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newstfionline · 4 years ago

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Wednesday, February 17, 2021

The winter storm (NYT) A sprawling storm dumped snow across much of the U.S., including areas that rarely get it. More than 6 inches fell on Austin, Texas—the most in 55 years. Millions of people are without electricity. The cold shattered longstanding records: Temperatures dropped to 17 degrees in Houston and to minus 38 degrees in Hibbing, Minn. At one point Monday, the Weather Service had winter storm warnings issued from Brownsville, Tex., along the U.S.-Mexico border to Caribou, Maine, a distance of more than 2,500 miles. Snow even accumulated on the beach in Galveston, a city where residents are far more accustomed to hurricanes than they are to wintry weather.

Millions endure record cold without power; at least 16 dead (AP) A winter storm that left millions without power in record-breaking cold weather claimed more lives Tuesday, including three people found dead after a tornado hit a seaside town in North Carolina and four family members who perished in a Houston-area house fire while using a fireplace to stay warm. The storm that overwhelmed power grids and immobilized the Southern Plains carried heavy snow and freezing rain into New England and the Deep South and left behind painfully low temperatures. Wind-chill warnings extended from Canada into Mexico. In all, at least 16 deaths were reported. The worst U.S. power outages were in Texas, affecting more than 4 million homes and businesses. More than 250,000 people also lost power across parts of Appalachia, and another quarter million were without electricity following an ice storm in northwest Oregon. Four million people lost power in Mexico. Utilities from Minnesota to Texas implemented rolling blackouts to ease the burden on power grids straining to meet the extreme demand for heat and electricity.

Pelosi says independent commission will examine Capitol riot (AP) House Speaker Nancy Pelosi said Monday that Congress will establish an independent, Sept. 11-style commission to look into the deadly insurrection that took place at the U.S. Capitol. Pelosi said the commission will “investigate and report on the facts and causes relating to the January 6, 2021, domestic terrorist attack upon the United States Capitol Complex … and relating to the interference with the peaceful transfer of power.” In a letter to Democratic colleagues, Pelosi said the House will also put forth supplemental spending to boost security at the Capitol. An independent commission along the lines of the one that investigated the Sept. 11 attacks would probably require legislation to create. That would elevate the investigation a step higher, offering a definitive government-backed accounting of events. Still, such a panel would pose risks of sharpening partisan divisions or overshadowing President Joe Biden’s legislative agenda.

Ambassador sweepstakes underway as figures jockey for plum posts (Washington Post) Harry M. Reid’s phone has been ringing a lot lately, with calls from interest groups, friends and potential candidates themselves, all craving one thing: an ambassadorship. The former Senate majority leader then picks up the phone and dials Steve Ricchetti, one of President Biden’s top advisers, who for months has been fielding requests for plum positions. “There’s very few political jobs that bring the dignity of being an ambassador for the United States to a country. It’s a very prestigious position,” Reid said. But he suggested the would-be envoys shouldn’t hold their breath: “I think with the impeachment going on and trying to get the Cabinet filled, I think people should be understanding that things are more important than the ambassadorship right now with the president.” It is a sweepstakes that comes along every four or eight years—intense jockeying in public and private as the well-heeled and well-connected seek coveted positions that come with lavish housing, a staff of chefs and an expectation that the U.S. envoy will put the digs to use for parties. With its mix of famous figures and exotic locales, the competition always attracts interest. But it is under more scrutiny than usual this year as Biden stresses his desire to repair international relationships that frayed under Trump, with ambassadors likely to play a key role in that effort.

A third party (Gallup) Americans’ desire for a third party has ticked up since last fall and now sits at a high in Gallup’s trend. Sixty-two percent of U.S. adults say the “parties do such a poor job representing the American people that a third party is needed,” an increase from 57% in September. Support for a third party has been elevated in recent years, including readings of 60% in 2013 and 2015 and 61% in 2017. Meanwhile, 33% of Americans believe the two major political parties are doing an adequate job representing the public, the smallest percentage expressing this view apart from the 26% reading in October 2013.

Kidnap capital Mexico eyes biometric phone registry, sparking privacy fears (Reuters) A plan by Mexican lawmakers to put millions of cell phone users’ data in a biometric registry, billed as a tool to fight kidnapping and extortion, has sparked a backlash from telecoms companies and rights groups who warn it could lead to stolen data and higher costs. Already approved in the lower house of Congress, the reform is in line with President Andres Lopez Obrador’s vow to counter crime using intelligence methods rather than force, but critics say it reveals the pitfalls of governments seeking to gather more citizen data for law enforcement purposes. Under the plan, America Movil, AT&T Inc and other carriers would be responsible for collecting customers’ data, including fingerprints or eye biometrics, to submit to a registry managed by Mexico’s telecoms regulator. But a telecoms industry group that counts some major companies as members warned in an open letter that the reform could increase phone theft as criminals look to get around the registry by stealing devices and could risk customers’ safety if personal data were misused.

As the virus crisis drags on, hard-hit French youth struggle (AP) On a recent evening, Leïla Ideddaim waited to receive a bag of food, along with hundreds of other French young people who are unable to make ends meet. She saw the chitchat that accompanied the handout as a welcome byproduct, given her intense isolation during the pandemic. The 21-year-old student in hotel and restaurant management has seen her plans turned upside down by the virus crisis. With restaurants and tourist sites shuttered and France under a 6 p.m. curfew, her career prospects are uncertain. Odd jobs that were supposed to keep her going during her studies are hard to come by. “I’m in a fog,” said Ideddaim, who moved to Paris last year and is now struggling to meet both her basic needs and her emotional ones. The pandemic has devastated economies the world over, pushing vulnerable people deeper into poverty or tipping some into it for the first time. In France, the economic fallout has weighed particularly heavily on young people—and their woes have only been compounded by disruptions to their studies and social interactions. Nearly a quarter of French young people can’t find work—two-and-a-half times the national unemployment rate and one of the highest in the European Union’s 27 nations. Many university students now rely on food aid and several organizations have rallied to meet the need.

Separatists grow majority in Catalonia despite Socialist win (AP) The pro-union Socialist Party claimed a narrow win in regional elections in Catalonia late Sunday, but the bloc of parties supporting secession by Spain’s northeastern corner widened their control of the regional parliament. The outcome confirms that pro-separatist sentiment has not waned despite the collective suffering of the COVID-19 pandemic and a frustrated secession bid in October 2017 that left several of its members in prison. Four years on, the wealthy region that has its own language spoken alongside Spanish remains divided down the middle by the secession question. However, it was not clear if the separatist parties would be able to overcome the in-fighting that has plagued their bloc since the dream of an easy breakaway from Spain proved elusive.

Moscow residents get the snow they longed for (Washington Post) The snow started falling late Thursday in Moscow, sticking to car windshields and hiding walking paths. By the time it was over on Sunday, parked cars were buried under heaps of snow. The weekend’s wintery blast was noteworthy even for the Russian capital. A year ago, as Moscow experienced its warmest winter in nearly 200 years of record keeping, Russians longed for the white covering that often makes January and February’s dark days appear brighter. This wallop caused more than 100 flights to be delayed or canceled as some residents traversed downtown in skis.

India arrests student activist (Foreign Policy) New Delhi police have arrested a 22-year-old activist for sedition after she shared and made edits to a document—a Google doc—shared by climate activist Greta Thunberg when she expressed her support for India’s farmer protests. The document provided background on the protests as well as providing advice on nonviolent actions to support the farmers. “The Indian state must be standing on very shaky foundations if Disha Ravi, a 22-year-old student of Mount Carmel college and a climate activist, has become a threat to the nation,” said P. Chidambaram of the opposition Indian National Congress.

India’s dramatic fall in virus cases leaves experts stumped (AP) When the coronavirus pandemic took hold in India, there were fears it would sink the fragile health system of the world’s second-most populous country. Infections climbed dramatically for months and at one point India looked like it might overtake the United States as the country with the highest case toll. But infections began to plummet in September, and now the country is reporting about 11,000 new cases a day, compared to a peak of nearly 100,000, leaving experts perplexed. India, like other countries, misses many infections, and there are questions about how it’s counting virus deaths. But the strain on the country’s hospitals has also declined in recent weeks, a further indication the virus’s spread is slowing. When recorded cases crossed 9 million in November, official figures showed nearly 90% of all critical care beds with ventilators in New Delhi were full. On Thursday, 16% of these beds were occupied.

Myanmar military guarantees new election; protesters block train services (Reuters) Myanmar’s military junta guaranteed on Tuesday that it would hold an election and hand over power, denied its ouster of an elected government was a coup or that its leaders were detained, and accused protesters of violence and intimidation. The junta’s defence of its Feb. 1 seizure of power and arrest of government leader Aug San Suu Kyi and others came as protesters again took to the streets and as China dismissed rumours spreading on social media that it had helped with the coup. As well as the demonstrations in towns and cities across the ethnically diverse country, a civil disobedience movement has brought strikes that are crippling many functions of government. The unrest has revived memories of bloody outbreaks of opposition to almost half a century of direct army rule that ended in 2011 when the military began a process of withdrawing from politics.

Defying Biden administration, Egypt again arrests relatives of Egyptian American activist (Washington Post) Egyptian security forces raided the homes of six relatives of an outspoken Egyptian American activist, arresting and imprisoning two cousins in defiance of calls by the Biden administration for the Egyptian government to improve its human rights record, rights advocates said Tuesday. The targeting of the relatives of Mohamed Soltan, a human rights defender based in Northern Virginia, marks the latest attempt by the government of President Abdel Fatah al-Sissi to silence its critics living abroad, according to political opponents of the former military chief. Sunday’s arrests came roughly three months after five of Soltan’s relatives were released from prison, days after Joe Biden won the presidency. They had been forcibly taken from their homes in June after Soltan filed a lawsuit in the United States against former Egyptian prime minister Hazem el-Beblawi for his role in inflicting torture on Soltan when he was imprisoned in Egypt. Biden highlighted the case during the presidential election campaign, tweeting that torturing Egyptian activists and “threatening their families is unacceptable.” He also warned of “no more blank checks for Trump’s ‘favorite dictator,’” referring to Sissi by a term that Trump once used for him. By going after Soltan’s relatives again, as well as the relatives of other foreign-based critics in recent days, the Sissi government appears to be challenging the Biden administration and its efforts to make human rights a foreign policy priority once again for the United States, activists and analysts said.

Zuma Risks Arrest After Defying South Africa Corruption Inquiry (NYT) Jacob Zuma, the former president of South Africa whose nearly decade-long tenure was tainted by breathtaking corruption scandals, refused to appear before an inquiry panel Monday, raising the possibility that he would be imprisoned for contempt. The panel’s leader, Deputy Chief Justice Raymond Zondo, said he was seeking an order from the Constitutional Court, the country’s highest court, that would “impose a term of imprisonment on Mr. Zuma.” Justice Zondo’s move catapulted the simmering theme of corruption during Mr. Zuma’s term, which lasted from 2009 to 2018, into a tense showdown over the accountability of the former president. His successor, Cyril Ramaphosa, has promised to purge the governing African National Congress of endemic problems of bribery and graft that have severely damaged its credibility in South Africa, one of the continent’s most important economic powerhouses. Mr. Zuma, 78, had been set to appear before the inquiry panel, the Commission on State Capture, starting Monday for a week of testimony about his role in the corruption. The former president sent a letter from his lawyers instead, arguing that he was not legally bound to appear.

#headlines #news

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gascon-en-exil · 5 years ago

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Joining the Game Late: S8E6 “The Iron Throne”

Synopsis

Tyrion surveys the damage and finds his siblings, while Jon almost fights Grey Worm over executions. Arya and Jon are in the crowd as Daenerys gives her victory speech and Tyrion gets arrested for throwing away his pin. Tyrion goads Jon into growing a spine; he sort of does. Daenerys lives out her Season 2 vision and expounds upon her philosophy of conquest before Jon stabs her (not like that) and Drogon burns the symbolism...but not Jon for some reason. A tense trial at the Dragonpit, with Edmure still being a dumbass and a bid for democracy from Sam that goes over poorly. The man on trial nominates Bran as the new king which everyone accepts because he monologued a good thesis statement for the show, except Sansa who makes the North independent. For their crimes Tyrion is still Hand, and Jon is sent back to the Night’s Watch. Grey Worm, his antagonism ignored, sails to Naath, while Arya sails west off the map and Brienne finishes Jaime’s entry. The new small council features Sam dropping the book series title, Bronn arguing over the necessity of rebuilding brothels, and Davos completing a very old brick joke. Jon comes home to Tormund, and the two of them and Ghost lead the Free Folk north of the Wall as Sansa and Arya join them via cuts for a Stark ending.

Commentary

There are parts of this ending that I like. I like that the episode concludes with the Starks; uninterested as I generally have been in the family as primary PoV characters, it’s thematically appropriately to close out on the ongoing adventures of Jon, Sansa, and Arya. I like that Jon/Tormund is less of a joke than I was expecting, that Tormund features prominently in Jon’s final scenes and that the show sends them off as a sort of family unit along with Ghost and the remaining Free Folk. I like Brienne’s addition to Jaime’s entry in the book of the Kingsguard, highlighting his heroism while also remaining honest about his final decision...and delicately leaving out the incest, or her own fling with the man for that matter. It’s sterilized, and yet not wholly so, a fitting way to end the story of such a morally complicated figure whose very existence in the narrative seems to hinge on a deconstruction of the knight in shining armor archetype. I like the realization of Dany’s vision at the end of Season 2, a tacit understanding by the showrunners that they (and GRRM advising them) knew they were eventually going to get to that image of the Iron Throne in a ruined Red Keep covered in snow. I like that the show doesn’t belabor the “where are they now” aspect of the epilogue, that not everything is perfect and tidily wrapped up even if most of what isn’t is left unmentioned offscreen. It reminds me very much of most Fire Emblem endings, in the sense that a true happy ending remains elusive and there are always challenges left to face and tales remaining to be told. This isn’t Lord of the Rings, concluding when a fat and allegedly relatable guy named Samwell plops down a book (for the most part not written by him) bearing the title of the work in-universe as if to say that that’s the end of that and everything will sort itself out, nor is it Harry Potter with its treacly epilogue pairing everyone off into neat heterosexual marriages with 2.5 children and middle-class comfort. The story will continue, and you can place bets on how many decades of peace Westeros will have before there’s another continental war and a bunch of these characters get violently offed like the generation before them.

There are parts of this ending that I can abide. I’ve reconciled myself to the indignity of Bronn taking Highgarden by seeing in him a type of character like Thénardier from Les Misérables. Both of them are amoral, avaricious assholes despite occasional entertaining moments, and despite that their stories reward them not only with survival but with wealth and notoriety far beyond what they deserve purely as a demonstration that life is often unfair like that. Perhaps Bronn’s lordship of the setting equivalent of Paris was an explicit nod to that? I don’t mind the council at the Dragonpit laughing outright at Sam’s suggestion - transparent as it was coming from the author’s self-insert - of elective democracy, because much like FE the pseudo-medieval stasis this setting is locked into is not realistically equipped to handle such a revolutionary political shift, much less competently depict it in around half an hour of remaining screentime. I can bear the overt allusions to fascist regimes in Daenerys’s victory speech scene, because if you’re going to pivot her from liberator with worrying violent tendencies to tyrannical conqueror hard enough to make it reasonably justifiable that the show’s two most prominent remaining “good” guys would conspire to assassinate her with only that one scene to do it in you may as well go all out with the shorthand. Drogon not roasting Jon is stupid, but melting the Iron Throne is a great symbolic image: destroying all the ruin and strife it represents, coming full circle with the Targaryen reign over Westeros, and so forth.

And then there’s one part of this ending that’s really hard for me to swallow, particularly as Fire Emblem: Three Houses presents a variation of the same scene with much better execution. As this episode aired only about three months before the release of FE16 the similarities between Daenerys’s death and the final cutscene of Azure Moon can be nothing more than an interesting coincidence, but as you’d be hard-pressed to argue that Edelgard did not take some design cues from Daenerys - and to a lesser extent Dimitri from Jon - during the game’s development it’s a useful coincidence for contrast purposes. I mentioned a few posts ago that most of the uncomfortable elements present in Dany’s death are absent in Edelgard’s; she and Dimitri are not sexually involved at any point, and the game focuses instead on their familial bond even though (ironically) they are not biologically related. Dimitri also kills Edelgard in self-defense, after he reaches out his hand to her and she responds by throwing a dagger at him - which is considerably less awful than Jon leading Daenerys into a kiss just so he can stab her. Three Houses also benefits in that Dimitri is a far better realized character overall than Jon Snow, with a clearly defined arc in Azure Moon, meaningful convictions that place him at odds with Edelgard on both a personal and philosophical level, and even a stronger queer angle - also with a bear belonging to a historically marginalized culture/ethnicity, humorously enough. Jon by contrast feels at this stage mostly formless, with nothing strongly defining him (barring perhaps his affection for the Free Folk, which is what he returns to when everything is said and done) and in fact a repeatedly reference lack of desire to do things. Little wonder then that his decision to kill Daenerys comes more or less entirely because Tyrion told him she was the final boss and had to be taken care of.

Regarding Dany herself...if you’ve been following this liveblog the whole way through you know that I’ve been watching her character since the show began for signs that she’d wind up where she does. Yes, they are there, quite in abundance actually, and where the show stumbles comes of course from how terrible paced the story is by the time it reaches her breaking point. The audience has to make do with some of the most obvious fascist signposting imaginable and a single nonsensical speech to Jon (something else she has in common with Edelgard incidentally, who has many of these) revealing Daenerys to be the egomaniacal conqueror she always was with no subtlety whatsoever because the show has run out of time for subtlety. To this episode’s credit I do appreciate that Grey Worm continues to stick around as a foil and reflection of Daenerys. His rage over Missandei’s death sees him executing captured Lannister soldiers en masse, and he continues to demand justice for Tyrion’s betrayal even though after this point the writers stopped caring about him and shipped him off to Naath for an ending (where I am told there are plague-bearing butterflies? That doesn’t bode well.). In Grey Worm one can see a version of Daenerys’s own anger at all that she has suffered and lost, and how destructive that anger can be - only Grey Worm doesn’t have a dragon that can charbroil a city in minutes. Still, these are mere scraps of characterization to set up such a drastic shift in presentation for one of the show’s two biggest leads, and I can definitely understand why fans were angry about it and probably still are. Even as someone who was expecting this all along and was never personally invested in Daenerys the way I was with some other characters, her death - the centerpiece of this episode, and the lead-in to GoT’s epilogue - was easily the biggest sour note of its finale, less that it happened at all and more how, and probably the single event in the last two-ish seasons that more than any other really needs the book series to flesh it out and develop it into something worthwhile.

I think that’s a wrap. I’ve spent nearly four months on this liveblog and have written far more than I possibly imagined that I would. Maybe sometime in a year or so I’ll return to this series again and just watch it through without taking notes. Perhaps I’m in a minority for believing that GoT would even be worth a rewatch. Eh...if you’ve read all this at least you know why.

#Game of Thrones #GoT

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schraubd · 5 years ago

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British Jews Should Announce They Can't Support Corbyn--or Johnson

This was a piece I initially wrote for publication outside of the blog. It had a tumultuous journey, including being accepted in one newspaper before the editor withdrew the offer an hour later. Most recently, it spent two weeks in limbo after the editor who was considering it solicited the draft ... then immediately went on vacation for a week. When he returned, he promised to get to it "first thing Monday". I never heard from him again. Anyway, the election is tomorrow and there's still no sign that he will get back to me, so you're getting the piece here. It's slightly less timely than I'd like -- though much more timely than if I posted it after election day. * * *

Earlier this month, The Guardian published a letter from twenty-four prominent non-Jewish figures, publicly declaring that they could not support Labour in the next election due to the raging antisemitism that has enveloped the party under Jeremy Corbyn’s leadership.

For the UK’s beleaguered Jewish community, it was a taste of that elusive elixir: solidarity. The knowledge that Jews do not stand alone, that we do have allies, that there are people who will not stand idly by and do nothing as this wave of antisemitism comes bearing down. That the letter’s signatories included figures like Islamophobia watchdog Fiyaz Mughal, who is intimately and painfully aware of the direct dangers a Tory government would do to him and his community, only makes it more powerful. In a very real sense, this is what it means to have true allies.

These past few years have been rough on British Jews, but if there is a silver lining, it is in moments like these: the public witnessing of all those who remain willing to plant their banner and fight antisemitism. The statements of resignation from persons who no longer can associate with a party that has become a force for hatred against the nation’s Jews. The figures—some Jewish (like MP Ruth Smeeth), some not (like London Mayor Sadiq Khan)—still bravely resisting antisemitism from within the party.

And there is grim satisfaction to be taken in Corbyn’s almost comically-high public disapproval ratings—which have reached upwards of 75% in some polls. For this, too, is at least in part a public and visceral repudiation of the brand of antisemitism Corbyn has come to represent.

Yet it is the ironic misery of the Jewish fate that we cannot even take unmediated satisfaction in those rejecting Labour antisemitism. Why? Well, because of the primary alternative to Labour: the Conservative Party, led by Boris Johnson.

The Tories have their own antisemitism problems, although—and as a liberal it pains me to say this—they pale in comparison to those afflicting Labour, at least today. And for me, I’ve probably written more on Labour antisemitism than I have on any other social problem outside of America or Israel.

But if the Tories are not today as antisemitic as is Labour, where the Tories can be aptly compared to Labour is along the axis of racism, Islamophobia and xenophobia. It is fair to say that on those issues, the Conservative Party is institutionally xenophobic in a manner that is on par with Labour’s own institutional antisemitism. Or put differently: Boris Johnson is to Muslims, Blacks, and Asians what Jeremy Corbyn is to Jews.

This is hardly unknown, and the latent nativism of the Conservative Party’s Brexit policy is only the tip of the iceberg. We saw the ugliness of Conservative racism in the Windrush Scandal, where Afro-Caribbean British citizens were harassed, detained, and even deported as part of the Tories’ pledge to create a “hostile environment” for undesired immigrants in the country (notwithstanding the fact that the Windrush Generation consisted of natural-born British subjects). We saw it in the game efforts by Muslim Conservative politicians to draw attention to festering Islamophobia amongst Tory candidates and politicians, and the grinding resistance of the Conservative political leadership to seriously investigate the issue—surely, this resonates with Labour’s own kicking-and-screaming approach to rooting out antisemitism inside its own ranks.

And—like with Corbyn’s Labour party—Tory xenophobia starts right at the top. In 2018, Boris Johnson was slurring Muslim women in Europe as “letter boxes”. Advocates at that time urged then-Prime Minister Theresa May to withdraw Johnson’s whip. She declined. Now he’s Prime Minister. In the meantime, Islamophobic instances in the country surged 375%.

There is a terrible commonality here: the legitimate fears Jews have about a Corbyn-led British government are mirrored by the equally legitimate worries BAMEs (Blacks, Asians, and Minority Ethnics) about the prospect of another term of Conservative rule.

To be clear: the Jewish community has not endorsed these Conservative predations. They are overwhelmingly opposed to Brexit. They have spoken out and stood out against racism, Islamophobia, and xenophobia, and have done so consistently.

But there is another step that has not yet been taken. The Jewish community might return solidarity with solidarity, and write their own letter announcing that they cannot sanction voting for Labour—or the Tories. Twenty-four Jewish luminaries, each pledging that just as Labour’s antisemitism means that they cannot support Labour, Conservative racism and xenophobia preclude them from backing the Tories.

The UK, after all, is not a complete two-party system, and in many constituencies there are very live options that extend beyond Labour and Tory. The resurgent Liberal Democrats, for one, bolstered by refugees repelled by Labour antisemitism or Conservative xenophobia and showing renewed strength particularly in marginal constituencies where Labour is flagging. Regionally, the SNP or Plaid Cymru also are often competitive. Even the Greens, in some locales, are a viable option.

None of these parties are perfect. One does not need to search far to find instances of antisemitism in these other parties, for example, and the Liberal Democrats still have trust to re-earn following their disastrous stint as junior coalition partners to the Tories less than a decade ago.

But imperfections notwithstanding, none of these parties has completely caved to gutter populism in the way that both Labour and Tory have. They are cosmopolitan in orientation. They have faced antisemitism and other forms of prejudice, but they’ve responded decisively to it. They are not perfect, but they are viable choices, in a way that neither the Tories nor Labour can at this point claim to be.

And yet, still this companion letter—rejecting Conservative hatred with the same public moral clarity as The Guardian writers rejected Labour hatred—hasn’t been written. As much as many dislike Conservative politics, as much as many loathe Boris Johnson and the insular nativism he stands for—we have not forthrightly declared that the bigotry of his party is of equal moral weight and equal moral impermissibility at the bigotry of Corbyn’s party. We have not insisted that both be rejected.

Responding to the argument that Labour antisemitism had to be overlooked because of the pressing necessity of avoiding the disasters of a Tory government, the Guardian letter writers asked “Which other community’s concerns are disposable in this way? Who would be next?”

One could perhaps forgive the Windrush Generation for taking a tentative step forward in reply.

So again: why hasn’t that companion letter been written? Why hasn’t there been the declaration that the Windrushers, the migrants, the Muslims—that these community’s concerns are indispensable in the exact same way that the Jewish community’s concerns should (but often are not) be viewed as indispensable? Why has the wonderful solidarity demonstrated by the Guardian letter not been returned in kind?

The most common answer is that as terrible as Johnson is and as repulsive as Tory policies are, only a Conservative majority can guarantee that Corbyn will not become Prime Minister. Even the LibDems might ultimately elect to coalition with Labour if together they’d form a majority (ironically, many left-wing voters who dislike Corbyn but loathe Johnson express the same worry in reverse to explain why they can’t vote LibDem—they’re convinced that Jo Swinson would instead cut a deal to preserve a Conservative majority). As terrible as Johnson is, stopping Corbyn has to be the number one priority for British Jews. And a vote for anyone but the Tory candidates is, ultimately, a vote for Jeremy Corbyn.

Jewish voters who act under this logic, they would say, are by no means endorsing Brexit, which they detest, or xenophobia, which they abhor. They hate these things, genuinely and sincerely. But their hand has been forced. In this moment, they have to look out for Number One.

I understand this logic. I understand why some Jews might believe that in this moment, we cannot spare the luxury of thinking of others.

I understand it. But it is, ultimately, spectacularly short-sighted.

To begin, if we accept that British Jews are justified in voting Tory because we are justified looking out for our own existential self-preservation, then we have to accept that non-Jewish minorities are similarly justified in voting Labour in pursuit of their own communal security and safety. We cannot simultaneously say that our vote for the Tories cannot be construed as an endorsement of Conservative xenophobia but their vote for Labour represents tacit approval of Corbynista antisemitism. Maybe both groups feel their hands are tied; trapped between a bad option and a disastrous one. And so we get one letter from the Chief Rabbi, excoriating Jeremy Corbyn as an “unfit” leader, and another competing letter from the Muslim Council of Britain, bemoaning Conservatives open tolerance of Islamophobia.

But if the Jews reluctantly vote Conservative “in our self-interest” and BAME citizens reluctantly vote Labour “in their self-interest”—well, there are a lot more BAME voters in Britain than there are Jewish voters. So the result would be a massive net gain for Labour. Some pursuit of self-interest.

Meanwhile, those Brits who are neither Jewish nor members of any other minority group are given no guidance by this approach. There is no particular reason, after all, for why they should favor ameliorating Jewish fears of antisemitism over BAME fears of xenophobia. From their vantage point, these issues effectively cancel out, and they are freed to vote without regard to caring about either antisemitism or Islamophobia. At the very moment where these issues have been foregrounded in the British public imagination in an unprecedented way, insisting upon the primacy of pure self-interest would ensure that this attention would be squandered and rendered moot.

Of course, all this does not even contemplate the horrible dilemma imposed upon those persons who are both Jewish and BAME—the Afro-Caribbean Jew, for instance. They are truly being torn asunder, told that no matter how they vote they will be betraying a part of their whole self.

And finally, whatever we can say about the status of Tory antisemitism today, painful experience demonstrates that tides of xenophobia, nativism, and illiberal nationalism reflected in the Conservative Party will always eventually swallow Jews as well. That day will come, and if history is any guide it will come quickly. Jews should think twice and thrice before contemplating giving any succor to that brand of politics, no matter what seductive gestures it makes at us today.

So no—it will not do for Jews to back the Tories out of “self-interest”, for doing so will ultimately fail even in protecting ourselves. Ultimately, the reason that Jews should clearly and vocally reject both Labour and Tory is not sentimentality, but solidarity—solidarity in its truest and most robust sense. There simply are not enough Jews in the United Kingdom to make going it alone a viable strategy. We need allies, and so we need to find a way to respond to the reality of Labour antisemitism in a way that binds us closer to our allies rather than atomizing us apart. The solidarity they showed us must be reciprocated in kind.

If there is one theme I have heard over and over again from UK Jews, it is the fear of becoming “politically homeless”: unable to stomach voting for Tory nativism, unable to countenance backing Labour antisemitism.

But as The Guardian letter demonstrated, Jews still have friends, and allies, and people who will have our backs no matter what. And if you’ve got friends, allies, and people who have your back, what do you do if you’re worried about homelessness?

I’d say, you start building a new house—one with room enough for all of us.

via The Debate Link https://ift.tt/2PcPNkz

#anti-semitism #Boris Johnson #Islamophobia #Jeremy Corbyn #Jews #racism #United Kingdom

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antilagardelle · 5 years ago

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Wrote this when I got bored:

A Brief History Of The German Monarchs Part I: From Luis II To The End Of The Habsburgs.(Some of the facts her may be slightly off as it is still a work in progress)

In order that justice be done to a summary of German monarchs, elaboration is first required on German geographical history, and in what manner this influences our summary. At some juncture in the habit of summarizing regal lineages it becomes imperative to note that such monarchical titles as “The King Of England,” or “The King Of Germany,” essentially mean different things at different times, territorially speaking. What is now known as Germany includes territories which were not always Germany, and excludes territories which may at other times have been Germany. Such can be said of all known nations. Indeed the point at which our summary begins would know Germany by an entirely different appellation: East Francia. Others may have chosen to commence with the genesis of The Holy Roman Empire, but that precise date being ascribed among historians to two separate occasions--the one being Charlemagne’s coronation by Pope Leo I in 800, and the other Otto I’s assumption to the throne in 962--it would appear more prudent to neglect the title until further notice.

Thus the summary of German monarchs begins with the division of The Carolingian Empire by The Treaty Of Verdun into West Francia, Middle Francia, and East Francia. The latter most of these we now know as Germany, and Luis II(A.K.A Luis The German), grandson of Charlemagne became its first ruler commencing the Carolingian Dynasty. Luis II had three sons each who took the throne in order from eldest to youngest. First Carloman, then Luis The Younger(A.K.A. Luis III), and finally Charles The Fat. Charles The Fat is ousted by Arnulf Of Carinthia who is then succeeded by his son Louis The Child(A.K.A. Louis The IV) despite his only being six years of age. Louis The Child dies no older than eighteen ending The Carolingian Dynasty. The nobility then elects Conrad I to the throne commencing the Conradine Dynasty of which, quite comically, he is the only member. Conrad I appoints Henry I(A.K.A. Henry The Fowler) as his successor in his will. Henry I was the first king of Saxon blood, and sometimes receives the title of the first king of The Ottonian Dynasty, though sometimes this title goes to his son Otto I. Between the rule of Henry I, and Otto I, an elusive character named Arnulf The Bad is said to have assayed seizure of the throne from Henry I. To what level of success is unclear but that if any the seizure was ephemeral.

Otto I(A.K.A. Otto The Great) succeeds his father in 962, at which point, notwithstanding how indefinite the exact date of The Holy Roman Empire’s establishment may be, it is certain that Otto I’s domain, being the precursor to Germany, would receive from all historians the title of Holy Roman Empire without dispute. Otto I’s son, Otto II succeeds his father’s office as Holy Roman Emperor in 973, to be succeeded by his son Otto III a decade later. Otto III’s second cousin Henry II(A.K.A. Henry The Holy, or Saint Henry The Exuberant) assumes the throne upon his death. Conrad II is elected to the throne by the German Princes collectively after Henry II dies with no heir thus actuating the Salian dynasty. Conrad II’s son Henry III assumes the throne in 1046 to then bestow his hegemony in 1056 to his son Henry IV upon his death.

Our summary here meets complication requiring two separate facts to be imparted: The first is that Henry IV’s reign was largely marked by an event known as The Investiture Controversy; and the second is that The Holy Roman Empire is something more of a loose term denoting more an ethnic, and cultural aggregate than a clearly defined empire, which consisted of three principal sub-kingdoms: The Kingdom Of Germany, The Kingdom Of Italy, The Kingdom Of Burgundy, (and The Kingdom Of Bohemia starting in 1198). We shall start by addressing the former of these facts and repair to the latter momentarily.

The Investiture Controversy was essentially a conflict between Henry IV and Pope Gregory VII as to whose power it was to appoint bishops. What must be known of it specifically insofar as our project is at heart a litany of title holders, is that two vague individuals are understood as having been elected in its midst to the station of “Anti-King,” by a group of nobles in defiance of Henry IV. First Rudolf Of Rheinfelden in 1077, then Hermann Of Salm in 1081. This office, however, was the much more de jure than de facto so as to eliminate their ever truly being considered The King Of Germany, or Holy Roman Emperor.

Concerning the second of these cardinal facts it is pivotal to understand that, while the aforementioned sub-kingdoms never went without rulers respectively, their unifying office of Holy Roman Emperor occasioned to see vacancies several years long. That is to say, the kingdoms remained operative with no apparent stadholder as it were. Judging, therefore, that our summary is one of German monarchs, we are to follow the sovereigns of the specific sub-kingdom of Germany through its periods with and without this unilateral figure. The predicament of the empire was such from 1105 to 1111, when, on the one hand, Henry IV was forced to abdicate by his son Henry V, and, on the other, when Henry V actually assumed the title of Holy Roman Emperor, despite his having been The King Of Germany the whole time in between. (although this hiatus is not so significant as The Great Interregnum of 1250 soon to be addressed).

After the death of Henry V in 1125, Lothair Of Supplinburg(A.K.A Lothair II) was elected as King Of Germany, and was crowned Holy Roman Emperor in 1133, being the first and only member of The Supplinburger Dynasty. The Hohenstaufen dynasty followed his rule with the election of Conrad III as king, who was succeeded by none other than the famous Frederick Barbarossa, his nephew. Frederick Barbarossa (A.K.A. Frederick I) was succeeded by his son Henry VI, who in turn was succeeded by his brother Philip Of Swabia.

There had been a consistent vye for the kingship between the Hohenstaufens and The Welfs (the latter of whom ruled over much of north and west germany as dukes and duchesses) manifesting most famously in a feud between the above mentioned Barbarossa and his cousin Henry The Lion. Notwithstanding Barbarossa’s having won the feud, its sentiment and ramifications did not end in his generation. Upon the death of Henry VI, Philip Of Swabia found his position as King Of Germany beleaguered by a rival king named Otto IV, son of Henry The Lion. After the space of a decade it should have been to the Hohenstaufen’s chagrin that Otto IV emerged victorious in this dispute in 1209, thenceforth being crowned Holy Roman Emperor until his forced abdication in 1215.

Naturally this chagrin of The Hohenstaufen’s would need not long endure, as it was Frederick II himself, son of Henry VI, (and not to be confounded with the enlightened absolutist Frederick II Of Prussia), who essentially forced this very abdication, rendering Otto IV the only member of the Welf dynasty. It is rather our own chagrin that we must here encounter, as the rival kings, and disputed claimants do not stop here. Instead they supply for us an even longer train of convoluted events to dissect.

Frederick II’s younger son Henry VII ruled as King Of Germany but with his father serving as something of his regent. Frederick II later deposed Henry VII due to a conflict between them, and appointed his half-brother Conrad IV in his stead. Frederick delegated Henry Rapse Of Thuringia to serve as conrad’s regent, but upon Pope Innocent IV declaring Conrad deposed, Henry Raspe supported this verdict in turn being elected as Anti-king in 1246. This election was somewhat meaningless, but gained much potency in 1250 when Frederick II, having theretofore been widely acclaimed as Holy Roman Emperor, and in effect The King Of Germany, passed away. This rendered Henry Raspe, and Conrad IV each just as much king as the other. For this reason 1250 marks the beginning of what is known as The Great Interregnum.

#history #germany #deutschland #detusch #sociology #politics #german politics #deutsch politics #politik #regicide #monarchy #constitutions #human behavior #human nature #medieval history #medieval europe #religion

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talesofwight · 5 years ago

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The Roving Wanderer and the Shining Stone

((Okay I’mma be real here, I started out to write the story about how Ruff got his gunblade and just GNB-boi in general, also introducing the Hrothgar I created for the story. So all was well and good. Then I realised I had written a 6000-odd word origin story. And I’m sure nobody really is gonna read that expect a few dedicated good beans but I’m still gonna post it, all but one paragraph under the cut.))

Darkness was all around him. Deep, murky and impenetrable. He heard voices cackle in maddening rounds permeating the inky void. He swore he saw hands made of coalesced smoke reach out and try to grab him. He tried to scream and resist the encroaching abyss, but every time he opened his mouth to do so, little more than a wheeze trickled out, as if his lungs were being forced not to move. He could do nothing, and he felt so alone. So alone...

His eyes snapped open suddenly, his body lurching into a sitting position with a breathless gasp as he surveyed his surroundings in a haze of panic, his right hand blearily clutching for the hilt of his sword laying nearby. Only the sound of rushing blood filled his ears until his conscious mind became more aware. He looked around again; it was still dark out. The small outcropping of rock he had camped under served him well as the rain fell about it. His campfire was fading. He must have been asleep for several hours -- dawn would soon be upon him. Not soon enough. He thought, rubbing his eyes slowly with his thumb and forefinger on his right hand. Directing a final glance into the baleful night beyond the reach of the fire, he let out a quiet sigh and lay back down upon the rocky ground he had been sleeping on. It was far from the familiar comfort of his feathered bed, but it was not all that unpleasant either. He closed his eyes and slowed his breath, as he fell into the last vestiges of slumber he could before the light stole over the land.

How long now had he been on the road? Time was elusive on trips such as these, and often they mattered little to him in the grand scheme. It wasn’t as though he yet had business remaining back in Eorzea that needed attending. Things had become quiet in his life in the wake of his last formal outing. A conspiracy here, a greater voidsent there, and a fight for his life later, and Rufus had been changed greatly in the space of only a short time. His body became thin and frail, his mind called back to painful memories, and his spirit was... something. Not even he fully understood what had become of him in that regard. Often, he thought of that part of him that existed both within and without simultaneously. Since that fateful day, he no longer heard the voice of his inner darkness given form. No longer felt its encompassing and oddly peaceful presence. It felt as though he was missing a part of him, as well as a dear friend -- or something more. It took many long months to recover from the ordeal, and not even fully at that.

The weather turned gradually colder the more he headed in a northerly direction. It was fairly difficult to get lost, as Rufus had elected to roughly follow the coastline of the Northern Empty on his sojourn. To his mind, it was far enough west of Garlemald not to be bothered by much in the way of Imperial patrols. And to his credit, thus far he had seen none of the would-be conquerors, even in the provincial settlements he passed near but rarely through. He had heard tales on the road however of rebellions cropping up in myriad places since the reclamation of both Doma and Ala Mhigo. He had even rejoiced some upon the proclamation of the latter. He was quite sure his father’s soul - wherever it had ended up - was thrilled for that bit of news too.

As it was, Rufus was content to keep to himself on his wanderings. The explorer’s spirit within him was thrilled to finally be exploring a new place. Even one with as many troubles as Ilsabard was currently dealing with. With each river he saw, every mountain, every valley, and every grassy hillock, he felt a little livelier in his steps, even as his weakened body demanded he rest far more often than he would have liked. He elected to see these periods of rest as a blessing in disguise, using the restful moments to forage for food. His compact fishing rod turned out to be his journey’s saving grace and the reason he could avoid towns for so long, save to refresh his water supply. And even those trips were short-lived at best. He simply chalked it down to outsiders being not entirely welcome in such places, especially at such pivotal times in the region’s history, though they had been courteous enough when it came to the exchange of coin.

What started as days quickly became a sennight. After the second sennight he soon enough lost count of the passage of time. On one of his many rests by a flowing freshwater brook, he happened to catch a glimpse of himself in the reflection of the rushing waters and noted his altogether scruffy appearance. His hair was shaggy and unkempt, and his jaw was covered in a patch of beard growth that was not unsubstantial. The look of a roving wanderer... He mused to himself, setting off after he had rested and drunk from his waterskin. The rain from the early morning had all but dissipated at this point and the sun was streaking through gaps in the grey clouds. It was around noon time by Rufus’s reckoning. He plucked a handful of berries from a pouch on his belt and snacked on them as he stood up and headed onward, ever with the coast in his line of sight. He was grateful for the sunlight, for what little warmth it offered in the increasingly frigid locales he found himself in. He would have to stop at a town soon and see if he could not buy himself a thick coat to ward off the worst of the chill. If not, try to hunt an animal and bring the pelt to a leatherworker to have one made. “Doubt I’ll get very far on hunting, armed with a sword and a few throwing knives.” He uttered as he strode, unaware he was talking to nobody. Much had changed in the moons prior to this day.

The next day taxed Rufus more than he could anticipate. A freezing wind blew in from the sea, and with it came a flurry of snow blanketing the land around him. He hadn’t encountered a town in his travels so far, and thus had no opportunity to purchase new clothing. His teeth chattered and clacked against each other in the frigid air. His clothes were wet from the snowfall and his body began to protest ever more loudly against continuing forward, even if attempting to turn back now likely meant an unhappy fate at the hands of the elements. No, he had come some way since yesterday and the likelihood of finding a town - a village - a hamlet - anything ahead just had to be high. He pressed on as much as he could bear to, the chill in the air seeping deeper into his bones with each passing minute.

Things looked bleaker by the moment, until he could have sworn he saw something in the distance -- it was difficult to tell, as his vision had begun to blur from fatigue, but he could see what he thought was a building; little more than a shack, really. It was small but was standing against the snow-layered landscape. Without a moment’s hesitation, he rallied the remainders of strength within him and hurried towards the structure with as much haste as he could muster. When he drew closer, hope sprung in his heart as he could clearly make out the dimensions of the abode. Far from anything extravagant, the small shack looked at first glance to be abandoned, but not in terrible shape. Enough to shelter him from the sudden flurry around him. There was a small window on the exterior of the dark wood structure, the glass frosted heavily but it allowed him to peer inside. He could note nothing within speaking of any occupation, save at least a few items of furniture. A desk, a chair, and a cot. Perfect, he thought to himself. He breathed a heavy sigh of relief that froze and hung as a cloud in the air before dispersing. With little pause he moved to the door and reached to try the handle. It shifted but offered some resistance as it seemed to have frozen shut. Bothered, but undeterred, Rufus held the handle to open the door, then pushed with his left shoulder against the middle of the door. He felt it give way a few ilms, along with a loud crackle of ice. He smiled softly and offered a quiet thanks to Nymeia for gifting him this arm. He wound back and threw his weight against the door again and this time it proved enough as he forcefully shunted the door open wide. He eased off and let out a happy breath, only to recoil as a sickly-sweet stench assailed his nostrils. It was an unpleasant one, and yet an all-too familiar one. It was the smell of death.

Predictably, Rufus was on-edge the moment the smell reached him. Without pause he drew his longsword at his side from its sheath, gripping it as tightly as his cold-numbed fingers would allow. The interior was dark, but what light bled in from the outside was enough to make out the vagaries of it. He stood ready; coiled and wound like a wolf ready to pounce on his prey, eyes scanning his surroundings with such careful and critical intent that little would escape his note. The only sounds he made were that of quiet breathing, and the slow creak of his footsteps against the floorboards. It was eerie, far too much so. He checked his left and found nothing. He checked the opposite side of the room, half-obscured behind the open door, and he saw something. On the floor, slumped against the far wall like a drooping sack of popotoes, he saw a figure - a person. The skin prickled in alarm as he made out the shape. Even sitting, this person was a veritable giant next to him, and thick set like a roegadyn. A moment passed, a breathless silence, and the figure didn’t budge or respond to his presence. Rufus blinked softly in confusion, the alarums in his mind quieting down gradually. “Hello?” He risked revealing his presence to this person in a soft and unthreatening voice. He was met with no response.

To say he was surprised was an understatement. There he was, frozen within and ilm of his life. Finding sanctuary at the last moment, only to discover its prior occupant seemingly dead as a doornail within. Slowly, he pushed the open front door closed, satisfied it was stuck in place sufficiently. Getting out would be a task for later, he reasoned with himself. The interior for the most part was dry, yet the chill still reached him even here. He was hesitant to at first, but he soon turned his gaze away from the unmoving corpse on the other side of the room and began to search the shack for anything with which to warm himself. There was a candle on the desk he had spied before. It looked to have been lit before but only for a short time as most of the wick was still intact. He fumbled with numb fingers - on his right hand at least - as he searched for the flint and steel contained within another of his pouches. None could say he was not prepared for a trip. With little difficulty, he lit a flame on the candle and held it close, basking in what little warmth it offered. It was the first real heat he had enjoyed since the campfire two nights ago, and the soft, warming glow brought a measure of peace to his heart. He quickly set about using the dim light of the candle to search the room, and much to his delight discovered a small bundle of blankets hidden away. He wrapped himself without hesitation and uttered a quiet prayer to the Twelve for giving him this gift. With his most basic needs met, he turned his weary gaze upon the unmoving figure in the room. Death did not disturb him like it does for many. He had seen it a great deal of times over his life, and in many increasingly distressing fashions the likes of which mortal man should likely not bear witness to - such is the way of the voidsent - yet there was decidedly something unusual about this corpse. As he drew close and inspected it - “him” he reasoned, based on the build - the form was quite unlike anything he had seen before. The face was elongated with a muzzle, like a large cat’s, with ears of a similar matching variety. The body, which was astoundingly broad, as covered entirely in fur where it was exposed. Juxtaposing its bestial form, it wore a long leather overcoat, with matching leather gloves and boots that seemed to be reinforced in some areas with small plates of metal. Light yet protective.

Rufus’s mind swam in astonishment. A race such as this with apparent refinement took him greatly by surprise. Why had he never heard of such people before? Whatever the case, this one was most certainly deceased. The candlelight illuminated the discolouration in the man’s attire, stained in crimson as it was. A great, heinous gash was wrought in his abdomen and he clearly bled out from it in this place. The thought made Rufus sad for a moment, though he chased it away with a shake of his head. He surveyed the area around the corpse closer and noted a small leather journal resting on the creature’s thigh, half-open and cover up. Even though this body was beyond all possible hope of shifting by itself, Rufus yet moved slowly as he took up the journal, plucking it with the most delicate of touches. To his dismay, it seemed as though a decent portion of the pages had been covered in blood, yet gratefully, he was able to make out the most recent entry:

“Bran,

These are to be my final words; I pray they reach you. I had been scouting the area for a week before I discovered an Imperial scouting party. I tracked them, as you taught me. Yet in my foolishness I made a mistake and was discovered. I fought until I could no more, but I was struck grievously, and I do not believe I will survive. I have found a small shack to spend my final bells in. At least it is warmer. If you find this, you must know that they are already aware of our movements. You should flee north, or south... anywhere but here. The people are not our friends. They only seek security for their own people, I do not blame them. But it is likely they will lead the Imperials to you. You must be careful. But then, you always are.

Goodbye, my dearest companion. I go now to be with our Queen. Be strong.”

Rufus looked back to the fallen body after he finished reading, he felt pity on this man. To die here in this place, without being able to see a person he cared for one last time. He had been on the receiving end of such news before and knew that pain all too well. Someone was searching for this man. And the thought that they might never find him twisted the knife even deeper. He closed his eyes and uttered a silent prayer to the Twelve to see this man’s soul safely departed from his mortal coil. To go to where his “Queen” was. He knew not the meaning, of course. But he knew it mattered. As he opened his eyes a brief glint caught his eye underneath the man’s coat, on the opposite side of the wound. He lifted the fabric gently to reveal a small, yellow-ish stone sitting on the floor. The only light in the room bar that from the window was that of the candle in his hand, yet this stone seemed to shine as a light source in its own right. He hesitantly moved his hand to inspect it, and quickly felt a surge of aether streaming from the thing. It swelled and expanded the closer his fingers came until it became all but overbearing, yet he felt unnaturally pulled towards the stone, as if it was “calling” to him. He hadn’t even laid a touch upon it when suddenly a barrage of images flashed through his mind, searing him like a brand of fire. It was too much to make sense of in that moment, and the pain throbbing in his head was too overpowering. At least, it was for that instant. Then, as quick as it had come, it faded away again to nothing. He felt nauseous and unsteady, but steeled himself against the possibility of toppling over, clutching at his head with his right hand until the unpleasant feelings ebbed away like water on a shore. He had experienced something like this before, though it was altogether darker and more dreadful than this particular experience. At second glance, he noted an unusual symbol seemingly carved upon the face of the stone he had almost touched. In that moment he knew what he was beholding and was drawn to -- it was a soulstone.

Those peculiar little things. This was the third one he had encountered in his life. The first, given as a reward for his dedication. The path abandoned when he came upon the second, an overbearing force that controlled his very life and all but consumed him. Now this... “Shite...” He whispered, placing his hand on the soulstone and picking it up. He inspected it in the soft light, squinting hard at is as if its facets yet had some secret to divulge unto him. When nothing came of it, he looked to the fallen body, then back to the stone, then sighed aloud. “No sense in leaving this here, I suppose...” He thrust the stone into a pouch with a reluctant sigh, then returned to surveying the ground around this poor dead man. In doing so, he noted the sheen of the light bouncing off a metal blade. He drew the candle closer and saw before his eyes the unusual shape of the weapon become clear. There was a blade, yes, like that of a traditional sword. Something familiar. Yet there was no fuller on this one. That did not immediately strike him as unusual, though as he drew closer to where the cross guard would convert into the hilt, he saw a most outlandish design. An odd cylindrical shape turned into a curved handle, shaped to fit a wielder’s grip. Contained below the grip was a trigger, as seen on the firearms of the machinists of Ishgard. From the very end of the handle hung a chain upon which an emblem likely stood, yet there was nothing there. “Just what -were- you...?” Rufus asked of the corpse. Surprising nobody, the body gave no response. Its secrets were carried with it to the beyond. Huffing his frustration at the sudden abundance of questions, Rufus reached out and wrapped his digits around the grip of the weapon, slowly and carefully lifting it up to the pale light to inspect it more closely. It was simultaneously familiar and completely alien to him, such that he was fascinated by it. He drew up to his full height and stood away from the body, as he wound back his arm and took a practice swing at the air before him. The sword, for its credit, was surprisingly light. Maybe it was even lighter than his longsword. In light of his recent loss in physical fitness, it even felt more suited to him than his current weapon. He felt... tired, suddenly. The events of the day caught up with him swiftly, as he let the tip of the bladed-weapon dig into the floorboards, he let it rest against the nearby wall and turned his attention to the corpse again. “Wouldn’t be right, leaving you here like this...” He whispered, stripping one of the blankets from around him. That little sacrifice he could afford, as he slowly and gently covered the deceased beast of a man in it. He would have to wait here until the snowstorm passed, staring at the body of a dead man was not his ideal way of spending the next few bells.

It took a little over a day for the storm to pass. Day had faded into night, and when it grew late, Rufus drifted off into sleep wrapped in a personal cocoon of blankets. He barely batted an eye at the other occupant in the room prior to his slumber, and darkness took him. He dreamed, but it was quite unlike the dreams he often found himself plagued by. He saw images, quite as he did when he touched the soulstone. Though they were slower, he could take bits and pieces from what he saw. Hands clasped. Anger. Shame. Two against all. Quiet. Life. Laughter. Love. Blood. Fear. It was all a jumbled mess running through his mind, of a life or lives lived long before he had found the stone. Such was the way these things worked.

When he awoke, it was morning already. The storm had given away, as a clear sky shone above and filled the cabin with a wondrous light so starkly different to how it seemed before. He shook the sleep from his head and emerged from his swaddle of blankets, peering out to check on the other occupant in the room, as if expecting him to have gone somewhere in the night. “Those memories I saw... they were yours, yes?” He began to question the body, for all the good it would do, “I saw... a lot of things. This ‘Bran’ person, he clearly means a lot to you. I don’t know how recent your passing was, but... if I find him, he should know your fate. I... will try to find him. Especially if he is in danger.” He felt a warm pulse flow through his body, emanating from somewhere deep within. It was a curious sensation, though far from an unwelcome one. It felt like approval of his intent. It assured him he was taking the correct action. “I’ll bring this to him.” He said, moving to where he had left the unusual sword the night before. He picked it up by the handle, testing a swing in the air once again before bundling it tight in a blanket and tying it in a sling onto his back. He checked to make sure it was secure, then took up the bloodied journal and placed it in his pack. After having done so he finished covering himself further in the remaining blankets for after all, while the sun was out and in its glowing rays could be found warmth, but there was still a nip in the air, and he didn’t much want to be caught ought like he was before. It was just a temporary measure until he could find a nice, warm winter coat.

He bid the dead man a silent farewell, regretting not even knowing his name. He considered burying him, but it seemed like a better idea to let this “Bran” figure see to that, after offering him the effects to prove his passing. Yet he would first have to find this person. In all likelihood, he surmised that the person he was looking for was of the same distinct race as the dead one, so as fortune might have it, they likely stood out in a crowd, so to speak. As he emerged into the brisk morning air, he felt a wave of relief washing through him to be free of the cabin and filled his nostrils with the scent of the clear air, free of the overbearing whiff of putrescence that permeated the cabin. As he surveyed the landscape, he could see that the melted snow revealed a dirt path wrought from the door to the cabin leading further inland. Reasoning that it might lead to a town, and perhaps a warm meal, he hastily set off down the road towards a thick copse of snow-bearing trees. It was still fairly quiet at this bell. Late enough that nocturnal predators had retreated to their dens, and most other animals had yet to awaken. This did however lend a distinctly unsettling feeling to his trek through the woods. He saw nothing, yet he could feel the hairs on the back of his neck standing stiff, his sense of danger quite refined over the many years working in a field that demanded such a skill to survive. He was sure there were eyes watching him somewhere out there, but he could not find them. Never one to be easily cowed, he followed the path on further until he finally emerged from out of the thicket. There, he emerged upon a rolling plain and there not a few malms in the distance was the unmistakable sight of a small hamlet. His heart all but lept with joy upon seeing it, and his stomach growled in protest of wanting a filling meal. He was not like to deny it and hastened on forwards.

A malm or so into his trek, even in this wide-open space, Rufus yet felt a piercing gaze boring a hole through him. He tried to pay it no mind, but the ever-present sense of danger only grew with each step he took. His hand gradually drifted to the hilt of his longsword, readying himself to draw and defend on the turn of a moment. The path he walked was somewhat raised, with two fairly steep grassy slopes on either side, and ahead of him there were a number of fairly large rock formations strewn around. At few angles of possible attack, and he could not watch them all. The eyes that stared at him -- they had intent to kill, it was overbearing now. Rufus clenched his jaw tightly as his senses screamed of danger immediately nearby. Suddenly, a shadow overcame his vision. Looking up, he had just enough time to make out the vague figure of a large creature descending upon him with a bladed weapon drawn and pointing towards him. He sprung like viper and bounded backwards with barely enough time to avoid the falling sword which crashed into the earth with a tremendous crack. Its wielder bounded onto his feet with a roar and fixed blazing amber eyes upon Rufus, fierce and full of hatred. This one looked quite similar to the dead one he had encountered before, in dress at least. He had deep, ochre-coloured fur, though overpowered by a mane of nearly stark-white hair atop his head. His scarred, feline maw was parted in a baleful snarl flashing long white fangs as he afforded Rufus little time to respond as he leapt forward and swung for him with a bladed weapon not dissimilar to what he had found in the cabin before. Before Rufus could offer a word to try to dissuade the fight, he found himself drawing his longsword and raising it to parry. The comparatively slim blade shuddered in protest as the weapons clashed and sung with a discordant song of scraping metal. He mustered his force and pushed back against his aggressor, throwing him slightly backwards with just enough time to give Rufus a much-needed reprieve to gain his footing. He cursed his lack of heavy armour adding to his centre of mass and making him all-around sturdier. Dexterity never was his strong suit... Without another moment of waiting, the enraged bestial man lunged for him, wielding his weapon with a shocking amount of finesse for someone of his size and build. Again, Rufus swing his blade with intent to parry. Running into two of this particular race so quickly could not be coincidence, so he had no intent to harm the man if he could yet be reasoned with, though that option seemed less and less likely by the minute. When the blades met this time, there was a great blinding flash as the cylindrical part of the other man’s weapon expelled what seemed to be a thunderous explosion. Much to Rufus’s abject surprise, the stranger’s weapon gained an unnaturally present capacity for destruction. With little effort, the weapon tore through Rufus’s steel and shattered it, scattering shards of metal in every direction. The sheer force of the impact sent the broken blade flying free of his unprepared grip. He staggered backwards, shocked and in awe of the weapon on display before him. That awe didn’t last, as he rather quickly noted that the figure was readying to swing again. He was defenceless this time, not even his prosthetic arm could block a force like that.

The other blade! A voice shouted in the back of his head. Adrenaline surged in his body as he reached for the handle of the weapon on his back, just barely peeking out of the cloth sling he had prepared. With a forceful pull, he tore the sharp blade free of the flimsy fabric. It was much thicker than a standard longsword, or even a broadsword. Surprisingly adept for blocking, he thought, as he pressed his left hand flat to the blade and thrust it forward, intercepting the oncoming strike with barely a hair’s breadth separating the aggressing weapon and his skull. He leapt back again after the swing had gone wide and steadied himself, holding his new weapon in both hands, parallel to his upright form. “You... you scum!” The unknown figure spoke with a tone of rage, the bestial nature of his appearance only further accented by the vicious growl in his voice. “You killed him and stole his blade. How dare you?!” He bellowed, readying himself to strike again. “I didn’t kill anyone!” Rufus shot back in protest, shaking his head hard. “The man was already dead when I found him!” “Lies from the pit of your rotten heart!” The other shot back. Rufus witnessed the sight as puzzlingly, the cylindrical portion of the weapon wielded by the furious foe snapped open. He didn’t know what, but he saw something being pushed inside before it snapped shut again. “Please, listen to me!” Rufus tried again to reason, fumbling for the place where he had stored the journal prior to his departure from the cabin. “I can prove it, if you stay your assault! Gods alive...” He honestly hadn’t expected that to buy him a moment, but to his surprise, the creature only stared murderously at him. He was still prepared to attack on a moment’s notice, but short of actually announcing his intention to kill Rufus, he made no further action. This prompted a held breath of relief to leave Rufus’s parted lips as he held the blade aloft with one hand and reached into his pouch with the other, producing after a moment the aforementioned journal. He raised it up to let the stranger see it clearly in the light of the day. Recognition flashed in his eyes, before the fury returned to them. “I promise you, this isn’t some trick -- he left you a message before he passed. Actually, I set out with intent to find and deliver this news to you... seems you beat me to the punch.” He remarked, gingerly tossing the blood-soaked journal in the direction of the burly menace. It landed before his feet, kicking up a small amount of dust from the path below it. The other eyed it suspiciously, yet when Rufus lowered his aggressive stance and thrust the blade he wielded into the ground, the other took the show of honesty as the moment to take up the proffered journal. Rufus still felt an eye upon him at all times as the other man read from the legible entry. He watched as the fury quickly turned to upset, to grief and heartbreak. Where an aggressive force of a man once stood, a shattered, broken man remained. With no words uttered, he fell to his knees and held the journal close to his heart. letting loose a most heartrending wail of pain that seemed to echo all around the air. Rufus could do nothing but watch, transfixed in sympathy.

The mournful cries soon turned to quiet sobs; the hulking form of the man seemed smaller somehow in that moment. Surprisingly fragile given his stature. After some many moments had passed, Rufus decided to finally step forward, his expression wrought in one of sadness. He held aloft the blade he had taken from the fallen man, holding it in the flat of both palms to offer outward. “I’m sorry for taking this, and his other effects. I sought only to return them to you.” He began quietly and gently. “His soulstone... I felt it resonate when I made my intent to do so clear. It seemed the right path.” The feline man looked up to him - although event knelt, he was around Rufus’s height still - those already enlarged eyes seeming huge for how close he was now, shimmering like two great pools of water from tears threatening to fall. “Pray... forgive me for attacking you...” He began, choking back sobs in his voice. “I thought-- well... I did not think.” “I... understand. It’s alright. Please, don’t let that trouble you any further.” Rufus responded in as empathetic a tone as he could muster. He was slightly bothered about the loss of his sword, yet such could be replaced if necessary. “You said... his stone, it resonated with you?” The other broke Rufus free of his thoughts. “Oh, I-- uh... yeah. I’ve... had it happen a few times before. I know the feeling. Would you like it back?” Rufus said, tilting his head softly and raising the blade in his arms to indicate he needed a free hand to do so. The man deliberated long and silently, staring deeply into Rufus with eyes that had seen much. Up close, Rufus could tell quite clearly that he was looking upon an older man of this race. Battle-scarred and weary, even more so now. “...No,” he finally said. “No... I don’t believe that will be necessary. If Gaut’s soulstone resonated with you... you should keep it. I have no use for it. You may keep his gunblade too, as apology for... shattering your sword.” “Did you just-- a gunblade?” Rufus responded in shock. He was familiar with the Garlean-crafted weaponry. He even had a ruined one hanging above his mantle. But this was far unlike anything of theirs he had ever seen. “Think you of the weapons wielded by those of import in the Empire? Pale imitations.” He huffed with a strong note of pride. “You will find these are quite different.” The stranger spoke, slowly picking himself up from the ground, now returning to towering over Rufus by the difference of a few heads. “I could explain the particulars to you, if you are willing. But first... I would see to burying Gaut. If you wish to know more, I would ask that you wait for me at the town ahead. I will return before long.” Rufus had little chance in the way to respond before the figure shuffled around him, stowing his own gunblade upon his back and slowly, with a gait that showed how weary he was, made back along the path Rufus had tread. Before he could get too far, Rufus turned and raised his voice to address him. “I’ll be in town. What do I call you? Are you Bran?” “Brankothgar Leyvasch.” He responded, pausing briefly to look back at Rufus. “I’m Rufus -- Rufus Wightman. I will see you soon. Safe travels until then.” He returned in a voice of sincerity. It was met with a subtle, slow downward tilt of the elongated head by Bran. A nod, Rufus perceived it as. He returned the gesture with one of his own and turned around to face the town in the distance.

His head still swam with the sudden amount of information dropped upon his lap. He looked to the gunblade in his arms in thoughtful quiet, before sighing and resolving himself not to overthink the situation before Bran could return and avail him of his many questions. He leaned down to pick up what scraps of cloth remained from the blanket sling he made for the gunblade, tied them to the metal frame, and attached them to his pack as securely as he could. A temporary solution until he learned more. He spared a final glance in the direction of Bran, who had now all but disappeared down the path towards the treeline, then turned back to start back on the path.

He needed to rest and have a hot meal as soon as possible.

#ffxiv #ic story time #it's a rufus story #aw shit #hyur #midlander #balmung #Rufus Wightman #Brankothgar Leyvasch #i'm really shocked I did all of this #6000 words is a lot for me #dang #formatting is maybe not as clean as it could be #but i mean #i blame tumblr

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gwiiyeoweo · 6 years ago

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The Hexatheon were powerful gods, anyone would agree; legends and myths were passed through the generations, some written in dusty old texts or whispered to young ears at bedtime. Others existed out of the circle, obscure as they were considering the fervor given to the big Six, but they still existed.

For example, though Bahamut remains their patron god, the Lucians often pay homage to a certain Astral: Noctis, the Stellarian, the Wish Maker. And if the legends were true, Prompto figured it was worth a shot.

He just didn't expect the Astral himself to literally drop into his arms like a freakin’ falling star.

Pairing: Noctis/Prompto Rating: T

The gods were not to be trifled with, Prompto knew, and they could be as gentle as they were fierce.

Solheim had been born from Ifrit's fire only to be burned at the end, and Titan could very well drop the meteor he's been holding for eons at any given time (the guy definitely did not skimp out on arm day). Accordo had Leviathan's favor until the Tide Mother would decide to swallow the nation beneath her waves, and who knew what Bahamut could do to Insomnia, especially with all those giant swords of his. Though maybe Shiva could be a testament to that, seeing that she was busy burying Niflheim in ice and snow for pissing her off recently for whatever reason.

Old man Ramuh seemed content to just bless the rains down in Duscae, so he was a pretty chill dude in Prompto's opinion.

Prompto flipped through the pages of the 3rd edition Cosmogony: Volume 5 , lounging in sweatpants and a simple tee. He kicked his feet up on the coffee table and wiggled around to get in that perfect comfy position, shoulders and back slumped against his plush couch. Beside him, his phone cycled through his playlist, all filled with instrumental music to read to. And honestly, he needed it if he ever wanted to get through a book or a study session, just to help drown out the busy drone of the loud Insomnian streets. Past dinner time and the city was still buzzing with life and thrumming its fanfare.

Now, he didn’t mean to complain. He was thankful that the foreign student exchange program included free housing. He had a nice, well-furnished apartment thanks to Insomnia’s education department, right outside the edge of the university’s campus. Unfortunately, the location meant he was plopped right in the heart of the city, where sirens and the thrum of engines were the most rampant. Prompto had quickly invested in a pair of noise-cancelling headphones.

Ignoring the hustle and bustle of city life, he idly tapped his fingers along the edge of his book as he skimmed through the text and images. The whole thing was dedicated to the Hexatheon and tales about Oracles and Chosen Kings. He read enough about that to commit to memory, but he was searching for something else.

The librarian had said the fifth volume was his best bet at finding info about the lesser Astrals, the gods that weren’t included in the Six’s circle. In his search for knowledge, he had come across a few research papers arguing about Carbuncle’s place among the gods; some argued that the little fox was simply a messenger, others were convinced it was an Astral itself. There had also been scholarly articles about twin messengers, often depicted as dogs, and whether or not they were more than what they presented as. But to be honest, Prompto didn’t care for any of them.

He was interested in the Stellarian, who had been frustratingly elusive despite all his mind-numbing efforts.

Prompto was beginning to think he bit off more than he could chew. He shouldn’t have picked an almost non-existent god to write his final paper on. Gods, his grade was gonna take a hit .

With a tired groan, Prompto shut his eyes and let his body weight fall to the side. He turned his head into the couch pillows and let out a muffled, frustrated scream.

This sucked. Hard.

Like, sucked Titan’s dick hard.

Maybe, just maybe if he crawled into his professor’s office and offered up a box of chocolates, she’d consider letting him change his topic. But being so far into the semester, he doubted his chances. And, well, the fact that nearly half of Insomnia hated him — professor included — didn’t really help his odds, either.

It was no secret that Lucis and Niflheim had been butting heads over the last few decades. At one point they had been a hair’s width away from declaring war on each other. It wasn’t until the current king, Regis Lucis Caelum, inherited the throne from his father, that the tension slowly smoothed out. Just a couple years ago, the two kingdoms managed to come to a truce. Of course, there had been doubts on this peace treaty. Many didn’t think it would last, or others believed it was all just a ruse for Niflheim to launch a surprise attack. Two years later, nothing happened. Sure, there was still some political unrest between the two nations; it had been, after all, only two years of peace following decades of strained relations.

Which, Prompto figured, was why King Regis included Niflheim when he proposed a student exchange program among all their nations.

He wasn’t going to lie. He had been real uneasy about being shipped out overseas into enemy territory like some sort of sacrificial guinea pig. Alright, it was kind of expected that he be elected as one of the students, since his parents were important figures in Niflheim’s Council, and he had a responsibility to shoulder some off-hand duties here and there. But still . He had felt like a baby chocobo being thrown into a den of Insomnia’s hunting wolves. It wasn’t like the Lucians were infamous for being cruel, rabid war criminals or something; but suddenly being told he was going to be sent on an airship to a nation his kingdom was about to declare war on had been pretty nerve-wracking.

And it wasn’t like his fears had been entirely unfounded, anyway. He hadn’t expected a nice champagne-popping welcoming party, but their sharp gazes and stiff expressions definitely had him on edge. He had been greeted with a cold formality and a robotic process like they just wanted to get him off their hands as quickly as possible. The whole thing had taken a few hours of verifying his visa and personal documents and whatever, and a quick audience with King Regis himself — holy shit holy shit , Prompto had repeated as a mantra — that surely involved a sweaty and shaky handshake. It was hard to remember; he had been close to passing out from anxiety, and he was pretty sure he had disassociated sometime during the whole thing, because the next thing he had known, a door shut behind him and he was standing in a brand new apartment.

As much as he’d like to say the worst was over, he couldn’t. He knew there was still tension between the two nations, and that he would be bearing the brunt of it. It was easy to tell he was a foreigner, a Niff, with his characteristic light hair and light blue, almost violet eyes, and the people of Insomnia had no trouble singling him out. On good days, he’d only hear whispers and gossip behind his back, followed by a snicker or a stank eye. And on bad days, well, sometimes things bordered on physical. He’d just coincidentally trip on someone’s well-timed foot, or someone wouldaccidentally bump into him with a full cup of scalding hot coffee.

At least, it seemed all of Insomnia seemed to know he was part of a government-sponsored program, and they had this unspoken rule to not mess up whatever chance they had of keeping this peace treaty. Which meant, not beating up the son of some very important government figures of a certain nation. Prompto had that, at least. Though sometimes, he wondered how long that protection would even last.

On the bright side, he made some fairly nice acquaintances so far. Ignis Scientia hailed from Tenebrae and was part of the student exchange program. The guy was a damn good cook, and his kitchen skills were only matched by his spectacular grades. His prowess over daggers, though, were a close second. Gladiolus Amicitia, on the other hand, turned out to be the son of the King’s Shield. The Shield . When Prompto had found out, all he did was leave his jaw on the floor until Gladio had laughed it off and picked it up for him. Okay, yeah, no wonder the guy was ripped as all hell, holy fuck!

But while they were pretty cool people, they were just that: acquaintances. There wasn’t a single person he could call a friend. And why would anyone want him? He was just a dirty Niff in their eyes.

And though he didn’t want to think he was that desperate, he turned to the only thing he had left — prayer.

It wasn’t a new concept, especially not to Prompto, having enrolled in several history classes that included the gods in their curriculums. The Hexatheon were powerful gods, anyone would agree. Legends and myths passed through the generations, some written in dusty old texts or whispered into young ears at bedtime. He learned ancient Solheim used to pray to Ifrit, but their hubris led to their downfall. Sometimes he would see the Lucians offer up their prayers to the Draconian in little shrines dotting across Insomnia, or King Regis himself leading a procession dedicated to Bahamut on channel eight.

In fact, he had expected just that: for Insomnia to dedicate itself to the Draconian alone. So when he had seen little altars made for a different god, surprise was an understatement. Hell, he had been shocked when he didn’t even recognize the name. Naturally, he had turned to the smartest guy he knew and asked Ignis who the Stellarian was. Turned out Bahamut wasn’t the only god they worshipped.

Though he didn’t have as large as a following compared to Bahamut, the Stellarian — Noctis, his other name — was quite popular.

So Prompto got curious.

And as luck would have it, there was almost nothing on the Stellarian. A Moogle search got him a few business ads (a cruise ship, a jewelry line, and a wine brand) and only a handful of helpful links. From what little he could glean off the internet, he did learn some interesting facts. For whatever reason, the Stellarian preferred the name Noctis, though he’s cycled through other names before, like Noct Gar. More importantly, he was known as the Wish Maker, who took the hopes of people and made dreams into reality (which explained his close affiliation to Carbuncle), and his motif revolved around the night and stars, true to both his name and title.

According to various first-hand experiences, Noctis had dark hair and steel-blue eyes, all topped off with a lazy grin. Prompto wasn’t sure if stories off the internet held any validity, but most of them agreed on at least that much. The only thing was, some said Noctis appeared as a young boy with all the soft sweetness of a child, others described him as a man in his late twenties, mid thirties, or sometimes even fifties, with all the scruff and wrinkled lines around his eyes to show for it. Forums speculated that Noctis was some incorporeal spirit, only appearing in a physical body according to what the witness would feel the most comfortable with.

Literature was less of a help. Most of the Cosmogony volumes didn’t even reference Noctis, much to Prompto’s frustration. Because his professor sure as hell wasn’t going to accept public forums and conspiracy sites as valid sources in his bibliography.

He figured it was his fault for doing research on something that actually interested him for once, because he should have expected at least that much considering his luck. Noctis may have failed him in getting an A on his paper, but Prompto still liked to believe in him.

He sat up from his couch, shoving the Cosmogony text off onto the carpet. He stretched out his arms, feeling his joints pop and crack with relief and satisfaction, and he could feel the ache in his butt when he stood from the couch. As plush and comfy as the cushions were, nothing could stave off the butt ache from sitting for so long. Prompto shuffled across the room and slid the glass door open, stepping onto the balcony that overlooked the streets of Insomnia.

Pictures could never do it justice. As dark as the skies were, the city was alive with all its neon signs and halogen lights. Electricity hummed under the concrete and asphalt, feeding the bright street lamps that lit up the roads. The roar of engines and the cry of sirens made their own loud music, drowning out the karaoke bars that were around each corner. Gralea was a large city in its own right and a leader in growing technology, but it lacked the vibrant life that Insomnia was teeming with.

Prompto leaned forward against the metal railing, gone cold as the seasons changed to autumn. He sighed into the night air, the cool breeze a refreshing sensation on his warm skin and tired eyes. He looked up at the dark sky, saw the thin shimmer of the famous magic-powered Wall that surrounded Insomnia. Whispers said King Regis was planning on dropping it sometime in the near future, once the threat of Niflheim was completely gone.

‘If only he’d drop it now,’ Prompto wished. He understood why the King did what he did, why he kept the barrier up. But the shine of the wall coupled with the light pollution from the city made it awfully difficult to see the stars. It was nearly impossible to tell the them apart from the magic, and he found that especially troublesome when he wanted to offer up his prayers to the god of, well, the stars, because that’s how it was supposed to work, right? It’s not like he could steal one of those mini altars set up here and there across the city, and he was pretty sure that would only make the Lucians hate him even more, if he could.

So Prompto would just have to settle and make do with what he had, pouring his belief into a night sky of fake stars. And just as he had been doing every night for the past few months, he closed his eyes and lifted his face to the dim lights of the skies, and breathed out a quiet wish across his lips.

(“Hey,” he whispered to no one but himself and the night sky, “I, uh, dunno if you’re actually out there. But I think you do, and so do a few thousand other people, I guess. But if you are out there, and you’re listening, then — well, geez, this is just weird, Prom. Just forget it.”

“So, umm, it’s me again, y’know, your boy Prompto.” He shifted his weight from one foot to another, holding an ice pack on his hand, where someone had spilled hot coffee on him. Again. “You’re probably too busy to listen to a pleb like me, but… ”

“Guess what, Noct? I can call you Noct, right? Okay, good. So anyway, this giant guy Gladio, the one that’s all buff and shit? Yeah, well, turns out he’s the son of the Shield! Can you believe that?”

“But you know, bud, as much as I like this one-on-one thing we’ve got going going on.. I mean, no offense, your holy Astral-ness, but it’d just be nice, y’know — to have a friend that I can actually talk to. Man-to-man. Ya feel me?”

“Noctis, please.” )

Maybe it was the sparkle of magic, or his eyes were just too tired that night; but for a fleeting moment, he saw the thin tail of a shooting star.

Before he saw the red sole of a boot crash into his face.

And as he literally started to see stars when the back of his head hit concrete, he was pretty sure he heard voices too.

“Oh shit, oh shit, Prompto, I am so fucking sorry. C’mon, stay with me here!”

Kweh, Kweh, Kweh —

With a heavy groan, Prompto rolled over to his side and slammed his hand on his chocobo alarm clock. On any other morning when he had his wits about him, he would have had the mind to feel bad about smacking the poor chocobo’s head, as plastic and inanimate as it was. But gods, he felt like utter crap. Like someone dropped a cinderblock on his head or something. It’s not like he got shit-faced drunk last night, so why did he —

His eyes shot open, and he frantically threw his blanket off, tripping over his own feet as he practically jumped out of bed. His head, though, wasn’t having it, and his entire bedroom spun around him as his legs gave out. He fell face first, though he managed to get his hands out in front of him to help break his fall, though his forearms might suffer from carpet burn for it. And ohhh god, his head was killing him. And his face. Especially his face.

But yeah, having someone practically shove their boot into one's face would maybe, just maybe do that.

Prompto squeezed his eyes shut, perfectly content with lying on the floor for now, as he tried to recall last night. He had just been minding his business, gazing at the sky and sharing a little one-sided chat with his favorite Astral, when all of a sudden all he could see was red. He could make out the sole of a shoe and some blob, which he deduced to be the person behind the shoe. The perpetrator had been rambling something out, like an apology, then everything had gone to black.

Yeah, that was one way to end a night, he guessed. Whoever the guy was, Prompto hoped he was okay too. Falling from that kind of height would surely result in at least a broken ankle, if not worse.

“Prompto?”

Holy hell.

His whole body jumped, and he let out the most squeaky scream he ever heard from himself, and practically scrambled on all fours to his nightstand, clawing at the drawer and hands wrapping around the gun he kept stashed there. He never thought he'd have to use it in Insomnia,wished he would never have to — not because he was afraid to shoot but because he had always been taught to shoot to kill. And he was two hundred percent sure killing someone, house intruder or not, would just make him look worse in the Lucians’ eyes.

'Yep, so peachy!’ he sarcastically thought.

What a great turn of events. The guy that fell from the sky and knocked him out, was gonna kill him or rob him or something. Rob him and kill him — if Prompto didn't pull the trigger first. But of all the ways to die, he never really thought of this as a scenario. He wouldn’t even say goodbye to his parents! And as distant as he had become with them, he missed his mom and dad. He loved them, and he knew they loved him too, as much as stressed out council members under the reign of a half-crazy emperor could. But while he knew he wasn't going to die here — or so he hoped, because some self-esteem issues aside, he was a damn good shot — in a foreign nation, an ocean and hundreds of miles away from his parent's, he was so not ready to be thrown under custody for something that really wasn't his fault to begin with.

And he never even got to see a chocobo in real life. He was gonna go to jail without even seeing a chocobo, and he found that so fucking tragic.

“Prompto! Hey, hey, it’s okay. Shit , I’m sorry. Look, I’m not gonna hurt you — well, I guess I already did with, well, last night. And I’m seriouslysorry. That, uh. That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Prompto’s breath hitched, when he saw the intruder just sort of… Pop in from the edge of his vision. Crouched to the floor, his hands were offered, both palms up and coming up empty. Prompto kept his mouth shut, body still stiff in his stance, one knee perched on the floor and both hands taking their firm aim, and he stared at the guy’s hands. It took him a few seconds to realize that this home invader was trying to prove he had no weapons. Oh, okay.

So, maybe he could work with this? Maybe no one was going to die?

He took in a slow, shuddering breath, willing his body to relax. Prompto swallowed, slowly letting his gaze roam from the stranger’s hands and up to his face. Might as well put a face to the voice, right?

Except, he totally did not expect to see what he saw. The guy, well, looked almost the same age as Prompto. Kinda small, mostly unassuming — except, he was kind of handsome. Pretty, even. With those long eyelashes and deep blue eyes, the dark hair that perfectly framed his sculpted face. He looked like he was carved from living marble, he was just that pretty . And okay, Prompto was definitely out of it, if that was the first thing he thought of the man, when he was the same exact person who not only fell from the sky to knock him out boot-to-face but also had the audacity to tuck him into bed after breaking into his home then robbing him. Or something?

Like, seriously, who does that? If all of the city’s criminals were like this, then Insomnia was fucking weird as hell.

“Um, Prom? You okay? Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to land on you like that. That was embarrassing. And — ugh, shit, I’m so not good at this.” The stranger huffed, running a hand through his dark hair, and he grumbled something entirely foreign. Like, okay, that was definitely not a language Prompto’s ever heard before. And how did he know his name?

“Okay, so let’s try this instead. Prompto, I want you to take a deep breath and think. What was the last thing you said last night?” He quickly held up his finger. “Don’t answer that yet. But after you remember, I want you to look at me. Really look at me, okay? No but’s. Just try, Prom.”

“Uh. O-okay?” Prompto managed to choke out. Despite the warning bells screaming at him, that maybe listening to this complete wacko was not a good idea, he did anyway. He did his best and pushed through the raging headache, tried to recall what he had said before this nut job fell on top of him. He had gone to the balcony, talked to the Stellarian like he always did.

“Hey, Noct, how’s it going? I’m.. I’m doing fine, mostly. A little lonely, though, like always. But one thing: why you gotta be so mysterious? You’re really making me work for this research paper, you know.” He sighed, but not without a light laughter following. “But, honestly? I wouldn’t mind trading a grade for a wish. I mean, I get it. You’re busy, there’s a lot of important people out there. More important than me. But… I dunno, dude. Heck, I wouldn’t even mind if you dropped from the sky and fell on my face, but it’d be totally cool if we could talk one day. At this point, I practically consider you my friend.”

And then lo and behold, someone had indeed fallen on him. He guessed that’s how the saying went, to be careful what you wish for. And — wait. Wait. Wait .

Prompto’s eyes blew wide, and was he breathing? ‘Cause he totally forgot how to breathe all of a sudden. He felt his face drain of blood, and he was pretty sure his jaw was hanging open too. All he could feel was the hard beating of his heart slamming against his ribcage as it climbed into his throat and choked him of his words. Whatever coherent thoughts he had were drowned out by the rushing in his ears, but he was somehow managing to put two and two together. And even when he did, his brain was so fried that his math was giving him five’s and zero’s and fourteen’s.

“Oh. My. Gods.” He barely managed a broken whisper. “Noctis.”

And if he thought his brain was already fried, that dazzling smile, bright and soft like the shimmering stars, threw his brain into a blender.

“The one and only.”

“You’re Noctis.”’

“Yep.”

“Holy shit. No way. No freakin’ way!” Prompto broke away from his stance and crawled his way to Noctis, eyes still wide in shock and surprise, a half smile hanging from his lips in disbelief. He stopped just short of Noctis and sat on his knees, peering at the Astral like he was the most foreign, most strangest, most dazzling little thing he ever had the pleasure of meeting. To his credit, not anyone could just come face-to-face with a god. But here he was. Prompto, just a common pleb, here in front of one, in his little old apartment.

He wasn’t sure how long he had been just staring, but obviously long enough for Noctis to clear his throat and say something.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” Noctis suggested, voice all warm with amusement.

“Uh, right! Sorry!” Prompto squeaked. He pulled back, suddenly aware that he was in the presence of greatness. But the sudden movement jostled his brain, and the pain and dizziness was doing him no favors, and he felt himself falling backwards —

Until two gentle hands grabbed a hold of his shoulders, keeping him from bonking his head again. “Woah there, tiger. C’mon, let’s get you back into bed.”

Prompto was about to protest, say that he was fine (he was not, in fact, fine) but Noctis seemed to see through the lie before he even had the chance to say it. Just as Prompto parted his lips to voice his reasoning, the Astral placed a careful hand on his forehead. Suddenly, he was overwhelmed with exhaustion, and his limbs turned into putty. Noctis, despite his slim figure and lean arms, managed to gather Prompto together and lift him up with nearly zero effort. Well, he was a god, after all.

Prompto silently let himself be carried back to bed, and soon enough, he was all tucked in again, his gun having been gently pried away from his fingers and returned to the nightstand. The bed dipped where Noctis sat at the edge, and the Astral leaned over him.

“Okay, blondie. I need you to do one last thing for me,” he softly said. “Before you fall asleep, I want you to make a wish. Something like, ‘please fix my broken nose and get rid of this shitty headache’ or whatever. Got that?”

Prompto could only manage a weak nod. Keeping his eyes open was a battle all on its own, at this point. But wait, if he fell asleep, would Noctis still be here? What if this was all some fucked up dream?

Noctis, somehow noticing the distress, patted the poor boy's chest in reassurance. “Don't worry, I'll be here when you wake up. Gotta clean up my mess somehow.”

That mess probably meant himself, Prompto vaguely thought. But well, whatever, he just really wanted to sleep. As he let his consciousness melt away, he made sure to keep Noctis’ instructions in mind.

Strangely enough, Prompto woke up feeling refreshed and well-rested, which hadn't happened in at least a couple years, not like this. He blinked once, twice and slowly sat up, looking over to his chocobo clock. It was now noon, several hours after his alarm was set to go off. Several hours after all that happened. It felt like a fever dream. It had to be, because after all, that blaring pain in the back of his skull was now gone, and his face wasn't sore and swollen.

Except, Prompto could see where his bedroom door was left ajar, could see Noctis floating around in the kitchen, where the aroma of a strong brew wafted from. And okay, so maybe that wasn't a dream.

Hooooooo, okay. He could do this. He was not going to freak out. He was gonna step out of bed and walk out, all cool and composed. He had this.

With a deep breath, Prompto willed his heart to calm the fuck down, and he quietly swung his legs over the bed, firmly planting his feet onto the ground. He didn't want a repeat of the last time he tried, when he barely missed falling onto his face. So with step one done, he slowly pushed himself to stand, and once he got his knees to stop buckling, he quietly made his way out his room. The bedroom door creaked as he pushed it open, and Noctis. Oh man, Noctis , an honest-to-gods Astral, turned around to greet him with a smile in his eyes.

Good thing Prompto made sure his knees were steady, else they would have turned to jello.

“Hey. Feelin’ better?” Noctis asked, walking over with two mugs in his hands. Prompto nodded weakly, carefully taking an offered cup. “Still hot, careful.” Noctis warned, right as the blonde placed his lips around the rim.

Prompto was quick to pull back; he didn’t want to embarrass himself in front of a god by spilling hot coffee on himself. But he may have already done that this morning. How was he even supposed to act in front of a god, anyway? He frowned into his cup, staring at his dark reflection.

“Prompto, you might want to sit down for this.” Noctis’ words jerked him from his thoughts, and who was he to deny the advice of a god? He quietly shuffled over to the couch, sitting at the far end, and let his mug rest on the table.

“So,” Noctis said, taking a seat next to him, “What did you think of Carbuncle?”

“Who?”

“Carbuncle. You met him, didn’t you?”

“Uhh… No? I mean, was I supposed to?”

“Oh.” Noctis hummed thoughtfully. “I asked him to help me patch you up. But I guess you’re one of those who forget their dreams.”

Well, he certainly didn’t remember dreaming at all for the past couple nights. But wait. He met Carbuncle, too? Damn, he must have been a saint or something in his previous life, if he got to meet not only one but two Astrals in less than twenty-four hours. Granted, he didn’t remember meeting one of them, but still. This was pretty sick. Getting kicked in the face and suffering a concussion was totally worth this.

“Wow,” Prompto breathed out, a drunk smile perched on his lips. “This is so cool.”

Beside him, Noctis snorted out of amusement. “Well, I hope so. It’s the one wish you kept asking of me, after all.”

“Oh! Right. I did wish for that, didn’t I?” As excited as he was and how special he felt, he also felt the pressure of making the most out of his wish. This was a chance of a lifetime, and he really didn’t want to waste it. Noctis was probably busy, and he couldn’t spend all day chatting. Prompto almost wished he had a heads up or something, just so he could have made a list of things he wanted to ramble about. But now that Noctis was actually here, sitting on his couch in his one-bedroom apartment, his mind was coming up blank with what to say or do. He felt a brief flash of panic cut through his chest. Every second he spent in silence was a precious second wasted. “I… I actually have no clue what I want to say.”

“Eh, that’s fine.” Noctis waved one hand in the air and took a sip of his coffee. He leaned forward to trade his mug with the remote control, setting his drink beside Prompto’s, and turned on the TV. He slumped back into the seat, lazily rolling his head to face Prompto. “Take your time, man. I literally have eternity.”

Prompto choked on his own spit. “Wha — no, you can’t!”

Noctis frowned, as if insulted. “What d’you mean I can’t?”

“I mean, well, you’re a god . You can’t be wasting your time on a pleb like me! You have, you know, more important things to do!”

“Hey, Prompto —”

“And, and, aren’t there like, kings or something you could be listening to instead? Like, uh, King Regis!”

“Okay, Prom, shut up for sec.” Before Prompto could come up with anymore excuses, Noctis reached over with his hands and squeezed the boy’s cheeks together. “You’re half-right. I can’t be wasting time on a single person, especially when there’s millions of wishes out there needing help. But I’m not wasting my time. And I’m not ignoring everyone else either.”

He withdrew his hands, but kept his eyes trained on Prompto. “I mean, it’s not like you know this, so I guess I should explain it to you. Do you know how many stars there are in the sky?” — Prompto made to answer but Noctis shot him a pointed look — “It’s a rhetorical question, don’t answer that. But there’s a lot.”

“You see, blondie, there’s as many ‘me’s’ as there are stars in this universe.” He waved a hand through the air, a trail of blue lights shimmering in its wake, then pinched a tiny glittering crystal among them all and held it up to Prompto.

“It just so happened that I plucked one out of the sky and personalized it just for you.”

Prompto wasn’t sure he one hundred percent understood it, but he liked to think he got the general idea. Turned out Noctis wasn’t a single individual but rather a lot of individuals that shared a consciousness. Like, a hivemind, Prompto noted.

“Think of it like a giant tree. Noctis is the tree, and the branches and roots reach all across Eos,” he had explained, placing a hand on his own chest, “A branch is a part of the tree, but the tree isn’t a part of the branch. And you could say I’m one of those branches. So in the same way, I’m a fragment of Noctis; but he’s not me.” Noctis had scrunched his nose, grimacing at his own words. “Okay. Yeah, that made more sense in my head. Sorry, not sure how to put it. Shiva would be better at explaining…”

Prompto had shaken his head. He had been pretty sure he got the gist of it. But it hadn’t changed the fact that this Noctis was here to stay, or at least, that’s what the implication was. He had no intention of ruining his perfectly happy moment just yet, so he had figured to store that thought for later. So instead, he had gotten up to walk over to the TV stand, had picked up a pair of controllers while looking at god in the eye and asking, “Play Blade Masters with me?”

And damn was Noctis a fast learner, because Prompto almost had his ass handed to him in their last match. Give or take an hour, and he was pretty sure Noct could master all the characters and their combos, even the ones with like ten inputs. “So, Noct — ah, shit! — you’re really here to stay?” Prompto leaned to his left and mashed his controller furiously, as if the added effort would translate into the game.

“Yep,” Noctis answered, eyes honed in on the screen, shoulders tense and thumbs raging on his controller.

“Neat.”

Noctis’ fighter got K.O.d, and he paused to lower his controller and flick Prompto on the nose. “You got your own personal god here, and all you can say is ‘Neat’?”

“Okay, okay, fine,” Prompto laughed, blossoming with an easy smile. “Hella neat.”

“Damn straight.”

#prompto argentum #noctis lucis caelum #ff15 #final fantasy xv #i can type

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portvalehq · 3 years ago

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you were born under the shadow of your brother, a prominent figure in your coastal home town, but it was never something that bothered you. where he excelled, you preferred to daydream, and flew by unnoticed on his coattails. magic and hope fuels your soul and politics have never been a thought on your mind, even when your father died. now, your spirit is soiled with a thirst for revenge, answers, and justice… and you won’t rest until you find what you seek.

MORAY BLACKMORE ● NPC ● THE MAYOR’S SIBLING

THE HISTORY

With a mother he never knew, Moray was the youngest in the Blackmore family, and yet, perhaps the shadow to linger behind them. In the ways Xander was charming, strong, independent, Moray was not. When their father died, Moray was the one insisting that foul play was involved - but it was his brother, the acting mayor at the time, who squashed his theories as rumors. Moray never felt that the truth was revealed, but in the face of disappointment in the matter, he retreated to the Lighthouse where he worked as it’s keeper.

In the last year after Xander’s official election into the role of mayor, and all the chaos that has been wrecking the town since last September, Moray has become more and more reclused. When the lighthouse stopped shining for that brief time, the locals say, so did it’s keeper... there is talk, whispers, and rumors; mainly spread out of concern, but the lighthouse keeper remains as elusive as the pinnacle itself. No one really knows Moray all that well, and no one is fully sure what goes on in the lighthouse, either.

READ THE FULL BIO HERE.

PERSONALITY

There’s always been a hunger to the way Moray takes things in through the lens of his film camera, like he’s trying to hold the world the same way you hold water. If every action has its equal and opposite reaction, so must every person. He is his brother’s foil— where the other charms Port Vale with ease, Moray melts into every nook and cranny of the place; as much a part of its fabric as the seagrass that holds the dunes together. Where the other hunkers down in churning seas, he throws his arms wide. The perfectionism long held by his family finds no home in him — Moray is a whirlpool of thought and feeling. A maelstrom of a man whose attentions are as flighty as the town’s seabirds. Who wears his heart on his sleeve, bruised by every blast of sea breeze.

CONNECTIONS

XANDER BLACKMORE: your other half. xander, the mayor of port vale, is your older brother and for the most part, your lighthouse in a storm. losing first your mother, when you were very young, and more recently your father, he is the last solid thing in your life to hold onto. however, he doesn’t believe you; you know something sinister happened to your dad, but he’s too busy managing the town to even bother helping you uncover the truth. it hurts, so you’ve pulled back, and this scares you.

VICTORIA WOLFGANG; always pushing, always clawing her way into things; you and she were never friends, and you wish your brother would stand up against her more. it was never your place, and you know it. she hardly sees you, anyway, tucked away in your lighthouse and hidden from the world... she probably prefers that.

VIVIAN WOLFGANG: there has always been a sort of assumed rivalry between the wolfgang’s and the blackmore’s, but you never felt that with them. when your father was found dead, there was a brief moment where the two of you connected, hidden away in the corner of the bar, sharing drinks and dreaming of leaving port vale in the dust… but you know, you never could do that, and especially not now. maybe they’ll get the chance, while you hide away with your sorrows. they stopped coming around now.

#npc #moray

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kckv · 3 years ago

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He made his way along the wharf and through the fish market

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kgdharan45 · 4 years ago

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A Life In Shadow

A Life in Shadow by Vappala Balachandran was released in 2017. It had received a lot of attention in the media. Then why this belated review? The book is the biography of a mysterious man, ACN Nambiar, who spent nearly 60 years of his life in various parts of Europe and involved in anything to do with India and its leaders visiting Europe, particularly during the Freedom Struggle. Nambiar’s close relationship with Jawaharlal Nehru, Indira Gandhi and Netaji Subhas Bose is intriguing. He also throws new light on the ‘controversial’ Nehru-Bose relationship.

With the assembly elections in West Bengal is under way this issue is likely to become alive once again. This review is just a reminder for those who conveniently forgotten this book.

- Review by Krishnan Gangadharan, freelance journalist.

A LIFE IN SHADOW: The Secret Story of ACN Nambiar

By Vappala Balachandran

Roli Books, Rs 695

ACN Nambiar was a freedom fighter, spy and diplomat at various points in a life that was intricately connected to India’s history. He also played parts of European history. Nambiar, in fact, spent most of his active life in different parts of Europe—gathering support for the freedom struggle there, and later, as a diplomat. It could be said that this man had, more or less, single-handedly carried on his shoulders the responsibility of keeping alive the anti-colonial activities in Europe.

In A Life in Shadow, the author, Vappala Balachandran, brings together startling new material about Nambiar’s remarkable life, including how Netaji’s negotiations with the Nazi regime played out. Charismatic yet low profile Nambiar was witness to, and an active participant in, the history-making interactions between some of the prominent world leaders of the time in Europe. As the author says, ‘Nanu was no ordinary man. He was, quite truly, extraordinary.’ It is to Balachandran’s credit that this quality shines through in a book that never descends into hagiography despite the author’s obvious admiration for the subject of his research.

We learn of Nambiar’s youth, his impetuous nature and hasty decisions, qualities that seriously impact his life and work later. His personal relationship with Nehru and other members of the family, his advice and suggestions on various issues to Nehru and Indira, his interaction with the top-ranking political figures of different hues, his marriage to Suhasini Chattopadhyaya, the younger sister of Sarojini Naidu—all of these details add up brick by brick to a revealing portrait of an elusive man. But most fascinating of all is the tight-rope walk that was his relationship with Nehru and Bose.

The Nehru-Bose relationship has always remained a matter of high speculation and controversy among Indian politicians and the media. Right-wing politicians accuse Nehru of having pushed Bose out of the Congress Party, leading to the formation of his Forward Bloc. Now, with the West Bengal assembly elections under-way, the Nehru-Bose controversy is likely to get murkier. Nambiar categorically told Balachandran that those two towering personalities of the Indian political firmament maintained a close personal relationship. It is important that Nambiar, who was second-in-command to Bose and took control of his political outfit’s activities in Europe, particularly in Berlin, vouches for the cordial and affectionate relationship between Nehru and Bose. It is also evident from the letters the two exchanged, which are part of the secret papers declassified by the government in 2016. These papers, lying thus far in some chest of drawers in the Prime Minister’s Office, reveal that it was Mahatma Gandhi who was instrumental in Bose’s departure from the Congress in 1939. Nehru even wrote to Gandhi that he “should accept Subhas as president. To try and push him out seems to be an exceedingly wrong step.” But “the differences between the Mahatma and Bose could not be resolved.” He was under pressure from right-wing leaders in the party, led by Sardar Patel, who were determined to force Bose’s resignation from presidentship of the party.

Bose too reciprocated Nehru’s gestures. It is no secret that Netaji named one of the INA brigades the ‘Nehru Brigade’.

“As Nambiar saw it, Nehru and Bose differed not on the aim of independence but on the modalities. Nehru, although doubting certain assumptions and conclusions of Bose, never doubted his patriotism nor harboured any hatred. Bose on his part recognized Nehru’s importance and influence in India’s national struggle, although he felt that Nehru’s pro-British attitude could be a problem.”

Another speculation that was a favourite stick to beat Nehru with was that, in the 1950s and 1960s, Indian intelligence agencies spied on the Bose family at the instance of the prime minister. Balachandran cites this as a classic example of ‘inherited intelligence legacy.’ As a matter of fact, the surveillance on Bose was ordered by the British in 1924. The author, who was a senior intelligence officer, warns: ‘Unintended and wilful misreading of intelligence reports alike contribute to false, tendentious claims and opportunistic politicking.’

As second-in- command to Bose, Nambiar was also privy to Bose’s interactions with the Fuehrer in Berlin. Again, Nambiar was the one who negotiated with the Nazi regime after Bose left Europe for Southeast Asia in February 1943. There appears to be candour in his reminiscences, and Balachandran juxtaposes it with the mine of information that he had access to from official records and his own personal sources. However, one point remains unanswered: did Bose overestimate Hitler’s gestures of support or did the latter manipulate him. But Nambiar is categorical in his analysis of Bose and his interaction with Hitler: “Despite being totally dependent on Germany in carrying out his activities, Nambiar believed that Bose always resisted any attempts against Indian national interests. Mostly with great finesse and diplomacy but on occasions bluntly.”

According to Nambiar, “Bose was at times irritated and uneasy in Germany but maintained his composure and concentrated on his work without getting involved with the internal developments in Germany. He met Hitler and Ribbentrop but no other minister.

“The second meeting with Hitler was a formal one on the eve of his departure from Europe to South East Asia. Bose left for the Far East on 8th February 1943. At the first meeting, six months before his leaving Germany, Bose raised two issues: Germany announcing in a formal way, recognition of Indian Independence and removing the derogatory references about India in the new editions of Hitler’s book, Mein Kampf. Hitler replied that any announcement on India would carry sufficient weight only when German troops had sufficiently advanced in the direction of Asia. The second he dodged by saying that it would receive his ‘attention’ without giving any definite assurance.”

The question at the heart of Balachandran’s book, though, is this: What was Nambiar’s role in Indian history? The members of the first family in Independent India confided in Nambiar (ie. Nehru, Indira, Nehru’s sisters Vijayalaxmi Pandit and Krishna Hutheesing, and even Padmaja Naidu) and complained against each other directly or through letters, “but Nambiar steered clear of any controversy and remained impartial till he breathed his last”.

‘Deputy of Subhas Chandra Bose. An aide to Jawaharlal Nehru. A friend to Indira Gandhi. A left-wing contributor to The Hindu newspaper. The first Indian ambassador to the Federal Republic of Germany. He was also ambassador to Sweden for a short period. And if recent reports are to be believed – a Soviet spy; lives, each more intriguing than the other, and yet, little of his story is truly known. The author who, at the instance of Indira Gandhi, was instrumental in bringing Nambiar back to India from Europe during his twilight years, relied on a wealth of sources, including confidential reports that have not been examined before. ‘With inputs and insights from Nambiar’s diaries and many interviews, the book is set to be a definitive account, not only of his life but also of the lives of Indians living in Europe between the two World Wars and how they contributed to the Indian Freedom Struggle.’

While Nambiar revealed to the author, orally and through dictated notes, how he came to be close to Bose and how he became part of the history of India’s Freedom Struggle, he reveals little about his close relationship with the Congress’ Nehru-Gandhi family. Much of this gap has been filled by the author through his meticulous research, seeking the details from several sources and corroborating them. He also had the special privilege, as a senior police officer in the Maharashtra cadre, and later as Special Secretary to the Cabinet Secretariate (R&AW) of scrutinizing the archived records of the State that provided a mine of information on Nambiar’s ex-wife Suhasini’s life in Bombay as also his life in Europe. While many aspects of his personal relationships remain a tightly guarded secret, it is clear that Nambiar was not happy about his life in New Delhi, away from Europe where he spent nearly sixty years of his life. Indira Gandhi’s assassination too was a great blow to him, one he never quite recovered from. Nambiar, Nanu to his friends and acquaintances, passed away in a hospital in New Delhi in January 1986 at the age of ninety.

The book sheds new light on an action-filled era of Indian history, and on the life of a ‘hero’ who chose to remain behind the stage, like a true spy?

#book review #nambiar #vappalabalachandran #review

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dovechim · 7 years ago

Text

tsundere (m)

⇢ resident advisor! yoongi x reader, college au

⇢ word count: 11.2k

⇢ summary: according to the rumours, min yoongi is a bad apple- doesn’t take grades seriously, drinks as if he has two livers, a certified bad boy™. when you get paired up with him for a project, you’d never expect that someone like him would have a thing or two to teach you about life itself- and how it should be lived.

⇢ warnings: angst, smut

🎵 song recommendation: something just like this by coldplay x the chainsmokers

a/n: finally something that isn’t pwp????? :”)

Panic races through your veins and fills up your airway, causing your breathing to double itself, chest heaving in an attempt to calm yourself down. No, this can’t be happening, you chant to yourself over and over. The clock on your laptop is glaringly bright in the near darkness of your room, and the numbers burn themselves into the back of your eyelids. When you close your eyes, the uncomfortable stinging of your contact lenses makes your eyes water and at this point they might as well be tears of desperation.

It’s not like you’ve never had writer’s block before, you reason with yourself. You just have to start writing and edit along the way. Your own voice of reason is drowned out by the anxiety that echoes all the possible consequences of not acing this paper. It’s nearly 4 am and the essay you have so far in front of you is not enough to get an A, you know it in your bones but you can’t come up with anything better either. You could just submit this as it is, but anything less than an A on this paper would pull you down from the cusp of that ever elusive first class honours. And you can’t afford to graduate with anything less than that. The very thought of it sends a fresh chill of panic that creeps down your spine and jolts your fingers into a typing frenzy, spilling thoughts and ideas onto your screen till you reach the end of the page.

But when you read over what you’ve written, it doesn’t make sense at all, just incoherent rambling sentences strung together into a never ending paragraph. In frustration you shove your laptop away from you and push back your chair, reaching for your keys and phone. Sneaking a peek at your roommate’s still form across the room, you let yourself out of the room silently, feeling your tensed shoulders relax immediately as the cool night air embraces you with open arms.

It’s a little chilly to be out in just a long shirt and sleep shorts, but since there’s no one awake to catch you dressed like this, it’s the least of your concerns for now. The balcony that is attached to your room affords a little privacy, and it’s one of the perks of occupying the corner room on this floor. The tranquillity of the cold, autumn night directly contrasts with the millions of theories and concepts running through your mind, and any attempts at clearing your mind are failing pathetically. The residential halls are eerily silent at this time of the night, and as you glance down over the protective railings, you consider how easy it would be to just climb over, just one leg over and then-

“Late night?” You whirl around at the interruption of a raspy, gruff voice sounding from behind you. Your eyes are met with a figure clothed in an oversized sweatshirt and jeans, but it’s only when you squint in the darkness to survey his face that you realise who he is.

It’s Min Yoongi, resident advisor of your block. You’ve never personally met him before, but you’ve heard rumours of his never ending escapades with girls, and the tales of his rough, indifferent personality has contributed to a pretty bad impression of him in your mind. You let yourself take in his appearance slowly, drinking in the paleness of his alabaster skin that matches the blonde of his hair parted in the middle of his forehead. His skin is luminous in the dead of the night, and his lips are parted in a slight smirk. An awkward silence passes before you realise that you’ve been gawking at him for an inordinate amount of time, and you’re just about to apologize when you make eye contact with him, and realise that he’s been checking you out too.

“Or should I say, morning after?” He teases in a slow drawl that makes your heart skip a beat, even as his eyes linger inappropriately on your bare legs.

“Th-this is a girls only floor!” You sputter at his insinuation, but he isn’t fazed.

“For all I know, maybe you bat for the other team,” he casts a glance at the door of your room, that infuriating smirk once again back on his lips, before his eyes land on you again. Suddenly, you feel very exposed and vulnerable under his gaze, and it’s not the chill of the night that makes you wrap your arms across your waist protectively.

“I’m straight, thanks.”

“Good to know, dollface.” His nickname for you sets you on edge immediately. The idea of being reduced to one of the many girls he thinks of as playthings rubs you the wrong way, and your defences come up immediately. Min Yoongi is known for being nothing but manipulative and would stop at nothing to get what he wants. And having been caught out of bed after lights out like this, you wouldn’t put it past him to try something as low as blackmail. You glance at your door apprehensively, wondering if it would be childish to make a break for it and lock the door behind you.

Yoongi takes a step closer, and you immediately take one back.

“I was just out for some fresh air, I live here, I swear, these are my keys-” you hold out your hand as proof to show him, but he only raises an eyebrow.

“I know.”

“What? Then why did you-”

“What kind of RA would I be if I didn’t know the faces of all my residents?” He chuckles, and the sound sends butterflies to your stomach. You have no idea why his presence is so unnerving, and the thought of him recognising your face, even committing it to memory, makes you so uncomfortable that you shift on your feet restlessly. “Do I make you nervous, dollface?”

“No,” you clench your jaw adamantly.

He eyes your body language in amusement, and you know you’ve been caught in your lie.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll just be going back to bed now-” You make a move to cross the space between your door and the balcony, making sure to skirt around his figure that stands in the way with plenty of room to spare. But he stops you with an outstretched hand, and even though he doesn’t even come close to touching you, you can feel the imprints of his fingers on your skin, and it sends shivers down your spine.

“You look like you need this.” Glancing down at his outstretched palm, you heart leaps into your throat.

It’s a cigarette.

“Smoking is prohibited in the halls of residence!”

“You sound more like an RA than I do, dollface,” he glances at the shocked expression on your face with amusement. “Don’t worry, I won’t report you. It’ll be our dirty little secret.”

His double entendre, along with the way his molten, intense gaze pins you in place, makes you feel as if you’ve actually done something with him already. The thrill of the forbidden blooms in your chest, especially as you study the way his soft lips look when he does that signature smirk of his up close like this. His features are so delicate and soft, unbefitting of his gruff, devil may care personality, and you almost want to laugh at the misfit. He’s close enough for you to feel his breaths stirring your hair, and you’re sure that he can feel your own breaths against his neck as well.

“No thanks, I don’t smoke,” you smile sweetly at him, turning your key in the lock and letting yourself in in one smooth motion that you congratulate yourself for after you’ve locked the door securely behind you.

You climb into bed and draw the covers up to your chin, eyes still fixed on that sliver of space beneath the door through which you can see his feet still. It seems like an eternity that you watch that space, but his feet remain stationed outside your door until your heavy eyelids finally give in.

But in the morning, when you wake, they’re gone.

Pulling yet another all-nighter is beginning to take its toll on you, especially when you almost nod off in your philosophy elective class, and you have to resort to pinching yourself to keep awake, something you’ve never had to do before.

The professor has already switched to his last slide that contains details about your final assignment- a pair work essay. There’s only one question on the slide: ‘What is courage?’ and it’s to be answered in two thousand words or less. You let out a sigh and steel yourself, pasting on a smile and gathering the energy to seek out a partner from the rows of sleepy students around you, but before you can get the attention of the girl in front of you, someone slides into the empty seat beside you.

Already rolling your eyes at this latecomer- obviously only here because the final project requires a partner- you turn to shoot him an irritated glance, but stop short when you realise it’s Min Yoongi himself. His platinum blonde hair is tucked under a black beanie, but it’s obvious that he was in a rush this morning because his hair sticks out from under it, adorably, you may add. Black, framed glasses perch on the bridge of his nose, and the studious look really suits him, because he looks like a completely different person from the one who’d offered you a cigarette in the middle of the night.

“I didn’t know you were in this class,” you say by way of greeting.

“I didn’t know either, until I got a warning email about attendance,” he says flippantly.

For a moment, you’re at a loss for words, astonished at how someone could take their studies so lightly like this. You stare at his side profile for a moment, noting the way his sharp jawline rests just above his cream turtleneck sweater that looks incredibly soft and compliments his porcelain skin so well. He catches you staring at him- again.

“Want to pair up, dollface?”

You start to turn to that girl in front of you once again, because you’d rather die than commit to a project with a slacker like Min Yoongi, but unfortunately she’s already chatting with the guy next to her. Cursing his stupid turtleneck and the cute, reddened tips of his ears from the cold air outside, you reluctantly write your number on a scrap piece of paper and shove it in his direction.

“Woah, I didn’t peg you for the type to make the first move,” he tucks the paper between two fingers, giving you a salute and a teasing smile.

“Shut up, it’s for the project.” Your eyes catch onto his hands, the delicate networks of veins that lead to the slender, long fingers of his, currently fiddling with the paper that has your number on it. Why does every single part of him have to be so damn aesthetic?

“You need to learn how to take a joke,” he watches as you gather your things, and having his eyes on your every movement makes a stack of papers slip out of your hands, and you curse internally.

Yoongi reaches and gathers the papers with his slim fingers, seeking to return them back to you, but not before casting a brief glance over it. “You’re an English major?”

In his grip are the pages you were working on yesterday; printed out and ready for a consultation with your academic mentor this afternoon. His eyes are skimming over the content quickly, and suddenly, the thought of him reading your work seems incredibly intimate for some strange reason, and you snatch the papers back from him.

“It’s not really done yet…” You feel the need to make an excuse for the shitty content you know is on there, wishing he could have read one of your many other A+ papers instead of this one.

“Really? Looks pretty done to me,” Yoongi’s gaze follows you as you stand from your seat.

“Are you free to discuss the project tonight?” Your attempt at changing the subject works, thankfully.

“Sure, I’ll text you the deets.”

9.07pm [Unknown]: You free now? I’m omw to ur room.

You should have known better than to give him your number without asking for his in return, and having to spend the entire evening waiting for his text was nerve wracking, to say the least. When you realise that Min Yoongi is on his way over to your room at this instant, you immediately rush over to the mirror in your closet, trying to arrange the hair atop your head in a presentable manner.

A knock on the door sounds as you’re in the middle of debating whether you should change out of your sweatpants and oversized jersey shirt, but ultimately decide against it. It’s just a project discussion, and at this time he’d probably be casually dressed as well.

Answering the door, your voice dies in your throat along with any hopes of not gawking at him when you find him dressed in the tightest pair of leather pants you’ve ever seen on a man. His legs are slim yet muscular, and the close fit of the pants, together with its clingy material, enhances the definition of his muscles. He’s wearing a black cashmere sweater that should clash with the risqué leather pants he has on, but somehow he pulls it off. His blonde fringe falls upon his forehead in wisps, and right then and there, you decide that he’s the very definition of sin.

“W-why are you so overdressed?” You barely gather your wits to ask him.

“Get dressed, we’re going out.”

“What?” You squeak in surprise. “What about the project? According to my timeline, we have to at least get a draft done today, we need to agree on a general direction of the essay at least-”

“I said, get dressed. We’re going on a research field trip.”

Floored by his response, and definitely not at the sight of Min Yoongi leaning against your doorframe, you’re caught tongue tied for a moment. “Yoongi, it’s a school night, I have an 8am lecture tomorrow.”

He rolls his eyes heavenwards to express his frustration. “C’mon dollface, I’m sure skipping just once wouldn’t knock your goody two shoes off. Live a little.”

You cross your arms at him. “I’m not a goody two shoes. I just like to be well rested for my lessons.” Yoongi almost doubles over in laughter, having to support himself by placing a hand on the doorframe as a series of chuckles consume him. “What are you, 80 years old? Wait don’t tell me, you’re an old lady trapped in a smoking hot 21 year old college girl’s body.”

Your cheeks instantly start to heat up at his backhanded compliment, and for a moment you’re caught between feeling flattered and insulted at once. You have no idea how to get out of this situation without proving him right, and with a hefty sigh, you give in reluctantly.

“Alright, get out while I get dressed.”

“That’s it dollface, and wear something sexy.” You close the door in his face in reply, and run through possible wardrobe options in your mind.

Finally, you settle for your go to LBD, and even though you have no idea where Yoongi’s taking you, you have a feeling that your typical jeans and blouse combo would not make the cut at all, judging from Yoongi’s own outfit. The dress is almost skin tight, but still preserves your modesty by cutting off at the knee. Increasingly aware of the sound of his footsteps outside your door, you rush through your makeup routine, cheering internally when you nail your cateye on the first try. Deciding that your hair is beyond rescuing, you wind it up into a messy bun to keep it contained, and slide your feet into a pair platform sandals. Sweeping your essentials for the night into a small clutch, you open the door again, only to be greeted with the sight of his ass in those stupid leather pants as he leans over the balcony.

At the sound of your door opening, he turns around a little sooner than you’d like, and his eyes take you in from head to toe, lingering sinfully at the gentle curve of your hips.

“Damn, you clean up well, dollface.”

“I have a name, you know,” you turn around and lock your door, fully aware of the view you’re giving him as his eyes skim down your back. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll know when we get there,” Yoongi offers you his outstretched hand again, just like the night before, only now it’s empty. You slide your hand into his, and it’s unexpectedly warm and comforting, the complete opposite of your cold, aloof impression of him.

Yoongi has a cab waiting at the base of your residential hall, and he even opens the door for you, gesturing for you to get in. Even seated in the cab, he doesn’t let go of your hand until you have to make an excuse about sweaty palms to get him to relinquish his grip, to which he only casts an amused glance at you before obliging. Focusing your gaze on the passing streets and alleys outside instead, you try and figure out where he’s taking you based on your surroundings, but the reality is that you have no idea at all. In your past two years of university, you’d spent your life buried in mounds of readings and essays, barely leaving campus apart from summer breaks, so your knowledge of the surrounding area is close to zero.

The taxi rolls to a stop outside a nightclub finally, and you start to feel apprehension in every limb as Yoongi hands some cash to the driver before opening the door. You have no choice but to follow him, and soon you’re standing in front of one of the most popular nightclubs in the city, with a line of people waiting to get in. From outside you can already hear the music as the bass reverberates in your chest. Yoongi grabs your hand again, tugging you toward the where entrance of the club is guarded by two hefty looking bouncers. He gives a nod to them and they part easily, letting him through without a word, and he leads you into the club that is illuminated with strobe lights and flashing laser beams.

Yoongi must have felt your apprehension and anxiety through the grip of your palm, as he turns back to face you, drawing your body closer to his as the two of you are surrounded by dancing bodies. The hand holding yours is pressed to his chest, while his other hand finds its way around your waist, forming a barrier between you and the strangers on the dance floor.

“Relax, dollface, we’re just here to research a form of courage for our project, yeah? A form that I’m particularly fond of,” he has to whisper directly in your ear because of how loud the music is, and the sensation of his lips on the shell of your ear simultaneously calms your fears and sends electricity rushing through every single nerve.

When you nod in response, he proceeds to weave through the crowd with a practiced ease, navigating his way to the bar and helping you situate yourself on an empty barstool before taking the one next to you.

“Pick your poison, dollface,” he gestures to the bartender who steps up to serve the both of you.

“Uhm, just a water, thanks,” you give the bartender a small smile, but Yoongi interrupts him before he can get your drink.

“Cute,” he smirks at you. “But no. We’ll have two whiskey on the rocks instead please.”

“Yoongi- I don’t really drink, can’t I just-”

“Not today doll face, we’re here on a mission, remember?” He gives a nod of thanks to the bartender as your drinks are served, and he raises his glass towards you. “This, dollface, is called liquid courage. Ever heard of it?”

You snort in response, grabbing the other glass, watching the liquid slosh against the sides of the glass. “Of course, how naïve do you think I am?”

“Naïve enough.”

“Just because I don’t drink and party and sleep around, doesn’t mean I don’t know how to live. I’ve been living perfectly on my own for the last 21 years, thanks.” Yoongi only raises his eyebrows at your defensiveness, but otherwise his expression betrays nothing.

“Really? Cooped up in that room of yours writing essays, not seeing the sun for a week straight, spending 16 hour long study days at the library cramming for finals like there’s no tomorrow? Is that what you call living?”

“Wanting good grades is not a crime.”

Yoongi laughs and raises his glass in defeat. “Touché. Bottoms up, dollface.”

You clink your glass to his before raising it to your lips, wincing at the bitter taste and the burn that it leaves while going down your throat. But it’s not as bad as you expected, and when you set your glass down, you find Yoongi staring at you intently.

“Alright, dollface? Ready for another? Or is that enough for you to ‘live’, as you call it?”

You clench your jaw in defiance at his patronising tone. “Bring it on.”

You gulp down the next drink in record time, finishing even before Yoongi does this time, and a sense of pride wells up in you. The burn isn’t that noticeable this time, and the effects of the alcohol don’t seem to be too bad. You’re still fairly sober, and you’re determined to prove to Yoongi that you’re not as much of a prude as he thinks you are.

“Let’s do shots,” you declare, and maybe it’s the alcohol talking, giving you that burst of foolish bravado, but once again Yoongi’s expression remains stoic, if not for the arch of his eyebrows that betray his astonishment.

“If you say so,” he gestures toward the bar for some tequila shots, and a tray of six shots are served up immediately.

You reach for one and bring it to your lips, but before you can tip your head back, Yoongi stops you with his slim fingers around your wrist, and you stare, transfixed at his slim digits and for a fleeting moment, a thought so filthy crosses your mind that you physically shudder.

“This is gonna burn, dollface. Have you ever taken a shot before?” He looks a tad bit concerned, but it could be the way your vision is starting to blur just a little, you can’t be sure.

“Of course I have,” you shoot back at him, but it’s a bald-faced lie, and if you’re a bad liar while sober, you’re horrible when drunk. But how hard can it be? It’s just shot glass to lips, tilt head back, and-

The burn is like nothing you’ve ever felt before, and the searing of your chest makes you sputter, and tears spring to your eyes as you gasp for air. You have to rest your head on the surface of the bar from how hard you’re coughing. Yoongi is watching with arms crossed and he looks like he’s about to burst out laughing, which is most definitely not appreciated, considering you’re in a life or death situation here. Just when you consider leaping across the bar to find some ice to quench to roaring fire in your throat, Yoongi slides a hand along the back of your neck, urging you to look up.

“Suck on this, dollface.”

You’re just about to tear into him for such an inappropriate innuendo at a time like this, but when you turn to him, he’s not gesturing to where you thought, but he’s holding a lime wedge between two fingers. Instead of grabbing the lime wedge with your own fingers, you lean forward and encase the citrus fruit between your lips, just shy of brushing his fingertips, and your eyes meet his.

His gaze is like molten lava, smoldering with something you can’t quite name, the liquid quality of them sucking you in and you can’t look away. Have his eyes always been this dark? Something about Yoongi is clearly affecting you somehow, you’re aware of this even in your intoxicated state. Be it the way he stared at your bare legs on the balcony last night, or the meticulous surveyance of your every move in lecture today, and even the way he’s staring at you now like he wants to devour you whole. Every time he looks at you it makes you want to forget everything you’ve ever worked for in your life up to this point, to throw it all away; it screams danger.

Yoongi breaks the spell first by pulling his hand back. He turns his attention to the shot glasses on the table, grabbing one and bringing it to his lips. The tip of his tongue flicks out to collect some of the salt on the rim of the shot glass before tipping its contents into his mouth, and you’re transfixed by the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.

Min Yoongi is intoxicating, and he makes you want to take all the risks in the world.

“Another?” He says with a lime wedge partially in his mouth. “Or too much?”

“I’m okay,” you’re trying hard not to slur your words, and you reach for another shot the same time as him.

“Bottoms up.”

“I want moreeeeeee.”

“No more, princess, you’re wasted as hell,” Yoongi catches you just before you slide off the barstool, and you slump against him in protest. “Fuck, I underestimated how small you are.”

“I can do it, jussst watch me,” you reach for the nearest glass only to find it already empty, and you whine in disappointment. “I’m a big girl, Yoongiiiiiiii, I’ve got my big girl pantsss on.”

“I’m sure you do,” he chuckles in your ear. “C’mon dollface, we need to get you out of here.”

He slides an arm around your waist and supports most of your weight while simultaneously using his body to pave a way through the crowd of dancing bodies.

“Yoonggggiii, we didn’t get to dance, we c-can’t leave yet,” you head is buried in his neck, eyes half closed even as you try to move to the music that’s pounding in your ears.

“Next time,” Yoongi’s preoccupied with trying not to notice the way your breasts are pressed against his chest, and instead concentrating on manoeuvring the two of you safely to the exit. Your body feels so soft against his own, and he breathes a sigh of harsh relief when he finally reaches the bouncers, and exits the club into the cool night air.

But now there’s another challenge that awaits him- trying to get a damn taxi. Maybe the night is still young- the club doesn’t close for a few hours yet and normally he’d still be going strong at this hour. The drivers in this area know well not to expect any passengers till early dawn, which only leaves him one choice.

“We’re walking home, dollface. Hold tight, I really don’t want to carry you back.” He hoists you up against his side, bearing most of your weight as he takes a few steps down the sidewalk. To your credit, you don’t make much noise and put one foot in front of the other obediently until you reach the entrance of campus when his grip slips and your feet suddenly give out on you, and you tumble onto the soft grass beneath.

“Fuck, are you okay?” Panic surges in his chest, dropping to his knees beside you to check you over for any injuries. “______?”

It’s the first time he’s actually called you by your real name, not some nickname or petname, but you’re too drunk to notice.

“The Victorian era is characterised by an increased interest in science and technology, as people were beginning to doubt the reliability of religion and faith in explaining the human existence…”

Yoongi collapses back onto his heels, running his hands through his hair as his eyes rest upon your mumbling figure. “______, you need to get up, we can’t get caught here. So near yet so far.”

“D-don��t mark me as absssent, prof, I’ll do extra c-credit, or I’ll do r-resssssearch, anything,” you mumble with eyes half open, reaching to brush his hands away from your waist when he attempts to manhandle you into standing up.

Yoongi swears under his breath. Desperate to get and retain your attention, he grabs your face between his hands, tapping your cheek as he calls your name.

“T-the assignment isn’t due yet… I still h-have one more week… Ow!”

Okay, he may have used a little bit too much force with that last slap, but it seems to have worked, because your eyes fly open and center on his.

“Oh, it’s just you,” your eyes start to close again, and Yoongi can’t have that. He taps your cheek again, and you open your eyes. “It’s just the hot, playboy resssident-t advisorr.”

Yoongi sighs; a deep, regretful sound.

The only reason he knows you’re drunk off your ass is from the carefree quality of your words, how you seem to be saying everything that comes to your mind without filter.

“Y-you think I’m some kind of loser right? Just a loser-“ you manage to fold your knees under you as you look up at him standing in front of you. “Just a loser who can’t do anything but study, and who has no friends.”

Yoongi kneels down in front of you and for the first time since you’ve met him, you have the nerve to stare him right in the eye without flinching or shying away.

“Let’s play a game. W-what’s the most illegal thing you’ve ever done? L-loser has to take a shot.” Yoongi opens his mouth to answer, to at least try and appease you, but you cut him off. “Mine is… I shower naked!!!”

You burst out laughing, till you’re out of breath and winded, bending over in half on the ground.

Despite himself, Yoongi can’t help but chuckle a little, but this isn’t getting anywhere, so he reaches and slips his arms under your knees, pulling you in close towards his chest with his other arm around your shoulders.

“I went drinking with the badboy RA in my block on a school night! W-where’s my prize?” Your drunken shouts are crystal clear in the silent, tranquil campus, and Yoongi winces as he tries to speed up his steps towards your block.

“Alright dollface, I’ll give you extra credit if you stay quiet for the next 10 minutes okay?” He whispers furtively as he nears your door. At the mention of extra credit, you quieten down immediately, resting your cheek on his shoulder.

Yoongi reaches into his pocket for the all access key card- RA privileges- and swipes it, nudging your door open with a knee. His eyes immediately scan the room, relieved to find it empty. He sets you down on your bed- your side of the room is easily identifiable with the mess of notes, books and papers scattered everywhere- and considers undressing you, but figures that would be crossing the line. Instead he settles for unbuckling the straps on your platforms, sliding them off your feet and tucking them under the blanket securely. Grabbing a water bottle from the fridge, he sets it on your bedside table before leaving, closing the door gently behind him and locking it with his key card.

The morning sun is brutal even through your tightly shut eyelids, and pain shoots through your temples the moment you try to sit up. Rubbing your eyes blearily, you try and get a sense of your surroundings, only to realise that you’re back in your room, and you have no recollection of how you got back here after last night.

Last night. Tequila shots. Min Yoongi. Ugh.

Reality rushes back in, and your heart skips a beat when you check the time on your phone. It’s way past noon, and you’ve missed your morning lecture by hours. You’ve never missed a lecture before, and ruining your perfect attendance might drag your grade in this class down, and-

Panic swells up in your throat in the form of nausea, and you have to lie down before you black out. Fingers shaking, you barely manage to type out an email to your professor citing a reason why you were absent that morning, and offering to make up for it. As you close your eyes and try to fight off your pounding headache, you remember that this is exactly why you don’t drink.

The culprit of this whole mess is curiously nowhere to be seen, and you hear nothing but radio silence on his end for the next couple of days. Which is completely fine with you, because you’re busy running around like a headless chicken trying to keep up with your schedule and make up for that missed lecture. In fact, it wouldn’t even bother you at all if you never heard from Min Yoongi for the rest of your life, but you still have this project to complete.

5.00pm [You]: Are you free now? We need to discuss the essay. 5.10pm [Min Yoongi]: i’m in the music building. 4th floor, last studio. 5.11pm [Min Yoongi]: it’s next to the dance building, in case u don’t know. 5.12pm [You]: omw.

The surroundings of the music building are unfamiliar to you, having only been in the Humanities building for your whole university life. You pass by people carrying musical instruments, from violin cases to guitars, and there are even a few students hefting around cellos. These people must be music majors, and Yoongi must be one too. You’ve never really taken the time to wonder about his major before, since the rumours concerning him that circulate around only detail his drunken escapades at parties and his latest conquests. There are a few stories labelling him as an architecture major, and even a few that alleging that he’s undeclared.

You reach the 4th floor, stepping out of the elevator into a narrow hallway. Upon closer inspection, it seems like this floor only houses studios, and each room looks small enough to be a private studio. You wander hesitantly to the end of the hallway, and raise your hand to knock on the last door.

“Come in.” His voice sounds tired and rough, and you poke your head around the door gingerly.

You’re greeted by the sight of Yoongi at his work desk, surrounded by equipment that looks as complicated as it does expensive, and for a second you fear setting foot into the studio lest you destroy anything. His desk bears a large computer screen, and the rest of it is covered with notebooks, scrap paper with illegible handwriting, empty cup noodles and bottles of water. Yoongi glances up when you remain by the door, raising his eyebrows both as a manner of greeting as well as a silent question.

You venture into the small studio, and under the harsh light of the small room, you can see the eye bags under his eyes, and the reddened whites of his eyes behind his black framed glasses perched on his nose bridge. He stretches his legs beneath the desk, and his chair pushes back from it as he rotates to face you, simultaneously stretching his arms above his head in a motion that has you fighting not to glance at the pale strip of skin that’s revealed.

“Sorry. Long night,” he grunts as his joints crack, and he reaches for the back of his neck to massage it.

“Um, it’s okay.” You clutch your laptop to your chest tightly, unsure of what else to say. “You’re um- a- a music major?”

“Composing,” he corrects as he runs his fingers through his messy blonde hair, pushing it back off his forehead to reveal more of his milky skin, and the way he glances at you through those black glasses of his makes the room shrink in size, and you have to avert your gaze.

Something about his messy desk reminds you of your own back in your dorm, and it’s a strange concept, to think that the infamous Min Yoongi is actually passionate about something other than getting drunk and partying. This side of him you’re not used to seeing- the vulnerable, weary look in the bags beneath his eyes, his messy workspace that oddly gives off a sense of intimacy. His work that lies all around him- remnants of late night musings or early morning inspirations, completely unfiltered, absolutely raw, and all him. It reminds you of the essays and poetry you hide away in the depths of an untitled folder on your laptop, safe from prying eyes and the outside world. It feels like his private sanctuary.

“It’s okay to sit down you know. I won’t bite.” He pushes a chair towards you, and you belatedly grab it.

“Th-thanks.” You settle your laptop on your lap. But a burning question settles on the tip of your tongue, and you can’t help your curiosity. “So you write like… songs?”

“Pretty much. Melodies too, and also some rap.”

You’re staring at a piece of paper nearest to you on his desk, if you squint you can just about make out his handwriting on it. It looks like a verse of a song, and just as you’re trying to decipher his handwriting, he interrupts you by clearing his throat. You jerk your head towards him with widened eyes, an apology at the tip of your tongue for invading his privacy like this, but there’s no scowl on his lips, only a teasing smile.

“If you wanted to hear something, you could have just asked.”

“N-no- I mean, I wouldn’t want to intrude or anything.”

He shrugs nonchalantly. “Songs are made to be heard, lyrics written to be read. What good is writing them if I just leave them in this dusty studio?”

“But it’s… personal. And we’re not on that level yet, are we?”

He doesn’t deny your first statement, but his knowing gaze pins you in place, searching your features for something. “Aren’t we? I don’t let just anybody in here you know.”

“I guess, if you wanted. I wouldn’t mind,” you say grudgingly, not wanting to seem too eager. Reading someone else’s work always seemed too personal, let alone reading someone else’s work in front of them, but Yoongi seems to have no issue with it as he clicks a few times and types something into his computer, then beckons you closer with an outstretched hand.

“It’s better if you use the headphones,” he explains.

You drag your chair closer to the desk, placing your laptop in front of you before sliding on the headphones. As Yoongi presses a button, a light melody trickles from one side, gradually increasing in volume until you’re immersed in the flowing rhythm. The lyrics paired with the melody are soothing, and it takes you a while to realise that he’s actually singing, and that his voice sounds so different from his usual, gruff, indifference.

My friends and even my family are getting further away As time goes by I’m becoming more impatient The feeling of being on my own, I am on my own right now I want everything to disappear I want it to disappear like a mirage, want it to disappear, I want my damn self to disappear Like this, the world throws me away In that moment I’m getting farther away from the sky I’m falling

As the song goes on you forget that he’s even in the room with you until silence jolts you back to awareness with the end of the song. Reluctantly you slip the headphones off and place them back on the table, taking your time to gather your composure and reorganise your emotions.

When you look at him again, it’s as if you’re seeing him through new eyes, and he’s not the Min Yoongi who likes to drink and sleep around, he’s so much more than that. It’s obvious that he’s drowning in his passion for music and composing, and it’s so different from what you initially thought of him; but more than anything else, he is incredibly lonely.

“That good?” His confidence and jokes are just a façade that conceal his loneliness, but you can’t bring yourself to roll your eyes this time. When you don’t respond with your usual barbed comments, he shifts slightly in his seat- a small movement- but it’s enough to reveal his vulnerability and it makes you catch your breath.

And it makes you do something you never thought you would in a million years.

You reach for the collar of his sweatshirt and pull him in towards you, lips crashing onto his in a clash of tongues and teeth. Yoongi goes still for a moment in surprise, but soon his lips move along in tandem with yours, and he reaches for your waist to pull you into his lap. You can barely react in time, drunk with the taste of him, the intoxicating pull of heady desire, and exhilarating rush of recklessness, as your thighs part to straddle him in his chair. He tastes like late nights and early mornings spent slaving away, of the inspiration and desperation that are all too familiar to you, passion and risk all wrapped up into one.

Pulling away with a lick to his bottom lip, you gasp for air.

“Finally. I’ve been wanting to do that since that first night I saw you outside your room.”

His gruff voice sends reality crashing back in, and you open your eyes to see him staring at you, his glasses askew on his face, probably because of you. All traces of his earlier vulnerability is now gone, and he’s unabashedly studying your every feature. There’s no trademark smirk on his lips, and for the first time you see him with his defences down; you see the Min Yoongi without his wry comments and sarcasm.

The warmth that blooms in your chest at him opening up like this makes you want to lean in for more, but you stop short just inches away from his lips; at the thought that he might expect you to do the same and open up to him too, let him see you in your most vulnerable light.

That thought sends your heart racing into overdrive, and you brace your hands on his chest, scrambling to get off him.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that.” Your cheeks are ablaze with embarrassment, but it’s the anxiety of letting someone see you like that- the way you just saw him- that makes your hands tremble and your palms sweaty.

“I’m not sorry.” He’s as cool and confident as ever, but he doesn’t make a move to stop you as you gather your things hastily and head for the door, slamming it behind you without sparing a single backward glance.

No matter how hard you try not to think about his lyrics, it’s impossible to forget his loneliness etched into his verses, his plea for help disguised in his carefree, soulful melody.

And it’s even harder not to think about how his lips felt against yours, or the way his hands gripped your waist as if they belonged there.

For the sake of your own sanity, you minimise any contact with him, resorting to professional, succinct texts and emails to send him your part of the project so that you can at least work on your own essay in relative peace.

None of your emails or texts even garner any sort of response from him, and at first you chalk it down to him being busy in his studio again. But when the third consecutive day passes without any reply, and a fleeting comment from your roommate that she saw him at the club last night, you decide that you can’t avoid him any longer.

So you knock on his door impatiently, and a part of you is grateful for his reputation that makes it so easy for you to find out where he lives. There’s a shuffle behind the door before it opens, and for a second you fear that you’ve interrupted one of his many one night stands, but then you’re face to face with Min Yoongi himself.

His effortless good looks takes your breath away, even though he looks like he just woke up, in all his bed head glory. He rubs his eyes sleepily with a sweater paw when he registers your presence, and beckons lazily. You’re about to tell him that it’s okay, you can say everything you have to say out here, but then he turns his back and you have no choice but to follow him into his room.

“You’d better have a good reason for being here this early in the morning.” His voice is gruff as always, laced with lethargy.

You gape at him. “It’s 3 in the afternoon.”

“Your point is?”

“I’m um, here about our project.” He glances up at you from his position on the bed, and you try not to glance at the way his sweatpants moulds around his spread thighs, forcing your eyes away from his crotch, which, if you squint, you can make out the shape of his-

“Oh, what about it dollface?”

“In case you didn’t notice, it’s due in two days. I’ve already done my half of it and sent it to you last week, but I didn’t get a reply so I had to come over here myself.” You fold your arms in what you hope is an intimidating way, staring him down from your height. “My point is; I need your draft by today.”

Yoongi stares at you without response, and your self-righteousness from a few seconds ago completely vanishes. It feels a little foolish to storm into his room like this and demand a draft from him when he’s staring at you like this, but his lack of a response makes you question if he’s fallen asleep with his eyes open.

“I got it babe, don’t worry.” If this is his attempt at reassuring you, his indifference only adds more worry and anxiety to the crease between your brows.

“I’m almost done with my draft, I’ll combine ours into one document and upload it okay?” You detect a tinge of irritation in his voice as he brushes his hair back from his forehead, and he fully opens his eyes to look at you for the first time since you’ve entered this room.

The look on his face is as if to say: what are you still doing here? and you can almost hear his the snarky sarcasm in his voice through a single glance of his. You fumble around for something else to say, not fully convinced, but in the end all you can do is accept his offer with a nod. As soon as you acquiescence, Yoongi lets his eyes fall shut again as he flashes you a gummy smile.

“Sweet, close the door on your way out will you?”

10.24pm [You]: Are you done with the essay yet? 10.30pm [You]: Send it to me so I can proof read and edit. 10.35pm [You]: hello???? 10.40pm [You]: Min. Yoongi. 11.00pm [You]: Min Yoongi, this isn’t funny. 11.20pm [You]: it’s due in literally 40 minutes 11.30pm [You]: pick up ur damn phone

Your nerves are shot to pieces as your glare at your phone screen, considering tearing down his door to confront this irresponsible bastard. You should have known never to pair up with him, even if it means you have to do the project on your own. It’s better than being stuck like this with nothing to submit just half an hour before the deadline, and you’re toying with the idea of just completing the rest of the essay yourself and deleting his name.

11.50pm [Min Yoongi]: relax, dollface. 11.52pm [Min Yoongi]: i said i’d take care of it right? 11.53pm [Min Yoongi]: i always keep my promises ;) 11.54pm [You]: shut up, we don’t have time for this 11.54pm [You]: email me the draft. i need to read it before it’s submitted 11.56pm [Min Yoongi]: you know, u really need to learn how to relax 11.56pm [Min Yoongi]: just live on the edge for once 11.57pm [You]: we can live on the edge another time. 11.57pm [You]: send. the. draft. now.

There’s no reply, and even though you sit and refresh your email inbox multiple times, there’s no new mail. Anxiety is rising up in your chest, and you can feel it in every single nerve ending as the clock ticks closer and closer to 12 midnight, and the online portal’s instructions are clear: the deadline is 2359.

11.59pm [Yoongi]: it’s submitted. 11.59pm [You]: what???? i literally told u to send me the draft befre u submit 11.59pm [You]: lik a million times 12.01am [Yoongi]: oh sorry dollface 12.02am [Yoongi]: I forgot 12.02am [Yoongi]: check ur email babe

You’re trembling in an equal mix of trepidation and false hope when you open his email and click on his attachment, and you actually have to click on the little icon a few times because your hands are shaking so much that you misclick a few times. It takes forever for the document to open, and when it finally does, what you see on the page makes your breath freeze in your lungs.

Q: What is courage?

This.

Fucking Min Yoongi. It’s rage that fuels your steps all the way to his room, and every single pound on his door with your fists betrays your indignation and fury, imagining that his wooden door is his stupid, smirking face instead. The noise that you’re making outside his room attracts the stares from the other residents on the floor, but you can hardly bring yourself to care. Just wait till he opens that damn door, you’re going to tear into him like he’s never had it before; good looks and sex appeal be damned-

The second he opens the door and his blonde head comes into view, you strike him across the cheek so hard that it leaves an imprint in his porcelain skin.

“What the fuck?”

You reach to slap him with your other hand, but he’s prepared for it this time and stops you with fingers wound tightly around your wrist. He digs in with a pressure that borders on painful, but you school your features into submission.

“That should be my line, I believe.” Your eyes are ablaze with your anger, jaw clenched and teeth gritted. “Why would you do this? Why would you delete my work and submit that without even telling me?”

You can feel the desperation of the situation setting in, and the thought of your grades dropping because of this is so awfully terrifying, having to watch everything you’ve worked for go down the drain because of him, that it sets off a panic attack, and your voice is filled with hysteria.

“Do you know how much this essay is worth? There are no finals for this elective so this is practically worth our entire grade!! I know grades don’t matter to you but they sure as hell do to me, I can’t mess this up or else I won’t graduate with first class honours and-”

“And what?” Yoongi cuts off your tirade, looking you directly in the eye, and you stop to catch your breath, tears brimming and threatening to spill over onto your cheeks. “So what if you don’t graduate with first class honours?”

“I- I just…”

“Why are you even in college? Why do you want that first class honours so much? For the prestige? Boasting rights? The right to look down your pretty little nose at everyone else at your convocation ceremony?” His stance is challenging, provoking you.

“No,” you’re a little taken aback at his accusatory tone, and it prompts you to defend yourself. “I really love what I’m studying, it’s the first time I’ve felt so alive, it’s the only damn thing I’m good at. I love how the same poem can mean two different things to two different people, and how a piece of work comes to represent someone else’s blood, sweat and tears, but you have to work for it, analyse it and extract its meaning.”

“Then why are you doing this? Why are you starving yourself, sacrificing your mental health over something that should be making you happy? If you love literature so much, why are you letting it destroy you like this?” Yoongi takes a step closer so that you can see the flecks of brown in his eyes, alight with a fire that matches the one in your own. “Why can’t you just live in the moment for second and just enjoy doing something you love?”

You give a short bark of a laugh at how naïve he is. “Believe me, I’d love to live exactly like you, not giving a fuck about grades, but that’s not how our society works-”

You’re cut off when Yoongi grabs your wrist and pulls you into him, slamming the door shut behind you, and before you can blink, his lips are on yours.

“Shut up. For God’s sake, for once in your life, just shut up and feel.”

“Fuck you,” you growl, biting down on his lip harshly. His sinful lips quirk up briefly before trailing down your neck, biting and sucking. “I’m not- ahh- going to let someone who spends all-nighters in th-that tiny little studio give me a lecture on how to let go.”

His stupid tongue on the ridge of your collarbone makes your voice less steely and determined than you’d like it to be, but he only chuckles. “What did I say, dollface? I said shut up.”

“Make me,” you lean forward to enclose his earlobe and bite down on it, causing him to grunt in pain.

“Oh, I will, dollface.” His hands are sliding up under the hem of your shirt, and emboldened by his attention to your neck and collarbones, you raise your hands above your head for him to slide your shirt over your head to expose your bare chest. “No bra?”

His warm mouth encloses your nipple, causing it to pebble beneath his ministrations as you arch your back into him. The swirls of his tongue sends shockwaves down to your core, and you mutter a curse at how talented his tongue is. Yoongi switches his attention to your other nipple as he spins you around, pushing you back onto his bed and you land in his heap of blankets and pillows, surrounded by his scent as he continues mouthing at your chest.

“Fuck, you look so gorgeous in my bed right now,” he trails kisses down the valley of your cleavage and to the waistband of your shorts. “These shorts are so tiny they barely even cover anything.”

He pauses with fingertips at your waistband. “Can I?”

You can only nod in response, and in one single motion he pulls off your bottoms until they’re at your ankles. The scent of your arousal immediately makes his smirk- that stupid, overconfident jerk. “This wet already? Someone’s desperate.”

“Shut up and put your mouth where your money is.” His eyes darken immediately, and he grips a thigh, sliding it over his shoulder as he brings his mouth close to your core.

The cool air that hits your soaked slit tells you that you’re practically dripping for him, and the moan that escapes you when his rough tongue attacks your clit is music to his ears. Yoongi plays with your clit in all sorts of ways- teasing strokes with the tip of his tongue, rewarding licks with the broad flat surface area and rough sucks with his entire mouth that have your back arching off his bed. He gives you a break for just a second, and you glance down to catch a glimpse of his cheeks, nose and chin covered in your arousal, and the sight makes your core clench for more.

“Fingers,” you gasp, immediately biting your lip in regret when his gleaming eyes settle on your writhing form.

“What’s that?”

“Fucking finger me Yoongi,” you grit your teeth in desperation, and he rewards you by stroking your slit gently at first, then sliding a finger till the second knuckle.

His fingers are just as magical as his tongue, as he soon adds another inside you. You clench around him immediately, and the stretch of his fingers alone makes your mind wander to how his cock might feel as it stretches your pussy out, judging from the bulge in his sweatpants earlier. The combination of his fingers and his tongue on your clit has you hurtling towards release embarrassingly quick, but just as your breaths begin to shorten and your hips buck towards his hand, he slides his fingers out of you, spreading them to admire your slick that covers them before he sucks every bit off.

“Cumming already?” His cool, unaffected tone directly contradicts the noticeable bulge in his sweatpants, and you only smirk in return as you palm him.

He feels firm and warm in your hand, and as you lower your head towards his crotch, you catch a glimpse of desire in his eyes. Maintaining eye contact, you pull down his sweats, letting his length spring free, the head engorged and red with precum. Before he can make some stupid remark about his size, you cover his tip in an open mouthed kiss, lapping up his salty precum before licking a strip on the underside, and he’s rendered speechless.

His solid length twitches in your grasp, and a sense of power floods you as you enclose your lips around his dick and he throws his head back, exposing his creamy throat in rapture. You smirk in victory as he’s reduced to a mess of moans and grunts above you, and you don’t even mind when your mouth goes down a tad too far and your eyes start to water. Min Yoongi looks as if he’s the kind that prides himself on his self-control during sex, and hearing his deliciously sinful moans is like music to your ears.

You wrap a hand around his base and jerk the part of him that you can’t take into your mouth, continuing to suckle at his tip and running your tongue all over his shaft. He threads his fingers through your hair, tugging lightly at your scalp as he bucks his hips lightly.

“Fuck, you suck dick so well, you look like such a good girl on the outside, who knew you’d be choking on my cock like this huh?”

You relax your throat and let him slide in deeper, fighting off the urge to gag, and he can only groan as he tries to resist bucking his hips into your warm, enticing heat.

“I think I like you better with your mouth full of my cock, instead of talking back to me.” Yoongi reaches for the back of your head, placing slight pressure there for a few seconds before lifting you off his dick with an audible pop. “AH fuck, your mouth is too good, but I don’t want to come till I’m balls deep in that pretty little pussy of yours.”

Yoongi watches as you wipe the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand, taking a few deep, testing breaths. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” you’re appreciative of his small shows of concern like this, but right now you’re dripping all over your thighs, and longing to be filled up. “How do you want me?”

“I’ve always wondered how you’d look naked and panting under me, and filled up with my cock,” Yoongi reaches for your legs and pulls you toward him. “That night after the club you got me so fucking horny, dollface. I had to jerk one off in my fucking bathroom because of your stupid black dress that I wanted to stain with my cum.”

“Ah- Yooongii.” He starts teasing the head of his cock between your puffy lips, catching your clit on every stroke, and you can’t help but lose yourself in the electric sensations. He coats his entire length with your arousal, taking pleasure in seeing how your lips part just to accommodate his length so willingly.

The emptiness of your core makes you angle your hips, hoping to catch him and make him slip inside, but to your disappointment his hips move just out of reach, and you sink back down to the bed with a frustrated moan.

“What’s wrong babe? Use your words, you were so good at it earlier,” Yoongi grabs the base of his cock and taps on your clit lightly- enough to send warmth blooming through your core, but not nearly enough to satisfy.

At this point all your reservations and dignity are out the window- you’re craving the feel of his cock ramming your cunt so hard, filling up every single inch of your pussy. “Yoongiii- I need you.”

“You have me already babe, you need to be more specific.”

“I need- I need your cock Yoongi please, I want to come so bad, I need it please,” your sobs are almost incoherent as you buck your hips towards him. Just when you think he’s going to prolong this torture, he slides himself in to the hilt, and you’re rewarded with the burning, pleasurable stretch.

“So g-good, oh my god,” you dig your nails into his biceps as your muscles automatically clench around him when he starts to pull out agonizingly slowly.

“Your pussy is fucking drenched… shit, how are you so goddamn tight?” Yoongi can’t bear to leave your warmth for more than a few seconds, so he thrusts himself back into your enveloping heat once more. You’re so wet that every thrust he makes gives out an obscene, squelching sound, and it’s so entirely filthy but you love it, and it makes you squeeze your walls around him.

His hands find their way to the backs of your thighs as he pushes them up, spreading your legs apart so that he can see every inch of his cock sliding into your pussy. Yoongi’s done with letting you adjust, so he leans in to your ear and whispers, “Hold on tight dollface, I’m about to pound this pretty little pussy of yours so damn hard.”

Then with a single, harsh thrust, you travel halfway up the bed, and then his hips are smashing into you repeatedly. The force of his thrusts are making you move so much that he shifts position to kneel over you so that your frame is folded over in half, the backs of your thighs over his shoulders as he sets a punishing pace.

Every thrust of his results in the head of his cock brushing against that spot, and if not for your trapped position under him, you’d be writhing out of control by now. Your folded in half position makes your cunt even tighter, and his cock feels massive inside of you as he continues to fuck you so hard that you start to see stars beneath your closed lids.

“Ah, Yoongi,” you reach towards his hips, but he stops you with a growl and a nip to your neck.

“Take it, fucking take my cock like a good girl, I know you can,” Yoongi soothes the bite with a laving tongue, and you whine in response.

But his punishing thrusts let up just a bit, and even though you feel powerless and vulnerable under him like this, you know that Yoongi knows when to stop, you trust him with your whole being, enough to just surrender under him and let him use you as he pleases.

“Yoongi, I’m gonna- I think,” your words leave your mouth in gasps.

“That’s it baby, come for me,” his voice sounds tender, and it’s the most gentle you’ve ever heard him. Yoongi sits up so that he has better access to your clit, and his thumb slides over your nub covered with your juices as he brings you closer and closer to the edge.

It only takes a few deep thrusts to unleash the white hot pleasure that makes you sob his name in desperation, and your walls close in around him in the throes of your orgasm. He continues to thrust and help you ride out your high, until he can’t resist the pulsing of your walls anymore.

“______, where can I come?” His voice is gritty and out of breath. Coming down from your high, it doesn’t slip past your notice that he’s calling you by your name, not dollface or any other pet name.

“All over me, cum all over me Yoongi.”

“Fuck fuck fuck,” he pulls out and strokes himself to completion, and your eyes are rooted to the head of his cock as streams of hot white cum spurt out to land in streaks on your belly and trickle down to your pussy, soaking his sheets completely. He collapses next to you in a panting heap, and you stay like that for a while.

Before long the stickiness on your belly starts to feel unpleasant, but as you’re contemplating the least awkward way to get out of this situation, Yoongi pushes himself off the bed, heading for his attached bathroom and returning with a damp cloth.

As he reaches to clean you up, you stop him with a hand on the cloth, attempting to take it from him. Now that you’re in your right mind, not clouded with lust, it feels a little too intimate to let him clean you up like this, but he bats your hand away. The cloth feels warm and soft against your skin, and you try to fight back the feeling of insecurity and self-consciousness as he parts your legs and wipes at your folds delicately. When he’s done, he tosses the cloth aside and you close your legs tightly.

“Don’t get all shy on me now, dollface.”

“I’m still mad at you.”

“For what? The essay or for being right in general?” He reaches for the covers with one hand and slides the other around your waist sneakily.

“Both- wait, who said you were were right about me?”

“You’re letting all the cold air in, hurry come under the covers.”

He looks so soft and cuddly with the covers up to his chin, so you grudgingly tuck your legs back in, and he snuggles his head onto your soft chest.

“Who would’ve thought? The great Min Yoongi likes to cuddle.” You smile in spite of yourself and thread your fingers through his silky blonde hair.

“Not just anyone though. I can’t believe we hate fucked over an essay.”

When he puts it like that, you can’t help but burst into giggles, burying your nose into his hair.

“And all this while I thought you were a robot who wasn’t good at anything but studying,” he murmurs into your chest.

“I do love literature, really, it’s just… somewhere along the way I got caught up in this vicious cycle of obsessing over grades. And it’s hard to get out of it, in fact, I’m not sure if it’s possible even. And with that it sucked all the joy and passion right out of something I used to love with all my heart.”

Yoongi is silent, the only movement of his being the strokes of his thumbs along your skin, and you almost think that he’s fallen asleep, and start to drift off yourself too.

“You will get out of it.”

Your neck cracks particularly loudly, drawing a few stares from those around you in the quiet atmosphere of the library.

It’s the last few hours before your submission is due, and even though your paper is already completed, you’ve been scrolling through it for the past few days trying to improve it and obsessively scanning for any mistakes. You blink your eyes wearily when you realise that you’ve been reading the same sentence over and over, and you’re glad for the distraction when your phone vibrates on the table, earning you a few dirty glares.

You grab it quickly and unlock it.

[12.20pm] Yoongi: come over babe [12.20pm] You: Yoongi I cant, I’m trying to finish my paper [12.21pm] Yoongi: I just picked up our philo paper

You shut your laptop immediately and start to pack up your things, immediately feeling your heartbeat in your throat. When you reach Yoongi’s floor, the door to his room is left open, and you peek inside to see him at his desk.

“Isn’t it sad that I have to mention a paper just to see your face?”

You roll your eyes in return, but there’s no barb behind your actions. “Touché. Who’s the one who locked me out of his studio last week when I tried to visit you?”

“I didn’t lock you out, I just didn’t hear you knock on the door,” he grumbles half-heartedly, and it’s kind of cute. He picks up a piece of paper on his desk, and holds it up, face side down so you can’t see anything. When you reach for it, he holds it just out of your reach, and you raise your eyebrows.

“What do you want now?”

“A bet, sweetheart.”

“What kind of bet?”

“If we get an A+ on this paper, you’ll have to be my girlfriend.”

“And if we fail miserably?”

“Umm… I’ll be your boyfriend?”

You snort. “Nice one Yoongi.”

Yoongi scratches his head and pretends to think for a moment. “I’ll ask for extra credit and do it all myself?”

“Good boy, you know me so well already,” you grin at him and reach for the piece of paper held between his two fingers, snatching it out of his grip.

“Ow, you gave me a paper cut there babe-”

A+ with extra credit. Most unique and daring answer I’ve seen so far. You’ve clearly understood the question requirements fully, and utilised the utmost creativity in answering. Excellent work!

For a moment you’re left staring at the piece of paper in shock, reading over the words written in red ink over and over again to make sure that they’re actually there. The red letter A+ stands out, and you can’t believe your eyes.

“So, where should we have our first date? Usually I like to date my girls for a while before fucking them, I’m not that kind of guy, but oh well-” Yoongi oh-so-casually starts to examine his fingernails.

“You saw the grade first, didn’t you?”

A sly grin spreads over his face, but he only shrugs. “Don’t know what you’re talking about babe.”

“Min Yoongi-” You stop short, watching as he grins unabashedly at you. “I guess today’s our first day then.”

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