#like I’m not listening to a rich person who wants a tax break

[dicapiito]

There’s no fucking way I’m listening to a celeb telling me to vote for anyone other than Biden. They, just like leftists will be fine either way while I and so many others will not.

They can keep their opinions to themselves and quit spreading misinformation

[jomiddlemarch]

what it is to be a thin crescent moon

Chapter 21

“…no matter what you say, Alina, I’m worried about you, but I guess I’ll just say what old Ana Kuya always did and hope her advice was better than her borscht ever was—remember where you’re from and you’ll never go too far astray. Never thought I’d need to put that in a letter to you, but then I never thought a lot of things…”

“Who do you think you are?” the beautiful dark-haired Squaller called Zoya said, her tone making it unclear whether she meant the question rhetorically. She made a slight gesture with her hand and there was a gust of air, sharp and cold and bitter, at Alina’s throat. “Who does she think she is?” Zoya asked, repeating herself for the small group that was listening, most avidly, in the sunny courtyard Alina had just a moment ago found pleasant and relaxing, letting her guard down as the conversation turned to discussion of all the quirks of the Little Palace, well beyond General Kirigan’s insistence on pickled herring or the mysteries of what Baghra brewed in her oppressively stuffy hovel.

“I’m a Grisha, just like you,” Alina said. She’d come early to the sparring rooms, full of a nervous energy that even casting sfera hadn’t helped and Togtuun had very politely and with an amused expressed kicked her out of the Library, suggesting other avenues of education be pursued. She’d trained alone for an hour and then Master Botkin had worked with her, laconic but surprisingly helpful for all that his remarks were few; he had a sense of the body’s urge to strike that she recognized without possessing more than a thimble-full.

“You’re nothing like me,” Zoya replied, looking at her much as Alina would have regarded a wriggling weevil in a wholemeal loaf. “And you’re nothing like the rest of the Grisha.”

“To be Grisha is to be exceptional,” Alina said.

“You can tell yourself that all you want,” Zoya said.

“I didn’t say that. I’m quoting Morta Mindaugus. Perhaps you haven’t read her work in the Library. It is taxing but there’s a lot to mull over, it’s an especially rich text if you really devote yourself to it,” Alina replied.

“You can hide in the Library all you like and quote whoever the kurva you think will impress everyone, but you’ll never really be one of us,” Zoya said.

“What’s this truly about, Zoya? Because if I’m real enough for General Kirigan to accept, then what else do you want?” Alina asked, seeing the very slight alteration in Zoya’s expression when she mentioned Aleksander. What happened to the women who shared his bed, Baghra’s words echoed in Alina’s mind and she remembered how Zoya had identified her on the skiff, how closely she had stood to Aleksander when he was only the Darkling and Alina was a fearful otkazat’sya, dirty and small and drab until Aleksander cut her open and her light filled his tent.

“I don’t want anything from you,” Zoya said. “I already took what I wanted, that First Army solider you were following around—I had him on his knees within five minutes—”

“You attacked Mal?”

“Oh no, what an innocent you are! He went down very willingly,” Zoya said, laughing, reveling in her conquest as if Alina were still breaking her heart over Mal. Alina before the Fold would have been hurt, more by Mal’s constant appetite for women than this particular assignation, but so much had happened since then, the only person she felt sorry for was her earlier self, her light all locked up, weak and scrawny and desperate. Zoya was intent on riling her up or humiliating her or both and Alina couldn’t see to what end; she turned, began to walk away and felt a gust of air knock into her back like a great, brutal fist.

“You weren’t dismissed,” Zoya said, which drew a shocked sound from the few people watching the exchange. The air pummeled Alina again and the breath within her lungs trembled. She forced herself to approach Zoya, raised her hand to strike as Master Botkin trained her but Zoya moved again, using her own hands instead of altering the air into weapons, hitting Alina in the ribs, the jaw, and then sending the wind to cudgel her until someone else cried out,

“Stop! She’s down, she’s hurt! Someone call a Healer—now!”

“No,” she said, working to say the word, the way she’d first worked to cast sfera when Aleksander instructed her. She didn’t want him to learn about this from anyone but her, or maybe Ivan, didn’t want him to hear how she’d collapsed, how Zoya had attacked her, how the other Grisha, Marie and Nadia, Misha and Vladimir, had all watched it happen, stepping in only when it wasn’t clear how badly Zoya had injured her. For all Baghra’s ominous warnings, Alina was sure the old woman hadn’t meant something this simple, Zoya’s utter inability to accept she’d been rendered irrelevant to Aleksander, when she had thought she would always be special to him; Alina wouldn’t make Zoya be her enemy, because it was all the other woman hoped for now and it was a burden she could keep from Aleksander. “No, I’m all right, I’ll be all right—”

“Starkov, I will take you back to your rooms,” Master Botkin said, appearing as if from the aether, that substance Ilya Morozova always ignored in his disquisitions on merzost. Alina managed to scrabble into a sitting position and was halfway to her knees when she felt Master Botkin’s hand at her elbow, raising her up and then bearing nearly all her weight in a way none would appreciate. “Nazyalensky, go to the training rooms and wait for my return.”

“Yes, Master Botkin,” Zoya said smartly, unchastened.

“And think of what you will say,” he said. He had a way of being so very still, his choice to speak was like a visitation from another world.

“What I’ll say?”

“To General Kirigan,” Master Botkin said. “You will want to choose your words with great care, I think. Very great care. He does not believe in exile.”

They walked together back to her suite in near-silence, Master Botkin continuing to support her without commenting on how little improvement there was in her strength. It occurred to her that she had no idea how old he was and how he’d come to the Little Palace, not because she hadn’t asked, but because no one seemed to know. When she sat down in the chair closest to the door of her room, an elegant little caned chair that seemed chiefly to be for the decorative receipt of shawls, pelisses, and various and sundry accessories, she thought to thank him but he spoke before she did.

“I will not talk to the General of what happened without your permission, Sun Summoner. But if you grant that, I will not evade his questions, nor will I…downplay the events as they occurred, not saving my own failure of oversight,” he said.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Alina replied. It still hurt to breathe and her light felt distant, as if it had gone to a place it was too great a strain to reach.

“But you are injured and I did not prevent it,” he said. “Whatever the General’s assessment, I have failed you on my own terms.”

“People get injured in the training sessions all the time,” she said. “Not even the Healers mind very much. It’s how we learn, at least partly—”

“This was not training. Miss Nazyalensky was not engaged in formal combat, she did not observe the rules of engagement, and her attacks on you were most personal in nature,” he said.

“Oh, that,” Alina said, waving her hand about. It felt like it was made of lead, some contraption of David’s that wasn’t working properly.

“I know what is it to be told you are not Grisha when you are,” he said. “To be cast out, cast aside from those already living in the shadows, simply because of my heritage. The General is a wise man, learned, with wide experience, but his own life has not taught him this lesson. Miss Nazyalensky is half-Suli, that makes her words, her actions, even less defensible.”

“Then she has her work cut out for her, doesn’t she? If she has to explain herself to General Kirigan,” Alina said. She was taken aback by Master Botkin’s directness, but it was a relief to hear him talk, to see eyes like her own reflect her face.

“She does,” he said. “I suspect she’ll manage it, but not without a cost to herself. A cost dearer than she would have anticipated.”

“The General won’t forgive her easily, you mean,” Alina said.

“He won’t be the only one. He wasn’t the only one who hoped to find a Sun Summoner,” Master Botkin said. “And the Grisha who are not Ravkan-born, the Fjerdans and the Zemeni and Kerch, the few Kaelish and the fewer Shu who find their way to the Little Palace, they also wanted you to come.”

“It wasn’t me they wanted, it was maybe the idea of me,” she said.

“You are better than the idea they had. You are real, with your temper and your laughter and your much-lauded loathing for herring,” he said. “Nazyalensky made a poor choice. She could have made you an ally, even a friend, and now—”

“And now, she’s worse than an enemy. She’s a supplicant and she’ll cause me no end of trouble, but I can’t give up on her,” Alina said. Master Botkin did something then that was even more unusual than all the other unusual things he’d already done—he smiled.

“No, you can’t. You won’t,” he said. “I’ll leave you now. Make them give you the pepper soup with their tonics.”

“Because it has healing properties for Squaller-inflict injuries?”

“No, because it’s the Head Cook’s specialty. And the General doesn’t like it,” Botkin said.

The pepper soup was delicious. Aleksander’s expression upon finding her ordered to her bed when it was time for their shatranj game and then hearing an expurgated explanation from Healer Balakina who had agreed to remain until he arrived, to spare Alina a second exposure to unrestrained Grisha power, was less so, but he schooled his features into a blandness acceptable to Liucija and kept his tone measured after the door closed behind her.

“Will you tell me what happened?”

Alina, having been Healed and pleasantly full of spicy pepper soup, patted a spot beside her where she lay in the wide bed.

“Come sit down, Sashenka,” she said.

“That’s not an answer,” he said but he walked over and settled himself down, almost as if he weren’t wearing his usual black kefta buttoned to his throat, every bit of him exquisitely turned out, but a loosely belted banyan in some dark color that wasn’t black, his feet bare. “You aren’t going to give me one? You know I can find out.”

“I know you can. I know you won’t, because you wouldn’t do that. You wouldn’t bring it up if that’s what you meant to do,” Alina said. “I’m all right, let’s start there—I don’t want you getting upset for nothing and you can see there’s nothing to upset you—I’m resting and the Healers have said that’s all I need now.”

“Now,” he said. “I’m not feeling reassured, Alina.”

“There was an incident in the training rooms. A conversation that took an unexpected turn. If I spent more time with Master Botkin, I might have acquitted myself better,” she said. She wanted to tell him the truth, she wanted him to know she would, but she didn’t want him agonizing, for his own sake and for hers as well. “I got distracted, I was thinking of something Mal wrote in his last letter, how I should remember where I came from. I think I wasn’t alone in that.”

“Do you mean to speak to me in riddles?” Aleksander said, reaching over to take her hand in his, letting the force of his shadow sidle along her light, making her sigh with the peace of it. His lips curved in a small smile. “I’ll be frank, milaya, I’m terrible at solving them.”

“Zoya remembers how it used to be,” Alina said, bringing his hand closer, bringing him that much closer to her, near enough she could touch his bearded cheek if she wanted to.

“That—it was never serious, between us,” he said, earnest as a boy.

“I think she knows that,” Alina said. “It doesn’t mean that’s what she wanted—”

“I never made her a promise, she received no special favors,” he said.

“Didn’t she? Isn’t your company alone a special favor, General Kirigan, Lord of the Grisha?” Alina said. “Hardly any of the rest of them have ever seen you as anything else, maybe Ivan, Fedyor—”

“You’re saying Zoya feels herself a woman scorned, when she had no claim on me? That she sees you as a threat, a rival?” he replied.

“I think she isn’t a person used to coming in second, with anyone,” Alina said. “She thought, or, probably, she felt—”

“Even before you were here, Alina, that is not what it was between us. No matter what she thought or felt. You have no rival,” he said. “As the Sun Summoner, you cannot. As Alina, you do not. Will not. I’m not making a promise, I am stating the incontrovertible truth.” He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it lightly.

“And now, will you tell me what happened?” he asked.

“I told you, it was a dispute,” she said. “It doesn’t matter.”

“You said it was an incident and it does matter. You were hurt, if the Healers came,” he said.

“Nothing serious—”

“You expect me to take that on faith? Would you accept it if I said the same to you?” he pressed.

“It wasn’t serious and you know that. If it had been, I would’ve blinded everyone in the vicinity with my light, like I did on the skiff. You would’ve felt me call,” she said. “Zoya isn’t a Fjerdan assassin. And now you can trust at least that she doesn’t have some master plot against either of us—she couldn’t have put herself in a worse position to carry out anything secret.”

“I don’t like this, Alina,” he said, not specifying what exactly he didn’t care for—that she’d been attacked by another Grisha, again, that she wasn’t telling him everything, which she wasn’t and they both knew it, that neither of them could be sure what would keep her safe—to be closer to him or more distant.

“I know,” she said, closing her eyes for a moment and slumping back onto the pillows.

“I can go,” he said.

“Why would you think that would make me feel better?” she asked.

“I can stay,” he said and she could hear the happiness in his voice. “I’ll just—”

“Lie down with me,” she said. He had to remember the first time he’d said as much to her, what seemed like such a long time ago, in the cottage in the woods, a bleak, cold night ahead of them, two strangers who’d recognized something in each other. “For a little while, anyway.”

“Of course,” he said, letting go of her hand to unfasten his kefta and take off his boots before he settled himself beside her. “Sometime, it would be nice to do this without one of us being hurt or sick or cold.”

“It would,” she said, moving to lay her head against his chest, feeling his arm wrap around her. She felt him relax, his body and his power both easing with the contact, his breath even and soft. They were quiet for a while and then she spoke.

“Mal said to remember where I’m from. Zoya said I didn’t belong here.”

“You’ll never forget Keramzin, you don’t need any reminders,” Aleksander murmured, moving slightly so that he could brush his lips across the crown of her head. “And you belong here. I made this place for you, long before you were born, moya dusha.”

“But you didn’t know about me, the Sun Summoner was just a myth everyone says,” she replied, his hand stroking her hair.

“I hoped. The world is filled with impossible horrors. Why could it not bring forth an impossible good? As the years went by and I lived and lived, I thought, if I were patient, if I made a place for you to come to, one day, you would,” he replied. “And you did.”

The next morning, Alina woke up alone, as she had expected. Aleksander had kissed her before he left, the briefest touch of his lips to hers, the tickle of his beard against her skin, wordless in the moonlight; he drew the curtains closed as he walked out of the room. She slept for a long time, the suite full of sunlight and her own strength returned to her, finding Genya bustling about with one of the younger maid she sent off to run the bath. The heady fragrance of clove pinks drifted in and Alina smiled as she caught a whiff of the scented bath oil.

“You look well today,” Genya said, perched on the side of the bed, not far from where Aleksander had been.

“That’s good. I wouldn’t want people to get the wrong idea about yesterday,” Alina said.

“I don’t think they will,” Genya replied. Her auburn hair lit by the sun, she glowed like a sankta’s gilded ikon.

“You say that but in a way that makes me think you’re not just talking about my appearance,” Alina said. “I admit, I don’t really look forward to dealing with Zoya—”

“You don’t have to,” Genya said, before Alina could say anything more. “She’s gone.”

“What?”

“The General,” Genya replied. “He sent her away. To rethink her priorities.”

“That’s what he said?”

“That’s what we’ve been told,” Genya said, shrugging very elegantly. It was clear there would be no overt challenge to the General’s edict, for a variety of reasons. Genya patted her on the knee, revealing a glimpse of a delicately faceted gold bracelet, each link chased with an obscure design, the workmanship too fine to be anything other than that of a master. “How about a soak in the tub and then breakfast?”

[writtenvisionary]

Rooftop Riddles

Read on Ao3

WC: 5.1k

Summary: One riddle changes everything. Dramatic identity reveal, oneshot, ladynoir/adrienette | trigger warning - depression, self-harm, abuse/neglect

The breeze was nothing short of refreshing as she sat next to her partner in crime. He was silent for the time being, but she knew it was only a matter of time before he would start saying something stupid. So she took in her surroundings while there was still silence between them.

It was dark; street lights illuminated all of Paris. Shadows bounced from wall to wall as civilians took their nightly walks, either from work or just around the block to get some fresh, cool air before they go to sleep. There are also those pathetically trudging toward their place of employment for their overnight shifts, and Marinette felt for them. Being Ladybug was all too taxing on her, and she often felt like she worked 24 hours, but in reality it was just all of the extra exercise that made her so exhausted every day.

Looking over at Chat Noir, she takes in his appearance. His hunched back, drooped cat ears, slow breaths. He’s looking straight ahead, seemingly lost in his own train of thought. Her eyebrows furrow.

She opens her mouth to speak, but her partner beats her to it.

“Wanna hear a riddle?”

“Uh, sure.”

“Okay. What do you call a sad watermelon?”

Ladybug had to think. Biting her bottom lip, she pondered an answer.

“Um... I don’t know, what?”

“Melon-choly.”

A smile lit up her face.

“Oh!” She laughed.

“Here’s another. It’s kinda long, so get ready.”

She nods, shifting in her seat.

“A single father took care of his baby, and he was rich so the baby had a lot. Food, clothes, excessive stuff. What didn’tthe baby have?”

Marinette frowns, some weird feeling rushing through her veins. She sits up, narrowing her eyes at the boy clad in a black leather suit. He sits with his legs pulled up to his chest, looking straight forward. Not even a tiny upward lift of his lips, making her worry.

Something about the way he delivered that riddle was… ominous. It didn’t seem like he was disconnected from the story he was telling. It’s almost like he could relate.

She gulps.

“A mother?”

He nods, then hangs his head for a moment before pulling it back up and flashing an obviously fake smile in her direction.

“Bingo,” he says dryly.

Her frown deepens.

Why did that riddle sound like something personal? Is he rich?

That sounds like someone she knows. And the riddle boy’s mother was gone… that sounded like him too.

No, there’s no correlation. It’s just a random riddle.

“Alright, last one.”

“Okay,” she nods.

“I am twisted from what I was, to hold the weight of others. Yet tie a knot, and my use to this world is gone.”

Her heart plummets down into her stomach. She loses her breath and has to look back at the city of Paris to think.

If it was possible, this riddle sounded scarier than the last. Chat Noir must really be in a bad mood because normally he puns, not riddles, and the jokes he tells are stupid and funny. These are just... depressing. Her concern is growing by the minute.

She needs to give an answer.

Twisted… Hold the weight of others… Tie a knot… My use to this world is gone.

Tie a knot? What?

“I—“ she licks her lips and shakes her head.

“I’m at a loss. I don’t know.”

Chat hesitates before whispering the answer.

“A noose.”

Her eyes widen and she suddenly feels like she’s been punched in the face.

“Just kidding, it’s a paperclip.”

But he didn’t seem like he was kidding. She was officially scared.

“Chat, you’re worrying me.”

“What do you call a dead pine tree?”

“Chat.”

“A never-green.”

“Minou, I —“

“What do you call a broken pencil?”

“Chat Noir.”

“Pointless,” he laughs darkly.

“Chat Noir!”

Finally, he looks over at her and her mouth falls agape.

His complexion is so pale, lips are pressed into a thin line, and his eyes are glistening.

“What?” He asks, voice breaking on the word.

Carefully, she places her hands on either side of his face. She stares directly into his eyes.

“You’re worrying me,” her voice shakes. “Please tell me whatever’s making you upset so I can help.”

“… I-I’m not upset.”

“Kitty. You just told me a riddle about a noose.”

He shakes his head, scrunching his eyebrows.

“It was a paperclip, milady. Can’t you appreciate a good joke?”

“Chat, all of the jokes you’ve cracked tonight have been nothing short of depressing.”

Frowning, he pulls away from her hold, avoiding her gaze.

“So? New to dark humor?”

“No,” she shakes her head. “But that’s not normally the humor you have, Chaton.”

He’s quiet for a couple seconds before responding.

“Just wanted to try something different—“

“I’m not going to take these bullshit excuses, you know?”

Chat Noir raises an eyebrow, not used to such language coming from his lady.

“They’re not excuses—“

“YES they are!”

She softens her voice.

“Please,” she begs. “Talk to me.”

It’s almost as if she didn’t say anything, how he continues to stare into the distance, silently appreciating the view of Paris. She follows suit, not knowing what else to say. Instead, she decides to wait it out. Hopefully he’ll talk. Eventually.

And he does.

“My mother died about a year ago.”

Her jaw slackens, but she stays silent.

“Father has always been very… strict. But lately he’s been putting a lot on me. Stuff that… stuff that a normal, average sixteen-year old shouldn’t have to put up with,” he sighs.

He calls his dad father? The only other person who does that is…

Alarms go off in her head.

“He makes me take so many lessons beyond school. Chinese, fencing, piano— and he didn’t even let me go to public school until four months ago. I was homeschooled by my father’s assistant, I mean she’s a good family friend—“

Wait.

“And the only friend that was ever allowed over was the mayor’s daughter, and she’s snobby and hangs off of me like I’m her fucking property when I’m NOT and—“

Chloé?

“Father doesn’t even have dinner with me. I mean, maybe once every two months if I get lucky—“

Her eyes widen. He couldn’t be…

“But most of the time it’s just me and the family friend, and she’s not even eating! She’s looking over my schedule to make sure it’s as jam-packed as it was the day before. I swear I never get a break.

“Sometimes it feels like Father is always disappointed in me, no matter what I do. I feel like I’m trapped in his bubble, like I can’t get out. My house is like a fortress. Or a prison. Being Chat Noir is my escape but I just… It’s getting to be too much, milady.

“I don’t know how much more I can take.”

She feels like she lost her voice. Her brain is on overdrive.

If all the pieces are adding up, my akuma-fighting partner is also my crush who is also a world famous model and—

Focus, Marinette.

“It sounds stressful, A— uh, Chat.”

He intakes a sharp breath.

“Did I say too much?”

She bites her lip. Yes.

“No?”

It comes out as a question. He must suspect that she’s lying.

He tilts his head in admission, then looks down.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. Um… I’ll always be here for you. You know that, right?”

Slowly, Chat Noir—Adrien—meets her gaze once again.

His response was hesitant. “Yeah.”

She has to sigh; she doesn’t seem to be getting through to him.

“Minou, you are loved and wanted and I want to make sure you know that.”

Chat Noir chews his bottom lip.

“Thanks, bugaboo.”

They fall into a comfortable silence, just peering down at the streets of their city. She wants to ask him more questions because it seems like there’s more he’s not telling her, but decides against it. She doesn’t expect him to tell her everything, especially since opening up that much was already hard enough for him (and she really shouldn’t have been able to figure out his identity because danger! but she supposes she’ll forgive him since he’s literally the love of her life and he needs someone to be there for him either way).

A small movement in the corner of her eye catches her attention. She looks in Chat’s direction, noting how he’s holding a hand over his left wrist. Her frown deepens. It’s not like she wants him to notice that she’s staring, but she can’t look away. Warily, she watches his face twist in pain.

“Does your wrist hurt, kitty?”

He startles, but shakes his head.

“It’s good.”

“But,” she challenges, “you’re holding it. Looks like it hurts…”

Chat Noir clenches his teeth, turning to look at his lady with fire in his eyes.

“I said it’s good, Ladybug. Leave it.”

Marinette flinches at the use of her superhero name instead of one of his usual nicknames for her. His tone is uncharacteristically harsh, as well.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

The last thing she wants to do is upset him more.

She clears her throat, at a loss for words. The atmosphere had suddenly turned tense and she wasn’t fully enjoying his presence anymore. Of course, he wasn’t dangerous or anything, but she really didn’t want him to snap at her again.

Ladybug likes a happy kitten, not a bitter one.

She wishes she knew what to do.

“Well,” Chat speaks. “I gotta head out; get back home before my father’s assistant notices I’m gone and I get taken out of school.”

He stands, getting ready to extend his baton and hop from building to building for as long as possible in order to procrastinate his return to the large, lonely mansion where he resides.

Ladybug hops up so quickly that her head spins, but she ignores it in hope of saying one last thing before he leaves.

“Hey, Chaton?”

Said cat boy looks in her direction, letting her know that he’s listening.

Instead of speaking, she just leans forward to press her lips onto his cheek. When she pulls away, she offers a smile.

“You and me against the world.”

He plasters a (fake) grin onto his face, “Thanks, bugaboo. See you later.”

Then he bolts away, leaving his Lady alone on a rooftop.

Life had gone on as normal for both Adrien and Marinette. For the next two weeks, the superhero pair had not spoken about Chat’s home life or his internal struggles. She wanted to give him some space and he simply wanted to forget that he even showed so much vulnerability around her.

Granted, Adrien didn’t care that she knew. In fact, he was pretty happy that she had been willing to listen. Usually she never allowed rants from the either of them because she knew that it was easy to slip up and say something that could lead an unwarranted identity reveal.

Marinette wanted to talk to him, come to a mutual agreement, and then officially tell each other who they were. She knew it was unfair that she knew and wasn’t telling him, but in all honesty, she wasn’t even sure her suspicions are right.

(She’s ninety-nine percent sure).

Her eyes had been on Adrien for those two weeks, subtly checking to make sure that there weren’t bags under his eyes (there were), that his smiles weren’t forced (they were), and that he was eating enough (she had no way of knowing, but he hadn’t asked for a macaron in a few days and she was starting to get worried).

He was doing somewhat alright, from what she could tell. She didn’t expect to see anything different today.

Boy, was she wrong.

She had been passing out papers to the class regarding their next class trip, explaining that they needed a parent signature, as well as forty-two Euros by next Monday, in order to attend. When she reached Adrien, she paused.

He was rubbing at his left wrist — the same wrist that Chat had been holding in pain that night two weeks ago. His face was contorted painfully; familiarly. This brought about her worries.

Subtly, she placed down the papers in front of him, to which he looked up at her and sent an oh so fake smile in thanks.

As she walked away, Marinette just barely caught a glimpse of some red, scratch-like marks on his skin as he picked the paper up.

Her heart dropped.

She hadn’t realized that him holding his wrist earlier was a sign of self-harm. Apparently he was worse off than she thought. Now, it’s a whole different ball game — one that can’t have secret identities interfering with. She has no choice; she needs to stay in contact with him.

He needs to be okay.

Marinette tried to wait until patrol that night. Really, she did. But she couldn’t resist zipping over to his house and knocking at his window right after his fencing practice had ended.

He jumps at the sound, quickly ushering Plagg to hide in his shirt, before turning around to look at the super-heroine.

“Hi, Ladybug!” He greets with a smile. “Anything I can help you with today?”

She takes that as an invitation to leap into his room, then she allows her yoyo to snap close as she lands in front of him.

Her hands stay in fists as she brings them up to rest at either side of her waist. She grins brightly in his direction.

“Hi, kitty!”

It’s almost comical how his smile drops.

“What?”

In lieu of a response, she drops her arms to rest at her side. Then she takes a few steps forward so that she’s standing much closer to him.

“Your father is strict… he has an assistant… he makes you take piano, fencing, Chinese lessons…”

His eyes widen slowly as she speaks, his heart beating erratically.

Ladybug scoffs, “Honestly, Adrien? You couldn’t have been more obvious.”

He gulps in horror.

Then he narrows his eyes.

“How did you know that Adrien Agreste takes Chinese lessons? I’ve never once mentioned that in an interview…”

She stiffens.

“Uh. B-because you told me before.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“As Chat,” she supplies.

The model scoffs, “I’m not Chat Noir.”

Ladybug shrugs, beginning to stroll around his room.

“Okay. So why did I see you rub your wrist in class today, hm?”

Now it’s Adrien’s turn to stiffen.

“Y-y-you’re in my class? What?” He asks incredulously.

“Yes. I’m the class president.”

She says it so confidently that it scares her. He’s sure to figure it out by now. She can’t look at him as he comes to the realization.

“But my class president is Marinette— wait.”

He huffs, smirking.

“Are you Marinette?”

Finally she casts her gaze in his direction.

“In the flesh.”

She watches as his eyes light up. He approaches her with a smile.

“Oh my god. Wait, then I’m totally okay admitting I’m Chat Noir.”

Her eyebrow raises, “Oh yeah? And if I was, say, Chloé… would you have admitted it?”

He immediately shakes his head.

Ladybug doesn’t even try to stifle her laugh.

“Spots off.”

Adrien watches in amazement as a magical, pink light engulfs her entire body, leaving Marinette Dupain-Cheng standing in his bedroom.

When she’s out of the Miraculous, the first thing Tikki does is call Plagg.

“Plagg, get out here! I need to talk to you!”

Plagg phases through Adrien’s over-shirt and glares at his counterpart.

“Well hello to you too, Sugarcube!”

The other side of the room is then occupied by two magical creatures, allowing for Adrien and Marinette to have some time alone.

An awkward tension fills the air for the first couple moments, as the two recently-outed superheroes stare at each other, letting everything sink in.

Adrien is the first to speak.

“Wow, uh… wow.”

Marinette only nods, unable to comment on his reaction as she is overflowing with concern.

“Adrien, we have to talk.”

His eyes dim and his lips curve downwards. He nods, hanging his head.

“Yeah,” he whispers, “we do.”

He leads her over to the couch and gestures for her to sit down. Then he gets situated right next to her, positioning his hands on his knees. Marinette takes a deep breath.

“So… I saw the scars in class today.”

She shifts her eyes to his left wrist, uncovered and visibly scarred. He follows her eyes, frowning when he meets their destination.

Adrien simply hums, staring at the abused skin but not saying a word.

“Why?” Marinette whispers.

He shrugs.

“I’m fine. It’s just… Chat Noir gives me freedom, but sometimes it’s not enough. I promise I don’t do it that often.”

“The amount of times you do it doesn’t matter, kitty, it’s the fact that you do.”

“What do you care anyway?” He scoffs. “You weren’t paying me much attention before I was in a sour mood that day.”

“I’ve always cared, Adrien. Always. Just because I’m super level-headed doesn’t mean that I don’t pay attention. I notice when you’re sad. I do. This time you were really worrying me, though, so I spoke up.”

Adrien rolls his eyes, “And it didn’t occur to you that maybe I wanted you to ask how I was feeling all those other times I was sad?”

She quiets at that.

“I mean, I understand that you don’t want to get in my way, but I appreciate people caring, Marinette. It means a lot to me. I feel like, if I never gave away too much information, you would still be assuming things about me. Things like, oh he’s okay because he’s loud and cocky and cracks jokes all the time — maybe it’s just a bad day.”

He shakes his head, allowing a bitter laugh to escape his raw throat.

“Every day is a bad day, Mari. I’m just a good fucking actor.”

Marinette soaks in every word like a sponge, letting each and every one hit her right where it hurts, because it’s true. He is a good actor; she’s not good at understanding the script.

I’m sorry, she wants to say. The words dance on the tip of her tongue.

He’s not finished, though.

“I want the world to suffer some days, you know? I want everyone to feel just as pressured and exploited as I have been for basically my entire life. I want all my friends with a good family to see what it’s like to live in this large mansion, with their father closed away in his room, never to be seen again by his own son who just wants him to say I love you.”

When had he started crying?

Well, the tears are flowing and he can’t stop the river now. Not when he has more to say.

“I have the power of destruction wrapped around my finger, Marinette.”

His lip trembles.

“You should be glad that I haven’t tried to Cataclysm any houses, or street lights, or cars, or busses, or-or-or—“

He breaks.

He meant to keep going — to finish his sentence — but he breaks.

There’s not much more that Marinette can do, other than pull him into her arms and whisper soothing words of reassurance as he sobs uncontrollably.

She rubs his back, softly shh-ing him as he lets it all out of his system. She allows him to drown for the time being, all while reassuring that she’ll be there to pull him back to shore.

Each one of his sniffles was a subtle reminder that she was there for him; that no matter if his father comes around to finally paying him some attention, or not, he will always have her shoulder to cry on. Simultaneously, though, her heart twists at how unhealthily he’s been dealing with the trauma.

She had heard stories upon stories of teenagers resorting to self-harm because they had no other outlet, and she had been so thankful that no one she knew had taken those measures. Now, a statistic has become personal. She would be lying if she said that she knew how to handle it.

But she knew that no matter the circumstance, it had to be dealt with.

That meant getting her crush some professional help. A therapist, some medication, and plenty of cuddles. (Cuddles arescientifically proven to relieve anxiety, right? It’s a professional technique).

A quiet sniffle breaks her out of her thoughts. She glances down at Adrien as he slightly pulls away from her hold, eyes red and puffy.

Maybe that can all be dealt with later.

She ruffles his hair.

“Let’s go get some ice cream, yeah?”

Adrien peers up at her in confusion.

She just smiles and wriggles out of their position on his couch, then stands up with her hands on her hips.

“Ice cream always cheers me up. We definitely have to talk more about this later, among other things, but I can’t bear to see you sad any longer. So let’s go!”

The left corner of his mouth perks up, albeit only for a mere second.

“My father—“

“To hell with you father,” Marinette reaches down to grab his hand and hoists him up from the couch.

“We are going to get ice cream whether he likes it or not. You need to do what makes YOU happy, ‘kay?”

He concedes.

After ice cream, they return to the bakery and consult with Tom and Sabine. It had taken a lot of convincing on Marinette’s part to get Adrien to agree, but from there began the journey of his recovery.

They explained his home situation and mental health struggles in full, only leaving out the part about them fighting akumas. Both adults had immediately started searching for a good therapist (and lawyer) that would help Adrien get on the right track.

In the end, Adrien was glad that they had told her parents. Their concern for him and dedication to his cause filled his heart with long lost hope and parental love. It had been so long since he felt cared for. And now that he’s felt it once again, he’s not ready to let it go.

Thank goodness the Dupain-Chengs’ weren’t going to let him go so easily.

It was a unanimous decision that, until he feels comfortable going back to the mansion, he would stay. He didn’t want to burden them, but they insisted. So he had no choice but to accept the offer.

Before he even knew it, another two weeks had passed. A new routine was broken in by the members of the D.C. household — Marinette was getting real annoyed with Adrien’s constant comparisons of her last name initials to Marvel (her father had taken a liking to his puns, however, so now she just lived in constant pain) — and suddenly it was like he had always been there.

His first therapy session wasn’t great. He was riddled with anxiety (no pun intended) and Doctor Benson was too nice for his liking. Well, it wasn’t that he didn’t like it. It was just so off-putting, considering he wasn’t used to being treated with such kindness even by his own father.

Doctor Benson told him that a lot of the things he’s been experiencing aren’t normal, but his response to that trauma is. At first he had been confused when he was told that his father was emotionally neglectful and verbally abusive. He didn’t understand what his father was doing wrong. Once Doctor Benson explained that, “Abuse is a violent, repetitive behavior that has a negative mental, emotional, and/or physical impact on the victim,” it became more clear.

It’s still a concept that he’s getting used to — that he’s a victim of abuse. The thought makes his skin crawl and a shiver run up his spine because he never considered himself to be part of a statistic. Now that he knows he is, he’s not sure what to do.

Marinette keeps telling him, “Even agreeing to go to therapy is a huge step in the right direction, and I’m so proud of you.” Then she goes on to tell him just how special he is to her and how important him and his life is and all of this crap about how he’s worth more than he thinks.

He has to believe her, too, because she’s the one that found him at his worst and instead of judging him, picked him off the ground and took initiative. She’s the one that brought him to her parents, helped him hide from his father, and even got him a part-time job at the bakery. It’s only temporary until he is able to access his earnings, but he will admit that he likes it way better than modeling; that had just been because his father wanted him to, anyways.

Everyone tells him time and time again that he should not be living for his father. He wants to disagree, because that’s what he’s been conditioned to do for so long, but he ultimately chooses not to. Because they’re right; he’s a young adult who should have the freedom to make his own decisions.

In the end, if he’s not happy, there’s always more opportunities. He knows that now.

And there’s no better way to figure out what he wants than to explore, and reach out for help.

A black cat and a ladybug sat atop a roof.

Marinette has her head tucked into the crook of her partner’s neck, eyes closed as she feels the wind blow past her. Adrien’s head lays on top of hers’ and eyes are trained on the full moon above them.

It had been a long day; one akuma attack and three tests, plus their friends wanted to hang out. Exhaustion had taken over hours before, and sleep was creeping up on them. They cherish the view of Paris at night while it lasts, before they have to go home and do it all again the next day.

When she lifts her head to look at her favorite kitty, she’s relieved to see a soft smile resting on his features.

“Whatcha thinking about?”

He glances at her before turning back to the stars, then hesitates.

“Can I tell you a riddle?”

Her face pales and stomach plummets.

“N-no, I don’t want to play this game again.”

“I promise its a good one, nothing too sad.”

They lock eyes. She can tell there is sincerity within those dark green orbs, so she reluctantly nods.

Adrien licks his lips, not breaking his gaze.

“I visit you every night, even if you don’t call me. I’m lost every day. What am I?”

Jokingly, she wants to say “Chat Noir” but their identities are known now, and she sees him every day (so, admittedly, it wouldn’t be that good of a joke). Then she looks up at the sky and she has her answer.

“The stars,” she whispers.

She’s not looking at him, but she can almost hear his smile widen. So she looks back to him, because she loves to see her kitty happy.

Sure enough, a grin — genuine, not forced — is playing on his lips. It’s human nature to copy social expressions, so she lets her mouth curve into a matching grin.

Then she leans in.

Their smiles fade as they inch closer, focused on the next task at hand. His gaze drops to her pink lips, and she stares into his eyes. She can see the thirst, the want, but she can also see his hesitance.

Experimentally, she pauses to see if he’ll close the gap, but he simply stops in accordance with her. She wants this so bad, but he’s very shy when it comes to romance; despite being so outwardly confident as Chat Noir.

He had told her that it was a mask to hide how scared he truly was. His advances towards her were genuine, although deep down, he was afraid of rejection (to which she will forever feel guilty for putting him through). He wanted to break his façade sometimes, but he chose not to for the sake of not worrying her. The media might have noticed his change in behavior, too; granted, he never cared what the public thought of him anyways.

So, to save them both the trouble, she takes the leap and closes the gap, capturing his lips in a fluid movement.

It’s pure ecstasy; electricity pulses through his veins, but at the same time… he’s calm. He’s not sure how to describe the feeling, in all honesty. It’s just perfect.

Well, not perfect, he corrects himself. Enjoyable, but not perfect.

They don’t move in perfect sync and his lips are chapped so she’s probably wondering why the heck are his lips so dry?and her mouth keeps opening and he isn’t sure if it’s a mistake or if he should do something but he’s not ready for the tongue yet, and so their heads are tilting at an awkward angle trying to make sense of the situation —

— but she smells like pastries and her lips are so soft and he can’t help but crack his eyes open because she is so beautiful in every single way oh my god I love her and nothing makes this better than cupping her face with his right hand and feeling just how smooth her skin is which calms him immensely and he just doesn’t want this to end.

When they finally pull away, with heavy breaths and big smiles, little giggles and red cheeks… he’s happy.

Maybe he’s not perfect. Neither is she. Nobody is, and Adrien is just starting to understand that.

Years of conditioning is hard to unlearn, but he is so grateful to have a support system he can count on. Marinette’s parents honorarily adopting him as one of their own, Doctor Benson offering coping mechanisms he hadn’t even known existed, his bodyguard protecting him from the  father  sperm donor he’s still afraid to talk to (one day soon, he’ll have to, but he’s planning on crossing that bridge when he gets there), Ms. Bustier’s unwavering faith in his abilities, and his friends’ insistence that he is more than enough — all of this support is overwhelming, to say the least, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Most importantly, there’s Marinette. She has been his rock for the past three years and it’s more true now than it ever was. She is family, in every sense of the word.

“Hey, Mari?” He says quietly, breaking the silence.

“Yes, Chaton?”

The nickname rolls off her tongue in a teasing manner, and he has to laugh.

“Thank you.”

“Always.”

[cinaja]

Before the Wall Epilogue

Masterlist

----

Ten years after the Wall

 The crops have been coming along well this year, just the right balance of sun and rain and wind promising a rich harvest. It leads to a good mood throughout the human parts of the Continent. In the aftermath of the war, they have all made their experiences with food shortages, and so everyone is relieved that they seem to have moved past these times. All the bigger is the shock when, only a week before the grain was meant to be brough in, heavy thunderstorms with rain and hail ruin most of the harvest in one of Angolere’s northern provinces.

Andromache spends two mildly exhausting days visiting the region, travelling from city to city and offering reassurances that everything is under control, there are no risks of food shortages. Her presence has no practical purpose, the local authorities are more than capable of handling the situation, but everyone is nervous enough that they need someone to reassure them that all will be well.

By the time she reaches the last village, she is drained, although she is too well-trained to show it. As patiently as in the first village she visited yesterday, she listens to the town spokeswoman describe their situation, allows her to show her the village and the mostly-ruined regions.

“We will send grain from other regions,” she promises, as she did in every place she visited so far. The south of Angolere had rich harvests these years, and the other queens have already promised to send food as well should we not get by after all.”

She accepts an invitation for dinner and spends a few hours sitting in the townhall together with most of the village, making pleasant conversation, before she excuses herself. When she steps outside, she expected to be greeted by one of her guards. Instead, Yanis is waiting for her, leaning against a fence.

When he sees Andromache, he offers an exaggerated bow, grinning broadly as he straightens. “Good evening Your Majesty. May I be your escort for the evening?”

Andromache grins back. “I don’t know. You see, I have a husband who is waiting for me at home with our children.”

“I hear those children are sleeping already, and your husband missed you terribly these last few days and thought he’d pick you up.”

Andromache laughs and leans over to kiss him.

“How did it go?” he asks, wrapping an arm around her middle.

“All good,” Andromache says. “I barely needed to do anything, just reassure people a bit.”

These days, all problems she has to deal with seem easy. There is still a lot of work – drafting laws, dealing with arising problems, day-to-day governing work – but it only ever seems pleasant. What is a disagreement over a new law compared to the horror of war? Or to the initial years afterwards, when there were millions of displaced, traumatized people to deal with and they came close to starvation almost every year. Six years ago, a loss of harvest like this would have meant famine and deaths. Now, all she has to do is organize for food to be sent over from different provinces.

Things are good.

“I’m sure you were brilliant,” Yanis says with a broad smile. “Meanwhile, I have won a significant victory in the never-ending battle of convincing Leli that when her teachers tell her something, it is not a suggestion but an order, and I managed to keep Tano from breaking any priceless artifacts while running through the palace.”

Andromache laughs. “You’re my hero,” she says, half-teasing and half-sincere.

Yanis quit his work in the palace guard when Andromache got pregnant with Leli six years ago and has been staying at home to raise her and – three years later – Tano ever since. He could have kept his job had they hired someone to look after their children, but for Yanis, there was never even a question in that regard: He wanted to be there for their children as they grew up. It makes it easier for Andromache to know that even when she is busy at work, sometimes for days at a time, he is home with their children.

“My first meeting tomorrow is at eleven,” she says. “That ought to leave plenty of time for a nice family breakfast.”

----

Mor spends her days travelling the Continent, dealing with anyone her uncle currently wishes to improve relationships with. She has yet to decide whether she loves or hates her new position. Both, perhaps. She loves that it allows her to travel far and wide, to leave the Night Court and its restrictions behind, if only for a few weeks at a time. She loves the protection it gives her.

She hates the memories it brings up, though. For her, the Continent is full of memories of happier times. (No, that is not right. She shouldn’t think back to the years of war and wish herself back into that time. But then, to go back would mean getting Andromache back, and for that, she would accept a hundred years of war. But Andromache is on the other side of the Wall, married now and forever lost to her.)

Sometimes, Mor also hates the people she has to deal with. Today, it is Shey, who has been loosely allied with the Night Court ever since the war ended. Mor doesn’t know exactly how that came about, but her uncle exports iron for weapons and armour to Shey and he sends Mor to visit the emperor at least once a year.

Today is the first day of that annual visit and Shey is holding a welcome-celebration for her. It is a huge honour – Shey is easily the most important person on the Continent now, and him holding a celebration in honour of the emissary from a tiny Prythianian court is very unusual.

If Mor had been stupid enough to think it is for her sake, she might have actually felt honoured. But this celebration isn’t because of her, none of this is because of her at all. It’s all about Miryam and the fact that everyone knows that Mor was friends with her. That is why there are no doors locked to her on the Continent, why everyone so readily meets with her. Because Miryam and Drakon were her friends, and so to host her is to flaunt some sort of connection to them.

No, Mor does not enjoy the party at all, even if the music is brilliant, as is the food. She just makes conversation because it is what is expected of her and downs glass after glass of the clear, sparkling wine favoured here in the north to make it bearable.

She wonders what they would all say if they knew how things ended between Miryam and her, that she abandoned her before the end and left her to die. If they knew that she was so terrible that Andromache could no longer bear to so much as be around her anymore. If they knew about the charmed necklace that still lies unused at the bottom of some drawer in her rooms in Velaris.

No one knows about any of that, though. And no one ever will. Maybe one day, Mor will even be able to fool herself into believing that the sole reason her and Andromache split up was the Wall, that she never argued with Miryam and the only reason she isn’t visiting her is out of worry for her safety. It is not today, though, and so she downs another glass of wine and smiles at the nearest dignitary and allows him to pull her to the dance floor.

----

No one is coming for him.

Jurian fought against that truth for years, but he has given up on denying it for a while now. What use is it to lie to himself? No one is coming to save him. His allies, his friends, seem to have forgotten entirely about him. They moved on with their lives and likely never thought of him again, didn’t care enough to bother freeing him from that terrible nightmare his life turned into.

Jurian hates all of them. Andromache and Nakia and all the others for leaving him behind. Drakon for pretending to be his friend and then betraying him and making Miryam turn away from him. Miryam for turning against him. For not saving him. For dying. Her, he hates most of all.

----

Drakon puts down his quill and scans the contents of the text he just finished once more before putting the paper on the stack with the other usable results. That stack is the only tidy part of the table he was working on, the rest is a mess of books, most of them lying open on the relevant pages, and crumbled papers filled with ideas he dismissed as useless already. A few of those even ended up on the floor.

Well, that ought to be enough for now. He’s done with his edits on the draft for the new tax law they will be discussing later today. He still wants to show his edits to Miryam before then, but he still has plenty of time left for that.

Rising to his feet, he sets about cleaning up his mess. The papers he doesn’t need anymore go into the fire, he closes the books he used for reference and puts them on a second stack next to the one with the finished edits. He will be taking them with him, just to be sure.

Carrying the eight books as well as the stack of papers is a difficult task, given that he still doesn’t have proper use of his right arm. He has to carry the books with his left hand, the papers stuck between his useless right arm and his body. That movement alone hurts, but he is used to it by now. (There are magical prosthetics that function almost as well as an actual limb. But… well, Drakon hasn’t decided yet.)

A look at the clock reveals that it is almost seven. Drakon was in the library for the last four hours, and by now, Miryam should probably be awake. (Their sleeping schedules do not align very well lately. They usually go to bed together, but Miryam rarely manages to sleep more than half an hour before waking up again and then spends most of the night working, going to bed only in the early hour of the morning, while Drakon generally manages to sleep for a few hours but then cannot go back to sleeping when he wakes up. Miryam sometimes jokes that at least their inability to ever sleep through the night makes them both very productive rulers.)

Books balancing on his left hand, he walks through the halls of the library and out into the city. They founded their new capital nine years ago, and everything about the city still screams new. Many houses are only half-finished, as are all government buildings. Right now, their government meets in an improvised city hall and most of the high-ranking government members (including Miryam and Drakon) live in nearby houses. The council insisted that they start building a palace sometime, but that hasn’t been a priority yet.

The city Drakon is walking through now is nothing like Sajeo or any of the other cities in Erithia, all of whom were old, each building full of history. Drakon does miss Erithia, but he doesn’t think that difference is necessarily a bad thing, at least for their purposes. Not all history is good, after all, and in their situation, it certainly isn’t helpful. As it is, they all get a fresh start. There are human houses being build next to faerie ones, and all of them are equally new. They are all starting over together, and in a few centuries when this city has matured a bit, that will be the history the people living here will be able to look back upon. It will be one of unity, Drakon hopes.

----

Miryam frowns at her reflection in the mirror. Hair mussed from sleep and still wearing her long nightdress, she doesn’t look particularly dignified, but that is not what she has a problem with right now. No, the problem is that she looks young. It’s like she hasn’t aged at all in the last ten years. If she is being honest, the years of peace actually make her look far younger than she did at the end of the War. Then, at twenty-five, she looked more like thirty-five than she does now.

“Would you say,” she asks, turning to look over at Daín who is floating over her bed, “that I look my age?”

Daín is silent for a moment, cocking his head to the side to study her. “Now?” He asks. “You want to talk about that now?”

Miryam shrugs.

“Mortal ages are terribly hard to tell just by looks, really. There is no telling how old anyone truly is, as evidenced by you now looking younger than you did when we first met,” Daín says. When Miryam gives him a flat look, he quickly adds, “But in your case, I would say that you look twenty-five, for the simply reason that you haven’t aged a day since you were resurrected. Which is what you were getting at, isn’t it?”

Miryam glares at him, trying to ignore the sting of the words. “You knew the entire time,” she says, more statement than question. “And you never thought to tell us? Even when we spent the last five years trying to figure out if I was aging or not?”

“And yet, through all that time, you never thought to ask me,” Daín says with a sharp smile. He has been getting better at mimicking precise expressions lately. “You ask about everything – history, human culture, magic, the other worlds. Yet this one thing, you never brought up, not once in the four years since you decided to talk to me again. Neither did Drakon.” He shrugs. “I figured you didn’t want to know.”

Like it or not, he might have a point. Miryam didn’t want to know. If she is entirely honest, she still doesn’t. She never wanted to be immortal, not even in the not-actually-immortal way the Fae are. She always thought that having a limited number of years made those years more precious.

“Resurrections are a tricky matter,” Daín offers. He actually manages to sound comforting. “There is no telling what side-effects there might be. Even I still cannot tell exactly how it works.”

“Well.” Miryam wraps her arms around herself. “I suppose the alternative was to be dead.”

She doesn’t like the idea of being immortal. Not at all. But if there is one thing she knows for sure, it’s that she prefers it to having died and stayed dead at the end of the war. These last ten years certainly weren’t easy, but they were good. The best ones of Miryam’s life, probably. She wouldn’t have wanted to trade them for the world.

“So you’re alright with it?” Daín asks.

“I guess I’ll have to be,” Miryam says with a shrug. At least it doesn’t bother her as much as she thought it might. It isn’t ideal, but she would rather have a too-long life than a too-short one. She smiles at Daín in a way that is hopefully reassuring. “And now, I need to get dressed. So, you know.”

“I’m already gone,” Daín says, winks at her and vanishes.

Miryam glances at her reflection once more before turning to her wardrobe. She sincerely hopes that she is at least only “immortal” in the way the Fae are, which isn’t so immortal at all. But well, that is a question for later. For now, she has other things to worry about, and for those, she needs to dress.

Drakon barges into the room just as she buttons up her jacket. He doesn’t look at Miryam – cannot, because he is balancing a stack of books on his left hand, it swaying dangerously with each step.

Miryam picks up the four books at the top and stands up on her toes to kiss him over the now-smaller stack of books he is still holding. “Busy morning?” She asks, smiling softly.

Drakon smiles back and manages to place the rest of his books as well as the stack of papers he was holding under his right arm on the nightstand without any incidents.

“Yes,” he says, turning back to Miryam and wrapping an arm around her. “Very productive, though. I reviewed the new tax law we were drafting, and I think it should probably work out. Maybe you could read over it once more before the meeting later, though. And I brough along the books I used for reference, just to be sure.”

Miryam’s smile deepens. Of course be brought the books, as if there will be anyone but him at the meeting who read all of them.

“Sure,” she says, although she doesn’t think her reading over it will accomplish anything but making Drakon feel more secure about it. “I’ll read them right after breakfast.”

That way, they will still have time for small changes before the meeting, even if Miryam doubts she will find anything of note. She learned a lot about law-making in the last years and she would say that she is decent, but especially when it comes to the small details (which is what they are dealing with at this stage), she’s nowhere near as good as Drakon.

They go have breakfast on the small balcony belonging to the set of rooms they share. It is Miryam’s favourite place in the entire city, high enough that she can overlook the square below as well as some of the nearby streets. As her and Drakon eat and discuss the things they both worked on during the night (the tax laws for Drakon and a logistic issue with distributing food for Miryam), Miryam looks out over the city.

By now, the city has awoken and the square is full with people rushing about, going about their daily activities. Humans and faeries, all living together in peace. A woman is hurrying along, trailing two small children behind her. A young Seraphim girl and a human boy are playing together by the fountain. Next to them, a group of adults sits and eats a quick lunch, likely before going to work.

Miryam could spend hours watching them. On bad days, when her nightmares are worse than usual and the shadows of what happened chase her, she sometimes does. Watching the people down there go about their lives, happy and free and at peace, always makes the guilt and pain easier to bear. These people will have good lives, they and their children will be free, and that alone makes all that it took to get them here worth it. It makes everything worth it.

----

A/N: So, this is the final chapter. After over a year and 370k words written, I can't quite belive that this story is actually over. Writing this story has been lots of fun (and I might revisit it for a few oneshots sometime), and I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.

At this point, I'd also like to thank everyone who read this story and left comments or likes - all of you have really made my day every time. A special thanks goes (once again) to @croissantcitysucks for all the wonderful conversations we had about this story, for all the great feedback and help when I had problems, and, of course, for all of the backstory surrounding Daín and the Mother (also, I'm looking forward to you acotar rewrite so much and I can only recomment everyone read it when it comes out!) It's really been so much fun!

Tags: @femtopulsed @aileywrites

[drabbles-of-writing]

Reverse Au! Dump

Don’t mind my idea dumping here. Brain decided to have fun while I was at work and I have too many wips as it is, so… Thought I’d ask before I dumped, experience. Used morningmark’s comics as a base, so if you want reference. Now this isn’t all that well compiled, but here it goes.

~

Magic in the Other World is varied as it is crazy. So many styles over the generations and not a lot of organization. There are some that try to categorize it all, but that works as well as you’d expect. Some were lost, some erased, some weren’t passed down/recorded because “the power is all mine! Ahahaha!” It took a lot of time and collaboration, but eventually a sort of system was installed to help out. Still a lot of work to do, but its a step forward. Nowadays the term Wild Magic is generally reserved for those that aren’t all that well documented and understood.

Some Magics are very powerful and desirable, but also tend to be very high risk/high reward, kinda pass/fail, pretty literally Do or Die most times. So not a lot of people can use those or are even willing to. Story says this one guy named Odin hung himself on a massive tree by his own spear for nine days, no food water or rest in constant pain before he could unlock the secret of Runes. But it’s also said he gouged out his own eye to drink from the Well of Wisdom so… 

There are lots of different ways to channel magic too: wands, staves, jewelry, certain gems, familiars, potions, enchanted armaments, chants, scripts, etc. Each tool has its own advantages and disadvantages and play into a Witches’ style. Every Witch has at least two methods of spellcasting. Only children have one. Haven’t thought of how Luz gets her Palisman though. Maybe its one of those magic Artifacts like Dr. Strange’s cloak, Elder Wand, Thor’s hammer, or a Green Lantern’s Ring. Something that can’t be recreated because the secret is lost, materials no longer exist, too hard/dangerous to make, accident that can’t be recreated, etc. Happens more often than people like.

Camilla is sometimes called the Blue Witch. She’s a healer by heart and trade, but push her and she will become a one Witch Battleship. Bismark who? Aaaaand she just deleted a whole battalion. And the fortress behind them. Hide me. There are the very rare occasions, like count on one hand rare, when someone near and dear to her heart is in trouble that she takes up her other job. She’s especially terrifying when she decides to torture, those who know how to heal the body know best how to break it. Many shades of Blue, some are very close to Black. She doesn’t necessarily hate Humans exactly, but doesn’t have the highest of regard from past experiences.

Luz has training and is a proficient Witch for her age. Camilla and her father were adamant about having a general knowledge/skillset alongside her specialized skill. Jack of all trades and a master of none, still better than a master of one. She has gone through the system for her magic with varying success. Oracle magic? Zero talent. Bard classes? She can play an instrument, but can’t sing at the same time. When she does sing she tires too hard and messes up. It’s only when she doesn’t try, like absently singing along with a song or playing by her heart, that she’s good at it. Beasts? Can use them, but would rather play with them. Bleeding heart and all that. She does have a good handle on healing magic partly due to Camilla drilling necessary skills into her and partly osmosis. Her father arranged for some CQC lessons from an old friend of his which the girl loved. You get the idea. It wasn’t until she discovered Glyphs that she found her niche and her skills took off. Glyphs are one of those ‘eccentric’ or 'archaic’ styles since they haven’t been used in so long after being lost and are barely understood. She still has a long way to go, but she is on her way.

Luz never really had much in the way of friends, partly cuz of high profile parents which leads to certain pressures and a target on her head, partly because of her magic style and personality, and partly because of the trouble been going on. Luz grew up her whole life with this tension of a group of anarchists trying to burn society that’s just trying to do the right thing. The anarchists started small, but have been a growing problem the past few decades with talk how to 'reshape the world’ in not a good way. Anyone with critical thinking skills can tell this is a bad idea, but they are too brainwashed to notice. They harass anyone who doesn’t follow their rhetoric and attack anyone who even questions them. Luz’s parents put a real kink in a lot of their plans for years, which makes Luz guilty by association. 

Luz got caught in one of those sudden larger scuffles and was accidentally chucked/blown through a portal created by an attempted tactical retreat that went off course. Hence why she can’t go home because she hasn’t learned how to do portals yet. Those are high level anyway so how did these guys pull it off so easily? Luz has a hard time blending in obviously. Learning how to use a phone was a fun endeavor. Internet was a trip. Luz is amazed how these people can do all this cool stuff without magic. Keep a low profile sure, she can pass off as a weird out of town kid. Keep the beanie on, underperform in gym and stuff because some things don’t change, like genetics. Someone sharp eyed will see discrepancies. The Beanie has a small Glamor spell built in that covers her witchy traits but she forgot the ears which is why it sits like it does. Luz can erase memories in case she has an accident, but it’s less of a 'remove my face from this picture with a scalpel’, and more of a 'lemme just hack off the past hour or three from your brain with an axe.’ If she tries to take any more then she starts burning into some more dangerous territory and those Wiped are groggy and disoriented for a while after already. Then the magic attacks start happening and her heroic instinct/anti-bystander complex kicks in and there goes that. It runs in the family so Camilla isn’t surprised in the slightest when she finds out.

“Oh titan, why did you curse me with another me?” “I’m right here Mami!”

Eda has a shack very akin to Grunkle Stan. Lots of junk that Lilith can’t believe that people are dumb enough to buy. She’s also involved in some not so legal dealings on the side. Well, Eda isn’t actually hurting anybody and the tax dollars she should be paying would only go towards some politicians’ next yacht or another pointless overseas 'investment’ instead of where it’s supposed to go so. Eda does give some good intel on occasion and a place to vent so Lillith overlooks her. Lil’s more of the secret police for witches and a petty crook isn’t part of her job anyway. Eda understands Luz’s predicament and is willing to help. The cover story is that Camilla work in hospitals and has to work crazy hours while her dad passed away so is living with Eda for a while. King is that kind of critter that grew up weird and acts like ten different animals all the time.

Gus is the nerdy kid who infodumps on everybody, even if they’re not listening. Loves anything fantasy/sci-fi related and plays Minecraft too. A good kid at heart, but needs some social skills. Keep him away from anything more sugary than tea. Luz learned a lot listening to him. Not all of it is entirely useful, but still. Some of his ramblings give her some good ideas for magic and stuff, like putting Glyphs on cards.

The Blights are the cool rich kids obviously, and have some discipline and social issues. Big family name makes them intimidating for normies and a meal ticket for the unsavory. These kids need real friends. They decided to act out to get some attention from the parents who then decided to ignore them. “If you’re going to act like a child tantrum, get treated like one.” Ed is perfect for Drama classes, if he were allowed to partake. Can’t decide what Em is great at, hacking perhaps? Amity’s car is an inheritance from the only family to treat her as such Twins aside, even if she’s too young to remember it. She only remembers that she has feelings surrounding the car. All three of them were pretty impressed with Luz for standing up to them, calling them out on their shit, and not giving a crap about their family name. Being treated like a normal person is pretty weird. Can we get her to do that again?

Amity tried dating Boscha once, didn’t work out very well. Boscha is still hurting over Amity’s comment of “I’d rather go date the new weird kid (Luz) than go back to you.” It’s one of the reasons she goes after Luz. She has that kind of Bud personality from Spider Man, feels lesser and so acts out so much. 

“Wow, this new Witch is amazing. Not as cool as the original Witch.”

“What is it with the Witch with you?”

“Oh, she’s a hero. Looks out for the city and the little guy. She inspires me. Makes me want to be a bigger person. *sees Luz* What’s up Luz-er?”

~

And that’s what I got right now. I know there was more, but it’s lost to the void right now. Might come back later, maybe not. Lemme know what you think.

............

DAMN you weren’t lying when you said you had an info-dump this is *chefs kiss* you got me intrigued now

[themanip]

yellow roses

⤳ blurb: lee felix and his seven friends are chosen to go to america and attend a private high school. with only three able to speak english fluently, they get assigned another student to help them navigate american high school. they quickly come to realize that the sweet girl who speaks korean is much more than who she shows during school hours.

⤳ pairing: lee felix + willow arroyo ⤳ genre: romance, coming of age, drama, fluff, eventual smut, very angsty ⤳ warnings: chan being super sweet, cursing, mentions of bullying, not much to worry about this chapter ⤳ word count: a little over 3.1k 

"Can you turn that music down, please?"

Ronnie tapped her shoulder softly, which surprised the young girl. Swiveling around and yanking a headphone out of her ear, she crinkled her eyebrows at the balding man. "Sorry?"

"Can you turn it down? It's so loud I can hear it," her manager stared at her with blank eyes, and she nodded gently. Pulling her left hand from the swamp of dishes and dirty water, she dried her hand on her apron, and clicking the volume button to a lower setting. "I get it, Winnie. It's not the greatest job in the world, and you wanna listen to music and your grumpy manager is being an ass," she let out a soft chuckle at his words.

"I'm sorry, Ron. I don't mean to be an ass, I'm just exhausted."

"It's alright, I get it. I worked like you did when I was your age, and I know how much it sucked. It was just better for me because I got paid double what you do," he smiled softly, clapping his hands together.

"Minimum wage is no laughing matter, Ronnie. I eat one-fifth of a lemon bar for lunch everyday," she eyed him fake angrily, and his eyes softened. "Really?"

"No, what the hell," she laughed, covering her mouth with her hand. "Usually it's a bagel or something,"

"Okay," he sighed softly, taking his cap off and running his hands through his hair. "If you wanna close up a bit earlier, I can come in at five instead of seven,"

Her hands halted as she scrubbed a plate, and she smiled gently. "No, it's okay," she finished washing the last dish, and set it on the drying rack. "You have Eliot now, and I'm sure Olivia isn't getting much sleep without you home during the night, so go home, and take care of your son,"

She melted at the thought of his newborn son, and how beautiful he is. She wasn't extremely good with children, but babies made her absolutely swoon. She also knew how hard newborns were to deal with, and having Ron not home to help probably made things hell for his wife, Olivia.

"You sure?"

One solid nod and a tired grin sent Ronnie on his way home, knowing he would recieve a full night's sleep. Despite the intense amount of work, she loved the diner. It was always warm, she always had at least one plate of food if she needed it, and Ronnie cut her a lot of slack.

She dried her hands off on her apron once more, and headed to the front of the restaurant near the island of stools. It was past midnight now, and occasionally there were some older customers who came in drunk, or just got off work. It seemed to be a quiet night, so she figured it wouldn't be too bad if she took a quick pee break.

On the other end of the diner were the restrooms, and she scrambled over there. Her footsteps and the dark shadows in the bathrooms often creeped her out, she went in, did her business, and left. Once she opened the door, she spotted two bewildered teenage boys at the front door, looking around with wide eyes.

"Hey, are you guys open? I saw it said twenty-four hours but—"

He had an Australian accent, and it made Willow purr on the inside. "Yes! Yes we are, I'm sorry," she sighed in embarassment, and rushed to the front of the diner. Her boots, which usually help her feet with the consistent standing, are now a nuisance as she stumbles across the floor.

"Oh no worries, we know it's kind of late,"

As Willow stumbled next to the boy, who she now saw another boy standing next to him with red cheeks. His accent was beautiful, she thought. He was also inhumanely good looking. The one who'd spoken to her had darker brown hair, on the wavier side. He had a larger nose, and his lips were quite full. He was beautiful.

The other one stood silent, and Willow smiled and held menus. "Booth or do you wanna sit at the island?"

"Uh, booth please," the brunette spoke up once more, and she silently led them to a booth that was clean and somewhat in the middle of the restaurant. Gentle background music filled the silence, and all that was heard was soft scuffling as the two boys followed the only girl working.

She sat them down, and the other blonde boy smiled sheepishly. "Here are your menus, can I get you something to drink first?"

"Can I get a coke, please?"

That time, it was the boy who'd she never heard speak. His voice was deeper, almost curiously soft.  The brunette spoke once more, "Do you have tea?"

"Of course, sir. Unsweetened or sweetened?"

"Oh, sweetened please," he nodded thoughtfully, smiling. "I will be right back with your drinks, take a look over the menu and you can let me know what you want at your earliest convenience," Willow smiled genuinely, and she bowed slightly. She didn't even mean to, she just felt odd alone, at midnight, with two teenage boys in her diner.

"She called you sir, Chan," the blonde boy whispered to the one opposite him, this Chan character. "She's really nice, we have to leave a good tip," Chan responded, and that's all Willow managed to hear before she started making their drinks.

The next hour or so dragged on, with Chan, Willow, and the other figure, whom she'd learn is Felix, and her coming back and forth to collect orders, serve seconds, cook said seconds, and giving refills. Each time, Chan would apologize for inconveniencing her as if it wasn't her job, and she would smile softly. She could tell that he would never be rude to fast food workers or people just intending to do their job.

Usually, there would be a chef, or at least someone who can cook, and at least one other person working. The past few weeks had been Willow mostly by herself, picking up extra shifts, and as long as it wasn't busy, she could manage cooking and waittressing. She got paid double time, and she picked up overtime on days where Ron did not want to come in early. He also didn't want to burden Helena, one of his other over-nighters, who'd just gotten back on her feet after a house fire.

She wasn't a bad cook, and she was quick on her feet. She could hold down her own, and Ronnie knew that. Hence he trusted her with his entire diner, on most nights, and to hold the fort down. She would now easily bring home paychecks over a grand, with taxes taken out every week. As her two very cute customers continued eating their seconds, she scribbled messily on her notepad on the counter.

She stood on the inside of the island counter, and was counting expenses. She had a lot of shit to worry about, bills included. Gas, electric, dog food, groceries. She could take maybe three hundred dollars off her bill fund thanks to her mother, but it still didn't help in the scheme of things.

Frustrated, she scribbled out her list. She had to worry about this later, there was no need to worry before she got her paycheck. Her eyes felt heavy, and she tried to rub the sleepiness from them. She had at least five more hours before she could even think about leaving, and she still had to clean this place from top to bottom.

"Do you think we could get the check, please?"

Chan's timid voice broke her from her daze, and her face reddened in embarassment. She had forgotten they were here. Setting her pen down hastily, she shuffled over to grab the printed out receipt, and held it tightly.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to zone off like that," she set the check down, and took notice of their neatly stacked plates with silverware crossed on top. Her cleanup would be very easy, and she absolutely loved when she had customers like this. "Oh, no worries," Chan smiled and eyed the check. "Is it okay if I take these?"

Pointing towards the stack of plates, the other boy, Felix, quickly grabbed them and handed them to her. Underneath the plates, their fingers touched briefly. A sheepish smile followed from both, and she quickly scurried to put the plates in the dishwasher. All she had to do was get them checked out, clean the three plates, clean the milkshake cups, the soda cups, and sweep. Some general maintenance, and if nobody else came in, she was in for a decent night.

"Hey, you didn't charge us for the milkshakes," Chan mentioned softly, slight accusatory tone. "They're on the house," Willow smiled back from the bar island, and Chan cocked his head in confusion, "if that's okay,"

"That's really kind, thank you," once again, a gentle, dimple-filled smile from Chan, and a sheepish, red-cheeked one from Felix. She wished to hear the blonde boy speak again, his voice so rich, so deep. He seemed sweet.

Her first thought was that they were boyfriends. It angered her, but only in a way that two of the cutest guys she'd possibly ever seen were together. It was adorable, to say the least. Little did she know, they were definitely not together.

Willow came to collect the money, and Felix stared up at her. "Are you from around here?"

Her eyes widened, and her mind went blank. That was usually how someone asked if she would be missed had she been kidnapped. "That sounded really creepy, I'm sorry," he clarified, and she loosened her shoulders a bit, "We are new to town, and we don't know where Glarien Avenue is. We just moved in, and can't find our way back. The GPS says the street doesn't exist," he finished quickly, and she nodded gently, deciding on whether or not to tell him.

"Oh, uh," she bit her lip, "the street got a new sign on accident, and the GPS or whatever national database that programs the information never got updated, I guess. If you pull out of here, take a left and go forward like three-ish blocks. There's gonna be a bright yellow house, and once you see that turn right, and then take a sharp right again and if you just keep going down you should see Glarien. If you get lost, just come back,"

It took only five minutes for the two Australian boys to clear out, and for Willow to finally take a breath. As she took care of all of the dishes, she went for the check last. Their total was somewhat cheap, twenty-three dollars, for two full meals, two sodas, a sweet tea, and extra sides of fries.

As she counted out the money, she was thoroughly confused. There were two twenties, and two fives. There was fifty dollars here, and their meal was less than thirty. On the check was a small note.

Really good food, really good service. We hope you have an amazing night, and whatever is left after our tab is paid is yours. Thank you!

An exasperated sigh left her mouth, and she sat in the booth where the two boys sat. Staring at the money in front of her, her chest felt heavy. All of her emotions poured out, and the thought that a strangers kindness' brought her to tears was shameful yet elating. That would be three less hours she would have to work, three more hours of sleep, or soccer practice, or studying. More time to not stress over bills.

She sat there for a few minutes, breathing in and out, as deep as she could. Wiping her face of any tear remnants, she stood up, collecting the money in hand. As she eyed the clock, she sighed inwardly. It was only 2 AM.

A little less than five hours later, she was walking into the doors of LaPrine High School, with at least two hundred other students. For seven in the morning, teenagers were pretty damn annoying. Squeals and loud murmurs was everything that she could hear, and it made her turn her headphones up louder.

For a private school full of snobby inbreds, there were some okay kids there. Most of them were the scholarship kids, who'd had their fares paid for, like Willow. If someone found out that you were a scholar student, you'd immediately be laughed at and taunted. She managed to keep hers a secret, though. She excelled, and she made sure to throw in an occasional snicker when needed to prove she was just one among the bunch.

She wasn't popular by any means, but everyone knew her. She was a suck up, that was for sure. Every teacher liked her, her grades were impeccable, and she was an all-star soccer player. She managed to have better stats than Ian Rewns, the past all star soccer legend, and he wasn't even a midfielder.

She also was known to stay pretty quiet, and to herself socially. She had a few casual friends, some classmates she talked to, but nobody really close. She was okay with that, she was pretty busy anyways. She had school from eight in the morning to three, then soccer practice from four to six-thirty, and if there wasn't a game, she'd go home around seven, and at eleven she would go work the graveyard shift at the diner. On average, she'd get four to five hours of sleep. Friends, or a social life, just take away from that time.

As she stopped at her locker to pull out her textbooks, she felt a tap on her shoulder. "Ms. Arroyo," it was her principal, Mrs. Samson. "Can you come with me, please?"

It was only two weeks into the school year, so there wasn't much she could get in trouble for. Maybe it was to rearrange her classes? No, every class she had was only alotted for that specific hour, there was no way. Her tuition? God, she hoped not.

"How are your classes so far?" as they rounded the office hallway, Mrs. Samson was making casual conversation. The clicking of her heels intimidated Willow a bit, but she'd known her for over a year. She wasn't as scary as everyone made her out to be. "They're good, I just finally settled in,"

"I know this year seems like it may be hard, but by the looks of your GPA next year, I think you'll be satisfied with it." Praise made Willow purr like a kitten, and her entire body tingled at the realization that this probably wasn't bad.

"Me too," she replied softly, and Mrs. Samson held the door to her office open for her, and they stepped in. Her office was tidy, shades of light blue and gray, and was a little too cold for Willow's liking. "Come and take a seat, hun,"

Unsure still, she took a seat. Her back didn't touch the seat, her anxiety from not knowing why she was there overtaking her comfortability. "You're not in trouble, don't worry," the older woman smiled at her as she took her own seat opposite her desk.

"So, I know you are a busy girl," she looked at her with eyes of compassion, and a soft smile decorated her face. "I have a proposition for you," she continued.

"Do you happen to remember when you did student tours for the incoming freshman?" Her first year at LaPrine, she was allowed to do student tours as community service hours for NHS. She was actually so good at it, and the organization of it, that she got to do it again this summer, and handled it all by herself without any staff. It was pulled off effortlessly.

"Of course, this year too," Willow nodded in agreement, and she waited for the woman to continue. "Well, if you agree to help me for a while this year, I will make sure all of your community hours are taken care of, and anything else you need help with will be considered done,"

Willow wanted her to get to the point.

"What is it?"

"Remember on your National Honor Society resume, you said you're bilingual and speak more than just English? You weren't lying, right?"

Willow laughed so hard she nearly bust a lung, and quickly covered her mouth with her hand. "Mrs. Samson, my last name is Arroyo. But of course, I can speak more than just Spanish, though,"

"You listed Korean, correct?" she eyed a piece of paper, which was most likely her aforementioned resume.

"Yeah, I can speak it somewhat fluently, and I can read Hangul well, I sometimes have trouble writing it, though. I don't imagine I'll be writing Korean letters, will I?" Willow's Hangul was absolutely preposterous, any native Korean would agree.

"No, that's silly," The elder crossed her hands together, and leaned forward. "Starting tomorrow, we have eight foreign exchange students coming from Korea, and you are an exemplar student who also happens to speak said language. One is a native English speaker, and two others speak it fluently. The rest can manage only a conversation or two, so you can understand our worry. I'm sure it would be nice for them to have a friend as well,"

"For the rest of the year?"

"Yes, but I'm sure that they'll manage to speak more fluently as the year progresses," and Willow shook her head, "I'm not worried about the language, I just don't know how that would work,"

"How so?"

"Well, are they all girls? Are they boys? Is it a mix? And won't their classes be much different than mine?"

"They're all boys, ranging from sophomore to seniors, and they're super sweet. Very respectful boys, from what I hear. I promise you, I will make it worth it if you help me out, and at least be a friend and reliable student to these boys. And no, they will not all have the same classes as you, but it will probably be courses you have taken, save for the seniors."

"I will also put in a good word for you to Mr. Ramirez, and how that head position on the team should be an exemplar student and player," she mentioned the soccer coach, and Willow cringed inwardly. She hadn't spoke Korean, in full length sentences, in over a year. She could remember it, but she'd be rusty.

"Okay, but you owe me one. No, more like eight; you owe me eight, Mrs. Samson."

"Deal. Come in tomorrow early if you can, and you can give them the tour. I will be here as well, so if you want to meet me in the cafeteria, I will bring you coffee."

"I like my coffees with extra creamer and sugar."

"Done."

[youreacowgirllikeme]

Hi love! 💓 💓 can you pls write a fic of Chris and y/n meeting in at Yale (where they don’t like each other at all) she being too sensitive and him being too cocky but he secretly liked her the whole time. Never got along or anything. Then they meet again years later in the city, and become friends and fall in love. But with smutty included. Love your lawyer fics ❤️😩😩 so pls make this happen 🙏🏻

Time Will Tell: Part One

note: Hiii, I decided to split this request (which I love btw) into two parts, the second one will drop either Sunday or Monday :) this part is more background story/buildup, hope you enjoy!

words: 3k

warnings: swearing, a bit of angst (??)

“That’s the final one.” Your father grunted as he put down the last huge box on the floor of your dorm room.

“Thank you so much, dad, you’re my hero.” you said, hugging both of your parents tight.

“We’re really proud of you, Y/N. You are going to do so amazing.” You mother whispered, her voice heavy with emotion.

“Thank you so much, guys. I love you. Please give me a call when you get home.” You replied before embracing them one last time, and off they were.

You sighed happily, looking around the room that was going to be your home for the next four years. You were finally a pre-law student at Yale, a dream come true. You gazed out of the window overlooking the campus, beyond exited about all the things to come.

+++

“Alright, settle down.” The voice of your professor sounded over the chatter of your fellow classmates.

You quickly stopped talking with your newfound friend next to you and shifted your attention to the front of the class. It was your very first lecture, and you were almost giddy with excitement about the prospect of learning so much new stuff.

The professor had already started talking, reading out the book list for this semester when suddenly, the door slammed open, and a young man burst into the classroom. He was clearly out of breath, but still grinned at the professor.

“My apologies, Sir.”

His voice was cocky, and you felt an instant burst of dislike at the way he carried himself. He was handsome, tall and broad shouldered with a head full of curls and a winning smile. But it was obvious that he knew just how good he looked, everything about him gave you the impression of another rich, arrogant brat. Yale campus was full of them.

“Just see that it won’t happen again, Mr-?” The professor murmured, clearly displeased.

“It’s Cuomo, Sir.” The guy replied, still grinning, before slumping into the seat next to you.

Cuomo. That rang a bell. You would eat your hat if he hadn’t something to do with the New York Governor, he certainly looked like a politician’s son. You knew you were being slightly prejudiced, but your intuition about those kinds of guys had never betrayed you so far.

As if he could read your mind, the guy in question turned his head to look at you.

"Hi Sweetheart, what’s up? I’m Chris. “

Without even looking up from your notes, you replied.

"If that’s your way of flirting, it sucks. I’m Y/N and not your sweetheart, by the way. How about you pay attention to the lecture now before you get into even more trouble.” It maybe came out more vicious than intended, but you didn’t want this guy to think you would swoon over him just because he had a pretty face.

He just chuckled but turned back to the board.

You were fascinated by the topic of the lecture, eagerly listening and taking notes, the irritating young man next to you long forgotten. When your professor announced that you had to do a group assignment until next week, you promptly turned around to your friend, silently signaling that you wanted to form a pair.

But when the professor started to read out a list of names, your plans were crushed.

"And next we have Ms. Y/L/N and Mr. Cuomo.“

"Oh, you can’t be serious.” you murmured under your breath, when someone poked your arm. You turned around and stared right into Cuomos smug face.

“Looks like you and I are having a date after all, sweetheart.”

Well Fuck.

+++

“Ok, we’re going to do it your way, but just because you’re annoying the hell out of me, and I want this to be over as quick as possible.” You groaned, scribbling something onto the paper in front of you.

Not that you would ever admit to it, but working with Chris went better than expected. Yes, he was cocky and arrogant to no ends, but apparently, he wasn’t only in Yale because of his family name. You bickered about almost every decision, but his ideas for the project were actually pretty good and once you got over his stupid jokes and constant unpunctuality, his company was bearable.

“I’m so glad you’re finally acknowledging my genius. My next suggestion is, once we’re finished here, how about you and I grab dinner somewhere together. You look like you’re in serious need of some fun.” He said, winking at you.

The nerve of the guy.

“You think my idea of a good time is going out with you? Wow, you‘re really full of yourself, Cuomo.”

A weird expression flashed over his face, but before you could name it, he was back to his usual smug grin.

“Your loss, sweetheart.”

+++

You got a good grade on your assignment, but we’re still relieved when the professor paired you up with someone else for the next one.

Outside of class, you rarely saw Chris, mainly because you were parts of different crowds. He had joined a fraternity and the football team, and you often spotted him hanging around with the other frat boys on campus.

To you, they were all cut from the same cloth, spoiled, rich boys who’s only concerns were the next party or if they could graduate in time to take over their daddy’s firm. Those were the kind of people you were trying to stay away from.

+++

It was the final party of freshmen year at the frat house, and you had a blast. There was good music and a lot of alcohol, you were glad your friends had managed to drag you along. The frat boys were there as well, obviously, but you paid them no attention while you danced and enjoyed yourself.

After the third round of shots, you were starting to feel slightly dizzy. Apologizing to your friends, you went outside to get some fresh air. In the garden behind the frat house, the dizziness got even worse, and you had to lean against a wall to steady yourself.

“Everything alright?” someone asked from behind you. It was Chris.

“Sure, Cuomo.” You replied, your voice already slurred. “Just had one or two shots to much.”

“You certainly had more than that.” he spoke, getting closer with a slightly worried look on his face.

“Jesus, you look smashed, Y/L/N. Maybe it’s better to go home?”

“Yeah, I probably should get going.” You agreed, feeling incredibly fuzzy by now, and as you tried to walk, you almost fell over your own feet.

“No way you’ll make it to your dorm on your own. I’ll take you.”

You were too drunk to argue with him, so you just murmured something in agreement and leaned a bit against Chris’s huge frame.

“You have so many muscles.” you whispered, but he still heard you and laughed.

“Oh my god, you’re totally wasted, you’re gonna regret this so much tomorrow. Come on, let’s get you home.”

Luckily, the way to your hall wasn’t that long. Chris steadied you with and arm around your shoulder, almost dragging you up the stairs when you finally arrived.

You fumbled with the keys to your room, so he just took them from you to unlock the door.

“Here we are.” Chris announced, softly sitting you down on the edge of your bed. “Sleep, I’ll tell your friends that you’re home safe.”

With a groan, you sunk back into the pillows, closing your eyes.

Chris was still standing in front of your bed, as if he was unsure if he could leave you alone like that.

“You know,” he quietly spoke. “When I was asking you out, at the beginning of the year, I was kind of serious about that, I-…Y/N?”

But you had already fallen asleep, slightly snoring into your pillow.

Sighting, Chris ran his hand through his hair and gave you one last confused look before he left, softly closing the door behind him.

+++

Lucky for you, the next day was the first day of summer break. You were mortified about acting like an idiot in front of Chris Cuomo, but at least you didn’t have to face him for several weeks.

When the new semester started, the two of you saw each other in classes again, but he never brought the incident up. Instead, he went right back to being his insufferable, arrogant self, taunting you at every chance he got.

Your current class mainly consisted of discussions about the latest political and judicial affairs, and Chris and you ripped each other apart at every chance you got.

“You’re living in a dreamland, Y/L/N.” Chris drawled. “Face the facts, those tax increases for the top five percent or whatever it is you are suggesting, they won’t work. It would actually just hurt our economy, not that you understand anything about that. Also, your poker face is terrible” He pointed right at you, and a few of your classmates chuckled.

You almost lost your last drop of patience there and then.

“I am not sure what’s worse, Cuomo, the bullshit coming out of your mouth or your stupid-“

The professor interrupted you, ending the discussion before things could get really ugly.

+++

“I hate his guts.” You growled, taking an aggressive bite of your bagel. You were having lunch with two of your friends between lessons, and Chris Cuomo was a frequently brought up topic in your conversations.

“You certainly talk about him often enough to really make me doubt that.” One of your friends snickered, and the other one added. “You know that he watches you sometimes, right?”

“Bullshit, he hates me.”

“Yes, Y/N, I’m sure he looks at you with those big, blue, dreamy eyes because he despises you so much.”

“You have to admit, he is stupidly hot.” You friend sighted, “He’s so tall, and that face.”

You rolled your eyes at them. “Sure, he’s not exactly ugly, but his personality is. I’m praying we won’t have any more classes together next year or I might really punch him in the face one day.”

+++

Much to your chagrin, fate wasn’t on your side. Junior year rolled along, and again you had several classes with Chris. And as if that wasn’t enough, he started dating a girl you sometimes hung out with and became a regular guest at parties you and your friends were going to.

So not only were you almost killing each other every day in class, you bickered with him in the evenings as well, about every topic from beer brands to foreign policy. And still, when he ended your conversations to get back to his girlfriend, you always got a small sting of something that felt a lot like jealousy.

Since your friends had revealed to you that he was watching you from time to time, you had started to feel a bit restless around him. Somehow, he was able to get under your skin like no one else did, irritating you to a point where some days all you could think about was his stupid face.

Even if it was just to argue and fight, for some reason, you always gravitated to each other.

+++

“That’s it, I’m not listening to any more of your shit.” you shouted. Your latest argument had continued even after class has finished, and by now, you were walking through the hallways almost yelling at each other. People were already staring, and you had enough.

“The truth is hard to swallow, isn’t it?”Chris replied, his usually cool demeanor had dropped and by now he was just as angry as you were.

“The truth is, I’m sick of this and I’m sick of you. We’ve been at each other’s throats for years now. You won’t convince me of anything and vice versa. I have better things to do than fight with you every day. Just leave me alone from now on, please.”your voice has gotten quieter with each sentence, and before you could display too much emotion, you turned around and left Chris standing in the middle of the hallway, a perplexed expression on his face.

This was the right decision, you thought. This guy meant nothing but trouble, and your infuriating relationship had to stop, you had your finals to focus on.

+++

The end of year parties always were a huge thing on campus, but this one was different for you. This was it, Senior year was over, there would be no coming back to Yale in the fall. Nostalgia and relief about the finished finals made you and your friends celebrate like it was your last night ever and beer and liquor were flowing.

You had received your acceptance letter from Georgetown Law some days before, and the opportunity to continue your education in Washington DC was another reason for you to party.

At some point though, the amount of drunk people was starting to become a bit too much for you, and you decided to retreat to the garden for a moment of quiet. As you walked around a couple of trees, you spotted a lonely figure sitting on a bench in the dark.

“Cuomo?” you asked, a bit staggered. Usually, the guy was the life of every party. What was he doing out here all alone?

As if he had read your thoughts, he spoke up. “I was just trying to get some last moments out here, were leaving campus in two days and this always was my favorite spot.”

Who was this guy, and what had he done to the menace you attended class with?

You hadn’t seen that much of him the past months, not after your last argument, but the memories of your numerous encounters were still very present in your head. You had thought about him more often than you’d care to admit.

“I wouldn’t have taken you for a nature guy, Cuomo.” you replied “Unless you’d count the lawn on the football field.”

“That’s because you don’t know me, Y/N.” his voice was oddly cold as he looked at you, his eyes almost appearing black in the dark. You tried to ignore how handsome he looked and focused on your dislike for him instead.

“Oh, I know enough. You have shown me everything I need to know about you over the course of the last four years.” You snapped, the alcohol in your system was making your emotions run high.

Chris got up from the bench to plant himself right in front of you. He towered over you and you had to crane your neck to look up at him.

The air between you was bristling with tension, he stood so close to you that your bodies were almost touching.

“Why, because I actually challenged you, delivered some real arguments against you? Until you chickened out?” He shot back, his voice growing louder, his fists clenched at his sides. “Don’t you want to become a lawyer? Better learn to deal with that if you want to survive in court, that’s not a place for soft, overly sensitive people like you.”

“Are you kidding me, you condescending asshole? You don’t have the slightest clue about the life of ordinary people! You’re living in your little Chris Cuomo bubble where everything is perfect and there’s nothing daddy can’t take care of and call me sensitive? I’m thrilled to see how you will be able to handle yourself out in the real world.”you were yelling as well by now, just lashing out to hurt him the way he had hurt you with what he said.

“Don’t act like you fucking know anything about me.“ He shouted, his face clenched in a mask of fury. He opened his mouth to continue, but you spoke first, your voice flat now.

“You’re right. I don’t know you at all.” With that, you turned around and left the garden, running back to your dorm before anyone could see your tears. He would always be the same asshole, and you were mad at yourself for ever believing anything else.

+++

“Christopher Charles Cuomo.”

The crowd around you cheered, whistles and shouts erupting all over the place. Chris climbed the stage, looking unusually serious in his black robe and cap. He took his diploma, shook hands with the dean, and then turned around with the most brilliant smile on his face. He looked carefree, and happy, and when he raised his hand to wave at the crowd, your whole class hollered for him.

“He is so incredibly hot.” Some girl swooned behind you, and you just rolled your eyes, trying to suppress the little stab of sadness you still felt about how you parted ways with him two nights ago.

But when you looked up to the stage again, he was gone, and in that moment you realized that it was very unlikely that you would see Chris Cuomo ever again.

[sohotthateveryonedied]

Chaos and Bloodshed Already Haunt Us

Read here on AO3!

Summary:

Tim and Jason get kidnapped by Black Mask. Jason is too sacrificial for his own good.

Tim has been waking up tied to chairs in strange places since he was thirteen, to the point where he has been kidnapped more times than he’s been to Chuck E. Cheese. When you’re a Wayne kid and a batkid, you learn to accept regular kidnappings as a part of life, just like taxes. Is it so unreasonable that Tim would prefer to wake up in his own bed, for a change? First things first: take stock. Assess the situation. Go from there. Before he’s even opened his eyes, Tim feels for what he’s pretty sure is regular rope keeping his hands tied behind him. Unfortunately, even rope can hold a bat when said bat has no weapons to bail them out, which Tim doesn’t. His utility belt and bandoliers are missing, and any spare tools he has hidden on his person are impossible to reach with the way his arms are wrenched behind him. His fingertips are already tingly, going on numb. “Red? You up?” Tim opens his eyes at the familiar voice. Jason is tied to his own chair across from him, a mirror of Tim’s own situation. The room itself is small—gray walls, cement floor, unmarked crates stacked along the walls. Jason’s helmet is off, exposing the domino he wears underneath. Tim’s mask hasn’t been touched either. “Do you remember what happened or do you need the recap?” Jason asks.

It’s blurry at best, but Tim remembers enough. “Intel mission on Black Mask, right?”

“Started out that way. We got here and I figured out that Sionis was selling weapons to Intergang so we blew the whole shipment to hell.” “You figured it out?” That doesn’t sound right, as fragmented as Tim’s memories are. From the throbbing in the back of his head, he must have been hit pretty hard. “You calling me a liar?” “I ain’t calling you a truther,” Tim mutters, fiddling with the rope that’s been cutting off circulation in his hands for what must have been at least an hour. He can’t get Jason and himself out of here in this condition. “Did you—" “Already signaled him.” Good. Bruce will send someone to bail them out of this in no time. They just have to hold out until then. “Oh, good, you’re awake,” a chilling voice speaks from behind Tim. “You have no idea how bored I was waiting for the party to start.” Fingers touch Tim’s shoulder and he jerks away. Jason, unbothered by the newcomer, snorts. “This is what you consider a party? You need some fucking friends.” Sionis ignores the jab. He passes Tim and goes straight for the camera set up near the left wall, just far back enough to fit both Tim and Jason in frame. Very, very bad sign. He turns it on, the red light blinking. “You making a movie?” Jason says. He’s snarky, but Tim can see the fear lurking behind his eyes. Roman ignores him and adjusts the camera so it points at himself. “Hello, Batman.” Tim’s eyes snap up to meet Jason’s. “In case you were wondering, this is a live feed you’re getting now. And don’t try tracing it, you’ll just waste your energy. You’re not the only one who has talented technicians on his side.” He leans in closer to the camera, his mask nearly touching the lens. “In the spirit of clarity, let me be clear: this, right now? This is a gift. This is my warning to you to stay the hell out of my business, otherwise you and your precious lackeys will have to answer to me.” He moves out of the frame and zooms in on Tim’s masked face, then Jason’s. “Lucky for me, I found a couple of your birds messing with my shipment, and they so graciously volunteered to help me set an example.” He steps aside and gestures to a tray of tools, each one more horrible than the last. Most of them are still coated in blood from his last victim. Tim gulps. Sionis peruses his collection, which gives Tim the chance to catch Jason’s attention. He jerks his head toward the camera, mouthing, Tell them where we are. Jason nods, and Tim looks back at Sionis. “You think I haven’t been tortured before? This is just a workout.” Is it true? No. He’s terrified, actually. But Jason needs time to signal Bruce through the camera, so Tim will stall for as long as he can. “Bold words, kid.” Sionis picks up a knife, tracing the edge of it with his fingertip. “Just makes it more fun for me when you break.” He comes closer and grabs Tim roughly by the chin, pressing the knife against his cheek uncomfortably close to his eye. “I’ll bet I can make you cry.” “Hey, Blackie,” Jason calls, ripping their focus away. His eyes are narrowed, mouth twisted. “Did you hear the one about the rich dude who wore blackface?” Sionis tightens his grip on Tim’s face. “Do tell.” Stop talking, Tim tries to convey telepathically. Don’t make this worse. “It was universally agreed that he was a piece of shit.” “You should learn to keep your mouth shut when someone’s holding a knife to your baby brother’s face.” To prove his point, Roman digs the knife in, slicing a thin line down all the way to Tim’s jaw. Tim inhales sharply at the sting. “Baby brother?” Jason repeats. “You really are an idiot.” He doesn’t look at Tim, keeping his glare solely on Roman. “I barely know the guy. He follows me around, thinking I walk on water or some shit, but trust me. He’s a pain in the ass. You’re doing me a favor, really.” Sionis pulls the knife away from Tim’s face. Tim releases a breath. Sionis approaches Jason now, his knife still raised with Tim’s blood staining the steel blade. “Someone’s mouthy today.” “If you think this is mouthy, you should have heard your mother last night.” Sionis plunges the knife into Jason’s knee. Jason locks a scream behind his teeth, his face contorting in pain. “Try walking on water now,” Sionis hisses. He yanks the knife out, blood splattering on Jason’s legs and the floor. Tim looks nervously at the camera, its red light blinding ominously. Is Bruce watching this from the other side, agonizing over having a front-row seat to this display? Or is he already gone, on his way to rescue them? Tim hopes it’s the latter. “You think—think I haven’t been stabbed before?” Jason pants, his teeth gritted through the pain. “That was child’s play.” “Is that right?” Sionis looks over his shoulder at Tim. “Then maybe we should get a second opinion. What do you say, kiddo? Want to match your brother over here?” “Thank god,” Jason says. “Go over there and stay, if you wouldn’t mind. Your breath smells like dog shit. But I guess you are what you eat, so.” Roman punches Jason in the face so hard Tim can hear his teeth clank from here. He does it again two, three times, until blood streams from Jason’s nostrils and spills over his lips. Tim pulls frantically on the ropes binding him, tries to do anything, but he’s held tight. “Now, that,” Jason says, spitting out a mouthful of blood and what looks like a tooth, “was better. Still amateurish, but at least you’re not a fuckin’ sissy about it.” “Hood,” Tim snaps. “Please, shut up.” Why are you doing this? “Why should I listen to you? You’re the one who got us into this mess in the first place, replacement. This is your fault.” Jason’s words are snarls and his eyes burn with a tangible hatred, all directed at Tim. But Tim knows him too well. Not everyone wears a literal mask like Sionis does. Roman reaches for his tray and picks up a new blade, this one with large, jagged teeth. “By all means, keep talking, Hood. See where that gets you.” “What, are you going to stab me? Go ahead. The little shit deserves to feel guilty.” Sionis poises the blade at Jason’s shoulder, digging the tip in until Jason hisses. He leans in close, grabs Jason’s jaw with his other hand. “I know you’re not stupid. You think that if you act like a big enough asshole, you can save the runt from me.” He pushes on the knife, slowly sinking it into Jason’s flesh, ridge by ridge. “I’m very okay with that.” Roman twists the knife and Jason screams. Tim closes his eyes but he can’t cover his ears; he can’t tune out his brother screaming in agony, and he almost wishes that he were in Bruce’s position, watching this through a video feed. At least then he could turn it off. “Stop, please,” Tim begs. “He didn’t do anything, it was all me. It was my idea to blow up your shipment. I ruined your business, not him. Just—hurt me, take it out on me. Not him.” Sionis releases the blade, leaving it sticking out of Jason’s shoulder. “Told you I could make the little bird cry.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tim has never felt so powerless in his life. It feels like it goes on for hours, the blood and the screaming and the sickening sound of torn flesh. It only gets worse when he escalates to the snapping of fingers, the crackle of knife through bone. He hits Jason so many times there’s more purple riddling his face than clean, unmarked skin. And every time Sionis so much as looks at Tim, Jason does something new to pull his attention back like a wasp on a string. He provokes the sadistic bastard with vulgar comments, snotty complaints that belong more in Damian’s mouth than Jason’s. And Tim can’t do anything but watch. He doesn’t know how long it’s been when something crashes behind him, which he assumes is the door. Roman barely has time to drop the blowtorch he’s holding before a batarang strikes him in the center of his mask, knocking him out cold. Jason doesn’t react. He hasn’t lifted his head in so long it puts Tim on the edge of panic, just quiet groans and grunts through every new injury inflicted on him. “Tim!” Dick is at Tim’s side in an instant, already working on the ropes binding him. “Are you okay?” Bruce is tending to Jason, putting a field dressing on one of his many open wounds while he talks to Alfred through his earpiece. He’s telling him to call Dr. Thompkins and tell her it’s an emergency. As soon as his hands are free Tim is lunging up from the chair, only for Dick to grab him by the shoulders and force him back down. “Hey, hey, slow down. Where are you hurt?” Dick lightly prods around the cut on Tim’s face, which is undoubtedly going to need stitches, but Tim couldn’t care less. He doesn’t take his eyes off of Jason, who lets out a groan when Bruce accidentally jostles his broken arm. Tim shakes his head, swallowing thickly. “He didn’t—he didn’t do anything to me. He didn’t touch me at all. Only Jason.”

[simpingforthisonedeer]

Chapter 9: Tempestuous II

Summary: Julius finds Aika in the Wizard King's study; One of the important reasons for Aika's hesitance is discovered; And there's a five-leaf grimoire👀👀

Notes: 

- completely SFW

- 4k words, a relatively short read compared to my other chapters agfdsghfjhl. - There are also more clues as to what Julius is and I give you one letter. If you figure it out from just that, I will legitimately shit myself. - I introduce an original character who is Marx's older brother and like all side characters, he is important.

- Be sure to check the notes at the end and enjoy (｡•̀ᴗ-)✧

Aika sat down on her most favourite sofa in the Wizard King’s study with a sigh and a cup of tea. She had just finished tearing down all the talisman stuck to the shelves and walls that prevented anyone from detecting the room and noticing the door from the actual office which was also covered by a painting. She had her personal books in a few dozen stacks around her, ready to be shoved into her backpack but she decided to take a small break.

She could faintly hear the muffled discussion on the other side of the wall of Julius apologizing profusely to someone named “Marx.” Aika had recently confirmed it was Marx Francois, Julius’ advisor and attendant. He may not know her, but Aika knew him well enough. His older brother, Karl Francois, is the president of her company and a close friend of hers and he would sometimes tell her about his brother.

Aika sighed contentedly into her cup. She should have tea with him sometime, especially since she doesn't have her amulet to walk around the castle without scrutiny. She did vaguely remember Karl mentioning that Marx liked black tea.

She turned to the door leading to the office curiously when all became quiet. She heard a door swing shut and some sound of shuffling on the other side of the wall and the door in front of her slammed open.

“Aika!” The invader exclaimed. Her heart jumped when she realized owner of the voice.

“Julius,” she greeted cordially. “I suppose Master Raymond told you about the hidden study?”

He rubbed the back of his head.

“Well, not really. I asked him where I could find you. That’s when he told me about the study.”

She hummed in response. So, he was thinking about her.

“Good. Would you like a cup of tea while you tell me how the banquet went?” She asked politely as she patted the sofa next to her.

“No, no, no,” he shook his head as he strode to where she sat. “You are going to answer my questions.” He plopped down next to her a respectable distance away but still too close. She expected him to sit on the other end of the sofa, not directly next to her. She calmed herself as she served him tea.

“First of all, why are you wearing that?” Julius asked, pointing in the general direction of her face. Aika turned to him curiously as she handed him the tea.

“The wha—Oh.” Right, she was wearing a silk blindfold. Sometimes her eyes hurt and become sensitive to light because she had them open for too long. She used Mana Zone often and completely forgot. She couldn’t properly work in this state but it did allow her to organize her thoughts and meditate.

“My eyes hurt,” she answered simply. 

“But you are moving like you can see…” he murmured to himself. “Are you using Mana Zone? I heard that most blind people are quite adept at using it to do their day-to-day tasks.”

Oh, Aika knew that very well. She was blind for a year when she was around 20 and had practically used Mana Zone every waking moment. Due to the ritual she did that made her blind, she had also gained a weak form of clairvoyance, so she could still perceive things around her as if it were normal when she combined it with Mana Zone. The only downsides were that she couldn’t see color.

“Yes,” she answered, wincing internally at the cold tone. While she wanted to keep him at an arm’s length, she didn’t want to seem rude.

“I see, I see,” he nodded to himself, thankfully unfazed. “Tell me more about your company!”

“Well,” she began as she crossed her legs and slipped off her blindfold.

When Aika turned to him, his breath caught. In the dim firelight of the study, her eyes still seemed to glow on their own. His vision seemed to grow sharper and he could count every speck in her eye. He felt his mouth go dry. Oh, there was nothing Julius wanted more than to be held by her again.

She regarded him with a puzzled expression.

“Are you alright?”

“Y-Yes, Aika. I’m fine.” He looked away as he took a rejuvenating sip of tea.

“Okay, so, I started my company as a means to gather intelligence and sell it. We have agents called Eyes & Ears and they basically gather vital information about any and everything and a lot of times it includes spy work. So we also do private investigations and some mercenary work. But that seemed too limiting, so I expanded my horizons into research and education. My R&D department creates magic items and medical practices that would support their local communities and every few years, they collaborate on department-wide projects that are for the benefit of all.” Aika smiled, amused at the way he hung on to her every word.

“We have intensive job training programs of all kinds and we even started a healthcare program a few years ago for our employees but my biggest project right now is to actually make that sort of healthcare public because it's very affordable and our employees have been a big fan of it. But it’s hard because of different countries' laws so I have to go make a lot of appeals with certain Kings and Queens.”

He leaned forward, genuinely interested.

“How do you keep it affordable? Is there a way you could implement that kind of healthcare here in the forsaken realm?”

“Well, we have an exploration department that has multiple guilds across the world in countries where dungeon-diving by private citizens is allowed and taxes are relatively forgiving. This is where we sometimes get most of our revenue. But of course, we also have investors—Arthur is one—and so we try to provide the best services to both our employees and clients.” She touched her chin thoughtfully. “Well, we could institute our kind of hospitals but Clover Kingdom isn’t lacking in healing mages. We mainly use medical practices and technology because the areas we are targeting are places with weak or no magic and have no way to afford or access.”

“So, perhaps we should rearrange the concentration of healing mages in the common and noble realm then.”

“Yeah, well, healing mages are quite rare even in a magic-rich country like Clover Kingdom. It’s also a big problem that everyone here are magic dependent. This kingdom is quite behind on technology, innovation, medical practices and knowledge compared to the rest of the world. And to top it all off, Clover Kingdom maintains no foreign relations outside of the continent so there is no flow of information in. We would have to educate a lot of people in potion-making and using magical items and mundane tools to heal or treat ailments but like I said, Clover Kingdom is behind on education,” Aika ranted as she frowned. She caught the intrigued look on Julius’s face and pressed a gloved hand to her forehead as she apologized.

“Sorry, I meant no offense—”

“No, no, I’m not offended at all,” He said, waving her off. “I’ve simply never considered that point of view.” He gave her a wry smile. “And what you do seems really cool. Though, it sounds like a lot of work.”

She smiled faintly as she set her cup down and leaned her head back against the sofa. She needed to calm down and stop.

“It is, but I have a lot of time on my hands.”

Julius snorted.

“I’m sure you do,” he retorted softly as mirrored her and rested his head right next to hers.

“It’s fulfilling work too,” she said lowly. He hummed in response.

“Master Raymond told me you used to use this study as your office space but now you’re leaving,” he remarked as he looked around.

“Uncle Ray isn’t the studious type but I could tell you are. You would certainly want to use this space.”

“I would,” he admitted, turning his head to face her. “but you don’t have to leave.”

Aika peered at him from the corner of her eye.

“We could both use this space, Aika.”

“Julius…”

“You have really good advice and a different perspective that could be helpful in the future. I’d like to keep you close.”

“You already have an actual advisor. I’m just a consultant.” 

“Marx? He sees my vision, he understands it but he is a conformist, you are not.”

“Julius,” she began as she sat up. “I’m really flattered but I cannot move as freely around the castle anymore. No one here knows I exist.” And if he insisted on spending some time around her everyday, it could be disastrous.

“What do you mean?”

“My Amulet of Ignorance broke during battle and I like to be private. No one in this castle knows me and even if they did, they forgot.”

“You had an Amulet of Ignorance? Those are pretty rare!” Julius exclaimed, his eyes blown wide. She paused when she caught his gaze. Even though violet was a common color for eyes, she realized that his were the most beautiful ones she had ever seen. She realized she wanted a repeat of earlier today when he leaned into her touch and his lashes fanned his cheeks as he sighed with a serene smile.

“I know, and really expensive too.” Aika stood up abruptly and walked to the long desk facing the windows. She caught the purple light of the Wisteria trees sifting through the window panes and focused on clearing her mind. The more she looked at him, listened to him, the more painful it was. Because she wanted to be near him more than anything, but she couldn’t.

She needed to get out.

“It’s the terrifying ordeal of being known.” He laid an arm on her shoulder and she stiffened instinctively. His touch both burned and soothed her. “I completely understand, but don’t you think it’s time to step into the light and get credit for what you do? Like that spell you did on the battlefield?”

“No,” Aika asserted cooly as she shrugged his hand off. “I’m not looking for credit or glory.” 

Once upon a time, she sought glory, but it only left her shoulders heavy with medals and her chest hollow. She was tempted to let the scars stay too as a reminder that glory is empty but she decided to be kinder on herself so she could move on.

If someone gave her credit, great. If not, that’s also fine.

“But don’t you get tired of hiding?”

Yes, but if she had to deal with people more, that would be dangerous for everyone. It was better to be ignored and forgotten than to turn people into hateful creatures.

“What do you mean ‘turn people into hateful creatures?’” Julius asked curiously, he voice steeped in concern.

Aika whipped around. Did she seriously say that out loud? No. He was using Truth Magic. How dare he?

“You should know better than to use Truth Magic when you are trying to have a genuine conversation, Julius .” She stated deliberately, her mana rising around her.

“It’s hard to have a genuine conversation when the other person insists on hiding,” he retorted swiftly as his face turned to ice, masking his surprise at how she had caught on.

She snapped.

“It’s because I don’t want to publicize the fact that I exude so much negative mana that it turns people evil, okay?!” 

She pushed past him.

“Please.” Julius caught her by her forearms and swiveled her around to face him. The words caught in his throat at the sheer vulnerability on her face. “Please, I don’t want to ruin you,” she breathed, her voice cracking. Aika clenched her jaw as she held her tears at bay. “You are so good,” she lifted her gaze to meet his’. “So pure.”

Her words sent shivers up his spine as he carefully regarded her. Did she somehow know? No, that can't be, or she would have never insisted on maintaining distance.  Weg magic doesn’t affect him. That was the plain and simple truth. It was why he was so curious about it in the first place. He knew why it doesn’t affect him, but the world didn’t need to know.

Julius watched the way her lower lip trembled, eyes glassy with unshed tears and yearning as plain as day.

He needed to reassure her while keeping his secret.

“You think so little of me that I would be affected by it?” He murmured with a light tone.

“You think so little of my knowledge of my own condition that I wouldn’t know who it affects and who it doesn’t?” Aika snapped weakly. “Strength does not matter. It only doesn’t affect other forbidden magic users and certain species of non-humans.”

Non-humans. The words kept ringing in his head. 

Non-human. Non-human. Not-human.

“Your mother died so your half-breed arse could live!” His drunken father screamed as a glass shattered next to his head, shards pricking his scalp and cheek. 

“Don’t ever dare insinuate that your mother never loved you,” his voice came in a dangerous whisper. “You disgusting little N—”

 “Julius?”

He blinked quickly as he sought his bearings. His hands were clenching on her arms so tightly, he was sure Aika was in pain. He could feel sweat rolling down his cheeks. Or was it tears?

“Sorry,” he murmured as he blinked again, this time clearing his head.

No, he was human. And he was going to save all the humans in Clover Kingdom and bring them peace.

He rubbed her arms lightly as he healed her and slid his hands up to her shoulders.

“It won’t affect me,” Julius said plainly as his lips quirked up into a hesitant smile.

She looked at him dubiously. She just said that only— Oh. Is that how it is?  

“Why?” she asked as she sniffled, not expecting the truth.

“It’s simply the nature of my magic,” he answered vaguely. 

That could mean either thing but he could simply be saying that just because. Why does he keep on insisting? She was really not playing hard to get.

“Julius, that isn’t going to convince me. It has real effects. Why are you trying so hard when I am pushing you away?”

His eyes softened as he smiled in amusement.

“Is it so hard to believe that I might like you?”

“Yes?” She asked as if it was obvious. “I was literally rude to you on so many occasions.”

“I’m used to prickly characters.” He rebuffed with a wink.

Her shoulders relaxed slightly as she let out an embarrassing snort. She hung her head to hide the growing smile on her face.

“That doesn’t mean you should tolerate it,” Aika murmured half-heartedly. 

Julius laughed.

“Maybe not,” he murmured as he pulled her into a hug. Her face pressed up against the fur of his cape, tickling her nose as her hands hovered hesitantly around his waist. 

“But I’m very patient.”

After a moment of deliberation, she wrapped her arms around him and nestled into his chest. She will allow herself this one moment. 

Julius made a noise of contentment at the back of his throat as he pressed his cheek to her hair.

“Does this mean you’ll give me a chance?” he asked hopefully.

Aika pulled back and looked up at him with a deadpan look.

“No, there is still a lot you don’t know about me.”

“But, I want to learn—”

She shook her head and looked away.

“You don’t understand. The reason why I’m not convinced is because—” Should she even tell him? It might be a little too much. It was the reason why she was so scared and cautious about the effects her magic has on people.

“Because what?”

Ah, screw it.

“Because after Holly spent a week with me, she clawed Arthur’s face off and tore off my right arm,” she whispered under her breath.

“What? ” So that was the reason why she was so apprehensive. That...was actually understandable.

“She got irritable after 3 days and her behaviour kept escalating until she was outright hostile...She doesn’t remember of course. We had her memory erased after we restrained her,” Aika explained as stepped away from him, exhaustion sufusing through her. But Julius stopped her and took her gloved hands in his.

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” he spoke softly as he squeezed her hand. What happened to her was horrible. “You don’t have to keep away from people, least of all me.” He straightened his shoulders, his eyes determined. “I am telling you with utmost confidence that it won’t affect me.”

One part of her was tempted to refuse anyway but his insistence made her curious. Is it bullheaded confidence or was he truly something else like Arthur pointed out or was his interest in weg magic not so innocent after all?

As she weighed the pros and cons, the more curious she got. Aika really wanted to know what the deal with Julius was, and if worst comes to worst, well, Karl Francois was an expert memory mage. She could erase her existence and it will be like this all never happened.

“Fine.”

Julius lit up at her response.

“I will give you one month time to prove that it truly won’t affect you.”

One month was a reasonable enough time for them to notice any effects. He most likely won’t spend all his time with her like Holly did and he will probably use mana skin to protect himself. And only then will she think about it.

“Thank you!” He exclaimed before he engulfed her into another hug. She could feel the relief coursing through him as he smiled into the crook of her neck. She shivered at the feel of his lips and nose and the way his lashes fluttered against her pulse.

Julius gently cradled her face as he pulled back and Aika melted in his hold despite herself. She could allow herself to be if he truly didn’t turn on her. He brushed her cheek with his thumb, making her look up at him. His eyes were like the darkest part of the sunset where the stars shone and the birds flew. She wanted him to keep looking at her like that. 

He angled his face as he slowly closed his eyes and Aika was mesmerized yet conflicted.

She wouldn’t be able to stop if his lips touched hers.

“Julius, stop,” she wanted to say but the words were stuck in her throat. She could feel herself giving into the feeling, the falling sensation as it swept through her. His touch burned with something she couldn’t describe but it set her free. Clarity flooded her senses, washing away her fatigue. Perhaps it was time to seek the light again.

Aika, no, stop, wait, wait, wait.

“Miss Aika!” Jayce crowed as the double doors from the main hallway to the study flew open. “We found a five-leaf grim—” Ellie, Evan and Jayce took three steps into the room before they halted to a stop at the scene in front of them.

The Wizard King and their boss, pressed up against each other, hair's-breadth away from a kiss.

Jayce slapped a hand over his mouth.

Ellie grabbed onto his and Evan’s collar as they scrambled backwards. She quickly shut the door as she threw an apologetic look at Aika’s burning face who disentangled herself from the king’s arms.

The room echoed with a bang and silence followed. 

Julius burst out laughing as he rubbed the back of his head.

“That was embarrassing!”

“Very,” Aika groaned into her hands. He took her hands once again and pulled her close. “You should go finish your paperwork. I have to talk to them about their mission,” she sighed as Julius placed kisses on her knuckles. She withdrew her hands as she took a step back, her heart twinging at the hurt glimmering in his eyes once again.

“I’d like for us to be friends in the meantime.”

“Do you truly like me?” Julius asked suddenly. Aika was taken aback by that.

“What do you mean? Of course I do.”

“Because, like you said, are you keeping your distance because you are trying to let me down slowly?”

Anger shot up her spine. In a second, she was a hair’s-breadth away once again, face cocked to the side. Julius parted his lips, half-surprised, half-expectant but she only stayed agonizingly close.

“Are you insinuating that I am lying to you about my reasons?” Her voice came lowly.

“No, but—”

“Good, so as long as we can conclusively say that I can’t affect you, I will keep my distance.” He blushed at her heated look. “Because even I cannot resist temptation itself.”

Julius took a stuttered breath as he stepped back this time. Oh, god.

“Understood.” He cleared his throat as Aika suppressed a smile. “I will, ah,” he motioned vaguely at the door behind him. “Go do my paperwork.”

As if.

He walked away to the door and looked back one last time. She had her arms crossed as she worried her lower lip.

“Goodnight.” She waved with a reassuring smile. He echoed her as the corner of his lip quirked up. 

He could be patient.

The door clicked shut and the world grew quiet in Aika's head for one still moment...Before adrenaline rushed through her veins, buckling her knees and knocking the air out of her.

Holy shit.

That interaction had taken more out of her than anything. It’s been years since she had any complex, romantic interactions and god, the yearning was exhausting.

Aika stumbled over to the cold tea on the low table in front of the sofas and picked up the cup as she took deep, slow breaths. She waved her hand over it and rewound time to make it warmer. She took a big sip as her heart finally began to calm down. She silently padded over to the main doors and swiftly pired one open. 

Surprisingly enough, the three were not listening in. They were instead gathered in a small circle, talking in low voices.

“This bird had some nerve yanking my hair,” Ellie growled.

“What’s going on?”

Evan and Jayce moved out of the way when they heard Aika, revealing a little anti-bird with an impossibly bored expression resting on Ellie’s cupped hand. She raised a brow at that. The three of them are fairly powerful mages, with Ellie and Jayce being stage 2 while Evan was an arcane stage. So, why was an anti-bird so comfortable in their presence?

“This anti-bird kept following us from Hage, miss,” Jayce groused as he poked it on its head. She walked closer so she could inspect it. She reached out a hand but it evaded her as it flew up and perched on Evan’s head.

“You are weakened but you still have more mana than us?” Ellie asked incredulously.

Aika shook her head and waved them in. She settled back down on the couch as she crossed her legs imperiously. She watched in mild amusement while they carefully inspected the room like the Wizard King was going to pop out from somewhere. She stared down Jayce as he held back a blush, no doubt about the scene earlier, but he shook his head, reassuring her that he wouldn’t say anything. But, she knew that they would thoroughly interrogate her after they were done.

They soon lined up in front of her, backs straight and eyes sharp as they pressed a hand over their hearts and bowed low in a salute as protocol required before they could report to her. While she understood the need for ceremony, they were personally close to her so she had asked them to skip it in the past, but they insisted anyway, saying that it made them feel more like grown-ups.

Ellie was the first to speak up.

“We spent some time inspecting the abandoned cottage like you asked us to.”

“And we have some good news, strange news, and stranger news,” Jayce continued after her.

Aika threw back the last sip of tea and stared at the tea leaves at the bottom of the cup as she half-heartedly attempted to divine from them.

“What is the good news?”

“The good news is that Master Raymond and Lady Lydia had successfully moved into your home without any issues, though they did talk of maybe doing renovations.”

“Good.” She set her cup down with a ‘clink.’ “The strange news?” She breathed out as she reclined, resting her temple against the palm of her hand while she leaned on her elbow.

“Master Raymond wanted us to give you a letter from one Arian Silva, which is supposedly an invitation to tea tomorrow if your schedule allows it.”

Jayce handed her a wax-sealed letter. She noted that the seal was red, meaning that it was a formal letter, which was just the usual.

Aika flicked the seal open and skimmed the letter. It was indeed an invitation to tea and he simply wanted to speak to her about that day on the battlefield. 

Yes, quite simple. She thought as a headache began to grow.

“And the stranger news?” She asked, her eyes still wearily glued to the paper in her hand. She looked up curiously when no one said anything.

The anti-bird on Evan’s head seemed to glare daggers at her as he sifted through his cloak. He whipped out a small potato sack and emptied out its contents onto the table between them.

It was a musty, decrepit-looking grimoire, dark in color with no discernable symbol on the cover. She picked it up and immediately felt something off about it.

“We investigated the abandoned cottage and we believe it may be at most 5 years since anyone had occupied it and you were right, there were traces of a lot of forbidden magic,” Evan confirmed.

Aika wiped the cover where she knew a symbol would be and her jaw nearly dropped at the abnormal clover formation.

“We believe we found a five-leafed grimoire.”

Notes:  

- Yes, I think I'm funny naming Marx's older brother "Karl" LMAOOOO His name was actually supposed to be "Anwir" so make what you will of it👀 - That lil tidbit of Aika being blind for a year and being sensitive to light is important to remember👀

- That is sweat rolling down his cheeks lmaooo I’m not going to make him cry(yet) - Homegirl manifested a whole intervention LMAOOOOO - Nero doesn't avoid Aika bc she has any mana, no, she's avoiding Aika bc she can feel the forbidden magic coming off of her and knows that Aika will find out Nero is human the moment she touches her.

[chanswavyhair]

filter | hwang hyunjin

warning: some cursing, fem!reader, too much fluff akshka.

a/n: this is my first time writing a fic and not a timestamp so,,, i hope it’s not very bad. this was kinda inspired by bts jimin’s filter but jagsjh,, anyways hope you enjoy it!!

you were in trouble

like,,, you were usually in trouble but THIS ONE WAS BIG

so you basically agreed with your parents that you would attend some ball ???

and with your boyfriend as your plus one ?????

well to start off you didn’t have a boyfriend and you didn’t even know why did you just say that HSJAKAH

you could do many things, but backing off and hurting your pride WAS NOT ON YOUR LIST

so now you had to find a boyfriend in like a month and half

i mean... you could ask jisung or felix, but you knew how uncomfortable they felt with your richies

also they didn’t give off the rich, classy and charming boyfriend look

well,, your friends were really handsome but not the type of handsome high society liked

but anyways that’s a problem for the future Y/N because we ain’t getting distracted at chemistry !! your grades were NOT falling

yeah you were living the rich and perfect y/n life

anyways in fact you were pretty annoying HSJSJD

you got very !! stressed !! when things were out of your control

there were only a few <lovely3 people who truly knew you and stood you, and they were jilix and your sis ryujin

(who invited her bestie daehwi, but he was rich too so he had no prob)

like,,, you usually hung out with your sis’ friends, but you weren’t THAT close

and for jisung and felix’s friends,,,,, it was weird when they weren’t all together

and that’s how jisung had the dumbest idea ever, and he’s had A LOT

like that one time he convinced you to let him dye your hair (you ended up looking like a light bulb)

or when you shaved his legs (WORST EXPERIENCE EVER YOU ALMOST GO DEAF but it was kinda fun)

anyways he just let out “why don’t you tell hyunjin? you know he does this weird thing of getting paid for acting as a boyfriend”

“what the FUCK JISUNG i am NOT paying hyunjin to act as my BOYFRIEND”

and,,, guess who heard you freaking out

nope not hyunjin but your sis ryujin

and her friend yeji

who hapepened to be hyunjin’s cousin

so yeah she told him and he went  ($ ‿ $✧)

now he’s been “AnAlyZInG” you for some days

and you were too busy thinking about your problem to notice it

so he decided to make a move, as you didn’t

“hey Y/N... somebody told me about your problem”

huh?

HUH??

“uh, what do you mean?”

“i know you need someone to be your supposed boyfriend in some ball”

lol it actually sounded really lame

THAT’S WHY YOU ONLY TRUSTED T H R E E PEOPLE

“wait— what do you mean???”

“well, i could help you and act as your boyfriend. i’m feeling generous, so i will lower the usual tax. which version do you want? cute? prince char—”

the fuck no, you weren’t that PATHETIC

“i’m sorry, but i don’t want your help. thank you anyways”

,,,,,,in that moment it turned to something personal to hyunjin

who wouldn’t want to be his girlfriend???? at least if it’s just for a night????

and that’s how he started to be such a gentleman to you, to smile at you everytime you locked eyes, to initiate skinship

you knew he had ulterior moves, so you were irritated by him

but he was actually way more charming that you thought,,,,,,

like

HE WAITED FOR YOU AT YOUR LOCKER EVERY MORNING JUST TO GREET YOU

“’morning Y/N, looking fine today. how are you feeling? good?”

you were literally on a big ass sweater, but the bags in your eyes were even bigger

“hyunjin it’s too early and i’ve barely slept so please leave me alone—”

“oh, that’s no good,, should i call you tonight to make sure you fall asleep?. anyways, i’ll see you in english class. don’t forget we had homework!”

and,,, he always shared his food whenever you forgot yours,,,,,

he proved himself to be more than a cute face

he tried to help you whenever he noticed you were struggling to understand anything

and one out of five words he said were just him flirting

you eventually started not minding him being around you everyday

and then soome time after that,,, your heart ??? suddenly started to do weird things ??? when he was close to you ???

you MAYHAPS had a little crush on him

BUT IT WAS NOTHING SERIOUS HE WAS JUST TOO CUTE WHENEVER HIS DIMPLES SHOWED

or when HIS EYES WENT,,, (◠‿◠✿)

but you did NOT like him, right?

RIGHT???

he just treated you so well ಥ⌣ಥ

well lucky for you because this boy was also confused as fuck

since when have you been covering you beautiful smile when you laughed???

he honestly just wanted to put your hands down and tickle attack you

but that was just because he was getting into his role right??

RIGHT?????

anyways things got even worse for your weak heart when you saw him at you favorite cafe, studying, looking just TOO GOOD TO BE REAL

and then,,,, you two started to go studying there every evening

at some point he even started ordering your usual comand before you came

and,,, when you found yourself getting distracted by hyunjin’s cute mole under his eye by the 4th time you started to think that...

you maybe...... liked him ????

like... YOU liked HIM ??????

WHAT THE FUCK Y/N

“i have finished all my assignments. how about you?”

“i- i still have lots to do. you should go first or it will get late— ”

“and that’s why i’m staying. you shouldn’t go home alone it’s dark, i’ll walk you, if you don’t mind. and don’t worry, i don’t have anything to do now”

.......

WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK

you liked him A LOT

but you knew he was just being this nice so he could prove that you should hire him

which was not happening, as if wasn’t enough to fall for this boy :(

the thing is

he had forgotten about that weeks ago when his feelings grew bigger

he didn’t understand what he felt, but he knew he felt insanely good when you were around him

like whenever he told you he felt he was going to fail an exam you looked at him in some kind of way

he didn’t understand how or why, but he felt like whatever was worrying him didn’t matter anymore

and everything he wanted to talk, see, or think of was you

anyways he started to walk you home whenever he got the chance

this one day,,, you weren’t going to the cafe because you had things to do at home

but he insisted to walk you

so he was waiting for you in the hall

then he saw you at your locker talking with some random boy who was quite close to you

his heart went :(

but then he realized you were not exactly happy ??

“look, yeonsung, i already told you that i won’t tutor you. please leave me alone”

“no, Y/N you don’t understand, you HAVE to. we are meant to be, and if you won’t accept my dates at least help me with school stuff. it’s not that hard.” he grabbed your arm.

“yeonsung, no. let me go” you tried to pull, but he wouldn’t release you.

enough bullshit

“hey, i think you’ve heard her. she doesn’t want anything to do with you, so you’d better stop bothering Y/N. i’m not as polite as her”

“who the fuck are you? oh, little Y/N you’ve got some dickhead as your boyfriend? i’m much better than that. if only you fucking let me-”

ok so hyunjin’s blood has been burning for some time now but when he PUT HIS HANDS ON YOUR WAIST-

wait

did he

(・о・)(・о・)(・о・)(・о・)

DID HYUNJIN JUST CRASHED HIM INTO THE LOCKERS

“listen here, you asshole. if you dare to touch a single strand of her again i’ll fucking show you myself how to keep your hands down. understood?”

“un- understood”

“you’d better have” he pressed him a bit more before he let him fall on his feet

“let’s go away” hyunjin grabbed your hand

Y/N.exe has stopped working

hyunjin..... threatened this guy..... because he was harassing you

which was kinda hot btw ????

Y/N FOCUS

“hyunjin you didn’t have to-”

“don’t tell i didn’t have to because i made my best effort not to break his fucking nose.”

(๑ ● o ● ๑)

wow

he was really mad

“hyunjin-”

“Y/N, i know you are probably angry at me and that you want me to mind my own business, but i swear i-”

“HYUNJIN”

Y/N since WHEN did you have the GUTS to cup his face ?????

he went silent

“hey, calm down, ok? i’m not mad at you, this guy has been asking me weird things for some time now so i guess you just helped me to end it. i’m fine, yeah? calm down.”

you realized you were still holding his face so you were about to take them off but

HHHHhhhHHHHHHHhhhhhhhhHHHHHhhhh

HWANG HYUNJIN

WHAT ARE YOU DOING YOU DUMMY

he put his hand ON your hands

why was he POUTING

“why didn’t you tell me? or anyone? he could have done anything worse if i hadn’t been there and Y/N, i honestly don- i don’t know what would i do if someone hurt you”

WHY WERE HIS EYES LOOKING AT YOU THAT WAY

(◕︵◕) INTENSIFIES

YOUR HEART WENT HHHHHHHHHHHHHHhhhhHHHhhhhhhhH

 AND YOUR FACE WAS GOING TO COMBUST AT ANY MOMENT

“it- it’s okay. let’s just forget it. come on, i have to go home”

“wait let me- please, let me hold you for a minute”

he DEADASS HUGGED YOU

AND

BURIED

HIS

FACE

IN

YOUR

HAIR ???????

HWANG HYUNJIN YOU ARE FUCKING RUINING THIS POOR GIRL’S HEART

“you smell really good. i wish i could stay like this for a bit longer... but it’s okay. anyways, let’s go”

you can imagine how HARD ryujin laughed at you when you told her you thought you had forgotten how to breathe

“Y/N YOU MORON, YOU DIDN’T JUST STAYED THERE STILL, PLEASE TELL ME YOU DIDN’T”

“i HATE U STOP LAUGHING AT ME—”

“OR ELSE WHAT YOU’LL TELL HYUNJIN TO BREAK MY NOSE?”

yeah she was crying out of laughter

but anyways you two stopped shouting when your mother entered the room

“kids, have you already invited someone to the ball? it’s just week and half apart”

O SHIT

THE BALL

so now you were disturbing felix and jisung again with it

“Y/N just ASK HYUNJIN”

“ i CAN’T BECAUSE I ALREADY TOLD HIM THAT I WOULDN’T PAY HIM”

“Y/N,,,,,,,, has it ever crossed your mind that you two act just like a couple?”

(?・・)

“felix what do you mean he doesn’t like me and-”

“hi guys! hi Y/N.” he smiled at you with his whole heart and patted your hair “can you go today to the cafe? i don’t have much to study today, but we can go if you want to. i mean,, if you don’t want to it’s fine, i’ll just walk you home from here, if that’s cool with you.”

felix gave you that look

like the one he gave you when he was right

which was a bit usual because socializing wasn’t your best trait

but hyunjin didn’t like you, did he????

he was... he was just acting

as much as it hurt you, that was the truth

and in order to protect yourself... you should stop it

u MASOCHIST <(｀^´)>

“i think i’ll just go alone. don’t wait for me, it’s fine.”

you lost your appetite with just saying that

and hyunjin was like ????

you could see your two other boys-

Y/N! hyunjin is not your boy so stop it

anyways, jisung and felix were really confused too

well it was actually jisung because felix was more like DONE with your bullshit

you just went back to your classes and then, you went home

has routine been always this boring?

you couldn’t help but smile when you saw that hyunjin sent you a message asking about what where you doing tomorrow

but then you remembered you couldn’t let this hurt you anymore

so you said you were really busy at home and turned your phone off

“Y/N are you, okay?” ryujin said

“yeah, i am. why wouldn’t i be?”

“you don’t have to lie to me, sis. majorly because you can’t. talk to me, Y/N, tell me what’s wrong” she laughed softly

“i am... i am cutting off any relation with hyunjin.”

“what? why? you guys seemed to be getting along really well. i thought you liked him...”

“that’s why, ryu. i like him way too much. before he started talking to me, he told me to hire him to act as my boyfriend in the ball. he’s been trying to prove it, and i don’t want to fall deeper. i don’t know why did i let myself trust him, when i knew this from the first moment. i just don’t know why.

:(((( you started crying, and ryujin hugged you

“i don’t... i don’t think hyunjin is such a bad person to go this far with that thing of wanting you to hire him... but if you think that’s the best, then i’ll support your decision. we can sit in another table tomorrow. you know, just the girls, you and me. okay?”

you nodded into her embrace, trying to stop sobbing.

“okay”

so you started to avoid him as much as you could

and it was eventually making him crazy

well,,, he had been coping with whOle week without you

until he just exploded

“guys, i don’t understand. everything was going really good, and then she started to treat me as cold as fuck. and i don’t get what did i do to deserve this.” he complained to his boys

he was really disappointed

because he knew he felt different to what he had ever felt before with you

he thought he was learning to fall in love, to stop worrying just about him and his friends

“am i not enough? have i bored her? or have i pressured her? i’m going crazy because i don’t even know why do i feel like this”

(ಥ⌣ಥ)

“hyunjin you like her is pretty easy actually”

did minho just

DID LEE FUCKING MINHO JUST

“what????? i’d never had something like that for anyone. it’s true things are different with her but—”

“when was the last time you did that fake dating thing?” chan asked

“well... like a month? i was busy”

“busy with what you genius”

seungmin don’t cross the line

“i... i was spending time with Y/N”

was this boy the same hwang hyunjin from a month before???

“omfg guys i think i like her but like a lot”

“dumbass that’s exactly what we are saying”

poor jeongin got slightly hit buy the so called dumbass :(

“but this doesn’t have anything to do with why she’s been dodging me like bullets??”

they all looked to felix and jisung, expecting they would know anything

“to be honest... i‘m not sure. she hasn’t told us anything” jisung said.

“well, the last time we talked about you we told her to ask you to go with her to her parents’ ball, and then i told her that you two already looked like a couple” felix said

then felix went

（・□・；）

“oh... so she doesn’t like me...”

hyunjin felt like the whole world was going down

there was this thing burning on his chest, a thing that he thought he could only feel for his friends or family

but then, you showed him he was wrong, again

“wait- i think i’ve connected the two dots— ” jisung said, but lix interrumped him

“no, you didn’t connect shit. i get it now. hyunjin, she thinks that you’ve been acting all the time to prove you should go with her to the ball. that’s why she’s avoiding you, because she thinks you just tried to play her” felix said

hyunjin’s heart broke a bit more when he processed felix’s words

(╥_╥) (╥_╥) (╥_╥) (╥_╥)

he... he hurt you

and really bad

“oh god, i’m so fucking stupid. what do i do know? she hates me!”

“ugh, go get your girl you dumbass!” changbin said

hyunjin suddenly started working again, and rushed off while calling someone.

so yeah back with u lil creature

you were doing homework, but you couldn’t focus

so you went to the kitchen to grab some snacks

and then your phone ringed

“ryujin?” you answered

“yeah. i’m at daehwi’s and i forgot to take a jacket. i will be passing be there in his car in like... 15 minutes. could you give me the versace one?”

“the colorful one or the leather one? ” you asked with your mouth full of a chocolate cookie

ryujin felt relief

“the leather one”

“okay. but weren’t you studying in the library for a physics exam?”

o shit

“i just went to his house! to study together! anyways! see you later! sis!”

????? weird

anyways you finished your math homework, and when you realized, you just got a message from her saying she was outside

so you got her jacket and opened the door in order to look for daehwi’s car

oh hyunjin’s there

cool

WAIT WHAT

you slammed the door in his face

then you realized THAT WAS WAY WORSE

“OMG I’M SORRY”

“can you open please?” he said from outside

you really missed his deep and soothing voice

“i- well- yes”

you opened the door, not being able to look directly at him

“can we talk? just give me five minutes, and if you still hate me after that i’ll just stop bothering you”

“i don’t hate you, and you- you aren’t bothering me”

“well... this past days it didn’t look like that. more like, exactly the opposite”

you went silent because you had literally no excuse

“are you mad?” he said

“why would i?”

“i don’t know either, that’s why i’m asking. i mean, it’s not like you’ve been avoiding me for days, not answering a single message or call. that’s all”

touché

“are you mad?”

you knew he should be, you deeply hoped he wouldn’t

“Y/N, i know you thought i was playing with you”

“wait- you weren’t?”

“oh god. i really told you i didn’t know what would i do if anyone hurt you, so why would i?”

“i thought... you were trying to prove i should have payed you to go to the ball...” you quietly said

but you looked at him when you heard him sobbing softly

“Y/N, you are the first person i’ve ever fallen for. i’ve been with plenty of people, and no one had ever make me fall like this. i don’t know why am i even crying in front of you, all i know is that i really, really like you”

your eyes were wider than the pacific ocean

HWANG HYUNJIN

HWANG HYUNJIN LIKED YOU BACK??????

LIKE,,,,, FORREAL?????

“i know you probably still hate me but please... if you at least gave me a chance for still being friends...”

“hyunjin”

GO AHEAD GURL

“what?” he stopped sobbing

“hyunjin, i like you too”

you didn’t even know what was happening, but you knew your mouth kept talking

“wait, you do???”

“hyunjin, i- i was avoiding you because i didn’t want to fall harder”

you were still malfunctioning

then you saw him getting closer to you

“can i,, like,,, kiss you?”

WHAT THE FUCK Y/N YOU ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO SAY THAT

but his lips looked so soft HHHHHHhHhhhhhhHHhHHHHHhhhHH

he didn’t answer you

well at least not verbally

boi just WENT FOR IT

you thought you wouldn’t mind if you died there

his lips were even softer than they looked

was that like paradise felt?

but then,,,

“WELL GUYS I GUESS YOU TWO MADE UP HAHA COOL”

you two separated immediatly

“RYUJIN WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU”

you, alias, tomato 1 said

“well i guess you two have to look for some clothes for the ball because there are only three days left, so go make out in another place but not in the porch. i don’t want to see hyunjin eating your face when i get home”

hyunjin, alias, tomato 2 intensified

“just,,, leave okay?”

you two lovebirds went for a walk, without a specific direction

you couldn’t be any more embarrassed

“can i call you my girlfriend?” he said

“i- yes”

THEN HE HELD YOUR HAND (ㄒoㄒ)

can you two get any cuter omg

“let’s go to the mall to look for some fancy clothes for my cute girlfriend and me and then make out when we get back”

“ ?????? HYUNJIN HHHHHHHHH STOP”

“n e v e r”

[qqueenofhades]

I was hoping you would be able to help me form a response when my family says they're sick of hearing of systemic racism and white privilege because THEY have had to work for everything and believe nothing got handed to them (true in the way they're thinking, but you know what I mean).

Welp. First, I applaud you for taking the initiative to engage in difficult conversations with your family, since the only way embedded racist ideas are going to get confronted in white society is if racist white people hear it from their friends and family. They are going to cheerily ignore protestors, academics, newsreaders, popular culture, and certainly politicians who say anything to the contrary, but it’s harder to ignore and brush aside when it’s coming from people who are directly within your own family group. They can still then ignore it, but at least you’re trying to do something that is not at all fun but which is deeply necessary, and good for you.

First, there are a few things for you to consider. Is this a case where they actually don’t know the difference, but are willing to learn, or is this essentially sealioning (where they act like they don’t know the difference, but they absolutely do, and put the emotional labor on you to extensively define and explain and educate while never intending to change their stances on anything). If it’s the former, then there is some point in engaging in dialogue with them. If it’s the latter, it’s a giant emotional trap that you are within your rights not to engage with until they signal that they’re willing to engage productively. You don’t have to educate someone who is categorically unwilling to be educated (especially when it’s often deliberate ignorance). As people like to say, Google is free, and it’s their responsibility to take the first steps to change. You can continue to talk with them, but yes, that is contingent on them actually standing a chance of listening to you and not just you wearing yourself out on something that they don’t want to actually hear (because it threatens them and makes them feel Personally Wrong, and white people don’t like that).

There have been various books written on why it’s so hard to talk to white people about racism, which you may be interested in checking out, not least the book "Why I’m No Longer Talking to White People About Race” by Renni Eddo-Lodge. Ibram X. Kendi has also written “How to Be An Antiracist,” one of the bestselling books of this summer, either of which would be useful either in shaping your own arguments or (if they’re receptive) giving to your family. Once again, this is contingent on them signalling that they’re actually willing to listen, and not just to make you do pointless emotional labor. These books are probably available from your public library (though there’s probably a waitlist) or in other easily available formats.

Next, it’s a basic tenet of an anti-racist education that white people have never had to do this kind of reckoning, and thus get whiny, defensive, guilt-tripping, and “it’s not about ME I’m a GOOD PERSON” when it comes up. This also rests on the damaging and deeply intertwined effects of racism and classism, which has to be understood if you’re going to talk about it. One of the greatest tricks that racist capitalism ever pulled is convincing poor white people that they had more in common with their filthy rich white masters (people whose way of life will never in a thousand years be anything like each other’s) simply because they shared the inherent racial “purity” of being white. There have been political studies written on how poor/undereducated/working class white people have become such a reliably Republican constituency, because they have been successfully manipulated to believe that the white overlords are their “people” and they will constantly vote against their own economic, social, and cultural interests in favor of enriching amoral white demagogues who beat the populist xenophobic drum. Then they blame black and brown people for society’s ills and for the reason that they stay poor, rather than the rampaging oligarchs awarding themselves massive tax breaks and billion-dollar bailouts and refusing to extend unemployment benefits in case people “make too much money” from not working, just to name the most recent example. They are so poisoned on populist politics and white supremacy, which assures them that they’re better than anyone else by virtue of being white, that they actively attack politicians and policy platforms and other social welfare initiatives that would materially improve their own lives as “un-American.” This is maddening and sometimes baffling, but it’s how it works. Whiteness trumps all, currently literally thanks to the Orange Fuhrer. Problems in life are the fault of the Other.

This isn’t to say that poor white people are “dumb” and just unable to realize it, because they’re caught in a system that has done this literally from the start of America. In the early 17th century, indentured laborers and slaves in the American colonies were in fact more likely to be white. (The word “slave” comes from “Slav,” since that was the predominant ethnicity of slaves in medieval Europe; i.e. white eastern Europeans.) But even despite the fact that they were unpaid laborers, they were still white and thus recognized as human by their white masters, and thus when slave ships began arriving, it was easier for everybody to simply outright demonize and dehumanize the black African slaves. The poor white indentured servants got to feel better than the black slaves simply for the fact of their whiteness. Their lives obviously sucked, but their whiteness was in fact a mitigating factor in the suckiness that it involved once it was easier to use “animalistic” black people. And we wonder why America can’t ever confront its racist history properly. As Kendi calls it in his other book, it is stamped from the beginning.

As it has been put before, white people can and often do have difficult lives, because late-stage capitalism devours its workers no matter what color they are, but their whiteness isn’t a factor in why their lives are difficult. They will never encounter racial prejudice, race-based hate crime, discrimination for housing, education, employment, bank loans, daily microaggressions and identity erasure, constantly racist tropes in the media, politicians fingering them as everything wrong with America/the world, casual prejudices or assumptions even from close friends, assumed criminality based just on their race -- etc etc. The list goes on and on. Just because you have a hardscrabble economic background does not mean that your life has been made harder by your race -- because if you’re white, it hasn’t. (And as noted, poor white people have consistently voted for megalomaniac white men who don’t give a shit about them but promise them that everything is fine or should be better for them because of their whiteness, and then blame minorities for being the source of their problems.)

I honestly wonder if racism would still be such a problem in America if we had a remotely more equitable economic system, because when you’re well off and have your basic needs consistently met and don’t need to worry that you’re one paycheck away from disaster, it’s harder to constantly be paranoid that your differently colored neighbors are stealing everything from you and the cause of all society’s ills. The historian Patrick Hyder Patterson wrote a very interesting book on material culture in Yugoslavia in the 20th century, where he basically argued that despite the spectacular collapse of the federation into the Yugoslavian wars of the 90s, things didn’t really go to hell until after the economy crashed following Josip Broz Tito’s death in 1980. While there were obviously ethnic fault lines and conflicts between Serbs, Croats, Montenegrins, Bosniaks, Albanians, etc, when there wasn’t any money and any jobs and everyone thought everyone else was to blame, THAT is when the whole thing blew up into a genocidal civil war clusterfuck. Food for thought.

This is why people talk about economic justice and racial justice as going hand in hand. When there is a scarcity of resources and no social safety net, people are obviously more inclined to look for scapegoats and to blame someone for taking their entitlement (while still somehow refusing to blame the billionaires and corporate oligarch who are ACTUALLY stealing from them). They indeed actively resist any attempts to make their own lives better as being “socialist” or “un-American” and take pride in the fact that there’s absolutely jacksquat nothing (until of course, something like the coronavirus pandemic hits and it’s revealed just how many of us were always one missed paycheck away from disaster). Then when they need government assistance (while disdaining the government as tyrannical the rest of the time, unless it’s Trump’s actively tyrannical lot, but hey, we don’t have time to unpack all that) it’s still shameful and something they shouldn’t be using, instead of their basic entitlement to a decent life.

This country is poisoned on a lot of toxic beliefs, but this is one of the deepest-running one, and which will always get in the way of poor white people dealing with racism: their lives suck, but they have ALWAYS been told that despite that, they’re still better just for being white, which is their consolation prize for supporting white populists who actively rob them, and they haven’t even always consciously registered that. They just feel that if they’re “fine,” even if they’re not fine, then black people are just malcontents and criminals who can’t hack it. In 2016, there was a lot of ink spilled over how poor white people felt a sense of economic grievance and being left behind, which was why they voted for Trump, but... Trump was never going to do a damn thing about that??? He doesn’t actually do anything for his supporters except feed them his jingoistic Orange Nazi stump speeches. They voted for Trump to feel vindicated, not to actually improve their lives, and it’s damn clear by now that not only has he NOT improved their lives, he has no desire to do so. He just wants them to cheer for him and feed his ego, not fix any problems.

Basically, racism and capitalism and the American political system intersect in multiple deeply toxic ways to do precisely what you’re talking about; producing poor white people who feel that they shouldn’t be included in the reckoning with racism because if THEY worked hard and they don’t live in a mansion, somehow racism is fake and black people should just shut up and get a job etc etc. This is because poor white people have been systematically conditioned to support white supremacy at the direct expense of their own economic and social interests; it’s terrible, but that’s how it functions. They will never in a million years have anything in common with the (white) ruling class, but they still instinctively identify with them rather than people in their own deprived economic class who are different races or colors or religions. That is how white supremacy has supported the hyper-inequality of the industrial age, and vice verse, and it is one of capitalism’s best functions for survival, so it’s in the interests of the overlords to maintain it. Stop the workers from recognizing pan-racial solidarity based on economic grievance, and compete with each other and blame each other rather than the overarching system, easy!

Anyway. Once again, this is long. But in short, the attitudes your family are exemplifying are a direct result of both racism and classism as they have been deliberately cultivated in the American social and political system, and the interlocking causes and symptoms of both have to be recognized (and acknowledged) before they can get to dealing with that. I don’t know how that will go, and I don’t have an easy shortcut. But I’m glad you’re trying. Good luck.

[random-thought-depository]

Also, from Brett Devereaux’s latest Dothraki horde essay that I just posted about:

“This isn’t actually much of a surprise. Martin has been pretty clear that he doesn’t like the kind of history we’re doing here. As he states:

“I am not looking for academic tomes about changing patterns of land use, but anecdotal history rich in details of battles, betrayals, love affairs, murders, and similar juicy stuff.”

That’s an odd position for an author who critiques other authors for being insufficiently clear about their characters’ tax policy (what does he think they are taxing, other than agricultural land use?). Now, I won’t begrudge anyone their pleasure reading, whatever it may be. But what I hope the proceeding analysis has already made clear is that it simply isn’t possible to say any fictional culture is ‘an amalgam’ of a historical culture if you haven’t even bothered to understand how that culture functions. And it should also be very clear at this point that George R. R. Martin does not have a firm grasp on how any of these cultures function.

Once again, Martin has instead constructed this culture out of stereotypes of nomadic peoples.”

Ouch! This is a harsh dunk, but it’s also an insight into how to write speculative fiction that I’m going to take to heart. Well, I mean, it parallels thoughts and the approach I already have. Reading this makes me feel better about having the artistic process I have.

I know it sounds arrogant to think I’d do better than a famous and very successful big name author, but reading these essays I can’t help thinking that I’d have handled that stuff better. Like, at least before writing extensively about a steppe nomad culture I’d Google things like “what did the Mongols eat?” To be fair, I think ASoIaF was started in, like, the ‘90s, when it wasn’t so easy to just Google stuff, but still, I like to think stuff like “how did historical precedents for this culture get their food?” would be things I’d look into a bit before sitting down to write.

To also be fair, I have the opposite problem of spending like 90% of my time “worldbuilding” and taking forever to get around to actually writing anything. Maybe I should be more like George R.R. Martin! He‘s clearly doing something right!

But on the other hand, I think I do better work for actually thinking about stuff like this. Like, here’s another quote from Mr. Devereaux’s latest essay:

“But that leads into the larger problem, which comes out quite clearly in how Martin has carelessly separated the shepherds and the nomads into separate cultures living side-by-side. As we’ve discussed, that’s wrong: the shepherds and the fearsome riders were the same people. But Martin has stripped away not just the shepherding from the Dothraki, but also the cheese-making and wool cleaning and so on – after having already, as we saw last week, also stripped away the artistry, creativity and artisinal skill. His Dothraki don’t do anything as whimpy as herding sheep – something they regard as unmanly because of course they do – they kill the sheep (with arrows, which just makes it a double waste for every shaft that breaks or tip that is lost) and leave them to rot, like (very stupid) badassess.

He has stripped the Dothraki of every part of a Steppe nomads life, except the barbaric violence. And in so doing, he has taken one of only a handful of non-white cultures that we really meet and get a real taste of (rather than merely passing through) and reduces it from a complex culture which grows and nurtures and conserves (but also kills and destroys – we’re not going to don any rosy glasses about the violence of nomads here – that discussion is coming) into a pure vehicle of violent destruction, offering nothing of redeeming value.”

Like ... right now I’m planning out a story I intend to write in January; it’s supposed to be a kind of deconstruction of the Fremen mirage, and very much one of the thoughts going into it is “yo, a Proud Warrior Race would be a horrible society to live in or have as neighbors, we shouldn’t romanticize them!” and yet ... I feel that the “bad guy” culture in it is much better, from a literary viewpoint, for me having given some thought to the material base of their society and how that would shape their culture. I could have just written them as flat edgelordy-grimdark barbarians, but thinking about their culture in materialist terms gave me a more complex and nuanced picture that I think will make for a more interesting and nuanced story and a fictional society that feels more interesting and human and alive.

And to be really fair ... I think if I have an advantage over George R.R. Martin writing in the ‘90s, it’s partly from reading essays like this; because I was shaped by a geek culture that very much appreciates good worldbuilding and that is full of advice about it (of varying levels of quality, but lots of it is at least decent, and there’s a lot of it). If I do better, much of the credit belongs to the people I’ve interacted with and the people whose thoughts I’ve read and listened to over the years. “If we can see farther, it is because we stand on the shoulders of giants” very much seems to apply. Except I don’t like that quote because I think it’s too implicitly elitist; “giants” implies a few outsize individuals. I think it’s more accurate to say that if we see farther it’s because we stand at the top of an enormous human pyramid; it’s not about any particular person, it’s that we reap the benefit of enormous collective efforts. And that enormous human pyramid dynamic exists in science and government and morality and so on just as much as it exists in writing science fiction and fantasy novels.

Side note: it was informative to learn that the big Mongol food animal was sheep (or at least that’s the impression Mr. Devereaux’s essay gave me). I knew Eurasian steppe nomads primarily relied on domesticated animals other than horses for food, but I never had a very clear picture of what animals, and I kind of vaguely thought it was cattle (I guess cattle-herding nomads were more of a thing in Africa and I just kind of assumed Eurasian steppe nomads worked the same way).

Side note 2: seconding a comment somebody with the username “Roxana” left on that essay; if Mr. Martin wanted something plausible-ish that would still make the Dothraki look all macho and badass, a good way to do it would have been to loosely base them on North American horse-riding bison-hunting cultures and have them hunt some sort of terrifying badass fantasy megafauna.

[ugly-crying-over-bucky-barnes]

Field of Poppies Part 2

Summary: After being apart for six years, childhood friends Tommy and Amelia reunite under odd circumstances. Tommy is an outspoken young man and Amelia is pregnant and out on the streets. The bond of family can be unbreakable but it is tested often. Especially when Europe descends into war.

Part 2: Amelia notices changes in Tommy but also notices changes in herself. 

             It took some time before Amelia was at least a little bit settled, a couple of weeks to be exact. Polly had warned all of the Shelby children to leave the young woman be and to let her figure out her place. That meant no asking about what happened in London, no asking about the baby, and no asking about the father of said baby. Instead, they talked to her about the things they’d been up to. A very short list, honestly. After all, they were all in Small Heath the entire time. The only thing that really changed was the death of their mother and their ages.

            Although, Amelia did notice change in Tommy. He was a bit quieter than he was as a young teenager. Not as loud or rambunctious. However, he was still passionate. Still had an enthusiasm for horses and guns. But there was something budding that she noticed as soon as he started talking about it.

           ~~~~~~~~~~~

            “Now there’s a grocer looking for a shop-girl. I’ve just spoken to his wife and I think they’d be good employers. They know you’re pregnant so they would make you do anything too taxing. Best you’re not lifting anything too heavy.” Polly said after sitting down with Amelia late one afternoon. “But if that doesn’t work out, there’s always work in one of the factories.”

            Tommy who was listening in took instant offense to Polly’s suggestion. “She’s not working in a fucking factory, Pol.” He snapped protectively.

            “She has a baby on the way, she’s going to need the money.” His aunt insisted. “Here you have to take whatever you can get, you know that.”

            “You know what happens in those shitholes. People lose limbs to the machines and the bosses don’t give a fuck. They don’t even pay ‘em a decent wage.” He spoke with such anger in his voice. It was obviously something he cared a lot about. And since none of the Shelbys worked in factories, she could only assume it was based on friends he knew. What she did know was Tommy always had a big heart and especially hated injustice. She could recall several instances of him raising his voice over things he didn’t think were right or fair. On one such occasion, they couldn’t have been more than ten, he stood up for Curly because a couple of kids were making fun of the way he talked. When they refused to apologize, Tommy jumped the biggest kid of the pack and broke his nose. After that, the rest of the group hurried off.

            “I’m not disagreeing with you, Thomas, I’m just saying.”

            “She doesn’t need to work; we’ll take care of her.” He leaned against the counter.

            “That’s very sweet of you Tommy, but I’m sure you all have enough on your plate. I really don’t mind working.” In fact, Amelia felt like she didn’t have a choice. She could rely on the Shelbys for housing for a bit. But she wasn’t going to take money from them. If Arthur Sr was absent then that meant Polly was probably trying to make ends meet for the entire household. With money from the odd jobs that Tommy and Arthur did, that would mean there was only enough for them. Amelia felt it wasn’t her place to put more of a burden on the family.

            “Well, soon we’re going to have a betting shop. We’ll make plenty of money and you won’t have to work.” He brushed aside her concern.

            Polly threw a hand up. “This again…”

            “Betting shop?” Amelia raised an eyebrow. It was the first she’d heard of the venture.

            “Yep.” Tommy nodded proudly. “Arthur and I have already been taking bets for races. We’ve saved enough to buy the place next door for practically nothing. The last owner got kicked out. We’ll set it up as a betting shop.”

            “An illegal betting shop,” Polly interjected. “No one with any good sense would give you two a fucking betting license.”

            He just shrugged. “Don’t need a license if we don’t get caught.” He reminded her as if it were sage advice.

            His aunt scoffed and rolled her eyes. “That arrogance will get you locked up or killed one day.” She pointed a finger at him.

            Amelia had to agree with her. “Do you think it’s such a good idea?” She added.

            “Maybe not a good idea, but it’ll make money. We’ve already made more money this week than we would’ve made in a month. With a shop front, we’ll make triple that.” He was so self-assured that Amelia couldn’t help but believe that he would make it happen one day. She never knew Tommy to be a quitter. That’s why she worried.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

            Luckily, the grocer hired Amelia to work the till at the shop. She fell into a nice routine fairly quickly. The hours weren’t too long, but they kept her occupied which was godsent. If she was busy working, she didn’t have to sit with her thoughts. The only time she worried about her future was at night if she couldn’t sleep.

            As she became more settled with her routine, she felt like she could open up a bit more. For the most part, she didn’t say much when she was around the Shelbys. She engaged in conversation, but only to discuss what they were already talking about. She had no stories to tell. And it remained that way until Tommy began showing up to eat lunch with her a couple of days a week.

            She’d take her lunch break with him by the back door of the shop, eating what Polly had packed for them that morning. They made use of the empty crates to sit on and use as makeshift tables. The alleyway was grungy and cramped but it was exactly what they’d grown up with. There was a time when Amelia knew the back alleys of Small Heath so well, she could probably run them blindfolded. They’d run through the pathways like obstacle courses, ducking beneath clotheslines, and leaping over boxes and trash. It was hard to really take in the dilapidated area when they were running so fast through it.

            But at lunch, they sat, not really minding the smell like someone who was used to clean air might have. Amelia would give scraps to the cats that wandered around the neighborhood as Tommy talked. But it was hard to keep a conversation when only one person was really saying anything while the other simply agreed or nodded.

             “So, are you going to tell me what happened?” Tommy asked one day.

            “What do you mean?” Amelia didn’t meet his eyes because she had a feeling what he meant.

            “What happened in London.” He clarified. It had been weeks and Tommy was a bit worried about what she was keeping from them. Before she moved, there was nothing Amelia wouldn’t tell him. She was absolute shit at keeping secrets. If he had been trying to keep something from Polly or his mother, he would never tell Amelia. Sometimes she hardly even knew she was blabbing the secret until it was out of her mouth.

            Now she was closed off and hardly even acted like the same person. It made him a bit disappointed. He’d been so excited to see her but it didn’t feel like how things used to be. Granted, they were older, but he assumed they would still have the same bond they had before.

            Amelia chewed on her lower lip and kept her eyes on the sandwich in her hands. “I don’t know if you really want to know all the details, Tom. I don’t think it really matters anymore.”

            “Matters to me.” He insisted. “I mean, if you don’t want to tell me, you don’t have to. I just…” He shrugged. “You’re just not like yourself these days and I wanted to know why. I wanted to know if you were okay.”

            It had been a while since Amelia felt like anyone truly cared for her. And she couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed with the idea that Tommy cared enough to really listen to her. But she still felt so embarrassed by the circumstances that had landed her back in Birmingham. So much so that it brought tears to her eyes. “I just feel so lost.” She admitted after wiping her tears with the back of her sleeve. “I’ve felt lost ever since we left for London. I couldn’t find my place there, no matter how hard I tried. I thought maybe coming back here I’d feel better but I don’t. I feel like there’s no place for me anymore.”  

            Tommy set his lunch aside and stood up. “C’mon, you know you always have a place here.” He tried to comfort her as best he could.

            “It’s not the same. I have no fucking idea what I’m going to do. I mean what am I going to do with a baby? I’ve got no family, nothing. What happens when he or she grows up and they find out the truth? God, what they’ll think of me.” She stifled a sob.

            “C’mere, s’alright.” He murmured and sat down beside her so he could wrap an arm around her shoulders. “You’ve got a family here, yeah? We’re gonna look after you. I was serious about the betting shop.”

            “Tommy…”

            “Things are changing, Mel.” He said in a quiet but encouraged voice. “People aren’t happy with the way this place is being run. We’re not gonna let the rich walk all over us anymore.”

            She searched his blue eyes, at a complete loss. “What are you talking about?”

            “There’s a girl I met named Greta. She invited me to a meeting about unions. This could be the start of people deciding things for themselves instead of being bossed around by people. People who’ve never worked a day in their fucking lives.” He spoke with such animation that one could do nothing but believe him.

            “Tom…” Amelia sighed and let her chin fall to her chest, disappointed that she had to be the voice of reason. Disappointed that she had to dash his ambition. “I believe that you want to change the world. And I believe that if anyone had the ability to do it, it’s you. But you can’t just expect the world to turn upside down in a matter of days or even years.”

            He let his arm slip away from her shoulders. He wasn’t angry, she wasn’t the first person to doubt. But it was disheartening to know that she wouldn’t be on board with the idea. He thought she might take to it, but it was an ideology that not everyone would accept.

            “I’m sorry.” Amelia bit her lip. “That was shit of me to say.”

            “No, s’alright.” He rubbed the back of his neck and retreated back to his spot across from her. He balled up the wax paper his sandwich had been wrapped in. With a distracted aim, he tossed the ball at a nearby trash bin. It bounced off the side and rolled to the ground. But Tommy didn’t get up to retrieve it.

            “I just can’t focus on the rest of the world right now.” She frowned and rubbed her eyes. “It’s all too much to begin with but to think of…revolutions and-”

            “You think I’m mad then?” Tommy cracked a smile, drawing her eyes back to him.

            A light smile played on her lips but she shook her head. “No. I think you’re very well-intentioned. You always have been, always stand up for people who can’t stand up for themselves. I just think you have high hopes for the world.”

            He shrugged. “Maybe. But if no one else does, then we aren’t gonna solve anything.”  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

            Before work, Amelia would walk Finn and Ada to school. This way, Polly didn’t have to lug Finn along in the pram, instead, she could tend to him at home. She would hold Ada’s hand as they made their way down the grimy streets of Small Heath. Neighbors would greet them and sometimes other kids would tag along.

            John had a fondness for splashing in every puddle he could find and gawking at every car that might pass them by. He was taken by automobiles and always told Amelia that when he was older, he was going to have the biggest, fanciest, most expensive car ever made. She would just smile and nod. Who was she to tell him that people in Small Heath never scraped their way to the top? They were the forgotten ones of society. No one cared whether they had enough money to eat let alone enough money to ever own a car.

            “Daddy’s coming home for my birthday.” Ada chirped to Amelia one day on their way to school.

            “No, he’s not.” John retorted from a few steps ahead of them.

            “John,” Amelia said in a warning tone. The subject of Arthur sr. was very touchy, especially for the youngest of the Shelbys. Ada and certainly Finn didn’t understand why he wasn’t around. It was difficult enough losing a mother but losing a father so shortly after would be even more challenging. Amelia could have issues with her parents but she felt they weren’t comparable to what the Shelbys faced. Especially at such a young age.

            “Yes, he is, it’s my birthday and he has to come home.” Ada asserted.    

            “He didn’t come home for my birthday.” He turned to glare at his sister. “So why would he come for yours?”

            It didn’t take much to make Ada cry. Although the young girl was strong-willed and tried to be tough like her brothers, she had a sensitive heart.

            “John, apologize to your sister right now.” Amelia ordered.

            “For what?” He shot back in a bewildered voice. “M’just telling the truth, she’s acting like a baby!”

            Ada burst into tears and shoved past them both, running the last block to the schoolyard.

            “What an awful thing to say, I hope you say you're sorry.”

            John just kicked at a stray pebble on the street. “It’s the truth. Mum said we hafta tell the truth, so I did. Dad don’t care ‘bout any of us.” He shrugged and glanced the other way when a group of boys called his name. “She’ll forget by dinner, Mellie.” He promised and went to catch up with his friends.

            Amelia stood in the street watching the kids all heading to class. An awful feeling settled in her stomach when she realized what she was up against in the coming years. A child asking who their father was. Where he was. Why he wasn’t there. Would she take the brunt of the anger? Would her child blame her for their father being absent? It was just another thing to add to the pile of scenarios she had to worry about. One more thing added to the list.

Permanent Tag: @papa-geralt-of-cirilla @giftofdreams @biba3434 @kimmietea @karmezii @enrapturedbythemoon @vampgirl1997

Masterpost

PB Masterlist

[onisiondrama]

(Note: I’m not repeating stories he’s told before and just putting them in parenthesis. I have a lot more videos to go until I’m caught up so that would save me a lot of time. If he gives details I never heard from him before, I will type those.)

“The New Onision Conspiracy” prev. “Hitting Your Loved Ones Is Never Ok” Speaks, September 29?, 2020 (deleted)

- Says he got 6,000 - 7,000 new followers on Twitch during one stream. Allegedly, it’s from a streamer who was trying to say Onision beats his s/o. He thought it was about Shiloh (called the cops on Shiloh stories). - He found out over stream it was actually about a record or report from November 16, 2019 where someone said it sounded like there was domestic violence in his home. He says people don’t factor in that the police are often called on streamers and Youtubers. Internet people like to waste the money of tax payers and get Youtubers and streamers swatted or call animal control all the time. - Says he was told by a police officer someone called. At the time he thought it was about his pets because it happened so often. People from the internet called and would say they’re a neighbor to get the cops to come. - Anti-o is one of the most criminal and toxic community out there because they waste tax payer money and waste the time of the police, animal control, and CPS. - Someone tried to get him swatted, but it didn’t work. They released the audio. He never listened to it, but he was told it was really bad and embarrassing for the person who called. The person who picked up the call was intelligent and saw through that person right away. Emergency receptionists deal with a lot of imbeciles, like people asking for directions to Pizza Hut. - The pizza companies don’t like anti-o’s because they were pranked so many times. He asked them to put down his number and call him to confirm if he actually ordered a pizza because people would order meat lovers pizzas to his home. They tried to pointlessly kill animals and waste the pizza company’s time and money. The prank never worked because he would never take the pizza. - Lying is the go-to for people who want to be evil online. Sarah was reported as murdered and she answered the door. Kai was reported missing and Kai answered the door. - (He was reported to animal control for farting / muffin) - People create villainous legends about him online. If you watch his Twitch you’ll know he’s boring. He’s only entertaining in videos because he’s one of the best villainous actors out there. A director tried to put him in a loving role. The director asked him why he was so awkward and weird when he was brilliant in the other roles he gave him. He says it’s because he’ll the villain. He’s Loki, not Thor. He’s the guy that plays American Psycho, not Romeo from Romeo and Juliet. - Says people created a fictional universe where he’s a super manipulative intellectual who’s playing everyone. It’s an elaborate, nonsensical concept of him. You’d think the people who he kicked out of his life would say that’s ridiculous but they were kicked out for being liars. He’s actually quite virtuous. He has morals, standards, an overwhelming respect for the truth and justice. - He can be cold like L. He’d fit in the role of L. He hates playing Light Yagami. He always depicts L (I think he meant to say Light) as an idiot in his Death Note sketches because his motivations are stupid, he’s a criminal. He acts like a hero yet he’s killing people for disagreeing with him. - Says Thanos was an idiot too. [goes into detail about Thanos’ motivations] He should have doubled the size of the planets so he doesn’t have to kill everyone. He murdered countless individuals. - People tried to use a Leafy video as evidence against him to the police. Leafy recently wrote to him and said this was all r-worded. Keemstar also pointed out how stupid this all is. Neither of them like him, but they both had to deal with crazy anti-o. You’re all conspiracy theorists whack jobs. - (Hansen trespassed, Mike went to court) - Someone on twitter said he belongs in prison, but there was no crime. - All these people’s stories don’t line up. One person says he thinks he’s a god, another person says he’s a jerk, someone said he was rude to his husband. The consistency is he’s rude to people and you guys think that concludes a prison sentence. - People jumped to conclusions with Johnny Depp, but they flipped when they saw evidence of his girlfriend being awful. - He filmed himself walking in on Shiloh in the shower with a Go Pro. (He describes the sketch.) Says she was 18 or 19. He says it was a pretend prank. They also made a Taco Bell prank where they pretended to order in a drive thru when it was closed. He pretended to shave half of her head when she was sleeping. She told them to shave her head before the video. There was another prank where he said things like she’s not good enough at the end of the video. It’s what Youtubers do, it was fake drama. At the time you guys got it. The videos got 2,000 likes and 200 dislikes. Later on it’s out of context and people don’t understand the vibe. He threw candy corn at her and she pretended to be upset. They were dating and it was part of the joke. (He dumped Shiloh for cheating and getting pregnant story.) - If someone calls the cops on you, that doesn’t mean what they said is true. The person that called was not even a verified neighbor. - He has a hater that lives across the water. He filmed him bulldozing his weeds and made a huge thing online about it. [No. That guy worked for the fish and wildlife department in their county. He was literally doing his job. He saw a violation and reported it. He sent the video to the county when he reported it. People online got a hold of the video online because it was with the public reports on the site.] Says it was primarily blackberry bushes, nettles, and devil’s club that he cleared. Things that significantly hurt adults and children. Anti-os freaked out about it and his yard is literally better now than it’s ever been. People say he destroyed his land. What a bunch of numbskulls. - He recently did a poll on twitter and asked if he made a poll for legal expenses and after he collects it he says the majority will go to fixing his car, if that’s fraud. 80% said yes. An anti-o did that and it’s not fraud? He did another poll asking if he told someone he could destroy their life and they later asked him to sign an NDA and he told them only if they sleep with him, would that be rape? People voted 8/10 yes. Says that’s what Sarah did to him. - People used to show up to their debates and after would say they never really hated him. They were just being an entertainer or liking the attention he was getting them. You’re dealing with a bunch of liars. - He’s never found someone who talked about honesty as much as him and wound up being a liar. He swears on his own life that he’s an honest person. - He says he doesn’t need to talk about things like how he was crying when his daughter fell out of a window, but he’s trying to be transparent. - Says the domestic violence call thing obviously never happened. He and Kai are not violent. Shiloh was violent. She was hauled away for threatening to frame him for murder. Her ex said she threatened to put a bowie knife in him. (Shiloh stole his money story.) You guys hail that person a hero because you don’t care about reality. - He thinks possibly someone heard him making a meltdown video, but the only neighbor he’s near is cool with him. They text every few months about bears they saw. They invited him once to a BBQ. The hater across the water watched his with their camcorder zoomed in like a peeping Tom. 🙄 - Anti-os love breaking the law. You either die a hero or live long enough to become the villain. [I swear if I got $1 every time I listened to him saying that quote I’d be rich.] They think they’re heroes, but they hurt people like villains. If you’re self righteous and you hurt others because you think you’re above other people, you’re a villain.  - He’s hurt a lot of people’s feeling and made people cry because he rejected them or said what was true. A lot of people don’t like that. - He talked to Kai about all this today and he was amused. Kai was upstairs smiling and chuckling about it. - Comment section is still closed because he doesn’t want people to talk about conspiracy theories. He’s thinking about making a forum so his fans can talk about his videos.

[violetsystems]

#personal

The holidays are quiet if not a little more restful than usual.  I facetime’d my dad and his wife and talked to my mom on the phone.  Since I left my job way back in July I haven’t had much video contact with anybody.  Everybody is too busy baking banana bread on YouTube I guess to check in.  The final days of my employment had devolved into a virtual SCRUM twice a day led by myself on camera.  It was exhausting at times to lead but kept people focused.  That is when they bothered to show up.  One of my employees was off making music with my boss half the time I was trying to lead those discussions.  I’m beginning to sense a theme.  People saying they are there but not really.  Maybe the mic is muted.  Maybe you can’t see behind the screen.  All I know is the follow through lately with people is missing entirely.  I spent a good hour the last two days trying to decouple a credit card from my old job’s contact info.  I’m locked out of both the phone number and the email attached to the account.  I got the run around trying to provide a US passport to confirm my identity.  It was good enough to enter China alone.  The first call that ID was sufficient.  They had said they sent an email to follow through with the process to two different emails I provided.  The email never came most likely because neither had been tied to the account previously.  I called back on Christmas eve and suddenly the passport wasn’t good enough.  Neither was an expired driver’s license.  The woman actually asked me why I hadn’t renewed my driver’s license.  I told the truth.  My ex girlfriend stole my car.  That didn’t really help the situation.  I sent a passport photo to unlock my facebook but they never followed through.   I had an easier time unlocking my Fortnite account with it although that took a full week.  I ended having to call the police on Christmas eve to explore filing a report for fraud and identity theft.  The police officer on the phone pretty much gaslighted me at the end of the questioning.  “Nothing criminal.” he stated plainly.  I didn’t get mad.  I didn’t even complain.  I simply said Happy Holidays and hung up.  Much like I’ve hung up on the last twenty years of my life at this point.  Nobody seems to want to answer the video call.  The opening introduction if they did would be something like “What exactly have you done with my life?”  Maybe they’re afraid to confront the truth.  The media, the government, and even the police seem to not want to believe evidence that contradicts their narrative.  I guess you could throw up your hands and revolt.  But the holidays have been peaceful and quiet enough to simply roll my eyes and move on.  I’ve had years of failures to connect.  COVID has taught me a lot of things.  I heard the mantra in all the mandatory corporate webinars.  This pandemic has brought to light structural problems we were never aware of before.  Sexual harassment in the workplace.  Check.  Organizational corruption.  Check.  The fact everybody is full of bullshit and will just mute the mic and pretend it never happened.  Check.  People feel invincible behind a screen and think they know it all.  Check.  Now that we’re aware.  What do we do?  How do we move on with our life now that we have all this space?  How do I even care about participating in a broken process when I have no debt and fiscal maturity?  How can I go back to being the old me when I’ve been completely erased and conveniently forgot about?  Why would I even bother?  

Mostly I take the time with this process to make sure my identity is completely secure.  Which is why it’s not really fun to be locked out of twenty years of your own information in the form of an email account and forgotten about for six months.  But this is just the structural reality come to light.  Much like the rest of America is waking up to the reality of what greed really does to people.  That was my Christmas present this year aside from the coffee that never came and that Cyberpunk game that I don’t really have the time or the subpar computer setup to criticize.  I’m guilty of tricking myself into thinking people care about me.  I have statistical data from the last six months that proves otherwise.  I also have financial data that points to whatever hustle I have been hustling during that time has paid off and will continue to.  But I don’t really have an answer to anything.  I’m in the worst kind of limbo.  I don’t get the sense these days that I should even remotely worry until July.  Which is kind of like saying fuck you to the world for the next six months.  I spent the last six waking up from a nightmare.  The only times I look back is to clean up the mess.  And a Christmas Eve call to the police is kind of messy.  But the result is more of the same for me.  An extravagant “I told you so.”  I’ve been telling myself for awhile now a lot of things.  Some of them were kind of unbelievable.  Now those very dreams are all I really take comfort in.  The limbo I’m in is more pointed to the light at the end of the tunnel than the void.  But I can’t say the same for everybody else.  I work for myself for the time being.  It looks really nice on paper.  I can even pay myself if it fits into my organization’s financial outlook.  But none of this matters when you or your struggles don’t even exist to people other than to mock or judge it.  All the work we do to survive.  All the work we do to create art and to be beautiful in the face of chaos.  All of that is negated by a loud mouthed jerk who can bark you back into submission.  A mob of dumb ass fraudsters that talk over and mute any opposition without any warrant or merit.  The press follows this mentality pretty clearly.  Everybody has a hot take and a theory.   But nobody wants to sit down and listen to the culmination of lies spread about people and situations.  Everyone is too emotionally interested in sharing their recipe for banana bread to an invisible audience.  I guess I could be guilty of that too.  Except that I share actual human emotion and care with a community of people who pay attention week to week.  For a person like myself who has no real need to worry about money for the foreseeable future what’s the value of care and attention?  A lot.  I don’t feed myself with vapor or fake sentiments.  I take it all at base level as real as it gets.  You can’t build a future on speculation.  You can technically if you are in the stock market.  But risk is risk.  And money is money.  No one can be me at the end of the day.  Sometimes I can’t even prove I’m myself.  My mom reminded me I had to provide ten pieces of documentation to renew my passport ten years ago.  The reasoning was simple.  The government did not believe I existed.  No bullshit.  A decade later nothing really has changed.  I’ve been to Shanghai by myself and eaten McDonald’s.  I read all these Republicans talk about how you put your identity at risk just setting foot in that country.  

And yet when does the rhetoric and brainwashing fall flat on it’s face?  When you can’t pass economic stimulus to not only save your own people but the fragile stock market all this bullshit is built upon.  I could keep telling you I told you so.  Or I could save my own ass.  And largely I did without really owing much to this country whatsoever except taxes in Q1.  Taxes billionaires don’t have to pay because they offer us so much relevant employment and benefits that fit on their bottom line.  The real truth is that America would rather not face the truth.  It hasn’t for years.  It’s built on this kind of thing.  It always has been.  And the world gets bigger and the excuses get worse.  And so what does anyone expect a person like me to do after you openly admit that there’s nothing criminal going on here.  How does that sound when you’ve been treated openly like a criminal in so many unsettling ways that you just don’t want to participate in society anymore?  Not that anyone really asks me to participate.  They’re too busy signaling or whispering secret messages.  Is it suggestion or valid communication?  I’m the one that has to shift through it all and detangle the mess from what is real and what is some sort of mass hallucination.  An alternate reality hunger game that the rich have been playing for years without any punishment or oversight.  When you get caught up in the crossfire they expect you to know the drill.  Keep your mouth shut if you know what’s good for you.  None of this is good for me.  You could argue it made me the beast that I am.  But I am the one who had to actively make that choice to adapt and survive.  But I’m not like any normal person these days.  I refuse to admit it anymore.  They say the first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem.  I have a problem.  One that it seems I cannot fix.  And if you isolate and quarantine yourself from an entire twenty years of nostalgia what is left?  Where are the texts of merry xmas from yesteryear.  Probably pinging my old work number.  I can’t access my facebook.  Maybe that’s for the best.  I can’t shut down lines of credit until I renew my state ID.  I could jump on a plane and visit Shanghai Disney quicker than I could prove I’m alive to the US government.  And when does the constant gaslighting break down?  When do we realize that people gaslight to cover up an elaborate lie that has gotten out of control.  That we are not all in this together.  Not by a longshot.  That the problem of connectedness is right there in front of our faces.  We’re exhausted propping up entire infrastructures that keep a bloated empire alive.  Family fortunes built on opioids and war strewn out across the landscape in trusts and elaborate tax schemes.  Oligarchs that have generational wealth that buy our politicians and scam people into debt and forced labor.  This is America.  This is the systemic problem the pandemic brought to light.  This shit was built this way.  And like any fort constructed with shaky foundations, good luck hiding from the storm in that shit.  At least I can still access my Epic account.  What am I going to do for the next six months?  Complain about something I can’t fix because everybody wants to consider me part of the problem?  I don’t know what to do anymore except move forward and lead by example.  There’s enough quality people who follow to keep me warm with those thoughts through the holidays alone.  I won’t be drunk on a zoom call.  I’ll be in bed watching Wonder Woman or something.  When everyone you worshipped comes out of this looking fake, tired and exhausted you’ll know where to find me.  Unlocking more accounts tied to an identity that doesn’t exist anymore.  Nothing criminal.  Hopefully people will stop treating me like one eventually.  <3 Tim

[404fmdhaon]

creative claims verification — 살만해 

summary: it’s okay to live, and gyu works on a song for the course of many years since it changes / fluctuates based on his current state. emo era for gyu warnings: rough translations / shit writing. wc: 1807 (not including lyrics)

he forgets when it starts, but it becomes a repetition of his days — the same earbuds glued to his ears, tapping his feet against the back of the seat inside a van. knight’s schedule’s doesn’t cease, nor slow down. it just ramps up faster and quicker, and suddenly he realizes he’s six feet underneath the vast ocean drowning without anything to say to the world.

(not that anyone’s listening, nobody cares).

solace comes in xxx tentacion, the same beat parsed and spaced out drowning out the hours — he picks up x’s beats whenever the first scandal crawls from the cracks. an underage drinking scandal, and gyujeong smiles. the kind of joker laugh painting itself morbid when nostalgia inside of 2008 slams him straight on. it’s the feeling of life on edge when nobody cared and eyes weren’t constantly on the horizon waiting for another slip off where the crash of his misery would be fodder for thought.

tentacion gets him, nobody else does.

and that’s where inspiration draws itself when he’s now inside of the studio, no windows. just the keyboard in front of him and the blank screen — it’s black, and logic has never looked more tempting to throw out than now. ableton? but loyal ties dig deeper when he keeps back to what he’s known all along, logic.

the first iteration goes when he’s setting up the beginning inside the base snares and the gentle beats of the baseline — he tosses it out, sounds too much like x. he’s not a mockery nor a cheap knock off of anyone else when he’s called himself haon all along. (he tells himself, he’ll go back to the drums later).

because soul deep, his heart lies in the sounds of the pianos. put on full reverb, the settling strung along to sound off. electric keys, and it hits the first chord — presses down on the makeshift pedal so the notes soak into the silence like an ominous knowing. it strikes him center, dead in the clear — realizes finally, what he wanted all along was merely a slow moving bpm. the haze of songs floating, balancing in the background and what he craves is his own voice to be heard.

his life has never been summarized by his voice. not when he was a rich boy coaxing himself in roughening the edges out into an underground rap, and not now when his life becomes a crude mockery of who he sees himself as a person. his voice gets muffled by the calls of bc entertainment, shoving their sweaty palms full of money in front of his mouth — suffocation comes in a new form: it’s not being heard. gyujeong’s never heard when his voice gets trapped and force-fed the words to rap, and subjugated to shit when he becomes bait for public speculation. 

odd, uncanny. it’s the way the song paints itself as something bruised and blue. the way his own mirror reflection looked better, carved out to public consumption — yet, when his eyes rove, they see him beaten. pulverized to nothing. his body holds no more pride, and the poise he’s held onto on his shoulders all this time beaten to a bloody pulp. 

it’s the way his knees feel sore, scrubbed raw. folding himself over begging for a second saving grace when all he asks for is a morsel of chance — they deny him. they always do. and it’s the quiver in his knees that refuse to bow down any further, relegating him to something sub-human. 

his fingers feel like they’re trembling, when he starts recording. when the different filters don’t capture the essence of someone longing, yet too far gone to ruminate in past doubt. there’s a deep rooted melancholy in the song when he fixes the pitches of the echoes he wants hollowed out in the background. 

when he plays, it feels more like an ode played in an emptied church — gyujeong laughs, thinks he’s channeling more kanye than any other of tentacion he’s listen to. yet, it’s the piece of his own soul severed and pasted onto the track. it encloses him, keeps him close where he’s praying to an empty thought, for mercy never to be served. 

there’s no point in lost prayers, set aside to an empty void above. he’s given it up, uses music to stitch away the gaping wound — but even that has limitations. 

it’s the end of the night, he calls it early. a beat half-finished, he calls it his diary.

—

late at night morning calls for music shows all feel the same. the sound of the 2:30 am alarm call seizing him away (in hindsight, he hasn’t slept). 

he swings through the early mornings in easy steps. first, brushes his teeth. washes his face, eyelids heavy — he slips past the door with nothing more than a hoodie oversized (the one he fell asleep in), a beanie pressed, glasses askew and the bag thrown over his shoulder.

when he reaches the music studio, it’s the same waiting game. the room inundated with domino-effect yawns, his own included. the reference of the smack of his gum, popped when he knows sleep won’t be good to him for what he can manage. more so, he stamps his own time when he pulls out a notebook, pen. taps once more to the silence inside the room.

his phone lights on, and it’s three-thirty am — a drunken text or a sasaeng, he can’t figure it out yet.

yet, when the message lights up it’s clear it digs into his psyche: “야 살만해?” (is it worth living?) 

he scribbles it onto his paper, wonders what living’s like when he’s a puppet on strings, no longer giving way to the high thrill of his heart underground. it’s obvious by now, the whispers he’s heard behind the scenes in passing — the points and stares pegging him to the title of ‘bad’. hears every thing, lets it slide past with a wave of ambivalence.

but i heard a lot of ya’ll shit

he writes it in english. petty in the way he knows they won’t take it past face-value, so he backtracks. lets himself keep to what he knows when he wants to speak volumes to a crowd of ears that hear.

i’m gonna speak in korean now i’ll speak informally my honesty i don’t get what listening to my albums mean respect? look at the shit you ‘hyungs’ are doing albums that flopped and now you guys are going on tv to live, fans fight — you think it’s a hip hop diss

pathetic. desperate. pitiful — it’s all the same when he sees them all as the green-eyed monsters, hungry and starved using petty jabs to dig under his skin. respect? respect doesn’t come when he’s told by old ghosts of his past of how esteemed he is, parading the pretty boy on tv. a sell-out they call him, and he’ll be the first to call it right back.

narcissism is a bitch, fucking stupid when you swallow self-love whole in an attempt to save yourself. passive aggressiveness and gyujeong laughs — they can fuck the ground he walks on for all he cares. pretending to sulk in the pits of praise and people constantly showering in complements (he throws them the middle finger, hopes they all drown).

he relays the question back onto him — how’s it to live like that? 

and his response, incredulous. his pen digging deep into the paper backed by his knees — it moves when the reason is clear cut and they ask for a sole purpose of nothing. the air inside the pedestal he’s put on means nothing — not clear cut, not the idealizations of what they bitch about. it’s suffocating, narrows him into the bird-eye view of scrutiny. but morbid irony hits, and the second the voice sprawls out, he tells him the cold bite truth — they’ll get it when they’re dead.

is it worth living there? i’m just asking it’s the same but.. is the air not cloudy there? do people not wear masks there? is it suffocating up there? i’m just asking it must be different... but we’re the same you’ll get it when you die

he manages to scribble down the rest of the words before the call of the manager pulls him into hair and makeup — it doesn’t feel like lyrics, nor catharsis. more so, an escape when it feels like nobody’s around, nobody’s listening. it’s the reservations he holds, voicing the words he hates to say out loud. it breaks him apart more to see how they fill the blank piece of paper — a tease when he knows it’ll never be the words echoed to the public.

—

time passes quicker when knight’s at high demand — the group mates already thrown into solo endeavors and he rests. ruins himself inside bc’s basement where nothing more than the studio becomes his cemetery rather than the steeple to house hope. it’s the ashes buried of lost causes deep in the ground.

it’s rough the way he starts rapping into the mic. the texture of his voice that conflicts with the softness of the beat — he raps against the boundaries of what he couldn’t say, instead of staying afloat letting the echoes take over. he thinks maybe, this becomes the start to something until the cigarette balances between his lips and the playback of what he’s record him strikes his palms on the table and a fling of ashes into the empty coke can.

he takes it slower.

lets his voice glide in the chorus, singing instead of rapping. there’s tinges of melancholy that seep past each word, the way he clings on to the concept of ‘living at this level’ — perspective, he tells them it’s the same. grass is bigger on the other side when he’s stripped onto his own like wounded prey. suffocation has never felt more taxing, even further when his cries become nothing more than the empty cries of the privilege. 

by the time the second chorus comes around, he lets himself feel. lets the pitted anger collecting in the pit of his stomach come around by the time animosity festers inside his voice. yet, lost in translation. it doesn’t come across as angry or vengeful, no. it culminates into pity. hyungs tainted old, yet they become the mentality of people years younger. youthful ignorance, they’re nothing more than the starved for attention, begging the masses to eat them up. he figures, they’ll never understand. too naive, too farfetched in their insecurities they hide behind in when they’re guised in anonymity. 

then this becomes his swan song — no longer worried about what they think. he severs them from himself in the middle fingers up in the air. tethered by their own shackles for too long, he tosses his attention somewhere else and this becomes a farewell to his own ties.

loyalties don’t exist in this game. not when he’s picked apart himself and laid his own dignity to be trampled on — never a doormat, he plays the silent games of ticks on a clock. waits a beat for it to hit as he sits ten feet above, staring down. looking down, pity settling in the cracks of what they’ve formed below his feet. 

good bye and fuck you. 

(he doesn’t need them, has he even ever?)