#those are the two frames of work i was ever introduced to academically (again i study law so they dont really mention feminism a lot) and

[bagilgulhaze]

Sorry but we're going through this viscous cycle of choice feminism > radfem backlash > choice feminism blacklash like every couple of years like it's an endless loop everytime in different flavors and I feel like it's so tiring we never get to like, collective normal understanding of feminism lol

[damianosismyking]

Roommate

READ IT ON AO3.

Damen and Laurent first met when Laurent was sixteen years old.

He arrived at Damen's apartment too late for it to be considered appropriate or polite on any day, but the fact it was Sunday made everything worse.

Damen had been announcing his vacant room for the best part of the past three months since Nikandros moved out to live with his girlfriend but the response he’s gotten so far was underwhelming, to say the least. It made sense to him: his apartment was too far away from the university for it to be comfortable or spark real interest among tired, overloaded, low-income students with huge debts and likely no car. He had thought, though, that it would spark some interest. It was a constant theme in the conversations he had with Nikandros these days – which always ended up with Nikandros telling him he should just learn how to live with himself anyway, and Damen telling him there was no way he’d do it.

Still, Damen was less than thrilled to be surprised after a long day of sitting in front of thousands of books and twice as many academic papers gathering the ‘solid foundation’ his thesis lacked – in Professor Haemon’s words – by an unsolicited visitor. Damen’s eyes burned, his head pounded, and he longed for nothing more than to open a beer and mindlessly watch the documentary about whales that was on. A call to his intercom had different plans.

It felt like his brain had melted down his ears for when the doorman informed him that his friend, Laurent, whom he never met, had come to talk to him about his rental room, Damen allowed said guy up without a thought to the risks it entailed until after the call was cut.

Damen was left to hope there wasn’t a gun involved and whoever the man was, Damen could take him on a hand-to-hand fight if it came to it.

A kid showed up. Pink across the face, the only uncovered part of him. A few strands of blond hair escaped his beany, moving along the puff of his breath. He strutted inside uninvited the second Damen saw to the door, with the highest nose Damen has ever seen and scorn that did not match his angelic features.

Lazily, the kid – Laurent, his name – said, “I saw you need a new roommate.”

“And you are?”

“Your new roommate.”

“I meant –” Laurent went ahead and took off his coat, as well as his beany, that he tossed over Damen’s diner table. His blond hair shoulder-length and seemingly soft directly under the light, framed his face in waves. It gave him an almost feminine quality, if not for the sharpness of his cheekbones and jaw. “I meant have we met before?”

“No. But we have now. I’m Laurent.” He held out his hand. Damen shook it. “And you are Damianos. I go to U.M., you go to U.M. You have a room to rent, I have interest in renting a room. See? We are practically best friends already.”

He sported a young prince demeanor with long, pale fingers laced in front of his body. It was fitting, like the thought of such person being raised in a castle surrounded by luxury and used to having his way his whole life simply made sense. As for his expression: there was none. Laurent’s eyes were a rich blue but carried no warmth in them, unyielding. His gaze never averted Damen’s. It felt like staring at a blank wall.

Damen crossed his arms over his chest, unsure what to do with his hands and everything that currently unfolded in front of him. The carelessness in Laurent’s composure, or maybe the sheer audacity of him, rubbed Damen the wrong way. Under the incisive glare, Damen resisted a shiver.

Damen said, “You notice it’s almost 11 P.M. on a Sunday, don’t you, best friend?”

Laurent leaned against the dining table as though it belonged to him. Would it be acceptable to bodily drag Laurent out of the apartment after being the one to give him the pass to come up in the first place? Laurent appeared painfully young too, so that might be aggravating.

“You put on your flyer you were open to visitation anytime,” Laurent retorted. It started to bother Damen how rarely he blinked. Blank wall.

“I also put on my flyer my contact info to prevent strangers from appearing unannounced at my doorstep,” Damen paused. “On a Sunday. At night.”

“And yet here I am. Your security is horrible by the way, you should probably complain about that to the apartment manager,” Laurent drawled. That alone disqualified him to the vacancy, let aside the fact he passed for a spoiled high schooler with no hint of courtesy.

“So? Aren’t you going to interview me? I make a terrific roommate. I know how to cook and keep a house clean; I stay out of everyone’s business and in change expect everyone out of mine. I’m the most pleasant company you can get around that campus, I guarantee.”

Laurent waited and as he did so, he grabbed one of the decorative glass balls from a bowl on the table and rolled it between his hands mindlessly. When Damen gave no response, he continued, “I’m a bit of a genius, so that might interest you in case you need help with schoolwork or anything else.”

Damen stared at him. It was impossible the kid wouldn’t take the hint. All he had to do was look around, at the scattered materials, Damen’s sleeping clothes, the beer sweating the couch’s fabric, the clock marking 11 p.m. Laurent made a show of standing spitefully where he wasn’t welcomed and it either didn’t bother him or he purposefully ignored it.

“I’m also a good fuck. In case that might interest you.”

It startled Damen out of his enraged disbelief. Not that he magically came up with something to say. “I’m – I – don’t… You’re missing the point.”

“And what is that?”

“I have no idea who the fuck you are, and honestly, you’re not causing a great impression so far.”

“That comes with time.” Laurent waved him off. He wandered around the living room, accessing the quality of his surroundings. Ran a hand over Damen’s TV stand, grabbed portraits to analyze from up close, shuffled through a stack of magazines, opened the window to take a look at the view, and finally settled on the couch where he bounced, testing. Grabbed the remote, shifted through channels. Damen let it unfold only partially out of astonishment – part of him also wondered how far Laurent would go.

“It’s your turn,” Laurent said eerily, like haunted wind coming through the window.

“My turn to what?”

“Introduce yourself, of course. How am I supposed to know you’re not a pervert?” he added, plainly. “Already have enough of those in my life.”

Damen was baffled. It took him a second to find his voice. “I am going to have to ask you to leave.”

Laurent turned to him, pale brows arched. “But you didn’t interview me yet.”

“I don’t intend to. Please leave. Now.” Damen marched to the door to hold it open.

“But –” Laurent stood. Damen could almost see the engines in his mind turning. “Look. I can offer you a blowjob to change your mind. Anything more than that only if you promise I can stay.”

“What are – I do not want to have sex with you,” Damen said, exasperated. Why was this happening to him? Was this what he got after working so hard?

“Why not?” Laurent spoke as if something was out of sorts. “Let me guess, you are straight. I promise you won’t note the difference, it’s like any girl’s mouth when it’s on your cock. I’m highly skilled.”

Damen opened the door wider and gestured. “Out.”

Laurent crossed his arms and made no motion to leave. Very deliberately he leaned against the armrest. “I don’t have a gag reflex, I can take you all the way in,” he spoke with an empty face, “and I swallow, don’t spit.” At the end, he smirked mildly.

Damen flinched. “I will call security.”

“No? Okay.” Laurent leaned on his hands, propping his shoulders up. “Money’s no issue. I can offer you two months of rent in advance.”

“I need you to get the hell out before I make you,” Damen spelled out.

“Fine. Three. But this is my final offer, you have to give me something to work with here.” For how playful Laurent’s words rang, he maintained his monotone. His face couldn’t be more uninterested, without the slightest semblant of shyness.

Damen didn’t respond. Again, he gestured the outside.

Laurent sighed, as if it was Damen tiring him, not the other way around. Perhaps the biggest absurd among all others. Damen might be virtually opposed to hitting kids, but Laurent just might be the exception.

Laurent did not pick up any of his belongings, as required. Rather, he walked to Damen confidently, if slightly bored. The sway of his hips seemed very deliberate as he tied his hair on a ponytail, eyes never dropping Damen’s. His eyes carried deeper richness to the blue of his irises from this close, but somehow were even colder. He stopped few inches away from Damen. If they were the same height, their noses would bump, but as Damen had at least one foot of advantage to him, Laurent’s breath tickled his collar bone.

And then suddenly, unexpectedly, Laurent dropped to his knees, reaching for the ties on Damen’s sweatpants.

“What the fuck.” Damen slapped Laurent’s hands away. Laurent swayed taken aback and retreated, confused. “Stand up,” Damen demanded, “Stand!” at the verge of yelling.

Damen’s stomach had sunk to his feet. Other than the cameras in the corridor, there were no witnesses to what happened. Laurent remained where he was, sitting back on his heels and giving Damen huge icy eyes, through obscenely long lashes as blond as his hair, blooming cheeks, and beautifully plump pink lips. “Please, get up and leave. I won’t ask again.”

Laurent felt the wall behind him to help himself up. “I want to stay.” His voice was no longer a drawl then. It had a hint of raw desperation that had not been there before.

Damen shook his head. “That’s too bad kid.”

“I’m not a kid,” he barked, words lacking the previous indifference. “Let me stay.”

“No.”

“Please.”

A beat passed. A long ‘hear-the-ticks-on-the-clock-slow-down’ kind of beat. Laurent’s stance remained mighty and unshakable, searching Damen’s face.

“How old are you?” Damen asked and again when Laurent refused to respond.

As Damen pressed further, he finally said, through gritted teeth, “Sixteen.” In spite of the aversion for the word, Laurent expression was challenging, daring Damen to say anything about it.

Damen did. “Sixteen. You can’t just get to a stranger’s house, impose on them, and expect to be welcomed,” he said, “that’s not how these things work. Kid.”

Laurent went paler a shade, previously rosy cheeks suddenly drawn out of color. His feet kicked the carpet, and his sole focus was on that. “Do you understand? You can’t walk into strangers’ houses, period. And if you wanted a real shot at getting the room you should have called me and scheduled a date to come and talk to me at a normal hour on a normal day like everyone else. And probably have your parents to call me too, considering. Now, please get out of my apartment.”

It took him a minute, but Laurent finally listened to reason and gathered his stuff. On his way out, though, as Damen already breathed relieved that this unnerving event was over (and began to formulate in mind the text he was going to send Nikandros), Laurent stopped again, white as a sheet, barely a foot away from the door Damen had been holding open for too long.

“Let me stay.”

Neither Laurent’s voice nor his posture were anything of what they had been. It was like watching him come undone. His shoulders tensed and his feet were dragging rather than pacing. “I have the money. You won’t even know I’m here. Please.” Damen shook his head sluggishly. Laurent looked out the door and then slowly cast his eyes back to Damen. “Tonight then. I can pay you for the stay and I’ll be gone in the morning before you know it.”

Damen’s resolve faltered, then cracked, then crumbled. It finally occurred to him, “Why did you come here?”

Laurent frowned. “Your flyer…”

“No.” Laurent knew what Damen really asked.

Laurent bit his bottom lip for a long time, then straightened up. “I have nowhere else to go.” His face, though he attempted to remain composed, betrayed him. His bottom lip trembled discreetly.

“You were kicked out?” No response. Damen ran a hand over his face. His grip on the door slacked. “Damn you. Don’t you have… friends? Any family you can run to? Come to a stranger’s apartment… do you have any idea what could happen to you? You’re sixteen.” Laurent stared at him, silent. For a moment, he seemed about to speak but words died on his lips. “How do I know you aren't here to rob me? Or jump me when I’m asleep? Are your cronies waiting for you sign downstairs?”

Laurent said nothing. He balled his fists and waited as if he knew that Damen already changed his mind. It was not like Damen could do anything else anyway. It’s not like he would be able to cast out a homeless kid. Even a kid like Laurent.

Damen scratched his head and slammed the door behind him, eyes closed with a long, heavy sigh. He cursed under his breath. “Just tonight,” Damen said, though he knew he was lying. “You will have to find someplace else tomorrow.”

“Right. Thank you,” Laurent said.

They stared at each other for a moment. Damen, awkward with arms crossed over his chest and Laurent twirling his beany in his hands. “Are you hungry?”

“Not really.”

“Well then. The bathroom is at the end of the corridor, there are clean towels in the cabinet, and other stuff you might need.” Another awkward moment passed. “Let me show you to your room. The room. Not your room. Where you’ll stay tonight.”

Again, in a low voice, Laurent thanked him.

[quarantined-with-bucky]

Shopping

Bodyguard!Bucky x Reader

Request: Hi! May I ask for a hc or scenario in wich Bucky falls for the reader who has a "spoiled brat" stereotype...u know? Like a Regina George from Mean Girls type of attitude, Maybe the reader is the daughter of someone important who Bucky needs to protect idk I thought it could be quite fun, anyway...loved your writing so much in "Dichotomy" ❤

Words: ~ 4,500

Summary: Bucky’s paid to be your bodyguard and you’re, well, kind of a bitch.

Warnings: None! For once ;)

...

There is three things men want in life.

1.     They want to see if they can fuck you.

2.     They want to see if they can fuck you over.

3.     They want to get you out the fucking picture.

That was simply a fact of life. It was especially accurate in the world you grew up in: the world of powerful men, fast cars, vast mansions, and extravagant wardrobes. There was something about everyone’s cut-throat attitude that also seemed to drag along these luxuries. It was all about showing off: who had the most expensive car, whose house was bigger – whose wife was hotter.

This is the climate you grew up in: constant competition, envious friends, malicious enemies. There was a certain image you were expected to maintain, so you did exactly that. Not only did you have the weight of one day taking over your father’s company on your shoulders, you had the paparazzi stalking your every move. There wasn’t a single moment of peace in your life. You couldn’t go to the mall or the grocery store without at least one picture of you showing up on Daily Mail.

You’d grown up with it and, for the most part, you didn’t have to do things like that anyway. There was always someone to do those menial tasks for you.

Until you moved out of your parents’ house. You finally graduated college; a twenty-something kid finally ready to jump into the world on your own two feet. You were eagerly awaiting your move into your New York City apartment – a swanky two-bedroom on the top floor of a building in Soho.

Everything was going swimmingly well until you had an altercation with paparazzi. It was hard to navigate the narrow streets and sidewalks of the city, and as you were meeting your friend at a restaurant, you found it was a little too easy for the cameramen to push you around on the street. However, while you were thinking more along the lines of a restraining order against them, your father had other ideas.

“No way,” you interrupted, holding your hands up to your father. “That’s not happening.”

He raised his eyebrows at you. “It is happening. Unless you want this to happen again.” He tossed the stack of newspapers onto your dining table, the photo of you on the front page sliding across the table towards you. The title read “(Y/N) Falters – Will She Fumble Daddy’s Company?” You bit the inside of your cheek, the photo immortalized you trying to push past the group of people photographing your every step, the bright flashes causing you to hold your hands in front of your eyes. “This won’t be happening again.”

…

That’s how you met Bucky. At first, it was nice to have him around. He shook your hand once as he introduced himself. It was months before he even said anything else to you. He stood posted up in the doorway of every room you walked into. He wore a smart looking suit ever day, the top few buttons of his shirt undone to show off his tanned muscles underneath.

He walked you to restaurants, taking the lead, keeping the paparazzi at a far distance away from you. He followed you around shopping, carrying your Gucci, Dior, and Balenciaga bags to your car for you. God, it was a dream. What was even dreamier were his eyes. Before anyone approached you to speak with you, he stopped them, turning his head to look at you for your nod of approval before letting them past. And holy fuck those two seconds of fleeting eye contact made you absolutely melt. You almost started scheduling unnecessary appointments into your schedule just so he could face you again for confirmation. You stared back at him as seductively as possible, eyes half lidded, glossy, staring back at him and tilting your head in the slightest nod.

That was the only time he ever acknowledged you. That, and when he opened your car door for you. He never said much – if anything – at all. But his presence was so demanding: his shoulders were so broad, his chest constantly puffed out, his jaw clenched, and eyebrows narrowed in challenge. It took every bit of willpower not to jump his bones.

…

You had a certain mentality when it came to work. There was a certain image to be portrayed. You always dressed to the nines: a fitted suit, usually Balmain or Chanel, complete with gold jewelry and tall heels. Your makeup was done every day: a neutral pallet, something that unsuspecting peers would assume to be natural. Your hair was always perfectly in place: either cascading smoothly down your back or pinned neatly into a bun. Not only were you running the company, but you were also the face of the company.

You walked around with your head held high, shoulders back, and with determination in your step. People watched you as you walked down the hallway. Maybe some in admiration, others envy, even a few with desire. You always heard their whispers, though.  

Bucky walked in-toe with you always remaining a cool two steps behind you; you could feel his gaze burning into the back of his head. You entered your office, Bucky taking his usual post by the door. You plopped down in your large leather chair, preparing yourself for your meeting.

Your morning got progressively worse as the meetings progressed, people not cooperating, work not being done, no conflicts getting resolved. As you last meeting ended, and the particularly patronizing man left your office, you couldn’t hold back muttering a “fucking prick” as the door shut behind him.

Bucky pinched is lips together, holding back a smirk. You reclined in your chair, watching him regain his poise quickly, eyes not moving from the fixed position on the wall in front of him. “You know, James,” you spoke up, instantly getting his attention. “That was my last meeting today; you can sit, if you’d like.” You gestured to the seating area across the room.

He nodded in thanks, strutting across the room and sitting on the black couch in front of you. All you wanted was to join him on the couch. The things you could do to him on that couch – the things he could do to you on that couch. “You can call me Bucky,” he stated, reclining against the back, legs spreading open a tad bit.

You nodded stiffly and bit your bottom lip, unable to tear your eyes away from his splayed posture. “Bucky,” you whispered, testing his name on your tongue. And, damn, it tasted good.

You snapped yourself out of your fixation, pulling your laptop in front of you, pretending to work as you couldn’t get that image out of your head. The face that you could still see his propped-up figure over the top of your laptop screen; his eyes had not drifted from your person.

…

Your were temporarily blinded, gripping the back of Bucky’s jacket as he pushed through the crowd of people, shoving open the door to the lobby of your apartment. Calling the elevator, he watched as you smoothed down the ends of your hair, trying to rub the light spots out of your eyes as best you could without smudging mascara all over your face. He ushered you in once the doors opened, holding a hand lightly to your waist.

You dropped your back against the shiny elevator walls, crossing your arms over your chest and staring at the reflection on the wall in front of you. You looked tired, makeup wearing off under your eyes, purple circles under your eyes becoming prominent; a few flyaways framed your face, curling and unruly. The doors opened and you pushed your way through before Bucky. You shoved open the apartment door, throwing your purse on the table, viciously kicking of your heels. You heard Bucky shut the door softly and he paused before entering the kitchen behind you.

Today had been effectively one of the worst days of your life. Work was terrible: your day was run with meetings and disrespectful colleagues, bulldozing over all your ideas and suggestions; it rained during lunch, completely ruining the Coach heels you were wearing to attend the business luncheon; afterwards was much worse. You were highlighted in the issue of Forbes Magazine. You’d been waiting for this for months: you’d done multiple interviews, had photoshoots, the whole nine yards. You were excited for the world to see the underlying factors of what made you you; for them to finally recognize not only your past academic achievements, but also all you have accomplished thus far with the company, for them to see that you were capable – qualified – to run this company.

Boy were you hopeful.

You were met, in fact, with quite the opposite.

Waves upon waves of criticism washed upon you after the release. You were met with all kinds of backtalk: everything from you inheriting the company, to being accepted into college because of your dads’ money, to “stick to makeup, honey.” People began commenting on how they thought you walked all over people, how you rarely seemed friendly in the workplace, how you “used men.”

It couldn’t be more the opposite.

While you liked to maintain a certain image and always have a presentable appearance, despite any men or women that sought after you, you’d turned them downs. In fact, you’d never had a boyfriend – let alone any friends.

You worked hard to retain a respectable image. The problem with working and living in a dog-eat-dog world is the sacrifices you had to make to maintain such an image. You couldn’t simply allow people to walk all over you – achieving this took years. You had to speak up in times others would cower, use your voice when there was an issue other did not seem to care about. You had to walk with your head held high and your shoulders back.

Once you obtained dominance in the workplace, you had to conquer the world of love. It could make you gag. You wanted to intimidate the men that once patronized you. You wanted them to want you, fight over you, worship you. But you’d ever let them have you. Nobody could see you vulnerable, nobody could love you, touch you, blackmail you. That’s the way it had to be.

But you couldn’t always be so ruthless. Right now, you leaned against the counter, dropping your hands onto the cold marble surface. It was one of those days like today where everything got the best of you. Everyone tore you apart, you’d spent the last half of the day just reading tweets about yourself.

“She looks like such a bitch.”

“Would it kill her to smile? Not the kind of boss I’d want to work for.”

“My friend worked for her and said she has everyone else do her work for her.”

“Forbes, is this issue recognizing daddy’s money?”

Bucky placing a mug next to you pulled you out of your thoughts. You stared down at the steaming mug, Bucking suddenly speaking up: “maybe if you drank something, you’d feel better.”

You pushed past him, shoving him away from you as you headed to your bedroom. God, all you wanted was to be alone. Did he have to be here every second of the day? All you wanted was silence and he picks this one time to start babying you? You slammed the door shut, the sound echoing throughout the vast apartment. You stripped your nice clothes, opting for a shower and large t-shirt for bed.

Bucky sat in the living room, listening to you shuffle around your bedroom. He finally stood, ready to head home, when he heard the softest sound come from you bedroom. A sniffle. Followed by another.

He leaned against the doorframe, listening to the noises that he’d never heard from you before – hell, he never thought you were capable of that emotion. He weighed his options carefully: go inside and comfort you, it didn’t seem like you had a lot of close friends or even family that checked in on you, you must’ve felt so alone, and everyone attacking you definitely didn’t feel nice; he could leave and let you deal with this on you own – which is probably what you wanted, considering he knew how long it took you to create your façade. However, Bucky could see right through it – he could always see through it. No matter how intimidating and powerful you wanted yourself to be, he and everyone else knew that you were a spoilt brat trying to live up to daddy’s expectations, but only he knew that at your deepest core, you were a tired, lonely, sad little girl, wishing for just one day of invisibility, in which nobody knew who you were, nobody care about you – like you didn’t exist.

…

You and Bucky continued your usual routines from then on, nothing changed. He didn’t talk to you; you didn’t talk to him. He spent his time pushing people out of your way, and you went along pretending nobody existed.

It was two weeks after that when you spoke to him for the third time. You and Bucky were walking from the parking garage to your place. That’s when a masked man came out from behind you and grabbed a hold of your purse. You helped in surprise as he tried to run past you, one hand loosely gripping your Birkin. Before you could even turn to the direction he ran off in, Bucky’s hand hit him square in the jaw. You gasped, holding your hands up to your open mouth as Bucky knelt on top of the man, continuously hitting him and holding him down.

You saw a flash simmer as you saw Bucky’s hand move, holding the other man to the sidewalk. Metal? Did he have a prosthetic arm? When did that happen? And why didn’t you ever notice it before?

In the mixture of bystanders, paparazzi, and doormen, the police quickly pushed through. Bucky was relieved of his post as the man was taken away. The policeman escorted the two of you to the lobby, where he took the information and returned your purse to you.

Eventually, Bucky took you upstairs to your floor. “Are you okay,” he asked, following you through the door.

You nodded, turning around to face him – face his arm. You stared at it, the metal coils formed in the shape of  a perfect hand, winding upwards all the way up to where his shirt sleeve was pushed up past his elbow. It shimmered in the soft lighting, reflecting the moonlight that cascaded in through your windows. He held his hands behind his back, tilting his jaw upwards slightly as he stared you down. Your eyes flitted to his narrow ones; his eyebrows narrowed between pieces of dark hair that fell over his forehead. “Yeah,” you muttered. “Yes,” you clarified, clearing your throat.

“Do you need me to stay with you? Or are you fine for the night?”

You bit the inside of your cheek, shifting your weight from one foot to another. “Stay?” It came out more of a question than you expected.  He nodded, not moving any other muscle. You quickly thought of something to break the silence and pulled your phone from your bag. “Takeout?”

He cracked a smile, nodding again. “Sounds good.”

After calling it in, you shifted away to the kitchen as Bucky sat in the living room. You didn’t know what to do to fill the silence. You’d never talked to him. You fumbled around with a wine bottle, popping it open and taking a long pull straight from the bottle before heading towards Bucky with two glasses. Hopefully some liquid courage would kick in quickly. You poured him a glass, another for yourself, and sat beside him on the plush sofa.

It was quiet. It was awkward.

“Thank you for, y’know,” you murmured over the rim of your wine glass, eyes falling to the red liquid swirling in your glass.

“No problem, it’s my job,” he replied casually. “To protect you.” You nodded; lips pressed tight in a line. You looked around the room, trying to find anything to look at. Your gaze landed on the metal arm propped up on the side of the couch. “You wanna take a picture of it, doll?” He chuckles lightly, tapping his fingers on the fabric of the sofa.

“Oh!” You snapped out of your gaze, jumping slightly on the couch. “Sorry – I didn’t mean to stare, I just – just – ” you stuttered over your words, reaching out slightly towards him.

He smiled, genuinely smiled this time, tongue running over his bottom lip. “It’s okay, (Y/N) – ” your name sounded so good on his lips “ – you can touch it, if you want.” Touch it? Touch what? You nearly started salivating. Then he held his hand out to you, palm facing upwards, fingers outstretched. You held your hand out, brushing his metal palm with the tips of your fingers. He chuckled again, flipping your hand around and holding your own hand in his. He ran his metal fingers over the backs of your knuckles. It was cold, yet so much softer than you expected.

Your eyes flitted up to meet his blue ones, already staring back at you. He licked his lips and leaned ever so slightly towards you. Your breath hitched in the back of your throat as you stared at him with wide eyes and mouth agape. “See, that’s not so bad, right?” He whispered, gaze shifting from your eyes to your lips, tinged red from the wine.

You held your breath, leaning the rest of the way in, shutting your eyes.

Then you hit a brick wall.

A metal wall.

Your eyes snap open to see Bucky’s metal hand gripping your shoulder, holding you in place. “Look, (Y/N) – ” there he goes with your name, again “ – I didn’t mean to send any signals…” he trailed off, dropping his hand and pushing himself up to his feet. Signals? No, of course not. Just holding my hand, staring lustfully into my eyes, and looking at my lips. Not to mention licking his own. You almost rolled your eyes. “I’m sorry,” he sighed.

You did roll your eyes, standing with him. “It’s…” you trailed off. Save face. “Whatever.” You turned away, shuffling to the front door, pulling it open.

He left without another word, but not without stopping to look into your eyes – at least, he tried to, if it hadn’t been for you dropping your whole head, staring blankly at the floor. You slammed the door behind him, nearly nicking his back heel as he stepped into the corridor.

Well, that was perfectly embarrassing. The best way to end such a terrible day. Utter embarrassment. You didn’t know how you were supposed to face him tomorrow.

Sadness turned into anger as you threw his wine glass directly into the sink, watching as the glass shards flew across the countertops. Who did he think he was? That he could act like that and then throw it back in your face? His signals were perfectly clear. In fact, you were haunted by those signals all night.

By the touch of his skin.

By his blue eyes.

…

You didn’t sleep that night. Instead, spent your time getting ready all morning. Hair perfectly set down your back, eyes surrounded by sultry makeup, a ferocious looking contour. You put on your tallest heels, tightest dress, and shiniest jewelry.

You looked ravenous.

Bucky knocked on your front door, as he did every morning to take you to work. You slung your bag over your shoulder, took a deep breath, and swung open the door. You looked straight past him; eyes directed on the elevator doors in front of you. You walked directly past him, relying on him to shut the door behind you.

Your heart was racing, it took all of your willpower not to twitch or tap your foot as you waited for the elevator. You set your jaw and stood stonewalled.

That’s how the day went: you completely ignoring Bucky. Although you normally ignored Bucky, today you didn’t look at him, thank him when he opened the door for you, nothing. Not even sparing a glance as he stared at you from his position on the sofa in your office. There he sat, usually splayed out and legs open; you could feel him staring at you. All you wanted to do was run into the women’s bathroom and sit there all day – anywhere would be better than here with him.

That’s how the weekend went, too: you spent the first six days ignoring him. Today was Saturday and you wanted to go shopping. Not the normal shopping. Today was all about showing Bucky that if you wanted something, you got it.

Again sporting the skimpiest outfit you could manage, you dragged Bucky around shopping all day. By your fifth store, your feet were absolutely killing you from walking so far in these heels, but it was worth it to torture Bucky. He carried all of your bags – from your purse, to you shopping bags, to even your coat. And nothing pissed him off more than you waiting at the register, the person behind the counter ringing up your literal tens-of-thousands of dollars’ worth of clothes, shoes, and bags, clicking your tongue and holding your hand out for your wallet. You tapped your foot, continuing your light conversation with the employee, waiting for Bucky to drop the heavy wallet into your palm. Without a turn of your head or even a thank you, you finished the transaction, walking through the door immediately, leaving Bucky to take your purchases.

This is what he deserved after embarrassing you like that. Was he just so nice to see where you’d take it? Did he want you to try to kiss him, just so he could say no? Just so he could turn you down? To be the one guy you wanted – and never got? Maybe he was going to sell the story. He was just like any other guy – but then why wouldn’t he kiss you? And the thought replayed in your mind, as did that night’s events. You had no other choice but to continue shopping and dragging him around.

Oh, he was pissed.

A fucking bagman? That’s how you saw him? That night was probably the calmest he’d ever seen you. You seemed nervous, even. Nervous because of his arm? Yes, he would’ve loved nothing more than to have you in the palm of his hand – literally – he would’ve loved to kiss you, and touch you, and hold you. He couldn’t take advantage of you like that. Not in your most vulnerable moment. After the robbery, you mind must’ve been scrambled. He wasn’t sure if that was your way of thanking him. He wasn’t about to let you throw yourself on him – who knows how you would’ve felt the next day.

But that’s not how you saw it, and you weren’t about to let him explain.

And this show you were putting on for him? He wasn’t dumb; he would’ve had to be oblivious to not know you were showing off for him. These skimpy outfits and tight dresses, necklaces that ended just at the top of your cleavage, skirts that ended just at the curve of your ass – he loved every minute of it. But he wanted you ­­out of it at the same time.

You were treating him like shit, which he didn’t enjoy. He could’ve stopped by now: dropped all your shit and walked right out of the store. Instead, he clenched his jaw, bit his tongue, and followed you around the block, holding your bags; the only saving grace was getting to walk behind you and stare at your shaking ass all day.

…

You pushed the apartment door open, barely holding it open long enough for Bucky to slip through, carrying bags lined up his arms. You heard the crinkling of some of the paper bags as the door shut on him. He took one step in, letting the door fall shut, then dropped everything to the floor nicely.

“No,” you said, not looking up from your cell phone. You pointed a finer across the room. “Bedroom.”

A sharp laughed cracked through the silence. You almost flinched, starting at Bucky cackling loudly at you. “That’s not my job.”

You stared at him, narrowing your eyes in challenge. “Excuse me?”

He crossed his arms over his chest, shit-eating-grin unfaltering. “You heard me, princess.”

You didn’t move. Instead, you took a step backwards as he approached you. He walked towards you until you were backed up against the kitchen counter. You mimicked his arms, crossing them over your own chest, inadvertently pushing your cleavage up – which you noticed when you saw his eyes flit down for the tiniest second before returning to your own eyes, a tinge of pink lacing his cheeks – not that he cared. “Don’t fucking call me that,” you spat, tilting your chin up. You were not intimidated by him.

He got so close that your pelvises were nearly touching. He leaned down, dropping his hands to the countertop on either side of you, his lips barely grazing the shell of your ear as he bent closer. “What do you want me to call you, baby?”

God, you looked so real in that moment. Caught off guard, maybe. But your usual forced scowl was replaced by your surprised expression, eyebrows raised, mouth slightly ajar, tongue tucked right where your two plump lips meet. You were holding your breath, he could tell. He liked you like this, better. When you weren’t trying to be all hard and intimidating, when you didn’t know how to react – couldn’t deal with these emotions because just this once, they were real.

You stumbled over your words, mind suddenly not processing anything. His stubble rubbed ever so lightly over your jaw, his breath tickling your neck. You didn’t know how long you were standing there. It felt like forever since either of you said anything.

Suddenly, he pulled away – just like before. You released your breath, about to speak and then –

He grabbed your face in both hands (one warm to the touch, the other cold from the marble) and held you so that you eyes gazed up at him. His blue eyes looking back into yours, a smile pulling at one corner of his lips. He pulled your head upwards, leaning his own down, meeting in the middle in a soft, tender kiss. He shrugged, letting himself fully tilt into the kiss, hips touching each other’s; you swung your arms around his neck, pulling yourself up to him, chest pressing against his.

God, you could get used to this.

And all it took was a little shopping.

[lacktastrophe]

Daisy MegaPost Pt1

Update: 3/7/2021

This one’s been in the shop for a couple of years now. I think I started this way back in 2019 but I just became just far too busy to work on huge posts again. I had anticipated to have all of Daisy written up during the break that BCB had, but I became in need of a break myself too. Part two was written up, but I never went further.

I had come back to this recently and made some changes. I wasn’t too happy with the way I used to write and I’ve been editing this over and over, until I noticed it wasn’t keeping them. I’ve published it now since there wasn’t any point just keeping it in drafts and it’s more or less done, just not in this state I’m perfectly happy with, but it seems to be keeping my changes now it’s in this state. I anticipate I’ll still be making some edits. Before I continue on with Part 2. As for part 3 and onwards, I can’t give a time frame.

With the webtoons version way ahead of the chapters here, I’ll probably make progressive updates and start using those over the old Volume 1 art, I’d anticipate the webtoons version is a retelling of the story and thus there might be some retcons, like how Kizuna was replaced with Stacy. I’d anticipate some changes might make different meanings for the future.

I still enjoy examining the story and characters. I still plan to do some introspections to the other characters I haven’t come to, but it’ll be far fewer and in-between than years ago. I have other projects and those need priority. 

But I’m happy that people still enjoy reading these.

---

We’re onto the main characters now, things are going to need to change with the way mega-posts are going to be published from this point forward. My previous mega-posts are usually just one long post, hence the name. Though they’re starting to become uncontrollable, and Tumblr is clamping down, or at least not really working with excessive word counts.

Uh oh. . .

Well, the old mega-posts can still be accessed but you’ll need a direct link, they won’t show up on the mainroll and I’d be surprised if they still show up these days, and I’d have to guess this has something to do with the anti-spam detection on Tumblr.

If you were interested in the previous mega-posts, they can be accessed on their own page from my blog’s front page. I just wouldn’t try reading some of the earlier ones on an app, it’ll struggle. 

The other problem was with the word count, even without the characters being the prime focus, they’re starting to get long. Abbey’s alone was a 16000  behemoth. This surprised me, as despite him being a secondary character there was an awful lot to discover and talk about. Augustus, despite being a character who appeared much more in-between chapters but much fewer than Abbey, was nearly 21000 words. If there was that much to talk about with the secondary characters, the same method of just dumping as much as I can into one post is clearly not going to work when we start approaching the main characters. I had to split both of them up for my own convenience.

The main change is to make these smaller so they’re friendlier on the app and the website; maybe aim for 2000-5000 words without focusing too heavily on trying to get through on as many chapters as possible and see how far we go. 

The plan from this point forward is to do a large collection of write ups but then deploy them progressively. That’ll also give anyone who’s keen a chance to give feedback or who wants to talk further about something. 

Sound good?

Me too! So without further ado, let’s get a move on and have a look at Daisy.

----

So, our first protagonist, where do we start with  Daisy?

How you’re first introduced to Daisy really depends on whether you read the book or followed the comic through the site. The book’s opening chapter, ‘Like a Bittersweet Candy Bowl’ introduces you to Daisy as a massive bookworm who does well in school. She’s pretty smart!

Book in hand, we’d pretty much believe that right off the bat. She appears like the most studious in this group of friends. And we’d be right! She even puts the ever-perfect Mike to shame. She’s nothing less than a perfect student. 

‘Perfect’ could be an understatement, Daisy is a literal freak of nature when it comes to her academics; as when Daisy and the kids transition to Roseville high, we find her already in classes well advanced than her peers.

Daisy is just that incredible!

Through the website, ‘Simple Pleasures’ aims to introduce the kids in much the same way, but there is far less in the way of monologuing and we’re introduced as the characters interact. In much the same way as the introduction chapter in volume 1, we learn that Daisy is quite the bookworm and school-obsessed student, even during weekends. But that’s not the only thing dominating her thoughts, as when Lucy goes out on her walk, the first person she runs into is Daisy who is looking for someone else in particular!

You guessed it!

Oh GOD, does Daisy like boys! Can you guess who she’s got her eye on?

Of course it’s Mike. Are you surprised she’s got a deep crush on the boy who seems very perfect himself? Everywhere that Mike goes, you can be sure that there’s a shadow in the shape of Daisy not too far behind. . .

Wherever he goes. . .

Daisy doesn’t shy from showing her interest in him when the convenience calls for it. Ah, young love.

Eventually, Daisy would find love, though it wouldn’t be with Mike. It would however be the second longest running relationship in the comic if you consider Mike and Sandy, with an admirer of hers. 

Still, suffice to say, even after every attempt gets shot down in the most spectacular way, Daisy bounces back -- Like a daisy. Her shining ray of positivity follows her everywhere.  It’s all in the name, after all. Daisy still manages to rise up with her sunny disposition. 

But not every time.

As the story progresses, little by little, we start seeing that there’s more to Daisy. We start to see that not everything is bright and happy like her name-sake despite appearances. Things would be far from perfect, and underneath that smiling face is a character suffering with low self-esteem in that very same area; her appearance; believing their Ragamuffin/Selkirk-Rex heritage is letting them down and putting them in misery. This tends to be particularly true on rainy days, when all the hours she spends of a morning brushing down her fur become undone when the droplets causes it to fluff up and the curls start showing. Daisy attributes these traits to the reason she isn’t quite as easily noticed by the boys as the other girls, setting up for a number of stories involving her in Volume1, and opening her to be taken advantage of in the pursuit of attention and affection.

Not all the characters gain admirers or attention and for most of these characters, this is fine. But Daisy is not one of those and this above all things has an enormous impact on her. She wants to be noticed and receive affection, particularly from Mike, and others to a degree. 

It’s when faced with multiple rejections from her dream boyfriend we also progressively discover a side of her shown to be more envious if not resentful of a few others who have it so easy, particularly with one such character inside her friend circle.

As you can imagine, these weaknesses will eventually put Daisy in danger as she tries her best to come up with ways to cope and make changes in order to improve her life, especially if the means are at the cost of logical reasoning like taking advice from the seediest boy in the school to attain her goals. She isn’t infallible; Intelligence doesn’t necessarily mean smarts. Even with someone who does as well in school as Daisy does, there’s always room to grow. 

But until that happens, Daisy often finds herself in trouble when her personal feelings, ambitions and dreams do the talking for them on pursuit of happiness, for herself and others.

And oh boy, doesn’t Daisy make more than her own fair share of mistakes.

Let’s move onto the story, it starts with Simple pleasures, the first chapter.

This chapter serves to introduce us to the main group of characters central to the story and so features the aloof and prickly Lucy, the playboy Paulo, the ever-perfect Mike and the bookworm Daisy. It starts with Lucy on a morning walk and progressively running into each of them. With Daisy specifically, it starts with Daisy coming across her first and greeting her by shouting ‘Hey’ behind her.

Except...Lucy ignores her, and we don’t know why -- Is Lucy doing this intentionally? She’s in a world of her own at the moment with her singing. Are they friends? Is she just so aloof she doesn’t realise she’s there?

Well, Daisy isn’t going to let herself be ignored so easily and she really needs Lucy for something. So she goes to get her attention by impulsively grabbing onto Lucy’s tail. This would turn out to be a very critical mistake that one of the other protagonists just can’t stop helping himself from doing, and because of that we notice that Lucy isn’t as aloof as she seems, and reciprocates by twisting around and kicking her in the face.

Only to find that the person she was expecting was actually Daisy, much to her surprise. There’s a reason she never noticed her.

The first chapter has a number of objectives, it serves to set up the tone of the comic by showing the dynamic between the main group of friends, but also displays their characteristics. We already learn a couple of things from Daisy and Lucy’s interaction here. We learn that Lucy has a short fuse when it comes to unwanted contact. She appears aloof, but the main reason for Lucy not acknowledging Daisy initially is through the understanding that she’s partially deaf, unable to hear out of her left ear in similar in characteristic with her breed, the Khao Manee. Many of the other characters will make this mistake too and often at times Lucy doesn’t make it obvious she can’t hear what’s going on around them and needs to ask about what transpired much later. Lucy’s aloofness will be questioned in time as we start seeing more of her.

Daisy had forgotten about Lucy’s disability because something else was more important. And naturally, we learn that Daisy has, no less; a bit of a crush on the forefront of her mind. And we learn here that crush is on Mike, one of their friends at school, and her reasoning for bothering Lucy is that she’s only looking for him. What we come to learn later is it’s a little known fact that wherever Lucy is, Mike is often not too far away. In fact Lucy is never off on her own by herself. 

Sadly for Daisy, Lucy doesn’t know where he is, so Daisy runs off in the opposite direction. That’s about as much of Daisy as we see until the next chapter. 

Before we move on, let’s talk more about their interaction. As brief as it was, the interaction gives off more in the subtext into the status of the relationships between these characters and the others. I anticipate as new readers many of the details of this interaction just fly over heads, accepting these two are friends and this is just how they are. But being as late into the comic as we are, I feel we’re already seeing some of the signs of what’s to come in the story through this short interaction. Not everything is as it seems.

Most of this payload of information is laid in the question that Daisy poses after Lucy asks her what she’s after. When Lucy states she hasn’t seen Mike, Daisy asks ‘Oh no, did you upset him?’ 

Immediately we’re given some insight into the triangle that exists between these characters and their relationship between one another, and insight into the state of these relationships.

Starting with Mike and Lucy’s relationship as the question is directed about the two of them, we learn that the friendship isn’t without it’s issues, and we’d be quick to pass this off initially as something that happens from time to time. Fight’s happen, it’s a fact of life, and it happens more so when you’re a kid and figuring things out, yourself and life.  Reading through the story, we would find the two inseparable in the later chapters and we never look at Daisy’s question again. But reading through BCB again from as late in the comic as we are, we have to wonder why this question specifically.

What we learn much later in the comic as we progress through is that Mike and Lucy’s relationship is much more complicated than what it appears to be. Much later, we see that the two do argue from time to time, until we get to the point where the plaster and apologies aren’t mending the cracks. The friendship isn’t quite as clean cut as it was made out to be and we start seeing some back stories into the characters. What appears to be a competitive rivalry through volume 1 between two friends is really something more sinister. By the time we reach Volume 4, we learn these two are really anything but friends.

For the moment, Daisy’s casual interaction gives off a sense of normality in their environment and understanding the answer to the question would actually help plan out her next move if we were to consider that maybe there was some intent behind the question. But we’ll get to the nature of it soon.

Without knowing too much about the kids as early in the story. I’d feel we’d put our trust in the kids to tell the story for us, and Daisy does come off as being quite perceptive and trustworthy immediately being the positive bookkeeper she is, she would be the expert for us until such a time as we become the experts. 

One thing we’d discover much later on our own is that the Mike and Lucy are inseparable. In one way or another, they will find each other and act like close friends again. And Daisy knows this too without specifically pointing it out. Already suggesting that they’ve fought, it would only be a matter of time before they made up again, whether that takes minutes or hours. No matter how big the town is again, so long as they’ve got each other in their thoughts, they’ll stumble upon each other in no time, almost like a six sense.

It could be said that this is for the sake of convenience in the story in getting them to interact faster in the comic and resolve disputes, and that would be right. But BCB takes this and turns it into a running gag between just these two characters. There are more than a few jokes that exist in Volume 1 to make this seem like these two are made for each other in the way that they will eventually run into each other no matter how big the town is. One such joke is seen in Volume 1 through Mike’s inability to surprise Lucy on her Birthday. It’s so powerful, even Lucy’s auditory disability doesn’t stop her from catching him just before he can do it, even if the hiding spot isn’t obvious.

We’ve only seen this fail once, and that was in ‘Its all in the mind’ when Mike does sneak up on her, but Lucy has very much moved on from Mike at this point, so we’d have to wonder if this is something to do with them both being in Sync, we might not know.

-

The question Daisy asks doesn’t just pertain to Mike and Lucy’s relationship however, it also begs the question to Lucy and Daisy’s relationship at the same time. In fact, if it wasn’t for Daisy’s sunny disposition and Lucy’s stone-faced responses, the entire interaction would appear quite rude; Daisy’s question isn’t whether or not she’s seen him, only if she’s upset him, shedding some poor light on Lucy’s personality.

It’s important to remember that while these two are friends at our current point in the comic, they did not start out as friends, especially when you consider Confrontation, as we’re coming up to. Daisy, while she was amicable around Lucy and quite hospitable to her in the friend group, has to contend with her as being this roadblock to getting to Mike. Lucy seemed more aloof around her, but there’s more than enough to suggest that Lucy had other mutual feelings.

Understanding now that there is a rivalry between the two (or a one-sided rivalry, take your pick), we can understand why that particular question had been asked. Its tent though is to give more reason to Daisy’s next move: If Lucy did divulge she had fought with him; then it would only be a matter of time before Mike showed up, as Mike would feel the need to apologise and through their innate ability, would find each other, it would just be a matter of time. If she hadn’t; then Mike could be just about anywhere. 

It turns out to be the later. And too infatuated with Mike (or not interested in hanging out with Lucy, take your pick), Daisy does not simply stay with her to wait and runs off in the opposite direction, hoping to find him first. 

It’s when Daisy is no longer in the focus, we can see that Lucy isn’t exactly as stonewalled as she initially appeared to be, blushing from the interaction.

As possible that Lucy is only reacting because of her stupid head-over-heels attitude for that other idiot, as Lucy is yet to realise her feelings for Mike, we could wonder if it might not also be because Daisy has rudely pointed at the elephant in the room in Lucy and Mike’s relationship. Who’s to say?

(2021 edit -- The webtoon has this piece of dialogue changed. This time Daisy asks ‘Awww, are you both fighting still?’, which makes this even more pronounced that things aren’t all quite sunshine already. )

Finally, Daisy and Mike. Now that Lucy’s interaction with Daisy is done, Daisy is running around town looking for Mike, for whatever reason it just can’t wait until school. 

Ah love. I’m sure it won’t be a problem in the future, right? 

Mike is a real nice guy; lending Daisy his math workbook to Daisy.

We really need to look a bit deeper into this. We know much later in the story we that Daisy is well in advance of her peers in her studies. When she starts Roseville high, we find her in no more than two ahead of the others in her grade, with the juniors, and Tess.

And in the first few chapters of volume 1, we learn that Daisy often tutors Mike, so there’s no way Daisy even needs that book.

Unless...

O---Oh. It wasn’t for Math after all.

We’d come to learn that boy troubles are generally the source for all of Daisy’s grief. We’ll find that Daisy’s crazed obsession over Mike is used to justify a lot of the actions she’ll take in the future and we don’t know how bad this is until the much later volumes. Volume one step over this lightly as just a girl wanting her crush’ affection. But it becomes more pronounced in the much later volumes, especially when Abbey makes a point out of it when Daisy is less inhibited to keep her real feelings secret after getting drunk off Alcohol at Rachel’s party in a very late chapter.

Getting back to the current chapter, Lucy will notice that Mike eventually did find Mike, but she’s not with him. So maybe that was all she really wanted.

We’d be saps for thinking that.

But without anything concrete, we can only presume that was it. So thanks for returning Mike’s book, Daisy.

Daisy appears again in Merry Snow Day, the following chapter. This is a very short chapter where the kids are going to school after Lucy (begrudgingly) accepts schools not out, and walks with Mike to school. Daisy appears not long after and the first order of the day is to talk about homework, including offering to tutor him. She’d do anything if it meant helping her fellow students.

It’s at this part we’re introduced to the subtle idea of the rivalry for Mike’s affection between Daisy and Lucy. It’s subtle since it’s very one-sided and Lucy and Daisy don’t directly interact with one another or show that they’re fighting. Their interactions for most of the early chapters happen through Mike like you can see above when Lucy adds herself into the conversation. We’d have reason despite Lucy’s aloofness that such a rivalry does exist subconsciously and there are some reasons to believe this we’ll touch on. But for the moment, we can be sure that Lucy doesn’t consider Daisy a threat for one main reason: Mike will come back, so there’s no problem.

Daisy wouldn’t make a point of the rivalry either but Daisy would take advantage of the convenience of Lucy being out of the picture to seek attention from Mike, as she does when Lucy continues to school, and Daisy directly copies what happened just seconds ago when Lucy was about to fall on the ice, and Mike catches her.

Nice.

This chapter also introduces Yashy, Lucy’s pet Lizard and her surrogate daughter into the story line. The earlier chapters of Bittersweet Candy Bowl are ripe with slap-stick humour, and Yashy is the general source of this with her outspokenness and wise-ass personality. She’s there to rile up the others and break all the ice with her innocent demeanour. This will be the case up until the kids go to Highschool when the comedy starts being turned down in place of focusing on the rifts coming between the kids.

Unlike the other pets, Yashy is integral to the plot involving Lucy and Mike’s relationship, as she’s partly the reason for the friendship going on as long as it has. Having known Yashy for as long as Lucy, Mike takes on the role of the surrogate dad in Yashy’s life and this ends up having Yashy taking on the belief that Mike and Lucy are an established couple. But this isn’t true, and it plagues Mike as this is anything further than the truth. But with Yashy’s innocence, he can’t find the means to break this to her.

Yashy’s insistence of Mike and Lucy’s eventual destiny of being husband and wife comes at Daisy’s expense, as despite Lucy not necessarily seeing reason to stop Daisy’s attempts at trying for seek Mike’s affection, it’s Yashy who perceives her as a real threat and will shout obscenities at her when she doesn’t get her way, with a particular choice of word in mind. Though it doesn’t stop Daisy. But we can’t help but wonder much later if those words Yashy chooses to throw don’t have some kind of an effect on her much later.

That completes this chapter. Daisy doesn’t have much of an impact in Unfit for Education, appearing more to just be a participant in Sue’s obsessive thoughts game. But she gets a larger role to play in the following chapter; Burden of Parenthood. 

This chapter has the kids going through sex ed. and being given the responsibility of raising a robotic baby, which they will be graded on based on their performance. This chapter starts off quite unexpectedly, as when the teacher begins pairing off the students, Yashy’s expectations that Michael and Lucy will be paired together, doesn’t actually happen for a change.

This time, Daisy is paired up with Mike, and Lucy is paired up with Paulo.

As you could guess, Yashy isn’t thrilled in the least bit. But neither is Lucy particularly when she spots Paulo pleased at the results himself.

Again I still don’t think Yashy’s abuse is really doing much for Daisy, I can’t help but wonder what that will do for her self-esteem?

Oh, I bet she’ll be fine, she’s like a Daisy, remember?

It’s during lunch we find Daisy is positively happy with the result when she confronts Mike with their baby. Although there’s just one problem. The baby is a glaring defect, a very...interesting feature about it that has Mike freaking out.

And he’s not playing ball because of it. Even Lucy is having a hard time with the baby’s smile.

But Daisy, Daisy couldn’t care; it’s Mike’s child.

The Daisy x Mike compatibility really doesn’t take off as Mike wants absolutely nothing to do with the newly-named Alegria, which Daisy is quick to point out after keenly watching a maternally-skilled Lucy teach a very clumsy Paulo how to properly hold a child, something she learned when raising Yashy. Daisy is by all means entranced by the romantic exchange.

But where’s hers?

Trying to get Mike jealous by thrusting her baby in Paulo’s arms, and Paulo taking to the baby. Mike sees his chance and gets Lucy to ditch the two and work as a team again.

There is a momentary issue when the teacher discovers the pairs do not have their correctly assigned baby, and through a quick suggestion they were giving a realistic portrayal of divorce and custody, get extra marks on their assignments.

You’d think Daisy would be quite depressed with her chance to work with Mike not going the way she planned and the opportunity going out the window. But to receive additional credit on their work, she’s actually more than ecstatic at the results!

It’s fine, there’ll be more chances. There’s still 4 more years of school!

And in the meantime, Daisy x Paulo was born. One would have to wonder if it would bear fruits.

...Nah.

Daisy has a role to play in the next chapter; Prom Preparation. She’s tasked with organising the 8th grade prom.

The first order of the day is to survey the music selection for the evening, starting with genres. Daisy gets ideas from a number of the students, almost forgetting she hadn’t asked Mike yet.

Apparently Mike doesn’t have a favourite genre of music that comes to mind. Not being a fan of new music, Daisy fills the gap and suggests he’s into much older stuff which she tries to bond over, infuriating Yashy. 

When Daisy asks Lucy for her favourite music genre. Lucy wonders why she should bother since she’s not planning on going. . .

Leaving Mikie easy pickings for the evening. Daisy sees her chance for a bit of romance that evening, and Yashy is not at all pleased about this.

It’s worth talking about Yashy at this point, as even though we’re technically focusing on Daisy, there’s something we might be able to gain from both Yashy and Lucy that might give more insight into Daisy and Lucy’s relationship. You might notice, (2021 -- Especially in the Webtoons version), during each outburst by Yashy we can see Lucy blushing as her child unleashes hell upon Daisy, and we’d have to wonder why that is, because Lucy doesn’t seem to be initially the kind of person to care too much about anything going on around them, right?

But what if Yashy was this mouthpiece of Lucy’s impulsive thoughts that she doesn’t act on, and that’s why Lucy appears to blush from embarrassment? Yashy’s impulses are not something she’s able to control, only her own through her own inhibitions. Later in the story we start seeing hints that Lucy’s stonewall-straight faced demeanour is very much a facade and she’s actually quite sensitive, but when she’s fighting her emotions inside and she doesn’t have the answer, a blank expression is all you get so she can’t be hurt in one way or another.

But having been raised by Lucy, we could assume that Yashy is very much Lucy’s child and we can expect that having been raised by Lucy, much like every other kid out there, sometimes kids pick up traits from their parents.

(2021 -- The problem of Yashy’s language was also bought up in the more recent chapter, Dinner time, when Lucy’s mum points this out as Lucy and Jordan are fighting. While the person who was called out for this was Jordan. Can’t help but think that despite Jordan pointing out something embarrassing about why Mike might not be over more, Lucy is instead more blushing over the problem with Yashy, as Yashy is still embarrassed at being called out over it too. It’s hard to imagine the problem is just Jordan as Lucy has quite opinionated language as well, and lastly, because Yashy spends more of her time with her. There’s just an awful lot of body language going on in that scene and it’s hard to tell.)

Yashy is quite innocent in the story as she is one of the fewer characters who meets with rejection and doesn’t undergo the same hardships that Lucy underwent in her youth, so where this language and outspokenness has come from, you’d have to wonder if it’s just a quirk, or something deeper at this stage. Like as if Yashy is actually Lucy without the inhibitions.

Daisy doesn’t back down from Yashy when the golden opportunity arises even despite the name-calling. It’s when Mike believes both girls are fighting over him for Lucy to set the record straight -- she isn’t; Yashy and Daisy were and makes a point out of it. This causes Mike to walk off embarrassed since Lucy doesn’t reciprocate the same feelings. It’s only a little later towards the end when Daisy is turned down along with several other girls who learn of Mike’s availability. That ends that chapter. No romance for Daisy.

The next chapter is Helping hands, this chapter stars Daisy and Paulo who appear to have become closer friends since their pairing together in Burden of Parenthood. The chapter begins with Daisy and Paulo walking through the street, with Daisy talking about how Katie had a sleep-over the previous weekend but wasn’t invited, she was sure she must have misplaced it.

Though why missing out on Katie’s sleepover is the highlight of Daisy’s weekend is anyone’s best guess, right?

Daisy screams out suddenly as she points out an injured bird on the road, appearing heartbroken at the events. Paulo points out an arriving car that is about to put it out of its misery causing Daisy to become further distraught by this. At the very last minute, Paulo saves the bird, almost putting his own life in danger.

Expecting her to be elated, Daisy is not at all pleased in Paulo’s recklessness and scolds him, before being otherwise thankful he did it to save the bird.

But the next question is, now what?

With a hospital being too far away, Daisy suggests instead to take it to Lucy’s house as a last resort. Bringing up Paulo’s crush however, garners a reaction from Paulo that, well. . . Daisy’s not to pleased at seeing.

Oh, we’re going to see more of that. 

Daisy thinks about whether or not Lucy would end up adopting the bird as she has quite a number of pets herself. Daisy would herself although her mother wouldn’t allow it.

Suggesting Paulo could with how well Paulo did at looking after Alegria, Paulo finds the talk far too embarrassing for his ever-masculine personality. Daisy tries to persuade him that girls are into boys who can be shown to have a caring attitude. Sadly, Paulo thinks he’s already at this level.

Oh, how Paulo x Daisy is teased so.

The weather starts to take a turn for the worst and threatens to rain down much to Daisy’s horror, as we learn something interesting about how her fur reacts to the rain. Paulo tries not not to give this away but Daisy then realises and starts showing how self conscious she is about her fur, a fact we learn more of in an intermission, where Daisy spends quite a number of hours brushing it down. When Daisy asks whether he’s grossed out by her curls, he avoids the question by telling them they have to hurry, or the bird won’t make it!

Unfortunately for Daisy, Paulo isn’t the last person when they arrive at Lucy’s house. Leaving the bird in her care, Daisy immediately runs into the bathroom only to run into Mike, it’s an absolute nightmare scenario.

Feeling devastated, Paulo comes in with some saving words and tells her if Mike was really worth her time, he’d wouldn’t care no matter how she looked. Which does wonders for her esteem.

Lucy arrives down shortly thereafter and lets the two know the bird will make it, having only been attacked by another creature and not so much struck by a car. Lucy will nurse it until its better, much to the joy of Daisy and Paulo.

At that point, the conversation switches as that matter is taken care of. Noticing that Mike is at Lucy’s house studying with her. Daisy tries to invite herself to stay over and help out too.

It turns out, simply asking means you’re outstaying your hospitality.

Yeah, they’re not really tight friends are they?

On the Monday, Daisy and Paulo ask Lucy about the bird, first mistaking what Lucy says meaning that the bird passed away, it healed over the weekend and left the following day.

But not before giving them a gift.

After all, they’d need it for their baby. The bird seems to think they’d make a good couple. Ah, PauloxDaisy again. If only they both felt that way about each other.

Daisy appears in show and tell, in this chapter we are introduced to the specific breeds the characters are.

Naturally, Yashy is not at all pleased about Daisy when she arrives.

When it comes to Daisy’s turn, we find she’s Selkirk Rex cross Ragamuffin.

Which would explain a lot of Daisy’s features, Selkirk and Ragamuffins are both very people-oriented and akin to Teddy Bears. Both breeds can get along with nearly everybody.

And, well that’s true for Daisy.

Daisy appears in Pep Rally, a chapter focusing on the sports carnival. Daisy appears as one of the school’s cheerleaders next to Amaya, Stacy, and her rival, Katie, who is not at all happy that she’s not the captain. Daisy is not about to give up being the center of attention.

This chapter has more to do with Mike’s super sensitive hearing than anything else. Even so, Daisy is more than capable of being able to amp up the crowd, especially when Mike lands a win.

Daisy appears in the next chapter ‘Off to the Movies’, when Mike invites Lucy to the movies, only for Paulo, David and Daisy to show up at the same time and suggest they all go see a movie together (Lucy reluctantly agreeing). When it comes to selecting their preferences for movies, Daisy goes for the mushiest movie that’s available. Paulo and David wanting horror, Mike wanting comedy and Lucy. . .well, she wants to see a love story. It seems like they all can’t decide, but Lucy chooses the jack of all trades movie as a compromise; the ‘epic suspensful, romance thriller with lots of jokes’.

Win-win, right?

Daisy’s in heaven when the seating arrangements are chosen, right next to her crush, she couldn’t be more optimistic.

A number of things happen during the movie, but nothing got by Daisy when the movie ends as she notices Paulo on the brink of tears following its conclusion. Daisy offers to forget that she ever saw it, on the condition he explains his phobia to barking, something else that happened earlier when Paulo tried to steal David’s popcorn. 

Predictably, Paulo is far too masculine to talk about his feelings.

Eventually Paulo balks to the peer pressure (from Daisy) and explains what happened. When the others make fun of Paulo over it, Daisy leaps to his defense and tells them off. There’s a lovely moment between the two as Daisy reassures Paulo that she appreciates his forwardness and openness to the things that bothers him. And Paulo decides to talk about everything.

The PauloxDaisy content just keeps coming.

But it’ll never work. I--I swear it won’t.

By the very end, the kids all say their farewells to each other and go their separate ways.

Daisy appears in the next chapter ‘Puppy Love’. Mike finds a love letter in his locker from a secret admirer (It’s Stacy). Mike chastises Lucy who finds the whole thing hilarious and reads the poem aloud. Mike wants to find the person responsible. Suddenly, and out from nowhere, Daisy appears suggesting they do some detective work, all in the name of romance. But Mike reveals he just simply wants to reject them.

With much similarity to Prom Night, this chapter is more to point out with how much of the school has an interest in dating Mike. It’s not just Daisy, but also Sue, Amaya, Katie, those three random girls. The only exception is dear old Lucy. 

The next chapter is Confrontation. This chapter opens with Mike and Lucy doing what they do best when something unfortunate happens; they argue, with Lucy blaming Mike for having them miss their stop. Daisy begs Paulo to get them to stop, and they do, albiet, for a short few seconds before they start arguing again.

With no sign of it ending, Daisy and Paulo day-dream of a better alternate reality where they both get their desires. Mike and Lucy are just awful for each other. Things would work out better if it was just Mike and Daisy, and Paulo and Lucy, Just think of the romance. What could go wrong?

The kids get off at the next station which unfortunately for them turns out to be a bad idea as they end up in the roughest neighbourhood a few towns over from Roseville. With Lucy suggesting they find a phone to call their parents, they go out in search of an open store. With Mike and Lucy still at each other’s throats, Daisy tries to take advantage of the situtation by suggesting that Mike could in fact stay over at her place seeing as how late it was, especially if his house is a bit too far. hoping that Lucy having been quite bitter to him will cause him to think about coming around to her advances. But Mike rejects her advance. When Daisy becomes fed up enough to suggest he’d go to Lucy’s house despite their fighting, he agrees it likely would happen, frustrating her even more.

She loses her temper, exploding about Mike and Lucy’s friendship being just horrible and suggests any investment would never be returns. Prompting a reaction from Mike for a short moment, until Mike twists that around and tells her to stop chasing the same stupid feelings, walking ahead and leaving Daisy to sulk to herself.

She’s joined shortly after when Paulo’s escapade in trying to woo Lucy goes as well as anyone would expect. Daisy, frustrated in how Mike always seems to show some compromise with Lucy, argues with him over his bad taste in women too.

Daisy’s thorns are on full display here as she starts to openly show her resentment towards Lucy who has it all so easy with both Paulo and Mike due to her looks. Daisy’s frustrated that despite her best efforts to be more appealing in every other way; Lucy has the looks, and that’s all that matters.

With Daisy being too frustrated from being inhibited from displaying this side of her, it’s clear neither she nor Lucy are good friends at all. Daisy has shown such a low opinion of her because of her attitude, knowing full well that often times Mike gets beaten up by her. Lucy’s aloofness could be confused with disinterest and both of them suggest that Lucy wouldn’t really care if either of them suddenly caught alight.

But Mike overhears this thanks to his superhearing and tells them there’s more to her than what they know. But neither of them take the comment seriously.

Lucy also overhears, and is a little distraught at how the others think of her.

The kids find a bar and Sue manages to call ther mother to come pick them up. Problems arise when Mike takes on a dare to eat as many liqueur chocolates from a stranger, and is quite positively drunk out of his mind. Lucy comments on this having watched on and Daisy chastises her for letting him do it.

She might have wished she had done something about it, as Mike is all over her, uninhibited from telling her how he feels about her looks.

And that does nothing for Daisy who sucks at all the attention Lucy’s getting. The world’s just unfair.

Though, Mike notices Daisy’s state, and goes over to give her attention too. What would be a dream for Daisy is sadly shortlived, as Mike’s attention switches to ice-cream truck music, and suddenly takes off towards it.

The kids are find themselves backed into an alley, as the stranger who Mike took the bet from comes to get his money back. 

The ordeal is quite terrifying to Daisy. Paulo tries to defend her. But he gets a little too in over his head, not realising these two were the people who created his phobia of barking .

When Paulo is kicked aside, Daisy goes to him and asks if he knows the two. But Paulo doesn’t recognise them.

Not considering herself a fighter, Daisy is only able to come to her friends’ comfort as each one is assaulted one by one. Paulo first, then Sue when she cops an arm to the nose.

She can only watch when Mike tries to defend them, actually having some martial arts experience, but being too drunk to be effective.

And finally Lucy, as capable as she was finds herself unable to fend off Alejandro. Daisy calls out, but Lucy tells her to be quiet, or to hide as Lucy bears the brunt of the assault.

Mike regains consciousness at the very last moment and saves her before both team up in a last stand against Alejandro. Alejandro realises he’s bitten off more than he can chew and runs away. Daisy watches on as Lucy breaks down having realised how close they all were to having someone lose their life.

Sue’s mother arrives and all the kids are on their way back to Roseville. Paulo can’t help but notice that Daisy is really in the dumps over the night. Lucy did something completely unexpected in coming to their aid at the last minute  — the ever uncaring Lucy put herself on the line so no one else would get hurt. And she feels awful knowing she was wrong  — about Lucy and what she said about her to Mike.

Paulo tries to reassure her that Mike probably doesn’t remember what she said, and that turns out to be true as Mike is willing to accept her apology the next day.

Things are back to normal it seems, luckily for Daisy. 

Or are they?

-

I figure we’ll stop here and resume next week. Look at that! We covered 12 chapters of 127! There’s a lot more of Daisy to come!

[xmxisxforxmaybe]

Decryption_Error: “The Server Room, Part I”

Summary: Elliot is locked in the server room by a few of his colleagues to stop him from ruining their Memorial Day weekend. Y/N, Elliot’s manager, finds him and comes up with a solution to fix the broken servers, but because of Elliot’s injuries and his refusal to go to a hospital, Y/N makes him stay at her place for the long weekend. As Elliot and Y/N bond for the first time outside of work, something a little more than friendship starts to emerge.

Summary/Mood Board

Word Count: 5800

Disclaimer: I know 0 things about technology and want to cry real tears for making my narrator Elliot’s boss. I sincerely apologize to anyone I offend for my whack tech references--please let me know if you need me to fix something because it’s awful and I will credit you for saving me some embarrassment!

Tags: @sherlollydramoine @rami-malek-trash @teamwolf2411 @thingsfandom @limabein @lovie-rami @txmel @hopplessdreamer @ouatlovr

Warnings: Physical injuries/blood, language, **=heavily paraphrased from a monologue on Robot

Author’s Note: I won’t be able to update this story as quickly as Remnants because my life is about to get crazy busy. However, I will do my best so y’all don’t lose interest : ) Special shoutout to @alottanothing for helping me get this story organized and underway! Thanks for being my cheerleader 💕

For fuck’s sake! I thought as I changed out of my swimsuit and into a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, shoving my still wet feet into a pair of sandals.  

I had made it to my family’s place for Memorial Day weekend for the first time in years only to be called back to work because something happened to the servers. My boss, Miles, was out of town like everyone else in the goddamn city, and he trusted me as the Senior Manager to handle the situation.

CIStech Cybersecurity had been my life for the past four years. Starting as an Analyst really fostered my affinity for data and subsequently put me on the fast-track to become management. I liked working hard, and when I first started at CIStech, I would be mystified when I realized it was 10 pm, everyone had gone home, and I had skipped dinner (again) because I was 5,000 clicks deep into testing a contingency plan I created for scenario 11/1,000 in the event of a security breach.

My relationship with my job was complex--I knew I worked too much, but I needed those long days to help quell my anxiety; data gave me a focus and helped me make sense of a world that seemed to be drifting further and further into shades of grey, a place where evil and good barely served as separate entities anymore.

This long weekend was an important test for me—I needed to prove to myself that I could step away from the office and the world wouldn’t end, nor would my mental stability. 

Except that I did step away from the office and the world did end—sort of. So much for convincing my brain that taking time off was a good thing.

For the first three quarters of the drive into the city, I had gone over about 30 scenarios in my mind and just as I was about to drive myself crazy, I shook my head and cranked up the music. There was only so much I could mentally prep for until I knew whether the problem was physical or within the network.

Because everyone in the city had fled to escape the rising humidity, I was able to park on a side street about a half of a block from work. I swiped my badge to get into the lobby of CNC Precision Machining, our host company, then said a quick hello to the head of night security, Lance. I swiped my badge again to activate the elevator, and as I rode up to the 18th floor, my anxiety curled into a lead ball and made itself at home in my stomach. Something did not feel right, and I almost, almost went back downstairs to ask Lance to radio a guard.

But, how often do we actually act on our anxiousness? For me, I had to talk myself out of so many horrors a day that I always felt silly when I gave in to whatever idea had made itself at home in my mind.

I talked myself down, thinking, It’s almost 11 pm, and all I have to do is check the servers. Maybe one of the fans broke. Maybe a plug fell out. I can fix it and still get back to Mom and Dad’s by 2.

Once again, I swiped my badge. I entered CIStech’s wing, but as I opened the door to the cybersecurity offices and turned to deactivate the alarm, I saw it had never been set. My mouth fell open, and again the idea of turning back flitted through my mind, except being pissed overtook my apprehension.  

Whoever was the last to leave was getting a letter of reprimand. Sure, the building itself was secure, but to not set the alarm in a company’s tech security office? Inexcusable.

Since I was now fuming, the unset alarm compounding with my ire over my ruined start to the weekend, I grumbled away my nagging thoughts as I quickly walked to the server room, swiped my badge and scanned my fingerprint to open the door.

The harsh lights were on an automatic switch, so they popped to life as I stepped a few inches into the room; however, the crunch of plastic and the popping of glass made me stop, one foot poised in the air as I looked down to see what I stepped on.

The remnants of a server, or more than one server, were littered across the ground, and as I scanned for the source of the damage, the last thing I expected to find was a body. Immediately, my mind wondered if this was a trap, and then I wondered if the body was even alive.

My voice emitted a sort of strangled groan which caused the body on the floor to move—and when I saw that it wasn’t just a random body, my heart sank.

It was Elliot, my employee and my friend. 

***Eight Months Ago***

“Next up is Elliot Alderson. Recent grad. Bachelor’s in Computer Engineering from Stevens Institute of Tech. This is the guy with the impressive skill set, knowledgeable in everything we use. His portfolio backs it up, too.”

“Mmm, I remember reading through it and thinking if even half of it is legit, he’s smarter than everyone in that room put together,” Colin said, gesturing in the direction of the office floor.

“I tested his work on the headless Raspberry PI he sent with his portfolio—worked like a charm.”

“That could save us a lot of headaches,” JaLeah said, clicking through the description in Elliot’s portfolio again.

“Did you notice how streamlined his portfolio is? It’s masterfully organized and aesthetically pleasing,” I said, leaning over to look at JaLeah’s screen.

She hummed in agreement.

“Jayne? Bring in Mr. Alderson, please,” I said as I pressed the button on the wireless intercom.

At CIStech, we strived to maintain a comfortable atmosphere. Instead of a panel of interviewers, it was just myself and my two Supervisors. Instead of interviewing in our board room, we interviewed in my office, the three of us seated at a round table so when the applicant joined us, they felt less on-the-spot.

However, when Elliot Alderson walked in the room, his unease was so palpable I doubted anything would alleviate his nervousness.

“Mr. Alderson,” Colin began, extending his hand. “I’m Colin Greene, Supervisor.

Elliot paused long enough for me to give him a onceover, and peripherally, I saw JaLeah do the same.

“I’m Y/N Y/L/N, Senior Manager,” I said, shaking Elliot’s hand, his grip light as if the last thing he wanted to do in the world was touch me.

As JaLeah introduced herself, I took another quick inventory of Elliot Alderson. He was dressed well, although in clothes that were a bit too big on his small frame. His haircut, however, was immaculate, cut in a close fade on the sides with a mop of styled black hair on top.

His big, greyish eyes were moving around the room as if he were searching for the exit; and then, suddenly they stopped. It was like he reminded himself to pick a spot and focus.

“Go ahead and take a seat,” JaLeah said, sliding over the piece of paper that listed our interview questions.

As Elliot pulled out the chair and settled in, I explained what would happen during the interview, the goal to once again ease the nerves of the applicant. 

“So, Mr. Alderson, I’m going to explain the process for this interview. First, we will give you a few minutes to read over the questions on the paper in front of you. When you are ready, let us know and we will take turns asking those questions. Once the Q&A portion is complete, we will connect our laptops to the one right here via RDP, and we will ask you to complete a specific task. Any questions so far?”

Elliot shook his head no.

“Excellent. Please take a few minutes to read over the questions, feel free to jot down notes in the spaces provided, then let us know when you are ready to begin,” I explained, ending with a smile.

Elliot did not return my smile; instead, his eyes dropped to the interview questions. As I watched him scan the paper, I had to remind myself not to stare. There was something about him that drew me in. His eyes were unlike any I had ever seen, and I couldn’t stop thinking about that damn, overquoted line from one of Walt Whitman’s poems: “I contain multitudes.”

Looking at Elliot, it was clear he contained depths, and I wanted to know everything there was to know about him. I could count on one hand the number of times I felt so immediately intrigued by another person.

After a minute or two, Elliot looked up, his eyes flickering between the three of us, and said, “Okay.”

Colin began, asking Elliot to tell us about his schooling and his professional experience.

Elliot answered carefully, reciting his academic and professional history. His voice was deep, a soothing monotone that was more like a raspy rattle than a melodious note.

“Thank you,” I said once he had finished speaking. “Question two asks about the steps you would take to secure a server. Walk us through that process, please.”  

Once again, Elliot’s answer was correct and succinct.

“To secure a server, you use the SSL protocol for data encryption and decryption. Establish a secure password for your root and administrative users. Create the new users in the system. Remove remote access from the default root accounts. Configure your firewall rules for your remote access.”

I watched Elliot as he answered, his eyes focused on a spot over my shoulder. I made my notes as JaLeah moved on to the next question.

“What are the most common types of cyberattacks? Explain which attack you feel is most common and why it is most common.”

Elliot listed off the usual attacks with ease—phishing, malware, DDoS, password attacks, malvertising, man in the middle, but it was his answer to the second part of the question that allowed us to see a glimpse under his carefully crafted façade.

“People. People are the only reason cyberattacks happen and people are the ones who make it easy for hackers to execute any attack. The most common cyberattack in a large corporation is phishing—people are all too willing to provide information without first checking the origination. People who work in companies operate on autopilot, running their daily programs, usually without interruption, and in order to avoid a runtime error, people will click a link, enter their password, and by then, they have you.”**

We were all quiet for a moment and Elliot looked a bit surprised, as if he couldn’t believe what he just said aloud.

“Excellent answer, Mr. Alderson,” JaLeah said, narrowing her eyes and nodding, still mulling over Elliot’s response. “If only we knew how to prevent human error—but I supposed that would be a billion-dollar answer,” she finished, flashing him a smile.

He shrugged his shoulders and gave her a tiny smile in response.

That was the only real glimpse of Elliot’s personality we got for the rest of the interview, but he absolutely nailed the task, finding each vulnerability we set up in our system and fixing it in record time.

“Do you have any questions for us, Mr. Alderson?” I asked as we closed out the interview.

“I’ve already found out everything I needed to know,” Elliot replied, his eyes meeting and holding my gaze.

I smirked and nodded.

“I wouldn’t expect anything less, Mr. Alderson. You’ll hear from HR within 24 hours, either way,” I said as I hit the intercom.

“Please see Mr. Alderson out, Jayne.”

Elliot left as nervously as he entered, not bothering with any attempt at casual conversation to make his interview a bit more memorable.

As soon as the office door clicked shut, Colin leaned back in his chair and said, “No way. Guy’s weird.”

“Weird?” I questioned. “Since when is being nervous the same as being ‘weird’?”

“He didn’t make eye contact with me once—and not like in an ‘on the spectrum way.’ More like, he has a secret and no one can know it way. I’m not trying to be a dick—I just got a bad vibe.”

“Well, you are being a dick,” I said. “There are a thousand reasons why people struggle with eye contact, Colin. Don’t stereotype. Give me something factual if you really didn’t like him for the position.”

“And I remember a time when you couldn’t look me in the eye, Colin,” JaLeah said, her dark eyes flashing.

Colin rubbed his hands over his face and sighed.

“He didn’t elaborate on any of the questions—he spit back text-book answers on every one, except for JaLeah’s question about cyberattacks. I felt like he wasn’t hungry for this job—he acted like he didn’t really want it.”

I nodded my head.

“I wish he would have elaborated, too. However, I think his tech skills far outweigh any subpar people skills.”

“I agree with Y/N,” JaLeah said. “But I do see Colin’s point—remember when we had those interns? We ended up hiring Steph because she was able to build a rapport with everyone here. Granted, they all had about the same skill set, but her ability to communicate set her apart.”

“Doesn’t it also work in reverse, though--tech skills over people skills?”

Colin nodded in agreement. “It does.”

“So, let me make you both a deal: if any of the remaining candidates perform as well or better than Elliot Alderson on the task, we hire them. If not, we go with Alderson.”

“Works for me,” JaLeah said. “For the record, I did like him. He really spit some fire on that answer about human error.”

I smiled at JaLeah and nodded while Colin rolled his eyes.

“Alright—who’s up next?” he said, already accepting the idea that he was probably not going to win this one.  

* * * * *

I closed my eyes and rolled my neck, listening to the bones pop and crunch. It was time to get up and take a lap around the office before the blood decided to pool in my calves and send me to an early grave.

It was nearly 8 pm, so when I saw the illumination of a computer screen reflected in a set of big grey eyes, I was a bit surprised. Elliot Alderson had accepted our offer and started at CIStech three weeks ago. He was proving to be an excellent engineer, and once he settled in, I wanted to assign him to the white hat team.

However, Colin saw fit to initiate a trial by fire and made Elliot the project manager for the development of a new code that could counter a DDoS flooding attack.  

Colin may have done it to be an asshole, but I permitted it out of curiosity to see if my hire had what it took to climb. It was already clear that Elliot’s skills were unmatched. If he could pitch, he would be on the fast-track to becoming my boss one day.

When he saw me approach, his fingers immediately stilled and a look of apprehension crossed his features.

“Hey, Elliot. Working late?” I asked, surprised at the butterflies in my stomach as I initiated a conversation with him.

“I’m sorry if I disturbed you, Ms. Y/L/N. I didn’t realize how late it was,” Elliot said in his deep voice, his words rolling out in that gentle monotone.

“Y/N. It’s Y/N—we don’t do that Mr. and Ms. stuff once you’re hired. Call me crazy, but I like to think of all 50 or so of us as a family. Distant and dysfunctional, sure. But whose family isn’t?” I finished with an awkward chuckle at my own joke.

Elliot looked at me, his expression unreadable, and said nothing for what felt like an obscene amount of time. I’m certain my cheeks colored at my failed attempt at a joke and his subsequent silence. I began to feel an urgent need to fill the quietness with this almost-stranger I just called “family” when Elliot finally spoke.

“That’s . . . nice.”

I laughed and said, “You’re not much of a talker, are you?”

Elliot gave me a tiny smile, if you could even call the fleeting upturn of his lips before they drew back into a straight line a smile.

“No. I’m not.”

I thought for a few seconds, wanting my first one-on-one interaction with Elliot to be right. A thousand things to say barreled through my mind like Shanghai’s Maglev, and I saw Elliot’s attention turn back to his computer, his fingers twitching, probably wondering if it would be rude to go back to work.

“Do you know what I wish, Elliot?” I said, my words rushed as I reigned in the speeding train of my thoughts.

“No,” Elliot said, looking at me with genuine confusion.

“I wish we had a code we could input to just automatically cut out the bullshit of small talk. Imagine if our minds could input all of that information—we’d know right away whether or not a person was to our liking, whether they would be someone who could become our friend.”

Elliot looked at me, his eyes shining from the monitor in the dark of the office, his mouth a bit agape; he looked at me as if I were either the first human he’d ever seen or the last human he’d ever see—I couldn’t make up my mind on the former or the latter.

“Is that totally crazy?” I asked.

“It’s the least crazy thing I’ve ever heard,” Elliot said, his voice breaking with its normal monotone to convey honesty.  

I smiled, and the butterflies in my stomach finally settled. I moved around Elliot’s desk and leaned on the edge. He scooted his chair back so he could angle it toward me, his hands fidgeting, unsure what to do without a keyboard underneath of them.

“I’m willing to pretend that code is real—we’ve scanned each other, determined we’re cool, and can now proceed along the route of friendship. At least, that’s what my data has output.”

Elliot grinned, and the fucking butterflies came back in full force. There was no part of my 8 pm afterwork self that was equipped to handle how damn good-looking this guy was.  

“My data reads the same,” he said, his smile turning shy, his eyes flickering away from my face and toward the floor.

“Excellent. So, as emerging friends, I want to confess that, believe or not, I’m not much of a talker either.”

“I—I don’t think we are the same kind of not-talkers,” Elliot said, frowning up at me.

“Do me a favor. Tomorrow, pay attention after you pitch the DDoS counter plan. Once the pitch is out, everyone shoots off their own ideas and if they don’t have an original thought, they’ll turn to criticism. I won’t say a word—I never do.”

“Why?” Elliot asked, clearly interested because his response was immediate.

“Because I listen. People are so consumed by a need to have self-validation that they talk just to talk, hoping something that comes out of their mouth is what sparks someone else’s path to self-validation. It’s a . . . circle jerk, if you don’t mind me speaking in my ‘off the clock’ tongue.”

Elliot’s mouth had dropped open a little again as he listened, his brows drawn in as he gave it some thought—well, a lot of thought because once again, the silence bordered on oppressive before he spoke again.

“I thought people only said things like that inside their minds. Especially bosses.”

“Did I reveal an inherent human truth you were unaware of?”

Elliot chuckled, a gravelly rumble, and it was the cutest damn thing I had ever heard.

“No—I’ve thought the same thing for as long as I can remember.”

“See? Our data chose well. Now, do you want to sit there and tell me more about how unalike we are or are you ready to trust me enough to help you with whatever is plaguing you about pitching tomorrow?”

“How did you—” Elliot began before sighing and popping off of his chair to stalk over to the window. It took me by surprise that a little piece of his mask was so readily falling away.

I stayed where I was, even though his form was little more than a shadow that moved against the backdrop of the lighted city.

“I am not good with people,” Elliot said, his voice sounding harsh and too loud in the quiet office. “I don’t know how to talk to them one-on-one, so I sure as hell don’t know how to talk to them in a group. All I can think of when I get in front of anyone is how much of an idiot they think I am. I even typed up a letter of resignation,” Elliot said, his voice returning to its normal murmur with his confession.

This time, it was my turn to nurse the quiet. I thought about saying, Bullshit—you’re talking to me. You can do anything you put your mind to! But Elliot wasn’t someone who needed a pep-talk. He was deeper than that—probably even deeper than I could ever comprehend. “I’m not gonna bullshit you. You could walk out of here and get hired just about anywhere in any one of these buildings with your skill set. But I’d like to believe that you care, maybe just a little, that I am the one who extended you an offer—gave you a shot at your first ‘real’ job. So, yeah, you can run. But you’ll hurt my feelings if you do.” Whatever Elliot was expecting me to say, it wasn’t that. He walked back to stand in front of me and he blinked those big eyes that were once again a reflection of the light blue of the desktop.

“You don’t even know me enough to be affected by anything I do. I’m just another cog in the wheel.” I thought we were on a path to friendship, but if this was Elliot’s response to my admission I cared about whether or not he quit, I knew he was hiding, deep, deep inside of himself. “What makes you think you’re unworthy of general human concern? You are human, aren’t you?” I said, once again making an awkward joke for myself to softly laugh at. “I—I didn’t mean that I—" “Careful, Elliot. You intrigue me. And when people intrigue me, I have to figure them out. Have to.”

Elliot took off toward the window again, pacing as he struggled to convey his fear.

“Like I said, I’m not much of a talker and I’m not very good with people. I can do anything with a computer, but people. I just . . . can’t.”

“Mmm, until I see a T-800 running around and declaring “I’ll be back,” I will disagree with you that you can do ‘anything’ with a computer.”

Elliot stopped pacing and turned to face me, his head comically turned to the side as he decided whether or not to finally laugh at one of my jokes.

This time, he did laugh, a soft little chuckle as he shook his head and shoved his hands in his pants’ pockets.

“Let me make you an offer—”

“An offer I can’t refuse?”

I giggled and shook my head.

“Yes! He jokes! We really are on the path to friendship. . . which means, I want to help you: Fill me in on the details of what you’ve designed, and we can practice. Come on—we’ll go in the meeting room.”

“I can’t ask you to—”

“You did not ask. I gave you a command. All you have to do is type Y,” I said in a sing-song voice, smiling before pushing off the edge of his desk and walking toward the meeting room.

I turned after a moment to see Elliot grab his laptop and follow me.

When we crossed the office to the meeting room, I paused with my hand on the door.

“Actions help us believe what our minds have convinced us not to believe—if I truly thought you were nothing more than a cog, would I give my time to you? Tell me—what’s more valuable than time?”

Elliot didn’t answer me. Instead, he smiled at me, his expression conveying his gratitude.

I turned the knob and walked toward the sofa, plopping onto the cushion.

“So, fill me in.”

* * * * *

Elliot and I passed many nights like this, and I quickly realized Elliot wasn’t going to follow in my footsteps and climb up the management ladder. After his DDoS proposal, Colin followed my recommendation and moved Elliot to the white hat hackers, a small team of ten. The white hats worked a little more in isolation than the other techs, which is what Elliot wanted. 

So, we worked. We talked. We listened. We ate too much take-out and spent too many late hours at the office.

Our data was compatible, which would be Elliot-speak for saying, “We became friends.” 

***Present***

“Elliot! Elliot, what happened?” I asked as I dropped to my knees and rolled him the rest of the way onto his back.

His eyes snapped open and darted around the room, looking everywhere but at me. Elliot scooted away and backed up to the wall, pulling his knees up to his chest and crossing his arms over his legs. He looked like a trapped, feral animal, trying to make itself as small as possible to avoid capture.

I noticed the cuts and the trails of blood that smeared across his hands, and I saw that there was blood on the floor where he had been laying. As I looked him over, I also saw a gash across his forehead that ran into his hairline. Blood was still trickling down the side of his face.

“Elliot,” I said again in a soft, calm voice.

He still didn’t react; instead, he looked around the room and started mumbling, thumping the back of his head off the wall.

I got up and quickly moved to drop down in front of him, placing my hand between his head and the wall. It looked like he already had a concussion and I didn’t want him to hurt himself anymore.

“Elliot. Hey. It’s Y/N. You’ve gotta focus, sweetheart. Focus on my voice.”

I kept repeating myself in the same soothing tone. After a few moments, I slowly reached out and grasped his shoulder, running my thumb over the material of his light grey dress shirt.

Slowly, Elliot stopped moving his head and his eyes stopped darting. I still had no idea what he was mumbling and if it weren’t for the vibrations of his chest and the very subtle movements of his lips, I wouldn’t have known he was speaking.

When Elliot finally fixed his eyes on my face, his brows contracted into confusion.

“Y/N?” he said, his voice raspy, like someone who had been talking too loudly over music or who had smoked too many cigarettes in a night.

“Hey,” I said smiling and removing my hand from his shoulder.

“Shit! The servers!” Elliot said, and tried to dart up, but I held him back.

“No. Don’t move. Your head is bleeding and so are your hands. I need to get you to a hospital.”

Once again Elliot’s eyes began to look everywhere but my face and he tried to scramble up. This time, he broke free from my grasp and I found myself flat on my ass as he bolted up from the floor.

He didn’t get very far because after about three steps he swooned and crashed into one of the broken servers. I scrambled to my feet and helped him sit back down on the floor.

“See? Hospital. Now.”

This time Elliot looked right at me, his eyes filled with tears as he begged me not to take him to a hospital. The display of pure emotion was a shock for me—even though Elliot and I spent a lot of time together, he was always very careful in his interactions and remained emotionally distant. To see him so vulnerable made me rethink my insistence.

“Shh, okay. Okay. Listen—I don’t know if you’re concussed or what, but can you tell me anything about what happened? Or when this happened? If the tapes never went out. . .” I trailed off, unable to even imagine the repercussions.  

“The courier left at 4:48.”

I raised my eyebrow at Elliot’s precise answer.

“Okaaaay.”

“I remember the time because—” Elliot broke off and looked away.

“Because why?”

“That’s when they locked me in here,” he mumbled, his voice barely audible over the buzzing of the air conditioning that kept the server room so cool.

My phone rang, startling both of us. As I talked, Elliot retreated further into himself again, his knees pressed to his chest once more, his eyes fixed firmly on the floor.

“Yes, I’m at work, Miles.”

“Uh-huh. Yeah.”

“We definitely have a problem, but everything’s been backed up—the tapes were couriered out this afternoon.”

“No—you don’t need to come in.”

“Uh, it’s a problem with the a few of the servers themselves, some broken parts. Listen, I promise—I’ll take care of it and everything will be up and running on Tuesday like nothing ever happened.”

“You’re welcome—enjoy your night.”

“I will. Bye.”

I hung up the phone and stood up, leaving Elliot to himself for a moment. I surveyed the damage that was apparently done by Elliot himself. My mind couldn’t even grasp the idea that people I supervised, many of whom I had hired myself, would do something so inhumane.

It was no secret that people avoided Elliot, even his white hat teammates—he was closed off, smarter than most of them, and worked harder than all of them. I wasn’t blind to the way he was he treated, but I also knew him in a different way; I knew he kept to himself because it was so difficult for him to socialize with people he considered strangers.

I also knew Elliot didn’t mean to do this.

After I surveyed the damage, I began thinking outloud, “Towers 2, 3, 6, and 7 are fucking toast, but the rest are untouched. I need to synchronize the traffic to the secondary servers and synch the databases. Since it’s Memorial Day weekend, the traffic is light enough that no real damage should have been done. I have a friend who might be able to get us new towers.”

Elliot was watching me as I talked and figured out how to fix his mess.

“I can—” he began, but I cut him off.

“I have to tell them how this happened, Elliot. I’m not making any promises, but if I can fix it by Tuesday morning, you might be able to keep your job. And I can promise you, the fucking assholes that did this to you won’t.”

Elliot looked to the floor again, his face filled with sadness.

“Sit—do not move while I grab some papertowels and ice.”

Elliot gave me a barely perceptible nod, and I went off to gather what I needed to ice his head and clean up the blood.

When I came back, Elliot was sitting at the desk in the server room, his fingers poking over the keys on the keyboard.

“Damnit, Elliot! I said not to move.”

“This is all my fault. I have to fix it. I have to fix it. I have to—”

I cut him off by lifting his arms away from the keyboard and scooting the rolling chair back. Elliot turned his bloodshot eyes to mine, the rims lined with red and I wondered if he’d been crying.

I sighed and placed my hands on both of his shoulders.

“This is not your fault,” I said firmly, my eyes flickering between his, refusing to release him from my gaze until he listened to me.

Elliot opened his mouth, then closed it, choosing not to fight me.

“Hold this on your head,” I said, tearing my eyes from his face, and reaching for the ice pack I had set on the desk.

Elliot complied, and I turned back to the desk to finish synchronizing the servers. Once I was done, I wiped up the blood on the floor with the wet papertowels, then unplugged the damaged servers.

“Now, let’s get out of here. Your head is still bleeding,” I said as I made a final lap to check for damage.

I helped Elliot up by wedging my hand under his elbow, careful to avoid his fucked up hands. For a moment, the two of us were face-to-face. His eyes lifted up to look into mine and I sighed, reaching up to grasp his chin and turn his head to look at the gash.

“Head wounds are the worst. Never can tell how deep they are,” I whispered, looking closely at his cut.

“I’m sorry, Y/N.”

“I know, El. Come on.”

Elliot followed me out of the server room and I locked the door. After throwing away the bloodied papertowels in the bathroom, I came out to see Elliot at his desk, struggling into his hoodie, hissing as his bleeding and bruised hands slid through the fabric.

“I’ll get your backpack,” I said as I approached and reached under his desk to pull it out. “Is there anything else you need?”

Elliot shook his head no and I shrugged into his backpack. He stayed close as I set the alarm and waited for the elevator, neither one of us wanting to talk.

“Good night, Lance,” I called toward the front desk as I kept walking.

“Eh, Ms. Y/L/N? Do you need me to call—”

“Nope—all is well! Sorry you’re stuck here tonight, though,” I said with a wave.

“Me, too,” Lance answered, chuckling a little.

I led Elliot to the passenger door of my SUV, opening it and then waiting for Elliot to get in. Once I made sure he was settled, I shut the door and opened up the back door to take off his backpack and place it onto the seat.

I got in, buckled up, and put the key in the ignition. The radio started belting out the Britney Spears song I was rocking to on the way in, and I quickly turned it down after Elliot and I both jumped.

“Now you know my darkest secret,” I said shaking my head.

Elliot looked at me, the hint of the smallest smile in the universe turning up one corner of his mouth.

“I’m taking you to my place and I don’t want an argument. I have a friend who is a PA and I’m going to call her. She’s going to look at your head and if she says you need to go to the hospital, you are going to go. Is that clear?”

Elliot frowned and his eyes looked to the door as if he was contemplating whether or not he could escape.

I quickly put the SUV in gear and swerved out into the street to prevent him from making a move.

“Ok,” he said quietly, knowing he had no other choice.

[emotionalgirl101]

Question | Chapter 6

Words: 3,111

Genre: college au, angst, fluff

Pairing: SKZ x reader

Summary: Your best friend, Minho, had been refusing to introduce you to his other group of best friends for months now, with no explanation as to why. One night after getting drunk after work together, he gave in to your pleas. Oops.

Warning: Contains mature content (such as coarse language, violent themes, etc).

A/N: Sorry guys! I know it’s been so long, but since it’s uni break, I’m back for a while. I hope you like this chapter. I really like were the story is going and I hope you do, too! Also, shoutout to @omniligence for asking if I planned to continue writing. I honestly might have forgotten that I have the freedom to do it again. (longest chapter yet!)

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7

-------------------------------

Thursday rolled around, and you weren’t exactly sure why, but you were dreading it. After all the antics of the past week, you were finally seeing Minho. It was kind of surprising it took you two this long to hang out. The last time you saw him was the morning after the drinking night with his roommates. Maybe that’s part of the reason you felt uneasy?

You had slept in his jumper again that night, but somehow remembered to wash it between now and then. You left it folded on the coffee table so you wouldn’t forget to give it to him when you got back from lunch. It was quarter past twelve, meaning he was due any second. You guys usually planned timing quite loosely, knowing the other would text you when they were on their way, or if anything came up affecting your plans.

You took the opportunity to fill in the small amount of spare time you had to check your work schedule. You had previously arranged to switch shifts with one of the girls that was going to a wedding on Saturday, and forgot to get the day off. Thus, your assigned Sunday shift had moved to a Saturday again. Specifically the afternoon. You texted Eunwoo this new found information. The two of you had been trying to find time for a girls night, and with the lack of a shift on Sunday, Saturday night sounded perfect.

As the message went out, Minho came in. You had left the door unlocked, but even if you hadn’t, you’d trusted him with your spare key. You’ve needed to use it once or twice since you met. Isn’t it strange how you can be closer to the people you’ve known for the shortest amount of time than those you’ve known your whole life?

He wandered over and fell into the couch with a relative amount of grace, stared forward, then rolled his head towards you. He just looked, and you read his mind. Bringing your legs up onto the couch, you moved to face him. “What’s up, Lee?” Slipped effortless from your mouth as you rested your head in your hand, arm propped up on the back of the couch. You analysed him. You knew his mannerisms better than your own, and this was the ‘something’s bothering me’ expression. Yes, he looked like that most of the time, but the detail that defined the difference was the emotion held in his eyes.

“So, something happened the other day.” He knew better than to trying to avoid telling you what was on his mind, and it seemed in this case he wasn’t planning to, anyway. After seeing half his apartment occupants over the past few days, your mind went to the other 8 boys he had for company. Was it about the prank they played on Felix? Was it something to do with running into them so much recently? Did something happen at the house? You couldn’t help the flood of questions that began to swim around in your mind. This happened often. You liked to joke that overthinking is your ‘hobby’.

“At the bar.” He deadpanned. His eyes stared into thin air. Your curiosity peaked. He continued. “My manager is acting completely different. He’s forgetting his shifts, ignoring the casual roster and being an absolute dick over all.” He shifted again, eyes meeting yours. You expected them to be filled with annoyance at his boss’ antics, but they held none. Instead, they were overflowing with concern. The room felt tense. He meant it. Something was off. He drew a sharp breath, then relaxed. He continued.

“It’s just not like him, you know? At first I thought it might be some guys threatening the bar. There are the usual shady guys that come in occasionally, but none of them have been giving off a bad vibe, and I haven’t seen anyone dodgy coming around the place. I just can’t figure out what’s wrong. It’s so unlike him. Like, do I say something or…” he trailed off. He didn’t expect you to answer. He just wanted you to listen. He needed to get it off his chest. Neither of you said anything for a while. Until you broke the silence.

“On a lighter note, I’m starving. Please can we go get food?” You stood up and began to grab your things. With a humorous scoff, Minho nodded, rising from his seat and picking up his jumper that he had noticed you left on the coffee table. “Where are we going?” He looked to you for instruction as he opened the door. You walked through the frame and waited for him to pull the door shut. He checked that the door did, in fact, lock when he shut it behind him, then lead the way to the elevator. Once he had called for it, you looked at each other and, as if on cue, spoke in unison, “Hirai”.

-

Hirai was your go-to Japanese restaurant. It was reasonably priced, some level of authentic and the half way point between your apartment and the boys’ place. You had stumbled upon it when you first moved in.

Minho went to order for the both of you. It was normal for one of you to pay for lunch and the other to pay for whatever dessert, snack or drinks you ordered later in the day. You took the opportunity to flick through your notifications. There didn’t appear to be anything noteworthy, so you were about to lock your screen when Facebook alerted you to a post on your university’s page. You weren’t one to go on Facebook. It was more of a way to find out about promotions from food places and occasionally tag friends in memes. You clicked the notification, and your mouth dropped as Minho took his seat across the table.

“It’s happened. Again!” You seethed, turning the screen to let Minho scan over what you’d just read. “Are they serious? They’ve been saying they’d close the place for months and now their backing out? Don’t they know the reputation the frat has?” He was just as annoyed as you.

One of the few boarding houses your university had a bad reputation, with dozens upon dozens of scandals from academic violations to vile crimes. The student’s had dubbed it ‘the frat’ as it was the closest thing the university had to a frat house. You’d only ever gone to one party there, and what you encountered put you off for the rest of your uni career. It was supposed to be shut down at the beginning of last semester, but with the majority of the guys living in the frat being well-off, their parents probably gave the university a nice payout to keep it’s doors open. It disgusted both of you. “I wish I had that much money.” Minho appeared to have also been running the situation through his head. “I’d be free of uni debt and-”  

“Become a crazy cat lady?” You giggled as he signed in annoyance, prodding his ramen with his chopsticks. “Shut up.” he mumbled under his breath, and you erupted into giggles again. He tried to stifle a laugh, but was cut off by a voice that was familiar to the both of you.

“Hyung? Noona?” You turn to be met with a beaming smile from Han Jisung, Changbin following closely behind him. You were pretty surprised, but it made sense to see the two boys there. It was close by and Minho probably would of told them about your little spot. It was just that you’d never seen them there before. The coincidence was uncanny. Your best friend’s roommates truely were everywhere lately.

You thought you heard an irritated sigh slip through your best friend’s lips, but convinced yourself you were hearing things. “Jisung, Changbin,” you smiled up at the boys, “What’re you doing here?” Minho said in unison with you, though his tone held a lot of annoyance in comparison. He mentioned on the walk that he had left to the boys having their own mukbang party, and that he wanted to spare you from Felix’s ASMR.

“The boys overcooked half the food, so we’re picking up Japanese instead.” Changbin replied, his voice relaxed and a small smile playing on his lips. Minho gave a small grunt, stuffing his face full of ramen to avoid the confused stare you sent his way. What’s up with him?

Before you could reply, Changbin spoke up again, “Will you be coming over again soon, Y/n-ah?”. You kinda just stared at Minho. He stared at his ramen. You rolled your eyes. “Hopefully! It was fun getting to know you guys. Plus, then I can be involved with the next prank on-”

“You know about that?!” Minho’s voice had raised considerably, earning a ton of strange looks from everyone around, including yourself and the the two boys standing beside you. He gathered his composure. “How?” He asked, feigning nonchalance.

“I was out with Eunwoo the other day. We found a cafe and it just happened to be the one Hyunjin and Jeongin work at.” The boy’s face was still plastered with shock and confusion, eyes big and round, looking at you. “Jeongin has a job?” He looked stunned that you knew something he didn’t. About his roommate no less.

There were eyerolls all ‘round. “You really don’t pay much attention do you, hyung?” Changbin smirked. You smiled at him, eyes briefly connecting with Jisung before looking back to Minho. He was beyond annoyed. “Can’t I just eat in peace?” He huffed, playing with his ramen.

“Yeah, that’s our cue to go. Hope to see you soon, though.” Jisung smiled and placed a warm hand on your shoulder, moving towards the restaurant counter. Changbin gave a nod, leaving you alone with Minho once again.

You just sat there for a second, staring at him. He looked up hesitantly after feeling your eyes boring into the top of his skull. “What?” He shoved more food in his mouth, opting to focus on the table rather than meet your eyes. You just shook your head, half smiling at the idiot sitting across from you. You brushed off his weird behaviour and went back to enjoying lunch with your best friend.

-

The both of you were walking around the neighbourhood aimlessly. Neither of you had anywhere to go after lunch, and it seems like Minho didn’t particularly fancy going home. Honestly, neither did you. So you did what you always did when you both felt like this. You wandered.

You’d made some great discoveries on trips like this, the little adventures you and Minho went on frequently after you met. That’s how you figured out he lived so close by. You were quite strategic when it came to moving into your first solo apartment. At least that’s what you’d like to think. Majority of it was dumb luck. You had moved into a relatively lively suburb. Busy enough to have some level of a community vibe, with restaurants and cafes and shops dotting every street. However, not so much that it was loud or filled with obnoxious people driving through or yelling at 2am on a Saturday night. You just happened to receive a job offer from one of those shops, and wandered past the bar a few blocks down one afternoon with Minho.

“I work there.” The boy lazily pointed. You nodded at first, not particularly interested in filling the void in the conversation. Then you realised just how close it was. “Wait. I live near here. My work place is a few blocks back, and I live that way.” You gestured in the general direction of where you vaguely thought the apartment building was. “Huh,” a smirk took place on his lips, “you’re only a few minutes away. My place is further up this way.” He nodded in the direction you were headed. That’s probably a contributing factor to how you guys grew to be so close. It was just easy.

“This is new.” Minho exclaimed, snapping you out of the memories you were reminiscing upon. Your head jerked to see what he was looking at. What was once an old antique shop that had been closed for months was now a bright, pastel-themed bubble tea shop. You exchanged a look, both shrugged and walked in, because why not? Minho grabbed a menu for you both to look through. The amount of flavours was overwhelming, but neatly categorised for your convenience. Something you were grateful for.

Minho decided quite quickly. He tapped your arm, gesturing for your card. You were so wrapped up in your own thoughts you forgot it was your shout. He took a step into line as you tried to figure out how all the toppings, ice and sugar levels worked at this place. You finally settled on a flavour you guessed you’d like and were willing to try. Minho had ordered. He handed over your card, giving you a sly smile as he spun around towards a seat in the waiting area. What is he on? You rolled your eyes, approaching the counter.

You had to stifle a blush. The guy standing opposite you was attractive, but he seemed unaware to it. His smile was almost blinding. It was hard to concentrate on anything else. Was this why Minho looked at you like that? Did he know you were gonna have a crisis because the guy behind the counter was inhumanely attractive? Your thoughts were cut short.

“Hi,” he beamed down at you, “what can I get you?” You smiled back, somehow feeling more at ease with his focus on you. You surprisingly managed to get through your order without making a total fool of yourself. He looked at you the whole time, listening intently and nodding every so often. Only after you’d finished did he start inputting your order. You stood patiently.

“You haven’t been here before have you?” He said with a knowing tone of voice. He looked up at you briefly, still filling in your order. You hadn’t expected him to start a conversation. “U-uh, no. My friend and I just found it while we were wandering around.” You were hoping you managed to smooth out your words enough for him to miss the tremor in your words. He looked up from the screen at you again, and the smile he gave seemed a little less pure. “Well, I’m glad you did.” He smirked slightly.

He told you the price, gesturing to the EFTPOS machine between you, asking your name as you tapped your card. “Y/n” you smiled back once you knew the transaction went through. The embarrassment of your card randomly declining was the last thing you needed. He just nodded to himself, taking note. He handed you the order number. “It shouldn’t be too long,” and just like that, he set to work on your order. Your head was spinning from how charming this guy was, but it wasn’t in a like ‘I’m a player’ type way, more of a ‘I’m just a genuinely friendly guy’ way. You shook the thought out of your head. No point to get your hopes up. You’d probably never see him again.

Minho was smirking at you. “Shut up!” You mumbled under your breath and hit his folded arms. You knew he was teasing you. It was probably obvious how flustered you were. To him at least. You were about to ask him why he gave you that look before, but were cut off by the same voice that served you moments ago.

“Number 2, number 3” His eyes met yours with a small smile. Minho stood up to get your orders, taking both numbers with him. You waited by the door, expecting Minho to be on your heels by then. You were taken aback when he was still at the counter. They’re talking? Since when was Minho so friendly with random people he just met? By this point, you were beyond confused.

“The hell is going on with you today?” You pushed once you were further down the block. Minho just sipped on his tea, feigning innocence, “What do you mean?” You gawked at him, channeling all your exasperation through your eyes. It was to no avail. He acted sheepish, ignoring you, eyes looking ahead. “Do you like it?” Referring to your drink.  

You took a sip, nodding back at him. “It’s actually really good. Want to try?” You went to offer but he waved his hand. “I’m good. I like mine.” You shook your head, giggling at his antics.

“Can I try?” You went to grab the cup, but he manoeuvred it out of your reach. He was protecting it like it was his firs- born child. “No~,” he whined, “it’s mine~” Boy, was he melodramatic. After seeing you pout, he rolled his eyes and gave in. Handing it over, you took a sip. “That’s nice. I like mine better, though.” He laughed. “Of course you do. I’ll try it if we go back.” You nodded in agreement. He practically snatched the cup out of your hands. You could almost hear him saying ‘that’s enough!’ Inside his head. A giggle broke through your lips, rolling your eyes in sync.

He stopped walking, placing his tea on the window ledge of the building you were passing by. He had been holding the jumper this whole time. It surprised you that he managed this long without getting aggravated at the inconvenience. He tied it around his waist, stopped, then retied it so one sleeve came over his right shoulder, and the other one from underneath his left arm. He paused again, reevaluating the whole situation. You burst out laughing. “Shut up.” He whined, tying it around his waist again. “You should’ve left it.” A statement equivalent to ‘I told you so’. He began walking again, giving you a light shove as he spoke, “Just drink your tea.” You didn’t miss the knowing curve of his lips. You were satisfied with your victory.

With a meaningless sigh, you filled the small silence by examining your tea. Looking down at the label, you made a mental note for when you go there again to order the same thing. That’s when you noticed it, and a smile crept onto your face. There was something different on your label, scribbled in black ink.

The name ‘Jaemin’, followed by a 10 digit number.

“What are you smiling about?” Minho cocked an eyebrow your way.

“Nothing.” You sung, smiling down at the pavement as you made your way home.

>>

——————————-

Side note: Teehee Dreamies are featuring in here too~

[quirrrky]

bet

secret lovers (tumblr thread | fanfiction.net)

Chronological One-Shots / Post-War / Pre-Last 

After the Fourth Shinobi War, Naruto’s huge crush on Hinata gradually surfaces and the whole village of Konoha knows it…Well, aside from him. 

entry eleven

Prompt: Their senseis made a bet on whether who would be the one to profess first between the two

/bet/ an act of risking a sum of money on the outcome of a future event

It was a warm summer night when they agreed to meet.

Team 8 volunteered to look after Mirai, so that Kurenai can attend this get together. Meanwhile, it was Kakashi's first social night-out since becoming the "Hokage", a position he was still trying to deny. Much to Tsunade's, relief, she would be getting a break from the hospital and her other duties.

And because it's summer, the kids were on vacation leaving Iruka-sensei vacant. Gai, on the other hand, was already adept at utilizing his wheelchair and this would be a first for him as well.

The savory aroma of their ordered dishes surrounded the air as their glasses were filled-up with Sake.

"Ugh, can you quit the 'I'm not yet the Hokage' thing Kakashi. They already have your face on the monument. Do you just expect them to wipe it out that easily, once you just suddenly decide against the position?" Iruka commented that made the silver-haired man sigh.

"I'm not really certain about this. I'm still taking over several matters at hand."

"Hmmm… How about the brat?" Tsunade asked as she downed her alcoholic drink.

"Well, his studies are faring well, and upon Shikamaru's request, we have started to introduce him to Hokage duties by giving him some scrolls and paper works to file. His diplomatic skills have also improved. I believe it is evident during his efforts to redeem Sasuke from the council." Kakashi reported casually.

"Well, I guess you, Iruka-sensei and Shikamaru have been dealing with a lot lately, but you don't look too stressed out at all compared before." The godaime said with a curious tone and drank another of her sake.

Kakashi, not knowing how to explain without sounding like his pink-haired female student, rubbed his nape embarrassedly. "About that..."

And it was his brunette friend who came to his rescue, "I actually counted Hyuuga Hinata in as well everytime Shikamaru would be sent on a mission. Surprisingly, Naruto behaves well around Hinata. He's starting to learn some etiquette and formal speech through her."

"What a good strategy Iruka-sensei! Hinata's upbringing and knowledge is truly a big help for the boy and her reserved nature must have been influencing Naruto in one way or another." Gai said affirmatively, remembering how wise and dignified his deceased student was. Neji.

"I think it's not only Naruto who has been influenced. Hinata is getting more confident these days. Must've been because of the same reason." Kurenai interjected and took a sip of her sake.

Iruka sighed and nodded in agreement.

Gai scoffed and stared down Kakashi, "Oh, the wonders of youthful love, isn't that right Kakashi?"

In return, the silver-haired man immediately waved-off embarrassed and said in the middle of chuckle, "I don't really know anything about that!"

He was lying and everyone knew that.

"Oh, really, Kakashi? Is that why Shikamaru was always on diplomatic missions recently?" Gai argued trying to grill his rival.

"Oh, so that's why Hinata is vacant of missions lately." Kurenai commented that made the man in-question inwardly blame Sakura for whatever pressure he was experiencing.

Chuckling quite stiffly, Kakashi retorted, "It's not like something can happen at all."

Iruka and Kurenai instantly scowled at him with an incredulous look on their faces.

"Naruto might be slow in learning these academic stuff and might know nothing about girls, but he's a socially-open kid." Iruka commented defensively and Kurenai followed,

"We all know that Hinata is a sweet girl and she…" The raven-haired woman hesitated, until it was Tsunade who continued,

"And she admired the brat since I could only remember when."

Kurenai nodded in agreement and Gai added, "I also heard news that the war brought them closer."

The blonde woman closed her eyes in a pleasing manner as she recalled the dear moments with her passed beloved, "So they aren't together yet? I thought Sakura told me that during Pain, Hinata…"

Kakashi closed his eyes, trying to analyze the situation until he remembered that event with Naruto and the priestess, "You know Naruto, Tsunade-sama…"

Iruka abruptly defended, "The war followed shortly afterwards. I don't think he can process those things easily, given his upbringing. Even I, still don't know much about these things."

Shizune butted in and interjected, "I heard from Sakura-chan that she and her friends are planning to get those two together. They were really hands-on, I guess."

"So they think those two are unsettling too, huh? Well, who wouldn't be? Just hearing stories from Sakura was enough to make me feel bothered." Tsunade chirped tipsily as she swung her bottle.

Gai rubbed his hand on his chin, "Yeah, I've been seeing Naruto hanging out a lot with Team 8 recently. I really thought that in this springtime we'd get to witness a blossoming love!"

"But Hinata-chan is really shy." Shizune sighed.

"And Naruto…" Kakashi murmured with a shake of his head.

"Well, we might not know the odds. Hinata is getting more expressive lately," Kurenai added as Iruka rebutted,

"And Naruto is naturally outspoken."

Tensed silence followed afterwards. All of them, with the exception of weirded-out Shizune, watched each other like an enemy on the battlefield, waiting for the other to make the first move.

Since the war ended, things had been getting quite dull and stagnant with the villages already maintaining their peace and although they weren't really into meddling with their former students' lives, there were times when they couldn't help but argue on their hypotheses, especially during a night-out like this. Right now, it was Uzumaki Naruto's love situation.

Tsunade chugged her sake and heavily placed the bottle on the table, "I think the question here is not whether they will or will not happen. Their friends are meddlesome enough to wing over. Let's quit dancing around!" With groggy eyes, she spun the empty bottle.

It had begun.

They gulped in nervousness with a bit of excitement. They must be all buzzed to agree with this kind of set-up, but they couldn't help but feel exasperated as well.

Naruto was forthright, truly if he wanted to say something he would say it right away, especially if it really meant something important, however the boy was as dense as Earth and it might be obvious for everyone to see that he's taking an interest towards the sweet girl before he even does. On the other hand, we have the shy and unassuming Hinata, who loves the boy since she was a child, but still can't regain the courage to profess to him.

Both personalities were quite frustrating to tie together, but once linked it was a right kind of balance like Yin and Yang. However, these two needed an intervention and the question of who's going to cave in first was nerve-wracking.

All their eyes watched the bottle warily as its spinning gradually slowed down and pointed at…

The blonde woman laughed loudly. "And who would've thought it would be me? Anyway, I was the one who started this in the first place." She settled down and rested her chin on top of her curled fingers.

So who would be the first one?

Tsunade thought carefully of what she knew of the two. Since she was still busy examining the brat's prosthetics and training Kakashi as her successor, she got little to no time to have substantial basis aside from the events at the hospital and stories from Sakura.

However, from a woman's perspective, she knew ever since, that the affection her apprentice held for the brat was just the same as how Tsunade valued Jiraiya. And it was different with Dan. The way he complemented her. The way he served as the quiet wind to her tumultuous storm.

Just like the gentle Hinata and the rambunctious Naruto. Tsunade never really saw the boy calm down without the use of coercion or reprimand from her or from Sakura, until she witnessed the soft-spoken girl did so without any effort in many circumstances, which reminded her of that one night a few days after the war, while the brat was still at the hospital…

Sakura was reporting Naruto's consistent nightmares and the older woman decided pay him a visit. The room was dimly lit by the moonlight and not a single sound can be heard. However, as soon as she was near Naruto's room, she could hear frustrated mutterings.

Tsunade hurried, however she stopped and hid quietly at the door frame.

Hyuga Hinata, with traces of tears on her cheeks, moved from the chair beside the window and sat on Naruto's bed.

"N-Neji… Wait, stop!" Naruto morosely pleaded on his sleep as the girl shed a tear, which she immediately wiped away.

Tenderly, she cupped his cheek. "It's okay. Everything's going to be alright." She forced out, trying to fight her tears from falling.

Tsunade looked closely as Naruto's disgruntled mumbling stopped and he muttered,

"Kaa-chan…"

Hinata smiled, tucked a few strands of hair behind her ear and leaned in closer to the boy's ear, whispering something that made him calm down. And from what Tsunade can make out of it, she knew it was those words the girl couldn't say when the boy was awake.

Tsunade smirked.

She believed in the strength of the girl's affections and she knew that Hinata just needed a time to sort things out and gain the confidence. As a girl, who knew love that, at least, was what she could tell.

"I'll go for Hinata!" Tsunade said proudly, although she knew she was bad at gambling.

Kurenai smiled delightfully, while the others nodded their heads in consideration.

The bottle was spun again and all of them stared at it in anticipation except Kakashi, who was in deep thought.

"Iruka-sensei!" The blonde announced as soon as the bottle pointed out the brunette.

This must be a tough choice. Iruka inhaled deeply. He needed an evidence. He wanted to believe in his student. He wanted to believe that Naruto can do it himself, that he would man up and actually realize his own feelings without the girl's confession.

Recalling all his interactions with the two during their classes,

Naruto was naturally energetic, but it was different around Hinata. His smile was gentler, he looked more comfortable and his eyes lingering whenever he'd look at her. Iruka wasn't really paying attention at it before, but now that he was placed in a position to choose, he must assess their every interaction.

The side glances, the way he called out her name, the way he beamed at her, the moments when he would just fell silent whenever she would tell him something amazing. He never saw Naruto acting like that in front of Shikamaru nor towards his teammates as well.

Ever since their class started, Iruka sensed that there was something special about the shy girl that he couldn't really figure out until they talked about the situation a while ago.

Then, he remembered the last time he ate ramen with Naruto…

"Hmm… So is our Hinata on a mission?" Teuchi asked behind the counter.

"Yup! I'm still about to show her my progress with my left hand."

"Awww…It must be boring without her here, isn't it? How about you go here for ramen when she returned?" Ayame teased as she served their bowls.

"Of course! Of course dattebayo!" The blonde said dreamily.

"Wouldn't you miss Hinata's care when you already get your prosthetics, Naruto?" The girl asked now without a trace of joke, while Naruto stopped from slurping his noodles with a pout started to appear across his face.

"Well, I couldn't heavily rely on Hinata always and I don't really like worrying her so, err, uh… Plus! I really miss being right-handed –ttebayo!"

Iruka could feel the sincerity in the blonde's words, however he didn't miss the sadness that came with it. At first, he thought it was because of the boy's concern of burdening his friend, but seeing things a bit clearly now, he realized that Naruto would actually feel just as how Ayame stated it.

Looking back, things started to get its color now, of how Hinata brought out the best in Naruto. And if he would tell his student's life like one of the stories he discussed in his classes, Hinata would be one of the vital factors that drive his development.

Consequently, he was brought back during his most recent encounter, when he told Naruto that he passed for the Quarter and impulsively hugged Hinata—squeezing their cheeks together causing the poor girl to blush deep red. Good grief, she didn't pass out, but from the looks of it she was about to.

Yes, that's right. Naruto's impulsive and if he really find out or realized something, Iruka knew that the boy will react or even act out immediately.

Although Iruka's familiar on how gullible Naruto could be, he must trust on how much he knew the boy. He was unpredictable. And if there's one thing unpredictable in the scenario, it was if Naruto would profess first.

He already made up his mind.

Iruka sighed. "I think we all know that I'm going for Naruto."

"Actually, no." Kakashi commented, "If you focus closely on Naruto, you'll know that he was-"

"Whatever, Kakashi. I know Naruto enough to go for him." To be honest, he was a bit reluctant, but this was just a friendly bet anyway.

Kakashi was about to add something when Iruka started to spin the bottle again.

"Wow, we've got a close fight in here. 1-1 for Naruto and Hinata." Shizune stated as the bottle chose its next victim.

Tsunade beamed as soon it stopped. "Looks, like I have another on my team now!"

Kurenai smiled as she was sure she was going to put her trust on her student.

Kurenai had been hearing different stories from her team about Naruto and Hinata's budding friendship. She had also seen the two while grocery shopping or as she went to take her daughter for a check-up. The most recent she'd heard of the two was during Team 8's last visit.

It was just the mid of summer—a few weeks ago, when Team 8 paid her a visit. They helped keeping Mirai entertained and aided her with some of the household chores.

Mirai was asleep, when they all decided to eat dinner. They shared few stories and Kiba shred his new discovery.

"Ah, Kurenai-sensei. Haven't I told you that Hinata here has been asking Naruto out?"

The pale-eyed girl blushed and choked on her food. "Tha-that's not true! What are you talking about Kiba-kun?"

"Kiba, Hinata didn't exactly asked Naruto out, because she asked them at her home."

Kurenai looked at her student, who was frantically denying everything, "It wasn't like that, Kurenai-sensei! N-Naruto-kun asked if we could study more so…"

"So you bring the stupid boy to your house. Way to go Hinata!" Kiba teased, which earned him a glare from the girl.

Their sensei laughed at them softly and asked, "So Naruto was invested in his studies now, isn't he?"

"Why? That's because Naru-"

"Pfft. That idiot just probably want to spend more time with Hinata." Kiba remarked followed-by Shino's complaint.

"That's not actually what I'm about to say. Naruto was always encouraged at Hinata's presence, that's why."

"Nah, he was just actin' tough around her. That's it. And our Hinata here is using the opportunity to ask him out."

"It's not a date Kiba-kun, besides it was just in my home-"

"No, Hinata. What Kiba meant was the time you treated Naruto for ramen, when he passed the Quarter."

"See, Hinata was getting the bravado now and that Naruto was acting like a chic being treated with ramen."

At that moment, even though Hinata couldn't speak in embarrassment, Kurenai saw that she was getting happier as days passed. And one day, Kurenai knew that the girl would actually realize that at some point her teammates were right. The boy she was admiring for a long time was beginning to see her in a different light, if she'd only believe that she was actually earning it.

"I will, of course, go for Hinata." She declared as they spun the bottle, which chose Kakashi.

He gulped heavily and thought of an excuse to be exempted but their looks on him told him he couldn't escape out of this. He was the one arranging their schedule anyway and it was all because he was conniving with Sakura.

"Let me think about this for a while can I?"

Intuition or Intellect? That's what Kakashi kept on asking himself. He always knew that his hunches were right and his hunch was telling him to go for Naruto even if it seemed odd.

Why was his guts telling him so?

Well, his former student was a stuttering blabber mouth. In one way or another, if Naruto would feel something about Hinata, Naruto would let it slip from his mouth considering how reckless he can be in letting out details. And with the amount of time the two were spending with each other plus the efforts their friends put to get them closer, Naruto will eventually realize what he felt for Hinata.

That, was what his guts were telling him. If he was to follow his intellect, it would be the other way around.

It was evident that the once shy girl, Hinata, was starting to be more expressive. He knew of this one summer afternoon, when he was reading an installment of Icha Icha by the lake and saw the two talking to each other.

"A picture?" The blond asked with his high-pitched voice as the girl nodded,

"Yes, Naruto-kun, if you don't mind. I got this new camera they just released and-"

"Of course, I don't mind Hinata!" Naruto announced and Kakashi noticed Hinata inched closer to the boy as they took the photo.

"What will you do with that Hinata?" The blonde curiously asked as they sat on the grass.

The quiet girl blush and softly stated, "I will treasure this, Naruto-kun."

If he would follow his intellect, he would opt for Hinata. She was aware of what she felt, had already tried to tell him about it and was constantly being more assertive.

"What now, Kakashi? You're making us wait just like your residency as the new Hokage, when we know you'll definitely not choose Naruto." Tsunade announced as the silver-haired man chuckled embarrassedly.

"Well, you're right, I guess."

"So there it goes, 3 for Hinata and just Iruka-sensei for Naruto." Shizune informed them as Gai scoffed.

"Well, if Kakashi, my rival, goes for Hinata, I'd definitely go for the other option! I'll vote in for Naruto."

The rest sweat-dropped at his competitive nature, but little did they know that he had a further reason for his choice.

It was during their team's training with Team 8 and Naruto when Gai first saw the boy got jealous. Gai knew that cliché scenario from the novels he shared with Kakashi.

Lee was convincing Hinata to be their new member on behalf of Neji and being the kind girl she always was Hinata replied,

"I know how much you value Neji-niisan in your team. That's why I think his place is irreplaceable even if I would to take it. But don't worry, Lee-kun, I will support you and Tenten-chan like a teammate from now on."

The boy was delighted to hear this and gave the girl a friendly hug as tears fell from his eyes, when the blonde separated the two away.

"There's really no need for hugging dattebayo!" Naruto said as he grabbed Hinata's hand and distanced her from Lee.

The latter curiously looked at his other friends and they gave him a knowing look. Soon, understanding came across him.

What followed was the Inuzuka's comment, which made Gai's speculations true. "Tch. No need for hugging, but he's holding her hand."

Kakashi thought it was just because of their rivalry, but he never knew that Gai got something up his sleeves.

"So 3 for Hinata and 2 for Naruto." Shizune announced as they all nodded in agreement, when Tsunade made her declaration.

"I'll bet on behalf of someone."

They all turned to her with curiosity as who else would dare hop on their bet.

"To make things even, I'll bet for Jiraiya. I know he is no longer here, but if he was, he would definitely believe that his student will man-up and be the one to move the relationship further, so I cast Jiraiya's bet on Naruto."

All of them agreed on this bittersweet reality, if Jiraiya would be there, they knew he would be choosing the same option.

"Let's reconvene again, once the two have finally gotten together to decide what we are going to do with our bets." Kurenai suggested.

"It's going to be a long time." Tsunade sighed.

Their evening was continued by more arguments about the two, about their own relationships, Kakashi's denial in his position and just everything they needed to catch-up to with the war and all.

Kakashi sighed as he exited the restaurant, thinking to himself that perhaps he drank a bit more than necessary to be included in that bet or even about the decision he made.

"Oh there, you are!" He heard the familiar voice of his blonde and boisterous student ringing from somewhere near.

"Naruto-kun?" It was Hinata's.

"Sakura-chan told me you were from Kurenai-sensei's place to look after Mirai-chan."

"Yes, that's right."

"Are you tired? Are you hungry? Do you want ramen?"

The girl giggled and said, "It's late at night now Naruto-kun, I should be heading home."

"Oh, okay then. Say, do you eat ramen for breakfast, Hinata?"

"L-Let's just grab ramen for breakfast tomorrow then Naruto-kun."

"That would be great…"

The volume of their voices minimized as they walked head-on leaving Kakashi with regrets.

He must have known, his hunches were always right.

[bookenders]

11/11/11 Tag Game: Rounds 14 and 15! (I think. I’m bad at math.)

Back at it again, folks! Thank you @ofvisitorsthefairest and @fictionshewrote for the tags!

I think I’m gonna stop counting them after these. I can’t keep the numbers straight.

Rules: Answer the 11 questions from whoever tagged you, then made up 11 of your own questions and tag 11 people.

Bilbo Taggins: @starlitesymphony​, @hannahs-creations​, @toboldlywrite​, @quilloftheclouds​, @myreidola​, @minusfractions​, @inexorableblob​,  @ink-flavored​, @misfitgirlwrites​, @writinginslowmotion​, @aurumni-writes​

If you like these questions, by all means, answer them! And tag me so I can see!

My Questions:

Make a Mary Sue in your story’s world! What powers do they have, if any? How are they better than everyone else? What is their tortured past that is a blessing but also a curse? What kind of unusual eyes do they have? Which member of nobility/royalty/god/vampire/demon is their parent?

Which would your OCs choose: Legolas or Aragorn? Which would you choose?

What’s your favorite trick to pull on readers?

If you were to teach a creative writing class, what books would be on your syllabus?

What’s your opinion on semicolons?

What’s your favorite movie, based on its story?

What’s the dumbest thing your character(s) have ever done? What’s the dumbest thing they could do?

What one item could you introduce to your story to completely derail the plot? Where would it go from there?

What’s your favorite MacGuffin?

How do you name your characters and locations? 

How have your hobbies and passions influenced your writing/how you write?

My answers under the cut!

@ofvisitorsthefairest‘s Questions:

1. Does music inspire you to write?

Not unless I’m doing songfics as a warm-up or something. I usually use it as a tone/mood guard rail as I’m writing. That’s why I make story/character playlists! They keep me on track, especially if I’m revisiting a scene I haven’t thought about in a while.

2. Which WIP did you learn the most from writing?

My Romanian story, for sure. I had the help of my thesis director/mentor with that one, thank God. I learned how to establish a scene quickly, how to do flashbacks like other people do them, how to incorporate languages without messing up the pace or losing the reader, and how to write historical things. 

I learned a whole lot about what not to do from my Story That Shall Not Be Named Because It Bad, too. 

3. Is there something your OC should be afraid of that they aren’t?

I think Gemma should be more afraid of being found out than she is. I mean, she’s technically a witch (an unregistered magic practitioner, because of her potion-making which is classified as pseudo-magic) who has no social security number, lives in secret, and does illegal internet things. She could get into some serious trouble. There are even more nasty consequences that I can’t reveal because spoilers, but let’s just say she has no idea they could happen and they ain’t pretty.

4. Is there something they don’t need to fear, yet do? Irrational phobias?

Yep! It’s one of the cores of her character. She’s afraid of being left alone, abandoned, kept out of her found family. Being used for her skills and ignored as a person. I don’t think they’re irrational, but she has never listened when people tell her not to be afraid of those things.

5. Do you prefer reading physical books or e-books?

Physical books, by far. E-books for my college student wallet, though. They saved me when I didn’t have time to order books, too. I have a crazy good “where in the physical book did this event happen” memory. Like, I can name an event and flip to the page very quickly based on how far into the book it was. Very handy for citations. And I love the feel/smell of a book in my hands and all the contorting I do when I read one (seriously, I almost always end up upside down or completely sideways in a chair).

6. What’s some details of your world building that you like?

All the little things! Academic internet piracy network to help witches, how magic interacts with daily life, tweaking folklore to fit story lore, 

7. Have you ever created a magic system? What was it like?

Oh, boy! Yes, I have made several. My favorite might be the one from my TV show where the only magic is healing/life manipulation magic. The way it works is that when healers do their thing, they physically take on their patient’s injuries. If you have a broken arm, now the healer has a broken arm. Works with diseases, too. Here’s the snippet from the Show Deck about it:

In the darkest corners and dingiest alleys, magic pulses through the veins of the downtrodden. Seen as evil and taboo, magic operates by the law of an eye for an eye, a life for a life. Sacrifice fuels these dark arts, and those who manipulate them are covered in scars and never-healed wounds. Healers operate in the shadows and lead short lives, field medics are scarce, and the king has two sorcerers by his side at all times, bound by a blood contract to give their lives in his name.

Here’s a link to some posts about my magic system in my current WIP, Heart to Heart! I made magic types based on different sciences and artistic disciplines! 

We’ve got astronomy/astrology, carving/linguistics/physical art/symbology, politics/making powerful friends/handshakes/marketing/political science, geology/archaeology/product design. Also some secret types that involve psychology, sound design/sound engineering, and water treatment/environmental science/architecture.

There are also pseudo-magical professions that blend with tech and science, like potion making!

Here’s a decent explanation of how magic works in the world of H2H.

Here’s a joke I made about my magic system.

Here’s the Magical Aptitude quiz I made that tells you more about the magic types in H2H.

/end ramble

8. What was your first favorite book?

I’m 90% sure it was the American Revolution Magic Tree House book. Or one of those books. They were the best.

9. What time of day are you most motivated to write?

7pm-4am. Yep, I hate it. I’m trying to push it closer to 2pm-9pm but it’s tough.

10. If you could step into the shoes of one of your characters for a day, which one would you pick?

If we’re talkin’ H2H characters, I honestly would not have a preference. Everyone in that story is pretty dang chill. If I had to choose, I’d go with Jill or Treena. They’re both artists and artisans who have cool houses and great friends.

11. What are some little quirks you like to give characters? Ex: a lot of mine have freckles Just Because.

There are Many. A lot of my characters have curly hair because I have curly hair. Many of them are left handed (especially my sword-wielding ones). A bunch of them have scars. A lot of them know curse words in other languages. 

@fictionshewrote‘s Questions:

1. What do you want to see more of in the book world? (more rep, more of a specific genre, etc)

I have a rant about this, but to sum up: fewer straight white men dominating publishing, more open acceptance for new voices and ideas, less focus on easy-sell formulaic stories, less prejudice against certain genres... the list goes on. Also, in the publishing world, fewer submission fees and more journals that pay.

2. What time of day are you most productive writing-wise?

Answered above! Evenings and nights. It’s starting to shift to late afternon to late evening though, which is a nice change.

3. Do you have a designated space where you write?

Nope! I usually use my laptop wherever I can sit down or stand without my back screaming at me. I hate writing on my phone, though. Too small, too many typos.

4. What kind of platforms/programs/tools do you use to write? (Word, notebooks, Google Docs, Scrivener, etc)

Scrivener! It’s so helpful for my disorganized ass. I only use Word for academic papers now. When I’m having trouble getting ideas out of my brain, I write by hand in a hard back spiral notebook. I can’t stand writing in journals without spirals. 

5. Hardcover or paperback?

I like both. When I read, I sit weird and hardcovers prevent the pages from bending, but paperbacks are good for traveling with. And they’re cheaper. But hardcovers are so pretty... 

6. What’s your favorite story trope? Are you using it in your wip(s)?

There are a lot of tropes and I can never pick just one. I like friends to lovers, almost everything in LoTR and all those high fantasy things, complicated political/family dynamics, etc. I don’t typically like to write the same things I like to read, though. I have trouble naming them sometimes, but I know I use a bunch of them. 

7. If you had to send your favorite OC on a blind date with a character from someone else’s book, who would that character be and why?

Oh boy. I’m watching the Lord of the Rings extended editions right now, but I’ll try not to be biased.

If I were trying to be funny, I’d set Fred up with Aziraphale from Good Omens. I feel like they could have some good weird conversations.

Gemma and Nicholas Flamel from The Alchemist would be fun, too. Or Oz and Boromir. 

8. Do you write scenes in order or out of order?

I like writing them in order, but sometimes that doesn’t work out like I want it to. Now it really depends on the story. I wrote the first part of AOPC out of order and it messed with my head a little, so I’m trying not to do it for my longer projects. My short stories are always written one and done, in chronological order, usually. Especially the ones under 2k words. WYSiOaD was written in order, then switched around to fix the flow and plot.

9. If your favorite OC was a superhero, what would their superpower be? (assuming, of course, they aren’t a superhero to begin with!)

I do have superhero/villain characters! Here’s some others, though:

Gemma - Empathy / Transferable Rapid Healing and/or Regeneration

Oz - Truesight / Invulnerability

Mel - Animal Friendship or Shapeshifting / Conditional Foresight

Fred - Domino’s luck power but backwards and framed like happy accidents that always seem to work in his favor. So... Mr. Magoo.

Teva - Earth sculpting or something like earthbending

10. Describe your ideal writing session.

I sit and I write a whole short story in one hit. Then I wait and edit another day. 

I am a simple bean.

11. What do you think would turn your protagonist into a villain?

Seeing what was lost and having it torn away forever before she gets to claim it again.

[delos-mio]

Golden Hour - Part 2

A/N: part two is here!! please let me know how you’re feeling about this fic! your feedback is always greatly appreciated c:

-----

When you woke up the next morning, Steve was still fresh on your mind. The way he smiled, the way he smelled…everything about him haunted your dreams. Truthfully, you felt kind of dumb for having such a big crush on a guy you didn’t get a number from. But you couldn’t help yourself—Steve had worked his way into your head. After freshening up and pulling a sweatshirt on, you wandered out into the living room of your apartment with Wanda where she was eagerly chatting with Sam over a cup of coffee.

“Fancy seeing you here, ditcher,” you teased Sam as you grabbed a mug for yourself.

“Hey now! I couldn’t find you when we left. So, who really did the ditching?” he asked with a raise of his eyebrow.

“You did. You left the second we got beer, asshole.” You sat across from them and stuck your tongue out at him.

“Where’d you end up anyways? I didn’t hear you get in until almost 7,” Wanda said with a tiny smirk. This information amused Sam and he whooped a bit before you flipped him off.

“It wasn’t like that. I um, I ended up on the roof of the house with Steve,” you said while you shot daggers at Sam.

“Rogers?”

“He said literally the same thing when I mentioned you last night.” You paused to take a sip of the too-hot drink before continuing. “Where have you been hiding Steve Rogers anyways?”

“He ain’t hiding! I met him during freshman orientation. Clint and I lived in the dorm room next to him and Bucky,” he said as a matter of fact. “He plays baseball, so he’s always at that house. Real good guy.”

“I know.”

“Oh, so you’re the Steve biographer now?” he asked with a shit eating grin, making you flip him off yet again. Then you watched as realization came across his face. “You like him! Oh man, I’m sorry, I didn’t even think about him being totally your type. You and your pretty boys. Mhmm, I bet he liked you too,” He shook his head and smiled again.

“Oh, fuck you!” you laughed. “I am mad at you for not introducing us, though,” you said with a fake pout.

“How’d you guys meet then without your charming and well connected best friend?” He was loving every minute of making you squirm.

“I um, well, I saw Billy over pretty close to me. So, of course I freaked out. And I kind of grabbed him since he was the closest to me and asked if he’d pretend to be my date.” Once it came out of your mouth, you realized just how melodramatic you’d been the night before. It was a wonder Steve didn’t run the minute you asked him for such an odd favor.

“You what?!” Wanda laughed, unable to contain her giggles. Sam just stared at you with his dark eyes and raised eyebrows.

“It got worse.” They both stared at you, urging you to continue with your story. “I kind of…I may have kissed him when he said Billy was walking in our direction.” With that admission and the ensuring roar of disbelief and laughter, you grabbed the nearest pillow and buried your face in it. “I know! I know, ok?”

“I don’t even know what to say. Must have been a good kiss to make him stay with your crazy ass all night,” Sam quipped and you launched the pillow over at his smug face. “Did you give him your number or anything?”

“He said to come by the studio sometime. Not really sure what that means in guy speak. Any insight?” you asked Sam.

“Well, he’s pretty closed off, especially about his art. So, I think the boy’s got it bad. I can ask him if you want.”

“No!” you yelled abruptly. “I mean, no.”

“If you say so.” He finished the rest of his drink and brought his mug to the sink before shrugging into his jacket. “Well, ladies. It’s been lovely as always, but I have to get ready for my date.”

“Econ girl?” you asked excitedly.

“Econ girl.” He opened the door before leaning back a bit. “We should all probably start calling her Gabby, by the way.” With that, he gave you a wink and slipped out the door.

----

Steve quietly tried to sneak back into the apartment he shared with Bucky. Generally, he was a pretty heavy sleeper, so he figured it’d be no problem. As the front door clicked shut behind him, another door clicked open inside the apartment. A girl clad in only one of Bucky’s shirts exited his room and immediately jumped upon seeing Steve. He quickly averted his eyes and turned his attention to the ceiling, trying to look anywhere but at the half-naked girl before him.

“Sorry,” he murmured as she quickly padded down the hall to the bathroom.

Steve pushed his hair back from his face and shook his head. Of course Bucky had company. He’d been at the same party last night, and it wasn’t often he couldn’t find companionship if he so decided. He made his way to his room which doubled as a secondary studio and let the back of his knees hit the mattress, flopping onto his back. His eyes fluttered shut as he mulled over the events of the evening. He had walked into a party with Bucky, who almost immediately ditched him, only to be asked by a pretty girl to pretend to be here date. She was very pretty, wasn’t she? Two souls, abandoned by their friends, finding each other in a packed party. He let out a small sigh as he thought about her smile and how unapologetically herself she’d been from the moment she spoke to him. As he was getting lost in his own thoughts, he was interrupted by his door being flung open and Bucky leaning in his door frame.

“Do you mind? I’m really tired,” Steve grumbled, still not opening his eyes.

“You dog! You got home later than me. Don’t think that’s ever happened before,” he said with a smile evident in his voice.

“It’s not like that. You’ll notice, Buck, that unlike you, I didn’t bring anyone home with me.” Steve was starting to get irritated by his roommate’s presence and hoped he’d leave him in peace and quiet sooner rather than later.

“Alright, alright. I’ll let you sleep. But you’re gonna tell me about her when you wake up.” With that, Steve heard his door shut again, leaving him in the stillness of his room. He fell asleep half hanging off the bed where he landed with the girl who kissed him without reservation on his mind.

----

The weekend passed with a lot of idle time thinking about when you could possibly see Steve again. You were really regretting not scrawling your number somewhere for him. It was torture not knowing how to find him again outside of going to the studio, hoping dumb luck would make you run into him. Yes, there was the option to ask Sam for his number, but you already came off strange enough during your first interaction—you didn’t need to scare the boy away with a creepy text out of the clear blue sky.

You made it to Monday morning and somehow managed to make it to your 8:30 am class on time; a rare feat for you. Thankfully, the class was all engaged in a lively discussion of why Susan didn’t make it to Narnia at the end of the The Last Battle, so it was easy to stay alert and engaged. Before you knew it, your professor was dismissing you and reminding you all about the paper that was due on Thursday. You shuffled down the stairs of the academic building, AB as it was affectionately called, and paused once you got to the quad. Normally, you’d head home for a few hours before your afternoon class, maybe to the coffee shop if you were drowning in homework. But you had Steve’s invitation ringing in your head. Was it weird to go see him so soon? But he wouldn’t have offered if he didn’t want to see you, right?

The art building was only a quarter mile from your building, so you made quick work of the walk and tried to hype yourself up, telling yourself that there’s nowhere to go but up after what you put him through on Friday. When you got inside, you realized you had no idea where you were going. You had yet to take an art class while at school and though you knew he’d either be printmaking or drawing, you didn’t know where to begin looking for those studios. After wandering aimlessly for a minute, you saw a tall girl stalking out of a room to your left. You quickly caught up with her and called out from behind.

“Hey! Really sorry to bother you, but do you know where I could find a printmaking room?” you asked with a smile. The girl turned around and shot you a look, removing one earbud from her ear.

“What?”

“Printmaking…where could I find that room?” you asked again, this time less sure of yourself.

“Down that hall to the left,” she said unceremoniously and popped the earbud back in, turning back to the direction she was originally heading and left. You widened your eyes to yourself but took her directions. At the end of the hall, the was a set of double doors propped open and a few tables in a large workspace. There were only a couple students in there, hovering intently over their work. You poked your head in the room and gave in a quick scan, wondering if you’d have any luck finding Steve.

Immediately, your eye was drawn to him. You were thankful he didn’t notice your presence because you were definitely staring. All weekend, you were sure you had a picture-perfect vision of him in your head, but you were abruptly reminded that he was much more handsome than you could dream up. He had traded in his plaid shirt from the other night for a paint-stained grey tee that was about a size and a half too small. You remembered from hitting your chest on his head that he felt muscular, but seeing him in this shirt showed off just how built he really was. His biceps strained under the short sleeves as he delicately carved back layers of his work with an Exacto Knife. There was a backwards snapback holding his grown out hair back out of his face, his beard speckled with a bit of stray ink. You allowed yourself one more moment to admire him from afar before you approached. You thought it’d be fun to get his attention the same way you did the night you met and gently tugged on the back of his tight shirt.

“I was wondering when you’d come around.” You could hear his smile before you saw it. He set down the blade and turned to face you, letting his palms rest on the edge of the table behind him. He looked completely in his element and relaxed, his blue eyes squinting slightly as he looked you over.

“I wasn’t sure if it was really an open invitation,” you smirked before taking a seat in the chair next to him. He joined you and maneuvered his chair slightly so he could have his body turned toward you.

“I promise you, I only say things that I mean.” He lifted hit hat and pushed his hair back before securing it again. You couldn’t stop the heat that started to rise in your cheeks.

“So, what are you working on?” you asked, peeking over his shoulder.

“Well,” he turned to move the board between you two, “it’s a print I’m working on for midterms. It’s part of a series based on deconstructed mixed with hyper-realistic anatomy.” You looked it over and saw the allusion to a ribcage and beating heart. He had meticulously hand carved out every vein, artery, and muscle. It was gorgeous. You sat for a moment and just marveled, not only at what he had created it, but the man who created it. Steve was soft where someone else in his situation would have been hard. He was a gentle jock and you were completely taken by his almost impossible juxtaposition.

“Steve, it’s beautiful. I love it,” you said sincerely, letting your hand rest on his bicep. Holy shit, he was solid.

“Thank you, I appreciate it.” He flashed you that wide smile that made your knees weak the night you met. He let his legs slide out a little and leaned back casually in his chair. “You know, I talked to Sam yesterday,” he said nonchalantly. You immediately felt your stomach turn and looked at him with wide eyes.

“That motherfucker. I hope he didn’t tell you all the greatest hits of my blunders,” you groaned.

“No, no, nothing like that,” Steve chuckled. “He just said he heard we’d finally met and asked if we would like to go with him and Gabby to the football game Friday.” He looked at you expectantly and ran his hand idly over his beard.

“W-we? Sam never asked me to go,” you half asked with confusion.

“Yeah. I think he was kind of hoping I’d ask you to go with me,” he said with a smirk. Relief and realization washed over you. “What do you say? Can you make it through a whole football game with me and Sam?”

“Sam? I don’t know, the jury’s still out on him.” You both laughed a little nervous laugh. “But I could watch a game with you, yes.”

“I can pick you up around 6 if that works for you,” he offered nervously, seemingly surprised him and Sam’s plan worked out.

“You’re not going to make me sit in barf, right?” you asked and bit on your bottom lip, unable to resist picking on Steve just a bit.

“Very funny,” he drawled sarcastically. “Could I—would I be able to get your number? So you can tell me where you live and all that,” he added quickly; you were really starting to love seeing him get flustered. You reached for a scrap paper and pencil and scribbled down your number, sliding it across the table to his large hands. His fingers just barely brushed yours as he took the paper before stowing it away in the front pocket of his jeans.

“You can always use that number before Friday too, if you want,” you said with a sly smile and stood up from your seat, leaving another small kiss on Steve’s bearded cheek. His laugh carried a bit as you walked out of the studio, your feet feeling like they were being carried by tiny, pink fluffy clouds.

You had a date with Steve Rogers.

[rosesisupposes]

Destined, part 11

aka Help This Nerd

Character Tags: Virgil/Anixety ; Patton/Creativity ; Patton/Morality ; Logan/Logic ; Remy/Sleep ; Dante/Deceit

Chapter Pairings: Platonic Deceit with OC

Chapter Warnings: Sympathetic Deceit; mild swearing; threats/mentions of violence; allusion to character deaths

Reader Tags: @residentanchor @royally-anxious @sanderssidesfanblog @bewarethegrammarpolice

Summary: After centuries of acting as an oracle to heroes, quest-seekers, and villains alike, Virgil just wants to live as a normal, modern human. For someone who can see infinite probabilities, you’d think he’d know better.

<<Chapter 10 | Masterlist | Chapter 12>>

Read on Ao3

Flashback: late 1490s into early 1500s CE, near the Ural mountains

The seventh child of a seventh child. From the moment of his birth, Septimus had been guaranteed to be powerful in the ways of magic. But neither his parents nor his siblings had expected him to be a sorcerer.

After all his years in the continents’ best university, with all the acclaim he’d acquired, he still wished he had been born just a plain wizard, like all his colleagues and classmates. But when he had heard of a young sorcerer, newly arrived and seeking an apprenticeship, one who’d been turned down with the same wariness that Septimus himself had faced, he had known he had to do something.

Not for the first time did he wish the stigma wasn’t so strong. Sorcereri weren’t even a separate race from wizards. The only outwardly-discernible difference was golden or partially golden eyes. Septimus knew this particular trait stood out more in him than others - bright golden streaks through royal blue eyes were rather noticeable. He hadn’t actually needed the horn-rimmed glasses he wore until his third year of study, when staring at scrolls for hours on end had finally degraded his sight. The flash of the golden rims were a suitable distraction for many, especially if they hadn’t already heard of him.

By the current point in his career, luckily, people knew him for his deeds and accolades, not a quirk of birth.

Ever since he was a child, Septimus had been imbued with a healthy respect and fear for his own magical power. Unlike wizards, his ability hadn’t needed intense study and training to be vast and powerful. As a sorcerer, he had been born a natural conduit, able to channel ambient magic from his surroundings without needing to summon it from within himself. But study helped him modulate how carefully he conducted magic, and how effectively and efficiently he was able to use it. Plus, through study and knowledge he was able to control it.

He would never forget the fear in his mother’s eyes when he’d had a temper tantrum at five years old. He forgot why he’d been so upset, but just as he began to wail, a lightning bolt flashed from a cloudless sky to strike a sapling in their front yard. The poor plant had been split in two as it burst into flames. His mother had stepped back carefully, both hands out, eyes wide, speaking quietly like he was a bear or a monster about to attack. He’d overheard his brothers and siblings muttering about moving away, or sending him away to a secure location. That was the day he resolved to never again let his emotions get the best of him. He would be master of himself and his magic.

And he’d been successful. He’d learned meditation, calming techniques, anything that worked to keep himself stable and unemotional. Through studying these techniques, he’d learned how much a magical education might help him. At eleven, he’d convinced his father to send him to university. The wariness in the headmaster’s eyes had been apparent even then, but he did not allow himself to become self-conscious or self-doubting. He was there to learn.

Now, in his mid-twenties, Septimus the Azure was a prodigy, a proud graduate of the university and star in the field of magical research. His treatise on uses of dragon’s blood in potion-making, written while he was still a student, had become world-famous in magical circles. He was the youngest professor the university had ever had, and by far the youngest to be allowed his own laboratory and study in the university’s Tower. He had earned every bit of it, fighting every inch to be taken seriously for his demonstrated academic prowess and regimented use of magic, not his vast natural ability.

He’d thought maybe he’d need to contend with jealousy, but at least within the university, his potential power was seen as a literal threat to the lives of those around him, not as an ability to be desired or sought. Magical power, the thinking went, ought be earned through rigorous study and practice alone. And so that was what Septimus had done.

He sat up from his desk, where he’d been using an enormous magnifying glass to read records from ancient fairy colonies. The minuscule size of the tomes had deterred generations of wizards from learning about the tiny creatures, but Septimus was determined to change that.

Ah, that reminded him. He needed a scroll for reference. He stood, looking for his newly-chosen apprentice. The younger sorcerer had appeared starstruck when Septimus had introduced himself and asked him to come work with him. And he was a very hard worker, which Septimus appreciated. He just couldn’t remember his name. Guido? Petrarch? Something from the south of the continent. It would come to him, if he really needed it.

“Apprentice?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Can you find me the second volume of the Anthology of Fae Colonies and Lineages? It should be in the third case, fourth or fifth shelf. Near the Codex of Fairy Circles.”

“Of course, Master Septimus.”

Moments later, the apprentice had lugged over the several-pound tome to Septimus’ reading desk. It was his favorite invention, despite its simple nature, and it was entirely in tune with his particular frequency of magic. A large wooden wheel spun gently, each of its flat paddles holding a scroll or book open, each able to be pulled down onto his writing desk for better examination, or use with the fold-out magnifying glass. At any moment, he could call out a key phrase or word and the wheel would glow, moving the reference book most relevant to his request to be more easily viewed. He placed the fairy tome onto a paddle and secured it with the magical prongs that both held it in place as well as scanned its text to function with the spell. He prepared to delve back into his studies, but his apprentice was still looking at him.

He supposed the correct thing to do would be engage. The slightly-younger man had been working for him for a week now.

“Did you need something?”

“I was just wondering - could you tell me what your current project is?” the younger man asked, gold-and-brown eyes hopeful.

Septimus would normally have resented any interruption, but that flame in his eye was too familiar - the burning desire to learn.

“Of course. Have a seat, Apprentice,” he offered, before realizing every chair was covered in scrolls or books. Hiding a blush, he gestured crisply, and a royal blue light lifted them back into orderly stacks on the small shelves by his desks.

“Now. What have you learned in lectures about the lives of the fae folk, known colloquially as fairies?”

His apprentice sat and straightened to attention, the same movement required by most of Septimus’ colleagues and former teachers.

“They live in colonies of approximately fifty to two hundred, usually separated by large physical distances from one another, but are all considered family or kin. There do not appear to be any actual nuclear families, at least in part due to lack of sex or gender. Their society is highly hierarchical, with councils of Elders making decisions for each colony, including magical assignments,” the student said, speaking with his eyes partially closed as he recited. “In the past, fae folk had strong ties with humanity through the Godparent relationship, with a single fairy being assigned to a single human who usually has some fate or grand potential, or a particularly tragic existence. However, new reports of Godparent relationships in the last two centuries have been few and far between.”

Septimus nodded. “You’re clearly a dedicated student. Well done. Have your professors offered any reasons for the declining reports?”

His apprentice went to scratch his head, then caught himself and held his hands in his lap. “Only speculations. Professor Umber suggested there may have been an incident between humans and fairies that have made them less inclined to help. Professor Junipera believes that the fae colonies have simply been more subdued, finding less prominent humans to aid. But they don’t know for sure, that much is clear, no matter how confident they sound in their assertions.”

“Ah, you’ve learned the most important lessons of university,” Septimus said with a wry grin. “that is, how to see and hear through the academic babble. But it’s true - we are not sure why the number of Godparent reports have appeared to decrease. However, I believe our framing is the issue. It may be that the number of Godparents has decreased because the number of fairies has decreased. They live for many centuries, possibly as long as a millennium. But they do age, and die of age. It is very possible that the fae folk are aging out, without enough young fairies being born to take their place.”

His apprentice was shocked. “I… that’s possible? For magical beings to… die out?”

Septimus was somber yet measured in his response. “I do not know for sure. We have no recorded instances of such a thing. But I believe it may be occurring before our very eyes. As other populations grow, magical folk and creatures may be just as at risk of extinction as are non-magical animals. I myself found that, at least due to crowding of their natural habitats, dragons are becoming harder to find. Getting enough variety of dragons’ blood for my research to be able to generalize my findings to the genus as a whole… well. The particular pitfalls of my methodology are not relevant. The point is, I do think there is a not-infinitesimal chance that the fae folk are disappearing. If any knowledge of their history and culture is to be preserved, it must be done now, while the primary source still exists. That is what my current research focuses on - compiling what records we already have and seeking answers to those gaps in our existing knowledge.”

“Master Septimus, if you think such a thing is possible and happening now, why not do something to stop it? Don’t we have an obligation to our fellow magical beings to preserve their species?” the young sorcerer asked curiously, with a slight hint of indignation.

The sorcerer leaned back, fingertips touching in a tent as he considered the question. “I… don’t know that it would even be possible to reverse the trend, if such a trend exists. Nor do I know that it would be our place to interfere. To meddle in the process of reproduction, for another species no less! Not only do I worry about the ethical implications, but fairies are intensely private when it comes to the exact locations of their colonies and their inner workings. What documents we have here are mostly due to particularly studious Godchildren who convinced their Godparents to document their experiences and history. I would not presume to approach a fairy colony and insert myself into their population issues. No, my role is that of a historian. I will do what I can to preserve their story and culture for posterity, so that future generations may be educated if the fae should ever truly disappear.”

The young man looked down, clearly upset. “Master… could such a thing happen to us? To… sorcerers?”

“I… am unsure. So little is known about us, and how exactly we come to be. We are not a separate species from wizards, and the offspring of two sorcerers are not always sorcerers in turn. We are… anomalies. But regularly-recurring ones. And you and I both know that we are much more than merely flukes.”

Two pairs of gold-marked eyes met, one kind, the other determined.

“Thank you, Master Septimus. For explaining, but also for taking me on, and not treating me like a… liability.”

“Of course. I’ve been in your shoes, or pairs that looked a lot like them. And you can call me just Septimus if you wish.”

“Thank you, Mas- Septimus. And if you want, you can just call me Dante,” he replied with an impish grin.

“I will do so, Dante. Do let me know if there are any other burning questions I can answer for you. Even if you just need someone to vent to.”

Five years passed. Dante continued his studies at the university, taking after his mentor in his ability to push past the professors’ and fellow students’ assumptions about sorcery. Unlike his mentor, he found that his personality could be an equal asset to his academic achievement, charming his way through the stone towers and sneaking his way to just the right spots for opportunities and recognition.

He burst into Septimus’ tower laboratory one day, black hair flopping excitedly as he raced to greet his mentor and friend.

“TIMUS! Is it true? I go south for two months for fieldwork and you’ve suddenly acquired a new magical artifact?”

Septimus rose from his desk to embrace the younger man, ruffling his dark curls. His young friend was very particular about his appearance these days, but his mentor was the one person allowed to see him at anything less than perfectly coiffed. “Apologies, Dante, I should have known better to save all my arcane acquisitions for your return. How was the Harz?”

“Oh it was excellent, the sprites there were the friendliest I’ve met so far. I got the impression that they’ve a history of more cooperation with other magic folk, but you know sprites - keeping track of history isn’t exactly their strong suit. Why did you let me get myself into such a difficult dissertation topic?”

“Because you were determined to prove me wrong, and you are too good at talking your way out of conversations. Or into them,” Septimus grinned, one arm still around his younger friend. “I’m glad you’re back though - this place always gets a little too sane and complacent without you.”

Dante squeezed him with one arm, a genuine smile on his face. “Missed you too, Timus. But hey,” he interjected suddenly, “you distracted me! I came here to hear about the artifact!”

“Ah yes, of course. The staff. Come here.”

Septimus led his former apprentice and current mentee to his back room, where a table had been dedicated to a long and gnarled piece of wood. It would have looked like any tree branch twisted by an invasive vine if it hadn’t been for the dome of blue fire that surrounded it. Septimus lifted his hands as they began to glow with the same fire. A complex pass of his hands expanded the shield spell to include himself and Dante, who gasped audibly.

“That… aura! What is this thing?” he breathed.

“That’s just it. We’re not sure. The heir from one kingdom over killed Vignar the dragon. This was in his hoard. The victorious prince was bedridden for a month after touching it with his bare hands, thus, I would highly advise you don’t try, not unless you want me to have another nice chat with the headmaster about how I’m sure you’re not going to bring down the Tower on our heads.”

“Point taken,” Dante shuddered. “My stars, the emanations it gives off without contact - the whole school must feel it when it’s outside of this shield.”

“Not quite the whole school. Only those who have a high sensitivity to magic. You know,” he elbowed the younger man, who quirked a smile back. “The absolute oldest faculty, and us. Thus, it lives here, where I’ll sense any disturbance more quickly. Plus, I have the magical reserves to spend on keeping the spell up.”

Dante shivered. “You know I trust you far more than any of these graybeards anyway. Ugh, it’s going to give me a headache, can you close down the shield?”

Septimus nodded and reversed his gesture, re-linking thumbs and forefingers into his chest, passing palm over palm, and sending the fire back to a dense bubble once more.

“So. Theories of origin? You have at least one, I know you do,” Dante said with a grin.

Septimus cleared his throat. “Well, yes, actually. Based on what we know of Vignar’s life and raids, it appears that any sort of magical artifact of this caliber would be from one of the universities on the other side of the world, or from the sprites. And since we have communicated with our sibling institutions and they have only guesses at best, the sprites do seem to somehow have been the origin of this artifact. And yes,” he said, putting up a hand to stop Dante’s squawk of indignation, “before you ask, I was always going to show you the staff and share this exact theory. I would never willfully interfere in your dissertation, you know this. Which brings me to the disconcerting element.”

The two sorcerers settled back into Septimus’ study, a floating teapot zooming over from the hearth to fill their favorite mugs as the elder sorcerer continued.

“From my experimentation and that of the senior wizards here, we can find no purpose for this staff. There’s no affiliation with an element, or a certain frequency of spell. It doesn’t even appear to need a magically-abled being to wield it - the human prince was able to somehow fire an inadvertent blast of power before the magical aura knocked him out. An object with such raw, unfocused power being created intentionally seems unlikely. My hypothesis is that the staff, as we see it now, is not finished. This was not the intended final form. There was a final step or ritual not performed that would stabilize its magic in one direction or with one intention. And that means that its current level of power would be multiplied many time over in its final state.”

Dante gave a long, low whistle. “Can you imagine? That kind of power - that’s the kind of thing Mordred would have had wet dreams over.”

Septimus shuddered. “Yes, I know. Thank the stars he never knew of it. He could have ended the world or ruled it with just a gesture. Which is why I keep the staff safe.”

“Have you been researching what the intended purpose could be?”

“I would be content with definitively knowing its origins. If I knew more about its creation, I’d be able to deconstruct it, or at least stabilize the power to safer levels.”

“Really, Timus, you are no fun at all,” Dante drawled. “You see the sharpest sword in the world and think immediately ‘oh, gotta blunt that.’ Not even an itty bitty daydream of world domination?”

Septimus chuckled, rolling his eyes. “Oh, I’d never do such a thing. I’d hate to deprive you.”

“Say, Septimus - could I research it as part of my dissertation? Its origins, I mean. I’ve been struggling with a real focus to my research - it’s hard to know what questions to ask when the sprites are all so scattered.”

“You know what? That would be brilliant. This is why you make me so proud to be your advisor,” Septimus said. “But more importantly, I’m proud to call you my friend.” Dante ducked his head and flushed lightly. Timus had long ago stopped feeling like just a mentor. He was his most trusted friend at this university certainly, not to mention in the world.

“If I’m a great scholar, I owe it to my fine instruction, and the support of the best friend a sorcerer could ask for,” Dante returned warmly.

They toasted each other with their mugs of tea and settled in for the afternoon’s studies.

Septimus was worried. About several things, but mostly Dante.

He should have been pleased - after ten long years, the man’s dissertation was complete, and he’d single-handedly provided the strongest evidence so far that the staff was indeed of sprite origin. He’d cracked the question of “which kind of sprite” by showing that all four tribes - fire, tree, water, and ground - had convened once in their history, and that this was likely the moment of the staff’s creation.

Septimus was incredibly proud of his friend. But… every time the young man walked into Septimus’ tower study of late, there was shadow that flitted over his face. Only ever briefly - but it was like a mask was being taken off, if only for the space of a breath. And there were lines of tension in his shoulders that one would never notice unless they were lucky enough to ever see him fully relax. The charm offenses had become louder and more aggressive as Dante prepared to defend his dissertation and earn his title from the university. So, too, had the convenient conversations and ‘casual’ drop-bys to the highest-ranked members of the faculty. Only those close to him - so, only Septimus - could hear the rough edge in his voice as he spoke to those who would decide whether over ten years of study, from green newcomer to full apprentice to practically a full-time researcher, would yield any concrete title or achievements.

Septimus had even heard the edge when Dante spoke to him. Mentioning other magical races seemed to snap the taut rope that was the young man’s composure. Like the previous afternoon. Septimus had merely mentioned a successful interview with a fae Elder, an elderly but delightful creature who he’d found in a human bakery, to which they had apparently been devoted for generations.

“Glad you were able to write down their name before they collapse into pixie dust,” Dante had muttered.

“Dante, you know I’m just trying to do my best. And Baxter shared some fascinating information - the fae lifespans themselves are shrinking. They themself are only eight hundred years old but already starting to wither, when in generations past they would have expected to live one or two hundred years more. They aren’t sure why but they are spreading the word of my research so that the fae will never be entirely forgotten.”

“Septimus, how are you able to do this? To see them literally withering before your eyes and to do nothing?”

“Dant, there is nothing for me to do. These are forces beyond my control, beyond anyone’s control. Maybe this is just natural selection.”

“Yeah and maybe we’ll be next to be naturally selected out. And you know what?” The man’s golden-streaked eyes flashed in anger, the gold burning brighter in his fury as he gestured to the Tower around them. “This whole pile of stones, all these empty hats, they would let sorcerers die out tomorrow and breath a sigh of relief when we did, if they hadn’t been the reason in the first place.”

“Dante, we’ve been over this: sorcerers appear so randomly that there would be nothing any of our colleagues could do to help or hinder such an occurrence.”

“Your colleagues. They haven’t accepted me yet. And if they do, it will be because you, their great prodigy Septimus the Azure, convinced them that sorcerers can be worth the risk, not because they’ve accepted we’re no more or less dangerous than wizards.”

“I… yes. I know that. But won’t it be worth it, to have two sorcerers accepted? This is how we continue to pave the way for those after us. We’ll slowly bend their minds towards reason.”

Dante growled. “Unless the magical world dies off as we wait for them to accept us. And don’t pretend we don’t both know the cause.”

“We know nothing for sure. We can only hypothe-”

“It’s those thrice-damned humans and you know it,” Dante interrupted angrily. “They have not an ounce of magic in their blood, and they are spreading across the world like a disease. They cut down enchanted forests, kill dragons, crush fairy colonies… They are what is causing our world to shrink.”

Septimus stayed silent. There was no proof that humans actions were directly causing this, true, but the correlation was disturbingly high.

“I don’t care if it’s unpleasant to admit, but will we all just wait until they’ve arrived on our doorstep?” Dante continued. “Until they come pouring in to smash our astrolabes and burn our spellbooks? Do we even have a plan besides ‘wait?’”

“I’ve… floated the idea of cooperation. There could be a collaboration of sorts reached - let them know of the existence of magic and invite them to study it with us,” Septimus said quietly, fiddling with his glasses, golden rims glinting in the light of the hearth fire.

“And you’ve been turned down without a second thought, because the headmaster and his cronies hate the idea of sharing,” Dante sneered. “Their reasoning is dragonshit, as always, but their conclusion is right. Timus - if we go public with humans, you know it won’t be magic they’ll study. It will be us. They’ll be leeching us and cutting us up before we can say ‘I mean no harm.’ They fear what they don’t understand, and the more magic creatures disappear, the less they understand any of us.”

Septimus made eye contact, trying, willing Dante to understand. “Them fearing what they don’t understand is exactly why I want to reach out. If we plan it carefully, we won’t be a threat to them. I really believe there’s hope for peaceful coexistence, if we approach them with caution.”

Dante looked away, a vein shifting in the hard lines of his clenched jaw. At length, he replied “I hope you’re right, Septimus. I really do. But I strongly suspect you’re wrong.”

Septimus felt like he’d been waiting for just this moment for years.

The jolt of alarm, bringing him entirely out of a sound sleep. Running from his bedroom to his laboratory. Hearing the faint sounds of the senior professors stirring. Arriving at his study and backroom to see the aftermath.

The staff was gone. The magic aura was somewhere close. But it radiated so much power it was impossible to pinpoint where it was, particularly if it was indeed, as he feared, in the hands of a sorcerer.

Had he known that this would happen? Should he have taken more care to disguise the unlocking spell?

Perhaps.

But his hope had gotten the best of him.

Dante had disappeared for several months, almost a year. Research, he’d said. Only he’d finally finished his defense, and been officially named a graduate of the university and given his new title: Dante the Golden. What research would he need to be doing? And why wouldn’t he tell his oldest friend and mentor when he’d be back?

Because he didn’t want me to know, Septimus thought sadly. He knows that, whatever he plans now, I would not approve, nor would I let him go forward unimpeded. At least, I hope I wouldn’t.

He closed his eyes, trying to sense the epicenter of the staff’s emanations. Just as he started to feel the tug of a direction, the feeling vanished. The staff had been magically shielded once more, by another’s magic.

Septimus sat down hard in his study chair, head in hands. He massaged his own temples, and hoped against hope that his former student and dearest friend hadn’t made a horrible mistake, the likes from which he might never recover.

Chapter Notes

Septimus: Latin origin, means “born seventh/seventh son or child”

There were a lot of world-building details and magical mechanics, particularly about the staff, that I couldn’t find a way to fit in here or anywhere else, and the chapter is already over twice as long as I originally planned (whoops)

But if you’re the kind of person who is into that, send me and ask or message and I will happily spill.

[annashipper]

Questions

Where is Emily?  The last time we saw her hanging around Ben was on the 2nd of December, 2016 at the Sky Women In Film And TV Awards.

How come no one’s ever spotted Ben buying anything for either of the pillows?  Does he wear his special disguise when going into department / toy stores?

Why did Sophie Hunter wear a maternity-friendly gown when she escorted Ben to the Jaeger-Lecoultre event despite the fact that she's as whippet-thin as ever?

Whatever happened to the unblurred, HD pics from the pap set taken on the 31st of October 2016 at JFK airport?

Are we ever going to get to see a picture of Ben, Weirdo, Pilo and Pilo 2.0 in the frame, in HD, with all of their faces unblurred, looking like a normal human family?  Extra points if Weirdo isn’t smiling straight into the paparazzo lens.

Has Pilo 2.0 been christened yet?   If so, have the paparazzi stopped camping outside Mottistone regardless of the fact that it’s such a celebrity hotspot?

When are we going to be treated to what Ben’s heroic wife has been constantly hard at work on since before the summer of 2016?

When was the last time Letters Live divulged information regarding what percentage of their earnings go to charitable causes?

Will Gambles be performing music on any London street corners this week?  If so, will Weirdo be contributing to his worthy cause?

How does AnythingBatch spend her time nowadays?

How do the team of die-hard Weirdo fans that were running SHC spend their time nowadays?

Where is Pilo?

Where is Pilo 2.0?

Wasn’t Pilo 2.0 supposed to have “alien eyes like Ben”?  All I see on the Heath pap op disaster is a baby with perfectly generic, normal human eyes.

Whatever happened to the Red Ribbon Stalker?

Whatever happened to Sophie Hunter’s logo?  It’s been almost two years since it appeared on the internet, only to be removed from circulation less than 24 hours later, and we never heard anything about it ever again…

Why has Ben never supported any of Weirdo’s projects?

Why was Ben photographed escorting a blonde woman at the National Theatre on August 20th of 2014, 2 months and a half after the showmance with Weirdo had been launched at the French Open on June 8th of 2014?

Why can’t anything involving Weirdo and her “art” be straightforward?  (LINK to the question which includes multiple sub-questions)

Since Ben is hounded by the paparazzi and they obviously know all three of his addresses in London, why hasn't a single pap ever photographed Weirdo going in or coming out of any one of Ben's houses in the past 4 years?

Why did Ben walk The Imitation Game red carpet without Sophie Hunter by his side at the London Film Festival on the 8th of October, 2014?  Sophie Hunter was there and dressed for success after all.

Why were the interns working for SHC blurring Ben out of pictures when they were (still) trying to sell clothes and shoes?

Why does Weirdo not have a speaking part in this Showmance? 

Why was Weirdo creating mood board(s) for a wedding gown which came straight off the rack, and photographed for Vogue wearing a wedding gown that didn’t match the one she was wearing on her wedding day (which came off a collection that was a year old by that time)?

Why is Weirdo the exception to every gestation rule known to humanity?

Why has Ben’s name been removed from the list of producers for The Current War on IMDb?

Since there was no public notice, how did the paparazzi know to set up camp at Mottistone on the IoW for Pilo’s Christening? Setting aside the fact that it’s a celebrity hot spot of course.

Why was Weirdo smiling at the paps both times (March and October of 2016) Pilo was photographed by paparazzi in NYC?

What was the reason behind all the fluffing of Sophie Hunter’s CV?

Why was Weirdo on holidays with friends during the summer of 2014 instead of Ben?

Why was Weirdo re-introduced to the world* in the fall of 2017, with no work to follow it up?  (LINK)

Why did Weirdo yank Ben’s arm to put it around her shoulder while posing for the paps, but pushed him and his arm away from her as soon as she thought the cameras weren’t rolling anymore during a pap walk?  (LINK)

Has Weirdo taken her husband’s last name or not?  If so, why has no publication ever used it?  If not, why did People run that article back in the day?

Why did Ben, who once said during an interview "there are rooms in my head not made for public consumption” suddenly become so open about his private life since he started his Oscar campaign in 2014?

Why was Ben giving weird quotes to ELLE about how important it is “to be able to have some fun with your currency” in 2014?

Since Ben and Weirdo had known each other for 17 years before they got engaged and have been together for... only Harvey knows how long, why had Guy Garvey, the singer of Elbow who is a dear friend to Ben, never met Weirdo before the wedding at the IoW?  (LINK)

Why did SunnyMarch go into a “bidding war” (according to a Nonny who claimed to work for Picador:  LINK and LINK) to secure the rights to a book that was being sold at 50% off, the minute it hit bookstore shelves?

Why are there never any sightings of Weirdo and the pillows in London when Ben’s out of the country alone?

Why is Weirdo allowed to have a previous long term relationship listed on her Wikipedia page, but Olivia has been erased from Ben’s?   Will "they" erase her when they get divorced?

Why did Ben try to issue a kill order for a picture of his motorcycle parked outside his new property in London but not the 8 HD pictures of his firstborn son’s face taken in NYC?  I’m asking about these two particular sets because the motorcycle pic was never published by any media outlet, and the unblurred version of the NYC pics were never touched by any publication either.

Why wasn’t Benedict Timothy Carlton Cumberbatch’s name printed correctly on the engagement announcement for The Times?

Why was Ben on the verge of tears when asked about the announcement of his engagement to Weirdo during his interview with Good Morning America?  (LINK)

Why did a teacher (who’s linked to Weirdo) break the law by reporting on social media about Pilo and Ben attending one of her classes? (LINK)

Why did Ben’s mom ask Caitlin Moran to find her son a bird in 2013 if he was already in a relationship with Weirdo? (LINK)

Why hasn’t Ben tried to set up a directing / screenwriting / acting gig for his heroically hard working wife on one of the projects he’s worked on during the past 4 years?  She could have directed his Hamlet, adapted the screenplay for The Grinch, played Eurus Holmes on Sherlock, etc.  Why waste so many opportunities to share her boundless talent with the world?

Why did Sophie Hunter resort to plagiarizing an academic’s essay on Beckett to put together an article for The Guardian in July of 2015?

Why don’t Ben’s friends mention him on social media anymore?

If Skeptics are so vile, why don’t Ben’s friends defend him on social media?  Especially considering his latest quote about being well aware of what everyone says about him on social media and assuming he’s so bothered by it all.

Weirdo’s resume, such as it is, features a few bit parts and the occasional vanity project.  Where is the long, hard slog of crap work?  Every artist, from those who have not been discovered to Beyonce, has a long string of unglamorous obscure work that they took to stay in the business.  For many artists, that’s most of their careers: shooting commercials so they can afford to make the movie they love. Singing jingles while they wait to hear from the major producer.  We have not seen that with Weirdo. Not by a long shot.

If Ben travels with his family and is never without them, why has no one ever spotted the entire family at any airport travelling together since Pilo 2.0 was born a year and a month ago?  

Are there no family-friendly, vegan restaurants in NYC where Pilo and Pilo 2.0 could have joined their parents for dinner on the 3rd of April, 2018?

Why was Weirdo removed from circulation during the Pilo 2.0 pregnancy?

Did Weirdo ever get the memo that Ben is fiercely protective of Pilo and that he feels like he’s constantly being bombarded with possible threats to his wellbeing?  (LINK)

Why does Ben who once said: “If you have an over-preoccupation with perception and trying to please people’s expectations, then you can go mad.” (to Empire magazine in 2013) care enough about people’s perception of his family to go on record stating his wife and child are not a PR stunt (on his Vanity Fair interview for Doctor Strange promo in 2016)?

Did the paparazzi who took pictures when furniture and dead plants were being moved into the rental place in Camden, where Ben and his family supposedly live while they’re waiting for his new property to be renovated, follow the movers from his old flat at the Heath to the rental place in Camden?  If so, where are the pictures of the furniture and dead plants being moved out of his old flat and into the trucks?  If not, how did they know Ben and his family were moving to a rental place, and who gave them the Camden address?

Have Pilo and Pilo 2.0 travelled to LA for the IW premiere / promo tour since Ben’s had to be away from home for more than a few weeks?  If so, have Californian paparazzi developed a new respect for Ben's privacy between the pap walk extravaganza of August 2016 and now?

How did the fan pic that Ben and Weirdo took with 4 teenagers, at the Gallerie dell'Accademia in Venice on the 13th of February 2016, end up on a local paper?  Did none of the 4 teenagers pictured have a social media account at the time?  Has none of them created a social media account in the 814 days that have passed since? 

How did Weirdo get 5 month old Pilo to sit still for 4 hours straight daily in order for him to Skype with Ben, while the latter was away from home filming Doctor Strange?

Why have the paparazzi stopped spotting Ben at airports?

Out of the full set of pics from the Bora Bora honeymoon in late February of 2015, why were some crystal clear, while all of the ones featuring Weirdo in a bikini were extra blurry?

Why was Pilo’s birth ready to be announced on People magazine on the 8th of June 2015, but then the article was removed?  (LINK)

If Ben and his family have relocated to a rental house or into Ben’s new property, why does Google Maps continue to block the “street view” of his old street in Hampstead Heath? (LINK)

Why did Weirdo’s friends congratulate her on her birthday and on escorting her husband to the Oscars on her Facebook page in 2015, but not on Pilo’s birth?

When was Weirdo born? (LINK)

Why is the renovation for Ben’s new property not finished yet?  556 days is a bit long to wait out with one’s family, living at a rental place instead of one’s own two story flat, no?  Especially when the owner is a multimillionaire who could certainly speed things along with handsome bonuses to his contractors.

Why did Weirdo never make a move to protect her belly when Ben almost ran her into a bin at LAX on the 12th of January 2015 and kept smiling for the paparazzi instead?

Why are Ben and Weirdo travelling sans the pillows again?  Taking into consideration this quote on a German publication from Ben: “When I work I almost always bring my family with me. As of yet I’ve not been away from them a week. Since my second son was born it has been a weekend, I think. The time with the children is so precious that I prioritize them at any time. For me it is very clear: work is work, family is family. When I get home, I leave anything related to work outside the door.”

Why did Ben step in front of his wife, effectively blocking her access to a reporter at the Vanity Fair after Oscars party on the 22nd of February 2015?

Why have Ben and Weirdo not been spotted IN LONDON by the paparazzi while walking the street / out on a date since August of 2017?  Is Ben wearing a mask when he steps out of the house with his wife and children that are definitely real and not a PR stunt nowadays?  (LINK)

Whatever happened to Eggsbenedish?  (however many people were running) That blog set the stage for the showmance, went away when they made sure people were talking, came back to do some damage control when things started getting out of hand, realised they were terrible at herding cats, deleted the blog entirely after the birth of Pilo was announced officially, and now someone has re-opened the blog, but of course all of the posts are gone.

Why did Weirdo not perform on the second Letters Live show (held on the 19th of May 2018) in NYC?

Why was Weirdo smirking during the NYC pap walks in May of 2018 while Ben was being pissy? (LINK)

Did Weirdo attend the LL event on the 19th of May 2018?  If so, why didn’t they arrive together at the venue?  (LINK)

Almost 2 years in, is it safe to assume Weirdo’s logo will never be ready to “go live again”? (LINK)

Why did ATCB try to pass a paid-for paparazzo shot off as a sneaky fan pic on the 6th of August 2016?  (LINK and LINK)

Why did Ben become a brand ambassador for Hisense (a relatively low-end electronic and home appliances manufacturer) instead of signing up for one of the countless roles that major movie studios are presumably throwing at his feet?

Why was there a baity blurb on the Evening Standard about Weirdo’s ring back in February of 2017*, which was then removed entirely less than a week later, leaving only traces of the tags under the original article**? (* LINK and LINK) -  (**LINK)

Why did the Fail never run any of the pictures they purchased the rights to from the Pilo 2.0 pap op at the Heath that were taken mid August of 2017?  (LINK)

HOW???? (LINK)

Why is Weirdo’s name not listed among the people who have performed for Letters Live in Ben’s letter to the general public who visit the Letters Live official page on the internet? Did he forget about his “very cool” wife, is he just not that impressed by her “heroic hard work”, or does it turn out she’s a liability rather than “an asset, a tool” because of her overwhelming fetchlessness?  (LINK)

Why was every announcement / milestone / major pap walk where we got some new bit of information regarding Ben, Weirdo and the most bizarre pregnancy documented in the history of humanity perfectly timed to coincide with Ben’s Oscars campaign and voting close offs back in 2014-5?  Why is every outing / interview with weird quotes from Ben regarding his family still timed perfectly whenever Ben needs some free publicity to promote a new project, 4 years into this showmance?

Were the pillows in LA for Infinity War / Patrick Melrose promo?  (LINK)

Why can’t the press get Weirdo’s name and/or face right 4 years after she’s been introduced (and then re-introduced multiple times) to the world, considering also that she’s supposed to be super duper mega successful in her own right?  (LINK)

Is Weirdo really so bad at reading that the people running Letters Live (including, but not limited to her husband) had to create the entirely new role of Announcer of Names Of Talented People Who Get To Read Actual Letters On Letters Live, in order for the fetchless wonder to get a variation of her name mentioned in the press?

Did either of the pillows appear at Hay?  Cause going through the Hay tags on Instagram and Twitter, I see a myriad of babies and children of all ages joining their parents at the festival, but I haven’t seen a single Nanny (and there were quite a few at the festival last weekend) mentioning they caught a glimpse of Ben’s pillow-y offspring.

Why is Ben’s ring missing from the main Hisense print ad (I’m assuming it’s the main one, since it’s the one featuring the Hisense and World Cup logos), but is there for all of the rest of the pictures from that shoot?  Does the image of MarriedToAFamewhoreDismalBatch who is also a #fatheroftwo to two mostly invisible pillows not appeal to all potential customers of the Hisense product range?  (LINK)

Why did Ben, an actor whom everyone describes as a consummate professional, skip rehearsal with Paapa Essiedu, Tim Minchin, Harriet Walter, David Tennant, Rory Kinnear, Ian McKellen, Judi Dench and Prince Charles on the 23rd of April 2016?  Was the photo op with Weirdo at President Obama’s speech so important?  (LINK)

Why does DorkyBatch never come out to play whenever Weirdo is around him, even though Ben has been pretty darn dorky / silly / happy during interviews / red carpets / promo sessions for the past 3 months?

How is it that when Weirdo was asked to contribute a piece of art to a Christmas bid for Anno’s Africa charity foundation in December 2016, the work she submitted appeared to draw inspiration straight from the art work her ex boyfriend, Conrad Shawcross, submitted for the same charitable bid?  (LINK)

Why does the timeline regarding the proposal / engagement / wedding of much privacy and impeccable timing for Awards season voting closeoffs make no sense when one’s source is Benedict Cumberbatch?  (LINK)

How is it that Ben’s heroically hard working wife who is a director, wanna-be-producer, playwright, curator, narrator, theatre operator, singer, mime, visual artist, clown, Wimbledon spectator, model, and… ACTRESS has been in no way involved with Patrick Melrose, a project so close to Ben’s heart, that is a 5-part series which involved a cast of 100 people (93 of the roles being speaking ones)? Is it that Weirdo didn’t want to steal Ben’s thunder, or just that Ben didn’t trust Weirdo to even stand in the background of one of the numerous scenes involving extras in the cast?

Why was Weirdo photographed consuming champagne at the London Evening Standard Theatre Awards on the 30th of November 2014, when she was already 12 weeks along and certainly knew she was “pregnant” at the time?

Why did Ben and Weirdo choose a remote location, only accessible by boat, where there are no immediate medical facilities in case of urgency, and which requires not-advised-for-pregnant-women vaccinations against tropical diseases for their honeymoon?

Does Ben understand anything about babies?  Going by his interviews, he didn’t seem to know a whole lot about taking care of his firstborn (what with Pilo getting sunburned no matter how much lotion his parents put on him, skyping for 4 hours straight with his dad at less than 5 months of age, getting bathed after 11pm because it was the only time available to Ben during Hamlet, using a potentially toxic and filthy movie prop as a teether, being fed apple slices when it was still a choking hazard for him, etc)

Why does Ben keep travelling alone to and from London, only for Weirdo to show up at the final destination for a few pap ops?  (LINK)

Why has Ben not tried to shield either of the pillows’ faces from the paparazzi on 4 separate occasions?  He clearly knew how to do it for himself before Weirdo entered the scene and he started conducting set-up pap walks to prove how real and not PR-stunt driven his marriage and children are.  (LINK)

Why were the Bora Bora honeymoon pics pulled the same day they were published on Popsugar, on the 24th of February 2015?  How is it that Ben had both the motivation and means to issue a kill order for this set of pics within a few hours (while being loved up with his wife on their honeymoon no less)?  Couldn’t he muster the same drive to issue a kill order for the set of pics featuring Pilo’s unblurred face in HD from NYC, which remained on sale on the (for hire) pap agency site for months?  If he couldn’t be bothered trying to issue a kill order for the NYC set of pics, why didn’t he just buy the entire set off the pap agency site, and had them removed that way?

Did anyone ever find Weirdo’s name on any of the Oxford Alumni lists?

Why do the paparazzi only ever spot Ben and Weirdo out in public when Ben is gearing up to start promotion on a new project nowadays?

Was it a fortunate coincidence (publicity wise) that Ben and Weirdo got married on the 14th of February, 3 days before the Oscars voting close offs on the 17th of February in 2015?  (LINK)

Bonus Question:   Who is in charge of uninstalling PRStuntBatch and reinstalling Benedict Timothy Carlton Cumberbatch®?

[timespakistan]

Beyond the horizon | Art & Culture | thenews.com.pk “I craved to seize the whole essence, in the confines of one single photograph, of some situation that was in the process of unrolling itself before my eyes.” Henri Cartier-Bresson Arif Mehmood’s photographs, a multiple portrait of the humankind, invite us to celebrate the dignity of it. These images of solitude and devotion are brutally frank yet respectful and seemly. Having no relation to the tourism of poverty, they do not violate but penetrate the human spirit in order to reveal it. His is not a macabre, obscene exhibitionism of poverty. It is a poetry of horror because there is a sense of honour. Light is a buried secret, and Mehmood’s photographs tell us that secret. The emergence of the image from the waters of the developer, when the light becomes forever fixed in shadow, is a unique moment that detaches itself from time and is transformed forever. These photographs will live on after their subjects and their author, bearing testimony to the world’s naked truth and hidden splendour, are no more. Mehmood’s camera moves about the violent darkness, seeking light, stalking light. Does the light descend from the sky or rise out of us? That instant of trapped light – that gleam – in the photographs reveals to us what is unseen, what is seen but unnoticed; an unperceived presence, a powerful absence. It shows that concealed within the pain of living and the tragedy of dying there is a potent magic, a luminous mystery that redeems the human adventure in the world. Yet photographers are caught in a curious bind. Cartier-Bresson, who at various times derided the documentary impulse in favour of the visual drama, the pursuit of an unfolding choreography, was well aware of the reality/unreality that one is constantly coming up with, the intermix of fiction and non-fiction. Mehmood’s more consistently documentary approach also has its highly interpretive, imaginary aspects, which, despite the apparent matter-of-factness of photography, give the imagery much of its depth. One might say that, while respecting the facts of a situation, Mehmood attempts to recreate, through visual metaphors, what he sees as its essential human drama – the invisible made visible. Mehmood’s work, while confined to the moment by the mechanics of the camera, is drawn less to celebrating and taming an instant’s arbitrariness, its material manifestations, and more to articulating its eternity, its ephemeral profundity, and to locating a mythic, entwining presence. This aspect of his approach is something he has in common with Latin Americans drawn to what has been called a ‘magical realism’. Similarly, while recognising the individual’s singular importance in his images, he is also quick to draw relationships to the universal. There is, enmeshed in his document of the moment, a resonating lyric, a sense of the epic, an iconic landscape. The former ‘pilot’ invokes a poetic sense of struggles so profound that in his prints, the forces of light and darkness are summoned in scenes reminiscent at times of the most dramatic chiaroscuro. In the history of photography, it has often been debated whether the pictorial photograph can be termed art at all. Indeed, analogue photographs as well as digital are by their very nature traces, not unlike fingerprints. What then does a photographer contribute? The answer also lies in the very nature of what is photographed. It is his frozen view; his orientation to the things in the world that appear significant to him, and equally importantly, the manner in which he represents what he perceives. In fact, no photograph is ever truly objective. Rather, it always constitutes both an abstraction and a subjective perspective, a conscious effort. Until you come of age, photographs that you care to see are often those that other people take of you. Looking at paper copies of anything else is not exciting. Your world is small, and like other children, you live out your days in utter abandon in pursuit of what you need and want. Thought and indecision creep into your life much later. This comfortable equation between oneself and one’s world is imperiled (read shaken) at the age when you get your first camera, suddenly saddled with the obligation to think and to observe. The first major crisis is to make the intractable decision: what should I photograph. It is almost like choosing between my dog and my best friend. The very act of taking that photograph would somehow determine what you hold as most precious: what you ignore would, in future, always be second best.

Camera is the devil’s own tool: every time you pick it up you become someone else. Just holding his Leica makes Arif Mehmood dissect his universe. It drives him to measure the relative merits of things and people close to his heart, and makes him place value on his most priceless possessions, introducing guilt into his life. Not including someone or something in that foot and a half of celluloid somehow amounts to the betrayal of a relationship. The only members of his inner sanctum to which he wants to accord immortality – without being traumatised – have been his constant companions – ones that he has had the most comfortable and least complex relationships with: PS Pestonjee – the last of the Mohicans; and the ‘friends of God’ – sufi saints, dervishes and devotees. The photographs on display comprised two separate bodies of work: PS Pestonjee – a paean to senility and solitude, and Silver Linings – journeys to sites of mystical Islam taken between 1998 and 2020. Arif Mehmood recalls that his father fell ill in 2016 and passed away in 2019. That inspired him to look at the agile and nimble figure of Pestonjee – only a year older than Mehmood’s father – in comparison. Living in a derelict mansion in Soldier Bazaar, the old Zoroastrian appears to be a sentinel of the dwindling community. With their warm colours, Arif Mehmood’s photographs enchant the artistically sensitive observer. These are works of art with a truly aural character. They allow insights into the everyday culture of the Punjab and Sindh, which is permeated by the Sufi tradition, and as a rule, is concealed from the superficial eye. They reflect the peaceful, almost paradisiacal atmosphere of the saints’ shrines. With these impressions, Mehmood also opens up an alternative to academic verbosity – to the ‘narrative textual paradigm’, in other words, to a distinct predominance of the text over image and object. Veneration of sufi saints can be witnessed in all social strata and permits the individual believer to experience personal, concrete contact with what he deems holy. This is exactly what the photographs exhibited here attempt to do: they aim to initiate a dialogue, also with people familiar with the presented and interpreted cultural environment. They strive to provide aesthetic access beyond the appeal of the exotic observers in order to offer a new understanding of those people and their hopes, ideals and values whose home is interpreted in these photographs. Dedicated to his mother, Mehmood recounts in Silver Linings – the book of photography that accompanied the show – that he first visited Lal Shahbaz Qalandar’s mausoleum in 1998. His work focuses in on the sacred spaces and the people who visit them in search of healing and religious experience. Thus, these photographs are also historical/ethnographic documents of the life of mystic seekers of God. Mehmood’s work invites the observer to experience imaginary, atmospheric wanderings. These are pictures that reveal quietude and contemplation. Through such photographs of a light mystique, he can create a feeling for conditions in which the sufis, pilgrims, mendicants find themselves in the respective situation: meditation, introversion, renunciation and commonality. Some photographs highlight the sufi ideals of simplicity and contentment. The photographs on display in Silver Linings are not necessarily shot to illustrate a theme. They were taken as individual photographs of separate lives. If there is a common thread that runs through them, it is the manner of their making and the period in the photographer’s life that they represent. These images were exposed both on negative film and digitally, when in 1998 Mehmood picked up his camera again after a year-long sabbatical from the medium. The abstinence was self-ordained, provoked by an internalised process of deliberation that had begun to question “what do I photograph, how do I photograph it, and even why do I photograph at all.” He paused in an effort to distance himself from his personal work, to pull the photographic idiom decisively away from the compulsion to speak a universally cogent language, and instead, bring his own grammar as close as he could to the common detail in his life and to the lives of others. This episode is yet another example of the power that photography wields in constructing one’s own personal equations. More than to show, Arif Mehmood shoots to see. If anything, his photographs heighten the banality of their detail. Vulnerability is just another element that determines the choices individuals make in their lives as they willingly shoulder the burden of their own minds. What Pestonjee chooses to allow into his inner sanctum; what he chooses to lock himself into or out of; how long he subjects himself to the vision of a lingering past; whether memories will come alive to the geometry and colour about them; whether they will enter the green windows along their way or pass them by; whether they will step out of the shade to accept their right; whether they are willing to upturn their ‘wheelbarrows’. It is the making of these choices that Mehmood waits to see in his frames. These photographs are a ‘temporary’ record of fleeting insights into the lives of others. Like reality, like himself, like the subjects, like PS Pestonjee, they too, in time, will fade. The writer is an art critic based in Islamabad

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[a-teixeira]

Data is now recognized as one of the founding pillars of our economy, and the notion that the world grows exponentially richer in data every day is already yesterday’s news.

Big Data doesn’t belong to a distant dystopian future; it’s a commodity and an intrinsic and iconic feature of our present — like dollars, concrete, automobiles, and Helvetica. The ways we relate to data are evolving more rapidly than we realize, and our minds and bodies are naturally adapting to this new hybrid reality built of both physical and informational structures.And visual design — with its power to instantly reach out to places in our subconscious without the mediation of language, and with its inherent ability to convey large amounts of structured and unstructured information across cultures — is going to be even more central to this silent but inevitable revolution.

Data visualization pioneers such as William Playfair, John Snow, Florence Nightingale and Charles Joseph Minard were the first to leverage and codify this potential in the 18th and 19th centuries, and modern advocates such as Edward Tufte, Ben Shneiderman, Jeffrey Heer and Alberto Cairo are among those responsible for the renaissance of the field over the last twenty years, supporting the transition of these principles to the world of Big Data. Thanks to this renewed interest, a first wave of data visualization took over the web and reached a broader audience outside the academic environments where it had lived until then. But sadly, this wave was ridden by many in a superficial way, as a linguistic shortcut to compensate for the natural vertigo caused by the immeasurable nature of Big Data.

“Cool” infographics promised us the key to master this untamable complexity and, when they inevitably failed to deliver on this overly optimistic expectation, we were left with gigabytes of unreadable 3D pie charts and cheap translucent user interfaces full of widgetsthat even Tony Stark or Minority Report’s detective John Anderton would have a hard time making sense of.

In fact, visual design is often applied to data simply as a cosmetic retouch of important and complicated issues in an attempt to make them look simpler than they are. What made cheap marketing infographics so popular is probably their biggest contradiction: the false claim that a couple of pictograms and a few big numbers have the innate power to “simplify complexity.” The phenomena that rule our world are by definition complex, multifaceted and mostly difficult to grasp, so why would anyone want to dumb them down to make crucial decisions or deliver important messages?

But not all is bad in this sudden craze for data visualization. Not only are we now realizing that there is still a substantial distance between the real potential that lies hidden in vast pools of data and the superficial imagery we often use to represent them, but most importantly, we realize that the first wave was successful in making others more familiar with new terms and visual languages.

Now that we are past what we can call peak infographics, we are left with a general audience that understands some of the tools needed to welcome a second wave of more meaningful and thoughtful visualization.We are ready to question the impersonality of a merely technical approach to data and to begin designing ways to connect numbers to what they really stand for: knowledge, behaviors, people.

Data represents real life. It is a snapshot of the world, in the same way that a picture catches a small moment in time. Numbers are always placeholders for something else, a way to capture a point of view — but sometimes this can get lost. Failing to represent these limitations and nuances and blindly putting numbers in a chart is like reviewing a movie by analyzing the chemical properties of the cellulose on which the images were recorded.

In its second wave, data visualization will inevitably be all about personalization.

The more ubiquitous data becomes, the more we need to experiment with how to make it unique, contextual, intimate. The way we visualize it is crucial because it is the key to translating numbers into concepts we can relate to.

So how do we move forward?

EMBRACE COMPLEXITY

Accurat for Corriere Della Sera. Series of exploratory, dense, data-driven narratives published in La Lettura, the Sunday cultural supplement, 2013.

Complexity is an inherent feature of our existence — the world is rich in information that can be combined in endless ways. Creating new points of view or uncovering something new typically cannot happen at a mere glance;this process of revelation often needs and requires an in-depth investigation of the context.

Whenever the main purpose of data visualization is to open people’s eyes to fresh knowledge, it is impractical to avoid a certain level of visual complexity.

In a collaboration that lasted more than two years with the newsroom of Italy’s largest newspaper, Corriere Della Sera, my design company, Accurat, had the opportunity to work on a series of experimental data visualizationsfor their Sunday cultural supplement. Our role was to conceive visual narratives, based on data, that achieved the same thoughtfulness and depth of the other essays published in the supplement — pushing the boundaries of what visualization can do with high-density data rife with multiple attributes.

The Future, as Foretold in the Past, Accurat for La Lettura, 2013

Each week, we chose an interesting topic to explore, and we searched for multiple data sources, both quantitative and qualitative, that we then combined into a single elaborate visual narrative. The goal was to move away from a simple measurement of quantity; we transformed raw information into interconnected knowledge, presenting unexpected parallels and secondary tales to supplement the main story.

The Brain Drain, Accurat for La Lettura, 2013

Since clarity does not need to come all at once, we layered multiple visual narratives over a main construct that served as the jumping-in point for readers to begin and follow their interest. We call this process nonlinear storytelling; people can get happily lost exploring individual elements, minor tales and larger trends within the greater visualization, while being naturally invited to engage with the visual on deeper levels.

Painters in the Making, Accurat for La Lettura, 2013

We can write rich and dense stories with data. We can educate the reader’s eye to become familiar with visual languages that convey the true depth of complex stories.

Dense and unconventional data visualizations promote slowness — a particularly poignant goal to set in our era of ever shortening attention spans. If we can create visuals that encourage careful reading and personal engagement, people will find more and more real value in data and in what it represents.

MOVE BEYOND STANDARDS

One size does not fit all. Business intelligence tools and dataviz tools for marketers have led many to believe that the ideal way to make sense of information is to load data into a tool, pick from among a list of suggested out-of-the-box charts, and get the job done in a couple of clicks. This common approach is actually nothing more than blindly throwing technology at the problem, sometimes without spending enough time framing the question that triggered the exploration in the first place. This often leads to results that are not only practically useless, but also deeply wrong, because prepackaged solutions are rarely able to frame problems that are difficult to define, let alone solve.

As Steven Heller writes in the introduction to his book The Infographic Designers’ Sketchbooks “Making enticingly accurate infographics requires more than a computer drafting pro- gram or cut-and-paste template, the art of information display is every bit as artful as any other type of design or illustration, with the notable exception that it must tell a factual or linear story”

Thoughtful design comes to the rescue again. What I always do when I start a new data project is to move away from the screen and start drawing.

I draw with data in my mind, but with no data in my pen: I sketch with data to understand what is contained in the numbers and in their structure, and how to define and organize those quantities in a visual way to create opportunities to gain insight.

Accurat for Corriere Della Sera. “Nobels, no degrees”- Exploratory Sketch, 2013

Sketching with data — so, in a way, removing technology from the equation before bringing it back to finalize the design with digital tools — introduces novel ways of thinking, and leads to designs that are uniquely customized for the specific type of data problems we are working with. I draw to freely explore possibilities. I draw to visually understand what I am thinking, I draw to evaluate my ideas and intuitions by seeing them com- ing to life on paper, I draw to help my mind think without limitations, without boundaries.

Accurat for Corriere Della Sera. “Nobels, no degrees”- Final Visualization, 2013

Drawing with data is an invaluable tool to discover what is unique about the numbers at hand. It also raises new questions about the data itself. This limiting practice helps to reveal new possible analyses to perform: Instead of being overwhelmed by the size of a dataset and by millions of numbers,we focus only on their nature, their organization,and doing so often opens new opportunities originating from this vantage point.

To expand their data-drawing vocabulary, designers can access hundreds of years of visual information encoding — the evolution of music notation from medieval times to contemporary music, the experimentation with geometric shapes that characterized avant-garde artists of the last century. These visual languages, while clearly pursuing different goals, have a lot in common with data visualization: they draw on common perception principles and use simple shapes, select symbols, and a defined range of colors to create basic visual compositions that deliver a message and please the eye.

SNEAK CONTEXT IN. (ALWAYS)

A dataset might lead to many stories. Data is a tool that filters reality in a highly subjective way, and from quantity, we can get closer to quality. Data, with its unique power to abstract the world, can help us understand it according to relevant factors. How a dataset is collected and the information included — and omitted — directly determines the course of its life. Especially if combined, data can reveal much more than originally intended. As semiologists have theorized for centuries, language is only a part of the communication process — context is equally important.

This is why we have to reclaim a personal approachto how data is captured, analyzed and displayed, proving that subjectivity and context play a big rolein understanding even big events and social changes — especially when data is about people.

Data, if properly contextualized, can be an incredibly powerful tool to write more meaningful and intimate narratives.

To research this realm, I undertook a laborious personal project: a yearlong hand-drawn data correspondence with information designer Stefanie Posavec. We have numerous personal and work similarities — I am Italian and live in New York, and she is American and lives in London. We are the exact same age, and we are only children living far away from our families. Most importantly, we both work with data in a very handcrafted way, trying to add a human touch to the world of computing and algorithms, using drawing instead of coding as our form of expression. And despite having met only twice in person, we embarked upon what we called Dear Data.

For a year, beginning September 1, 2014, Posavec and I collected our personal data around a shared topic — from how many times we complained in a week, to how frequently we chuckled; from our obsessions and habits as they showed up, to interactions with our friends and partners. At the end of the week we analyzed our information and hand-drew our data on a postcard-sized sheet of paper, creating analog correspondence we sent to each other across the Atlantic. It was a slow, small, and incredibly analog transmission, which through fifty-two pretexts in the form of data revealed an aspect of ourselves and our lives to the other person every week.

We spent a year collecting our data manually instead of relying on a self-tracking digital app, adding contextual details to our logs and thus making them truly personal, about us and us alone.

For the first seven days of Dear Data we chose a seemingly cold and impersonal topic: how many times we checked the time in a week.

On the front of my postcard (shown above) every little symbol represents all of the times I checked the time, ordered per day and hour chronologically — nothing complicated. But the different variations of my symbols on the legend indicate anecdotal details that describe these moments: Why was I checking the time? What was I doing? Was I bored, hungry or late? Did I check it on purpose, or just casually glance at the clock while occupied in another activity? Cumulatively, this gave Posavec an idea of my daily life through the excuse of my data collection — something that’s not possible if meaning isn’t included in the tracking.

As the weeks moved on, we shared everything about ourselves through our data: our envies, the sounds of our surroundings, our private moments and our eating habits.

FINALLY, REMEMBER THAT DATA IS IMPERFECT. (AS WE ARE)

Let’s just stop thinking data is perfect. It’s not. Data is primarily human-made. “Data-driven” doesn’t mean “unmistakably true,” and it never did.

It’s time to leave behind any presumption of absolute control and universal truth and embrace an informed depiction of the big numbers and small imperfections that work together to describe reality. And data visualization should embrace imperfection and approximation, allowing us to envision ways to use data to feel more empathic, to connect with ourselves and others at a deeper level. The more effort we put into researching and translating, the easier the reader will understand and relate to the stories we tell.

But this requires a paradigm shift in the way we represent information visually.

We should learn how to include and render the more qualitative and nuanced aspects of data. We should experiment with how to visualize uncertainty, possible errors and imperfections in our data. And most importantly, we should keep in mind how data can be a powerful tool for all designers, bringing stories to life in a visual way and adding structural meaning to our projects.

It is an uncommonly exciting time to be a data visualization designer; projects and opportunities are more and more complex and challenging, and the field is growing and becoming even more popular. We have to find new languages, and explore how to convey knowledge and inspire feelings simultaneously with data. We have to explore how to be faithful to scientific accuracy while allowing space for exceptions to flourish. We have to bring data to life — human life.

I believe we’re primed for the future. Let’s get started.

[whitehotharlots]

Climate change is killing us because we allow it to

The National Flood Insurance Program (NFIP), like all other federal infrastructure spending, is up for massive reauthorization this year. The Program benefits people who aren’t banks, weapons manufacturers, sports team owners, or gay conversion therapy centers, and so of course Republicans want to kill it.

Three days ago, I said that if there were any small silver lining to Harvey, it was that there’s no way that congress could kill the NFIP. This is the worst flooding event in American history, and it happened to a red state mere weeks before the fiscal year’s budget is due. Republicans wouldn’t dare do something so brazen and cruel as to cut off the aid, and Democrats would now have a clear and compelling narrative explaining why it’s important to fund programs that prevent people from dying.

That was very naïve of me.

On NPR this morning, it was clear that members of all parties have not reevaluated their values or their messaging, have not realized that it’s immoral and unpopular to fuck over people who have just suffered through one of the worst natural disasters of all time. Nope. If anything, Harvey has actually strengthened their resolve. Republicans and Democrats agree that he need to overhaul the flood insurance program, that there’s no such thing as a public good, and that people who live in flooded areas are just lazy and stupid and why should the Taxpayers have to bail them out?

This was NPR—nominally a “liberal” network. And on the On Point program, which styles itself as a smart alternative to talking head scream fests of the commercial networks. And the best, most intelligent discourse our polity can muster are two vaguely distinct shades of abject, sneering cruelty.

The framing of the episode—repeated over and over again, in the segment’s title—was that the NFIP was “struggling,” “broken,” 25 billion in debt and in dire need of drastic overhaul. Guests included a centrist Dem from the Coalition for Sustainable Flood Insurance (nominal left), a pencil necked Ayn Rand fanboy from Taxpayers for Common Sense (hard right), and then a guy from Politico.

The Republican guy was a hideous weasel. The government, he said, had no business subsidizing insurance. That drives out private insurers and then somehow raises prices. And then the low cost of premiums incentivizes people into buying houses in dangerous areas (because who doesn’t crave the excitement of having their house get destroyed). To fix the problem, he said, we have to treat people more cruelly—emulate the health insurance system, basically. Introduce the profit motive into flood insurance, driving up premiums as high as possible and reducing payouts. This will fix things, because it will allow a handful of people to get richer while everyone else gets treated badly.

The Dem woman conceded that some changes needed to be made. She suggested greater use of mapping systems, so that homebuyers would know the risks associated with flooding.  Because, you know, the problem is never systemic, and never the fault of the people in charge—if your house gets washed away in a natural disaster, it’s because you were a bad consumer who made bad choices, but don’t worry, the Democrats are going to provide you with the skills you need to make good choices.

This was the liberal! She at least did not agitate for the complete elimination of insurance subsidies—she made a few meek points about the NFIP falling into debt only after Katrina, hinting to the obvious problem that this is an issue of funding priorities, not to some innate flaw. But she completely allowed the conservatives to control the terms of the debate, focusing not on the moral obligation of members of society to look out for one another but on the burdens suffered by the poor, poor taxpayers.

Callers and texters were equally cruel. “If you was dumb enough to build a house in a flood plain, then why should I have to pay to bail you out?”

Not a single expert said a word about climate change. (One caller mentioned it, and they all went silent, as if it were not worthy of a response). Nor did they mention budget priorities. The total cost of housing damage to Houston is expected to be 30 billion. That’s about 8% of what we’ve given Lockheed Martin for their F-35 Raptor jets, which do not work:

The real issue here is climate change, particularly how we still have some (slim) hope of mitigating and addressing it, but we will have to stop being such shitty idiots if we want to do so. We’re already at a point where previously once-in-a-lifetime catastrophes are occurring every couple of years, and where seasonal bad weather patterns have intensified greatly. These events are very expensive, and they will keep occurring with greater frequency.

We don’t lack the capacity to adequately prepare for and clean up after events like Sandy, Katrina, Matthew, the Boston snowstorm of 2014, or the Joplin tornado. There’s plenty of money to fix up after disasters, plenty of technological and civil engineering innovations to help minimize the risk and damage. What we lack is will. We aren’t preventing or fixing anything because the rich don’t want us to, and because the media and academic classes keep intellectualizing excuses for their cruelty.

We can go ahead and privatize and means test and institute spending caps and really do any other think tank or TedTalk bullshit solution you can name. None of those are going to make a bit of difference once Sandy-level storm surges are a yearly event, when California stays aflame 350 days a year, and when category-5 tornadoes topple dozens of entire towns every spring.

These aren’t dire prognostications, friend. These predictions are among the most empirically sound and well-documented in history. They will all happen, and they will happen soon. And eventually they will happen to you, and you won’t be able to call into NPR to bemoan the dumb idiocy of the people who were so stupid they lived in a certain place, because that stupid person will be you, and your cruelty will have come back to hurt you.

We’re at the precipice of perhaps the gravest threat ever faced by humankind. We need to radically reconceptualize our understanding of how society works, or we will die. We cannot call for incrementalism. We cannot keep doubling down on the conservative and neoliberal policies that excuse the unprecedented rapacity of the ruling class by blaming individual behaviors for the fallout from worldwide upheavals. We need, in short, to start being decent, and we need to do it fast, or—and I’m not kidding—we will all fucking die.

[philippmichelreichold]

on Jude the Obscure- A Young Man's Struggle

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Jude the Obscure subtitled The Letter Killeth, is the story of a young man's struggle to balance the demands of his physical and spiritual natures. Paradoxically, this seeker of knowledge is only dimly aware of the real world obstacles that block the path to fulfillment of his dreams. He seems to lack the common sense necessary to succeed at what he undertakes. Within him, the spirit and the flesh are perpetually in conflict, and his beliefs constantly bring him into conflict with the conventional thinkers around him. If he were to wholeheartedly support one side or the other, that side would prevail. As he lacks the insight to do this, and lacks the stamina to sustain the spirit and the flesh , he "dies a virtuous victim . . . by marriage is his end brought about."(1) He curses the day he was born and he perishes.

Our first introduction to Jude takes place in the village of Marygreen. He is a kind- hearted boy of eleven, who has been orphaned through the deaths of his parents, and who now lives with a curmudgeon of an aunt. We learn of his kindheartedness and latent spirituality when he suggests that the teacher, who is leaving for Christminister, store his piano in the boy's aunt's fuel-house until he is ready to send for it. "'A proper good notion', said the blacksmith."(2) We learn of his physical strength when he brings water from the well, for "Slender as was Jude Folly's frame, he bore the two brimming house-buckets to the cottage without resting." (3)

We learn more from the aunt of Jude's scholarly potential and of his future affinity for Sue when his aunt says, "The boy is crazy for books, that he is. It runs in our family rather. His cousin Sue is just the same. . . ." 4 Though a child of the working class, Jude dreams of attending college at Christminister, Hardy's literary Oxford. He demonstrates his intellect by studying Greek and Latin on his own. As he grows older, he combines work with study. In his mid-teens, he reads Latin while driving a wagon to deliver his aunts baked goods. His inability to see practical matters is evident when he concentrates so hard on his reading that he runs other people off the road. Thus, even at this early age, this unconventionality puts him in conflict with those around him, "a private resident of an adjoining place informed the local policeman that the bakers boy should not be allowed to read while driving, . . . The policeman thereupon lay in wait for Jude, and want day accosted and cautioned him."(5) Growing older, to support himself and his studies, Jude apprentices as a stone mason. Stone Masonry requires a man who is strong physically and who as some artistic talent. (Perhaps the perfect occupation for a working class man with a bent for learning.) The robustness of his physical health and of the health of his ability to dream and imagine, are further illustrated by his later entry into Christminister--he "was now walking the remaining four miles rather from choice than necessity, having always fancied himself arriving thus."(6) The physical and spiritual aspects of Jude's life are also represented symbolically by the two main female characters of the story, his wife Arabella, and the woman he really loves, Sue Bridehead.

Sue and Arabella represent Jude's spirit and flesh. "Allegorically we can see Arabella as flesh and Sue as spirit, with Jude caught in between."(7) According to Alvarez, physical desire for Arabella leads Jude away from the things of the spirit (learning, Latin, the NewTestament): conversely, the spiritual side of Jude's relationship with Sue is threatened by her lack of sexual drive."(8) Because of his inability to balance the two aspects of his life, symbolized by the influence of these two woman, he is twice thrown off from pursuit of his proposed careers. Because of his disastrous marriage with Arabella, into which he was trapped under false circumstances, he sees his academic career derailed; and because of his enthrallment with Sue, he has his pursuit of a religious career brought to an end. Jude says, "Strange that his first aspiration--- towards academical proficiency- had been checked by a woman, and that his second aspiration--- towards apostleship--- had also been checked by a woman." 9

Sue and Arabella entwine Jude throughout his adult life. "Sue and Arabella are in fact like the white and black horses, the noble and base instincts, which drew Plato's chariot of the soul"10 The spiritual, represented by Sue, seems the dominant in Jude, or at least it is the part he tries to emphasize the most. The affinity between Jude and Sue is obvious to Sue's lawful husband, Phillotson, who says "' I have been struck," he said, "with . . . the extraordinary sympathy or, similarity, between the pair. . . . they seem to be one person split in two."(11)

Jude's love for the ephemeral , and its affect on practical matters, is foreshadowed in the scene from his childhood where he loses employment by a neighbor farmer. The neighbor has hired him to drive away the birds that come to eat the farmer's grain out of his fields. Rather than chasing them away, Jude sympathizes with them, seeing them as "gentle friends and pensioners". The farmer returns in time to hear him say, "Eat then my dear little birdies, and make good meal." After beating him, the farmer pays him off and dismisses him from service. This sets the pattern for his entire adult life. Sue herself is referred to as a little bird, and throughout the story, Jude sets aside practical concerns for the sake of his relationship with Sue.

Sensuous Arabella, first seen with the most self-indulgent of barn yard animals, the pig, wakens Jude to an awareness of sex and sexuality. Ever practical, she wants a strong man, a good provider, to look after her. She cares nothing for the ephemeral, she is only interested in meeting her needs. As a practical consideration , she traps Jude into marriage by claiming to be pregnant. She has absolutely no use for Jude's intellect or his sensitivities, and intends to dispose of his scholarly pursuits at the earliest convenience. After she wakens the earthly side of Jude's nature, Jude quickly finds his interest in higher pursuits giving way to the urgency of Arabella's sexual appeal, "Arabella soon reasserted her sway in his soul. He walked as if he felt himself to be quite another man from the Jude of yesterday. What were these books to him? what were his intentions? . . It was better to love a woman than to be a graduate, or a parson; ay, or a pope!"

Jude is unable to find a balance between his spiritual and physical needs. His sensitivities, as represented at his occasional efforts to return to his books leads him into conflict with the necessities of the flesh and practical considerations. This conflict is shown when the time comes for them to kill and butcher a pig they had raised. He kills the pig in a manner that allows it to die quickly and with less suffering; but which makes the meat worth less than it would have been had the pig bled to death slowly. The next day, he becomes livid with anger when she announces she was "mistaken' about her pregnancy, and their first marriage ends (unofficially at least) with her going to Australia with her parents. He has turned out to be less practical than she had thought. After she leaves, he acts as if he was never really in love with her at all, else he would have been more forgiving when he learned she "mistaken" about being pregnant. In the first weeks of their separation, he has many opportunities before she leaves the country to try to reconcile with her- but, he does not. Instead, he "strolled in the starlight along the too familiar road towards the upland whereon had been experienced the chief emotions of his life. It seemed to be his own again."(12)

Arabella returns again years later to wreak further havoc in Jude's life. At the time of her return, he has had a rarified, spiritual and intellectual union with Sue; but, no physical union. Sue from the first brought a different sort of rapture to Jude than that of Arabella; a knowledge of the mind, rather than of the flesh. His love for Sue begins in a purely intellectual manner. At first, he is in love with her picture, with the idea of her. Later, he goes to Christminister with dreams of what it will be like to meet her. After he finds her, he watches her and goes to the same church as she, but doesn't introduce himself until later. In the first church service he attends at the same time as she he feels the highest sense of ecstasy and oneness, just knowing they are listening to the same music.

The immediate affect of Arabella's return is that in order to hold onto Jude at all, Sue yields to him sexually. Thus the element of the flesh enters what has been an idealized relationship. Although she surrenders to his pleas for a physical union, she "isn't a woman at all, but a fey, a kind of sprite." Sue loves the idea of marriage, of the idea of her oneness with Jude. Before the return of Arabella, they have had a Platonic relationship; "she is the untouched part of him, all intellect, nerves and sensitivity, essentially bodiless."13 She is loathe to consummate this relationship physically or to solemnize it in any conventional way, and argues that a lawful wedding would be "destructive to a passion whose essence is its gratuitousness."(14)

Less immediate is the overall affect the return of Jude's fleshly aspect , in the person of the son of Jude and Arabella. Arabella had apparently left Jude and England not knowing that she really was pregnant. Her son, called "Father Time" because of his dour disposition, enters Jude and Sue's life together at its high point, and presides over the decline of their lives, ending with his suicide after killing the children of Sue and Jude "because we were too menny."(sic) (15) During the years Jude's son is with them, at Aldbrickham and afterward, they 'have returned to Greek joyousness, and have blinded ourselves to sickness and sorrow." (16) Before his son's arrival, Jude's livelihood has consisted mostly of stone work on the churches in the town. Father Time's appearance with Jude and Sue, and their failure to abide by convention, makes Jude and Sue's relationship notorious in the town of Aldbrickham. Their notoriety grows because they have never married in the eyes of English religious and governmental officialdom. Though they actually start down the aisle from time to time, Sue always backs out and Jude always agrees with her reasons. "The unnoticed lives that the pair had hitherto led began, from the day of the suspended wedding onwards, to be observed and discussed by persons other than Arabella." (17) Eventually, their unconventional union alienates the conventional people around them to the point where no decent person will have anything to do with them- or give Jude work. "From that week, Jude and Sue walked no more in the town of Aldbrickham."(18) They travel from town to town for years, until at Kennetbridge, Jude's health breaks down and he resorts to baking cakes shaped like landmark buildings of Christminister to earn enough to live on.

Even after so many years, "Christminister is a sort of fixed vision with him."(19) And he decides to return there. At last, with Father Time and their own two children in tow, Jude and Sue return to Christminister on its busiest day, Remembrance Day, or as Jude puts it, "humiliation day for me."(20) The pull of the old dreams, of the old colleges, proves irresistible to Jude. Rather than securing lodgings, he stands, with his wife and children in the rain, to watch the graduates march by, . He pauses to deliver a final harangue, or homily, or eulogy, describing for the gathered crowd how he has not met the goals he set for himself so long ago. He lingers outside after the graduates have passed into the church, to catch a snatch of Latin during the service. Postponing practical considerations in order to ruminate over lost opportunities proves to be a catastrophic mistake, because by the time they set out to find lodgings, it is too late too find a place that will accept the whole family, and Jude seeks lodgings apart from the family. This upsets Father Time to the deepest level of despondency. He believes he and the other children are to blame for Jude having to look else where for a place to stay; and, he is mortified to learn that Sue is going to have another child. The next morning, Sue leaves the children alone to have breakfast with Jude and make plans for the day. When Sue and Jude return to the children, they find them dead, Father Time having hung the smaller children and then himself. The deaths of the children cause the final collapse of Jude's world.

Jude's love for Sue remains undaunted by this tragedy, and he is able to go on despite their loss. The erstwhile logical and passionless Sue, on the other hand, seems devastated. Jude tells a friend, "bitter affliction came to us, and her intellect broke, and she veered round to darkness."(21) Despite all previous professions of the rightness of her relationship with Jude, she now claims to believe that the deaths of the children are some form of divine retribution for the life Jude and Sue have had together, instead of the lives they'd have had with their former spouses. She goes so far as to embrace the conventional view that she is still married to her divorced husband and that Jude is really still married to Arabella. This final abandonment of reason for hysteria in the name of convention is a blow from which Jude can not recover. Rejected by Sue, he is again deceived by Arabella into a drunken marriage, and suffers a further physical breakdown.

After his remarriage to Arabella, Jude remains in Christminister, surrounded by the city of his dreams. Despite severe physical illness and debilitation, Jude's love for Sue remains undaunted. He still loves her and believes that their marriage, the union of their spirits, remains a true marriage despite their legal remarriages to people they detest. He describes his remarriage to Arabella as, "immoral, degrading, unnatural."(22) For Jude, conventional marriage, by the letter of the law, is "acting by the letter, and ' the letter killeth'".23 He makes a final plea for Sue to leave with him, saying, "--you call yourself Phillotson's wife. . . . You are mine.. . . Let us shake off our mistakes and run away together."(24) In his heart, he believes a true marriage is one between the two participants inwhich they know with every fiber of their beings that they are one. He insists to Sue afterher return to Phillotson that whatever the marriage documents say, they are man and wife. He has gone to her through a pouring rain to plead his case before her, knowing that if she spurns him, the exertions of the trip through the rain, to and from Marygreen , will kill him. His final appeal to reason, goes unheeded. He returns through the rain and the cold to Arabella.

Throughout the novel, the characters views of marriage remain fairly constant. Sue sees marriage as a prison or punishment. She likens it to crucifixion and mutilation. Arabella sees marriage as a means to an end, a contract to ease one through the business of living. Arabella is "the Flesh . . . merciless calculation as to what will be profitable to herself" (25)

Jude held two contrary views of marriage at once- as his heart told him marriage should be and as he found it was with Arabella-- an inconvenience at best and a trap at worst. Though in Jude's hopes he views marriage as an exalted state, where spirit and flesh are met and two souls become one, he finds himself frustrated in seeking this union by his inability to balance spirit and flesh. Throughout the novel, he is "tossed like a puppet between the two women- one ready to gratify him whenever they meet, the other holding him on the tip toe of expectation."(26)

Jude is intoxicated before both of his marriages to Arabella. Before the first marriage, he is intoxicated by the urgency of his sexual longing for her; in the second marriage she has gotten him drunk on despair and alcohol, to cloud his reason and trick him again into a sham of a marriage. The only hint of legitimacy in either marriage is that they were presided over by duly appointed representatives of conventional society.

Because each of Jude's choices have led him to infamy, loss, and finally death, it would seem he is totally unaware of the practical aspects of life. His perception of marriage, that the letter killeth, is contrary to the conventional views of the people of the city of Aldbrickham and of the University city of Christminister, and call into question his ability to reason. Seemingly, only a fool would alienate everyone in every town he travels, knocking from pillar to post on a matter of principle. As a matter of principle he and Sue have gone years without marrying, having two children along the way. As a matter of principle, everyone who suspects their fornication refuses to give Judea work. However, Jude is not a fool. A fool could not exhibit his artistic talents, as indicated by his attempted profession and shown to be at full power at Kennetbridge, where he and Sue make a living selling their Christminister cakes. His intellect was and is still powerful.

Intellectually, he is not far removed from where he was when he and Arabella killed their pig, so many years before. After their remarriage, Arabella says to Jude, "you are as bad as when we were first married."(27) While he bungles killing the pig in a profitable manner, it was not for lack of dexterity or because of stupidity. He places the knife exactly where he wants it, so that the poor animal can die quickly and painlessly. Nor would a person of less than average sensitivity have looked on the pig's blood as "a dismal, sordid, ugly spectacle."(28) He would simply not have possessed the imagination to see such a spectacle or to see any other existence but to remain as a slave to Arabella's sexual allure.

A man of average intelligence would have appreciated Arabella's practical side. Everything she does is planned, from catching Jude, to keeping and leaving Jude to finally preparing for Jude's death by setting her sights on Vilbert. Such a man may have felt for the pig about to be butchered, but would not have let these feelings interfere with the business of killing the animal in a way that would bring the greatest profit, and without spilling the blood on the ground that could have been used to make blackpot. Nor would the average man have sacrificed a normal sexual relationship (or perhaps above normal) for a rarified existence with the spritely Sue. Yet Jude is patently impractical.

Only a genius could see life as Jude sees it and be so enthralled with principle and a highly intellectual existence, at the expense of everything he has, including, ultimately his life. His final thwarted, attempt at spiritual union wrecks his already precarious health and leads to his death. Intellectually, he is far beyond the conventional wisdom of Kennetbridge and Christminister and has no place in the social setting of his day. Jude predicts that their unconventional sort of marriage, though shockingly at the time the novel was written, would eventually be commonplace, saying, "Our ideas were fifty years too soon to be any good to us. …

And so the resistance they met with brought reaction in her, and recklessness and ruin on me!"(29) Jude sees that there is no place for him and his views in conventional England. He quotes Job, not only cursing the day he was born, but looking forward to the place where" ' the prisoners rest together; they hear not the voice of the oppressor. . . .The small and the great are there; and the servant is free from his master."(30) He then dies, seemingly to the cheers of the Christminister Remembrance Day crowds. 

Works cited

1.Oliphant, Margaret. from Blackwood's Magazine. Jude the Obscure, A Norton Critical Edition. Edited by Norman Page. W. W. Norton & Company. 1978. pg. 382

2. Hardy, Thomas. Jude the Obscure, Signet ClassicNew American Library. New York. pg. 14

3.IBID. pg.16.

4.IBID pg 17

5. Hardy, Thomas. Jude the Obscure. Signet Classic. pg.37.

6. IBID. pg. 80.

7. Butler, Lance St. John. Thomas Hardy. Cambridge University Press. 1978. New York. pg.121.

8. IBID

9.Hardy,Thomas. Jude the Obscure. Signet Classic. pg. 215.

10. Alvarez, A. The Poetic Power of Jude the Obscure. Jude the Obscure, A Norton Critical Edition. Edited by Norman Page. W. W. Norton & Company. 1978. pg. 421.

11.IBID. pg. 416.

12.Jude the Obscure", Thomas Hardy, Signet Classics pg. 77

13. Alvarez, A. "The Poetic Power of Jude the Obscure". Jude the Obscure, A Norton Critical Edition. Edited by Norman Page. W. W. Norton & Company. 1978. pg.417.

14. Hardy,Thomas. Jude the Obscure. signet classic. pg. 268.

15. IBID. 331. 16. IBID. 293

17. Hardy, Thomas. Jude the Obscure. signet classics. pg. 293.

18. IBID. 364.

19. IBID. pg. 308

20. IBID. pg. 318

21.Hardy, Thomas. Jude the Obscure. Signet Classics. pg. 394.

22.IBID. pg383.

23. IBID.

24. Hardy, Thomas. Jude the Obscure. Signet Classics. pp.384-385

25.Oliphant, Margaret. from Blackwood's Magazine. Jude the Obscure, A Norton Critical Edition. Edited by Norman Page. W. W. Norton & Company. 1978. pg.383.

26. IBID, pg 382

27. Hardy, Thomas. Jude the Obscure. Signet classics. pg.394.

28. IBID. pg.69 29.Hardy, Thomas. Jude the Obscure. Signet Classic pg. 395.

30. IBID. pg. 398.

Alvarez , A. "The Poetic Power of Jude the Obscure". Jude the Obscure, A Norton Critical Edition. Edited by Norman Page. W. W. Norton & Company. 1978. pp.416, 417, 421,

Butler, Lance St. John. Thomas Hardy. Cambridge University Press. New York. 1978. pg.121

Hardy, Thomas. Jude the Obscure, Signet Classic. New American Library. New York. pp. 14, 16, 17, 37, 69, 77, 80, 215, 268, 293, 308, 318, 364, 383, 394-385, 394, 395, 398

Oliphant, Margaret. from Blackwood's Magazine. Jude the Obscure, A Norton Critical Edition. Edited by Norman Page. W. W. Norton & Company. 1978. pp.382, 383

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[tmariea]

Blind Date, ch 3

So you know how I keep saying that I don’t have more plans to write for this? Well, here we are…

At this point, we’ve rather devolved from the original prompt, and have crossed into the territory of just having fun with this AU. (Now including ‘meet the friends’ and Mikleo being a little too good at playing pool) Pardon my indulgence.

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Midterms week was over, finally.  It had been a dark few days for Sorey, between finishing up the last bits of his catching up, and preparing for the tests.  On the upside, all of the scrambling he had done meant that he was on track in all of his classes, and he now deserved at least part of the weekend off.  This decision had coincided with a text from Mikleo that morning about a documentary he had gotten his hands on about the restoration work done on the Pendrago Shrinechurch a few years back.  Which was perfect, because all of the little flutters he got at the idea of seeing him again hadn’t worn off.

They had shared two more dinners together since the ice cream date, one in the cafeteria – which was practical amidst the exam-time scramble, but the food unimpressive – and one which Mikleo had cooked for them in the communal kitchen of the his dorm.  That one was much more impressive, for all that it had been entirely vegetarian, and Sorey had wound up eating with the kind of dreamy look on his face that he doubted Mikleo would ever stop teasing him about.  And, maybe now that he was out of the kind of academic overload where he had to hole up like a hermit in order to get everything done, they could start studying together.  That might be… mildly distracting, but nice.

But for now, a relaxing afternoon spent obsessing over the Shrinechurch sounded perfect.  Since Mikleo was providing the documentary, and had offered up his dorm room for the watching, Sorey had taken it on himself to get the snacks while he waited for the last class of the day to finish.  He didn’t have to wait long outside the Marlind Humanities Hall, bag of sundry chips and candies in hand, before the crowds started to pile out.

One of the unexpected perks about Mikleo, Sorey had discovered, was he was always easy to pick out in a crowd due to his hair.  As such, he saw Mikleo before Mikleo saw him.  He called his name, and then grabbed his wrist to draw away from the crowds once he had his attention.

“Sorey,” he said, surprised and half-muffled as he was brought in for a hug.

“It’s good to see you!”

Once they broke apart, Mikleo’s eyes widened just a hair, and color began to run into his cheeks.  “Hi.  It’s good to see you, too.”  He gestured for the two of them to start walking.

Sorey fell in beside him, and snuck another glance at his face.  It was still red, and Mikleo’s eyes snapped over to meet his for a second, before skittering off.  “Is something the matter?” He asked.

“I just… I didn’t know you wore glasses.”

“Oh, yeah,” Sorey said and adjusted the chunky orange frames perched on his nose, “I’m like half-blind, but only in one eye.  I thought a monocle would be awesome, but Gramps wouldn’t let me.  At any rate, I usually only wear them for class or studying, but I didn’t want to miss any details in the documentary.”

Mikleo made a noise of acknowledgement, before he said, “they suit you.”  He spoke in such a casual tone, despite being the one flustered only a moment before, that it made Sorey’s cheeks run red to match.

In search of a distraction, Sorey reached into his bag of snacks and pulled out the first thing he grabbed.  It was a bag of gummy boars, labeled with a picture of a little, cartoon-ish prickly boar, in case anyone happened to be confused about the contents.  “Do you want a gummy boar?  They’re that organic brand, so no gelatin.  I checked,” he explained before Mikleo had the chance to ask.

“You didn’t have to get those.  They’re twice the price of the regular ones.”

“I got all of this stuff for us to eat, though.  It would be no fun if we couldn’t share.”

Mikleo huffed and accepted his defeat, a small smile at the corners of his mouth.  “Sure, I’ll take one.”

Sorey turned his attention to opening the package.  This was considerably more difficult than he had anticipated, given his other hand was still full with the rest of the snacks.  Mikleo watched his struggle, amused, for a moment, before snatching the bag away with quick fingers.  He popped it open and grabbed a few gummies.  Sorey expected him to offer the bag back, but instead, he crossed one arm over his body so that it was just out of easy reach.

“Do you think you’ve got it, or should I feed them to you?”

Sorey nearly choked on air, as his brain turned up an image of Mikleo holding up a gummy boar for him to take with his lips, and threatened to rattle off the first response that came to mind, which was a hearty, ‘yes, please!’  He shook his head to clear it, and as a response.  “I’m alright.”

“Hmm, if you insist,” Mikleo said, and offered the gummies back.  Once Sorey took a few, he held up one of his own so he was looking at its little candy face, complete with tiny tusks and all.  “You know, there’s still a part of me that says I should be conflicted about this.”  He shrugged, and then bit the head off.

Sorey winced.  “Harsh.”

“It’s just candy, Mr. ‘I love barbeque meat.’  Besides, they taste too good for me to care too much.”

The two of them paused in their decimation of the gummy boar population for Mikleo to unlock the door of his dorm building, and then make their way up the two flights of stairs to his room.  Once he opened the door, he stood back with a dramatized sweeping gesture, as if to welcome Sorey to his domain.  It was a single room, which translated to ‘size of a broom closet.’  But, it was also meticulously neat, in the sort of way that suggested it was always like this, not just cleaned up for company.  Certainly, those five steps from the door to the bed to the desk seemed a lot bigger in the absence of clothes on the floor, or other miscellaneous college student clutter.

“You can just put your stuff on the desk chair.  There’s not much room anywhere else,” Mikleo told him, as he placed his own backpack in the small space between the desk and the wall, and then grabbed up his laptop.  He plopped himself on the bed with his back to the wall and feet hanging off the side, and then patted the spot next to him.  Sorey decided it wasn’t worth thinking about too much as he climbed on to join him; after all, where else were two people expected to sit in this space?

There was a small kerfuffle about where was the best place to locate the laptop so that they could both sit comfortably and not tip it onto the floor.  The end result was the two of them pressed close from ankle to shoulders, with the laptop balanced on their knees and one of Sorey’s arms tucked around the small of Mikleo’s back, so that he could work the mouse without bumping elbows.  It sounded a little like an excuse, especially since Mikleo was left-handed, but he was not going to be the one to bring it up.  Also, his whole arm was going to fall asleep in that position, but if that was the price to feel the warmth and curve of Mikleo’s waist, well, so be it.

They made it halfway through the documentary – an impressive feat given the fact that both of them were prone to pausing it every once in a while for exclamation or debate – when there was a knock on the door.  Mikleo paused the movie, and listened with a perplexed expression, as if waiting to make sure he had heard correctly.  He had just shrugged and pressed play again when there was a second knock.

“Sorry, looks like I’ll have to get this,” he said.  He stood and placed the laptop in his vacated seat before crossing to the door.  Sorey found himself missing the warmth and proximity right away.

The person on the other side was a girl with red hair and a smile that said she found life in general to be great fun.  It took a moment for Sorey to place where he recognized her from, before he realized that she was the other girl who had been working the counter at the ice cream shop on the day of their date.

“Hey, Mikleo!  I thought you would be here,” she said, with a cheery wave.

“Rose, hi.  Was there something you needed?  I actually have Sorey over…” he trailed off as the girl, Rose, began craning around his shoulder to get a glimpse into the room.

“Well, are you going to introduce us and let me in, or will you leave me standing here on your cold, hard doorstep?”

“The building is perfectly well heated, and I don’t have a doorstep,” Mikleo protested, but with an air of defeat.  He pushed the door open wider and stepped to the side.  “Rose, this is Sorey.  Sorey, Rose.”

Rose made her way over to the bed, and held out a hand to shake.  “Nice to meet’cha!”

Sorey took it, and said, “Nice to meet you, too.  Although I think we sort of met before at the ice cream shop.”

“Oh, yeah, I work there part time too.  Ice cream isn’t my thing quite as much as Mikleo’s, but I’m in the business program, so I know better than to pass up an opportunity like a friend getting you a job.  Sorry I didn’t say hi then, but the two of you were just too much fun to watch.”

Then, without warning, Rose leaned in close with an evaluating look on her face.  Given her height, she had to prop one knee on the bed in order to really get into his space.  Sorey found himself wishing that he wasn’t already sitting against a wall, because she was a bit intimidating and he would like the option to back away from that.  “So you are the guy, then,” she said, without ever turning away from her intent scrutinizing, “the one who just waltzed into a restaurant, and proceeded to have a fake date with Mik, which then turned into sort of an actual date?”

“Yes, that would be him,” Mikleo replied, when it seemed that Sorey was having trouble coming up with what to say.

“Good man.  That takes a lot of guts.  I like you,” she declared, before she patted Sorey’s cheek twice, and then backed off to a normal distance.

Sorey blinked for a second, not quite certain what had just happened there.  But Gramps had always drilled him in manners, so he managed to say a shaky, “Thank you.”

“No problem!  Now, Edna and Lailah and I are going to play pool in the student lounge.  Do you want the chance to come and whip our butts, or are you two lovebirds going to stay here and make goo goo eyes at some archaeology documentary?”

“Wait, Edna and Lailah actually agreed to invite me?”  Mikleo asked.

“What they don’t know won’t hurt them.”

“Given the fact that we will show up there, they’re going to find out.”

“Eh, they’ll get over it.  So, what do you say?”

Mikleo looked back at Sorey for confirmation.  It was a look that said that he would be fine with sitting around with the archaeology documentaries if he didn’t feel up to meeting more of his crazy friends.

“I’m up for it,” Sorey said with a shrug, and moved to climb off of the bed.

“Perfect,” Rose said, and marched out of the room, expecting the two boys to trail after her.

When Mikleo paused to lock his door behind them, Sorey leaned down and whispered, “Why would some of your friends not want to invite you to play pool.”

Mikleo turned back around, and there was mischief in his eyes.  It was a look Sorey had now seen a few times, and there was no way around the fact that he liked it.  A lot.  “They just don’t like to lose.”

“Confident, aren’t we?” he asked, pushing past the butterflies in his stomach.

“None of them have been able to win against me yet.”

“Impressive.  Are you, like, a competitive pool player or something?”

“No, but he totally should be.  Or hustle or something,” Rose said as they caught up with where she’d been waiting for them at the stairs.  “He’d make a killing.”

She took the lead while Sorey and Mikleo continued walking side by side as they exited the building.  Sorey had a brief moment of anxiety over whether or not they should hold hands.  They had shared a few kisses by now, after all.  However, he ultimately decided against it; he didn’t have a good enough grasp yet on how Mikleo felt about public displays of affection.  It would have to be a question to ask some time later.

Mikleo, unaware of Sorey’s internal debate, rolled his eyes and crossed his arms.  “I’m not going to scam money out of poor innocent people.”

“I definitely recall you scamming candy off of us more than once,” Rose accused.

“The first time was not my fault.  You insisted on making bets.  And really, it’s not my fault either that you didn’t learn after that.”

“So, what about you, Sorey?” She asked, directing the conversation away from her own gullibility.  “How are you at pool?”

He had to take a moment to try to even remember the last time he played pool.  “It’s been a while.  I don’t think I was terrible, though.”

“Oh good, so you’re on par with the rest of us then.”

They walked into the student lounge, and Rose scanned the room before making her way over to two girls sitting at a tall table next to a pool table.  A tray with balls and two pool cues were already laid out on top.

“Rose,” whined the taller of the two girls, who wore a red and white dress and had incredibly long hair in a ponytail.  “I was hoping to try to win today.”

“Don’t whine at me, Lailah, it’s not nice in front of company.”

At this point, the girls seemed to notice Sorey.  Lailah sprung up from the table and made her way over with a bounce in her step.  She stuck out a hand to shake, and for all that she looked somewhat delicate, her grip was firm.  “I’m Lailah, and am I correct in thinking you’re the Sorey we’ve been hearing about?” She waited for his nod of confirmation.  “I was starting to wonder if Mikleo was just going to keep you all to himself.  Very nice to meet you!”

Sorey smiled, finding Lailah’s grin infectious.  “Nice to meet you too.”

At this point, the other girl, who had shoulder-length blonde hair and a white dress, stood up from the table.  Now that she was standing, the height difference between her and Lailah was impressive.  Sorey expected her to introduce herself as well, but instead she turned to Mikleo and poked at his shin with an umbrella that he hadn’t noticed she was holding.  “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”

“Not when you’re perfectly capable of introducing yourself.”

“It’s the gentlemanly thing to do.”

Mikleo sighed in a way that said this was not the first time they had this conversation.  His tone when he spoke said that he wasn’t too annoyed with her, though.  “Sorey, this is Edna.”

She gave a satisfied nod, and switched her umbrella to the other hand so that she could give a handshake as well.  For the second time that day, Sorey found himself under the impression that he was being inspected.  “Sorey, huh?”

It seemed like there was more of that thought to come, but before she could say anything, Mikleo cut her off.  “So, you know how you owe me one?”  He pinned her under an intense stare.  Frankly, it was a bit scary, but she was not phased.

“Of course.  I gave my word, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did.  I am calling in that favor now.  I don’t want you making up any strange nicknames for Sorey, or for the two of us.”

Edna looked affronted.  “Why, I would never do something like that!  It’s just not dignified, or ladylike.  Right Meebo?”  By the time she finished speaking, her grin had shifted to something that could only be described as ‘shit-eating.’

Mikleo groaned and hid his face in his hands.

“You know, why didn’t you just ask her to stop calling you that?” Rose piped up.

“Because I know she’d never go for it,” he said, voice still muffled by his hand.  “Better to cut her off before she starts.”

“Truly, I wouldn’t.  Meebo just rolls off the tongue so nicely.  Besides, even if I did, a Meebo by any other name is still a Meebo.”

“Don’t mangle idioms like that.  What did they ever do to you?”

“More than you’ll ever know, Meebo.  More than you’ll ever know.”

“Alright!” Lailah stepped into the conversation with a little clap of her hands.  “We’ve only got two pool cues, so we’ll have to do teams, and pass off.  Now, how do we want to split up?”

“I think maybe Meebo and Sorey should face off first, one-on-one.  Get the chance to size each other up.”  From the way Mikleo was glaring at her, Sorey got the feeling that Edna was implying a few things beyond pool.

However, he was willing to give her statement the benefit of the doubt.  “Alright, sounds like fun.”

“Sorey, are you sure,” Lailah asked hesitantly.

“If the man wants to do it, let him do it.  It will be fine,” Rose said with a flip of her hand, as if she could physically brush off Lailah’s concerns.  “Besides, you never know.  What if he’s a protégé?  He might even be the pool-playing hero we have been waiting for.”

“I just doing think it’s nice of us to throw him out there on his own like that.”

“You know what, how about we have a bet?  Three cookies says he can unseat our reigning champ, here.”

Cookies must have been the magic word, because suddenly Lailah stood straighter and put her hands together in a little clap.  “Yes, they should totally play each other.”

“Now that’s the spirit!”

Sorey had been too busy watching their exchange to notice that Mikleo had sidled up close to him.  He nearly jumped when he said in his ear, “Sorry about them.”

He reached up to fiddle with one earring and gave a small laugh.  As they looked on, Edna was just throwing in her own cookie bets, on Mikleo beating him without Sorey ever scoring a single shot.  Wagers made, the girls retreated to the tall chairs around the table to watch the spectacle unfold.  “I suppose it’s a bit weird to watch them betting on me like that, but everyone looks like they’re having fun.”

“Are you sure you want to do this, then?  I’m not going to go easy on you,” Mikleo said with confidence, and he was wearing that mischievous, competitive smile again.  Which really, he shouldn’t do, because cheating isn’t fair.  How was Sorey supposed to concentrate like that?

Although, his own competitive side was more than willing to rear its head.  “Oh, there is no way I’m backing out of a challenge that easily.  Are you scared?” he said, completely ignoring the fact that he only vaguely knew what he was supposed to be doing.

This time, Mikleo swung around to face him and jabbed one finger at his chest.  “It is so on.  Are you ready to get your ass handed to you on a silver platter?”

“Not if I kick yours first.’

“Would you like to break, then?  I’m sure you’ll need every advantage you can get.”

Sorey swiped up a pool cue and stalked over to the table, but he was smiling the whole time.  He honestly didn’t care so much who won; the banter was fun enough.  The group fell silent as he leaned over the table and lined up his cue with the cue ball.  Resting the cue across the fingers of his left hand did feel somewhat awkward.  It was a good reminder of his inexperience.  He brushed it off with a reassurance that it couldn’t be all that hard, and he had a big target; it would probably take more skill to miss the cluster of balls than to hit it.

With that thought, he jabbed the cue forward into the ball.  It ran into the rest with a satisfying clatter, and sent them darting around the table.  One even dropped into a pocket.  Sorey whooped and swung around to face Mikleo again.  “Ha!  Would you look at that.”

Rose joined in the exclamations, as Edna grumbled.  “I’m doubling down,” she told Lailah.  “Three more cookies.”

“Very nice,” Mikleo said, with only a touch of sarcasm, and crossed his arms in front of his chest.  His confidence did not seem to waver.  “Looks like you’re solids.  Although, are you sure it wasn’t just beginners luck?”

Sorey scoffed.  “No way.”  Then he turned back to the table.  ‘Yes way,’ his brain immediately supplied for him.  Now that there wasn’t one, big, concentrated target, his confidence was dropping fast.  He paced around the table with a hand on his chin, sizing up his options.  Nothing looked all that good to him, but he eventually decided on the three ball, what was at least close to a corner pocket, if a bit off-center.  He lined up his cue again, which was much harder than the first time since he had to stand at a slight angle to the pool table, and lean further over to get at the cue ball.  This time, when he tapped it, it rolled forward at an angle.  Thankfully, it hit the intended ball, but to the side, which sent it skittering against the edge of the pocket and back out onto the table, where it came to a stop snugly against the side.

There was an amused noise behind him, and Sorey fought the urge to stick out his tongue at Mikleo.  He wasn’t eight anymore.

However, he was much less able to ignore the urge to watch appreciatively as Mikleo made his way over to the table in a way which could only be described as a ‘saunter.’  Once there, he didn’t take long to look over his options before he lined up his shot and hit the twelve off of the side of the table and into the middle pocket.  He backed up with a satisfied look on his face and brought his cue down to rest on the top of his shoe.  “Your turn.”

Sorey promptly forgot all of the reasons why he should be annoyed with Mikleo for being so smug.  The whole process was so quick, and accurate.  “Wow, that was awesome!  And don’t you get another shot for scoring?”

“Nah, I play with handicaps.  It’s only fair.”

“Alright then,” Sorey said, and approached the table again.  It became apparent rapidly that things were not going well for him.  He scratched twice, sent the cue ball off of the table once, and even scored a point for Mikleo.  That one was at least a ball in a pocket, so he was considering it a small victory.  All throughout, Mikleo put a ball away on each of his turns, looking calm, professional, and maybe just a bit too attractive as he leaned over to eye up his shots.  By the time he sank the eight ball without Sorey ever scoring another point, he wondered if perhaps he should have just let Mikleo keep going and win right away.  You wouldn’t have been able to ogle him, though, his brain helpfully supplied.

“That’s that,” Mikleo proclaimed, and made his way back over to where Sorey had been leaning against the table next to the girls.  “Do I get a prize?”

He looked so adorable staring up the small height difference between them, eyes alight with enjoyment and pride, that Sorey promptly forgot anything which could have been a reasonable prize.  It didn’t help that behind him, he could hear Lailah say a quiet, “oh my.”

He blushed, and searched his brain for an idea.  “Um, I’ll give you the rest of the gummy boars?”

Mikleo blinked twice before his mouth curved into a smile.  “That’s not what I was expecting, but it sounds like an excellent prize.  And then, this is for you, for being a good sport.  I’m kind of an insufferable player.”  He leaned up to kiss Sorey on the cheek, much like after that first, sort-of-fake date.  Well, that answered his questions about PDA.

“Ah, oh, thanks,” Sorey stammered.  “Now I’m feeling like gummy boars aren’t a very good prize.”

“I think it’s cute, don’t worry.”  He paused for a second, and then commented, “Don’t you three have bets to settle?”

Sorey turned his head to the side so he could see the rest of the group, and found himself meeting three intent stares.  He took a step to the left and away from Lailah, who had leaned uncomfortably close.  She didn’t seem to mind though, because as soon as Mikleo spoke, she rounded on the other two, and said, “Cough up, ladies!”

Edna and Rose groaned, and began fishing for their student ID cards so that she could buy her treats from the campus convenience store.  For Rose, this entailed reaching into her pocket.  Edna popped open her umbrella, which confused Sorey to no end, until she opened a small pocket sewn on the inside to pull out her own card.  Who in the world had a pocket for cards on the inside of an umbrella?

“Alright, six cookies with mine, three from Edna’s,” Rose warned, “No more.  I will know.  After last time, I was sure to check my balance before coming today.”

“Sure, sure,” Lailah reassured, snatching up the offered cards.  With the same breath, she turned back to Mikleo and Sorey, and said, “Anything for you two?  Their treat.”  She laughed as she bounced up out of her chair, narrowly avoiding a jab from Edna’s umbrella, and making her way toward the door.  “I’m kidding!  I’ll be right back.”

“So,” Mikleo began once Lailah was gone, “it seems like you had a good handle on how much power you need behind each shot, but your aim is abysmal.  Would you like me to show you?”

“Oh, that would be great!  Thank you.”  Sorey picked up one of the cues and rubbed more chalk on the tip while Mikleo made his way to the table and started pulling balls from the pockets.

“Rose, Edna, come play against us?”

“Nuh uh, Meebo.  You’re going to win, and then you won’t let me forget it for a week.”

“Oh come on, you won’t really be playing me.  Besides, some proper motivation will do Sorey good.”

Rose gave a long-suffering sigh and stood from her chair.  “I think we’ll live.  Let’s go, Edna.”

Edna ended up breaking.  Both girls asserted that while they weren’t directly playing Mikleo, it was close enough to grant them that small mercy.  It was a good break, but not one that sunk any balls, which left Sorey his pick of the field.  Or Mikleo, really, who circled the table with a hand on his chin.

“How about we start with something fun?” he said, and gestured for Sorey to join him.  He was staring down the seven ball, which was not remotely lined up with any pockets.  “Boost your confidence a little.”

Rose scoffed from where she was waiting for her turn off to the side.  “More like show off in front of your boyfriend.”

Sorey could feel the heat in his cheeks, and a quick glance at Mikleo confirmed that he was blushing too.  They hadn’t had any official conversations about what to call themselves, but Sorey didn’t particularly want to refute that statement.  Mikleo stayed silent on the matter as well.  Did that mean that he considered them boyfriends?  They would have to talk about it at some point, but just the implications made Sorey feel a little giddy.

It must have shown on his face, because a moment later, Edna scoffed and said, “Oh gross.  Now look what you’ve done, Rose.”

Mikleo cleared his throat loudly, bringing attention back to the game rather than their relationship.  It satisfied Sorey to see that he was still a little red, and the inklings of a sweet smile were still hanging around the corners of his lips.  “So, this seven ball.  We’re going to put it in the bottom right corner pocket.”

“No way, I can never make that shot.  It would have to bounce off of the edge of the table and back!”

“Exactly.  Now that part’s not too hard.  It’s all geometry.  All that stuff you thought you’d never need to know about how an object bouncing off of a flat plane refracts at the same angle it hit.  Now, line up your cue with the cue ball, and I’ll help from there.”

It did sound slightly less intimidating when Mikleo put it in math terms.  Math he understood.  Better than he understood pool, at least.  With that in mind, he bent down to sight along the pool cue, trying to imagine the angle he’d need to send the ball into the correct pocket.  He felt more than he saw Mikleo come to stand next to him, and then a hand came to rest over his own.  It was a shade lighter and just a bit smaller than his own, although Mikleo’s fingers were almost long enough to make up for the size difference.  He reminded himself that he was supposed to be playing pool, not admiring how their hands looked together.  They looked good, though.

A whistle from off to the side brought him back to himself.  That’s right, the others were expecting that he would make a decent shot.  He sighted down the cue again, so that he could watch as Mikleo minutely adjusted the positioning.

“This is a bit harder from the right, but I think that should do it,” he finally said, his breath warm across Sorey’s ear.  “I’ll leave the rest up to you.  Although, don’t forget to follow through.  Follow through is very important.”

Sorey fought the urge to roll his eyes at the statement he’d heard from just about every gym teacher throughout his academic career, but he filed away the information anyway.  He took a deep breath, and jabbed the cue forward.  The cue ball rolled across the table and hit the seven with a clack, and sent it against the far side of the table.  It ricocheted at just the right angle, and with just enough speed to bring it rolling up to the edge of the assigned pocket, and then over the edge.

Sorey straightened up, the tension he hadn’t realized had been pulling across his shoulders draining away in the name of excitement.  “We did it, we did it!  Yes!” He exclaimed, and swept Mikleo up and twirled them about in a circle, completely forgetting about the pool cue still in his hand.

“Watch out, you’re going to hurt someone with that.  Although yes, you did.  It was a good shot.”

“No, we did.  I seriously couldn’t have pulled off something like that without you.”  Sorey’s heart was still pounding with a mix of excitement, pride, and Mikleo’s proximity.  This was the kind of feeling that usually led him to do things that got him called cheesy, and this time was no exception.  He leaned forward to press their foreheads together while leaving his arms wrapped around Mikleo’s waist.  He knew he was wearing one of his goofier grins, and there was definitely a small laugh bubbling up from his chest.  And Mikleo looked proud of the both of them and amused at his antics, rather than uncomfortable with the situation.

That is, he did until there was another whistle.  Then Mikleo was turning red, and pulling away lightly in favor of turning to glare at both Rose and Edna.  This was the necessary impetus for Sorey to put together the fact that maybe the whistle from before hadn’t been in encouragement, but maybe more because of the position they had been in.  Oh man, that could have looked really suggestive out of context.  And now he was blushing to match.

It was at this point Lailah returned, arms laden down with nine cookies in all different types.  She took one look at the group, and raised a free hand to cover her mouth, as if to prevent the small laughs bubbling up from escaping.  The other girls joined in, and before long Sorey found himself laughing along as well.  It was too infectious to ignore the urge.

It was a few minutes before everyone calmed down enough to resume the game, while Lailah plopped down at the table to watch and eat her snacks.  Sorey was slightly worried about her ability to consume nine cookies without making herself sick.  However, when he expressed this concern, she informed him very sweetly that she was more than capable, and that there would be consequences if he tried to steal any.

For the rest of the two-on-two match, Mikleo was restricted to only helping Sorey every other turn.  That evened things out decently well, but they still won in the end.  After that, he was relegated to the table for the next few matches while Lailah and Sorey played Edna and Rose, and then began the one-on-one matches.  Everyone seemed to want an individual match with Sorey, to see where he would fall in their skill lineup.  Whenever he wasn’t being challenged, he would join Mikleo at the tall table and trace patterns on the back of his hand while they made commentary.  At some point, Edna disappeared without a word and returned with an extra large cheese pizza, which looked almost bigger than her; it was met with much enthusiasm, but did not bring a halt to the play.  Eventually, they even had a four-on-one match, with everyone against Mikleo; it nearly worked, but he still beat them to the eight ball.

Rose was the one to break up the gathering at nearly 8:30 because she and some of her business program buddies were going out for drinks.  She made the offer to the rest of the group to join, but Edna cut in immediately with, “After last time?  No way.”

Sorey leaned close to Mikleo so he could whisper, “What happened last time?”

“Some guy hit on her.  She didn’t like that.”

“What did she do?”

“She hit back.  Physically.  With the umbrella.”

Sorey winced.  While Mikleo’s friends did seem like they would be a fun group to drink with, he didn’t fancy being anywhere near Edna when she got violent.  Plus, he still felt a little run down from midterms week.  “As entertaining as that sounds, I might have to pass for this evening.  Thank you for the offer, though,” he added politely.

“I’m feeling the same,” Mikleo said, and stood from his seat “We’ll see all of you later.”  He looked back at Sorey, who stood as well.  There were no questions in his mind that they would be leaving together.

“It was nice to meet everyone!”  He waved goodbye, and followed Mikleo as he left the lounge.

As they started to make their way back to the dorms, Mikleo asked, “Did you have a good time?” There was another question in his eyes too, and just a bit of nervousness.

“I did!  It was really fun, and all of your friends were great, too.”

Mikleo sighed with relief and his posture relaxed.  “Well, that’s good to hear.  If you didn’t like my friends, it would be a lot harder to try to keep you around.”

“You’re trying to keep me around, huh?”

“Well, yeah.  Cute, willing to let me kick his butt at pool, and an ancient history nerd?  Where else am I going to find that?”

Sorey ducked his head and fiddled with his earring, sheepish in the face of the compliment.  But there was a big smile growing across his face.  “I’d like to keep you around, too.”

“That’s settled then,” Mikleo said, and when Sorey raised his eyes to look, he was wearing a smile too.  He reached up a hand to turn Sorey’s face toward him for a quick kiss.  Then he let that same hand fall in order to twine their fingers together; it felt and looked just as good as Sorey had imagined.  “Now, if I’m not mistaken, there is still half of a documentary on the Pendrago Shrinechurch waiting for us back in my room.  What do you think?”

“Let’s go.”

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