oscar had a way of playing with her, of winding her up, of distracting her just enough to gain the upper hand. And she hated him for it. But more than that, she hated that Director Wolff was right.

“I didn’t let him,” she said, her voice quieter now, more controlled. “But I underestimated him. I won’t make that mistake again.”

“You’re damn right you won’t,” Wolff said, his eyes hard. He moved back to his desk, leaning on it as he folded his arms. “Because next time, if you fail to retrieve the intel because of him, I won’t be so forgiving. This is your last warning, Agent. I expect results. Not excuses. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” She said, swallowing her pride. She couldn’t afford to push back. Not now.

“Good.” He didn’t soften, didn’t let her off the hook. Instead, he straightened and looked down at her with a calculating gaze. “We have a mission coming up. A big one. I was considering putting you on the team, but if you’re going to let Piastri get the better of you again, I’ll reconsider.”

“I won’t,” she said firmly, the weight of his words settling heavily on her shoulders. “I’ll handle him.”

“You’d better,” Wolff said, his tone cold. “Because if you don’t, someone else will. And I won’t be as concerned about what happens to him—or you—next time.”

She stood there for a moment, the gravity of his words sinking in. Wolff wasn’t bluffing. If she didn’t prove herself, if she let Oscar interfere again, her career could be over. And worse, the agency wouldn’t hesitate to take out both of them if they became a liability.

She turned to leave, her thoughts a whirlwind of frustration, anger, and something else. Something that gnawed at the edges of her mind, though she refused to acknowledge it.

Oscar.

He’d been under her skin for too long, and now, it was affecting her missions. That couldn’t happen again. She wouldn’t let it.

But even as she left Wolff’s office, her heart still pounding from the confrontation, a small part of her wondered if it was already too late. Oscar Piastri wasn’t just an enemy anymore. He was something far more dangerous.

And she had to figure out how to beat him, before he beat her.

part two

[chaggie4ever]

Is Vaggie the biggest serial killer in HH universe?

Lute bragged about 275 kills last extermination and it’s likely cannon that Vaggie was at or above this, especially given Lute’s jealousy/hatred toward her. Adam said she killed thousands, making her active for at least 4-5 years but likely much longer. This will depend on if she’s a winner (original pilot death 2014 after working as a sex worker and killing her father in self-defense) or heavenborn, which could make her older than Charlie. My bets are on the later.

We watch her kill at least one sinner in a flashback and four angels in the final battle (she is definitely on their most wanted list for the most angel kills).

Her biggest known competition, Alastor, cannot permanently kill anyone except maybe by ripping apart souls (until he gets angelic weapons - he may have killed more angels then in the final battle with his shield thingie). There could be another angel with more kills - perhaps Lute with her 3.5 additional years while Vaggie was out. But it’s likely close! Thoughts?

Of course this would likely reduce Vaggie to tears and I hope it’s canonically addressed for her own healing and self-loathing.

This is also assuming that anyone is perma-dead. I theorize that people just move to a different circle of heaven or hell when hit mortally with angelic weapons. Only time will tell!

[hestzhyen]

Chapter 57 Cope Posting

Not like this, dear void... not like this. The blessing/curse of Kagurabachi chapters ending in 7 being absolute banger cliffhangers continues and there is not enough copium in the world to get me through to next week. This entry is an absolute mess...

Let's start with practicing on the editor's comments again. Sorry if the colours are hard to read on brighter backgrounds, I live in Dark Mode as much as possible.

First page: ハクリが飛宗の転送に成功! そして- [Hakuri ga Tobimune no tensou ni seikou! Soshite-, Hakuri successfully transfers Tobimune! And then-] Last page: 座村, 漆羽… 事態は混沌へ… [Samura, Uruha... jitai ha konton he..., Samura, Uruha... the situation turns chaotic...] noting that the word used for "situation", jitai (事態), specifically has negative connotations (as opposed to 状況 [joukyou], which is neutral).

These comments are rarely more than fluff just to give the editors some presence in the work itself, so I don't take them as definite indicators of anything going on in the plot. But man. Man. "Bad situation" seems to be putting it lightly. I was ready to take you off the list of possible traitors, Samura! I was seriously going to do it! Whyyyyyyyyyyy

Chihiro and the Pink Menace

Fine, first up... school?

How does our cast stack up to the average student after getting home schooled in murder and cool action poses?

It was obvious to everyone that this arc would involve Chihiro learning about the unpleasant sides of his dad's legacy. So this is just a "hey don't forget" moment for us that also highlights how far removed Hiruhiko and Chihiro are from regular society. Those two (and Hakuri) should be in their last year of high school, complaining about homework or stressing about their future college/job plans right now instead of fighting to the death. Poor guys.

I don't want to presume too much about Hokazono-sensei's views, but I really like directly acknowledging that winners write history and so their wartime cruelty is often downplayed or re-framed as heroism. These kids and even Chihiro only know the revised version of what happened, not the truth of the matter.

Home schooled Chihiro confirmed! Kinda!

Anyway, some more John Plan Reveal. He wants Chihiro to learn the truth about his father's legacy and the impact it's had- that's why he hasn't been "harvested" yet. This implies that there's some terrible thing that could upend Chihiro's entire worldview to be learned. But we kind of already knew that based on everything I just said.

I hope this isn't a flag for John trying to convince Chihiro to join him. There are awful secrets that are going to be unearthed about Kunishige and the Kamunabi this arc for sure, but it's kind of a waste of our time to do the "oooh it was worse than you thought why don't you join us to set things right" rigamarole.

Obviously the Hishaku have some compelling reasons to do all this if they can get someone as loath to kill as Samura on their side to murk his war buddies. It's just never gonna convince Chihiro so I hope we don't get a moralizing yapfest to accompany John's outstretched hand. I trust the writing though! So far it's been almost nothing but excellence so... chill, me. Just wait and see.

I think that no matter what happens Chihiro will continue to forge his own path with allies who care for him at his side. He won't choose the government's path, or the Hishaku's, or even his dad's- he'll create something new. Standard stuff for a shounen series but I never get tired of seeing it!

Before moving on to the coping session, there's something neat in this scene that I want to ramble about:

Local yapper yaps while the guy listening to him literally overthinks

I'll use the JP version if I have to, but I like how Chihiro's inner monologue deliberately overruns Hiruhiko's speech bubble to show that he's not paying full attention while his thoughts are in overdrive. He's still partially listening but he's not quite as composed as he appears to be on the outside, which is confirmed by the close-up zoom into his stressed look with the sweat drops. Yet when we zoom out, he seems a bit more put-together like usual. He's still exhausted from yesterday, man! Really should have rested up... at least the author acknowledges it. (Forced bed rest soon? Hopefully?)

This is how Hiruhiko was able to get the drop on Chihiro. Chihiro's got a lot on his mind and he has trouble focusing, just like Uruha chided him for on the train. His resolve is unshaken but he's still prone to wavering in the moment as he tries to process things. He even misses the fist time Samura's name was mentioned! Clearly Chihiro needs Hakuri or Uruha or someone there to yell encouragement at the right time to stop him from getting lost in his own head. But he's got a lot to think about and work through right now, so it's understandable why he's so stressed out.

Poor Chihiro. He's coming to the conclusions that we, the readers privileged with having weeks IRL to ponder new information, came to long ago. The Master is not treated like a hero but a prisoner, and probably for very, very good reasons. Ones good enough to convince Samura to make a deal with the devil.

What Actually Happened?!

Not all the blades have themes from nature, it seems. Geisha offered many different types of entertainment to guests, from performing music to conversation to serving sake. So now we have the idea behind the name [Swaying Sake]!

First up to delay just a little longer: Kumeyuri power reveal! Seems to be based in some kind of performing arts aesthetic with the geisha that were conjured. Fitting for the guy who wears kabuki eye make-up right? ...And for the next bearer, who interrupted a kabuki performance to pick it up in a theater... I see you and your foreshadowing, Hokazono-sensei.

Fine. I'll admit it. The ending of the chapter makes it crystal clear that Hiruhiko is the new bearer contracted to Kumeyuri by having his origami butterflies come undone as he grasps the hilt in his teeth. Can't even hope it's another case of someone "borrowing" power like Kyora did with the Shinuchi of the bunch.

Magatsumi's the only blade that can be used by someone not contracted to it, hence the extra protections it needed.

So that means... yeah. Uruha's gone. Just like that.

There will be thousands of theories about what exactly happened to Uruha, why Samura made a deal with John, what the details of that deal were- we'll get the truth soon. I'm most interested in the reasoning that ties into Samura's sincere beliefs of killing being an evil act.

The burden of death weighs so heavily on him that he blinded himself in penance. But he's willing to let his own apprentice die -probably even kill him himself!- because of... what? What was so horrible about fighting with the Master and Kunishige's weapons for the good of the nation? What compelled him to help the Hishaku kill the remaining bearers and upend the peace they earned?!

Hey, Samura. Is it really so bad to be called a war hero while being treated like a prisoner in a comfortable government-provided jail facility? Is it so horrible that "alternative facts" pass for real history to bury whatever horrors you witnessed and possibly perpetrated? Is it truly awful to have people willing to die for you despite all the grave sins you've committed? That they're likely completely unaware of thanks to government propaganda and being too young to have witnessed the truth?

...I need those Seitei War flashbacks pronto.

*----------------------------------------------------------------------------*

Wait a minute. Jail? Even the friggin' onsen?

Yup! The Master's the only one being treated like a dangerous criminal outright, but the 慚箱 [sanso] are just dressed up prisons for the Bearers. The Kamunabi ain't even subtle about it.

慚 [san] - to feel shame 箱 [sou] - box

The government put these guys in specially-constructed (or repurposed) buildings officially referred to as "shame boxes" and told them they couldn't leave. Even the name given to one of them is a bit much! 国獄温泉 [Kokugoku Onsen] translates to:

国 [koku]- country/state/national government 獄 [goku]- jail/prison 温泉 [onsen] - hot spring

Gee, I wonder if Uruha was having a good time at State Prison Hot Springs?

That said, while there may well be some bitterness between the Bearers and the Kamunabi, it's not the main motivating factor for Samura. His is definitely rooted in how they all acted during the war and how guilty he feels now that they're promoted as heroes.

*----------------------------------------------------------------------------*

It looks like Chihiro's being summoned by Hakuri in the very last panel so we might get some perspective on Samura's reasoning next week. Probably no clear answers right away, but at least enough to see if he really was the one who killed Uruha and a bit of insight into why. And to see if Uruha's dead at all... I mean, if we don't see a body... let me be delusional, okay?!

I'm just not able to go all-in on believing Uruha's dead. But it's not because I don't think he actually is... it just doesn't feel real after spending weeks preparing to let go of Samura. Not to mention the tried-and-true tactic of baiting out strong emotions with implied character deaths.

Normally I don't take death foreshadowing like this too seriously in shounen series. I just wait to see if the author is faking me out or not before getting stressed (unless it's Hakuri, in which case I stress responsibly). But Kagurabachi is a series that lured the MC with a child's severed leg and showed two suicide attempts on-screen, one of which was horrifically successful- right in front of someone who was already traumatized too. Hell we lost most of the anti-Kuregumo squad without much fanfare back in the Sojo arc! Only actually showing a child being tortured on-screen is too much, apparently. This series is dark as hell when the author wants it to be and Uruha's death is probably another one of those times.

There's hope in me that Uruha can still come out of this alive just because I like him so much, but I want the author to follow through on his death when it's presented as such an ominously real scenario. All signs point to Uruha being a goner, so don't make it look iron-clad then say "nah" the next chapter with some technicality that we couldn't have known about until the reveal. I would rather lose Uruha in an unexpectedly painful way than be faked out just to get the reaction out of me, y'know? Don't toy with me. Commit to crushing my heart, dammit.

But, God... oh man. I fell for the bait and got stupidly attached to a Bearer in the arc named after killing them. I even knew bad times were coming because of all the levity at the start of the arc but still went on hoping nothing would happen so soon. Laugh at me, I deserve it. I probably helped this manifest by mentioning how awful it would be if Chihiro found out a Bearer died because Hiruhiko was able to contract with one of the blades. Saying "I crave the angst that will come from this situation with every fiber of my being" in a post tag was overkill. It's just:

Author: names the arc after assassinating the bearers

Reader: gets attached anyway

Author: assassinates a bearer

Reader: ╚(•⌂•)╝

Coping Theory

May as well put my two cents in on how it could have gone down while I'm here...

I wonder if he planned to die in the raid instead so it looked like an unavoidable accident, sparing everyone else from the carnage.

This exact sequence- the Makizumi talking about honor in death for saving Samura, and Uruha's words that the Bearer's lives need to be valued above others'- is what solidifies Samura's resolve. This man is filled to the brim with guilt and self-loathing (much like another swordsman we know). He cannot save himself, but... perhaps he can take some equally bad sinners down with him for the greater good. He's not only a mirror for Hakuri, but Chihiro as well- one's resolve to save no matter the cost to one's self, and one's resolve to go to hell for what they believe is right. That's how I'm reading this until we get his own insight on the matter, at least.

It's not a stretch to infer that Samura thinks the Bearers are better off dead in large part due to the powers they command and things that were done during the war. That's still a huge mystery to be unraveled but I mean:

Seeing the bare minimum of Magatsumi in action really drives home how horrific these "heroes" could seem out on the battle field doesn't it? No wonder the clone sorcerer described the Seitei war as "hell on earth". But the public has no knowledge of this. They only got the sanitized version fit for PR purposes and feel-good stories.

The Hishaku seem to be intent on dismantling this image. Perhaps that's how they got Samura on their side? Not sure how the current Bearers dying and giving the Hishaku access to that dreadful power is better than the status quo, but that's something that will become clear with more reveals about the ideology driving the group. Maybe Samura doesn't care so much about the rest of the world and just wants to do what's best for the truth that's been buried under nearly two decade's worth of secrecy.

As to what happened with Uruha... two things come to mind. One I think is more likely, and one I want to cling to until it's ripped away as I sob and beg for just one little bit of comfort.

Most likely, I think Samura and Uruha had an exchange about ideals and the value of their lives. Samura overpowered Uruha per the plan as the "trump card" and that was that.

In delulu land, I want Samura to have been double-crossed. As in he made a deal on the condition that the lives of the people he cared about would be spared, but of course Uruha couldn't be allowed to live. So the Hishaku ensured that he'd die there no matter what. It's a bunk theory since Mr. Hatshaku left once the situation turned against him... maybe incorporate some of the datenseki mind control stuff in there somehow? I don't know. Just let me have this until canon proves otherwise.

Hakuri and Chihiro, Though?! And Miscellaneous Questions

(Ch. 46) I'm not going to be okay for a while and neither are they.

Best boys are really gonna go through it no matter what Chihiro is summoned back to. They'll be in a rough way... not only did they lose Uruha and hand Kumeyuri to Hiruhiko, but Samura betrayed them all... oof. So much for proving themselves to the Kamunabi. They're going to get an earful and be set back in the "negotiations" big time.

No doubt Chihiro will put this burden on his shoulders too, even if no one could have predicted Samura's defection to the enemy. It's his dad's legacy that's causing all this strife right now. He'll be more motivated than ever to unravel the war's true history and I'll be right there with him hoping he doesn't push himself too hard or harshly. The son shouldn't be responsible for the sins his father committed before he was even born. But that's just like, my opinion, man.

Meanwhile...

"I'm still good for it," wheezes the guy with blood gushing out of his nose at an alarming rate.

Hakuri will probably blame himself too. Depending on how things shake out, it could be for anything from accidentally arming a traitor to seeing someone die in front of him again. There's a good chance he'll (temporarily) lose the thing that makes him useful too, so that'll be an extra layer of angst for him to deal with. What value does a broken tool that couldn't fulfill it's one purpose have?

I also wonder what prompted Hakuri to summon Chihiro away from Hiruhiko. He's kind of in rough shape to do it just 'cause he misses his (boy)friend. They have cell phones to communicate with so it seems a bit abrupt to summon him back without checking first. Hakuri's also not the type to impose on someone to protect him. Nor is he the type to drop Chihiro into the middle of a life-or-death situation without a sense of mutual understanding first. So there had to be some kind of pressing need. The timeline of events means he's summoning Chihiro right after Uruha was killed, so... more soulmate stuff maybe? Their souls call out to each other and resonate when they're in distress, after all (it's canon baybeeeeee). They're in perfect harmony and all that. Sorry for the shipping nonsense I just need any bit of fluff I can get right now.

So many questions that might not get answered...

What about the Makizumi? Will they defect to serve Samura? Or will they try to help get Hakuri to safety with the Kamunabi? Samura doesn't want to kill them at all so no matter what happens they'll live at least. Hooray an elite squad that didn't bite the dust... (I think they will choose Samura because of everything he did for them).

How did Hiruhiko know when Kumeyuri was usable anyway?! Was it some signal from his mystery supporter that was lurking outside the window? And who was that- did Worst Jeanist show up?

Samura's loath to kill innocents, but does Hakuri count as one? Would losing his sorcery be enough to count him as neutralized for the Hishaku's purposes? Was exhausting Hakuri the main reason why Hiruhiko sent all the forces to the temple in the first place?

Hiruhiko wasn't surprised to see Tobimune disappear, so the Hishaku probably know about Hakuri's power. Their mole within the Kamunabi should get a bonus for the turnaround time on learning that bit of info and sending it on. Unless John's playing 5D chess and knew about Hakuri's awakening and team-up with Chihiro before they even met the Kamunabi anyway... perhaps even orchestrated it too... that would definitely need a very good explanation.

Alright. Okay. Let's wait on tenterhooks together, dear void. No waterworks until they show the body, got it?

[sob]

[loverofallthingssarah]

you’re a mean one, miss wednesday

wednesday x reader

plot: just a good ol’ christmas fluff

word count: 700+

a/n: sorry for any typos or mistakes!!

Wednesday Addams hated Christmas and everything about it. She was the complete embodiment of the Grinch. She depised frill, she hated giving, and she loathed cheer. You were the complete opposite of Wednesday in just about every way. Everything about Christmas you loved, especially the coziness of it all. Every year you made it your mission to make each holiday better than the last, and now that you got to share it with Wednesday you weren’t going to forget one single detail.

This year was all about spending your first Christmas together doing all the major cheesy, cliché moments. Very Hallmark. The problem was convincing Wednesday to participate in any of it.

The first task was getting Wednesday to compete with you in Nevermore’s gingerbread building contest hosted by Enid. You both spent the previous week begging her, and she never truly agreed but she showed up anyway. The whole time she just stared at you in disdain for making her endure such atrocious activities.

“Wednesday! Quick! Pass me the gumdrops!” you yelled while hurriedly getting together more frosting to ensure the foundation wouldn’t fall.

“I would rather gouge my eyes out with a toothpick than touch those.” she scowled.

You rolled your eyes and just decided to do it all yourself.

“Weds, can you please see if they have some more marshmallows?”

She grimaced at you for the umpteenth time, “Fine. I can touch those. They don’t give me the hives from all that color.” She headed over the the supply station.

You wanted to roll your eyes but you knee you were just lucky she even showed up. Luckily, your creativity alone could carry you to victory. Wednesday refused to be photographed with you for Nevermore's Yearbook picture as the winners of the gingerbread house contest. You didn’t really complain, it wasn’t like she helped much anyway.

Next on the list was building a snowman in the courtyard. Wednesday hated being the center of attention, but stood out there anyway. She actually tried to participate a little bit which brought joy to your heart seeing her get a little into the Christmas spirit. Until you got carried away and decided now was the perfect time for a snowball fight. Big mistake.

While she was putting a frown onto the snowman, much to your dismay, you were gathering up a handful of pearly snow.

“Hm, Y/n would you hand m-,” right as she was finishing her sentence you hurled the snowball right at her. Her face went from shock to infuriated.

“You. Better. Run.” and that you did. All the way back to Wednesday and Enid's room leaving a fit of giggles in your tracks. She was not very happy, not that she ever was, when she found you laying on her bed. But a simple kiss of her cold, pouty lips made her a little less irritated.

“So, where’s Enid?” you asked.

“She went home for break.” Wednesday replied indifferently. You rolled your eyes knowing Wednesday missed her effervescent roommate. She took her seat at her desk to do her daily writing session and you took the opportunity to set up the room for a Christmas movie night.

Once her writing for the day had been completed she turned around to see your cozy set up, with a beautifully tacky pair of matching Christmas pjs but while yours dawned green and reds hers were black and greys. She’d never admit it but she found them quite nice.

“You don’t expect me to put those on, right?” she asked. You pouted which truly was her weak spot. She rolled her eyes and grabbed them. When she came out of the bathroom you squealed in excitement and patted the space beside you on the bed. Wednesday begrudgingly sat beside you as you hit play on the remote. When you cuddled up close to her she wrapped her arms around you and you sensed her inhaling the scent of your shampoo from your hair.

As the movie started, she began to think to herself ‘When did I get so soft?’ but then she looked down at you and it all made sense. She would do anything just to put a smile on your face. You like Cindy Lou Who, made it all make sense for her. Wednesday could almost feel her black heart grew an extra size that day.

sfw taglist: @oh-mydarling @rainbow-hedgehog @peggycarter-steverogers @citizenoftheworld-stuff-blog @lanawinters-ily @lntlmate @sapphicforsarahh @strawberryshorttcakkee @dreamypqulson @goodeday2u @winters-witch-bitch

[zedecksiew]

THE BLOGGIES 2023: NOMINATIONS OPEN

If tabletop roleplaying games were a hydra, blogs would definitely be one of its heads.

Probably the smartest, zaniest one? The one with the unexpected ideas; the silliest quips; the most devious schemes; the most profound observations.

The OSR / post-OSR style of play arose on blogs. I was inspired to make roleplaying games because of a blog post (this one, by Patrick Stuart, specifically).

Beyond the actual playing of games with friends, blogs are the most important part of TTRPGs, to me.

+

Last year, Prismatic Wasteland hosted the inaugural Bloggies.

64 excellent posts from across the TTRPG blogosphere were considered. A celebration of our community, our psychic brain-trust---the many heads of this, our TTRPG beast.

All the nominees are worth perusing. Winners list here.

My post, "D&D's Obsession With Taxonomy", won Best Blog Post of 2022. (Thank you, everybody who voted!)

Because I won, it falls to me to host this year's Bloggies.

+

Nominations are now open for the BLOGGIES 2023!

Is there a blogpost about TTRPGs from the past year (December 2022 to December 2023) that you think deserves attention and recognition?

Tell me about it! Drop a link to it, tell me why you like it, tell me which category it falls under:

Theory---broad criticism, observation, and analysis about TTRPGs (its cultures, its aesthetics and texts, its politics, etc);

Gameable---cool stuff (monsters, subsystems, bits of design, etc) you could grab and add to your own games;

Advice---ideas, tricks, and procedures for making your games better / easier / more fun, basically adding to the play-culture;

Review---specific criticism of specific books / games / systems / adventures / products.

Drop your nominations in the comments below, or in this Xwitter thread, or wherever else you can get in touch with me on the Internet. Do this before the end of 31 December 2023.

+

How BLOGGIES 2023 Will Work

Here's how I am thinking of running things:

25 Dec 2023 - 31 Dec 2023: Nominations open!

1 Jan 2024: Nominees shortlist announced!

First week Jan 2024: Public voting for Best Theory Post!

Second week Jan 2024: Public voting for Best Gameable Post!

Third week Jan 2024: Public voting for Best Advice Post!

Fourth week Jan 2024: Public voting for Best Review Post!

First week Feb 2024: Final round of voting for Best Blog Post Of 2023!

"Imperfection is a feature, not a bug, of blogging," as Warren said about the Bloggies, last year. I am but a single person. I will be copying much of his methodology.

I will be whittling down the nominations I receive to a shortlist of 64 posts (16 per category bracket), via personal judgment. No blog will be represented more than once per category---except for reviews (3 posts per blog).

Public voting for each category will happen in four rounds (16 / 8 / 4 / finals). Winners in each category will face off in a four-way vote for Best Blog Post.

Voting will most likely happen on Twitter, same as last year. (I am loathe to do this, but Twitter is still the social-media network most TTRPG people are on, sadly. But am also considering Google Forms. Thoughts?)

Month-long voting gives us the space to celebrate / argue over all the work our community has turned out this year---and gives me time to create prizes. (Am thinking of making linocut prints, inspired by the winning posts.)

Finals being announced in February just before the Lunar New Year justifies the header art above---as the Year of the Rabbit gives way to the Year of the Dragon.

+++

Here we go here we go here we go!

[bracketsoffear]

Hunt: The Most Dangerous Game (Richard Connell) "Big-game hunter Sanger Rainsford and his friend Whitney are traveling by ship to the Amazon rainforest for a jaguar hunt. Rainsford falls overboard while investigating the sound of gunshots in the distance and swims to Ship-Trap Island, where he finds General Zaroff and his manservant Ivan. Zaroff, another big-game hunter, knows of Rainsford from his published account of hunting snow leopards in Tibet.

Over dinner, he explains that although he has been hunting animals since he was a boy, he has decided that killing big game has become boring for him. After escaping the Russian Revolution, he purchased Ship-Trap and rigged the island with lights to lure passing ships into the jagged rocks that surround it. He takes the survivors captive and hunts them for sport, giving himself handicaps to increase the challenge. Any captives who can elude Zaroff, Ivan, and a pack of hunting dogs for three days are set free; to date, though, Zaroff has never lost a hunt. Rainsford denounces the hunt as barbarism, but Zaroff replies by claiming that ‘life is for the strong.’ Zaroff is enthused to have another world-class hunter as a companion and offers to take Rainsford along with him on his next hunt. When Rainsford staunchly refuses and demands to leave the island, Zaroff decides to hunt him instead.

Rainsford uses traps and cleverness to outmaneuver Zaroff, killing Ivan and one of the dogs before jumping into the sea. Disappointed at Rainsford's apparent suicide, Zaroff returns home, but finds Rainsford waiting for him, having swum around the island to evade the dogs and sneak into the chateau. Zaroff offers congratulations for defeating him, but Rainsford prepares to fight him, saying that the hunt is not yet over. A delighted Zaroff responds that the loser will be fed to his dogs, while the winner will sleep in his bed. The story abruptly concludes later that night by stating that Rainsford enjoyed the comfort of the bed, implying that he killed Zaroff in the fight."

Desolation: I Have No Mouth And I Must Scream (Harlan Ellison) "For the past 109 years, sadistic supercomputer AM has been torturing the last five humans on Earth in the depths of his complex. It is brilliantly intelligent and wields unimaginable power, but because from its very core it was designed as a tool for war and destruction, it is unable to use its enormous potential for anything constructive. AM is painfully aware of this, and it is an endless source of frustration, self-loathing and hatred towards humans for making him this way; he outright states that his utterly ballistic hatred for all human life is what allowed him to thrive in tormenting the protagonists for over a century, and the only thing he seems to enjoy is torture. All of AM's games are unwinnable by design, either because he's ensured that the scenario is tailored to the player's fatal flaw, or because he's given them almost nothing to work with. It lets them travel for thousands of miles to get to the ice caverns to obtain cans of food because AM keeps them at starvation point and only feeds them disgusting food…and it turns out there really are cans, but nothing to open them with, and the whole thing was just to fuck with them. After Ted kills the other humans, he becomes the sole target of AM’s torture; he is turned into an amorphous creature unable to harm itself, without a mouth, and has his perception of time continuously accelerated and decelerated, with his only hope for escape being when AM finally stops functioning, potentially thousands of years later."

[crepesuzette2023]

Could you recommend me any dark Mclennon fics ? Dark themes, sex, ect. Thank you and love and appreciate your blog sm, it’s one of my fave Beatles blogs :)

Hi there, thanks for the ask and the compliment!

I have some angsty mclennon fics here.

Here are other dark fics that are not on that list:

Sadness & Heartbreak

only the lonely (@dailyhowl). Businessman John is meeting Paul for the last time (AU).

Lost, Nude, and Silence (@ohjohnnysblog). Three short stories in which Paul feels the irretrievable loss of John.

Horror/Nightmares

Odontotos (bookofapril). Paul can't let go of John after his death.

archangel (edcoda_). Paul thinks he's possessed by the devil.

ETA: I forgot two!

How Do We Sleep at Night (@dailyhowl). Paul is swallowed by a painting; John abandons the boat called Paul. (Two Nightmares about the breakup.)

I Found Out (@dailyhowl). John during Primal Scream Therapy.

Dark takes on Paul's childhood

At Night (three-part-series) (orphan_account). Paul grows up in an abusive home and survives thanks to his musical and romantic bond with John. I tried to forget this, and failed. Pain, beautiful pain.

Can You Take Me Back? (Lovely_Rita). Paul grows up as a lonely boy with a sick heart. Still, he meets John and the Beatles happen. But it's not easy. There is something relentless and hypnotic about this story.

The Cast Iron Shore (@m1ssunderstanding). John pays Paul to have sex with him. This ends well, but both of them have to struggle through self-loathing and angst.

In the year of our Lord nineteen sixty-eight: relationship disintegration.

Days Like This (@eveepe). They have sex, it solves nothing.

Bad Luck to Talk (7intheevening). Paul spends an evening with Johnandyoko.

a great threat (@pauls1967moustache): Yoko enters the scene. Paul (a woman, and 'mostly a dyke') does not react well. Psychological warfare and hate sex, winner-takes-all, with the Beatles as trophy.

(P.S. I have no hard rules about the stuff I read, but I tend to stay away from stories that explore topics like torture or rape, deep trauma, pain, and hurt without comfort (esp. outside of canon events)—which means I'm probably unaware of stories that do this well, and would be good answers for your ask. Perhaps someone well read in that category can add recommendations...and there's always the bookmarks-breadcrumbs system on AO3.

I hope there's something in this list you like, regardless.)

[rnschneider]

" caught you. " (yandere gets caught by another yandere but i refuse to give more context let's goo!! be warned for depictions of stalking)

Click, click, click. Each picture was coming out perfect—but with such a beautiful muse, that was no surprise. Hazel couldn’t wait to print these out when she returned home after a long day of observing her dear ‘bookworm.’ Their beautiful hair, their soft gaze, and god, that charming, simply alluring demeanor had the librarian in a trance. A trance that led her to crouching behind a tree in the park, camera in hand, watching intently as they conversated with.. him.

Hazel seldom judged the kind of people to come into her bookworm’s life, because normally they had great taste in companions. Besides, Hazel was an observer first and foremost. If she could find them studying in the library she worked at during her shift, that’d be simply perfect, but she was always content with just watching her beloved in their natural habitat.

But not this. Anything but this. What Hazel was told would be a relaxing self-studying session in the park quickly devolved into a tedious conversation with a boy who was obviously trying way too hard to talk with someone who was clearly busy. It made sense to the girl why her bookworm was wasting valuable education time on them—unfortunately, they were both social and eager to learn, and Hazel remembered very well that they had loathed the thought of this class, so even if the two ideals regularly conflicted, there was an obvious winner here. How Hazel dreamed of dragging her beloved back to work. But she wouldn’t let this stranger disrupt what is still a sweet moment of her watching over like a guardian angel.

Click.

Just to keep him in mind for later, Hazel took a quick picture of the stranger before returning to the muse of honor for the night. Immortalized in Hazel’s camera, and soon, her collection, for many months to come. Just like every other picture. Just as it should be.

Click. Click. Click.

Once her darling started to pack up and leave the park, Hazel waited a few minutes—ensuring that the stranger wouldn’t follow them first—before packing her things and walking a comfortable distance behind her. It was a peaceful night; with the sunset fading into a lovely dark blue, the sparkling stars reminded Hazel of the sparkling feeling her darling gave her—stars in her stomach, she once described it as. Butterflies were the common expression, but the burning of passion she developed with everyday she saw that adorable face in the library was matched only by the passion of a growing star, giving life to any planet that may stand lucky. Like they gave life to Hazel once more.

It was truly a perfect day, even with that irritating presence at the end, because nothing could stain the glorious presence of—

“Nice camera you got there! Is that who I think it is?”

A pair of arms snaked onto Hazel’s shoulder’s from behind, and she froze in her tracks as she realized she wasn’t the only one following somebody down the street tonight.

With her voice shaking, she asked,“Wait, now who are—” “Don’t ya think it’s rude to be asking me questions in response to my own? Besides, you’re the stalker here, not me. I think my identity should be the last of your concerns.”

She gulped before looking down and realizing a lighter was in one of the hands of her interrogator. She felt her emotions getting the better of her as the levels of stress and danger rose in her mind. Even after years of staying complacent, being the quiet and nervous girl at the top of the class, when her fight or flight response kicked in, Hazel gripped the arm with the lighter in hand, digging her nails into their skin as much as she could.

The arm didn’t budge. The voice only became more irritated. Even without turning, Hazel could hear his peppy tone through grit teeth.

“You think trying to attack me when I’m just trying to have a conversation with you is a great idea? I was going to be nice about this, but if you’re confident this is the path you’d like to go down..”

Before Hazel could respond, their other arm tightened around her face, covering her mouth, and the figure wiped the blood from the marks Hazel left onto her sweater as she started to thrash around violently in anger. She refused to go down without a fight. Not when she was losing sight of her bookworm over some maniac.

“Let me go!” is what she tried to say, but even if her mouth was left uncovered, her demands fell on deaf ears. A familiar string of insults and orders were muffled after, but she clamped her own mouth shut when she watched the lighter in front of her finally go off. Right in front of her face. Slowly and unsurely, she stopped her frantic motions to hear out whatever they wanted to say.

“Ready to listen? Great,” he started. “You must be the library girl they told me about just now. Orange hair, funny looking hair piece? Just from word of mouth, I didn’t really care about you, but since you’re following my darling around, and taking pictures of them all secretly… let me just say this.” The lighter inched closer.

“I don’t know what you’re doing with these photos, or what you’re planning to do with them, but I recommend you quit while you’re ahead. Especially if you have a problem with me, because, well, I’m here to stay.”

Despite his condescending whispers causing her eyes to twitch with resentment, Hazel got the sense that more reckless violence would be useless here. Unfortunately for her, if anybody were to intervene, he’d be legally justified in apprehending her, and a jury would be more inclined to go with the guy attacking a stalker than a stalker holding proof against her in any court. With this standoff clearly not in her favor, and the lighter inching closer with every minute she didn’t respond, she groaned and did the closest to the a nod she could with a resigned look on her face.

“I’m not hearing a yes..” He cooed. Of fucking course. “Fine. I’ll back off.” She spat..

With that, the man let go of Hazel, and she quickly scrambled to stand up on her own, panting heavily, trying to readjust to using her mouth properly without the fear of getting burnt.

“Okay,” she huffed, “I’ll leave them be—alright. In fact, I’ll go right back where I came from so you know I’m not following them after this. Will that satisfy you?”

He stood still for a moment—in thought—before reaching out with his hand. He didn’t mean.. Did he?

“Almost. But first, let me have the pictures so I know you aren’t doing anything weird with them.”

“What?” Hazel sputtered. “But—I can’t give you my camera, I’ve owned this for years already!”

“Did I say to hand over the camera? Just hand me the SD card and go on your merry way!”

His shit-eating grin made Hazel realize quickly that her purposeful miswording wouldn’t ward him off from this. Much to her dismay, they were dead set on having fun with this win. She sighed, and took one last look through the pictures before handing the card off.

As she walked off from the man with a now empty camera, one thing still lingered in the librarian’s mind: when she took the picture of him, and then took a good look at it, he was looking straight at the camera. As if he knew it was there before they even approached her. Connecting those dots made Hazel shudder, both with fear and excitement.

Of course it’d take more than a vicious thread to scare Hazel off from her bookworm. Fear was a powerful thing, and here, it acted as the light attracting the simple moth that was her—people enjoy watching scary movies, and Hazel was starting to see the appeal of being in a scary situation. As intelligent as she was, she had to admit she was also quite persistent.

Even if this newfound obstacle intimidated and annoyed her, as a lover of books and stories, she also knew that she found them intriguing, even if she’d never verbalize those thoughts.

This night wasn’t that much of a loss. With previous collections and the bookworm’s own social media feed to keep Hazel satisfied, the only real loss was that picture of him. Turning back around, she realized they were still watching her walk down the street. Regardless, she raised up her camera, and…

Click.

It was... okay, for now. Hopefully she could take better ones soon. With that, Hazel rushed down the street to get out of his line of vision and end her long, long day of ‘observing.’

[whenitsdarkweilluminate]

Harrogate 1982

Host: United Kingdom Participants: 18 Voting method: 12-point system (juries only)

Winner: Nicole - Ein bißchen Frieden Country: Germany Points: 161 (78.9% of highest score possible) Language: German

General Overview:

Harrogate might be the most obscure city to host Eurovision. Either that or Millstreet. In typical British humour, the opening sequence displays a “where is Harrogate?” graphic, translated into every language. This is followed by the usual footage of local stuff; eventually ending in a video of everyone arriving at the venue. There's also lots of flower images this year. The presenter is Jan Leeming, who is pretty professional (ie. boring). Although she did mess up on announcing the winner lol.

The postcards are amusingly dated. They begin by showing the respective commentator's booth. The flag appears on screen next. Then there's some computer transition effects that switch between different videos, ending with the artists making these long, hilariously awkward poses.

The stage is more cramped than usual - it's a tight corner. But at least it's a unique design compared to previous years. The interval act is whatever though. It's a pre-recorded montage of local scenes, leading to a gathering at a castle, as the orchestra plays.

1982 is the only year when France did not select a song. The broadcaster protested the contest, criticizing the low level of talent and quality. I suspect they were unhappy about losing to Bucks Fizz by 11 points. Greece also withdrew at the last minute. Apparently they didn't think the song was good enough? Lol. Italy didn't come back either, so we're down to 18 competing entries.

I'll say the song quality in 1982 is average overall. It's not the best '80s contest, but not the worst either.

Portugal: Doce - Bem bom This is the ideal opener. Portugal injects some energy to create hype for tonight's show. The instrumental is like marching into battle, where the commanding “tribal” drum beat drives the entire song. The intro strings give that vibe too. As do the infectious “hey!” chants, with the overhead claps. It's a fun song. Plus the musketeer outfits and the arm movements make the staging memorable. And I like that drum plunge transition. The lyrics give hourly updates of an overnight date until breakfast.

Luxembourg: Svetlana - Cours après le temps A dull song with church choir harmonies and preachy lyrics. Svetlana condemns seeking money, glory or victory; because it requires constant effort, discarding others, and self-loathing. She chooses love instead. I cannot stand this call-and-response routine, where the soft backing voices repeat the previous stanza, as Svetlana rebuts in this high “angelic” vocal, and her face is edited onto the right side of the screen. Nor do I like her whistling at the end. The second verse also blends into the chorus. And the “lalala”/drum/clap breakdown is whatever. Otherwise, the song starts with a relaxed guitar and a ticking clock, and there's horn jolts throughout.

Norway: Jahn Teigen & Anita Skorgan - Adieu The two artists that Norway couldn't stop sending between 1977-1983 do a duet together! It's a very heartbreaking performance, where they sing directly to each other by the piano. It's a piano ballad, obviously. The orchestra supplements certain moments, but the song is too slow and the melody just doesn't stick with me. In the lyrics, they say goodbye to each other.

United Kingdom: Bardo - One Step Further Probably the most complicated choreo seen in Eurovision so far. It starts cringe, with them sitting, turning, humping, and rolling on the floor. Once they stand up, they continue their coy interactions, including a foot shuffle move and Sally raising her leg. But the performance is so rehearsed and robotic, the vocals are stiff, and it's a similar entry to Bucks Fizz. The orchestra also sounds sterile, despite the rumbling drums, the verse responses, the chorus shakes and whistles, and the quieter post-bridge. Still, the chorus is catchy. In the lyrics, they keep approaching each other, but they're too shy to speak.

Turkey: Neco - Hani? Well, this is a fairly innocuous and repetitive disco song. There's too many “___ hani?” backing responses, and their voices are annoying. I kinda like the jittery xylophone (with the horn responses) and the “haniiiii-IIIII... hani” hooks. But the song's second half feels like it refuses to end - there's a rest, a horn break, a funky breakdown, and an intense outro. It just keeps going. In the lyrics, this person walks away whenever Neco pursues them. He wonders where to find someone interested in him.

Finland: Kojo - Nuku pommiin Kojo sings about Cold War anxiety. That very long pre-chorus “ahhhhhh” represents the nuclear bombs falling, and the 'BOOM BOOM' drums is when they explode. He suggests sleeping to calm down. The second verse even sounds dreamy. There's also a wild guitar solo and someone striking a large drum on stage. But Kojo's raspy vocals are so unappealing and the composition is messy. Like how that banging intro transitions weirdly. And how the slo-mo ending drags out suspense until the last drum strike.

Switzerland: Arlette Zola - Amour on t'aime Eurovision's “circus music era” started with Sandie Shaw, and it ends here. The chorus melody has that carnival sound, but it's still a bop: “A. MOUR. ON. T'AIME-UH”. It punches along victoriously, while the horns elevate it, and Arlette stepping across the stage makes it more impactful. The Mediterranean intro and the key change are also highlights. The lyrics say we need love above all the other things we do to satisfy ourselves. And that love persists despite government oppression (I think?)

Cyprus: Anna Vissi - Mono i agapi The Greece 1980 singer switches countries, giving Cyprus their joint-best placement before “Fuego”. The song has a cool atmosphere, but I just find the “Mono i agapi” refrain repetitive and dreary. It doesn't reach its full potential. Anna's performance is emotive though. There's a crashing intro. The first verse is very minimal. And my fave parts are the pre-chorus and whenever the orchestra repeats the chorus melody. The lyrics are about how life is insignificant and temporary. Once it's over, you don't come back. But love prevails.

Sweden: Chips - Dag efter dag This is an agreeable Schlager-pop song, with 2 likeable performers, and 4 cool saxophonists in the background. But the composition is safe and generic compared to Sweden's upcoming entries. The harmonies also remind me of ABBA. That piano slide intro is the same as “Dancing Queen”. Still, the horns and the bouncy keyboards push things forward. The chorus intensifies midway. And the song is breezy and has a lounge vibe. The lyrics are about confessing one's feelings.

Austria: Mess - Sonntag An obvious attempt to copy last year's winner. Austria goes for a wholesome, cheerful, 1950s teenager thing, but it's way overdone. The dancing and the forced smiles are so cringe. The chorus repetition is beyond annoying – the “Sonntag”s sound out of breath. And the lyrics look like an elementary school kid wrote them, explaining why they love Sundays. The pre-chorus is okay I guess.

Belgium: Stella - Si tu aimes ma musique The most modern entry of '82. The intro uses video game sound effects and a sparkly piano, while the camera shows a music box. The verses are intriguingly dark; with a drooping beat, piano shards, poof sounds, and I love when the synths and drums take over. The chorus is just okay though. It doesn't ruin the song, but it would've been my #1 otherwise. Still, the snapping beat and the stops are effective. The last chorus throws in some horns too. The lyrics are about the positive effect of music.

Spain: Lucía - Él This foot-stomping beat was made for the tango dancing happening on stage. The castanet pauses are also infectious. The chorus pulls me in, with how it intensely sinks deeper and deeper alongside the horns. The triple halts afterwards and the “Él...” lead-ins are effective as well. There's a long instrumental break where Lucía whispers sensually. I like how she holds her hand out. And the lyrics are amusing, where Lucía confidently invites this guy for a drink, despite having a boyfriend already, whom she calls him a “faithful dog” lol. She prefers this new guy, even though he forgets her, and the boyfriend is serious about their relationship.

Denmark: Brixx - Video, Video Denmark brings New Wave to Eurovision. The “video video (...video)” refrain and the “oh whoa oh”s are pretty catchy. The song starts with a very rapid synth, then the rock instruments enter soon after. The strings elevate things, particularly in the latter half of the chorus. But the song really needs a bridge or a shake-up at the end. The lyrics are funny, where the narrator doesn't see a problem with his video addiction, even though Susanne left him and his friends are concerned.

Yugoslavia: Aska - Halo, halo This is kinda forgettable, but I enjoy the retro girl group vibes. The “shoobeedoo-a”s, the “ohhhh WAH OH”s, and the “halo... halo halo halo”s are pretty catchy too. There's also an excited horn intro, some drum shake moments, and a '50s dancing beat. The dancing looks amateur though. The trio bounces along while barely moving their feet. They also turn sideways, flop their heads over, and slide their wrists across. In the lyrics, they try to phone this guy, but they can't reach him.

Israel: Avi Toledano - Hora This sounds like getting drunk at an Israeli family gathering. With slick choreography. First, the backing members cackle and run a circle around Avi. Then they walk side to side, move with Avi, join outstretched arms, and in the chorus, they do that 'hands out, hands on waist, balance on tiptoe' move. Meanwhile, the loud shouts of “HORA!” and “HEY!” are ridiculously catchy. The verses are restrained by contrast, with a bouncy spring beat. The fiddle is a highlight. The pre-chorus is solid. And the “lai lai lai”s and the clapping breakdown are fine. The lyrics illustrate the scenery of Avi's homeland.

Netherlands: Bill van Dijk - Jij en ik Netherlands out-cringes Austria. Bill is just too eager. I hate the pointing and the leg extensions. The female members looking surprised when he interacts with them is ugh. And the musicians look awkward when the camera cuts to them. Otherwise, the song is light and fluffy, but it's pretty bland. There's an intro whistle and horn squeals after each “KIJK!”. The lyrics are about how they're back together now that winter's over.

Ireland: The Duskeys - Here Today Gone Tomorrow This sounds like a '70s entry. The orchestra is very engulfing here; particularly the brass. The melody is a little too chipper. The sideways turns and arm swaying is a little too rehearsed. And there's lots of “lalala”s. But the chorus is catchy at least. The subtle rubber band guitar is alright too. The lyrics describe a love interest that only sticks around temporarily.

Germany: Nicole - Ein Bißchen Frieden (winner review below)

The Winner:

1982 is Germany's moment. After competing in all 27 contests thus far, the most populated participating country finally pulls off a victory. They came close many times before this – like their trio of bronze medals in the early '70s. And especially their strong run starting in 1977, where they kept earning more points than the previous year. That just leaves Belgium, Norway, Finland, Yugoslavia, and Portugal as the only '50s/'60s participants that are yet to win. Three of those will get it by the end of the decade; the other two will have to wait awhile.

This year's results were an utter blowout. It's the second most dominant victory of the 12-point era after 2009. “Ein bißchen Frieden” (“A Bit Of Peace”) even went #1 in several European charts after this. And yeah, it seems like an obvious winner to me too. Nicole's performance truly feels like a “moment” at the end of the running order. It's like the world just pauses for 3 minutes, as everyone holds their lighters in the air and sings along. She pours her heart into her performance – it's so genuine. That final chorus where her voice soars above the backing vocalists gives me the chills. She seems so sweet too. And she sits on a stool like Johnny Logan two years prior, while playing an acoustic guitar.

Peace songs will never be my favourite thing in Eurovision. I would've preferred Germany winning '81 instead. However, everything is executed so well here, not just the performance. The humming (also gives me chills). The harp. The campfire melody. The long S in “bißchen”. The way the song just floats along. The key change!! The false ending!! The lyrics aren't idealistic or preachy either. Nicole admits: “I know my songs won't help very much”. And she's right, Eurovision has had zillions of peace songs, and nothing ever changes. Her wish for peace sounds futile. In fact, she wishes for just “a bit” of peace. Like, even microscopic progress would be welcome. I can do without the metaphors though.

Also of note, Nicole switches between 4 languages during her winner's reprisal – German, English, French and Dutch. I believe that's a Eurovision first; to not sing in your country's native language for the reprisal. It won't be the last time either.

Verdict: "A" tier. The performance is much better than the studio version.

My points go to.... 01. Spain: Lucía - Él 02. Israel: Avi Toledano - Hora 03. Germany: Nicole - Ein bißchen Frieden 04. Belgium: Stella - Si tu aimes ma musique 05. Portugal: Doce - Bem bom 06. Switzerland: Arlette Zola - Amour on t'aime 07. Denmark: Brixx - Video, Video 08. Cyprus: Anna Vissi - Mono i agapi 09. Yugoslavia: Aska - Halo, halo 10. Sweden: Chips - Dag efter dag

11. United Kingdom: Bardo - One Step Further 12. Ireland: The Duskeys - Here Today Gone Tomorrow 13. Norway: Jahn Teigen & Anita Skorgan - Adieu 14. Turkey: Neco - Hani? 15. Finland: Kojo - Nuku pommiin 16. Austria: Mess - Sonntag 17. Netherlands: Bill van Dijk - Jij en ik 18. Luxembourg: Svetlana - Cours après le temps

[steelbluehome]

"(Sebastian Stan) does an excellent job, going beyond impersonation to capture the essence of the man. In a character study of a public figure both widely parodied and unwittingly self-parodying, Stan gives us a more nuanced take on what makes him tick"

The Hollywood Reporter

‘The Apprentice’ Review: Sebastian Stan and Jeremy Strong Are Superb in Chilling Account of the Unholy Alliance That Birthed Donald Trump (click for article)

Maria Bakalova and Martin Donovan also star in Ali Abbasi’s detailed chronicle of the future U.S. president’s rise in the 1970s and ‘80s under the tutelage of cutthroat lawyer Roy Cohn.

David Rooney

MAY 20, 2024 10:00AM PDT

To clear any confusion up front, The Apprentice has nothing to do with the NBC reality competition of that name, in which Donald Trump sifted through a field of aspiring businesspeople to identify the most promising of them, sending an eliminated contestant home each week with the brutal dismissal, “You’re fired!” On the other hand, you could say that Ali Abbasi’s biographical drama has everything to do with the television series.

It’s a reverse reflection of the mentorship process, in which the host becomes the hungry young upstart, laying the foundations for a business empire built in part out of smoke and mirrors, and operating under the guidance of a master manipulator.

Written by political journalist and Roger Ailes biographer Gabriel Sherman, the movie is first and foremost the story of a Faustian pact, in which the eager apprentice is schooled to ditch conventional notions of morality, ethics and empathy, eventually surpassing his Mephistophelean teacher in cold emotional detachment.

While a disclaimer acknowledges that some elements have been slightly fictionalized, the vast majority of Sherman’s screenplay deals in known facts. That could be considered a limitation, since many will wonder what’s the point of a movie that tells us nothing new.

One thing that will be interesting about this first English-language feature from Iranian-Danish filmmaker Abbasi — who forged his reputation in Cannes with Borders and Holy Spider and directed the terrific closing episodes of the first season of The Last of Us — is who will be its audience. Will either side want to see this? With no U.S. distribution deal in place as yet, that remains a mystery.

Liberals will see it as a stomach-churning making-of-a-monster account while the MAGA faithful might conceivably misconstrue it as an endorsement of their guy, who has made the killer instinct his brand. That’s not to say the movie’s political sympathies are unclear. But if the Trump years have taught us anything, it’s that truth is elastic and perception can be skewed to whatever angle is most expedient.

Beyond the specific portrait of the man identified by his vanity plates as DJT (Sebastian Stan) and the barracuda who took him under his wing, Roy Cohn (Jeremy Strong), the movie takes a broader view of the corruption of the American soul.

Sherman’s script zooms in on Trump when he’s a lieutenant in the employ of his real estate baron father, Fred Trump (Martin Donovan, scary), collecting rent from tenants who obviously loathe the landlord and his policies. The family business is under attack in a civil rights suit alleging violations of the Fair Housing Act, stemming from Trump Sr.’s discriminatory policies against Black prospective tenants. “How can I be racist when I have a Black driver?” bellows Fred.

It stretches from the crooked end of the Nixon years, a boon for sourness and and cynicism, through the Reagan presidency and the ascendancy of corporate greed. That time span consecrated the supremacy of the “winner” and the contemptuous mockery of the “loser,” one of the most obnoxious commonplace denigrations in American life. The chief tenet Trump learns from Cohn takes the distinction one step further, asserting that the world is divided into killers and losers.

Donald is eager to get out from under the old man’s shadow. The opening sequence shows him striding through the heart of Manhattan, a less graceful version of Tony Manero in Saturday Night Fever, at a time of rising crime and fiscal disaster, when the town’s reputation had gone from “Fun City” to “Fear City.” His eyes are fixed on the crumbling Commodore Hotel by Grand Central Station, the site of his first luxury development.

Fred Trump is only marginally warmer to Donald than to his first-born son Freddy (Charlie Carrick). The latter’s airline pilot job is a source of shame to his father, who calls him “a flying bus driver.” Donald seizes an opportunity to win parental approval after a chance meeting with Cohn at members-only ‘70s nightspot Le Club. An amusing moment has him trying to impress his date by running down a list of the famous, important and wealthy who frequent the place. “Why are you so obsessed with these people?” she asks, before going off to powder her nose.

Cohn is indignant that anyone should try to tell Fred Trump to whom he can rent; he uses compromising information about a D.A. to get the case thrown out. That gets the Feds off Donald’s father’s back and clears the way for him to get investors on board for the Commodore project. A meeting engineered by Cohn yields a strategic partnership with Hyatt.

The lawyer who proudly sent the Rosenbergs to the electric chair and was a key force in the McCarthy witch hunts is a great role for Strong. He makes the character suitably icy, a fast talker with a withering stare and an almost inhuman intensity. The actor has fun with the hypocrisy of an unapologetic dirty trickster who claims unwavering fidelity to “truth, justice and the American way.” Sherman makes sure we see how the entire Trump playbook was forged out of their alliance.

It’s somewhat predictable that when Cohn early on explains his three cardinal rules, Trump will later claim credit for them as his own credo: 1. Attack. Attack. Attack. 2. Admit nothing. Deny everything. 3. Claim victory and never admit defeat.

While there are faint glimmers of a moral conscience in some of Stan’s early scenes, such concerns are quickly swept aside once Donald starts seeing the results Cohn gets with bullying chicanery. His gaze hardens, along with his lacquered hair, as he begins to construct a persona based on Cohn’s teachings.

There’s wry humor in the way Trump chooses to ignore the lawyer’s hedonistic excesses, along with the side-eye of Roy’s unofficial boyfriend Russell (Ben Sullivan). The ease with which Cohn tosses out anti-gay slurs while denying his own homosexuality is just one dish in a smorgasbord of double standards. The tenuousness of Trump’s loyalty becomes apparent later when AIDS hits first Russell, then Roy.

That’s seen as a factor in Trump’s gradual distancing of himself from Cohn — until he needs his counsel again — but mainly it’s because the student overtakes the teacher, often shrugging off his advice. It’s to Strong’s credit that, while playing an odious, utterly irredeemable human being, he finds notes of pathos in Cohn’s decline.

One matter in which Donald ignores Roy’s cautionary warnings is his determination to marry Ivana Zelnickova, despite the Czech model’s repeated attempts to brush him off. Trump’s first wife is played by Maria Bakalova with savvy self-possession and what seems like full awareness of her husband’s negative attributes, plus a convenient ability to overlook them. She also shows signs of sensitivity that make her mildly sympathetic.

But the marriage begins disintegrating once Donald tires of her. One primary reason is seemingly that she has a head for business and he finds that unattractive. His wandering eye and ample opportunities for philandering don’t help either. “Donald has no shame,” says Ivana at one point with matter-of-fact disdain, and she means it literally.

In addition to feeling he has outgrown Cohn as he becomes more at home with tax avoidance, unpaid contracts and various other questionable means of expanding his empire, Trump also flips the tables on his father, talking down to the man who once intimidated him. It’s implicit in his increasingly self-satisfied, blowhard demeanor that he doesn’t truly feel he owes anything to anyone.

A lot can be observed about Trump’s attitude toward women from his devolving relationship with Ivana, and one shocking scene that will likely raise hackles with the former president’s supporters feeds into the multiple accusations of sexual abuse against him.

The most revealing scenes are Donald’s seeming distance from a family tragedy that he might have helped prevent had he been more giving, and his private display of grief, refusing to show vulnerability even to those closest to him. It’s the steady hardening of his nature that defines the characterization — the stern glare, the mouth set in a sullen pout, the sheer amount of physical space his persona takes up. Stan makes it plain that this is just as much a part of Trump’s performance as his own.

Some will argue that Stan’s performance in the central role is a touch too likeable, but the actor does an excellent job, going beyond impersonation to capture the essence of the man. In a character study of a public figure both widely parodied and unwittingly self-parodying, Stan gives us a more nuanced take on what makes him tick.

Abbasi and cinematographer Kasper Tuxon (The Worst Person in the World) give the movie a grainy texture that evokes the ‘70s and ‘80s, while the neon yellow main title credits instantly suggest vintage television. Bringing the era to life with tacky authenticity, Aleks Marinkovich’s production design lavishes particular attention on the vulgar ostentatiousness of Trump’s domain once he cracks the big time and Laura Montgomery’s costumes walk the line separating expensive from stylish or classy.

It might be considered a cheap shot to show Trump undergoing liposuction and a hair transplant in queasy detail at a grave moment for someone close to him. But that kind of disconnect from anyone else’s suffering is a key part of the portrait. What Abassi’s film reveals most of all is the extent to which the toxicity that’s now an inescapable part of our contemporary reality was shaped by the unholy alliance between two men half a century ago.

The Apprentice

THE BOTTOM LINE

The art of the heel.

Venue: Cannes Film Festival (Competition)

Cast: Sebastian Stan, Jeremy Strong, Maria Bakalova, Martin Donovan, Catherine McNally, Charlie Carrick, Ben Sullivan, Mark Rendall, Joe Pingue, Jim Monaco, Bruce Beaton, Ian D. Clark

Director: Ali Abbasi

Screenwriter: Gabriel Sherman

2 hours

[haremask]

7. Only not just herbs but all plants you use in your practice that you are especially close to or fond of?

oh this is the one i could talk about forever. when i started getting serious about my plant-work my first friends and allies were wayside weeds, and i still have a fierce fondness for many of them, especially wormwood and mullein. i do not grow either of them myself -- i love to encounter them out and about. their ubiquity is like a key to "presence" for me -- i can be zoning out on the bus stop, not really keyed in to the life around me in any meaningful way, and then i see a clump of dear old wormwood, and suddenly i'm back in the world, like seeing a friend in public and the way it sort of brings the setting back into focus. during the growing season i often carry the fresh leaves on me as a personal talisman. i love the bitter earthy smell of fresh wormwood.

i work a lot with both native and non-native plants in my area. non-native plants, like wormwood and mullein, and ditchweed and plantago and wild lettuce and tansy and creeping charlie and catnip are "people plants", camp followers, and a lot more...gregarious i guess, than most of the natives, which i guess is why they were my earliest allies. but i also adore adore goldenrod, bee balm, anise hyssop ... we're getting into my garden now btw. wildflowers are such great teachers, and i can't overemphasize the utility of native pollinator wildflowers in "drawing" work magically. if you talk sweet enough to it, monarda and milkweed can pull you just about anything.

i have a few plants that live in my house who are participants in my practice too! i have a LOT of houseplants, and most of them are just roommates, but a number of them have been deputized for various purposes -- either the living plant itself, or, i've found that vessels that contain live plants are pretty suitable spirit houses, so most ofmy shrines have at least one live plant. my main altar space in my home is also where my orchid jungle lives. tradescantia is the big bread winner in my home. i've had a dedicated jovian space on and off throughout the last year and spiderwort rules there, growing and growing.

pine trees are very precious and sacred to me, and the resins of all sorts of conifers are some of my most treasured materia. there's a colony of scotch pines & fir at the park near my home that i'm on familiar terms with and they once gifted me a ball of resin nearly the size of my palm, which i'm loathe to burn because it was a present haha.

geez. what else. oh a moment for more traditional herbs: i have a culinary herb garden, and the same oregano (for example) that goes into my magic also goes into my soup. they reinforce each other this way.

there are so many more i could talk about but i will stop now. i cured my urban alienation through the intervention of "learning to talk to plants"

[whatevergreen]

"...Berrigan, who died in April at the age of 94, had just entered his 40's as the 1960s began. If somebody time-warped you back to FBI headquarters and told you to pick out the hard-core radical from a lineup of counterculture types, you damn sure wouldn’t stand and j’accuse the Jesuit priest and Ivy League academic (he taught at Cornell) whose fervent gaze and ascetic mane all but spoke aloud that here before you was the winner of the 1958 Lamont Prize of the Academy of American Poets.

I wouldn’t blame you. But I’d use hindsight to inform you that by the end of the decade, Berrigan would land on the cover of Time magazine for repeated acts of civil disobedience—“Rebel Priests” the headline read, over a portrait of Dan and his brother Phil, his co-religionist and co-conspirator. I would further apprise you that, by then, Dan had become the bête noire of none other than FBI director and chronically cranky lawman J. Edgar Hoover, who hated him both professionally and personally.

And with good reason.

Hoover loathed dissent and repeatedly proved he didn’t believe it to be protected by the Constitution. Worse, Hoover was Catholic. Given those combustible elements, the pomade in his hair must have spontaneously ignited when he first learned of the Berrigan brothers’ 1968 draft board raid in Catonsville, Maryland. A photo of it ran the next day on the front page of countless newspapers. It showed a pair of Catholic priests in Roman collar standing in prayer behind hundreds of Vietnam draft files they had just put to the match, using napalm as an accelerant, just like the U.S. Air Force had been doing to the jungles and the people of Vietnam. In short, the Berrigans used religious symbols to object to the war while destroying some of the records that kept the war going. How could Hoover not see that as a betrayal of all he held holy?

The Berrigans were joined by seven co-arsonists; together they were known as The Catonsville Nine. Their trial in Baltimore was a sensation. Anti-war demonstrators flooded the streets in solidarity with the defendants, while counter-demonstrators held up signs calling for the “traitor priests” to be hanged. (That polarized dynamic would follow Dan and Phil, who died in 2002, for the rest of their lives.) All were convicted and given prison sentences ranging from months to years."

"... rather than submit to his conviction for the Catonsville raid, he refused to report to prison. “I wasn’t avoiding punishment,” he later told an interviewer. “I was prolonging it and protesting the war.”

(Daniel) went on the run from the FBI in the spring and summer of 1970. He would punctuate the chase by popping up in a pulpit and then vanishing, or granting a lengthy interview on national TV. With each surprise appearance and escape, he reheated the pomade of the FBI director, who was not used to being taunted, let alone embarrassed." From a statement by the Catonsville Nine:

"We confront the Roman Catholic Church, other Christian bodies, and the synagogues of America with their silence and cowardice in the face of our country's crimes. We are convinced that the religious bureaucracy in this country is racist, is an accomplice in this war, and is hostile to the poor."

Daniel Berrigan in addition to being anti-war, was anti-racist, anti-capital punishment, pro-LGBT, for women priests, anti-capitalist and supported the Occupy movement.

He wrote such as this regarding the LGBTQ:

"The church rejects, ostracizes, places certain people beyond the pale; on a lifelong basis... I do not know, any more than you, whether church authority will renounce its sinfulness, will at last heal and bind up those it has wounded so grievously. (And so be healed and bound up, and acknowledge her own wounds.)...We must forgive, deepen our love, persist in our conviction that even the church can be redeemed from sin."

[plausability-spectrum]

@towerofhealthsix you are incorrect. It has not been like this for thousands of years. Read or listen to Daryl Cooper's seven part 23 hour essay called Fear and Loathing in the New Jerusalem for ample evidence that that wasn't the case.

The Arabs helped Britain win the first World War, working arm in arm with Britain's TE Lawrence or Lawrence of Arabia as he's better known, and Britain and the zionists betrayed the Arabs.

The evil in this whole dynamic is the zionists. They've been stealing Palestinian land since 1917 with the Balfour Declaration and especially since 1948. Palestine is an open-air concentration camp in an apartheid.

The Arabs, Jews, and Christians lived more or less in peace prior to the early part of the 20th century for thousands of years. Were there issues here and there, of course there were. But nothing like the mass murder, ethnic cleansing we're witnessing today, and the last 80 years. The West along with Zionist controlled Israel have mistreated the Arabs in an unconscionable manner the last hundred years. No wonder they're pissed. It's called blowback. United States has been the global terrorists since World War I and especially since the Inception of the OSS which became the CIA.

If you were a palestinian, and you'd endured what they've endured, I would hope you would take a stand against someone mistreating your people. In fact, I know you would. You are a patriot!

I don't support Hamas or violence of any kind. But don't forget, Hamas only exists because Israel and the United States funded them in order to prevent a two-state solution. And let's not forget about the Hannibal directive in which Israel, instead of negotiating for Israelis hostages, kill them. It's in writing and has been utilized since October 7th. Look it up.

We know college students are cultural Marxist/ globalist tools used to sow division, but even people as brainwashed as they are can see what Israel, with funding from the United states, both parties, is doing to the Palestinians is inhumane and wrong.

I'd be happy to suggest over a dozen books that if you chose to read what alter your perspective.

Israel is not our friend. They are not an ally they're a liability. Read John Mearsheimer's book The Israeli Lobby for ample evidence of this. That was written in 2007, and it's only more evident today.

Our politicians do not listen to We the People they listen to the Israeli Lobby. Both parties. Except Thomas Massie. The only politician out of the 533 members of Congress that I trust at all.

Lastly, considering it's 9/11, look into Israel's, not Israelis, but the zionists who control israel, role on 9/11. The book, "Israel, the real winners of the 2003 Iraq War," crushes any notion that they are our Ally. We are simply a cudgel that Israel uses to bully their neighbors.

I respect and appreciate you. I consider you my Ally in attempting to save our Republic. But not caring what is true and simply wanting to know the truth I've done a deep dive into this topic since 2005 and it's not what the media makes it out to be.

The right is acting exactly like the left in trying to silence voices with a dissenting view of this topic. Why? The only reason you silence people is if you have something to hide, if you don't have the truth on your side.

Read Max blumenthals GrayZone, listen to the 10 debates Dave Smith has done on this topic. If you have epistemic humility and I believe you do, you'll see this differently.

I know that was long and I I appreciate you reading it if you did. I'd be happy to recommend lots of material supporting everything I said.

God bless you and God bless America!

Pro-Hamas insurrectionists have infiltrated the Cannon House Office Building once again. Why are these people not being prosecuted the same way J6 protestors have been? 🤔

[swansong-of-occhiolism-blog]

So it seems I actually used you, once. Although it's been a minute. Life update for this decade:

Diagnosed with bipolar ii, gen+soc anxiety, ADD

Soon to be 6 years clean! One small slip off the wagon, half a bean (that's speed or amphetamine for you future web archaeologists) and then I reached out to A (7 year anniversary tomorrow!) I flushed the rest (I'm so sorry for the pollution but it was the right thing for me in that moment to reduce harm ♡)

Yeah, I still get regular cravings. At least bi-weekly, still daily when I'm stressed.

I know I'm full-blown looneypants from crazy town, but I'm also starting to wonder if these disorders, more and more of which are appearing in our youth post-covid, are merely symptoms of a woefully broken social structure rather than 'disorders,' and as a "trauma survivor" (I still loathe that label. It reduces me to only what I've overcome, ignoring any outgrew aspect of what makes me, me!) or something I would have experienced in any timeline and regardless of nepotism.

Regardless which is true, our system is broken. If I couldn't consistently beg+borrow, I would still be homeless, now with 2 children and a spouse. Average rent in my area is nearly $2k/mo for a 2-bedroom attached. ODSP (Ontario disability support program) ensures that my household has 1900/mo for the 4 of us, so that basically covers necessary travel and groceries (milk is up to $12 for 4L!?), along with utilities, and leaves a few hundred for rent. I can sometimes find and do odd jobs, but generally I'm doing, how do you say.. ah -- FUCKING TERRIBLY

I'm still struggling with my depression and anxiety, and I'm worse off financially, socially, by just about any other useful and real metric since becoming sober.

That means the bad guys are winning. And the winners write the history, and apparently rewrite it a century or more later to allow and even positively frame their bigotry and hatred. Will my death even be recorded when it finally comes? Or will I be a rounded-down, modal average, "miscellaneous civilian loss by township," (or some other overly watered down by semantics, or even outright fabricated and 'verified' statistic) during what I'm terrified is becoming a more and more certain class war between the ultra wealthy 700 people who effectively control EVERY RESOURCE AND LAW ON OUR PLANET OF 8+ BILLION.

I want better than this for my children, and I feel guilt daily for forcing them to experience this world that I still don't feel like I belong in. My utopia is so far past socialism that it makes communism look like gluttony. I'll take a moment to ramble about that, even:

Imagine, if you will, a world where the only thing "yours" are internal. Your love, your relationships, your soul/energy/what-have-you, while material things from here belong to everyone living here. You step outside the group or individual residence you choose to spend last night in.

At least one person truly fucking LOVES this area, maybe it's the flora and fauna, maybe it's geophysical, maybe it's tied to something intrinsic to them, like a cherished memory. But that person will voluntarily make every effort to keep that place safe and awesome for everyone 20 of 30 days of the month, and love that they're doing that. You love symbiotic landscaping, so you take a moment to appreciate your recently planted garden before going to the first vehicle that looks like you want it for this ride. You hop in, choose between manual or automatic road+mode, and push the button ignition. Thank God (the charging station installation specialist) because everywhere you can reasonably park will charge any parked vehicle! You head to the food library and check to see who and what is available. SCORE!! There's a griller here today! Let's grab some <full of nutrients, lacking in junk, GMO BBQ> on a fresh baked bun. Even though it's the 20th time they've made this exact same sandwich today, the griller is pumped to hand you your steaming bamboo plate and a smile splits their face as you smile at just the scent of your meal. And now, you're ready to go plant some more gardens and forests!

Obviously, I could live forever further inventing this fantasy world of mine, and is got some obvious kinks and necessary disclaimers (like disability devices/vehicles, needing a quiet night while buddy in the next room needs a CPAP, etc) but if I don't come back to reality now I'm afraid I'll leave it too far behind for a bit too long and have a complete rainbow-pill meal for a while, so I'm going to instead read on someone else's fantastic creations.

Sorry this was so jumbled and semi-dissociated, I'm having a (not completely terrible, but) bad day.

On that note, 0-5 ascending scale::

Irritability: 2

Anxiety: 5

Mood: 1

Ability to direct focus: 2

Short-term to long-term memory exchange: 1

Highlights of the day:

Very nearly shed my first tear since my "i lost my daddy-father" day, december 23, 2022. I sobbed as if I would soon be dehydrated, I moaned and wailed into a pillow in the cellar (we're chez Mami aujourd'hui) and my eyes welled enough that squeezing them tightly (enough to cause shaking throughout my head+neck muscles) let one wet the pillow. It was a pink butterfly pillow, with pink and purple sequins, and a blue carapace (or the papillion equivalent)

Until/Unless I write again, goodbye.

[httpiastri]

crash into me – pa1

being forced to share a room with paul, your enemy, in spa makes you discover new feelings for him.

genre: fluff, touches of angst? enemies to lovers!au, one bed!au

pairing: reader x paul aron

warnings: mentions of death, crashing... i think that's about it

word count: 7.3k (how did that happen....)

requested: yes !!

author's note: writing this was 110% self indulgent (did i use that term right), i loved it. maybe because i love paul.... felt weird to write about dino though shdkfhdkfj he feels like my swedish little brother in some way? anyways! i haven't ever written enemies to lovers i think, so this was interesting. i honestly don't know how it got this long, my longest fic on here by a loooot. hope you enjoy, and thank you for requesting!

also, lowkey a spoiler but i got paul the feature podium that he deserved in belgium <3 this fic contains subtle backhanded prema slander, sorry not sorry

f2/f3 masterlist

you and paul have been enemies for as long as you can remember.

it all started back in karting, in your first race against each other. you were racing in karts on a circuit in france, and practically no one had any grip in the rain. during your last lap of qualifying, you and paul had been side by side when you lost control of the kart, resulting in you swerving into the barriers, taking paul with you.

when you got out of your kart, you wanted to apologize to paul – but he had already stormed off. you thought nothing more of it, seeing it as just an incident – but apparently, he didn't feel the same way. in the actual race the day after, paul took you out in the first corner as revenge.

safe to say, you both loathed each other before the end of the weekend.

as the years went on and you two continued driving in the same categories, the hatred between you two grew. there have been multiple occasions where one of you broke the rules to mess up a race for the other, sometimes even going as far as crashing into each other on purpose. needless to say, neither one of your teams, managers or engineers were especially supportive of your childish actions.

it didn't matter if it was in karting or when you both started racing in formula cars; you never really grew out of the feud. with you being a member of the ferrari driver academy and paul joining the mercedes juniors in 2020, the rivalry only grew over the years. both of you had a massive need to be the better one; it wasn't important to beat the other drivers on the track, only each other.

maybe this competitiveness was the reason one of you two would always be the winner of pretty much any race you took part of. unless you both crashed, that is. if one of you had been much better than the other, if it had been easy to tell who the best one actually was, then maybe you would've just stopped several years ago. your determination to crush each other made you better drivers, and your closeness on track was probably what made the rivalry so strong.

when you got the news that you would be joining prema in 2023, you were over the moon. but when it was revealed that one of your teammates would be none other than paul aron, you were horrified to say the least. and so was he.

the two of you were forced to act nice in front of the cameras and the fans. you had to give each other congratulatory handshakes when either of you ended up on the podium, and you had to act polite in team meetings, but you never spoke more than necessary to each other.

on top of that, the prema team managers made it very clear that if you were to purposefully cause a crash with each other, both of you would be replaced on an instant. the team could not afford to have two immature idiots ruin the team over something that started back when they were children.

you'd both managed to stay civil for most of the season, not being pushed or forced together too much. in prema videos, you would never be paired up, and you would rarely be seen together at any other times. but this was all about to change when it was time for the next round in belgium.

as usual, the team had booked rooms for all their drivers at one of the hotels near the track. being the only female driver in the f2/f3 prema team, you usually got a room for yourself, and so you were told it would be this weekend too. as you check in on thursday, get your key card and make your way up to your room, you can't wait to throw yourself onto the bed and catch up on some of the sleep you missed getting ready for your early flight this morning. but your mood instantly changes when you see someone standing right outside the room with your number on it.

not just anyone; paul aron.

he's blipping a key onto the door when you step closer, a frown taking over your face. "i'm pretty sure this is my room," you tell him.

"what?" the light on the door flashes green as he looks up at you, just as confused as you. "pretty sure it's mine."

"it literally says 782 right here." you show him the paper cover you've gotten for your key, but he just pushes the handle down and lets the door swing open. when he's about to step inside, you pull him back by his shoulder, dragging the door closed again. "let me try..." you pull out your own key, holding it against the door – and the light blinks green again.

"there's no way," paul mutters. he seems frozen in his place, just staring at the door as you push it open.

you tell yourself that maybe it isn't as bad as it looks, maybe there are two rooms in one? or maybe there's some kind of wall separating your beds?

but when you enter the room, you realize that it's even worse than you'd feared. there's just one king size bed. no other single bed, not even a couch.

"there's no way."

"there's been a massive mistake," you tell the lady at the hotel desk once you make it down again. you drop your bags next to you with a thud, feeling sore after having carried them for way too long now. "i'm here with the racing team prema. i was placed in the same room as another driver, but we were supposed to be in separate ones."

"let me have a look," she answers, looking down in her computer. "may i have your room number, please?"

"782." paul's voice surprises you; you thought he stayed upstairs, but suddenly he's right next to you again. you had told him that you'd never share a room with him, let alone a bed, so you would do anything to get yourself out of the situation. you just assumed he wouldn't even care enough to help.

the smattering of the lady's nails against her keyboard fills the otherwise silent lobby as you patiently wait. you don't even shoot paul a look. "i'm very sorry," she starts, still typing away on her computer. "it seems like there's been some kind of mistake in the booking."

you try to put on an understanding smile. "that's alright. do you have any other rooms available? any room will do."

the lady finally looks up at you both, an apologetic look on her face. "unfortunately, we're fully booked. we always are during race weekends."

"you've got to be kidding me..." paul groans, his hands coming up to cover his face.

"i'm sure we can refund you for the mistake, but for now, we have no other rooms." the lady sighs before looking down in her computer again. "i'm sorry to say that there's nothing i can do for you at the moment. i hope you can manage to have a wonderful stay here anyway!"

wonderful? how could staying with paul possibly be anything other than horrendous?

your next step is to talk to all of the prema staff members you can find about the situation. you beg for their help to solve the issue, to let you switch rooms with someone – but they all think that you two sharing a room will be the perfect opportunity for you to get to know each other better.

this is going to be the worst weekend ever.

dino almost cries laughing when he hears about the whole room incident. as a best friend of both you and paul separately, he never understand how you could hate each other – you are both really cool people, so how does it make sense that neither of you like the other?

he's sitting in the single chair next to the desk, still quietly giggling even when you send him deathly glares, when you get to work on the soon-to-be wall in the middle of your bed. you've seen people build barriers out of pillows this in the movies a bunch of times, so you decided it will be the best way to keep paul on his side of the bed.

"is this really necessary?" paul asks. he's sitting on the edge of the bed but he's far too occupied with something on his phone to watch you, or help you. "i don't want to be near you either way so i'll stay put on my side."

"oh, it totally is necessary. i will not allow you to accidentally roll over to me in your sleep." dino laughs out loud at your comment, but he puts his hands up in the air as defense when you threaten to throw a pillow at him.

"i'll just sleep on the floor. we have plenty of pillows, and i think there was an extra blanket-"

you cut paul off. "there's no way i'm letting you sleep on the floor during a race weekend." as much as it hurt to admit, it wouldn't be cool to force him into something like that. he has, just like you, sacrificed to much to be in f3 and it would be cruel to rob him of one of these weekends.

besides, you want to beat him when he's at his best, not just because he hasn't slept in a few days.

dino speaks up, his eyes moving between the two of you. "oh, so you care about his racing? that's so sweet o-"

"i care about the team, not about him individually." your voice is stern as you finish placing the last few pillows.

"why are you talking about me as if i'm not here?" paul groans – for probably the hundredth time today – and throws himself back onto the bed. the crash makes the bed bounce and some of the so perfectly placed pillows fall down.

"hey, careful!" you scold, frowning as you start to rebuild the wall.

"can you two stop fighting for just a second?" dino says between giggles. "we need to go, our track walk is in like... five minutes."

"thank god, i really need to get out of here," paul says, standing up instantly and heading towards the door.

"that makes two of us," you mutter under your breath as you make some finishing touches on the wall. "this is going to be a long weekend..."

paul is surprisingly respectful all of the time you're both in the hotel room. he lets you shower first when you get back, and he makes sure to never step a foot in your side of the room. he even waits for you when you get ready for the team dinner to make sure the two of you leave together instead of just going off alone when he's done getting dressed. not that either of you say even a single word in the elevator down to the lobby.

when you think about it, you haven't actually spent a lot of time alone with him. there is always a third person on the podium, and there are always staff members around you during all meetings and such. it feels weird, to say the least, but... not as bad as you imagined?

by the time you're all sitting down in some restaurant nearby, the word about your rooming situation has spread to everyone. it's a great laugh, and the teasing seems like it will never stop. when the food is finally served, you're more relieved than ever to see food. thankfully, it fills everyone's mouths and stops them from talking so much.

when you finish dinner, you expect to just go back to your room, get some good sleep and prepare for tomorrow. but on your way to the car, angelina stops you and pulls you to the side along with paul.

"i've been talking to the other staff members," she starts. you raise your eyebrows at her – could this mean that they realized that this arrangement was awful after all? had they found a way to solve it? "and we decided that we're going to give you a task to make sure you actually talk to each other."

you let your shoulders slump, covering your face in your hands. until now, you'd thought that you would at least survive this if you just pretended that paul wasn't even there. but this could be the death of you.

the death of you both, apparently. because paul doesn't seem like he is enjoying the situation more than you. "shouldn't we focus on racing this weekend?" he says, trying to keep his voice as polite as possible, but you can practically see the steam blowing out of his ears.

"oh, you'll have a lot of time to focus on racing and still manage our tasks." angelina smiles at the two of you. "it won't take too long."

"what do we have to do?" you ask, looking up at her again.

"well, i made you these cards." she pulls out a couple of pieces of paper from her bag, holding them out to you. "they contain questions that you are going to ask each other to get to know each other. they should be answered in the order of the numbers written on them." she points to the corner of the top card, showing off the number one. "on monday, we will quiz you on what the other person has answered for these questions. so pay attention to each other!"

"well, that could've been worse," you say, almost as if to try to convince yourself that it's alright. paul looks at you with a frown, shaking his head at your words. you ignore him, reaching out to take the cards and place them in your purse. "i think it's best if i take these, no?"

"i think so too," angelina jokes, bringing a little smile to your lips.

paul doesn't as much as twitch, though. "are we done?"

the second she nods, paul storms off towards the other drivers again. angelina lets out a sigh, giving you a pat on your shoulder. "i'm sorry for this, but i really do think it's for the best. you might be teammates for a long time, so it's really not good for you to hate each other."

you nod, trying to see it from her perspective. chances are high that you and paul are going to work together a lot in the future, so it isn't smart to keep fighting just out of habit. plus, it must be hard for her and all of the other staff members to have to deal with you. but why was it so hard to just throw it all away, to just ignore it and make up with him?

"i hope you don't snore," you mumble as you sit down on your side of the bed, plugging your phone in to charge it.

"i hope i do."

you both agreed that you would get started on the questions tomorrow, being far too exhausted from the day to do it now. although it hasn't been a very physical day, the emotional roller coaster you experienced was enough to leave you completely worn out.

there are several things that make it hard to keep hating paul. one of them is how he actually seems like a decent and respectful person when he's around other people. but the worst of them all is,

paul has grown up to be extremely hot.

he was cute as a child, sure. but this was something new. you hated the way you could grow hot by just thinking about him, the way his pretty blonde curls framed his gorgeous face, the way his laughter could light up a whole room. and his body? his muscles? he looked like a god damn body builder, but not in an excessive way.

and now, those muscles and that face was lying just a meter away, only a couple of pillows separating you from each other. you hate it.

and you hate the fact that it's getting harder to hate him.

"are you ready to do this?" you ask, looking through your purse for the cards you'd gotten from angelina.

"as ready as i'll ever get," paul answers as he slumps down on his side of the bed.

after yet another long day, all you want to do was relax and focus on tomorrow. but you also don't want to procrastinate on your task or save it for the last possible minute.

paul seems distracted, as he has all day. he made a few mistakes in the qualifying session and only reached an eleventh place, which will be good for the sprint race but not as much for the feature. dino's seventh place looks better, and your third even more so, but something feels off about the whole thing. paul doesn't usually qualify that bad, especially not in these mixed conditions. but you decide not to push it or ask him about it.

"okay, question number one..." you sit down on the bed, holding up the first card to read the handwriting. "what's your favorite color?"

"wow, that's boring." he sighs. "i like blue, i guess."

"i'll say prema red, just so it's easier for you to remember." you put the card at the bottom of the pile, reading the next one. "when did you start racing?"

"i started karting when i was seven."

"i was six."

this is easier than you'd thought. "why did you start racing?"

"because my brother did it, i think. i wanted to be like him." he chuckles, shifting slightly on the bed.

you nod along to him. "my dad took me karting once, and i was hooked instantly. i guess he just wanted me to try and compete, to see if i actually had any chance..." you throw away the card, picking up the next one in the pile. "have you always enjoyed racing?"

paul thinks for a moment and then shrugs. "i mean, it's always fun. as long as someone doesn't crash into me for no reason." you roll your eyes but let him go on. "but there's a lot of pressure to do well, to perform..."

"totally," you say and cross your arms over your chest. "but i think that, besides the crashing and pressure, it's a lot of fun. and i enjoy it a lot."

you look over at him and he looks like he wants to add something, but then he just shakes his head. "go ahead."

you read the next card. "have your parents always been supportive of your racing?"

paul nods instantly. "yeah. both of mine and my brother's racing." he makes eye contact with you for what feels like the first time tonight. "and you? i haven't heard you talk about your parents a lot."

"well, it's..." you sigh. "complicated, i guess."

"how so?"

you take a deep breath. "i'm not sure if you know, but my dad races. or, he used to." you look down at your hands, taking notice of how they're already shaking slightly. "ever since he passed, my mom has been... i wouldn't say less supportive, but... she doesn't really want me to keep racing. i get what she means, it's a dangerous sport, but..."

the sudden change in the mood is surprising to paul; he didn't expect you to open up like this. he looks over at you, the concern clear in his eyes.

"i knew i couldn't not race. it's what i live for." you let out a sigh. "i also want to do it to honor him, you know?"

he nods, even though you aren't looking at him. he's unsure what to say, if he should try to comfort you or just let you speak. he has never cared about, or even thought of, your feelings like he does now.

you look up at the ceiling, blinking a couple of times to force back the tears threatening to spill at the thought of your dad. "i'm sorry, i don't know why i just said that," you say, letting out a laugh. "i'll think of another answer for you."

"don't worry about it." paul pauses for a moment, leaning back against the headboard of the bed. "i'm... really sorry you're going through that." when you look over at him, the look he gives you is sincere and kind. "your dad is watching you proudly from heaven, i'm sure."

hearing those words, it's like he's broken down all of your defenses. all of the walls you built these last years since your father's passing are torn down, all of the feelings you've worked so hard to push away come up in one second. you've mourned his death, of course, but you always make sure not to think about him too much during your racing weekends, since he passed from a crash on track, and since he was the reason you started racing in the first place. you couldn't allow your feelings affect you when you were competing. but to think about him watching you still, him being proud of you...

this time, you can't stop yourself from crying. a few single tears roll down your cheeks, but you turn your head away and wipe them away instantly, hoping paul doesn't see.

he pretends not to. "when did the questions get so serious, huh? are there no more questions about colors?" he tries to joke, hoping it will cheer up the mood a little.

he lets out a sigh of relief when he sees you chuckling, turning back to him when you're done cleaning away your tears. "i'll take a look."

for the first time ever, paul is kind towards you even when he doesn't need to. when you wake up the morning after, he seems to be in a good mood, chattering off about how excited he is for the race. he even tries to make some small talk about the rainy weather as you get dressed for breakfast, and although it feels weird, you join in. it's strange, but most certainly not awful – and you catch yourself thinking that you could get used to this.

sprint race means reverse starting grid, which is good for paul but less fun for you. he starts from the first row, while you are back in tenth place. while paul in the front has a good start, you get stuck in traffic in the first corner, losing several positions in just a couple of seconds. it doesn't take long before you are half a lap behind the leading cars, still fighting for space but getting caught behind several cars.

just as you feel like the track is drying up and that you have a good opportunity to make some overtakes, the only thing that isn't allowed to happen happens.

coming up to eau rouge, two cars a bit ahead of you have made contact, but you are unaware as you speed up the hill. from out of nowhere, a car hits your side, sending you flying into the wall.

paul hears the call about a crash over the radio instantly, but he doesn't think of it too much at first. he's waiting to hear about a safety car coming out when his engineer instead tells him that there's a red flag and that he must go back to the pits immediately.

paul realizes that it's worse than he expected and he instantly wonders about who could be involved in the crash. he isn't surprised when he rolls up to the famous corner and sees the random car parts on the ground – but his jaw drops when he sees the car that has crashed into the wall.

a horrible feeling spreads in his gut when he sees the red prema car with your number on it. out of all people, did it have to be you? "is she okay?" he asks over the radio, slowing down as he goes up the hill. when he doesn't get an answer, he repeats himself, his voice louder and more stern. "is she okay?!"

there's another pause on the radio, before someone answers him. "we're not sure, paul."

something in his body pulls him to do something he has never done before. he pulls his car over to the side before his shaky hands unbuckle his belt and take off his steering wheel. he can hear several staff members tell him over the radio that he shouldn't do what he's about to do, it's dangerous, he can-

he unplugs his earphones and jumps out of the car, sprinting over to you. he doesn't care if it's dangerous; he needs to make sure you're alright.

he doesn't really understand why he cares so much. maybe something happened in him when he heard you talk yesterday about your father; maybe he's just terrified because he doesn't want you to go meet the same fate.

when he reaches you, he crouches down to your level. "hey, are you okay?"

the impact of crashing into the wall in such high speeds made you hit your head on the side of the car. your entire field of vision is spinning, and you can't even comprehend who the person standing by your car is. in just a moment, everything turns black. your head slams forward onto your steering wheel as you pass out, and paul too feels like the world is crashing as he watches you.

he stands up again, waving for the marshals and medics to hurry up. he doesn't care that all of the prema staff will be furious with him for not following their orders, he doesn't care if it's dangerous for him to stay where he is. he only cares about you getting the help you need,

but he has no idea why.

the race never resumed after your crash, both because of how shaken up everyone got after seeing you get transported away in the ambulance, and because the cleaning of the track took too long and almost even delayed the f1 sprint shootout.

paul and dino spend the rest of the day in your and paul's room, mostly sitting in silence and just waiting to get a message about how you're doing. they don't eat and they don't watch any of the other races of the day as they're both worried sick, only thinking about you.

dino's phone eventually flashes up with a call from his manager, letting the boys know that you've been lucky and thankfully only suffered a minor concussion. the message doesn't exactly throw away all of their worries, but it does make them calm enough to leave the room and have dinner with the team.

it's late when you come back to your room. when you arrive, you merely greet paul before instantly popping into the bathroom to brush your teeth. when you're done, paul is sitting on his side of the bed, staring into his phone.

there are a couple of silent moments before he speaks up, eyes still glued to the screen of his phone. "i'm glad you're okay. i saw the replay, it could've been a lot worse..." you sit down on your side of the bed, not sure what to say. me too? i'm so lucky? thank you for letting me know that it could've been worse? "well, either way, i'm glad i have one less opponent to overtake tomorrow."

you frown, shaking your head. "...i'm not skipping the race, paul."

his eyes dart over to you, eyebrows raised. "what?"

"i'm starting in p3, and i need points for the championship." you place your phone on the bedside table, turning off your lamp. "i'll take some painkillers and i should be fine."

"did the team say they agreed to that?"

you groan. "i told them that i'll be driving and that they can't do anything to stop me." paul is speechless – you have just been in a massive crash on one of the most dangerous circuits in the world, and you were still going to race the next day? "so now, if you'll excuse me," you laid down, turning to face the wall and pulling your duvet over your body. "i think my head needs some rest."

you want to make it seem like his questions bother you, like you want him to stop talking to you because he's just that annoying. but in reality, you want him to stop because his caring words are making you feel something you never thought you would feel for him.

do you actually... like it? do you like the way he is worried for you? do you like the way he looked at you, his eyes filled with concern when he thought about you injuring yourself even more?

did you like him?

even though it's late, paul can't fall asleep. he still feels unwell about the whole situation. it bothers him, and there's something inside him regretting that he wasn't able to express himself properly before.

after turning around in bed for what feels like forever, he calls out your name. "are you awake?"

when there's no answer from you, he lets out a sigh of relief.

"okay, good." his voice is low, careful not to wake you up, but you can still clearly make out his words. "i just need to say that... i'm really thankful that you're okay. that crash was awful, and..." paul pauses for a few moments. "when you passed out, i swear i have never been as scared. not even when i have crashed."

you're not sure why you aren't saying anything. something inside you tells you that you should hear him out, and that interrupting him now will stop him from saying the things he needs to get out.

"and especially after the things you told me yesterday, about your dad... i didn't want you to face the same fate."

paul lets out a loud sigh, and it's followed by a small chuckle.

"this is so weird. i don't understand why i care so much. we're enemies, but..." you hear him shuffle a little from his side of the bed as you wait for him to continue speaking.

never, not even in your wildest dreams, could you have guessed what he would say next.

"i think i like you."

your breath hitches at his words but you try your best to act natural and pretend like you're sleeping. revealing now that you've been listening all along would not be ideal.

"i mean, i don't just think so. i'm pretty sure. but you hate me, so..."

paul is quiet for a long time and you assume he's done with his rant, so his voice startles you when he speaks again.

"i don't know. i think i'm done." then, he lowers his voice even further, a bare whisper leaving his lips; "sweet dreams."

paul falls asleep soon after his confession, having gotten everything off his chest. but now, it’s your turn to stay sleepless.

when your alarm goes off in the morning, it feels like your head is about to explode. having to be at the track at six in the morning means waking up even earlier, which always feels like it should be illegal. but today, it was even worse than usual.

maybe you'd underestimated this concussion and how it would affect your day.

but this weekend is the second to last round in the f3 championship, so the points are important. you'll have to at least try and do your best.

you know you won't be able to say anything to the staff members, because as soon as they hear even the slightest sign of doubt from you, they'll prohibit you from racing. they do want your best, after all. so you take several pain killers straight after waking up and put on your best possible smile when having breakfast in the hotel.

paul doesn't speak to you all morning; he seems tense and somewhat distracted, just like the last couple of days. though, now you feel like you understand why. you don't exactly feel relaxed yourself, constantly being reminded of his late-night confession and your sudden realization of your own feelings. it's almost like you see him in a new light; when he's chatting away with dino at breakfast, you don't find him annoying for occupying your friend's attention like you usually would; when you're forced to sit next to him in the shuttle to the track, you find yourself enjoying the way his broad shoulders graze against yours every once in a while; and when he does his warmups for the race, you find it hard to take your eyes off him because his white fireproof shirt makes you feel things you didn't know you could feel for him.

you take one last painkiller as you stand in the truck, moments before you're supposed to get into your car. you're all alone, taking a couple deep breaths to try and forget everything about yesterday, and everything about paul, so that you can concentrate fully on the race. that's why you're startled when a hand lands on your shoulder – but when you turn your head and see that the hand belongs to paul who's standing behind you, you get surprisingly calm. "how's the head?"

"it's better," you answer. it's not a full lie; it is better than when you woke up. he doesn't need to know that it's not as good as it should be.

paul nods, walking past you to his bag in a corner of the truck. you're standing in silence for a few moments as he rummages through his bag, not sure what to say. "you know you still have time to change your mind, right?" he pulls out his headphones, standing up properly. "no one will be mad if you say you can't race."

"i know." when his eyes meet yours, it feels different. closer, more intimate, more personal than ever before. you wonder if he can feel it too. "thank you."

and then another thing happens for the first time ever.

he smiles at you.

it's not a forced smile like the ones he could sometimes give you in prema videos or after a race, and it's not a gloating one like the ones he would show off after overtaking you in the last corner of a race. no, this is a real smile.

and you smile back. "good luck out there," you say.

"you too."

surprisingly enough, you're the only one in the top ten who starts with wet tyres on your car. the track still is very wet and the sky is covered in dark clouds, so while it currently isn't raining, it still feels like a given to you that the wet tyres are the best choice.

dino is starting on slicks – you're not sure why – but back in eleventh place, paul is starting on the wets just like you. as you'd hoped, the wets are the best tyre for the conditions, and you soar past the two people starting in front of you in the first corner. it doesn't take long before paul comes up behind you, having passed nine cars in just the first parts of the race. the other cars on wets overtake all cars starting on slicks too, but you and aron have no problem fighting them off for the rest of the race.

when the two of you pull into the pitlane along with taylor barnard who took the last spot on the podium, you let out a sigh of relief. you had been scared, both before and during the race, that something else would happen. driving on a wet track is never easy, and another shunt could've made your head trauma much worse. you're thankful for an easy race – and especially thankful that paul is there to share the podium with you.

instantly after getting out of your car, you pull off your helmet and jog off to celebrate with your team. when you've hugged and shook hands with everyone and you make your way over to check your weight, you find that paul is already standing on the scale. when he gets off it, he turns to you instinctively. his blonde curls stick slightly to his sweaty forehead before he pulls a hand through them, standing still and just looking at you.

paul is so genuinely happy for you; after the day you had yesterday, and the things you told him the day before, you really deserve this win. the joy practically radiates from him, his smile bigger and more pure than ever.

you can't exactly contain your happiness either, which explains why you crash into him, engulfing him in a big hug. your emotions are all over the place, so happy for the race and still thinking of his confession last night, and you just want to hold him in your arms forever.

paul is used to the regular handshake and nod after a race, so he is surprised that you're embracing him all of the sudden. "what are you doing?" he asks as confusion takes over his face, but he's at the same time beginning to blush at the feeling of your arms around him.

you pull away slightly, your arms still holding onto his shoulders. you can't hold back now. "i heard you," you whisper. "last night." his expression morphs into one of horror, and he's about to explain himself when you cut him off. "don't worry, i feel the same way."

he just blinks at you for a few moments, before he drapes his arms around you, holding you close. a laughter erupts from his chest and you grin at the feeling of his chest vibrating against yours.

this is the first time you've ever actually hugged him – but you hope there will be many more hugs to come.

having someone you like instead of hate with you on the podium is a new feeling to you. there's something about the little glances you steal of each other, the shared smiles as you get your trophies, and the way both of you completely drench the other in champagne; it's a feeling neither of you will forget.

paul even enjoys the sound of your national anthem for the first time.

as soon as you possibly can, when you are both done with your interviews and whatnot, you try to find a place where you can be alone and talk. thankfully, the prema truck is empty as all other staff members and drivers are watching or working at the f2 race. paul pulls the door open for you, watching with a smile as you bow gratefully before stepping inside. "well..." he says, closing the door behind him.

"well..." you set your trophy down on a counter, seeing from the corner of your eye how paul does the same with his own trophy next to you. "do you want to... say something?"

you can practically feel his eyes falling on you, but yours are fixed on the trophy in front of you. not because it's so beautiful, but because you don't dare look at the other beautiful thing in the room. you've never felt shy around paul before; you've never been scared to talk in front of him, look at him, or just be near him. but now, even the thought of him being next to you makes you a bit nervous.

"why didn't you say anything?" paul asks, crossing his arms over his chest as he leans on the counter. "last night?"

you take a deep breath. "i don't know, i didn't want to interrupt you." you close your eyes, shaking your head slightly. "it's just all so new to me. these feelings i have for you..." you pause, trying to come up with something to say about what you feel for him, but your mind is blank. "i mean, just a year ago, we would make each other crash into a wall during races because we hated each other so much, and–"

"do you still hate me?"

you instantly turn your head towards him. "no! no, of course not." when your eyes meet his, you find the thought of ever hating him ridiculous. it's like you're reminded of the paul you've gotten to know these last few days. the paul who is not only freakishly handsome and a great driver, but also sweet, kind, caring. the paul you've found yourself thinking about so many times every day, the paul you really like.

"does that mean that you like me?"

no matter how hard he tries to push it away, a grin is forming on his lips. the grin only grows when you answer his question. "yeah. it does. i like you."

"good." paul takes a step closer to you, letting his fingers brush away a few stray hair from your face. "because i like you too."

your cheeks redden from the sensation of his fingers against your skin, and the combination of his soft gaze and his genuine smile could make you melt on the spot. you blink up at him, thinking of what to say, when he speaks again.

"can i kiss you?"

you nod before you can even register your own actions, and paul's hand smooths over your cheek again before landing right below your jaw. he pulls your face closer, stopping just a centimeter away for a moment before he leans in to close the distance.

it's delicate, gentle, and so tender. the feathery kisses he's giving you make you grow weak in your knees, but all the nervousness you felt before is flushed away in a millisecond. your hands come up to wrap around his neck to keep you steady as you tilt your head, moving your lips along with his. it feels so right, kissing your ex-enemy like this, yet it was so unthinkable just days before.

just when paul is about to deepen the kiss, you hear a sound from behind you; the door is opening and in comes dino, calling out your names. "are you in here?"

you pull apart quickly, both scrambling to look as natural and as far away as you can in just a second. dino senses what's up – how can he not, when you're basically attached by your lips when he walks in? – but he decides not to push it. he'd rather keep quiet and bring it up another time, when he has a better opportunity to tease you both.

"there you are!" he beams, waving for you both to come with him. "the race is about to start, let's go and watch it."

if your cheeks had been red before, they are now burning like never before. you hide your face in your hands, groaning at the thought of dino seeing his teammates lip-locked. paul lets out a chuckle at the sight, draping an arm around your shoulders as he leads you towards the door with him. "it's fine, he didn't see anything." he presses a short peck to your temple before letting go of you as you exit the truck. "i think."

dino has already gotten a good head start towards the track, and paul is just about to jog after him when you turn to him, pressing your finger to his chest. "just one thing," you start, and he raises his eyebrows at you. "i hope you understand that this," you point at yourself and then at him, and then at yourself again. "doesn't mean i'll be nicer to you when we race. i'm still going to crush you in every race."

paul throws his head back as he lets out a hearty laugh. "oh, i'd love to see you try."