#...because again it's just a trend that i' making a broad statement about and i don't direct it at them

[uncanny-tranny]

hi there! im the anon who isnt happy with his surgery results. i wanna thank you for everything that u said! my friends are very supportive but ive only been able to open up to three ppl about my disappointment and none of them have your level of understanding (not blaming them just stating facts) i think ive been feeling guilty over all of this, which makes it worse. like im supposed to be happy but im not. now that ive accepted it, i have to work on a way to be okay until november. thank u sm!

I'm so glad to hear from you again! It's really disappointing that there's this expectation that trans people must perform happiness for others in our transition... it isn't right or fair or realistic. I don't know what your life is like personally, but I am confident you will be able to get through this. You are stronger than you know, you are more worthy than you may realize <3

[joyfullywizard]

Hi! You have very good detailed level-headed takes about Dracula adaptations. I appreciate it. Could you tell what people often misunderstand about Dracula adaptations or get wrong?

Hi! You are welcome and thanks for nice words. As for what people misunderstand or get wrong about adaptations….well…in my opinion it's the following:

1) In many cases when people discuss adaptations, it becomes quite clear that either a person didn't actually watch that many adaptations or sometimes didn't even watch the particular adaptations this person is talking about -and that's ok not to watch every single adaptation out there, unless there is some broad generalization being made about adaptations, while the person making such generalization watched like maybe 3 adaptations tops. And it's specially bizarre to discuss and make definite statements about particular adaptations, when you haven't actually watched them. That creates some really false or outlandish claims.

2) People often miss that adaptations are not made in a vacuum and often ignore the historic and social context and circumstances and morals which existed when particular adaptations were made. Like, for example,  I saw people being “why 1931 movie Dracula is like that? Why does he look like that? Why is it set in 1930s? Why Seward is aged up to be Mina’s father? Etc.”  And the truth is….there are pretty logical plain explanations for all of that. Great Depression in US prevented movie from  having a big budget, so they couldn’t set it in period setting of XIX c. as it would have been too expensive. At the same time they had a very successful popular play adaptation of Dracula on Broadway, which opened in 1927 – the play already set the events in then-present day. Again, for simplicity of staging and costs. So they took that play as foundation for 1931 movie and set events in 1930s. Dracula’s looks in 1931 movie? Came directly from the play-cape, tuxedo, widow’s peak and all. Bela Lugosi who played Dracula in 1931 movie also played Dracula on stage in that very play. Seward being aged up and being Mina’s father? Also came directly from the play. And they aged him up and made him the father again for play for  simplicity reasons-in order to have a smaller cast of characters, streamlining the plot and all existing good characters being very easily explainable to the audience. Why do the producers latched on the adapting play more than the novel? Because at that time it was fashionable in movie industry. The number of sound pictures of the various horror and mystery variety had preceded Dracula, including such stuff  as The Terror, Stark Mad, The Cat Creeps, The Bat Whispers, and The Gorilla. Most of these were adapted from Broadway plays in which the scary stuff was intermingled with comedy and anything that appeared paranormal was always revealed as the machinations of malevolent plotting human beings. 1931 Dracula movie on the other hand was  absolutely fresh in a way that while it was also based a lot on a play, the audience got a character  who was a real  vampire and not just another crook in disguise -and that’s also one of the reasons why  1931 movie gave Dracula more screen time. Cause play did it, yes, but also because movie version was supposed to properly convince moviegoers that Dracula actually was a purely supernatural character and not just another hoax.

Same thing was happening with other Dracula adaptations – there were always particular reasons stemmed from the time period and social context and cinematic and cultural trends, which affected how this or that adaptation was made. Basically, there are always  very concrete and plain explanations why certainly choices were made, and those are never simply “that screenwriter or director just woke up one day and decided to make that particular choice in adaptation just because”. Not to mention I saw that people sometimes treat Dracula adaptation as if some form of conspiracy exists behind them, and that’s simply not true and is  explained, again by  the historic, social, cultural  trends as well as by the commercial side of the things.

[vapeman]

Unfollow me if u want but don’t call me a drake fan or say it’s “copium” he is completely dead to me and assuming otherwise only serves to trivialize the principle of critically analyzing how rumors are propagated and rejecting objectivity on the “merits” of spreading them for the purpose of clout. I couldn’t care less about who it is specifically, I removed all drake songs from all of my playlists after Euphoria and it was painless. And The Story of Adidon is one of the cruxes of my stance on what diss tracks are meant to accomplish. Pusha T eviscerated him by citing his baby mama’s instagram name, his parents’ names (how Dennis was a deadbeat too I mean), and the intentions he had with Adonis (Adidas press run) and I loved it then because it directly called out a larger phenomenon of neglect from Drake, a running trend of behavior that Kendrick’s Meet the Grahams did a fantastic job of calling out once again.

I like Kendrick’s tracks on this, I just think that saying “certified loverboy certified pedophile” and “strike a cord and its prolly a minor” are real jaunty and flippant ways of speaking on a coercive exploitative phenomenon that’s currently only exemplified through an instance that wasn’t coercive or exploitative. Obviously he’s inappropriate towards minors (when I found out he’s producer for the show Euphoria I was NOT surprised), there is no way to contest that, but the statement that being edgy to the public points to a deeper more insidious pattern of behavior in private dismisses the way rappers talk about murder, trapping, and being a dick to women just for the sake of coming off as a bad boy. Not defending this kind of talk or displays, I just don’t believe it should always be taken at face value lest it saturate all rap music in the way of broad assumption that rappers are bad people just because of what they say/do to promote an edgy reputation.

Also, for those who have listened to ALL the diss tracks, Kendrick cites a huge pedophilia racket in OVO that’s completely unbacked by evidence. Like I said the creepiness is very real but my main issue is Kendrick’s implication of a rampant trend of behavior that goes down to the fundamentals of his career and implicates way more people than Drake. It’s known that Birdman was a perpetrator of this, but calling out everyone who’s ever worked with someone like that isn’t fair to how the industry works for up and comers. Kendrick recently collabed with Kodak Black, a convicted domestic abuser, does that make him and his endeavors inherently and deeply problematic? Anyone who would call me out on this would decisively say no. I don’t cast that aside in the analysis of the situation, in fact, it’s support for my basic argument that word of mouth is trivial in the face of solid evidence. If the only talk of Kodak doing this were in a diss track, people would’ve continued working with him with no hesitance (just like they do now, really) but in the way of taking domestic abuse as a petty bar to laugh at, just like the situation with Drake.

And are we gonna ignore that Kendrick said Drake had a daughter with no evidence? Meet the Grahams was fire until then, and obviously saying that he’s hiding a daughter is a fantastic way to end it, but where is she? How is her mother suffering over this like Sophie was with Adonis? Pusha T explicitly advocated for that woman, Kendrick reduced this one’s daughter, once again, to a petty bar.

All I’m really saying is that it’s the principle of taking a rapper at face value and propagating rumors about their trends of behavior is detrimental to the genre as a whole. Not a statement about diss tracks in general or a defense of Drake, just consideration for how an edgy reputation may or may not reflect their private lives + the role of evidence in effectively taking down a menace. And again, he’s dead to me, been on life support since Adidon, honestly, I’m not attempting to “cope” with him getting taken down, I actually wanted someone to call him out for being a pathetic artist nowadays who does stupid fake accents and falls back on soft emotion to prove that he’s actually a sensitive person deep down. Fame ruined his artistry and his authenticity, I just think that putting the nail in the coffin via unbacked group accusation and maximum bad faith interpretations of how he presents himself is detrimental to perceptions of rap culture and the rap industry without properly convicting the people who are allegedly responsible, I.e. making a change that doesn’t primarily serve one person’s clout.

[priveetru]

No offense taken. These are all issues I've had with the concept of gender in the past. Gender is not simple, and making distinctions between imposing stereotypes and describing trends is a difficult distinction.

Like I said, pronouns and all words are just sounds, specifically pronouns are just shorthand for a noun. The additional meaning that you are assigning the word 'he' is 'the person I am referring to who has XY chromosomes' but why is that additional information being communicated? Is their chromosomal make-up important to that word?

Instead, we consider that gender is some broad set of perceptions that we are framing you through. Instead, when we say 'he', we are saying 'the person I am referring to who intends to be perceived as masculine' or something similar to that. If you use the word this way, you are not reinforcing a delusion, because the person is not trying to say what chromosomes they have with their pronouns and the statement does not contradict reality.

Again, one isn't 'correct' while the other is wrong. They are words and as long as you are understanding what's being said you're doing better than 90% of the people in the discourse.

There are a couple key differences between a transgender person and someone who believes they were born the wrong race.

For one, Dolezai actually lied about her heritage (like who her parents were) and was shown to have a pattern of deception but trans people aren't lying or being deceptive. At worst, their word choice is confusing.

Another thing is the nature of the category. Races as categories are seen to have no inexorable qualities to them, any race can do anything while the sexes, male and female, still have broad biological and social realities associated with them. This leads to categorization based on the natural differences in choices the two groups will make. To the best of our knowledge, some of the social traits of these two groups will persist indefinitely.

Lastly, we have seen people expressing these struggles with gender consistently and throughout history, though rarely (<2%). Psychology has found cases with no explanation other than a natural difference in internal experience for a gender mismatch and from twin studies it seems this mismatch is influenced by genes. This is not the case for people who identify as Napoleon.

You're asking all of the right questions. This is a complicated topic and I don't expect to convince you in one sitting.

You mention that gender can't just be an aggregate of stereotypes, and you're right - it's a level of abstraction from the stereotypes. No woman has to have long hair, but a man who has long hair is occasionally called 'feminine'. This is the nature of gender, it is nebulous and not collapsible to any given feature, but people invoke it constantly and we have to understand they are referring to something that is real.

TL;DR- It's not delusional since we are using different definitions for man/woman. Trans people would not say they are biologically the other sex before or after transition.

Gender and race are different and transgender people have science and history backing their existence and they can express their ideas without breaking from reality.

Gender is hard to pin down, but some categories or words are like that.

trans is an inherently spiritual belief. you believe that somehow, in an unfalsifiable way, you were born the wrong gender. i don't have to believe that. i have freedom of religion, and therefore freedom from religion. i am an atheist. i don't believe in god. i don't believe in weird spiritual gender woo. expecting me to refer to your spiritual gender instead of your biological sex is like expecting me to pray to your god and getting mad when i don't. sorry not sorry <3 i only care about material reality.

[justanothersyscourse]

It's incredibly frustrating to me that in most conversations with pro/endos, they fail to accurately quote facts that are easily verified.

The DSM III didn't have a distress component - Easily verified as false

The ICD-10 doesn't include any description of MPD - Easily verified as false

Ross said this - Easily verified as... At least slightly misleading as presented

Freud didn't say that - Here's his book, have at it

MPD was in the ICD until 2019 - nope

Normal Dimensions of Multiple Personality Without Amnesia is proof of endogenics - Easily verified as flat out wrong and says no form of multiplicity is real

But the veteran-- Have you read the paper? Do you know what that doctor did? (hah DID)

Where they manage to win debates is in statements that are just unclear enough that it can't be easily verified in a simple, linear way, and where subjectivity comes into play.

Take, for example, the cultural exclusion. The DSM fails to accurately define what this means, and so it can be taken in a very broad, surface level way, or it can be taken to hold much more weight and reverence in its application (and as someone with a professional background in social services, I'm telling you, it's the second one).

As long as a pro/endo continues to point this fact out, it doesn't matter how much research you cite. You could have forty peer reviewed articles to their one (and it's not even an article, it's an interview with a tulpa). You could have access to all those articles and books hidden behind paywalls.

As long as they can find an equally subjective, weakly defined quote, the cycle continues. You present further research--mountains of it, now trying to prove a tangential point. You show instances of the author they quoted making a more definitive statement in another paper.

By the time you've hit this point, no one cares how much research there is or the sheer number of clinicians repeatedly saying the same things across multiple studies and papers.

The path from point A to point B has become distorted and now you're "reaching" to apply things and the original point is lost.

And all it takes is continuing to hold on to obscure statements that could potentially be taken the other way, if you ignore supporting evidence.

It is impossible to prove to them that what you're saying has merit-- not because you lack evidence, but because you can't disprove the uncertainty with a definitive enough statement.

These statements are so simple, so basic to the fundamentals of psychology, that you won't find anyone purposefully defining them in a way that will satisfy pro/endos.

Take, again, the cultural exclusion. Did you know that there's a section in the back of the DSM that gives examples of cultural forms of dissociation?

No.

Guaranteed you did not know that.

But it's there. None of the things described are remotely similar to the very recent trend of lonely white boys in America making pony tulpas in their teens (you can't come for me, that's practically a direct quote from your favorite tulpa author).

But my point is, we frequently overlook this obvious lack of knowledge of general psychology and essential basic resources.

We continually ignore that these corrections mean that they are not knowledgeable in what they're talking about.

But they look knowledgeable in other areas because you can't win against a subjective experience.

Hell, one of the most used sources being used, in every screencapture, follows the quote with "but this is disputed", and no one bats an eye.

But how can you properly judge what you're experiencing if you don't have even the basic knowledge needed to be interpreting the weakly defined concepts you're arguing for or against?

Most can't even accurately define trauma or dissociation and can't access proper articles, how can we be expected to blindly accept their judgement?

I understand the whole, "no one knows you better than yourself." That is absolutely true and I fully support that statement (shocking, I know). My issue comes from the fact that there is an obvious and clear lack of knowledge on the language and concepts surrounding their experiences.

Yes, absolutely, you are experiencing this thing, I believe you and I support you.

But I also see the statements that are so off the mark that I can't, in good conscious, believe your own unsubstantiated theories about how and why it's happening, and the only language you have to use is twisted versions of another concept entirely.

Now, when I say that, I'm talking about things like gateway systems and walk ins and walk outs, the supernatural being introduced to the same discussions as DID and OSDD.

Or of being born plural, where the TOSD briefly describes the unintegrated sense of self that all children have and the definition of "trauma" is so incredibly misunderstood, and how symptoms of other disorders can subjectively feel like the symptoms of another, but no one wants to hear that, or about the harm that incorrect treatments based on biased, uneducated self reporting can cause.

And it goes on and on, repeating on a loop.

And we just keep ignoring that they can't even get basic facts right.

[erodasfishtacos]

#HendallReunited

prompt: request was to write broad but to write something angsty

Word count: 5.2k

Warnings: language, sexual content, angst

Harry always had issues with saying ‘no’ to people. He never quite grew out of his manners even when he should have.

He said ‘yes’ to way too many things- signing autographs for rude fans and paparazzi, and agreed to way too many things Jeff suggested.

Saying yes to everything didn’t make his life any easier is the thing. Especially when it came to his wife. She was usually left with the aftermath of him being too nice.

The media painted Y/N in a negative light occasionally and so did the fans because she would stand up for Harry and not let him say ‘yes’ to every single request.

She would tell disrespectful fans he’s not signing autographs because of the way they were screaming and interrupting his work.

Harry wished he could do it himself - admired that his wife didn’t give a fuck what people thought about her. He cared entirely too much what the world would think.

The couple didn’t fight about much - no, not really. Normal couple stuff for the most part. But this was the exception, this is where Y/N found most of their turmoil.

Every few months it would rear it’s ugly head and they’d find themselves in the same position over and over again.

This time - it was really fucking bad.

The couple had been staying in their Los Angeles home for the last few months whilst the singer finalized his album and began promotion.

It was boring meeting among boring lunch outings to get all their ducks in a row. Jeff - his manager the main orchestrator.

He was a great manager and a good friend, but it was also business too which Harry didn’t always comprehend.

At the end of the day, Harry was making Jeff millions upon millions of dollars. But Harry didn’t think that way.

**

Harry was in a stuffy conference room at the The Late Late Show to work on the script and ideas for the show. Promo had been nonstop.

He was a bit tired as it was nearly just hitting eight in the morning and he had been up late with you - having some late night loving in the hot tub.

“As for guest - Kendall Jenner,” James Corden’s producer states. All the men agree but Harry is taken aback.

“Why...why would we have my ex-girlfriend as one of my guests?” Harry interrupts, confusion knitting his brows.

Kendall and him didn’t end on a bad note - not at all. They hooked up a few times after their ‘break-up’ but once he’d met Y/N she was understanding when he cut it off.

Y/N wasn’t necessarily jealous of the model, but didn’t love when they’d run into each other at events. She was still overtly flirty with Harry without much shame. 

Harry also didn’t have an desire to see her or host her as a guest on the show. She was nice but he wasn’t interested in being friends with her. They didn’t have much in common and he was head over heels for his wife.

“The media will eat it up, dude. Harry Styles and Kendall Jenner reunited on a show after four years?” Jeff smiles, the others nodding in amicable agreement.

This is one of this times where Harry needs to say “no,” that it’s disrespectful to his significant other to use an old flame for promo for his album.

He already knows ‘hendall’ will be trending within minutes and he can’t imagine how that would make his parter feel.

“I just...this doesn’t seem like a good idea?” Harry begins hesitantly, making it sound more like a question than a statement. 

“Why not?” Eric, one of the writers asks.

“Y’know, I’m married. I don’t think m’missus would appreciate if I did somethin’ like that just for promotion,” he states, scratching at his jaw uncomfortably.

“Look Styles, we’re not asking you to fuck the girl. It just a interview, c’mon,” The executive producer gruffs - wanting those guaranteed views.

Harry swallows - looking at his manager and then at everyone else at the table looking at him for an affirmative answer.

“Uh-sure,” Harry fumbles, feeling anxiety rise into his throat. Fuck, he’s such a god damn pushover.

He’s trying to find his voice to go back on his agreement but the meeting wrapping up and people are leaving with final handshakes.

**

Harry doesn’t know how to tell Y/N what is going on. He’d been keeping in stored in the back of his mind, not ready to have a blowout.

He never found the perfect time to bring it up and now it was too late. It was the morning of the show and he was due to be at the rehearsals this afternoon.

Harry had finally decided he was going to tell her this morning over coffee but forgot that she had a girl’s day planned with a few friends.

She was already out to breakfast with them when he woke up. His phone had one text from you.

Hi baby. I’m out with the girls. See you at the show tonight. I’ll meet you there around six! Love you!

He was fucked royally and he had no one to blame but himself. Maybe it’d be okay, maybe she’d roll her eyes and tell him he’s an idiot.

Realistically he knew that was just a sweet dream at this point.

—

Harry was fidgety and kept mucking up his lines during rehearsal as it got closer to the showtime and his missus arriving.

Kendall had arrived for hair and makeup without seeing her ex-boyfriend yet. He dreaded seeing the model.

Kendall and Y/N had met a few times at different events. It was always cordial. Kendall was always casual - their relationship was never more than a couple fun dates and sex.

They were kind to each other when they met but he couldn’t deny how much harder his partner kissed him on the mouth afterwards.

Before he know it, his wife is hugging him from behind as he talks to a producer about which cameras to look at.

Y/N noticed the way he tensed up at first and thought about how unusual that was for him. Normally, he’d lean back into her with his full weight causing them both to stumble and laugh.

He slowly, cautiously turns around and his face  relaxes a little bit but not completely. “Hi baby,” he hums, leaning in for a kiss.

“You look so handsome,” she replies, admiring his brown pinstriped suit and her pearl necklace that he’d snagged awhile back. She thought it looked better on him anyways.

“You look even better, s’fuckin’ pretty, love,” he gushes, coming back in for another kiss - a little too sensual for the setting.

She was donned in a cropped white shirt, showing of the smooth expanse of her tummy. An oversized blazer of Harry’s, ripped jeans, and heels. 

Harry thought fleetingly he couldn’t wait to fuck her after the show. Then remembered that mostly wouldn’t happen.

Reggie, the musical lead, slides up to you two. He smiles wide at you, saying, “Can’t believe you agreed to the guest this evening.”

Her eyebrows furrow in confusion, Harry’s raise nearly to his forehead, but when she opens her mouth to ask him to explain they’re interrupted.

“Harry!” The leggy model trots over to the little group. Dressed in an interesting one-piece suit that has sewn in heels. She looked beautiful as ever, of course she was a model.

Both of them turn towards the oblivious girl, “Kendall,” Harry replies with a twinge of anxiety - eyes repeatedly looking at his significant other’s profile as multiple emotions flash.

“Hiya, you’re Y/N right?” Kendall smiles kindly, offering her manicured hand.

She accepts, “Yeah, uh-good to see you again.”

Harry knew she had connected the dots quickly in her head. The hurt, confusion, had hit her eyes before narrowing into full-blown rage at her partner.

“I promise I’ll go easy on him,” Kendall jokes before pinching at Harry’s cheek teasingly. The model was a natural flirt with everyone she got along with.

“Oh, sure,” she replies lamely, attempting to not let her feelings burst out in that moment with her husband . She knew it wasn’t Kendall’s fault.

“I’m going to go grab a bite to eat. I’m probably gonna puke when we do ‘spill or fill’. See you guys soon,” the model waves before trailing off with her assistant.

“Did you kn- of course you knew she was your guest,” Y/N seethes, turning to fully face the guilt-stricken-singer.

He rubs the back of his neck, avoiding eye contact, “I did.”

“How long have you known for?” She demands to know, keeping her voice at an angry whisper to not draw attention.

Harry wasn’t going to lie to his love, “About two weeks.”

Y/N replies with a laugh, “let me guess, you let Jeffrey talk you into this bullshit, again.”

His silence is all she needs to know it’s true.

“For Christ’s sake, of course,” She huffs bitterly, “what’s even worse is you didn’t fucking tell me. What the fuck?”

Harry bites his lip, not able to rasp out anything but a pathetic, “m’sorry, love.”

He wasn’t usually good at taking responsibility during a fight. He was stubborn at best but he couldn’t deny his way out of this.

“You will be, you-“

They were cut off by the staff, the audience was trailing in and Harry needed to get mic’d up now.

“This conversation isn’t over,” she points her finger at his chest before storming off to the side of the stage where she’d watch from.

Fucking shit.

**

Harry was a performer. It’s easy for him to push things to the back of his mind so he can entertain a enamored audience.

But tonight, he was struggling. Eyes flicking over to the teleprompter more than usual, his demeanor not as vivid and carefree.

Not when his wife was glaring daggers at him from stage right. Her hand constantly at her mouth, biting at her nails - a nervous tick of hers.

“Next up, the one, the only, the beautiful model and one of my good friends, Kendall Jenner!” Harry introduces when she walks out and waves at the crowd.

They hug and when they pull apart they step over to where they were playing the game. Either answer the question or eat a nasty food picked out by the other.

They weren’t allowed to see each other’s questions before the game started- both going on blind which put Harry more on edge.

“Okay, Kendall. Rank the members of One Direction on most to least attractive or you will be eating...” Harry spins the table, “Cow tongue.”

She flinched at the disgusting plate, smirking up at Harry before considering her course of action, “I think I can answer this one.”

He wasn’t looking forward to her answer. Neither was Y/N by the way she nearly shaking her foot off her leg.

“Okay, I got this. You - the most attractive, then uh- Zayn....Louis...Niall...Liam,” she laughs, “but all of you are hot!”

Harry fake laughs and acts like he’s impressed by her answer as the crowd roars and cheers. 

When Kendall picks up her notecard - she laughs in surprise at the question before looking at him with bright eyes.

“Okay, um, bull penis!” She giggles before starting the question, “I’m dying to know this answer. So...your first album HS1 was released four years ago, correct?”

He nods, apprehensive.

“Which songs were about me? Especially was only angel?” She laughs at Harry’s pale expression before without another thought he shovels the rancid food into his mouth.

Harry looks off to the side to see that his missus is no longer sitting there. Just Jeff - who gives him a thumbs up.

**

The first thing he did when the show ended and the lights dimmed was bolt off to Jeff - ignoring Kendall who was about to say something to him.

“Where’d Y/N go?”

He thought she might have went out to get a breathe of fresh air but for the next hour and a half he hasn’t seen her once.

“She said she wasn’t feeling very good. She told me to tell you she’d meet you at home,” Jeff shrugs unbothered.

“Damnit!” Harry curses loudly, ripping out of the microphone and the little pack in his back waistband.

“Harry,” Jeff scolds at his unprofessionalism that was abnormal for him.

“No! Don’t fucking ever ask me to do shit like this again. You fucking knew what questions were on those notecards and you said it wasn’t anything about our previous relationship.”

“Harry-“

“Don’t fucking talk to me. You’re a real shit manager sometimes, you know that? Do not contact me tonight or tomorrow for that matter, you douchebag,” Harry barks before storming off towards the dressing rooms.

All the employees were standing around in shock, staring at the popstar as he ignored everyone around him.

Harry was famously known for being a kind, amicable guy. So it took everyone by surprise to hear him speak like that. Even Jeff was shaken up a little.

—

The house was pitch-black as Harry pulled up. The house’s first floor was lined with large, bay windows and not a single light was on.

He could find one room illuminated which was your bedroom. A dim side lamp must have been flicked on. He imagined her purposely turning off all the lights on the trek up the staircase.

Harry didn’t want to admit how much he was trembling with awful nerves and anticipation as he slowly turns the knob of the shared bedroom.

Y/N wasn’t laying in bed as he expected but found the bathroom door shut tightly. He noticed a little yellow bag with tissue paper off to the side by a dresser.

He knocks on the oak door, not daring to enter without permission.

“What do you want?” Y/N answers, tone flat and emotionless. 

“Can I come in, baby? Please...” He wasn’t ashamed to beg for forgiveness at this point. Hearing the emptiness in her tone scared him shitless.

“I really could care less,” She replies coldly from her spot in the scalding water decorated with bubbles.

Harry had never felt more unsure in his life as he enters the bathroom.  Y/N had gotten proper pissed at him or vice versa before - right before a concert, an award ceremony but she’d never left without him.

Her head was laying against the foam headrest and her body was covered by the soap water. She looked tired and her eyes were puffy from crying.

Harry kneels next to the tub, “look at me, please pet.”

 Y/N takes a moment before turning her head and opening her eyes. They were distant, disappointed in the man in front of her.

“I should have told you about Kendall. I should have put up more of a fight to get someone else on instead,” Harry admits, his hands desperately wanting to reach out for her.

She shakes her head with a heart-wrenching sniffle, “it’s not just tonight, Harry. We’ve had this conversation continuously for three and a half fucking years. You try to please everyone, despite them giving no fucks about you.”

“Are you that much of a pushover? You let your ex-girlfriend flirt with you in front of millions. Do you know how embarrassing and unfair that it to me?” She wipes at her eyes to stop the tears spilling over.

Harry hadn’t thought of it like that - to be honest. But he agrees, it wasn’t fair and downright cruel to do that to her.

What? All because he couldn’t say ‘no’ because he didn’t want people to be mad at him? It was pathetic and ridiculous.

“I-I won’t let it happen again, lovie. I mean it, I truly do,” Harry whimpers reaching over to cup her cheek and wants to cry when she pushes him away.

“You’re a broken record. You’ve said that a million times before but don’t change,”  Y/N points out, eyes boring furiously into his wife’s.

“I’m goi-“

She cuts him off with a sharp edge in her tone, “Just leave me alone, get out.”

The man’s face crumbles and for a second, she wants to just end the fight and makeup but then nothing would change.

“Baby-“

“Get out!” She finally bellows, tears streaming down her face steadily.

He obliges, head hung in defeat as he closes the door behind him. He stands there’s blankly for a second before going to the walk-in closet.

He’s pulling out a fresh pair of cotton underwear and a large sleepshirt for his partner, laying them neatly on the bed.

Harry doesn’t know what to do with himself while he waits so he pulls out his phone to mindlessly scroll.

He throws it against the wall when he sees #hendallreunited is trending number one on Twitter at the moment.

The singer strips down to his briefs and sits with his back against the tufted headboard, staring blankly at the wall.

His eyes catch a neon pink pair of his swimshorts tossed carelessly on the decorative vase in the corner of the room from the night before .

“Fuck, baby - no need to rush,” Harry groans into Y/N ‘s mouth as she pushes him until he’s sat on the edge of their California king.

She reaches impatiently for the tie on his neon pink swimshorts and yanks them off his slim, peach-fuzz thighs before throwing them onto the vase without a care that it was worth over twenty-thousand pounds.

After edging her in the hot tub with his fingers and mouth, she wasn’t waiting any longer before clambering onto his lap, pulling her swim bottoms to the side, and sinking onto him.

He felt guilty when his cock twitched at the thought of it. But when reality set back in, the arousal with the memory evaporated.

It isn’t much longer until the door is pulled open and  Y/N’s padding into the room with a towel secured around her.

She looks at the clothes Harry set out for her and pointedly walks past them to pick out her own nightwear. 

That really shouldn’t make his eyes tear up as he watches her slide on a similar pair of panties and an oversized shirt. Spotting a purpling bruise on her upper in thigh from his mouth.

 Y/N silently walks past the bed and to the bedroom door, looking back before bleakly stating, “I’m going to sleep in the guest room.”

He frowns, wrinkles appearing on his forehead, “You can sleep in here, love. I’ll take the guest room.”

Harry doesn’t get a reply as she just shakes her head and closes the door loudly behind her. 

It’s just - he’s never seen her this upset. She was usually fantastic at communicating her feelings and hashing things out.

She wasn’t one for the silent treatment or ignoring the topic. It had his chest rising faster than usual with anxiety. The serious of it overwhelming him.

He states at the wall for a very long time without wiping the fat tears brimming over his trembling lips.

*

He couldn’t sleep - it was half past three and he hadn’t even laid down or clicked off the lamp.

Harry accepted sleep wasn’t coming so he begins to tidy the already clean room. He picks up the shorts and tossing them in the hamper.

He refolds some joggers he’d carelessly shoved in a drawer and when he went to move the little yellow bag - curiosity got the best of him.

There was no card and he wasn’t sure who it was for or if it had been a gift already give to Y/N that she had returned home with.

Harry really shouldn’t - but he does. Gently tugging out the paper and reaching in to feel fabric.

Pulling it out, it takes him a minute to identify what it is - two baby onesie. Who was having a baby?

He lays them in front of him, eyes widening in surprise as he reads what is printed across the black cotton.

The first one was the colors and font of his upcoming tour merch with the photo he used on his tour announcement with the heeled boot and white pants.

Love on Tour - Due Date: September 2025

With Special Guest Appearance from Baby Styles

The second one was simple and read across the chest:

I’m having your baby (and it is your business) with embroidered kiwis all of over it.

He frantically reached back into the bag to pull out a bundle of pregnancy tests tied with a silk bow.

They weren’t necessarily trying for a baby but they’re weren’t not trying either. Harry wanted a baby as soon as his missus was willing to give him one.

“No, no, don’t one,” she’d whined into his mouth when he’d reached over to grab a condom off the nightstand.

“Oh sweet thing, you want me bare? Fill you up?” He croons happily, coming back to grip at his thick base and tease at her entrance.

“Ye-yeah, H. Please,” (Y/N) whimpers, bucking her hips in the hope he’d slip inside her.

Harry hums, “Might give you a baby though, y’want me to knock you up?”

“Want it, wan-“

He cuts her off with a hard, blissful kiss as he thrusts all the way inside before pulling out to do it again. 

“Gonna give it to you, whatever you want, lovie,” he promises.

The two had never used protection afterwards. It had start about seven months ago and from his knowledge she’d still been getting her periods regularly.

Occasionally, he would palm at her flat tummy and pout, “Haven’t put a baby in you yet, ‘ave I?”

He was so ecstatic but disappointed in himself for ruining everything and pleasing everyone other than who he should be.

Harry needed to fix this. He didn’t want Y/N to lose the excitement of having their baby over a dumb choice of his.

The man’s out of the room and not knocking before entering their guest room. His now pregnant love is laying on-top of the covers.

One hand subconsciously on her belly - which she removes and places next to her when her wife walks in.

The television was on but the volume was low and Y/N wasn’t watching it in the first place anyways.

Harry sits on the edge of the bed, “I opened the yellow bag.”

She looks at him with wide eyes, a little taken aback. she was going to surprise him tonight and forgot to store it away for another time after the fight.

Harry has happy tears dribbling down his cheeks, “you’re having my baby?”

Y/N nods, running a slight hand through his curls. She still had a nasty knot of anger and uncertainty in the pit of her stomach.

It pains her, wanting to share this moment of excitement with Harry but she just couldn’t. The uncertainty of whether Harry would put everybody’s needs before his own baby.

“Come back to bed, want t’talk and celebrate. M’so bloody excited,” Harry murmurs, a large smile decorating his face as he smooths a palm over the expanse of her tummy.

His wife shakes her head and places a hand over his, feeling the cold metal of all of them. “I want to be left alone.”

The twinkle in Harry’s eye diminishes to devastation as he realizes that he’s fucked up so badly that she doesn’t even want to celebrate.

“Pet, can...we just forget about it tonight and be happy ‘bout the baby?” Harry asks selfishly, knowing it was unlikely she’d agree.

She didn’t, a firm expression on her face, “no, I have a lot to think about.”

“Like wha’?” He asks anxiously, unknowing of quite the reason she was so furious.

“Like how you say yes to everything and everyone. We talk and talk about how you need to say ‘no’ and do what’s best for you - for us. You agree to and never follow through”

She takes a shaky breath and continues, “it’s affected our relationship before when you’ve had to cancel our vacation away from all this for a charity concert you’d agree to perform at last minute, dinner reservations because you told your friend we’d be at their art showing they wanted you at.”

Harry knew she was right. He did those things. He wanted everyone to be happy with him - to a fault.

“Tonight was just icing on the cake, you allowed your manager to talk you into hosting your ex on that show. Out of all the people in the world - her. With flirty questions and jabs from her. You let that happen. You care about making everyone happy but in return you don’t care how it affects me. That’s pretty shitty.”

“I’m...I’m really fucking scared you’ll do that even when we have the baby. I need you to put them first and right now...I’m not sure if you’re going to. You can’t put the person you want to spend the rest of your life with first now, how do I know you’ll do it with the baby?”

Harry chokes out a sob as he presses his forehead against the bed, his broad shoulders shaking. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried this hard - years ago maybe. He felt like his wife didn’t have any faith in him and he was to blame.

He looks up at her with swollen eyes - at a loss for what to do or say. He loved her so much and was over the moon that they were going to have a baby.

“How do I fix this, darling? You’re right, I really fucked up. M’sorry,” Harry cries, grabbing at her hands and she allows it.

“Just saying you’re sorry won’t fix it,” Y/N replies flatly, letting Harry squeeze and kiss at the backs of her hands.

“Then what do I bloody do to fix this?” Harry raises his voice in frustration, staring in bewilderment at his wife. 

Y/N narrows her eyes at him, “Do not raise your voice at me, Harry. Actions speak louder than words.”

Harry swallows harshly, pressing one finally kiss to her hand. “Okay.”

“Okay?” She repeats.

“I love you, I’ll fix this,” he promises with conviction. He knew what he needed to do and do it tomorrow. So he and his wife could enjoy her new pregnancy.

“I need space tonight, I just...please”Y/N says quietly, rubbing at his shoulder.

It wasn’t the first time they’ve slept in separate rooms because they weren’t getting along but they normally found their way back to each other before sunrise.

Harry nods, lip still tremble with the residual anxiety of the conversation. She allows him to press a soft kiss to her mouth before leaving the room.

—-

Cafe Habana was busy - but no one was paying much attention to Harry and Jeff. It was the morning after and Harry had demanded a meeting over breakfast with his manager.

“Y/N pregnant,” Harry states bluntly after their drinks arrive.

“Oh? Congratulations, dude. That’s exciting!” Jeff leans over to pat him on the shoulder, a big smile.

“The baby is due in September. My next tour starts in next July. The baby will be about nine months. I want to be at home with them for the first year.”

Jeff doesn’t look pleased, “what are you getting at Harry?”

“Reschedule the July and August tour dates. Tack them on to the end of the tour,” Harry lays out flat. 

He hadn’t talk to his wife about this but he knew this was how he could prove that he could say ‘no’ and not be a pushover.

“No Harry. Look I get you’re excited about the baby - but that will be such a fucking hassle,” Jeff frowns, sipping his mimosa.

“I’m not asking, Jeff. I’m telling you that’s what needs to happen,” Harry replies firmly, tone strong and unwavering.

Jeff is definitely taken aback by his client’s conviction. 

“While we’re on the topic, do not ever put me in a situation like you did yesterday. It affected my wife and I. And I will choose her over this career any day.”

The manager nods in surprise, “Harry, I’m sorry.”

“I’m not asking for an apology but if you ever pull something like then I’ll be looking for a new management team. Are we clear?” 

Jeff once again nods, unsure of where this is coming from but at the thought of losing his biggest client would be disastrous so he’d do whatever to accommodate him.

“Consider it done,” he tells Harry before clearing his throat in a slight panic.

—

Y/N woke up to an empty house. She was restless, she asked Harry to prove to her that he could be what she needed. However, it was a bit unfair because she didn’t know how he could do it.

It’s just…she had a baby to think about. They both needed to be put first and if it took a gnarly fight for Harry to realize it...so be it.

“Baby? Love, where are you?” She hears Harry echo through the whole house. She was sat in the kitchen, on a stool by the island, idly sorting through mail.

“In here!”

Harry jogs in, panting like he sprinted from the garage up to the kitchen. He comes to stand in front of the love of his life.

“I might have not completely fixed everything but...I tried,” Harry tells her, cradling her face in his large palms. “ I just got back from lunch with Jeff. I told him about the baby.”

He takes a deep breath before continuing, “I rescheduled tour dates so I can be with you guys at home in London for the first year. Then...maybe you guys can join me after?”

“Harry…” she’s at a loss for words.

“And I told Jeff that if he ever puts me in a situation like that again, I’m firing him.”

Y/N stares at him, in awe and admiration of the man she chose to marry and keep forever. His face was so sincere and vulnerable.

Harry didn’t know whether it would be enough. If it wasn’t he’d keep trying but all he could do was hope. He waited with bated breath as she processed his words.

“Baby, you-for me?” She murmurs as she stands up and crowds into his space. He instantly wraps her up into a tight hug, missing her touch.

“Of course, pet. I’d do anything for you, I mean it. I’d quit this whole career if you wanted tha’,” he tells her truthfully - lips brushing her forehead.

“I love you, so so much,” Y/N murmurs, pressing a kiss to his lips.

“We’re havin’ a baby,'' Harry sighs dreamily into her mouth, tongue sliding against hers. A large hand came to palm at her belly.

“Yeah, m‘having your baby,” She giggles as he begins to trail the kisses down her jaw and neck - pressing her into the marble countertop.

“Should we name it Kiwi?” Harry rasps as he slides the tank top strap off her shoulder so his lips can meet the cap of her warm shoulder.

“We are not going to be that celebrity couple who names their baby something weird,” Y/N groans as he grounds his hips into hers with intent.

THE END

[curseof-thefold]

I often see this thing where someone, usually an arospec person, would say something among the lines of "shipping culture has ruined fandom" and then a bunch of people come out fueled by pure outrage yelling and screeching about how the first person is sad and stupid and doesn't let anyone have fun

Both camps make some fundamental mistakes

On the shipper side. They are seemingly incapable to realise that shipping did ruin fandom for a lot of people, and there are many reasons. The shipping wars are one but it's not the end. Some fandoms have huge shipping communities that basically take over the entire community, with little gen content going around. Shipping communities have also been well known for their aphobia and aspecs are often attacked for their headcanons, platonic ships and even just talking about canon or heavily implied aspec characters, all for the sake of shipping. All of this isolated a lot of aspec fans, "they should go to another part of the fandom", which one, the collector, dudebro, powerscaling, theory side? There are some lovely people there but I hope it's obv why many queer people are uncomfortable in such spaces. Also, depending on the fandom, there might be no other side

Another thing on this side I hate is aspec shippers who get uselessly outraged like "well, I AM aspec and I love shipping so I think you just suck and use your identity to attack people and are also homophobic", again, seemingly incapable to realise that some people are genuinely uncomfortable with shipping

On the other side of this weird "fight" so to say, I think that the trend of trying to do activism through fandom has made people way more likely to spin their personal discomfort into some kind of overarching issue instead of a personal ick. It shouldn't be like this. You don't need a smart big brain moral reason to dislike something, you can just not like it. You can say "shipping has ruined MY fandom experience", you can be explicitly subjective, it's fine

Also, the reason why shippers get so defensive is not necessarily malicious or even unreasonable. It's because this kind of statements align with similar ones from homophobes in fandoms trying to accuse queer shippers of all kinds of things just because they hate queers and queer content. Even if the original person is queer themselves and did not mean it that way, it can be interpreted that way by people who have been attacked by such people in the past

And lastly, shipping can't ruin fandom, and that's because, arguably, modern fandom has been built partially on the backs of the people who just wanted to write gay porn of their faves

In conclusion

Respect people's icks

Queer people are not a monolith

Some people just genuinely dislike things and that's not an attack towards those who like those things

Be understanding and reasonable

Be nice to aspec fans

Be careful with your words

Don't make broad statements unless you are ready to back them up

[saipng]

the long awaited... the breath-baited... the most wanted.... (and maybe a little haunted? no, it definitely isnt, im very sleep deprived, sorry)

anyway, the last part of the jalim fic mini series. here it is. please enjoy.

(links to parts 1 and 2 + AO3 link in the replies)

There is not a single damn reason why there should be that many chandeliers on at the same time during broad daylight.

A stupid waste of energy for the sake of empty aesthetics – a trend that’s been ravishing this country like a plague. Really, you’d assume someone would think of the rainforests instead of the stuffy businessmen in their stuffy suits getting a micron less lighting than usual. With all the glass that’s wasted on the stupidly tall windows, that shouldn’t be a problem anyway.

Jason’s beginning to get extremely concerned about the hotel’s electricity bill, and it’s definitely not because the stupid light burns away his retinas and makes the hangover that much more present. It’s definitely not because he’s been standing by the sad-looking plastic plants for much longer than perfectly necessary.

(He’s been at it for twenty minutes now.)

(He arrived thirty minutes early.)

(The first ten were spent in his car, wondering why he bothered arriving thirty minutes early.)

Jason Kolchek is just a known environmentalist, and that is precisely the reason he’s hating on the crystal-bound lights of the ornamental chandeliers with unbridled passion.

He pauses in his laments the moment his ears catch a distinct ding of the elevator, and he spots a bright red hoodie atop a pair of washed up blue jeans.

The young man wearing them is lanky, paying far more attention to toying with his iPod rather than to actually not walking into one of the fake plants. His face isn’t one Jason’s ever seen before and, if he weren’t looking, it would’ve been all too easy to glance past him. But there is something intoxicatingly familiar about his manner – something in the shape of his hands as he’s desperately trying to steady the plant from toppling over; something in the mild panic in his eyes as he looks behind him and then goes straight back to his iPod.

He perches against a tall column, his shoes squeaking on the polished surface of the floors. The guy seems perfectly out of place in the grandness of the lobby – and he’d be damned if he’d let it get to him.

He and Salim are definitely related.

A shaky gulp of much needed oxygen, and Jason tries his best to feign casualness and remember the motions of simply walking over. He’s extending a hand in a greeting before he can think better of it, aims his smile for casual even when it comes off as strained.

“Zain? Hi, Jason Kolchek.”

It takes a moment for the young man to react, and when he does, he stares at him dumbfounded. His eyes are wide as they run between his hand and his face.

He pops out a single earbud.

“What?”

“Sorry, hi!” Jason winces. He doesn’t know why he’s apologizing. Tries again. “You’re Zain, right?”

“Oh, yeah-“ Zain grabs his hand, shakes it almost dismissively – before he blinks. And gapes.

“Wait, you’re Jason Kolchek!?”

The emphasis is all wrong in that statement, the stress is on the wrong parts, and Jason retrieves his hand uncertainly, trying to place where he’s heard that tone before. “Yeah? Your dad’s friend? Uh, we’re having breakfast in this nice little diner, and-”

“Like- For real?”

Something about the young man’s struck expression turns the gears, echoes of something that he should’ve already known about. Something about a book, and something about the writings in the margins, something about myths and legends, and something about a signature.

It’s only then that Jason remembers he’s a famous author. Not just Salim’s friend.

“You’re a fan, right?” He almost yells, but this is familiar territory now. He can handle fans. He’s done it before, he thinks. “I signed that book for you and everything.”

And Zain blinks at him, frozen on the spot.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“No, no, I remember, your dad brought it in, and-“

“You mean you- you really know my dad?” He stutters, and Jason smiles. For whatever reason, there is an intense amount of pride in that smile.

“I do.”

“You’re the friend we’re meeting?”

“Yeah.”

The younger man simply blinks, running a hand through his hair. There is something that is secretly making Jason smile that much wider. He was never much to care for fans – he wasn’t exactly writing for the people or anything. But this guy… Well, he was that much different.

Signing that book was definitely a score in Jason’s favor – not that anyone was keeping scores.

“Okay, tell me the truth.” Zain leans in, beckons him to lean in closer too. “Is my dad paying you to be here?”

Jason thinks he already likes the guy.

“I can guarantee that no money in the world could make me trudge here at eight in the morning. I’m here because I want to be.”

He doesn’t mean for it to sound as candid as it does.

Zain doesn’t look like he really believes him. Still, he nods.

“Damn, well- Um. Thanks for that. And thank you for the autograph. And, uh. Sorry for being so weird. I just-” He pauses, taking a quick moment to glance over his shoulder. “When my dad said you were coming, I just thought he was bullshitting me, like usual. But… Well, damn. You’re really you.”

“I’m really me.” Jason smiles, and doesn’t really believe it, either. “So where is Salim anyway?”

Zain rolls his eyes, not without a trace of affection. “Ugh, I think he’s still getting dressed. He’s been up for hours already, just changing outfits. Driving me insane.”

“Really? Hours?”

“Um-“

The younger man balks, looking over his shoulder once again. Jason knows that expression – the fear of saying way too much. That alone makes something far too peppy flutter in his chest, and he thinks that it’s way too damn early for any of it

As though sensing the tension in the air, the elevator chimes once more to interrupt their conversation. And when Salim walks out of the sliding doors, he’s wearing a smart gray coat and a black turtleneck sweater – and Jason really tries not to let it show how impressed he is with the ensemble. And the fact that it apparently took him hours to assemble.

He really, really tries not to let it show.

“Good morning, Jason!” He chimes from halfway across the lobby. Jason can swear his cologne is already assaulting his every sense, the hug from yesterday filling up his veins with ice and lightning. He smiles and waves, or thinks he smiles and waves. He has no idea what he does in actuality. He’s way too goddamn lost in the fit of that black turtleneck.

“Sorry I’m late, I couldn’t find the spare room key.” He passes a plastic card along to Zain, who shoots Jason a very pointed glance. Jason misses it entirely. He’s lost. He’s hopeless.

Salim smiles at him.

God, he’s goddamn hopeless.

“It’s- Alright. It’s alright.” The fact that words come out at all is a miracle, and he’s never been more glad for the hangover, which he could happily blame in case things get too weird. “We’re just- We were getting to know each other.”

He motions between himself and Zain, finally managing to tear his eyes away from Salim. Zain gives him an awkward smile, but it’s not unfriendly.

“Ah, that’s good! What were you talking about?” Salim clasps a gentle hand on Zain’s shoulder, who replies way too eagerly.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Jason decides that he definitely likes this guy.

“Keeping secrets from me already, hm? Well, I can live with that.” Salim gapes at them, but he is smiling ear to ear, and suddenly, the stupid chandeliers seem that much duller. The whole world, in fact, has faded.

They really, really need to leave this hotel lobby already.

“You know what I can’t live without?” Jason claps his hands, reminds himself to be a person. “Some good goddamn food. Let’s go team, breakfast’s waiting!”

-

As they are walking to the quaint yet charming diner Jason’s chosen for their all-American experience, he hears a faint whisper of Zain’s voice behind them.

“Dad,” He asks, the word distinctly Arabic, “Just who is this guy to you?”

Jason doesn’t turn around, but he feels Salim’s smile in his voice. “A very special friend.”

“Huh? What is that supposed to mean?”

An answer doesn’t follow.

The wind blows, and spring allows for one last gust of winter’s chilly air to bring about its final gasp of snow.

-

He’s staring at the dancing snowflakes, fingers restless on the plastic menu cover.

“The hangover’s that bad, hm?” Salim’s hand is opposite his own. He definitely isn’t remembering what it was like to hold it.

“Yeah, something like that.” Jason lies – or maybe doesn’t. He has no idea who to blame for his current disposition – the booze, the cigarettes, the universe, or the man sitting across the table.

The man, who is now reaching out – touching his skin, a trace that’s barely there, solid enough for Jason to feel it with his entire shuddering body.

“Hang in there,” He mouths, retrieves his hand back as the waitress comes in with their food.

Jason’s sitting with his heart on the table and his knees shaking.

Zain stares between the two of them.

-

“You were in the army together, right?”

He tries not to wince at the words, and tries not to hate the implications. He really doesn’t want to say I could’ve killed your father and I would’ve thought I made the world a better place – and so he doesn’t. Instead, he gives Salim a look, and he passes it right back.

Zain tries again.

“I mean, I know you were on different sides- What I meant to ask was – you’re that American that saved my dad’s life, right?”

Jason grits his teeth. “Not nearly as much as he saved mine.”

The response is automatic, and it is definitely not a lie or an exaggeration. Still, Salim shakes his head.

“The circumstances were… Extraordinary. We had to do what we could to survive.” He’s keeping it vague, tone leaving no room for discussion. Jason’s never heard him like this before, but he gets it. Zain, on the other hand, looks like he’s heard it a million times before.

Salim looks up.

“But… I consider it lucky that out of all the people in the world, I had Jason at my side.”

And Jason desperately wants to touch his hand again.

He doesn’t.

-

Salim insists he pays. More like orders it, really, with how offended he gets that Jason would even imply he got the bill covered.

Zain’s tapping a Morse code with his fingers, something along the lines of This is way too awkward if Jason has to guess, and his eyes are cast downwards. He doesn’t speak – Jason doesn’t know if he should be the one speaking – but there is something in his posture that reminds him of their age difference.

The guy’s still in university. Jason’s been through three mid-life crises just this week.

“So-” He begins, wondering whether to settle on Are you done with school any time soon? and I’m so fucking sorry I could’ve shot your dad.

“Thankyou.” Zain suddenly mutters, the words a single sound as he continues to stare holes into the table. “I mean that.”

And Jason’s pretty damn grateful too, because he’s pretty certain his own sentence would’ve turned into an Are you fucking sorry, and he shuts his mouth before he can let that happen.

And when no other words come to mind, Zain finally looks up from underneath his eyelashes.

“For saving my dad’s life, that is. It’s… Like, I still remember it, you know? It was my birthday, I got home pretty late. But he wasn’t there, so my first thought is that he found the shit I stole, and he got so angry he stormed out. I don’t even know why I thought that – it’s not like he’s ever done that before. But then a couple of hours later he actually gets home, and he’s all, like- Fuck, he’s all weird and dirty and like, carrying this huge piece of metal. He’s just a mess. And he just throws his arms around me, and he starts crying. And he cries and cries and cries for… Hours.”

His eyes are far away now, staring out the window at the relentless snow. Jason can imagine it all too vividly. Suddenly, he, too, is back at that little shack where they took their final stand, covered in blood and grime, sitting between Nick, Eric, and Rachel, waiting for the rescue he wasn’t sure would ever come. His heart is in his throat, and he leans further in, trying to just listen.

It’s all he can do not to remember what came next.

“Man, I didn’t- I don’t even know how to describe it. I’ve never seen him like that. And he didn’t even tell me what happened, just that Americans saved his life. And he kept – he kept thanking Allah, and his luck, and me, and- And you. He kept going on and on about you. And I remember, in that moment thinking, that if I ever got to meet you, I should thank you. For keeping him safe. So- Thanks.”

Jason stares at the bright red hoodie sleeves that are being torn apart by anxious fingers. At the empty ice cream platters in spite of the cold outside. He looks at this boy, who could’ve been somewhere extremely far away right now on the account of having lost his father.

And for once, he doesn’t think of all the other boys and girls who did lose their parents in the war. For once, he doesn’t think of all the mistakes he’s ever made, and all the regrets he’s accumulated in his life.

He’s thought of them more than enough in the past decade of his life. He will think of them more in the future.

But for now, he thinks of gratitude, and he thinks that he did something right.

For now, Jason almost finds it in himself to smile.

“And I’d go back and do it all over again if I could, Zain. Salim- Your dad. He’s an incredible man.”

Zain smiles at him then, meekly.

“Yeah. Thanks, Jason. You’re alright.” He nods, sighing heavily, and it looks as though his back is a little straighter now. His eyes just that much brighter.

Jason thinks the two of them really are becoming fast friends, if only-

“Wish we could hang out more. Too bad we’re leaving tomorrow already, huh?”

“Wait, what?!”

-

Jason keeps his promise of being a proper tour guide, and shows everything there is to see around the city – which is more than was expected, and less than was satisfactory.

Still, their sightseeing takes them far into the evening.

He doesn’t show that his soul is being crushed by his own ribs.

He doesn’t get that beer during dinner either, although he reallywants to.

-

The wind picks up again, if only briefly. It scatters the softly falling flakes across the rays of sleepy nightlights, not nearly strong enough to disturb their peace.

Zain must be meeting with his friends already, in a cozy little bar in the basement of someone’s apartment block, away from the sky, the winds, and the quiet snow. He managed to win a few more hours of freedom from Salim, the two of them exchanging silent whispers away from prying ears before they parted ways.

Jason could imagine what the conversation was just as well.

“Remember, we are leaving tomorrow. Do not stay long.”

“I won’t, dad.”

He’d leave, and Jason would gesture at the sad empty park behind the hotel. Salim would only nod his head.

And so they walked, their footsteps crunching in the freshly fallen snow. There is a cold little bench in a cozy corner, and Jason strolls right past it. His mind is buzzing, soft and tired and still burning with hangover. His only wish is to fall asleep and his only wish is to never leave this solemn little park.

He strolls over to the playground, yanking the chain of one of the swings.

“Jason.” Salim chides, and there is as much exasperation and there is softness in his voice. His voice, which became ridiculously dear in the last two days. Jason snaps himself out of it.

“They won’t hold the weight of a grown man.”

He only smirks, easily plopping down on top of all the snow. It’s cold.

“Okay.” Salim concedes, shaking his head as he fails to hide his own smile. “It won’t hold the weight of two grown men.”

“Are you doubting the structural integrity of the great American engineering, Salim?”

“I am doubting the structural integrity of these ancient-looking chains.”

He gives them a solid yank, and the construction, miraculously, doesn’t fall apart.

Jason beams.

With one last stolen look at the comfortable bench, Salim sighs. He brushes away the snow, and he makes sure to fold his coat underneath his knees.

The swings, yet again, miraculously hold - even if the chains do creak a little.

The snowflakes make their way toward the earth, lazy, brittle, as though knowing this snowfall would be their last.

Jason breathes out, gently swinging back and forth with his heels on the ground. The air comes out of his lungs in a big puff of round smoke. He doesn’t think of cigarettes.

He does, however, think that the cold is beginning to seep into his very bones.

“Today was…” Salim begins, slicing through the frozen air. “I wanted to thank you, Jason. For everything.”

And that sounds like a goodbye if he’s ever heard one before.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving.”

He doesn’t ask it. Doesn’t even look Salim’s way. The words pour out of him as easily as his next breath, and it was the one and only thing he could’ve asked.

His headache is throbbing, and he thinks his eyes are stinging from the cold.

He can see Salim’s breath trail from his open mouth like steam.

“I’m… Sorry. I was planning to.”

Jason only hums.

“Zain told you?”

“Earlier today. Mentioned it during breakfast.”

“Right.”

Another breath, another puff of smoke. Jason’s eyes are bleary and he’s looking into the streetlights. He thinks about crawling into his bed, and the thought makes him that much colder still.

“I really was going to tell you. Right now, as a matter of fact.”

“Why? Why haven’t you before?” And it’s only a little pathetic that Jason can’t help the crack in his voice and the sting in his cheeks.

Salim exhales slowly. Jason turns to look at him, and wishes he didn’t. There’s something tremendously painful there. He hates it. He wishes he could will it away.

He stays quiet.

“Because I didn’t want to.” Salim finally replies, too truthful, and that makes it hurt just a little less. “Because I was having too much fun.”

“So why the hell are you even leaving-“

“Jason, please-“

“No, seriously!” He’s yelling now, but he doesn’t care. The snow and the streetlights are his only witness, and if there is some poor sap that happens to stumble upon them - well, that’s their problem. Jason’s past the point of caring. “Two days, Salim! Barely!”

“I know-“

“Why the hell didn’t you plan to stay on longer if you are having so much-“

“Because I was afraid, alright!” Salim screams right back, and it’s enough to make Jason near fall backwards off his swing. “I didn’t know how this would go, Jason. Hell, I didn’t even know if you still remembered me!”

“Of course I remember you-“

“I know that now, but how could I before?”

An owl cries, following their voice, rustling the trees. Snow falls heavily from their widespread branches, hitting the soft earth with a hollow thud.

They stay silent for a breath, and it feels as though the earth is exhaling with them.

“You need to realize that this trip was the most spur of the moment thing I’ve ever done, Jason. I came here- I flew over the whole Atlantic-“

The words won’t leave his chest, and Jason looks towards him, pleading. He feels as though if he doesn’t hear what Salim has to say, his heart surely will collapse in on itself. And so he grits his teeth. And so he nods.

Salim throws him a sideway glance. His chest is heavy with the heaving gasp.

“You wrote a book for me, Jason. You made me the protagonist of your story. You were calling me, and – how could I not answer?”

Jason holds his tongue, eyes traveling to the glove-clad shaky hands.

“Those were the only thoughts I had in my head while I was sitting on that plane. But I also knew- I knew that I was being delusional. That I was unreasonable. There were far easier methods to reach out if that was what you were really doing.”

“Were there?” He asks, unable to stop himself, only half-joking. Salim turns to stare, his eyes bright, suddenly reminding Jason of hotel lobbies and early mornings.

“In the end, I had no way of knowing how this would play out. You could’ve been angry at me. Could’ve hated me, for all I knew.”

And Jason doesn’t ask why he’d think those things in the first place.

He knows. He gets it. He’s been there, too. Thought those exact same things, and still wasn’t sure he was done thinking them.

“I couldn’t risk it.”

“So you chose two days to make a quick escape in case it all went to shit?”

“That’s… Exactly right.”

“And in case it all went smoothly-“

“At the very least, I would have these two days to remember.”

Jason nods, turning his head towards the empty park. The streets beyond the gates have begun to blur; the lights in the hotel felt dimmer, distant. It was just the two of them in the blistering white snow. In the dark. On these rusty swings.

The air smelling of gasoline and mud.

“You can extend your stay now?”

Salim smiles, and Jason knows the answer before he gives it.

“I promised Zain. We have a very packed schedule ahead of us. He’s very excited about it. I mean, a road trip across America - I cannot disappoint.”

Jason only nods, and somehow, this feels right. Like it makes sense.

Like there was no other way for any of it to happen.

His hands are pulsating and he’s gripping at the freezing metal of the chains so hard his skin begins to burn. It’s all he can do to keep their dinner in his stomach, all he can do to ground himself and not run away.

“Salim.” He begins before he really knows that he’s beginning, and his throat tightens against itself. “I have something to tell you.”

“Oh? Well, this sounds serious.”

That reply was fast. Too fast.

Jason’s eyes are closed, but he swears he can see that nervous little smile.

He reminds himself he doesn’t have to do this.

He listens to Salim’s breathing, and he reminds himself he does.

“I’ve been meaning to do it for a while, but- Look, this is going to sound weird, so- I don’t know if there will be a better moment, so I’ll just-“

“Jason-“

“I am in love with you, okay?”

The words rip through his chest with a violence, ribs cracking open and his heart spilling crimson onto the perfectly white snow.

“I’m in love with you, and I have been in love with you for the past eight years, and that’s the reason none of my relationships have ever worked out – Because I fell in love with you all those years ago, and I couldn’t stop thinking-“

Jason shuts his mouth and forces his eyes open, turns to stare at the snow beneath his feet to make sure it really isn’t painted with his blood. Everything in his soul is shaking, rattled, beating - and it feels good.

It feels good to get this off his chest. To speak this into existence.

To say it to Salim.

“I’m in love with you. I love you.” He reiterates to himself and the entire universe. “God, I love you.”

He throws his head into his freezing hands, and lets the shock of the cold wash over him like thunder. His eyes begin to sting, and he thinks that it’s okay. That it’s alright.

That it’s just normal.

And the silence is just that - it’s silent. There is nothing more to it except Jason’s heartbeat in his ears.

He can live with that.

“I don’t expect you to respond or anything, you know.” He whispers from somewhere in between his hands and knees, doubled over as he’s valiantly staring at the snow that definitely should be bloody red. “I just needed you to know. Before you leave. I just- I just needed you to know.”

And it’s the truth. The one and only truth.

His shoulders feel lighter. And he needs to sleep.

But Salim’s voice then – well. To call it reassuring would be inaccurate; however, there’s something in its vibrations that make Jason turn his head.

“Well… This is… Embarrassing.”

He’s staring into the night sky, eyes wide. The lights reflect off them, and Jason thinks that all the chandeliers and crystals and stars and constellations of the universe gathered in those two dark pools.

And he is smiling.

“You just can’t help being one step ahead of me, can you?”

Jason blinks. Salim turns to face him – promptly turns away.

But for one second, there is something in his expression that positively glows.

“You reach out to me first, you find out I’m leaving before I tell you, and now this-“ He gestures in Jason’s direction without looking, shakes his head.

And Jason slowly lifts his face away from his hands, begins to straighten out and doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. His full conscious effort is on Salim, and he’s trying not to think so hard he’s definitely about to pull a muscle.

“Well. The truth is, Jason-“ His voice gets caught on the name, and he has to turn his head further. Jason, in turn, leans forward, trying to catch even a glimpse of that expression. “The truth is, there wasanother reason I went with the… Uh, with the two days.”

Salim gestures between them again, and coughs.

“This. This was the, uh- The other reason.”

Jason’s voice breaks through his throat, barely a real sound. “What do you-“

“I mean that I was going to tell you this. Exactly in those words.” Salim doesn’t turn his head, but he smiles wider. The air around him glows. “Before I left.”

And Jason just stares blankly.

“Only you beat me to it. And now, well- I don’t really know how to feel about that.”

And Jason stares some more.

“Okay? No, wait- You mean…”

But Salim does not elaborate this time. Jason runs his frozen fingers over his face, and tries to piece it together. He knows he can - he’s a smart boy, and it’s just on the tip of his tongue, but-

“You mean you…”

Nothing comes out of it, and he huffs out a cloud of frustrated air. He swears he can wrap his head around the concept, he just needs a little-

Salim laughs. Jason’s breath comes out a shudder.

“Yes. I do. I mean- Me too. I- Damn. Me too, Jason.”

The pile of snow at their feet grows taller. The sound of passing cars is white noise in the chilly spring air.

Jason looks at his red hands and he thinks he can almost comprehend.

“Huh.”

“Mhm.”

There is, arguably, quite a large variety of emotion that people have experienced across the span of all human existence. However, Jason is almost positive that whatever he’s been experiencing just then is unique to him and only him.

There is a kindness in his chest, somewhere in his lungs. It’s light, electric, and it almost doesn’t feel like anything at all. His mind is blank, and there are stars, only they aren’t in the sky.

He turns to look at Salim again, who’s simply smiling and staring at the snow.

It’s then that Jason realizes he has been smiling too.

He has been really smiling, and it’s beginning to hurt.

“So… When you said you haven’t thought of marriage, it was because…”

“Yes. I- There was no point.”

Jason begs for him to elaborate with his very being. He shifts the swing closer, feeling his whole body magnetized. He wonders if this is okay. He wonders if feeling like this is okay.

“I tried to go on dates, of course, but- Especially after seeing Zain, I just- I thought well, if he can do it, maybe so can I?”

Jason is as close as he can get without ripping the swing off its hinges, and it’s not nearly close enough. Salim doesn’t even notice, just keeps staring into the ground, his fingers playing with the edges of his coat.

“And have you?”

“Have I-“ His eyes go wide as he turns to Jason, shaking his head before immediately turning back towards the earth. “No. Never, not with- Not with other men.”

Jason nods again, and the swing creaks painfully under his weight as he tries to move in closer. He wants to touch the streaks of pink across Salim’s cheekbones. He wants to know if he can.

“I could- I can, um. Teach you, you know? N-Not right now, but one day- I, uh. Had experiences. I’m a good teacher.” He winces at his wording, but they only make Salim laugh, grin wider. Jason wants to grin too. He wants to shine, actually - and sing, and maybe burst into a little dance.

He’s pretty certain he’s frozen solid to the swing that keeps creaking far too dangerously.

“I think- Sure, yes. I’d take a lesson. Or two.”

He swallows down, and finally turns to face Jason. Jason, who is all but falling off the swing trying to lean in closer.

Salim exhales a breath.

His sudden smirk is treacherous.

“So… Your past relationships-“

“We don’t have to talk about that-“

“Even that one with the kid, whose proposal you rejected-“

“He didn’t technically propose-“

“Even that was… because of me?”

His voice is almost innocent, but there is something self-satisfied at its edges.

Jason’s eyes flutter. He exhales quietly.

Salim twists on his swing. Moves closer.

Jason doesn’t move away.

“He said he knew it was coming. Said there was no helping a heart that belonged to someone else. And that was when I knew for sure.”

Salim nods, his smile never faltering.

“How long ago was this?”

“Four years.” Jason searches his expression. Decides to be daring. “You?”

Salim blinks at him. Shakes his head.

“Three years. Maybe four. I don’t know what triggered it. I think maybe I was reading one of your stories, and then just- Boom. I knew.”

“You knew.”

“I knew.”

The way he’s staring into Salim’s eyes is unapologetic, but Jason doesn’t care. He’s drunk - he’s drunk and he hasn’t had a single drop to drink today and he can’t get enough. He wants to reach out - to hold and cherish and explain just how much he meant every single word he’s said. And he just sits there, half falling off the swing, and he doesn’t care.

He’d stay there forever. He’d be happy to die right there, on those frozen swings.

“We should get going. It’s getting cold.” Salim tells him, and Jason couldn’t agree more.

His knees protest loudly as he tries to stand up, and his hands are icy when he’s brushing off the snow from his jeans. He takes a few uncertain steps, and his whole body is threatening to snap.

“Jason!” Salim calls him, and Jason turns around before he can even stop to think.

And before he can also stop to consider what is happening, he feels himself being pulled back, a gloved hand rise up towards his cheek, brush against it. And before he can take a breath, Salim’s face is near his own, and he’s breathing in the spiced cologne that burns through his mind like the cold around them.

Jason pauses – no, he freezes on the spot, and none of it has anything to do with the weather. He feels the press of icy lips, the touch burning through his entire being the second his brain registers what’s going on.

Salim’s kissing him.

And his heart is finally giving out.

Jason dies. He knows he has to have died because he doesn’t move, and he knows he’s dead because Salim is kissing him and he isn’t kissing back.

It hardly lasts a second. Jason saw his entire life flash before his eyes.

“No, that wasn’t-“ Are somehow the first words out his mouth when Salim pulls back, and he’s holding onto Salim for dear life, arms around his shoulders and hands pressed into his back – as though letting go would be the end of it. As though he could somehow take this back.

“You just- You just did that, and- You didn’t warn me! That wasn’t fair? Shit, no, I mean- That wasn’t my best? I mean, I promised to teach you, and that wasn’t-“

Salim just laughs, and it’s the best damn sound in the fucking world.

“I’m sorry, I just- I couldn’t let you be the first one to do this, too. I had to take initiative at some point!”

“Okay, but that’s not- I didn’t think- I wasn’t- Can we do that again? Please? Now that I’m ready and-“

Salim leans in, and Jason forces all his facets to hard reset. If there is one time in his life he was truly grateful for his marine training, it was now - when he was using all of his willpower to make sure he was kissing a man right. And by god, he was going to do it right.

His hands travel up to Salim’s scalp, and get lost in his jet black hair, palms circling back to his jaw, cupping it, just holding him there. His thumbs graze over the blush he’s wanted to touch, and he thinks his fingers would be shaking if he wasn’t holding on so tight. Jason presses his lips again Salim’s, tender, slow, and the longing of the past eight years fills him with a vengeance.

Without meaning to, he’s pressing his entire pain into that one single kiss, his entire life story, the nights spent mourning utter loneliness and fear, and the days spent smoking, drinking. He opens his mouth to inhale Salim’s breath into his own, feels his tongue as though it were his only lifeline, relishes in the press against his body. Salim’s hands are on his hips, holding him in place, and Jason has to rise on his tiptoes to push in deeper, to show, to talk, to explain.

Kissing Salim is a conversation, and he’s said more with this one fucking kiss than he has to all his partners in the past decade of his life.

The only reason Jason even stops is because he’s certain that if he doesn’t, he would begin to cry. His breath is barely audible as he hangs there, in the space between them, and he can count Salim’s eyelashes against his rosy cheekbone. He allows himself to nuzzle up against it, and he feels alive.

“So, um.” His voice is hoarse when he speaks up, but he has to break the silence that has become unbearable. Salim’s hands are still on his hips. Jason think he’s about to go insane. “There you go! Uh. How… was it?”

Eyes still firmly shut, Salim simply hums in answer.

“Alright.”

And he knows he’s teasing – and he’s hating every second of it.

“Alright?!”

“Well, the stubble is a little weird, but… I suppose it’s nothing I can’t get used to.”

“St- Stubble?!” Jason blinks, pulling back for real this time. His stubble is so far down on the least of things he was worried about, he didn’t even consider it a candidate. “And how do you think I feel when you got a face full of beard?!”

“Oh-“ Salim opens his eyes then, blinks a couple of times in astonishment. “Sorry, should I shave it?”

“No, that’s not what I- Fuck, no, Salim, I like beards, don’t- Fuck.”

“What was that?”

The grin he’s wearing is somewhere between tender and shit-eating. Jason huffs.

“I said- I like beards. I like. Your beard. It’s- Its good.”

Softly, Salim reaches out, swings a strand of hair behind Jason’s ear. The grin only grows, and Jason can’t find it in himself to hate it. In fact, he can’t find it in himself to hate anything about this situation at all.

“I love you too.” Salim whispers, and Jason feels his heart bloom.

He leans up to press a small kiss against the corner of his mouth, and is more than astonished that he can. That this is something he can do. And Salim will just continue to hold him – to embrace him. Jason stuffs his nose against his neck, and takes the deepest breath.

He thinks he knows what he wants now. He thinks he finally has a clue.

“What time are you leaving tomorrow?”

“Um. Early morning. Six o’clock. We still need to rent a car-“

“A car.”

“Yes. Road trip implies cars, no?”

Jason smiles against his neck. This is the worst thought-out road trip he’s ever heard of. He definitely knows what to do.

“There’s a car rental near my place. I’ll come meet you there tomorrow, see you off.”

Salim’s arms close around him, and Jason feels his lips against his temple. He shudders.

“I would love nothing more than that.”

-

Six AM isn’t the worst time to be awake, really. Especially not after being up the whole night through.

He’s running on three cups of caffeine and incredible bouts of adrenalin, but that’s okay. He’ll rest later. At the next gas station, probably. If that were to come.

“I’m telling you it’s closed, dad.” He hears a familiar voice speaking Arabic and begins making his way towards the sounds. “It looks like it’s been abandoned for ages.”

“Quiet, Zain.” Salim is standing with his back against the skyline, the rising sun encompassing his silhouette in a golden halo. Jason didn’t know his heart could grow any fonder – and yet here he was, ready to fall at this man’s feet at any moment. He loves him.

“There has to be another entrance. Jason wouldn’t lie to us. He is not that kind of a man.”

Fuck, he really loves him.

“I technically didn’t lie!” He shouts back, making both of them jump. “I just said there was a car rental near my place. I didn’t say it was a functioning one.”

He searches Salim’s expression, and finds only shadows and early morning mist. And then he takes a few steps closer, and that’s when he really sees it – pure, unadulterated reverie. Jason grins, and Salim blinks at him in awe.

“You speak Arabic?” Zain gapes, moving closer. He’s carrying a backpack and wheeling a gigantic suitcase behind him. Jason immediately moves to take it from his hands.

“Picked up a few words here and there, sure.” He beams, all the while keeping his eyes on Salim, who simply stares at him. And stares some more.

And then he stares at him even more, and then he’s still staring when he says, “Jason. The car rental. Where are we supposed to get a car?”

Jason simply gestures for the both of them to follow.

He watches the dance of Salim’s expressions as they change like the fickle spring weather, flickering between annoyance and delight, confusion and defeated acceptance, and, finally, complete surprise when his eyes fall upon Eric, Nick, and Rachel, huddled together next to Jason’s car.

“What is the meaning of this.” He mutters, blinking rapidly, an uncertain smile growing on his face, and Jason can’t help grinning. He loves him. He loves him.

He loves him.

“Hey, bud!” Nick nods at him, and Rachel goes in for a hug. “Don’t think you can just escape without saying goodbye.”

Eric clasps his shoulder, giving it a firm shake. “From now on we stay in touch, you hear?”

Salim looks between them, either tears shining in his eyes or the morning dew, throws his arms open, speechless.

Their shadows are long on the pavement, blue on the already melting snow. The tiny street is silent, lacking birds, cars, or tired commuters who might shake up the icy quiet of the air. But the pale sun is shining right above their little circle, and between the five of them, the world feels alive.

“Uh, dad? Who’s this?”

The six of them.

As introductions are made, Nick, Rachel, and Eric surround Zain like vultures, eager to catch a glimpse of the person that’s become almost like a legend in their midst. They may no longer talk about what happened, but they all remember his name. They remembered how Salim fought to get back to him.

Despite themselves, they all began caring for him eight years ago, and they never stopped.

“Really, you didn’t have to- This is too much.” Salim takes a step back from a very puzzled Zain, huddling up closer to Jason’s side while Eric’s busy questioning him about his studies.

“No, it isn’t. It’s just enough.” Jason smiles at him, and then, when he sees the uncertainty on his face, adds, “They deserve their goodbyes too, you know.”

Salim watches Rachel inspecting one of the pins on Zain’s backpack, looks at Nick excitedly tell him about the landmarks they should visit. He sighs.

“I suppose so.” He relents, dragging a tired hand down his face. His other hand travels down to encircle Jason’s, and Jason feels easy fireworks in his stomach. “Though this still doesn’t answer the question of where we’re supposed to get a car.”

His smile is so wide it hurts.

“Right there.” And he’s pointing at his car with undue enthusiasm.

“Jason.” Salim informs him in a sober voice. “That is your car.”

“I know.”

“Jason. Jason.”

He turned to face him now, the grave delivery somewhat undermined by the fact that they are still holding hands. That he’s grinning.

“I cannot ask you to drive us five hours to the next state over. I simply cannot do that.”

“You’re not.” And Jason is holding his hand tighter, secretely terrified of letting go. “I’m inviting myself over.”

Somewhere in the distance, a radio begins to play an Elvis song.

“What?”

“To your road trip. I…” He leaves the sentence hanging, tracing Salim’s profile, who is now staring out into the horizon with unblinking eyes. ”If- If you’ll have me, that is.”

“And your work? Your home? Your friend?” Salim asks, but the corners of his lips are upturned, and Jason suddenly remembers that he can kiss him. He can kiss him all he damn wants, and that is a reason good enough to leave this world behind.

“I got it all covered. Don’t worry about it.”

His hands are cold. Salim pulls him closer, turning back to face him, his hands encircling Jason completely as he begins to laugh. “You’re insane, you know that, right? You’re absolutely insane.”

Jason find his own breath in the folds of Salim’s coat, begins to laugh just as loud, just as easy. He’s made many bad decisions in his life – thankfully, this isn’t one of them.

“That’s alright, I-“

“Hey, guys?” Zain appears behind them, and he’s almost enough to make Jason leap ten feet into the air. He settles for taking a quick step backwards, tearing himself away from Salim’s side painfully.

He clears his throat.

Zain just gestures towards the luggage.

“Uh… So, what so what do I do with the bags..?”

“Take them to Jason’s car.” Salim nods, giving Jason’s hand a quick squeeze. “He’s coming with us.”

Rachel gives out a squeal of delight. Nick and Eric give them the least coveted thumbs up Jason’s ever seen, and even those make him giggle.

“If that’s cool with you.” Jason adds, almost as an afterthought, defiantly not wondering about what the fuck he would do if it wasn’t.

Zain blinks. Gives the two of them that look that became somehow familiar over their brief encounter – the disproportionately long stare that travels between their faces and their still interlocked hands.

“Damn. Alright.” He finally shakes his head, shrugging. “It’s cool.”

He’s grabbing the giant suitcase, wheeling it off to the car as he’s shouting over his shoulder:

“I’m not gonna start calling you dad, though.”

And Jason’s doubling over in laughter as Salim quietly curses under his breath.

[crystalelemental]

This is separate, but another thing that I think is difficult to process, even and perhaps especially for me sometimes, is that...people do have different demands, and “Fandom” is not a monolith.

I bring this up because just before I left Twitter, Gen 6 was trending because someone made a tweet about how obviously we could all agree that Gen 6 was Pokemon’s peak.  Which...god, how anyone can be so wrong is beyond me.  But here we are.  A lot of people pushed back, hilariously with a large chunk saying “Sure, if we’re only talking about ORAS,” as if ORAS wasn’t the first remake that wasn’t as good as the original generation’s third game, but one response to it really got to me a bit.

“I see we’re at the part of the cycle where Gen 6 is considered an underrated masterpiece now.”

I feel like this is a common stance about Pokemon fandom in general.  That there’s a clear and consistent cycle of “Fans shit on whatever’s new, then when they cool off it becomes accepted as okay, and ends on being really good and an underrated classic.”  And I think the intent of this is to downplay criticism of the games when they come out, and pretend like everyone’s just throwing a tantrum about changes instead of having legitimate concerns.  Which is extra strange because the answer for this cycle is pretty damn obvious.

XY was like ten years ago.  The 5-8 year olds that had this as Baby’s First Video Game are now in high school and have social media accounts for a certainty.  So about ten years later, suddenly there’s a lot of love and support for a game that was disliked at the time...because the people who grew up with it are now at an age their voices are the dominant segment.  This isn’t some mystery, but nor is it the same people changing their minds completely over time.  It’s the old guard being phased out, either by new fans aging into it, or by older fans disengaging with the series; probably both.

Again, I am 100% guilty of this too.  It’s hard not to generalize when you mostly see generalized impressions on things, and make sweeping statements as if different people’s opinions being louder at different points in time doesn’t mean people broadly don’t know what they want or what they’re talking about.  I think by and large they do, and insisting they don’t removes credibility from complaints about changes that aren’t doing so well.  I think it’s worth examining the complaints as they happen, and deciding whether they’re legitimate or not.  And that it’s also worth examining whether a change in broad opinions over time is something you agree with, and whether those changes really invalidate old complaints as being too harsh.

I don’t have a grand moral here.  I’ve just been thinking about this a lot, what with Gen 9 on the horizon.  But to add another layer of complication, I do think it’s easier to be swept up in the negative when immediate impressions are largely negative.  Gen 8 felt terrible even before it came out, because I kept up with everything.  Gen 9, I haven’t kept up with a word, and it feels a lot less dire.  Is it actually less dire?  I don’t know.  Maybe I’ll play it and hate it.  Maybe if fan impressions are negative, they’re right to be so.  But I’m spending less time being irritable about something than I did last generation, and that is to my own benefit.  I guess the moral is that fandom is reductionist and people should make their own opinions outside of what the collective believes, but to take a generalized negative response as something legitimate rather than chalking it up to fans not knowing what they want?  I dunno.

[educating-bimbos]

I guess that just moves my question along to something like this: "What do you mean by promoting femininity?"

One of the reasons a lot of people talk about patriarchy as an idea is that it described pressures and punishments that coerce people into their assigned roles. Boys who express emotion, for example, or girls who pursue technical aptitudes, are punished for doing so and adapt - often through pain - to conform to respective ideals of masculinity and femininity. It's damned effective at encouraging people to adopt those roles, but it can be immensely damaging to those who don't effortlessly fit into them.

Even when we aren't directly punishing people, it still strikes me as perverse to try to tell people whom they should grow up to be, and I am having difficulty conceptualising "promoting femininity" as anything but.

You mentioned being open to "varieties of femininity", but what does or doesn't qualify? Where does variation stop and heresy start?

Okay so femininity to me is just like a set of social functions, rituals, behaviors, and attitudes associated with social categories expressed commonly by women and femme people. A bit self referential, but that is kind of a limit with language past a certain point.

As for your statements on patriarchy, I don't really have the breadth of vocabulary to really get into it beyond the following. I enjoy the idea of being a stay-at-home housewife and kind of a 1950s advertisement aesthetic, do with that information what you will. There are also just some beliefs I hold for myself and what I want out of a relationship or social group. My goal here is to make the broad argument that there is a healthy way of managing that lifestyle that isn't buying into a number of other tangentially related, but not ideal sociopolitical prescriptions and normative beliefs. The idea that you can keep the sundresses and single income household and ditch the racism and antisemitism prevalent in the 1950s.

I don't believe in punishing people or socially ostracizing them if they don't fit in. If you go through my post history you will see time and time again me making the point that gatekeeping and broad attacks against identity groups is really dangerous and inhumane. I am just not fully certain what you mean by that when directed at me.

I did cast a broad net in that regard, but let me try to break it down just a bit because this is already a long answer and I want to get back to talking about dnd with my friends. So with the above statement on what I envision when I think of femininity, I think a number of different social groups, identities, social presentations, and performative ideas that exist on tumblr and elsewhere fit in such a way as for me to think "wow that is really cool." Examples being cottagecore tradwives like myself who tend to identify with an idealized view of "old ways" femininity as described in the second point where we adopt some older ideas or fashion trends and do away with other, less ideal facsimiles associated with being "traditional" whatever that means. There are also women in the bimbo community who also kinda fall into the rabbit hole of "what is a bimbo" which I myself grapple with from time to time and I still don't have a satisfying answer. I think that being a bimbo is cool and it takes a lot of work to keep up on what looks good in fashion, makeup, and maintaining a good physique. There are also really cool feminist blogs I follow that, while I may not agree with them on everything, I think there is value in a multi-polar dialectic and I am honored to share a space with them. I also do enjoy the aesthetic of the "dyed hair feminist" because I know so many people who pull it off and look really good despite me choosing to stick with natural hair color. Though it is the butt of many lazy jokes, I think it has grown past it in a way and that is absolutely worthy of celebration. Finally, as a non-religious type of person I do think that the spiritualists I know are really cool and I could talk for a long time about how each of them incorporate their beliefs and culture into their life and how it expresses itself through their art, their music, or their clothing.

This is an exceptionally long post so I am going to leave it here. I do want to thank you for asking some tough questions, but for now I may just have to leave it here for brevity's sake.

[ihatemynewbangs]

like a dog with a bird at your door; sakuatsu

vampire!atsumu, hunter!kiyoomi, angst, hopeful/happy ending, enemies(?) to lovers, relationship analysis

motoya is kidnapped by a vampire coven. as kiyoomi leaves his apartment to save him he is confronted by atsumu

word count: 1340

warnings: unaliving word mentioned, potentially graphic imagery, swearing

a/n: this was in my drafts for two years y'all, i finally had to get it out. pls yell your thoughts!

“Omi-kun.” 

His name, breathed into the stale living room air, floats like a golden ribbon and wraps itself around him. Strangling.

“Don’t do this.”

A scoff, “This doesn’t concern you, Miya.”

Kiyoomi is tense, muscles held taut and stiff. He knows this because of the sheer effort it takes to crouch and pull the packed duffle bag out from below his bed. 

He knows this like he knows many things; he knows that this is a suicide mission. He knows that there’s actually a pretty high chance of him not returning. But Motoya is waiting for him, sitting in a basement fifteen kilometres west of Osaka, and Kiyoomi cannot waste any more time.

Duffle in his grasp, he tries to push past the blonde but is stopped by an outstretched hand.

(Don’t stare at it. Ignore the broad palm, the long fingers—)

“Of course it does, Omi,” Atsumu huffs. Clearly, he does not share this feeling of urgency. Then again, Atsumu is consistent in following his trend of being selectively bothersome, slipping through Kiyoomi’s unlocked bedroom window at the most inconvenient of times.

“Doubtful, Miya. I need to leave–”

“Kiyoomi think this through. Komori-kun’s put up the same ward that I’ve seen you use, right? He’s been gone for only three hours so you have nine more to get there. What good are you doing running over without proper backup?”

“You’ve seen the video, have you not? He’s surrounded and we both know that the coven is only gaining support the longer I wait.” An abrupt laugh makes him pause.

Kiyoomi stares. 

“I can’t let you do this. You won’t come–”

“Fuck off Miya, don’t concern yourself with me.”

“Kiyoomi, please,” he begins to raise his voice. “This is a suicide mission! As your–”

“Miya, fuck off. Would you please shut up about your stupid soulmate crap, I don’t want to hear it.” Kiyoomi interrupts brazenly, thoughtlessly, and oh...

(Fuck. That’s not true.)

Now it’s Atsumu’s turn to stare. His face goes blank and he exhales deeply, unflinching. 

The statement holds greater weight than either of them want to admit; has an intricately woven, three-year-long story of desire and denial.

Of course, Kiyoomi had to say it now of all times; he had to let the cruel words spill through his lips like poisonous venom leaving a predator's fangs as it bites into an unassuming victim. That’s really what Atsumu is in this situation; a mere victim of fate. 

And shit, that’s really not what he meant to say. 

(Kiyoomi knows he’s cold, but he never means to be callous.) 

This delicate line that they walk, this balancing act of feigned ignorance and a purposefully undefined relationship is now jeopardized by Kiyoomi’s tactless words. 

Prior to their fated meeting seven months ago, Kiyoomi had heard plenty of the blonde he now stares at; had picked up whispers of his sadistic tendencies, the way he chased and toyed with his desperate prey before they collapsed from either fear or exhaustion—to remind them of the existence of true predators. 

(Atsumu has been nothing but gentle.)

Kiyoomi entered this unyielding game that day they met. But maybe this time it isn’t the prey that suffers. Or maybe it is, and the roles are just reversed. He doesn’t know. What he does know is that this chase is exhausting both parties involved.

(So why do you play, Kiyoomi?)

Atsumu pivots and exits the room, leaving Kiyoomi nothing to do but follow him through the small, dark apartment. He sees Atsumu leaning against the front door, seemingly lost in thought. 

It’s always been like this between them. Push and pull and push and pull and push and pull and push until Kiyoomi pulled twice. 

First when he left his window unlocked, as usual, knowing that he was practically welcoming Atsumu with open arms. And then the second time when he ended this stalemate by reminding them both that he will not acknowledge whatever corrupt soulmate bond has been manufactured between them by the gods.

Kiyoomi ponders how to further approach the situation, if, at all, when Atsumu smiles.

“You know, you’re right, Omi-kun. ”

And oh my god Atsumu is willing to overlook this fatal error Kiyoomi made; is willing to grab his hand and bring him back to the line on which they’d tread and pretend that Kiyoomi hadn’t just tossed them both into the abyss with nothing to grab to slow their descent.

This is a complete act of mercy. One that Kiyoomi is almost willing to accept—he does have to leave and save Motoya, after all—but the pained expression, bottom lip turned white from the press of teeth, makes him pause and reassess. 

(He’s not callous. He really doesn’t mean to be cruel.)

Why does his chest suddenly feel so tight, as though a tiny hole inside of it expanded, threatening to collapse him from the inside out?

For all their pushing and pulling and maintenance of balance, it has never been a truly equal game between them. It was always Atsumu who suffered just a bit more.

Because humans cannot feel the soulmate connection; do not have the acute sensitivity required to feel the warmth of specific touches, the allure of particular smells, or even the special awareness that comes in the form of an invisible pulling—yearning manifested—that connects the supernatural species to their other half. 

They are not meant to have soulmates and thus do not share the absolute reverence that the vampire kind has for it. This respect—so deep—allows a small, painful love to form in the cracks between two individuals, enemies by nature, binding Kiyoomi to Atsumu and Atsumu to Kiyoomi, with Atsumu feeling the connection just a little bit more. 

This leaves Kiyoomi suffering the guilt of sentencing rejection and yet permitting a distant closeness that tempts him with a love he refuses to accept cannot have. 

(Isn’t he lonely?)

And Atsumu, the willing recipient, is always content to accept whatever Kiyoomi gives him, never asking for more. With this, he shows his love is constant. 

Kiyoomi considers this. Inhales. Exhales. Thinks. Reexamines his previous stance on ignoring the small and soft burning he feels inside himself around Atsumu, as though he swallowed a match that stayed lit inside of him.

(Butterflies, maybe?) 

Nothing in life is certain save for death and taxes and the bond that ties estranged souls like theirs together until the first certainty separates them again. 

How unfortunate Atsumu is, to have a soulmate like Kiyoomi. He deserves an act of mercy. 

Kiyoomi looks up to speak, but Atsumu doesn’t face him anymore. He has never wanted to see the vampire’s wicked grin so badly, sharp canines digging into a full lower lip—threatening, tantalizing. He’d even settle for the infuriating smirk that never fails to make him want to absolutely punch Atsumu in the mouth. With his own mouth, preferably. Softly, perhaps.

(Reach out. Say something, Kiyoomi.)

A soulmate bond between a vampire and a human is unheard of. Maybe this means something, that they have such a connection.

Kiyoomi sighs, placing his duffle gently on the floor. Motoya can wait an extra few minutes. 

—

“Say it, Omi-kun. I want to hear you say it.”

“I love you, Atsumu.”

And Atsumu does know this. He knows it in the way Kiyoomi sits on rooftops, placing himself always right of centre so that Atsumu can complete their souls’ symmetry and mirror him on the left. He knows it in the way Kiyoomi has never once made a move against his life regardless of his reputation for being merciless to vampires, never meeting one he didn’t kill. He knows it in the way Kiyoomi leaves his bedroom window unlocked.

He feels it in the way Kiyoomi is now letting him come close, he himself leaning in. He feels it in Kiyoomi’s breath against his lips. In the soulmate warmth that only he can feel but would do anything to share. 

Atsumu won’t complain though. Because Kiyoomi allowing him to feel that warmth is far beyond enough.

[whitehotharlots]

A movement that cannot be criticized cannot achieve positive goals

The hardest part of talking about malignant trends on the broad left is that, well, you’re not allowed to talk about them. It’s no exaggeration to say that criticism has become fully conflated with violence. If you attempt to engage critically with a left-liberal writer--regardless of how thorough and respectful you may be, and regardless of how powerful, public, or insulated the subject of the criticism--you will be accused of dismissing and erasing the writer, of inciting violence against the writer, and of committing some form of genocide against whichever identity groups the writer belongs to.

Conversely, if you don’t provide specifics, you’ll be accused of making stuff up. The same people who claim it’s an act of aggression to ask for proof when they make claims of victimization turn into immense pedants the moment they encounter a heterodox opinion. 

Unsurprisingly, a discourse milieu in which critical analysis is forbidden is a prime breeding ground for unsustainable (and even horrific) behavioral standards. Never mind improving the world that exists outside their sphere of influence... these people are perpetually on the brink of destroying their allies, their institutions, and themselves.

Today I dug into an especially profane case that highlights both of these points. It’s a matter of public record, so I hopefully won’t get accused of “doxing” anyone for discussing it. It’s also the sort of story where if someone cares about it, they’ll have an opinion of it within a second or two of reading a headline describing what happened. This means it’ll only be of interest to the sort of cranks who read this blog. My goal here isn’t to express outrage or advocate for one side or other--although it is outrageous, and you won’t have to try too hard to see which side I favor. Instead, I’m going to try to move beyond that, to use this instance as a broader cautionary tale in regards to the more horrific tendencies of the identitarian left, and to begin formulating some means of resistance. 

In other words, this might get boring. Even more so than usual. 

The story involves a court case, documented here, in which a young man named Kieran Bhattacharya is suing the University of Virginia Medical School. Mr. Bhattacharya (a white supremacist name if I’ve ever heard one) was subjected to formal censure, repeated psychological evaluations, suspension, and eventual expulsion. This all happened because he raised some concerns after a White Fragility-inspired panel on microaggressions.

This is one of those cases where both sides are going to assume there’s a lot more going on beneath the surface and, like I said, are going to be disinclined toward actually reading the available evidence. Thankfully, the court brief is fairly exhaustive and--importantly--the account provided in the brief has received the approval of both plaintiff and defendant. To stress, everyone involved in this case agrees, legally, that the account provided herein is an accurate picture of what happened. Additionally, we also have audio of the initial microaggression seminar (Mr. Bhattacharya’s comments start at around the 28:30 mark), as well as of the pursuant committee meeting that ended in his expulsion. 

Here is the initial exchange, as documented by the brief:

Bhattacharya: Hello. Thank you for your presentation. I had a few questions just to clarify your definition of microaggressions. Is it a requirement, to be a victim of microaggression, that you are a member of a marginalized group? 

Adams: Very good question. And no. And no— 

Bhattacharya: But in the definition, it just said you have to be a member of a marginalized group—in the definition you just provided in the last slide. So that’s contradictory. 

Adams: What I had there is kind of the generalized definition. In fact, I extend it beyond that. As you see, I extend it to any marginalized group, and sometimes it’s not a marginalized group. There are examples that you would think maybe not fit, such as body size, height, [or] weight. And if that is how you would like to see me expand it, yes, indeed, that’s how I do. 

Bhattacharya: Yeah, follow-up question. Exactly how do you define marginalized and who is a marginalized group? Where does that go? I mean, it seems extremely nonspecific.

 Adams: And—that’s intentional. That’s intentional to make it more nonspecific . . . . 

After the initial exchange, Bhattacharya challenged Adams’s definition of microaggression. He argued against the notion that “the person who is receiving the microaggressions somehow knows the intention of the person who made it,” and he expressed concern that “a microaggression is entirely dependent on how the person who’s receiving it is reacting.” Id. He continued his critique of Adams’s work, saying, “The evidence that you provided—and you said you’ve studied this for years—which is just one anecdotal case—I mean do you have, did you study anything else about microaggressions that you know in the last few years?” Id. After Adams responded to Bhattacharya’s third question, he asked an additional series of questions: “So, again, what is the basis for which you’re going to tell someone that they’ve committed a microaggression? . . . Where are you getting this basis from? How are you studying this, and collecting evidence on this, and making presentations on it?”

You can listen to the audio if you like. There’s nothing there, in my opinion, that is not captured accurately in the written description. Bhattacharya does not yell or raise his voice. He sounds skeptical, but in no way violent or threatening. Nor does Adams, the presenter, signal that she is experiencing anything that approaches fear or trauma. 

Immediately after the event, a professor who helped organize the discussion filed a “Professionalism Concern Card”--a cute academic euphemism for a disciplinary write up--against Bhattacharya, alleging he had displayed a troubling lack of respect for differences (the irony here probably does not need to be explicated).

Soon after that--literally still the same day of the panel--Bhattacharya received an email from faculty asking him to “share his thoughts” so as to help him “understand and be able to cope with unintended consequences of conversations.” The tone of the email is polite and professional, but the text hints toward an attempt at entrapment. You’ll see this a lot in woke spaces--invitations to come to an understanding with one another that are, in actuality, attempts to get a person to say something cancellable.

Bhattacharya took the bait, and, well… 

During Bhattacharya and Peterson’s one-hour meeting, Peterson “barely mentioned” Bhattacharya’s questions and comments at the panel discussion. Dkt. 33 ¶ 73. Instead, Peterson attempted to determine Bhattacharya’s “views on various social and political issues—including sexual assault, affirmative action, and the election of President Trump.” 

At this point, the kid was fucked. He soon after had an uneventful-seeming meeting with a dean. Two weeks after that, a separate panel found him guilty of “patterns of unprofessional behavior and egregious violations of professionalism” and strongly encouraged him to seek psychological counseling. 

Pre-Trump, Bhattacharya still probably would have been fine if he had just kept his head down, gone to a couple therapy sessions, and maybe issued an empty apology. Since 2016, however, the rules have changed. An accusation is now absolute proof of guilt and no amount of ablution can save someone in a vulnerable position. 

Eleven days after receiving the ostensible suggestion that he receive counseling, Bhattacharya was informed that he would not be permitted to return to classes until he had been evaluated. A day after that--before even having the opportunity to seek the mandated counseling--he was given a mere 3 hours notice before having to attend another disciplinary committee meeting. 

This meeting found that Bhattacharya’s continuing behaviors were proof that he posed an imminent danger to the campus community, although the committee did not bother to explain what those behaviors entailed. His behavior was simply noted as “unusual” and this was proof that “Any patient that walked into the room with [Bhattacharya] would be scared.” The following day, Bhattacharya was forcibly removed from campus and told he could not return until he had been screened. He was, subsequently, not allowed to receive sanctioned screening, because of his status of having been removed from campus after being deemed a security risk.

Again, none of what I have described is an exaggeration. None of these details are even being contested. 

Now for my own conjecture: the problem isn’t that anyone genuinely believes Bhattacharya poses a threat to anyone’s safety. The problem is that he attempted to question the ideological firmaments of contemporary anti-racist training. These firmaments are protected with aggressive viciousness precisely because they cannot withstand scrutiny. Had Bhattacharya merely scoffed at them, or even if he had been outright condescending and dismissive, he probably would not have received such a severe punishment. The problem was that he was right, and his accusers knew it.

Understanding speech in the manner prescribed by the peddlers of microaggression theory cannot possibly be codified in a way that won't result in arbitrary punishment. Bhattacharya’s experience demonstrates that with horrific irony. 

The assertion here is that the intention of a speech act should have no bearing on how we adjudicate the morality of that speech act--such a point was made repeatedly in the initial discussion, and stressed once again after Bhattacharya’s concerns have been raised. This standard contradicts how we've processed the morality of speech for centuries, but that's what people are very explicitly demanding.

How is this workable, when literally any statement could, conceivably, be considered offensive by at least one individual? This, I feel, was the point Bhattacharya reaching toward. If you were to say, I dunno, "I love trees" to a group of 1000 people, 999 of them could regard that statement as benign. But what if one person takes offense to it? What if they work in the lumber industry, or they were molested by guy in a Smokey the Bear costume? What if that person then files a report accusing the tree lover of offensive speech? Will the speaker be disciplined? Or will the powers that be take intention and effect into account?

Of course, we're not going to criminalize all speech in this way. Like all extreme and broad-reaching disciplinary standards, this one will only be selectively evoked in order to punish people with heterodox opinions and/or those whose presence threatens the status quo. Someone who says something much more incendiary, like "all men are rapists" or "white people shouldn't get social security" would not receive a reprimand regardless of how much offense their statements caused, because they're saying something that's acceptable in our current milieu. And right now, the least acceptable speech is that which shines a light on the manifest flaws and hypocrisies of corporate anti racism. 

Back to my hypothetical example, if the tree-loving speaker was on good terms with everyone, the complaint would most likely be ignored. But if he had said or done other things that for whatever reason displeased the people in charge, the specious accusation could still ruin him. What's worse, the person who filed the allegation of offense might not have even actually taken offense at the statement--they were just looking for a way to get rid of him.

Bhattacharya was attempting to voice legitimate criticisms about a political movement whose suggestions are functionally unworkable and that, even if it were implemented fully and uncritically, does not contain even a hypothetical explanation in regards to how its goals would result in improved racial equality/equity. Because of that, he was cynically labeled dangerous and expelled from a public university. 

You'd think a group that obsesses over power differentials and their own marginalization would have some grasp of this. Regardless of which side you fall into with this particular culture war, it should fucking terrify you that a movement that’s been tasked with addressing pressing social problems is designed in such a way that any substantial criticism is met with aggressive punishment. 

There’s no way you can win if this is you is how conduct yourself. This is why we’re losing. This is why even if you get all the censorship and deplatforming you can ever dream of, even if every major bank and multinational corporatation professes fealty to your movement, you will still lose. Because there’s no way you can win. 

[ladyfl4me]

hi i just finished amnesty and im going on AO3 (as one does) and i was like blindsighted by how much indrid/duck there was???? did i miss an episode or something???? why do so many ppl ship it? (btw im just curious / not trying to yuck anyone's yum, etc) thank you so much!

No problem, I’d be happy to answer your question! I can by no means speak for the whole Amnesty/Indruck crowd, so if anyone sees this and wants to chip in their two cents, feel free to reblog/reply to give anon some answers. These are broad statements that by no means apply to everyone/how they interacted with Indruck/Amnesty as a whole. tl;dr at the end

The short answer: people are gonna ship things. Indrid asked for Duck on the payphone, he and Duck had one (1) friendly banter-y conversation about nog, they seemed to be getting along well, and they had a potential angsty through-line about their respective experiences with seeing the future. Arc 3 came out during the 2018 holiday season, so there were many gaps between uploads to account for holidays and live shows. People wanted content to fill the void. Indrid and Duck having an interesting dynamic + people going “what if this was a thing” + gap-between-episode fever = a slew of Indruck fics hitting the AO3 presses. 

That was my experience of it. I went on AO3 when I got into Amnesty, September 2018; first fic on there I saw was Cheating the System by @duck-duck-juice, and I read that and thought the dynamic was interesting. Read everything else in the tag. Got interested. Went in the tag on Tumblr. Got sucked in. Here we are. 

The long answer for “why is this ship a thing” is way more nebulous, which is where other people can chip in their thoughts. I think a great place to start is with Indrid himself. 

Indrid Cold’s introduction to Amnesty was fucking delicious to hear in real time. He had a dramatic phone call entrance at the end of an episode. He had a slightly-unhinged but warm-hearted aesthetic and attitude. He could see the fucking future. He was directly in danger because of arc 3′s plot. He was an interesting minor character who could have used fleshing out, and the inevitable “what if this happened” crowd of speculative fans - myself included - were deeply interested in what could be done with him. He was the former court seer, which could have been an interesting way to flesh out Sylvain’s worldbuilding. His future-sight was an interesting component that could have bearing on future plot arcs (albeit in a possibly game-breaking way, which makes even more of an argument for fleshing him out to test the limits of his power in a story context - but that’s me editorializing). 

Good grief, he was cool. And people wanted more. They wanted him to be deeper. Essentially, they wanted a member of the supporting cast on par with Mama or Barclay, not a one-hit wonder who took a fist to the face, fucked off, and wasn’t seen again until after the biggest tragedy of the series (and didn’t even ADDRESS it or add any emotional depth to the story, besides a plot-based hook to hang our hopes on. I’m still bitter about that). 

One way to flesh out a character is to look at their existing relationships in canon and expand on those. Indrid talked to Duck a bit. They got along and it was sweet. That’s a relationship to expand on. And people ran that one into the end zone. And as arc 4 dragged on and got angstier, people longed for the good ol’ mysterious/exciting/Not Completely Depressing days of arc 3 and wrote more Indruck fic. 

Another place to start is with Duck. Justin’s pretty decent at making relatable characters that people like, with interesting depth and humanity to them. All that being said, one remarkable thing about Duck was that, despite his incredible depth and really interesting motivations, he wasn’t connected much to the Sylvain plot. This is more of a side effect of Indruck than a cause, but still worth mentioning. I see Duck as very connected to Kepler, which is his hometown and a place he had a job to protect. But he wasn’t very connected to Sylvain. He wasn’t in deep like Aubrey was, or even how Ned was with the Flamebright Pendant. He was just a dude with a sword and a destiny someone else gave him. Hell, he was more connected to Earth as a locus than Sylvain; plotwise, he was really just along for the ride because of his Minerva-granted destiny. Shipping him with a character connected to Sylvain brought him into the narrative that the Pine Guard lived in a bit more, and that was fun to explore.

Ultimately, though, folks just thought it was neat. Some people were interested in the potential emotional connection. Some people I know crushed on Indrid and projected onto Duck to actualize that, or vice versa. Some people were curious about how this trend could coexist with Amnesty canon, and incorporated the ship as a side-arc of larger narratives. Some people were just here to have a good time. Regardless, Indruck seemed to come out of nowhere and took over the place, to the chagrin and annoyance of many, but to the enjoyment of many more. 

tl;dr: their brief interactions in arc 3 + a dearth of canon content at the time + the old fandom trend of “people will really ship anything” + content creators with itchy fingers and spare time = Indruck being everywhere. 

I hope this answers some of your questions! If anyone else wants to chip in, please do!

[arecomicsevengood]

A PANEGYRIC TO THE THINGS I DO NOT UNDERSTAND

I generally don’t talk about why I write criticism; I presume no one cares. The core of my contrarianism rests on the fact that many of the things I dislike or have an aversion to I think the market is set up to reward. This holds true both for what I write about and how I choose to write about it. I’m not writing about all these Drawn And Quarterly books that seem like novelty gag gifts for people who don’t actually like comics. I’m not writing about simplistic YA material put out by major publishing houses. I’m not reading superhero trademark maintenance. To me it feels like pre-chewed food I see and know to avoid. I’m also pretty put off by work that’s self-consciously “lowbrow,” but to that stuff’s credit, I don’t think it’s particularly popular. It just seems to fit into larger trends of what’s readily digestible, due to its own willingness to dismiss itself.

When it comes to criticism, I read a fair amount of other people’s writing, and collate a list of ways I don’t want to write that coincide with what I hate to read. I don’t want to read anything that’s “personal” in a way that takes the general premise of the existence of a book as an excuse for a narcissist to talk about themselves. Still, it seems like people love that. It is essentially the lingua franca for a whole type of websites, to have writers leverage their identity or trauma for the sake of hot takes. Even if no one gets paid particularly well, there is a reward in the economy of attention. People also really like writing that praises things that are already popular, because they want to be given permission to like the things they like, but no one needs that. People also like dismissive takes  based around incredibly shallow surface-level impressions of something that then becomes this shorthand “common knowledge.” if you say “Chris Ware’s boring” or “Rob Liefeld can’t draw feet” there will be no shortage of people chiming up in the comments to say the same thing. People love to be given permission to not have to think about things, and while I understand that impulse completely, I’m too far gone down the hole of obsessiveness to play along.

I wish I could say all that I dislike falls into one of a fixed number of categories, but in actuality, I am all too often reading writing that makes me ask “why won’t you just shut the fuck up?” or exclaim “jesus, this is so depressing!” and it seems new ways to garner these reactions are continually being manufactured, though in general, the innovations in this area are being done in the more lucrative world of music writing. Still, many of the things I wish to avoid have been done by writers I absolutely admire, partly because they’re more prolific I am, and so can’t allow themselves the luxury of overthinking what they’re doing for the sake of avoiding trends. (I also try to avoid writing stuff that’s just plain stupid and offensive, but lord knows that gets hate-clicks, and hate-clicks are as valued as any.)

I try to engage the work that’s on the page. The best work encourages a multiplicity of readings, I write a lot with the implicit assumption that the framework I’m bringing to bear might be wrong. I believe the work that has the most ideas present inside it will be conflicted enough in depicting multiple ideas simultaneously that it doesn’t encourage a straightforward and easy read. I relate it to the paradox that the most interesting people are those who don’t talk about themselves, but ask questions of others. Presumably, those who are disinterested in others don’t interrogate themselves in their moments alone.

I might be being reductive. So many of my own thoughts might be overly simplistic, a set of half-thought-through opinions designed to arrive at a place of dismissal so I can move on. I spend a lot of time thinking about the sort of creator-owned genre comics Image traffics in these days, because I have zero interest in them, and they don’t seem appealing at all. They don’t come close to my idea of good. I generally object to the way contemporary comics are colored, but I think the issues run deeper than that. The line generally used in reference to them is to call them movie-pitch comics. But is that why they’re bad? I don’t know. Maybe the issue is just the way their writing stands in relationship to economy, where a single issue is not a satisfying story. Maybe superhero comics work better than that stuff because there’s an explicit formula established doing the heavy lifting, and if you are doing something more “high-concept” you need to spend more time with exposition and can’t just defer to the visuals of a fight scene that superhero comics demand. I don’t know! Any answer to the question of why things don’t work is going to end up with some broad statements, because the act of artmaking involves an incalculable amount of choices, any number of which could balance out or redeem any of the others. It’s almost surprising that the history of comics isn’t littered with works that were concerned failures at the time of their release but seem prescient in their storytelling choices now.

I want to write about work that is interesting to think about. What’s interesting to think about is that which I don’t understand. Obviously, writing is an attempt to make sense of something, and much of what I write about then becomes something I understand, or at least, have a take on. But I still want to engage, in some sort of honest way, the work I don’t understand, that short-circuits my brain.

A good example of something I don’t really understand is Stella Murphy’s comic Hometime, which I ordered from Domino Books. It’s a collection of single-panel gag cartoons, kinda? Every page is meant to be taken as its own entity. It’s printed and red and yellow, it feels eye-searingly bright. There’s dialogue balloons, not captions. The visual language sort of seems like it comes from underground comics, of the way underground comics relate to older cartoon styles. I’m saying all of these things like they’re sentences but if I were speaking to you there would be no hint of certainty in my voice. Another paradox: I often feel like I don’t have the language to describe what images in a comic look like unless I have an idea of what the narrative is doing. Maybe these gags feel like they work because they’re incredibly economical in their subversion of the expectation one comes to gag cartoons with. That almost seems too simplistic an explanation to count. I’m sure, if you haven’t read Murphy’s cartoons and grappled with them, that sort of conclusion seems like I’m saying literally nothing.

I’ve been reading Krazy Kat again. It’s interesting that that’s a strip which is notably formulaic, but also is all about subverting that formula or having it play out differently or avoid it altogether. It seems pretty agreed upon that the key to successful comics writing is to have a degree of economy in terms of the words on the page. This allows the images to carry their weight, but images themselves have their own weight of meaning that’s accrued over time. Think about being born on this Earth, and all of the acclimation to one’s surroundings that occurs concurrently with the acquisition of language. Talking with a computer programmer friend, his stance on writing code was, the easier it is for you, the less lines you have to write, the more code has been written by other people before you that you’re relying on. So many of the best comics are consciously written with an awareness of expectations that are then subverted. I don’t know. Generally the argument I make, when talking about “experimental” work, is to contrast it with “formulaic” work. This is my way of asserting the obvious superiority of the former. But maybe this is wrong, and the best and most effective comics, including the ones I’m labeling “experimental,” nonetheless have a formula they’re playing with? Because the truth of the matter is my use of scientific language is a pose premised on my not actually understanding math.

I imagine that a normal person wouldn’t understand why anyone would feel compelled to write comics criticism in the first place. For all the shame I feel about the fact that this is what I’m doing, I’m proud to say I don’t know what my fucking deal is.

[newstfionline]

Headlines

Virus numbers show normal life still far away (AP) South Africa was poised on Saturday to join the top five countries most affected by the coronavirus, while breathtaking numbers around the world were a reminder a return to normal life is still far from sight. Confirmed virus cases worldwide have topped 14 million and deaths have surpassed 600,000, according to Johns Hopkins University data, a day after the World Health Organization reported a single-day record of new infections at over 237,000. Death tolls in the United States are reaching new highs, and India’s infections are over 1 million. Iran’s president made the startling announcement that as many as 25 million Iranians could have been infected, the state-run IRNA news agency reported Saturday. Iran has seen the worst outbreak in the Middle East with more than 270,000 confirmed cases. South Africa on Saturday could join the U.S., Brazil, India and Russia as the most badly hit countries as its cases near 350,000. Current case trends show it will surpass Peru.

Millions of kids told full return to school in fall unlikely (AP) Millions more children in the U.S. learned Friday that they’re unlikely to return to classrooms full time in the fall because of the coronavirus pandemic as death tolls reached new highs. It came as many states—particularly in the Sunbelt—struggled to cope with the surge and governments worldwide tried to control fresh outbreaks. In a sign of how the virus is galloping around the globe, the World Health Organization reported nearly a quarter-million new infections in a single day. In the U.S., teams of military medics were deployed in Texas and California to help hospitals deluged by coronavirus patients. The two most populous states each reported roughly 10,000 new cases and some of their highest death counts since the pandemic began. Big numbers in Florida, Arizona and other states also are helping drive the U.S. resurgence that’s forcing states to rethink the school year.

Stress rises for unemployed as extra $600 benefit nears end (AP) A major source of income for roughly 30 million unemployed people is set to end, threatening their ability to meet rent and pay bills and potentially undercutting the fragile economic recovery. In March, Congress approved an extra $600 in weekly unemployment benefits as part of its $2 trillion relief package aimed at offsetting the impact of the coronavirus pandemic. That additional payment expires next week unless it gets renewed. For Henry Montalvo, who was furloughed from his job as a banquet server and bartender in Phoenix in mid-March, the expiration of the $600 will cut his unemployment benefits by two-thirds. He uses the money to help support his three children and pregnant girlfriend. “Now that it’s about to end, that grim and uneasy feeling is coming back and really fast,” Montalvo said. The unemployment insurance program has emerged as a crucial source of support at a time when the jobless rate is at Depression-era levels. In May, unemployment benefits made up 6% of all U.S. income, ahead of even Social Security.

Half of Oklahoma is ‘Indian country.’ What if all native treaties were upheld? (The Intercept) The U.S. Supreme Court issued a decision last week that altered the map of Oklahoma. The eastern half of the state, including much of Tulsa, is now, for legal purposes, Indian country. The Supreme Court decision was uncommon—Indigenous people have seen few victories so sweeping in the high court—but treaty violations like those that occurred in Oklahoma are not. “The rule of thumb is every treaty’s been broken,” said Matthew Fletcher, director of the Indigenous Law and Policy Center at Michigan State University. Going back to the original treaty texts would make broad swaths of the nation Native territory. That means Indigenous people would have a stronger voice on environmental enforcement, more of a say on fossil fuel infrastructure construction, be able to better control the fate of Native children removed from their parents’ home, and less likely to be tried in local courts where district attorneys are elected using racist, tough-on-crime politics. Beyond control over the land itself, the treaties lay the groundwork for obligations requiring the federal government to provide adequate resources to support health care, safety, and education—which have never been fulfilled.

Mexican cartel shows its might as president visits its heartland (Reuters) A video depicting a sprawling military-style convoy of one of Mexico’s most powerful drug cartels circulated on social networks on Friday just as President Andres Manuel Lopez Obrador visited the group’s heartland. In the two-minute clip, members of the fearsome Jalisco New Generation Cartel (CJNG) stand in fatigues alongside a seemingly endless procession of armored vehicles. The video’s release coincided with Lopez Obrador’s visit to the states of Guanajuato, Jalisco and Colima, some of the cartel’s strongholds. “They are sending a clear message... that they basically rule Mexico, not Lopez Obrador,” said Mike Vigil, a former chief of international operations for the U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration.

Panama extends suspension of international flights by a month due to coronavirus (Reuters) Panama’s civil aviation authority said on Friday it will extend a suspension of international flights by another month due to the coronavirus crisis. International flights were first suspended in March as the spread of the virus prompted authorities to impose measures to better contain it.

Richardson meets with Maduro, but fails to secure release of American prisoners (Washington Post) Former New Mexico governor Bill Richardson concluded a four-day special mission to Venezuela on Friday, succeeding in opening a direct channel with President Nicolás Maduro but failing in his immediate objective: the release of eight high-profile prisoners being held in Caracas, including seven Americans. In a telephone interview with The Washington Post—his first since leaving Caracas—Richardson, an elder statesmen of the Democratic Party and former U.S. ambassador to the United Nations, said his initial optimism about securing the rapid release of at least some of the prisoners had turned to disappointment after catching Maduro “on a bad day.” The trip nevertheless amounted to the most significant diplomatic effort in Caracas by an American since Washington severed ties with Maduro and shuttered the U.S. Embassy there early last year. Though officially a private humanitarian mission, the trip was “coordinated” with the U.S. government, Richardson said.

EU tells US: Stop threatening our companies with sanctions (AP) The European Union is warning the Trump administration to hold off threatening trade sanctions against EU companies involved in the completion of new German-Russian and Turkish-Russian natural gas pipelines and instead discuss differences as allies. This week, the Trump administration warned companies involved in the projects they will be subject to U.S. penalties unless they halt their work. The move has further increased tension in already fraught U.S.-European ties. “I am deeply concerned at the growing use of sanctions, or the threat of sanctions, by the United States against European companies and interests,” EU foreign policy chief Josep Borrell said in a statement, adding similar attempts had already been made in cases involving Iran, Cuba and the International Criminal Court. “Where policy differences exist, the European Union is always open to dialogue. But this cannot take place against the threat of sanctions,” Borrell said. “European policies should be determined here in Europe, not by third countries.”

Greece’s great declutter at battle coastline (AP) Greece is commemorating one of the greatest naval battles in ancient history this year at Salamis, the claw-shaped island skirting the mainland near Athens. It’s where the invading Persian navy suffered a heavy defeat 2,500 years ago, their large vessels unable to properly maneuver in the narrow seaways. Salamis, now known as Salamina, has become an extended suburb of the capital, a blue-collar retirement and summer home spot. It still looks out over a fleet of sunken and partially sunken vessels. Heavily rusted cargo ships and tugboats, battered sailboats and fishing trawlers are scattered and abandoned between Salamina and Greece’s largest industrial zone with oil refineries, shipyards and a massive Chinese-owned container port. With the main commemoration events just months away, Greece is in a race to declutter the coastline and has already salvaged dozens of ships, which are dragged to shore, cut up and transported to scrapyards in central Greece.

Mass protests rock Russian Far East city again (AP) Tens of thousands of people in the Russian Far East city of Khabarovsk took to the streets on Saturday, protesting the arrest of the region’s governor on charges of involvement in multiple murders. Local media estimated the rally in the city 6100 kilometres (3800 miles) east of Moscow attracted from 15,000 to 50,000 people. The protests against the arrest of Furgal have taken place every day this week, with hundreds of people rallying in the city center every day, and reflected widespread anger over the arrest of the popular governor and a simmering discontent with the Kremlin’s policies. Furgal, a member of the nationalist Liberal Democratic Party, was elected governor in 2018. His unexpected victory in the gubernatorial election reflected growing public frustration with President Vladimir Putin’s policies and marked a painful setback for the main Kremlin party, United Russia.

China says it’s not trying to replace US, won’t be bullied (AP) China isn’t seeking to confront or replace the United States as the world’s top technological power, but will fight back against “malicious slander” and attacks from Washington, a foreign ministry spokesperson said Friday, responding to a litany of recent accusations from the Trump administration. Hua Chunying said China’s chief concern is improving the livelihoods of its citizens and maintaining global peace and stability, despite what critics say is an increasingly aggressive foreign policy that looks to expand Chinese influence in the military, technology, economic and other spheres. Her comments came in response to a speech Thursday by U.S. Attorney General William Barr in which he cautioned American business leaders against promoting policies favorable to Beijing. He asserted that China at the beginning of the coronavirus pandemic had not only dominated the market for protective gear, exposing American dependence on Beijing, but had also hoarded supplies and blocked producers from exporting them to countries in need. Barr also accused hackers linked to the Chinese government of targeting American universities and businesses to steal research related to coronavirus vaccine development, leveling the allegation against Beijing hours after Western agencies made similar claims against Russia. “The People’s Republic of China is now engaged in an economic blitzkrieg—an aggressive, orchestrated, whole-of-government (indeed, whole-of-society) campaign to seize the commanding heights of the global economy and to surpass the United States as the world’s preeminent technological superpower,” Barr said.

Major Beirut medical centre lays off hundreds as crisis bites (Reuters) Zawqan Abdelkhalek, a nurse at the American University of Beirut’s (AUB) medical centre since 2012, was laid off on Friday along with hundreds of colleagues as even hospitals buckle under the weight of Lebanon’s economic collapse. “I have a baby daughter, I need to get her food and water and pay for her vaccines,” the 29-year-old said. A currency crash means his pension in Lebanese pounds is now worth just around $500, he said. He blamed the ruling elite for daily power cuts, skyrocketing prices and pushing the country to the brink. Local media and employees said the AUB, one of the country’s oldest universities and a regional medical hub, laid off more than 500 workers. At least 220,000 jobs in the private sector were shed between October and February, a survey by research firm InfoPro showed, with the figures only expected to get worse.

[whatyourfathersays]

Senorita → Brad Simpson (Part One)

A/N: hello! this is gonna be a very mini series based off of the music vide ‘Señorita’ by Shawn Mendes and Camila Cabello. Feel free to watch the music video first to get a general gist of what is going to happen.

Words: 4.5k, I got carried away

-

Brad runs a hand through his dark curls, pushing them off of his forehead as he walks into the small café on the corner street of Long Valley. A white vest top clung to his torso with ease, broadcasting his muscles perfectly. His trousers were black, contrasting his vest top well. Only he could look that good in such a simple outfit. Everyone in the café that noticed his presence instantly looked away from the towering, intimidating man.

It was a hot day in Long Valley, everyone out with their hats, sunscreen lathered on their skin to protect them from the heat, shorts on everyone's legs and minimal shirts on their body. It was a bold statement for someone to be wearing jeans, but Brad Simpson loved being that bold statement, always. From his retro motorcycle he'd bought five years ago when he turned eighteen to his leather jackets, skinny jeans, broad shoulders. There was always at least one reason to look at Brad Simpson, even if it was just for the pleasure of looking at such an attractive person.

He sits down on one of the booth chairs in the retro café. The floor was tiled with white laminate tiles, the walls tiled up too with a strip of red as a pop of colour. The faux leather on the booths' benches and stool tops were the same burgundy red, matching the marble counter that drinks were currently being served on as people craved the cold, refreshing drinks.

The only reason Brad had found himself at the café at the day's peak was because he had some friends to meet up with who were passing through town. They were usually moving from city to city, placing bets, getting with girls, doing drugs, drinking alcohol. Brad would much rather do that in the comfort of his own town, where he knew everyone had links to get whatever he wanted far as cheap and as soon as possible. But with their unexpected arrival in town, Brad had agreed to meet them after their absence in his life.

He looks over his shoulder as a girl in a pink uniform-dress walks out of the door separating the café's bar from the kitchen. Orders were usually taken at the tables if people were planning on staying to eat, while quick drinks were ordered at the bar. So, expectantly, the girl ghosts her eyes over the café before landing on Brad, the only table that she knew hadn't been served yet.

Brad was well enough known in Long Valley—whether for his reputation with girls or his reputation with his bold statements, he was known, and not for the greatest reasons. Everyone seemed to know Brad, or at least know of him. He was a brooding boy, a constant stoic and unreadable expression glued onto his perfectly porcelain features: he was pretty difficult to miss.

However, the waitress walked over with such confidence—head held high, shoulders up, back arched—that Brad couldn't help but raise his eyebrows at her, a smirk hinting on his lips. She had dark hair, it fell to her hips, complimenting the curves Brad could see from her uniform-dress. A name tag with her name on was actually hidden from his view by her long hair, which made him want to push her hair behind her ear—not only a way of flirting, but a way of knowing what her name was. He didn't though, for she opened her mouth to begin talking before he had the chance.

"Welcome to Retro Bites," she says, her voice confidence unlike other waiters and waitresses who have cowered under his intimidating gaze. He was impressed she was keeping her cool, and he wondered if she was even aware of who he is. "Are you ready for me to take your order or would you like a few more moments to decide?"

"You on the menu?" He drawls, his eyes looking her over again. There was no evidence of blush, no evidence of swooning, and he knew it was a first.

"I'll give you a few moments to look at the menu," she says, rolling her eyes discreetly but Brad noticed. He chose not to say anything to her.

"Who said I wasn't ready to order?" He asks, his voice slow as he smirks up at her. He was in no rush for her to leave or for this conversation to be over.

"You thought I was on the menu," she says bluntly. "So I'm assuming you've not looked through it. If you had have looked through, you'd know I'm not on the menu."

He raises his eyebrows, surprised. He wasn't used to people talking to him, never mind back chatting. Yet she continued.

"And your sexist, unwanted comments are also not on the menu, last time I checked," she says. "So, as I said, I'll give you a few moments to look over the menu and then I'll come back to take your order."

She gives him a final smile, a smile that anyone who had dared to look over and see the minor dispute that had just occurred would've thought meant she was apologetic, or sweet. They'd definitely not think it was a sarcastic smile as she intended, and Brad received.

"What's your name?" He asks her, giving her no chance to turn around and leave. Instead, she brushed her hair off of her name tag for him to look at, since she didn't want to verbally engage with him. "Well, (Y/N), you've got quite a mouth on you, haven't you?"

She rolls her eyes in response.

"The cold shoulder already? We've only just met," he teases her, getting under skin successfully. He wanted to see how long she would last before she snaps and shouts at him; she seems like a feisty one. "Pass me the menu?"

The menu was nearer to him than her, but he was just trying to be difficult. He wanted to see if she'd be a good employee, telling the customer they're always right, doing as the customer wants.

She grabs the menu she had stuffed in her uniform pocket, throwing it down to the table for him to read. It wasn't laminated like the one on his table. In fact, it was crumpled up and creased from its lack of use yet constant position in her pocket, and he was far from impressed by its poor state.

"I said—,"

"Get it yourself," she says dryly. "You're right next to it."

He pushes the menu she had given him back to her before grabbing the menu. She takes the chance to leave the table and go to serve a couple of elderly that had walked in. They were regulars, she knew their order off by heart.

(Y/N) was fully aware of Brad Simpson's antiques—in fact, she knew someone first hand that had experienced his bad attitude. Her best friend, Taylor, had been walking home one night after a shift at his own workplace. It was only ten in the evening, maybe even earlier, and Taylor was wearing his own earphones as he walked down the street minding his own business. That was until two motorcycles pulled up to the side of the road and beat him to a pulp and stole all the money he'd earned.

It wasn't a surprise when Taylor came home and told her that it was Brad, he knew from the light on the lampposts that reflected onto the motorcycle. From that day onwards, (Y/N) hated every inch of Brad Simpson, even if she'd never had the displeasure of meeting him.

That was, until today.

By the time he's read through the menu and actually decided what he wants, his two friends from out of town are sat with him, laughing about some story from when they were high in a city up in Scotland. The three of them were loud in the quiet café, drowning out the sound of the eighties music that (Y/N)'s boss had put on in the background.

She walks out backwards from the door separating the kitchen and bar once more, this time holding a tray of two cups of coffee and some fries for the elderly couple. She serves them quickly and smiles before leaving and scanning over the café.

She inhales deeply, hoping her co-worker would take Brad's table instead, but of course her co-worker was too engrossed on the level of Candy Crush that they were adamant on beating, despite the game being years old by now, and totally out of trend.

Sighing, she grabs her notebook and pencil from her waistband, walking over to Brad's table with a false smile. His two friends weren't overly attractive, both sporting a black leather jacket, black trousers and a black shirt, ink exposed on their neck as a toothpick was in their mouths.

"Hello, welcome to Retro Bites," (Y/N) sounded like a broken record, repeating the same mantra for the billionth time that day. "Are you ready to order?"

"Ready to order some'a that ass!" The guy the nearest to her grins, taking his toothpick out and looking her up and down.

"I'll have a tray of fries and a coke," Brad says, glancing up at (Y/N) who looked evidently uncomfortable. In the time he had watched her walking around, he had time to admire her body but also understand why she was so sassy with him. "These will have a beer each."

She nods slowly, writing down their orders on the notepad. "Is that everything?"

"Yeah," Brad replies, glancing at his two friends who were surprised Brad wasn't making an offensive comment about the waitress. He sighs, trying not to ruin his reputation too much. "So you can go now."

Don't need to tell me twice, she thought before turning around and taking the order to the kitchen.

Brad felt bad for his comment that he made the first time she'd taken his order—she was just doing her job, not there to be perved on by customers. Maybe the fact that she had the balls to stand up to him made him feel bad, realising it's probably not the best thing to do to someone. He'd never say that to her though, she seems like the kind of person to gloat over him apologising to her.

Once their order was ready, she took a tray full of their drinks and went back into the café, making a beeline for their table before handing the drinks out for them and placing the fries in the middle. Brad slaps a ten pound note onto the table, paying for the food and drinks.

"Keep the change. It's your tip."

Surprised she got a tip from him, she takes it anyway with a curt nod, saying her usual scripted monologue about how they should enjoy their food and always feel free to call her for assistance.

She puts the ten pound note into the cash register by the bar, grabbing the change and putting it in the charity box rather than her own pocket. It was only fifty pence, so she didn't see why she should've kept it when someone else, a charity, could have it instead.

Not long after, Brad and his friends had finished drinking, eating, and talking really loudly and were ready to go. Brad got up first, sliding out of the booth and glancing around the café for (Y/N). She was serving another group of boys, however they were much more respectful than him and his friends as she smiles and laughed along with their innocent jokes. Brad's eyes lingered on her a little longer before he moves his head to face his friends who were complaining about the heat as they walked through the door.

That wasn't the last time Brad went to Retro Bites.

-

Brad walked into Retro Bites seven days later, all on his own. It had been a quiet day at the small diner, with only a few people littering around on the seats—a man sat at the bar, crying to the barman about his cheating wife, a lovestruck teenage couple smiling in the back corner, a group of young adults all laughing loudly. And then there was Brad, dressed in a white button up and his infamous black trousers.

He could see no sign of the waitress he'd arrived at the diner to see, though he thought he'd sit down and have a drink while he was here. The food and drink was nice enough, pretty standard, but the waitress he wanted to see was what really made him come back here.

He gets served by a woman with blonde hair and a kind smile as she takes his order quickly, her eyes never meeting Brad's out of fear. His name had been littered around town too many times for anyone to have the balls to look him in the eyes anymore.

Except, of course, (Y/N).

As the blonde waitress hands him his drink, he catches a glimpse of (Y/N)'s hair as she pulled up into a messy bun before taking the tray of food she needed to deliver to a the teenage couple. Brad made eye contact with her as she walked by, his fingers ghosting the ring of his latte.

"Anything else?" The waitress asks, pulling his attention from (Y/N).

"I'll have some fries," Brad says, digging out some money and handing it to her. "Keep the change."

She nods, moving away and keeping the change for herself as she gets his order of fries ready to be cooked.

"Brad Simpson wants some fries," the blonde waitress had said to the chef once she was in the kitchen and out of hearing range. "Get them done fast, yeah?"

"Yes, ma'am," the chef says, nodding and getting the fries done within only a few minutes. People knew better than to leave Brad Simpson waiting for too long.

She takes the box of fries into the diner, putting them down in front of him but his eyes were fixated on (Y/N) again as she set down some drinks for an elderly couple. As the blonde leans down to put the fries on the table, Brad's moved to the side so that he could still see (Y/N), catching her attention for a few seconds before the blonde speaks again.

"Is that everything?"

"Yeah," Brad nods, glancing at the blonde before trying to find (Y/N) again but she was walking back into the kitchen once more. He curses silently to himself, taking a sip of his latte before preying his eyes on the door in hope to grab (Y/N)'s attention again.

"Brad Simpson was looking at you," the blonde waitress had said. "Be careful, (Y/N, you know what he's like."

"I know what he's like better than anyone," she says. Most people that had confrontations with Brad Simpson never spoke about them, except her friend, Taylor. "Don't worry, I'll be careful."

Her concerned friend and co-worker nods with a smile before tending to a table that had just been sat at. (Y/N) sighs before going out of the kitchen, too, where she sorts out the money in the cash register. She could feel eyes burning into her but she shook off the feeling as she takes money from her uniform that she got from customers and puts it into the cash register, putting her tips in to the charity pot.

They money was all stuffed in her pocket from when the diner had met rush hour and she didn't have time to put the money in the cash register. Now, it had quietened down significantly as it reached closing time.

"Hey."

(Y/N) looks up, startled. It was sudden, it was confident, and it was the voice of Brad Simpson. He sits down at the bar next to the cash register, looking at her as he puts down his plastic tray of fries.

"Want one?" He offers, his eyes showing no signs of malice. She shakes her head, though, looking back down at the money in her hands as she continues to sort out the register. "You sure? I don't offer my food that often."

"I'm sure, I'm not allowed to eat on the job," she replies, her voice soft and gentle, unlike the first time Brad met her. He liked the sound of her voice.

"I won't tell if you don't," he winks, shoving the fries towards her. "Besides, you look famished. You should get some food in your system."

She glances from the fries, to Brad, to the clock, before back to Brad as she pushes the fries back to him. "I finish in thirty minutes, I can wait until then to get my own food. But thanks."

"If you say so," he says, taking a fry and eating it. "How long you worked here?"

Long enough to know the intentions of assholes like you, she thought before shrugging. "Not sure exactly. Couple years, maybe."

"And I've never seen you before last week," he drawls, glancing over her once over. "Are you busy tonight?"

"Yes."

"What are you doing?"

"Pretending I'm busy so you don't ask me to hang out with you," she says bluntly, putting the cash away and closing the draw of the cash register.

He chuckles. "You've always got a witty comeback, hm? It's quite entertaining to listen." She stares at him blankly, not biting back with a comment because she does want to give him that satisfaction. "A friend of a friend of mine is having a party tonight. You should come."

Brad Simpson didn't request people's presence, he demands it. Most people would agree, comply, no questions asked, except (Y/N).

"I already told you, I'm busy."

"I'll keep you company, (Y/N)."

She felt weird at the sound of her name rolling off of her tongue, but she shoves the feeling deep, deep down to the pit of her stomach. "You're just giving more of a reason not to go."

"Wear something nice," he says, grabbing the receipt the blonde waitress had given him when he was being served. He turns it over, scribbling some words onto it. "Here's the address, it starts at nine. I'll be disappointed if you don't come."

He downs the rest of his lukewarm latte, putting the glass on the marble bar before winking at her, leaning the diner swiftly.

She picks up the receipt with the address written onto it, glancing once over it. She shook her head, digging it into the depth of her pocket.

-

(Y/N) hated the party as soon as she walked in. She knew no one other than Brad, who she hadn't even spotted yet. People were drinking and dancing and talking and taking lines on the windowsill, and she felt uncomfortable. It wasn't her scene, she knew that before she even arrived, yet she still came without a real explanation as to why.

She wore a black dress, one that flowed from the waist yet still showed off her entire figure perfectly. Her hair was curled as it sat by her breasts, she wore a bracelet on her wrist and a ring on her middle finger, and she wore hooped earrings. She felt stunning, she looked stunning.

"Hello, beautiful," a voice says in her ear and she turns around, hand raised in defence and surprise, thankful its only Brad. Her shoulders relaxed. "Knew you'd end up coming. Can I get you a drink?"

She looked over his outfit for a moment, taking in his appearance. He wore black jeans that were cuffed up at the bottom, a brown plaited belt to keep them up while a white shirt was tucked into his jeans. He looked good, she couldn't deny that, but she knew it wasn't enough to make him get what he wanted from her. She wasn't as shallow to go for someone over their looks.

"No. I don't drink."

He nods slowly, his arm going over his shoulder because he knew people were looking at him. More specifically, the guys who wanted to catch (Y/N)'s attention and the girls who wanted to catch his attention. Brad was making a statement, claiming her as his for the night, proving to make sure that no one tried it on with her.

They walk through the lounge of the party, more people bustled around as they dance and laugh and gossip and drink. He had ditched his red solo cup somewhere else a while ago, which made it easier to spin her around and hold her hands at arms' length.

"Dance?" He says loudly over the music and she nods, letting him pull her close.

Her arms were slung loosely over his neck, his hands on her waist as they swayed to the beat of the slow song that he had told the DJ to put on 'once he was dancing with the prettiest girl in the room'.

"Surprised you came tonight," he starts a conversation, his head looking downwards as he makes eye contact with her.

"Me too," she says. "Don't know why I did come, actually. I don't like it here very much."

They both knew why she came, but neither of them wanted to say it to one another. She would just deny it and he would rub it in her face.

He spins her around as the beat drops in the song. She only turns one hundred and eighty degrees, causing Brad to pull her back flush again his chest. His lips dipped down to her ear, brushing over and sending a tingling sensation over her entire body.

"You look very pretty tonight," he says in her ear quietly. "The dress suits you, it's nice seeing you out of your uniform."

He spins her again, she turns a few times before he pulls her back to his chest, this time so they're facing each other.

"If the only reason you invited me here tonight was to offer me compliments so I'll end up sleeping with you, then I'll be leaving," she says, pushing herself away from his chest.

He was surprised, never being rejected before. Nonetheless, he begins to play it off cool. "Who said anything about sleeping together?"

"I'm not stupid, I think I know your intentions," she shakes her head. "You forget that you're known around town a lot, I've heard the rumours about you."

Rumours. Rumours, rumours, rumours. He hated that word, he hated every letter of it. There were too many untrue rumours about him, that the word started to settle wrong in his bones. There was nothing he hated more than falsities.

"They're rumours for a reason," he says but she shakes her head. "But believe what you want."

She takes a few steps back. "I'm going to go home, this isn't my scene." He doesn't react, he just watches her move away from him before she turns and walks out of the house, glad that the visit was short.

-

(Y/N) walks out of her work, just finishing her final shift of the week. She was ready to go home, relax, take some time to herself. After the failed party the night before, she was still exhausted from getting ready to go out.

She walks through the door, pulling her jacket tight over her body. It was cold as the darkness began to settle over the blue skies, turning it navy and the clouds gray.

"Y/N)," Brad's voice startled here, always seeming to be welcomed by surprise. She turns to her left to see him leaning against his motorbike with his arms folded. "I came to apologise."

"For what?"

"Misleading my intentions," he says, pushing himself off of the bike as he walks over to her. She sighs, not wanting to engage in a silly conversation with him. It wasn't that serious, she had hoped he'd get the hint and would leave her alone though.

"I'm not bothered, Brad. You didn't have to drive all this way to apologise."

"I know, but it felt like it an apology was due," he says, lifting up sunglasses she didn't even notice he was wearing. "For my comments the first time we met, for pushing you to go to the party, for misleading you with my intentions."

"Apology accepted," she says, beginning to move forward but Brad steps in front of her. "What are you doing? I have a bus to catch?"

"What's your address? I'll take you home," he offers and she opens her mouth to object but he beats her to it. "Consider it a part of my apology."

She sighs, nodding only because it would be quicker for her to get home. She's compliant, following him to his bike before he hands her his helmet, causing her to frown.

"You're not wearing one?"

"I've been riding this bike for years," he says with a chuckle. "Don't need one, really. Besides, you should wear it so you feel safer."

She nods slowly, putting it on her head before clipping it together. She gets on the bike, sat behind him as he grips the bike handles, ready to leave.

"Hold on tight, (Y/N)," he says as he turns it on. "Don't want you falling off."

She sighs, holding on to his torso as she jokes. "I'm starting to think that this was your way of getting me to hold you."

He chuckles before getting her address and setting off, the roar of the engine loud in her sensitive ears as they drive through the streets of Long Valley. It was dark, street lights blocking out the shadows as they lit up people's faces. Barely anyone was walking on the sidewalks anyway, most people resorting to driving at this time of night. The few shops that were open were dimly lit and mostly empty, giving the town a barren feeling.

When they arrive at her address, Brad turns off the engine of his motorcycle and helps her off as she's a bit dizzy. He only knew he way to her house because he's known every inch of Long Valley since he was a little kid.

"Thank you," she says honestly once she's off of the bike and has her balance back.

"My pleasure," he says. "Maybe I'll see you around, (Y/N)."