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wodniars-void · 13 days ago

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Twitchy I saw these tags and want to enable you. Please say more? (If you have the spoons.)

Thank you for enabling me Cori!! I have brought you a very large ramble :3 This was so fun to expand on!!

I was mostly inspired by the ideas of Social Darwinism in the early 20th century. Extremely basically, the elite thought they were rich because they inherently deserved to be, and the lower classes and poor had something inherently wrong with them that made them poor. They were strong and thus became stronger, the weak only got weaker. To be extremely honest, total horseshit. But interesting to draw from for fictional societies!

In Scala ad Caelum, Keyblade Wielders are the dominant class. In fact the inferiority of Non-Wielders literally defines them in the sense they are Not Wielders. They are the non-default, the Other, the Lesser, the amalgamate masses. To be a keyblade wielder is the default, valued state, and to not be one makes you worth less. It's evident in the language we use to discuss these societies, even out of game- we define them by what they are not. If you're not a wielder, you're lumped together into one massive undefined group.

In contrast, within the Keyblade wielders are different rankings of superiority. In Dark Road this is possibly signified by the different colors of emblems that each student wears*. KHML appears to have its own emblem code, but it's difficult to tell as we have so little footage. Purely based off Dark Road and hoping it applies retroactively, there appears to be three classes within wielders. Bluebloods like Eraqus with gold emblems, Vala with the only silver emblem, and those with white emblems. Xehanort has one that is dark grey, but given his unique situation, we can assume a dark grey emblem is an outlier when signifying class. For our purposes we'll be excluding him and focusing on the other three groups.

Bluebloods are the highest class within the wielders, and have long bloodlines of keyblade wielders. Think "blood purity" or castes. It's commonplace for families of wielders to marry each other in pursuit of maintaining keyblade wielding abilities in families of "good standing", societal power, etc. They're like the nobility of the city, and as a result hold the most political control. The most politically powerful group of Bluebloods are Ephemer's descendants, since he founded the city. In a room full of Bluebloods, everyone listens to them.

Then there are wielders from mixed families, people with only one wielder parent or a "diluted" bloodline. Obviously they can be and are just as competent wielders as Bluebloods but they're by default an inferior social class. This is the majority of keyblade wielders**- by Scala times keyblades aren't exactly rare, and a lot of people don't have the hangups that the Bluebloods do about social standing. Really, as long as you can claim the heritage of at least one Wielder and are a Wielder yourself, regardless of other economic or social status, you're in this group.

Lastly and lowest are wielders of no social standing. They're often people who's keyblades just appeared to them one day, with no notable lineage of previous wielders. Sometimes the keyblade just chooses someone new! They're socially higher than non-wielders, but with no bloodline to stand on, they have to work to be recognized as highly as their peers.

Now to get the discriminatory part.

The upper class of Bluebloods generally holds the belief that Keyblade Wielders are such because they deserve to be in some way. Their hearts have a lot of very strong light, they come from families of very high standing, they hate darkness more than anyone else, etc. They're superior because they inherently deserve to be. The light deigns them superior by their very nature as Wielders. This bleeds into the inverse- Non-wielders aren't wielders because they have some inherent flaw. There's something inherently lesser about non-wielders that makes them undeserving of keyblades. They're weak or susceptible to darkness. The keyblade scorns them, which is makes them Lesser. Being Lesser makes the keyblade avoid them. It's a cycle, at least in the eyes of high society. (Needless to say, all of this rather untrue. A keyblade is either passed down via bequeathing or chooses a wielder. Literally anybody could get one.)

Only the most intense corners of the Bluebloods get particularly persnickety about this, at least publicly, but the effects of this attitude resonate through Scalan society. The societies are sort of a product of this strict class system. Keyblade wielders tend to mingle with others of like standing. For example, the Baroque society appears to be a particularly lower class society, largely comprised of wielders from mixed familes or no previous lineage. This is a bit of headcanon, but I would assume that Nept is the "highest class" among them, given he was able to become an Operations Master and is a member of the "Society Legal Investigations Committee". (yes, I watched the beta cutscenes to quote that directly, lol) Regardless, Nept being both in a position of leadership and in some sort of organized committee indicates he's probably of higher status than the rest of the Baroque society. Freya is possibly next highest, and Remus the lowest- he's kind of the one who gets bossed around and all. In my heart Freya is an Ephemer descendant though <3

Similarly, Player is almost definitely on the lowest rung of the social ladder. They'd fall into the category of wielders who's blades just Appeared to them, disregarding the whole reincarnation/fell from the sky thing. As far as anyone's concerned right now, they're some random kid who got their hands on a rusty old keyblade, and that's it.

This brings me to Brain. Brain is a notable exception to the extremely strict class dynamics, because he isn't engrained in them the way Scalans are. He's almost elevated above the class system because of his status as a Union Leader. He is at the true top, the most idealized place in society. Even the Bluebloods and Ephemer's descendants have to respect that. Not that most of them are very happy about that, but hey, societal conventions bind us all. Really the only person who rivals him in terms of political and societal importance is whoever leads the city- like say, Frigga in Fallen Stars.

I originally went down this train of thought as some Brain's Twitter Takeover worldbuilding, and I really quite like it, so I'm holding myself back a little to try and sift out what's general KHML ideas and what's potentially BTT :3 I cut a couple paragraphs of accidental spoiler overflow lol. I'm really excited to see what KHML does with these ideas of bloodlines!!! I'm sure it'll be a great story!!

*Side tanget: I tried to figure out if the emblem colors would correlate with my groupings, and that is a whole ride. It essentially comes down to which class the white and silver emblems represent. The gold emblems almost defiently indicate Blueblood or other high class status, as Eraqus wears one, but the other two are much more up in the air. For convenience I've included the list I compiled glancing at all the Dark Road sprites. It's my personal thoughts that the order is Gold -> White -> Silver -> Dark Grey, but hey, you do you. Gold: Eraqus, Baldr, Hoder, Urd, Vor, Heimdall, Helgi, Vali, Odin White: Hermod, Bragi, Sigrun, Vidar Silver: Vala Dark Grey: Xehanort

**second tanget: I know I said the middle class of wielders is the largest and then showed DR was mostly upper class so I had to make some clarifying comments. I believe that the Dark Road class is top-heavy because 1) Xehanort and Eraqus' class wasn't the only one at the academy (To quote the khwiki's DR summary, "Odin summons the No Name Keyblade from its display overhead, and leaves the room to evacuate other students.") 2) the process of different groups of people having more kids at different times 3) the many socio-economic aspects of going to Keyblade School and 4) not everyone WANTS to be a wielder and thus might not go to school for it if they don't have to. For all intents and purposes assume that the events of Dark Road happen at like, a fancy private school. The sample sizes there are Different.

This is all speculation and I may even have a bit of a conspiracy board going here but I had fun and that's what matters! KHDR they could never make me hate you <3

#ask #corishadowfang #khdr #khml #my post #i spent so much time on this it's kind of unreal. i procrastinated on homework to talk about fictional societal discrimination whoops #i got to thinking about it because i was like. what's the deal with the btt antagonists anyways #and the answer i have come to is keyblade classism #Brain doesn't care about that stuff he's coping with the end of the world and losing all his friends and stuff.#his mental health is rock bottom and you want him to be classist about keyblades?? those things were a dime a dozen in his day #and all the founder society stuff is bullshit Ephemer would hate this #which is not something people in power want to hear yk? especially not from the most powerful political tool in the area #i'm just dicking around I welcome corrections if I have made an error and thoughts if you wish to share #now i have to go answer questions about earthquakes and go to bed. goodnight #the end word count is apparently 1415 words. glory. thank you for the excuse to go wild Cori <3

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theonottsbxtch · 1 month ago

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TIMEZONE | OP81

an: i promised after oscar’s pole id promise fluff and also because i got peer pressured by @amyelevenn im a victim fr, enjoy our soft boy - warning it does start off a bit angsty. this was a request from @n0vazsq for my 2k celly thank you ml <3 ALSO THIS IS NOT PROOFREAD IM SORRY

wc: 3.1k

synopsis: oscar let the one go, but the longer he spends away from her the more he realises what a stupid mistake it was.

OSCAR WAS MISERABLE.

He'd just won his first ever pole-to-win conversion, and he was bloody miserable.

The champagne was still dripping from his race suit, the taste of victory lingering on his tongue, but it all felt hollow. The cheers from the crowd rang in his ears, deafening, but none of it mattered. Because she wasn’t there.

She should have been. She should have been in the paddock, wrapped up in his fireproof jacket, rolling her eyes at his cocky post-race grin but kissing him breathless anyway. She should have been the first person he saw when he climbed out of the car, arms flung around his neck before he'd even peeled off his gloves.

Instead, she was seven thousand miles away, living a life that no longer included him.

The realisation hit him like a punch to the gut as he stood on the podium, trophy in hand, the cameras flashing. He should have felt elated, triumphant. Instead, he felt empty. He'd sacrificed so much for this—pushed himself to the absolute limit, given everything he had to his career. But in doing so, he’d lost the one person who made it all mean something.

He barely heard the post-race interviews, barely registered his own answers. His PR manager nudged him at the right moments, and he went through the motions; smiling, nodding, thanking the team. But his heart wasn’t in it. It was still in London, curled up in a tiny uni flat with a girl who used to wear his hoodies to bed and steal his socks when hers went missing.

She used to joke that they spent more time apart than together. At first, she’d said it with a laugh, teasing him about their ridiculous time zone differences, about how she’d wake up just as he was finishing free practice on the other side of the world. But as the months passed, as the late-night FaceTime calls turned into missed texts and unreturned voicemails, the laughter had faded.

And then, one day, she’d stopped waiting.

He should have fought harder. He should have told her she was more important than all of this. That she was the only thing in the world that felt like home.

But he hadn’t.

And even now, standing on the top step of the podium, the world at his feet, he had never felt further away from where he truly wanted to be.

By the time he finally escaped to the driver's room, the buzz of victory had been drowned out by the quiet hum of regret sitting in his chest. His race suit was damp with sweat and champagne, the adrenaline fading, leaving nothing but exhaustion.

He grabbed his phone from where he’d tossed it earlier, the screen lighting up as he pressed the button. No texts. No missed calls. Nothing.

His jaw clenched as his eyes flicked to the clock widget at the top.

London: 10:00 AM

He could never bring himself to delete it. No matter where he was in the world—Australia, Japan, the Middle East—he always knew exactly what time it was for her. He used to check it before calling, before sending stupid voice notes at ungodly hours, before whispering a sleepy “Goodnight, love” when she was already halfway through her morning coffee.

Now, it was just another reminder of how far away she was.

With a frustrated sigh, he chucked his phone onto the massage bed and peeled off his race suit, yanking it down to his waist before grabbing a towel. The knock on the door came exactly two seconds before it was shoved open.

"Oi, I'm changing!" Oscar snapped, instinctively pulling the towel higher over his shoulder.

Lando stood in the doorway, completely unfazed. "Yeah, don’t care." He strolled in like he owned the place, tossing a sweaty towel onto the table before flopping onto the small sofa in the corner. "Right, what’s your problem?"

Oscar frowned. "What?"

Lando gestured vaguely at him. "You won the race, mate. First pole-to-win conversion, team's over the bloody moon. But you look like someone just ran over your cat."

"I'm fine."

"Bollocks," Lando said flatly. "You barely said two words after the race, you legged it out of the debrief like your arse was on fire, and you’re sitting here staring at your phone like you're waiting for it to apologise to you."

Oscar exhaled sharply, running a hand through his damp hair. "Just... tired."

Lando snorted. "Tired, my arse. Come on, out with it."

Oscar hesitated. He could dodge, change the subject, pretend that he wasn’t slowly losing his mind over someone who didn’t even call him anymore.

But then, before he could stop himself, the words came tumbling out.

"I broke up with her." His voice cracked slightly, and he cleared his throat. "I mean, she broke up with me. But only 'cause I was never bloody there. Time zones, flights, races, all of it—it was too much. She got sick of waiting for me to show up, and I—" He stopped, swallowing hard. "I let her go."

Lando didn’t say anything for a moment, just watching him with a look that was more knowing than Oscar would have liked. "Shit."

"Yeah." Oscar let out a humourless laugh, shaking his head. "I won the biggest race of my career today, and the only thing I can think about is how she should’ve been in the crowd. She should’ve been the first person I saw when I got out of the car." He exhaled, scrubbing a hand over his face. "But she wasn’t. And that’s my fault."

Lando was quiet for a beat, then sighed. "Mate, that’s brutal."

Oscar let out a bitter chuckle. "Tell me about it."

Lando leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. "So... what are you gonna do about it?"

Oscar blinked. "What?"

"You love her, right?"

Oscar opened his mouth, ready to protest, but stopped himself. Love. The word sat heavy on his tongue, because of course he did. He always had.

Lando shrugged. "Well, then. Go and fix it."

Oscar shook his head, exhaling sharply. "I can't."

Lando raised a brow. "I can."

And with that, he stood up, clapped Oscar once on the shoulder, and walked out of the room—leaving Oscar sitting there, half-dressed, with a thousand unanswered questions.

What the hell did that even mean?

He stared at the door for a moment, running through every possible way Lando could have just ruined his life. But there was no time to dwell on it. He had a flight to Nice that night, back to his apartment, back to his too-quiet routine of training, simulator work, and pretending he wasn’t thinking about her.

Except an hour later, when he was in his hotel room, shoving his clothes and essentials into his suitcase, there was a knock at the door.

Frowning, he padded over, running a hand through his damp hair before swinging it open.

Max stood there, hands in the pockets of his team-branded joggers, looking like he had about two minutes of patience left before he lost interest and walked away.

Oscar blinked. "Uh—"

"I'm leaving for London at six," Max said.

Oscar frowned. "Okay?"

Max tilted his head slightly, as if waiting for Oscar to catch up. When it became clear that wasn’t happening, he sighed, shifting his weight onto one foot. "I've got a spare seat on the jet."

Oscar's brain still wasn’t putting one and one together. He looked over Max’s shoulder, half-expecting Lando to be standing there smirking, but the corridor was empty. "Right. And why exactly are you telling me this?"

Max exhaled through his nose, already looking like he regretted getting involved. "Lando said you were miserable. You broke up with your girlfriend and need to get back to London to fix things. I know you probably have a flight to Nice booked, and Lando seems convinced you’re just going to sit there and wallow until the next race." He paused, glancing at the half-packed suitcase on the bed. "So finish packing. Let’s go. I don’t do well with tardiness."

And with that, he turned on his heel and started walking away.

Oscar stood there for a solid five seconds, staring at the now-empty hallway, his thoughts scrambling to catch up.

Lando. That meddling little—

He huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. Then, without hesitating, he turned back into the room and shoved the rest of his things into his suitcase.

London. He was going to London.

To fix things.

To fix everything.e

It was 7 AM when they landed, and the first thing Oscar did—besides being absolutely jetlagged—was check her schedule.

He never deleted it from his camera roll.

It was an old photo, scribbled notes in her handwriting detailing lectures, seminars, deadlines. He used to check it religiously before calling, making sure he wasn’t waking her up before an important class or messaging when she was in the library. Even now, he found himself doing the same, as if he still had the right to.

Mondays. No morning lectures.

That gave him time.

He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face, then turned to Max, who was stretching his arms over his head like he hadn’t just crossed multiple time zones. "Cheers, mate. For, you know… all of this."

Max just shrugged. "You can thank Lando. I don’t usually offer free therapy and private jet rides to sad bastards."

Oscar let out a breath of laughter. "Duly noted."

With that, he slung his bag over his shoulder, headed outside, and hailed a cab.

The drive to her flat was a blur of grey London streets, his heart pounding harder with every passing second. The nerves only set in when he stepped out of the taxi, staring up at her building like it was a bloody racetrack he’d never driven before.

What if she didn’t want to see him?

What if she had moved on?

What if he was about to make an absolute fool of himself?

Still, his feet carried him forward. Up the stairs. To her door.

He raised his hand and knocked.

There was shuffling from inside—soft footsteps, the creak of the floorboards. And then, the door swung open.

Oscar’s breath caught in his throat.

She stood there, blinking at him in sleepy confusion, dressed in nothing but his hoodie, a pair of socks, and—Jesus Christ—his old boxer shorts, worn as makeshift pyjamas.

His hoodie was too big on her, hanging off one shoulder, the sleeves bunched up where she’d pushed them past her wrists. The sight of it, of her, in his clothes like she always used to be, knocked the air from his lungs.

His throat felt tight. "Hi."

She didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stared at him, like she wasn’t sure if he was real.

Oscar swallowed hard, heart hammering. "Can I come in?"

She stared at him, wide-eyed, gripping the edge of the door like she needed to steady herself. "What are you doing here?"

Her voice was quiet, still laced with sleep, but there was something else beneath it—something raw, something hesitant.

Oscar swallowed. "I—" He exhaled, shaking his head like even he couldn't believe it. "I needed to see you."

She blinked again, like she was still processing his sudden appearance. Then her brow furrowed slightly. "You were in China yesterday. You won your race. Now you’re here."

A slow smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "You watched?"

She hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. Of course, I did."

Something in his chest squeezed tight. He didn't deserve that—didn't deserve her still watching, still caring. But he was selfish enough to let it fuel the courage he needed to say what he’d come here to say.

"I’ve been miserable," he admitted, voice rough. "Since the moment I let you walk away. Since the moment I realised I was losing you, and instead of doing something about it, I just let it happen. I thought I could handle it, you know? Thought I could just keep my head down, focus on racing, distract myself with the next flight, the next circuit, the next podium. But it didn’t work. None of it worked. I won, and it didn’t feel like winning, because you weren’t there. You weren’t insulting me for making you cry and ruining your makeup. I'd check my phone and see the time in London, and I’d realise I had nothing to text you anymore. I kept waiting for it to get easier, but it never did. And I—"

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "Fuck, I don’t even know what I’m saying, I didn’t plan this—"

And then she kissed him.

Just like that. No warning, no hesitation. She reached up, grabbed the front of his hoodie, and pulled him down to her. His words died instantly, swallowed by the warmth of her lips, by the way she pressed against him like she’d been waiting for this just as much as he had.

His bag hit the floor with a dull thud as his hands found her waist, gripping tight as he walked her backwards into the flat, not bothering to close the door. He had barley registered the sound of his bag, too caught up in the way she sighed against his mouth, the way her fingers curled into his hair, tugging just enough to send heat racing through him.

He backed her up until she hit the wall, a quiet gasp escaping her as he pressed closer, deepening the kiss. He’d had dreams about this. Stupid, torturous dreams where he’d wake up in hotel rooms alone, still reaching for her. But this—this was real. She was real, warm and soft under his touch, her nails raking lightly over his shoulder blades as his hands slid up beneath the fabric of his hoodie—his hoodie—to feel the warmth of her skin.

Then—

"Ahem."

They froze.

Oscar pulled back just enough to see over his shoulder, his stomach immediately plummeting.

Mrs Hart—her elderly neighbour—stood in the hallway, wrapped in a thick cardigan and holding a shopping bag. She raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

"If you're going to take part in passionate rendezvous before 8 AM," she said dryly, "at least do it with the door closed."

Heat flooded Oscar’s face. He heard her let out a mortified laugh, peaking from in front of him just enough to mumble, "Sorry, Mrs Hart."

Mrs Hart hummed, clearly unimpressed, then shuffled off down the hallway, muttering something under her breath about "young people these days."

The second the front door clicked shut, she turned back to Oscar, biting her lip, eyes full of amusement. "That was—"

"Mortifying?" he supplied, still half-dazed from kissing her.

She grinned. "Hilarious."

And then she kissed him again.

Oscar was so gone for her.

He let out a breath, still slightly dazed, before remembering his bag was still abandoned in the corridor. He pulled away, bent down, grabbed it, and kicked the door shut properly this time. When he turned back, she was watching him, arms crossed, a soft smile playing on her lips.

"So," she said, tilting her head. "You flew across the world to tell me you’re miserable?"

Oscar exhaled a laugh, dropping his bag by the wall. "I guess I did."

"Idiot," she murmured, but there was no bite to it. Just fondness.

His chest ached. God, he’d missed her.

They stood there for a second, neither speaking, neither moving. Then, wordlessly, she reached for his hand.

She didn’t hesitate. Didn’t question. Just curled her fingers around his wrist and pulled.

Oscar followed without resistance, letting her lead him down the hall, into her bedroom, and straight to her bed. He barely had time to react before she gave him a firm shove, sending him tumbling onto the mattress with a surprised grunt.

She stood at the edge, hands on her hips, looking down at him with a raised brow. "First," she said, voice firm, "sleep. Those bags under your eyes are giving me a run for my money, and I’m a uni student."

Oscar huffed a laugh, opening his mouth to argue—only for her to crawl onto the bed, straddle him, and press her lips to his before he could get a single word out.

It wasn’t a soft kiss this time. It was deep, heated, like she was trying to make up for all the time they’d lost.

Oscar groaned low in his throat, his hands sliding under her hoodie, fingers skimming warm skin. He felt her shiver, heard the little gasp she let out when he pulled her closer, felt her shift slightly and—

Yeah. Yeah, she definitely felt that.

She broke the kiss with a breathless laugh, grabbing his wrists and shoving them away. "Naughty!" she scolded, grinning as she sat back. "First, we’re sleeping."

Oscar let out a dramatic groan, letting his head fall back against the pillows. "That’s just cruel. You’re a cruel woman."

She smirked, rolling off him and slipping under the duvet. "You’re the one who looks half dead. Get in."

Oscar stared at her for a moment, something warm curling in his chest. He hadn’t realised just how much he’d missed this—the casual intimacy, the way she just knew when he needed to rest, the way she could tease him one second and make his heart ache with how much he loved her the next.

He exhaled, then kicked off his shoes and climbed in beside her.

But Oscar didn’t hesitate. The second he was under the covers, he pulled her tight against him, slotting her perfectly against his chest. His arms wrapped around her, one hand splayed across her back, the other tangled in her hair as he breathed her in.

She was warm, soft, real.

For months, he’d fallen asleep with nothing but the hum of hotel air conditioning and the occasional distant city noise to keep him company. No whispered conversations under the covers, no sleepy kisses before sunrise, no warmth beside him. Just cold sheets and silence.

But now—now she was here. In his arms. Where she belonged.

She let out a small sigh, nuzzling into his chest, her fingers tracing idle patterns against his side. "You know, I meant what I said earlier," she murmured.

Oscar hummed, his thumb brushing along her spine. "What?"

She tilted her head slightly, looking up at him with a teasing glint in her eye. "That you’re an idiot."

He chuckled, shaking his head. "I missed you too, sweetheart."

She huffed a quiet laugh but didn’t argue, just curled in closer.

Within minutes, her breathing evened out, her body relaxing completely against his. Oscar lay awake a little longer, just holding her, letting it all sink in. The ache that had lived in his chest for months—the one he’d ignored, buried under podium celebrations and press conferences—finally eased.

No win, no pole position, and no championship could ever make Oscar feel as happy as he felt then and there.

the end.

taglist: @lilorose25 @obxstiles @iimplicitt @carlossainzapologist @iamred-iamyellow @curseofhecate @number-0-iz @dozyisdead @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @n0vazsq @dying-inside-but-its-classy @hzstry8 @oikarma @amyelevenn

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