#i mean there's some real affection in those quotes but it's a kind of condescending affection tbh

[swamp-adder]

I think I love the H-W friendship as much as anyone but tbh I do worry for some people's reading comprehension when I see them treating some of Holmes' comments to Watson -- like the famous "conductor of light" or "one fixed point" quotes -- as if they were fully sincere and touching compliments instead of rather backhanded ones.

[anniekoh]

elsewhere on the internet: talking about racism

This set of articles has been languishing at the back of the queue for three years! 

Political Correctness Wanted Dead or Alive: A Rhetorical Witch-Hunt in the US, Russia, and Europe

Anna Szilagyi (2016, Talk Decoded)

Possibly the most common way of attacking political correctness, is to label it “tyrannical”. Covert speech strategies may also support this construction. For instance, anti-PC politicians often utilize adjectives for fear (including “afraid”, “frightened”, “scared”, “terrified”) to describe how PC affects the behavior and feelings of people. The former leader of the UK Independence Party, Nigel Farage claimed: “I think actually what’s been happening with this whole politically correct agenda is lots of decent ordinary people are losing their jobs and paying the price for us being terrified of causing offence.” Suggesting that the British are “terrified” because of political correctness, Farage urged his listeners to think of PC in terms of intimidation.

At the same time, the fearsome vocabulary provides a background for anti-PC populists to present themselves as “brave” and “courageous” “saviors” of their “victimized” societies. The next quote by Nigel Farage exemplifies this trend: “I think the people see us as actually standing up and saying what we think, not being constrained or scared by political correctness.” In a similar fashion, Geert Wilders  declared: “I will not allow anyone to shut me up.”

Why White People Freak Out When They’re Called Out About Race

Sam Adler-Bell (2015, Alternet) @SamAdlerBell

Sam Adler-Bell: How did you come to write about "white fragility"?

Robin DiAngelo: To be honest, I wanted to take it on because it’s a frustrating dynamic that I encounter a lot. I don’t have a lot of patience for it. And I wanted to put a mirror to it.

I do atypical work for a white person, which is that I lead primarily white audiences in discussions on race every day, in workshops all over the country. That has allowed me to observe very predictable patterns. And one of those patterns is this inability to tolerate any kind of challenge to our racial reality. We shut down or lash out or in whatever way possible block any reflection from taking place.

Of course, it functions as means of resistance, but I think it’s also useful to think about it as fragility, as inability to handle the stress of conversations about race and racism

Sometimes it’s strategic, a very intentional push back and rebuttal. But a lot of the time, the person simply cannot function. They regress into an emotional state that prevents anybody from moving forward.

...

RD: I think we get tired of certain terms. What I do used to be called "diversity training," then "cultural competency" and now, "anti-racism." These terms are really useful for periods of time, but then they get coopted, and people build all this baggage around them, and you have to come up with new terms or else people won’t engage.

And I think "white privilege" has reached that point. It rocked my world when I first really got it, when I came across Peggy McIntosh. It’s a really powerful start for people. But unfortunately it's been played so much now that it turns people off.

The Language of “Privilege” Doesn’t Work

Stephen Aguilar (2016, Inside Higher Ed) @stephenaguilar

I believe that “privilege” is a sterile word that does not grapple with the core of the problem. If you are white, you do not have “white” privilege. If you are male, you do not have “male” privilege. If you are straight, you do not have “straight” privilege. What you have is advantage. The language of advantage, I propose, is a much cleaner and more precise way to frame discussions about racism (or sexism, or most systems of oppression).

... does giving up a “privilege” seem incoherent? It might, because generally privileges are given and taken by someone else. They are earned, and are seldom bad things to have.

Now try shifting your language to that of advantages. Ask yourself, “What advantages do I have over that person over there?” That question is much easier to answer and yields more nuanced responses.

Kimberlé Crenshaw on intersectionality

Bim Adewunmi (2014, New Statesman) @bimadewunmi

“I wanted to come up with an everyday metaphor that anyone could use”

“Class is not new and race is not new. And we still continue to contest and talk about it, so what’s so unusual about intersectionality not being new and therefore that’s not a reason to talk about it? Intersectionality draws attention to invisibilities that exist in feminism, in anti-racism, in class politics, so obviously it takes a lot of work to consistently challenge ourselves to be attentive to aspects of power that we don’t ourselves experience.”

...

“Sometimes it feels like those in power frame themselves as being tremendously disempowered by critique. A critique of one’s voice isn’t taking it away. If the underlying assumption behind the category ‘women’ or ‘feminist’ is that we are a coalition then there have to be coalitional practices and some form of accountability.”

The Persecution of Amy Schumer: Political Correctness and Comedy

Teo Bugbee (2015, Daily Beast)

We have developed highly advanced ways of recognizing and articulating when we feel offended, but very few ways of making something productive out of our own hurt feelings.

I’ve questioned if my choice to overlook what’s hurtful in Schumer’s comedy for the sake of what’s insightful is a sign that I’m complicit in the faults of white feminism, not valuing the importance of others’ feelings on this matter enough. This argument of apathy gets used often on social media to raise awareness around issues of race, sex, gender, and other topics surrounding justice and a need for change, and it is often useful, but it can also be a blunt instrument. Where I’ve landed for the moment is that not all marginalized people feel the same way about every issue—even on social media, but especially outside it—and asking everyone to respond in the same way to the same joke takes a simplistic view that flattens the complexity of marginalized communities just as much as it does the white, cisgender mainstream.

However, if we’re going to ask audiences to keep in mind the multiplicity of responses that a person might have to a work of art before they attempt to control someone else’s opinion, then it’s only fair that comedians follow the same rule.

What’s Wrong (and Right) in Jonathan Chait’s Anti-P.C. Screed

J. Bryan Lowder (2015, Slate)

One of the main problems with the constellation of leftist ideas he bemoans is that many of the people who use them most loudly do so out of context. Concepts like “microaggressions,” “trigger warnings,” and “mansplaining” originally had specific meanings and limited uses, often within the academy. They described or were meant to address specific situations or phenomena, and more important, they were intended to function as diagnostic tools of analysis, not be used as blunt, conversation-ending instruments. Believe it or not, most of these “PC buzzwords” are actually useful from time to time:  “Straightsplaining” is a real (and very annoying) thing, and it’s often a productive way of thinking about an interaction. But it’s also not always a useful or fair way to characterize a disagreement between a queer person and a straight interlocutor. Precision is what’s needed.

Additionally, though it is impossible to say this without sounding condescending myself, a lot of the abuse of PC rhetoric comes from young college students who have not yet grasped the difference between a measuring tape and a sledgehammer. Of course, given that contemporary mainstream politics offers little for those hopeful souls who want to make truly radical change in the world, you can’t really blame them for gravitating toward a mode of critique that at least feels somewhat empowering. Here, first-year, is a framework by which you can reveal the (screwed-up) hidden structures of the world and use your newly honed textual close-reading skills to mount offenses against those structures—go for it. What works on a novel doesn’t necessary translate to a complicated, changeable human being, though, so it’s no surprise that the deployment of microaggression and cissexism and other social justice lingo can sometimes come off as strident and simplistic. It often is.

But then, so is crying that only Reason can save us from the illiberal wolves waiting in the wings of our great system, which has a “glorious” history on social justice, by the way.

Want To Help End Systemic Racism? First Step: Drop the White Guilt

Sincere Kirabo (2015, thehumanist)

The point of identifying and exposing inconsistencies within the social systems and cultural norms of the United States isn’t to make whites feel guilty, but to garner greater empathy that will inspire change. The main problem with white guilt is that it attempts to diminish the spotlight aimed at issues germane to marginalized groups and redirects the focus to a wasteful plane of apologetics and ineffective assessment.

This is why some don’t like discussing racism, as those more sensitive to these matters sometimes allow guilt to creep into their thought processes, effectively evoking pangs of discomfort. This can lead to avoidance of the primary issues altogether, as well as the manifestation of defense mechanisms, including denial, projection, intellectualization, and rationalization.

Many are acquainted with the concept of Catholic guilt. Catholic doctrine emphasizes the inherent sinfulness of all people. These accentuated notions of fault lead to varied degrees of enhanced self-loathing. I liken white guilt to Catholic guilt: both relate to a sense of inadequacy emanating from misguided notions. Though the latter is anchored in an imagined source, they both speak to feelings of remorse and internal conflict that does the individual having them no good.

Keep in mind that the call to “recognize your privilege” does not translate to “bear the blame.”

[alexlayer69]

This is why you don’t try to mansplain Jaune’s shitty behavior and RT’s horrible writing decisions to me.

Because I’ll rip you a new one and deconstruct every ridiculous argument and accusation you try to make, just like I did for @outcasts-redeemer when he tried to defend Jaune at Weiss’ expense before me, and since I quoted it all, I thought: Why not make it is own post?

Oh my fucking goodness, the amount of bullshit in this post alone is more than I even dared expect altogether...

If I remember correctly, Jaune was never a douche towards her.

Then you probably don’t remember correctly or are extremely lacking in self-awareness, because refusing to just take no for an answer (multiple times) is a douche thing to do. It invalidates her emotions, her autonomy and agency, showing he’s got no respect for any of those, and by extension, for her. The fact that he later tries to hypocritically lecture Neptune about disregarding Weiss’ feelings just shows how much lack of self-awareness the writers have for writing Jaune.

Jaune was the dunce who couldn’t read the atmosphere to save his life. He was awkward, clumsy and took things literally.

True, but that’s unrelated to the subject altogether.

It was Weiss who was the rude bitch.

Oh, HERE we go.

Instead of telling him outright the moment he started to flirt she wasn’t interested, she was sarcastic, condescending and rude and pointed to her upbringing as a reason why he was not worth her time.

So what? She still made it perfectly clear she was not interested, and even then, she eventually did tell him “No” straight on his face, and he still didn’t listen.  

Then there was Pyrrah. The girl who was patient, kind and thoughtful, the one who befriended him and treated him with respect something he never had received before. She pressed him to find the deeper meaning behind his actions. Jaune told her, and we see that Jaune’s actions and affection was more than superficial, it had depth and meaning.

None of which justifies disregarding her agency and refusing to take no for an answer. It’s not even that hard. That’s without mentioning that, having had near to zero close interaction with Weiss in... ever, it’s hard enough to argue that Jaune actually got to know her and care for the real her (otherwise, he likely would have been more respectful). Instead, it feels far more like he just fell in love superficially with her. He describes her as “Cold but also incredible, smart, graceful, talented”, all of these being things you could tell from Weiss at borderline first glance. It doesn’t shown any evidence that he really knows her.

It was like Pyrrha’s, full of emotion and depth.

More like full of naivety.

Jaune fell for Weiss for her character. Pyrrah fell for Jaune because of his.

Pyrrha fell for Jaune because she was made to suck him up. The girl practically wanted to deflower him from before they even properly introduced themselves to one another. She was never her own character, just an accessory to Jaune’s, and that’s all the more reason for which I dread Weiss associating with him any further, because lord forbid any other characters have to follow Pyrrha’s fate of becoming little more but a sidekick to a bland, boring and uninteresting male character that’s not even meant to be the protagonist yet for some reason is treated as such more than the actual leads that the show is named after!

Yet, on the flip side Weiss Didn’t

Instead she fell for a smooth talking asshole who turned her down after she worked up the courage to ask him out after he spent much of the time flirting with her.

While I’m not gonna argue that this is definitely one of Weiss’ lower points, you sure seem to like exaggerating Neptune’s flirty attitude to extremes. He’s yet another douche, sure, but asshole? He just refused Weiss’ invitation, which - flirt or not - he’s got all the right in the world to do, just like Weiss has every right to reject Jaune. None of these characters are entitled to each other. The only difference is that, upon being rejected, Weiss takes it with dignity and just leaves it there, which Jaune just can’t do, as you actually proceed to illustrate in your next paragraph.

Jaune on the other hand was the opposite of Neptune. After he saw Weiss asking Neptune out, he gave her up for her own happiness, even going so far as talking to Neptune and demanding that he not take her feelings for granted. Which if you don’t remember Neptune dose anyway during the tournament.

The fact that Jaune only “gave her up” once he saw her asking for Neptune is by no means a point in his favor. He should have given up when she rejected him, not when she showed interest in someone else. He’s respecting Neptune’s “claim” (which is all in his mind) over Weiss than he’s respecting Weiss herself.

And he didn’t just save her once. He had been constantly protecting her. Initiation, Neptune, The Breach, keeping Ruby Save, Haven. All examples of him protecting her either directly or by extension.  

The most he did in the initiation exam was try to catch her while falling, and he did it with every intention to flirt with her rather than to save her (otherwise he may have actually had an effective tactic).

He never tried to protect her from Neptune. He was just competing against him and was bitter as fuck because Neptune had what he couldn’t have and let it go.

Jaune and Weiss never even interacted during the Breach. I don’t know what you’re on about.

Keeping Ruby safe is all about Ruby. He’s not doing that for Weiss, for fuck’s sake. These characters have their own goals and motivations, their worlds don’t revolve completely around another character. Weiss’ doesn’t revolve around Ruby and Jaune’s doesn’t revolve around Weiss, and they shouldn’t. And that’s without mentioning that Jaune was doing a TERRIBLE job at protecting Ruby, seeing as he’d rather close his eyes and look away when Tyrian was about to strike her rather than attempt to protect her.

And as for Haven? Lemme remind you that it was Jaune who started the fight that led to Weiss getting injured, even as Qrow was trying to keep it from happening, and it was even his own words to Cinder that made her decide to target Weiss instead of just finish him off. Unlocking his Semblance to save her later on hardly saves him any dignity

Weiss on the other hand? The moment he needs help, she fails. And Pyrrha dies because of it.

Okay, this just takes the CAKE in bullshit levels!

Are you seriously blaming WEISS for Pyrrha’s death!? So what, Ruby is also to blame for this?! Because they didn’t get there in time!?

How about the fact that all that could have been prevented if Jaune had done his fucking job and actually watched the entrance like he was told to, maybe then blocking Cinder’s arrow that finished off Amber, preventing her from becoming the unstoppable juggernaut that killed Pyrrha. He had ONE job that could have changed everything, and he failed at it, and you wanna blame Weiss for it!?

And even then, he had the upmost respect for her and it was clear that he still held her in high regard even after eight months without seeing her following her failing to save his partner. And that isn’t just for her, he had no anger directed at anyone except himself and Cinder.

Because he shouldn’t hold any grudge for anyone but himself and Cinder! Nobody else that’s alive played any role on that, and certainly not Ruby or Weiss!

When Weiss came back into the fold Jaune didn’t do anything except shit on himself and try and kill himself via Cinder for Team RWBY because they’re the ones who matter.

You mean, avenge his idea of Pyrrha (because let’s be honest, just like with Weiss, he never really got to know Pyrrha) and his own sorry pride after Cinder insulted him without even meaning to? Initiating a fight that put everyone in danger? And what bullshit is this about “try to kill himself”? That’s just you projecting more drama onto the character than what’s really there. And even if that was right, he should at least pick a death that doesn’t put others in danger.

Weiss and Jaune’s relationship is as old as episode one of volume one. They have been intertwined just as Jaune and Ruby are. If Weiss shows Jaune more respect it will be due to their long relationship and their individual growths from snotty bitch and weak fuck up respectively to humbled warrior and dependable savior respectively. So no I won’t be proof of outdated thinking. Matter of fact it would be proof that Miles and Kerry are still capable of writing for RWBY.

The entirety of this argument is nothing but utter bullshit that hinges on believing Jaune to be an innocent boy that never did anything wrong (which he’s not) and Weiss to have her character meant to revolve around male characters like Pyrrha’s did (which it shouldn’t). I sorta suspect you meant “it” instead of “I” when you said “I won’t be proof of outdated thinking”, but I think you nailed it there, denial aside, because your way of thinking is clearly as backwards as it was the idea to have Weiss get worfed and injured just for the sake of Jaune’s man-pain and the unlocking of his Semblance.

The whole idea was easily RWBY’s lowest point in its entire run, and the last thing I need is a Jaune stan like you coming to mansplain it to me, trying to defend Jaune while shitting on a much better character like Weiss.

[amarauder]

chapter twenty-nine ❥ original

it’s a hate-love thing original version.

james potter x reader.

"Wasn't it so romantic?" asked Arabella dreamily. "I loved it! The wedding...and then the reception...everything!"

"It was all right for the most part, but I didn't like Frank and Alice snogging for about five minutes when they had to kiss," said Sirius grumpily.

James snorted. "Well, what did you expect, Padfoot? We'd probably see a whole movie of you and Arabella snogging when your wedding comes."

"Yeah, I still don't get why you and Y/n are planning to get married so early. I mean, you guys are pretty young, and next April's going to come by pretty fast. Bella and I are waiting longer before we tie the knot."

Y/n smiled and clutched James' hand, squeezing it tightly. "We want to get together before it's too late, Sirius. I mean, with Voldemort and everything—"

"Oh, don't remind me, n/n. I know all about the stupid git, believe me. I also think that Regulus is a Death Eater."

"You've been saying that for practically forever, Sirius, dear," objurgated Arabella, sighing.

"Well, it's true, isn't it? I only speak the truth, Bella."

Remus snorted, and turned it into a hacking cough, grinning at Sirius. "You wish."

"Excuse me?" Sirius pretended to look extremely offended.

James wrapped an arm around Y/n's waist and held her carefully, as if afraid that she'd break any minute. Just the feeling of touching her created shivers down his spine and he smiled dreamily. Even with a madman after him and his fiancée, he still wanted to be married to Y/n before it all ended. Before their lives ended.

"Hey, James?"

He blinked and stared around. "Who said my name?"

"Are you all right?" inquired Sirius anxiously. "You look all green, mate. D'you feel sick?"

James groaned and rubbed his forehead. "Now that you mention it, I do."

"I think you were affected by Frank and Alice's snog, too," agreed Sirius mournfully.

"Padfoot, shut up. It wasn't the snog...I guess I'm just not feeling well. Maybe it's because of the Order and stuff."

"Oh, the Order." Sirius rolled his eyes. "That's nothing to worry about. I think we can handle Death Eaters, four against one."

"Or not," added Arabella, frowning.

"Don't worry about it," reassured Y/n, smiling. "There's nothing to fret about, Bella. In the meantime, I think we have to go on with the wedding plans."

"Oh! Of course!"

"Now?" questioned James incredulously. "Y/n, the wedding is next year! We have plenty of time to plan all that stuff. We have a meeting with the Order this evening, though."

"It was so nice of you two to let the Order use your home as headquarters," said Jennifer approvingly. "I mean, you'll never get any peace at all. We all have to basically live there, anyway, since those are the Order's rules."

"Yes, it is rather stupid," agreed Y/n, flushing, "I mean, how we all have to practically live together, being in the Order. But I'm not complaining. In fact, I'm rather honored that Dumbledore hand-picked us to be in the Order."

"Why wouldn't he?" said Sirius pompously. "We are intelligent and respectable people, after all."

"Can you believe we're out of Hogwarts already?" commented Violet. "I mean, it seemed like yesterday we were all little first-years, ready to be sorted into our Houses."

"Yeah, time flies by so quickly."

"You know that Ellyn Bedson woman from the Ministry?" interrupted Violet, looking upset.

"Yes, the one who worked in the Department of Mysteries," affirmed Jennifer. "She's all right since she's helping me get started along with Bode, but she's a bit too condescending, so to speak."

"I don't like her," confirmed Violet. "She keeps flirting with Jackson at our breaks."

"Well, you keep flirting with Amos Diggory," said Arabella stiffly.

"I do not! He always hovers around me like a bee...it isn't my fault."

"True," admitted the former.

"Well, you can't stop that," added Y/n. "Just ignore Diggory, and maybe he'll leave you alone. Merlin knows he bothered Bella long enough before you."

"Hell, yeah," muttered Arabella under her breath.

"Why does he have to follow me around anyway?" ranted Violet furiously. "I mean, I'm no pageant queen, and I definitely don't have the kind of personality that Amos looks for in girls. So why me?"

"Maybe it was because of that comeback you made to him at Hogwarts," said James thoughtfully. "After all, one can never forget something so brilliant and embarrassing as that."

Violet blushed. "Oh, C'mon, it wasn't that great."

"It was too! Merlin, I wish I could've taken a picture of Diggory's face when you said that to him. It was bloody amazing! You should be like that more often, Vi."

"Hear, hear," intoned Jennifer enthusiastically. She was always one to call for a change of character in Violet.

"So, n/n, you've already got some of your wedding planned, right?" asked Arabella.

"Well...no," admitted Y/n, flushing. "We haven't had the time to think about it, actually, ever since the proposal."

"Oh, the proposal." She looked at Sirius dreamily. "It was so romantic. How did you and James manage to pull it off?"

James and Sirius both grinned, and winked at each other, and then at their respective fiancées.

"Simple, girls," said Sirius roguishly. "Well, at least, it was simple for me, but for others"—he looked at James meaningfully—"it took some practice."

Y/n laughed. "Don't tell me you were scared, James."

"Like hell," agreed James shamelessly. "Is it that surprising?"

"The almighty James Potter, scared? Merlin, the world may end any moment now. C'mon, you've bullied people nearly all your years at Hogwarts, and you were scared of asking one simple question?" She shook her head at him.

"Aww...give a guy a break here, Y/n. It isn't my fault that I get nervous doing these kinds of things."

"Which brings me to my next point. You never get nervous, James."

"I'm still human," retorted James indignantly. "Why do you make me sound like I'm some sort of god?"

"You are," Y/n pointed out. "Or, at least you were to the girls at Hogwarts. Were they upset when you proposed!"

"Furious," added Sirius, laughing. "They looked like they were about to kill you, Y/n. They were upset enough that James fell in love with you, and eventually got you, but to have your love official by marriage? Their worst nightmare, I say."

"You're not too off either, Padfoot," said Remus thoughtfully. "After all, the girls were always after you whenever you had some fight with Arabella, and didn't makeup soon enough."

"True, that I am a lady's man."

"What an egotist," mumbled Arabella, rolling her eyes. "I'm about to marry a man who only thinks for himself. At least your man deflated his head when you gave him a tough time, Y/n."

"You think he's deflated enough, Bells? I don't think so."

"You girls always undermine us fellows," said James, pouting. "We're good to you guys; why complain? At least we don't strut like Diggory or Mackenzie."

Sirius involuntarily shuddered at the latter name.

Y/n giggled and snuggled closer to her fiancé. They had reached the headquarters of the Order and now entered it. Marlene McKinnon, who had a whole family of kids at the Order, but was looking to get a place of her own, greeted them. Alice and Frank were playing chess near the fireplace, and Mad-Eye Moody was glaring at them suspiciously through his eyes. James had always thought that there was something creepy about them, though they were normal ones like any other human possessed.

"Potter, L/n, Dean, Black, Walker, Lupin," greeted Mad-Eye gruffly one by one, as he inclined his head slightly toward them.

"Hello, Mr. Moody," said Y/n softly. She both feared and admired the famous Auror.

"Alastor, girl, call me by my name. There shouldn't be any formalities in the Order. We're all a family."

Sirius grinned. "Well, that's good, because you guys can all be my surrogate one."

"Always the saucy one, aren't you, Black?" growled Moody. "Well, you're going to find a better family in the Order than your own, so feel right at home. However, you do know that the Order is very dangerous and that you're giving your life to this organization."

"Certainly, sir," said James loudly. "We want to help you fight Voldemort any way we can."

Moody twitched at the name. "Potter, will you stop using his name, damn it!"

James looked rather alarmed. "But the fear of his name—"

"—increases your fear of himself. Yes, I know, Dumbledore has told me that plenty of times. Seems as though you admire Dumbledore so much, Potter, that you have decided to start quoting him to your elders, eh?"

"I meant no disrespect, sir."

"Yeah, sure you didn't. L/n, you got the papers ready?"

"Right here, sir." Y/n produced a thick wad of paper from the paper folder that she was carrying. "Got the plans to his hideout and everything."

"Excellent, L/n. You've proved useful to us. Are you sure this is his real hideout, and not a bluff to throw us off? After all, You-Know-Who has spies on his side as well."

"I'm not sure of the true veracity of these blueprints, but I'm pretty sure they're partially real."

"You trust the spies who got this?"

"With all my heart."

"Good, good. I shall present this to Dumbledore himself, since this is very important information, and highly top secret. Where has Pettigrew and Bradley gone to?"

"Jackson's still at work," piped up Violet. "He hasn't enough time to do anything these days. And Peter's at a job interview."

"Pettigrew is absolutely useless," growled Moody. "The boy can hardly write his own name properly. Don't know what Dumbledore was thinking, having him in the Order. Bradley, though, he's very valuable to us. Don't want to lose him."

"Of course not," she affirmed readily.

"You wouldn't," Arabella pointed out, "because he's your boyfriend."

Violet turned red and rolled her eyes.

"Sir, is there any news of the latest attacks?" queried James worriedly. "Voldemort hasn't made a single attack for nearly a month. That's usually not like him. He causes chaos wherever he goes."

"Shrewd thinking, Potter. I was pondering on it myself. I think that You-Know-Who has something planned that's very large and will cost lives. If only we can infiltrate his lines and know what it is."

"You make it sound like this is a war," commented Sirius, laughing.

"This is no joking matter, Black. We are at war, boy, and would you stop laughing? This is serious, Black, and I don't find anything funny about it. People are getting killed, and you're laughing? Live up to your name, boy!"

"My n—oh!" Sirius laughed harder. "Ha, ha, be serious...live up to your name...ha, ha!"

"Padfoot, shut it," snapped James, rubbing his forehead ferociously. "Can't you be serious for once and stop making a joke out of everything? We are at war, like Mr.—Alastor said, and we need everyone's cooperation."

"Sorry." The dark-haired boy looked down at his feet. "I didn't mean it."

"Where's Longbottom at? Longbottom!" barked Moody.

"Yes?" came the voices of Frank and Alice.

The Auror groaned. "This is why I never like to have married couples mingle with us elders. They always have to share the same last name. Ah, I'll just call Alice 'Hart' instead, to make things easier. Longbottom, Frank!"

"Yes, Alastor?"

"Done with that paperwork?"

Frank closed his eyes and sighed. "Nearly finished. Just got a few more sentences, and it'll be ready."

"We've got these recruits for the Order," said Moody gruffly. "Kingsley Shacklebolt...he's going to be a sixth year this September...Emmeline Vance..."

"Emmeline?" interrupted Y/n, her eyes widening. "The fifth year, soon-to-be-sixth-year, Emmeline?"

"Correct, L/n."

"But she's—" She struggled for the words. "A bit ditzy, so to speak."

"Is she? Well, she is from a very respectable family, and from what I've heard, she's one of the top choices for Head Girl. Also, the teachers have all praised her well for her abilities, except for Hurst, the idiot."

James snorted loudly at the last comment, and Y/n sent him a glare, causing him to cough and snigger more quietly.

"Can you consider my cousin?" asked Sirius eagerly.

"Who's your cousin, Black?"

"Nymphadora Tonks, sir. She's only about four years old, but she's a Metamorphmagus."

"Is that so? Well, then, I'll have to mention that to Dumbledore next time. Metamorphmagi are extremely rare, and they would certainly be useful to the Order. Good thinking, Black."

Sirius grinned and gave a mock salute. "Thank you, Alastor."

"Lupin! Full moon coming up?"

Remus looked rather alarmed at being spoken to. "Er—in a couple of weeks, sir."

"I'm assuming you will not hurt any of our members?"

"No promises sir, but I will try."

"Good." And so the dull afternoon continued, with Moody questioning and deprecating them about Order business.

Jennifer sobbed wildly, wiping her eyes. Remus had just broken up with her. It wouldn't have mattered to her as much if he had given her a substantial reason, but he hadn't said anything coherent that answered her question about why he broke up with her. Y/n, Arabella, and Violet were trying to comfort her.

"Look, Jen, I think the boys might know something about this. Let's go ask them."

And so they went to the room that James and Sirius shared, and knocked on the door.

"Who is it?" came Sirius' voice.

"It's us, you stupid prat," called Arabella impatiently. "Let us in!"

"Gee, no need to yell, Bellsies."

Sirius opened the door, and ushered them inside.

"Do you know why Remus broke up with Jennifer?"

"He's scared," said James quietly. "He's afraid that if they stay together, and get married, Jennifer won't be happy because of his—condition."

"You mean you knew, and never told us?" demanded Y/n furiously. "James Potter, I would have expected better of you!"

"Remus told me not to tell!" exclaimed James wildly. "It wasn't my fault...and I wasn't sure if he was actually going to do it or not. Trust me, he still loves Jennifer, but thinks it's the best for her."

"The best for me?" Jennifer sniffed again. "Why the hell would he think that? He knows I love him, and that I would never leave him. We didn't have to get married, but why did he have to break up with me?"

"I never knew Remus was such an idiot," mumbled Arabella. "How could he do such a thing?"

"Now what?" muttered Sirius to his best friend.

James shrugged. "Jen, Remus wanted me to tell you that you should move on. You know, find another guy who would always be there for you."

"You mean Remus would never be there for me?"

"It's because of his transformations. He thinks that it would be a burden for you to have him disappear every month and get all cranky when the full moon approaches. He wants you to have a guy who can always be there for you, and will always treat you right."

"I love him," said Jennifer firmly, "and I'll never move on and find a new guy, because he'll always be in my heart, no matter what."

James shook his head. "Moony made a bad choice, Padfoot."

Sirius snorted. "You think? Our dear friend needs to sort out his priorities. Maybe he should ask Jennifer out again, and they should start all over."

"What seems to be the problem here?"

The six of them all turned around, alarmed, to see Professor Albus Dumbledore himself standing there before them, his blue eyes twinkling as usual.

"Professor!" James nearly shouted, and grinned innocently. "We were—er—"

"Laughing at Sirius' joke," continued Violet hastily. "We hope we didn't miss any Order meetings, sir."

"Not at all, Ms. Walker. In fact, I was going to find you all and tell you to enjoy yourselves. Don't get too caught up in the Order business here. You, young people, need to enjoy yourselves while you can before it's too late. Mr. Potter, you are not even twenty yet, and you're working harder than Alastor these days."

"I am?" James looked at his old headmaster in astonishment. "I don't think I'm working too hard; I mean, we're just looking over Voldemort's possible hideouts and his Death Eaters. Of course, there's always the wedding, but we can put that aside for now if it helps."

"No, no, James, I want you to go on with your wedding plans," said Dumbledore earnestly. "You and Y/n shall be married, and I will not be the one to stop you two from being in love."

"Of course we shall," agreed Y/n, a bit startled at the headmaster using her given name instead of her surname.

"Excellent." Dumbledore clapped his hands together. "Now, I must be off to assist Alastor in his findings—I will see you at our meeting tonight."

"Yes, Professor."

"Do call me Albus. After all, I'm not your headmaster any longer." He winked and Disapparated from the spot.

"That was certainly interesting," commented Sirius.

Jennifer laughed, and for one second, she had forgotten all about her break-up with Remus and chatted along with the rest of the group. After all, there were other things that would break her heart even more, and the Order needed her. She didn't have time to wallow in self-pity because her long-time boyfriend broke up with her for a trivial reason.

Y/n smiled at her friend. She was angry at Remus for breaking off his relationship with Jennifer but seeing her laugh again made her anger lessen slightly. Laughter was something that Y/n had a feeling wouldn't exist for very long in their world.

James sighed, and looked up at the ceiling. It was a brand-new house, newly built and freshly painted. The paint was snow-white, and it gave the Order headquarters a sort of elegance to it. His stomach tightened when he thought of the Order of the Phoenix. Shortly after their graduation, Dumbledore had come up to them and asked them to be a part of a group that he had created to defeat Voldemort. They, of course, had agreed at once and signed their oaths to the group. However, James felt a foreboding feeling inside of him that perhaps it was the wrong decision. After all, being in the Order was a dangerous risk. He would be putting his whole family in danger since his parents weren't part of the Order—they were too busy with their full-time Auror lives.

He suddenly grabbed Y/n's hand by impulse and squeezed it tightly. His thoughtful hazel eyes locked with her brilliant, almond-shaped e/c ones, and he nodded slowly. Y/n was one of the main reasons why he even bothered joining the Order. She was his life, and he had wanted her for so long now. James needed to protect her, and the children that they would have together later on.

"What's wrong, James?" whispered Y/n, her eyes widening with surprise.

"I don't want you to get hurt," he said gently and brushed his hand against her cheek. He felt small shivers escape her body.

"What are you talking about?"

"The Order. I'm putting so many of you in danger by joining, especially since Voldemort wants me to join him."

"He's given up on trying to make you do that, James. We're too close to Albus for him to try anything on us again."

"You never know what Voldemort might do, Y/n. Even though I hate him with all my heart, he is a genius. You know what Albus told us about his younger days. He used to be a prefect and Head Boy, and his name was Tom Riddle. Albus said he was one of the most brilliant students Hogwarts has ever seen. However, he had sunk too deeply into the Dark Arts, and now look who he has become."

"There has to be a reason for Voldemort to want to kill so many of us besides the fact that he wants control of the world."

"There is none besides that. He wants to get rid of any magical people who aren't purebloods, and then have the purebloods take over the world with him. If we don't stop him, Y/n, this world is going to be a dark world."

"We'll stop him, James," said Y/n firmly and resolutely, squeezing her fiancé's hand tighter. "We'll stop him, no matter how much it takes."

"Hey, you two lovebirds coming?" Sirius grinned at his best friends. "Arabella and I are going to Hogsmeade for a bit. You coming?"

"What about Jennifer and Violet?"

"We're not going," said Jennifer quickly. "Vi wants to spend the day at Jackson's house, and I want some time alone."

Y/n nodded, understanding. "Sure, Sirius, we'll go."

"Great! Let's go, then."

The two couples Apparated right in front of Honeydukes, where crowds of students were busily chatting or shopping. It felt good to feel some of Hogwarts again through the students, and they were about to go to the Three Broomsticks for a butterbeer, since it was a chilly day in November, when someone called their name.

"Y/N!"

Y/n turned around to see Emmeline waving energetically, in her little group of friends, the younger girl extremely excited.

"Oh, hello, Emmeline," she greeted cordially.

"Ooh, Hogwarts is so lonely without you guys!" she gushed effusively. "It's so dull without the Marauders spicing it up with some of their pranks."

"So we have made our mark, have we?" Sirius looked very pleased.

"Definitely. The Head Boy's really dull this year, and the Head Girl is even worse. I wish you guys were the Heads again...that was the best year!"

"How's your sixth year?"

"Busy. I'm still a prefect again, but I don't have as many responsibilities as last year. When's your wedding going to be, Y/n?"

Before Y/n could have time to reply, a tall and very good-looking girl who looked to be either a sixth or seventh year gasped and giggled along with her friends, pointing at James and Sirius.

"Look, it's two of the ringleaders of the Marauders!" exclaimed one of them, laughing. "James Potter and Sirius Black!"

"James! Sirius!" The tall girl waved and smiled seductively, walking over to them.

"Er—hello. Do we know you?" James furrowed his brow.

"Oh, I'm Alex Opalisk," she said off-handedly.

James suddenly recognized her as one of the lovesick fan girls who always followed him around at Hogwarts. She was a seventh year Gryffindor, though Merlin only knew how she got into it instead of Hufflepuff.

"Oh, I remember you," he said absent-mindedly. "Er—nice to see you again, Alex."

She gasped, her eyes dancing. "Oh, you remember me, James Potter? How splendid! But you already have a girlfriend." She looked disdainfully over at Y/n.

"My fiancée," he elaborated, nodding. "We're getting married next April."

Alex's face fell, and her hand flew conspicuously to her hair, which was done in a fashionable twist, making it look elegant. "Oh, that's wonderful!" she said in an affected voice.

"Yes, isn't it?" said Y/n, gritting her teeth. "Now, if you excuse us—"

"Don't be rude to the Head Girl, L/n," said Alex coolly.

"You're Head Girl?" said Arabella, who had been quiet most of the time, incredulously. "Who would pick you?"

Sirius coughed, hiding a grin.

"Dumbledore, certainly," said Alex, tossing her head in a huffy manner. "I do think I deserve the position, Figg."

"Oh, I'm honored you know my name, Randall. However, I would watch your mouth. We are respected people, and very close to Dumbledore. So if you step out of line, we will be sure to let Albus know at once."

"I don't think you have that sort of authority over us," said Yvonne Lorencia, one of Alex's friends. "After all, we are technically legal adults, since we have our Apparition licenses and everything."

"Agreed," intoned Alex, nodding virtuously.

"True, but these are dark times, and Albus trusts us with his heart," said Sirius. "He will dismiss any student unworthy of his or her positions as prefect or Head Boy and Girl."

"I don't think you should talk to them that way," put in Emmeline, while her friends agreed readily. "After all, James and Y/n are Aurors-in-training, and Arabella and Sirius work for the Ministry. They are very close to Professor Dumbledore, and you should respect them. They are, after all, more adults than you, Alex."

"Don't talk to me like that, you stupid Mudblood," snapped Alex loftily.

"I shall speak to Professor Dumbledore of your crude language, Ms. Randall," said Y/n, raising an eyebrow.

"It's just 'Mudblood'; I don't see the big deal."

"Certainly you might not, but it is using bad language."

"You're just saying that 'cause you're a Mudblood, too."

James flew up in rage. "Did you call my girl a—a—you-know-what, Randall?" he roared, causing several of the student body to stare.

"What, the great James Potter not able to say a word like 'Mudblood'?"

Regulus and his friends, who happened to be standing nearby, laughed when hearing this. "Go, Alex!" Regulus cried, clapping. "Go out with me?"

Alex smiled, revealing little gleaming white teeth. "Oh, but Regulus darling, I'm a Gryffindor and you're a Slytherin. We don't mix well at all."

"Who cares about that. You with me?"

"Of course." She grinned, dreaming of the handsome Black.

Sirius groaned conspicuously. He had hoped everyone would hate Regulus and that he would end up single forever, but for some unknown reason, many of the girls chased after him like fox and hound.

"What's the matter, big brother?" Regulus smirked. "Jealous that I have a date with a pretty girl, and you have a less-prettier fiancée?"

"Ha! Yeah, right, Reg. Actually, I was wondering how you could even get a girl to agree to be your date to Hogsmeade. Amazing, really, how someone like you can attract girls at all."

James bit his lip to keep himself from laughing. He always did enjoy the bickers between his best friend and the little brother of the latter; they were always quite amusing and entertaining to watch.

Regulus rolled his eyes. "Nice comeback, Sirius, really. However, I really would not be talking. You have some dirt for a girlfriend there yourself."

"That's it! I've had more than enough patience for you than you really deserve, Regulus, but you've gone way too far this time. Arabella is not dirt, and she is certainly better than the girls that you go out with. So I'd watch your tongue next time, Regulus, or there will be trouble. C'mon guys, let's get out of here and get a butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks. You come too, Emmeline, and bring your friends along as well."

"Oh, sorry, Sirius, I can't," apologized Emmeline, looking disappointed. "I have to get back to Hogwarts soon and start on my homework. We have so much this year!"

"That's too bad," said Y/n sympathetically, as she and Arabella took turns hugging the young girl. "Hopefully we'll see you again."

"Yes, hopefully. You will visit, won't you?" Emmeline looked eagerly at the adults.

"Of course," piped up Arabella, smiling.

"Hey, girls, we know good-byes are painful, but I really am cold," said James through chattering teeth.

"Yes, yes. Well, bye, Emmeline!"

They entered the Three Broomsticks and sat at the nearest empty table. Madam Rosmerta gasped when she saw the foursome and clasped her hands eagerly.

"Why, if it isn't the infamous James Potter and Sirius Black!" She smiled. "And who are you lovely young ladies?"

"You remember Y/n L/n and Arabella Figg, don't you, Madam Rosmerta?" James gave a casual wave to the girls. "They're our fiancées."

"Fiancées?" Madam Rosmerta raised an eyebrow. "You've actually settled down with girls? I don't believe it! I think that you are fooling me here, boys and that these poor girls are mere flings."

Arabella laughed. "Oh, no, Madam Rosmerta, we're their girlfriends, unfortunately, of course. But we, Y/n and I, fell for their charm like every other girl at Hogwarts eventually, though they did have a tough time getting to us." She winked at Sirius.

"Stop it, Bella." Sirius nodded in assent to his girlfriend's statement.

"Why, if that doesn't beat it all—James Potter and Sirius Black coming back to my shop with girls and a steady relationship. Things sure have changed."

"Surely we weren't that bad, my dear Rosmerta," said James smoothly. "After all, Sirius has been with Arabella since first year, miraculously. Of course, they've had their good and bad moments—"

"A complete understatement," interrupted Y/n, rolling her eyes.

"—but they still make a good couple anyway," he finished, raising an eyebrow at his fiancée questioningly. Y/n stuck out her tongue in response.

"How did you manage to pull off a proposal without ruining it?" Madam Rosmerta looked truly amazed at the changes James and Sirius had gone through.

"Oh, it took some time, at least for James, but we pulled it off eventually," replied Sirius.

"You two have changed so much since I last saw you here."

"Well, with us being adults and Voldemort on the rise, we needed to grow up, I suppose."

The pub had gone completely silent after Sirius' remark. Whispers were exchanged among the magic folk, and they looked fearfully at Sirius, and then around the pub as if waiting for Voldemort to appear all of a sudden into the shop. Madam Rosmerta had dropped the large glass of butterbeer that she was about to hand over to a tottering old woman, and the liquid spilled over her lavish magenta robes.

"You said You-Know-Who's name!" exclaimed one young wizard, not much older than them, in barely a whisper.

"Yeah, Voldemort," said Sirius casually, shrugging. The wizard gave another shudder. "So what? It's just a name."

"Yes, but he might hear you and come any second."

"Don't give me that crap, Mr.—what's your name?"

"Jason Wood...hey! I know you from somewhere."

"Wood?" Sirius looked at James, and then back at the wizard in surprise. "Jason Wood, ex-captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch Team?"

"Yes, that's me, and you're—by golly! Cassia, look." He nudged the petite, pretty little woman next to him. "It's Potter and Black, our old teammates."

The small brunette looked startled and then began to smile, her creamy face lighting up with delight.

"James Potter and Sirius Black. Well, well, we haven't seen you for quite a while yet. And what's this? Finally snagged Y/n L/n, now, have you, Potter?"

James nodded and brought Y/n closer to him. "You bet, Wood. You and Cassia married?"

"Nah. I've yet to propose to her, eh? No, we're still boyfriend and girlfriend, though."

"It's great," said Cassia in a bit of a strained voice. "We don't need to be married...staying like this is good enough for me."

Y/n nodded politely. "We're engaged. So are Sirius and Arabella."

Wood set down his butterbeer with a clink. "Well, how about that? I would have never expected Potter and Black to be almost-married men. Congratulations."

James, Sirius, and Wood then started to discuss Quidditch, while the three girls discussed their wedding plans.

"You must come to mine, Cassia," said Y/n eagerly. "I'll have you as one of my bridesmaids."

"I couldn't," said Cassia, shaking her head, laughing. "I'm not worthy of such a thing, Y/n. Please, don't invite me. I'll only burst into a pathetic flood of tears anyway when the actual wedding takes place."

"What does that matter? Bella will probably cry, too."

"I second to that," intoned Arabella emphatically.

"Y/n, don't you understand? I can't!"

"Why not?"

"I think"—she cast a furtive glance to the men—"that we should discuss this in the bathroom. Guys, we have to—er—fix our make-up in the bathroom. We'll be back in a jiffy, all right?"

"Yeah, sure." Wood waved an impatient arm around, too absorbed in James' rich-detailed account of the last Quidditch game between England and Czechoslovakia.

Cassia dragged the other two younger women to the bathroom, shut the door, and burst into tears. Y/n and Arabella exchanged looks of perplexity but did not say anything at first.

"Oh, Y/n, Bella! I can't stand this any longer. I want to marry Jason, but he just won't propose. He's too in love with Quidditch to care about marriage with me and says that he's perfectly content with just having a boyfriend-girlfriend relationship instead of an intimate marriage. I really want us to get married and have children, and raise them to be respectable and clever. But how can I?"

"How do you know that Jason doesn't want marriage?" asked Y/n.

"Isn't it obvious? He says it all the time."

"Perhaps he says it all the time, but it may not be true, Cass. Men are unpredictable and whimsical like that; they say things they don't mean. I know it's really stupid, but that's how they've always been, and you should know that by now. Maybe Jason thinks that you don't want marriage either, so he's just saying that he doesn't want it to please you and make you happy."

"That's ridiculous. How can he think that? He knows I love him, and couples in love always go the next level by getting married."

"Yeah, but your Quidditch-obsessed boyfriend is different, like James and Sirius. They care too much about us that they're hurting us instead of benefiting us."

"How do you know all this?" Cassia looked at Y/n in awe. "You haven't been in a relationship nearly as long as I, and you know more about this than I do."

Y/n shrugged. "It's probably because I've known James practically all my life, and I've sort of studied and understood him, like a book. It's not that hard once you get used to it. After all, James is the perfect example of an unconventional man, and I understand how his brain works. That's why I know what I'm talking about because Jason is out of the ordinary as well."

Cassia looked thoughtful for a moment and then crushed Y/n in a tight hug. "Thanks, Y/n. You're the greatest. But what should I do now?"

"Talk to him, of course," put in Arabella sensibly. "That's the only way you'll get things out of men...you got to be the first ones to bring up the subject. Don't think they'll be the first ones to bring it, because they definitely won't be. They're slow that way."

"And I'm guessing you know this because of Sirius."

"'Course. With Sirius as a fiancé, well, life gets a little more interesting than usual, huh?"

Cassia laughed and dried her remaining tears. "Thanks, the both of you. You two have really helped. I'll talk to Jay tonight."

"You'd better, and tell us what he says about it."

"Definitely."

When the three girls came out, the guys were already waiting for them by the entrance, still discussing Quidditch.

"You guys still at that stupid game?" Cassia rolled her eyes.

"You were the Beater at Hogwarts with me, and now you don't care about Quidditch?" Sirius asked in mock-horror. "Dear Merlin, what's happened?"

"Maybe it's the whole being an adult thing that's changed me." She shrugged. "Ready, Jay? Oh, and when we get back to our flat, I have to talk to you about something."

"Sure." Wood shrugged and they both Disapparated.

"You girls ready?" James looked questioningly at them.

"Yeah. Just give us a second."

Arabella turned to her best friend and smiled. "Think we have enough experience about life, n/n?"

"Perhaps not all of it, but we sure got enough to brighten hearts around us. Merlin knows we need more happy souls around here these days. There are barely any of them at all."

And what Y/n said was absolutely true, especially since their world would soon turn colder.

"There's been a Hogsmeade attack."

Those words kept ringing in everyone's minds as they prepared to Apparate to Hogsmeade, where many students were attacked. There were many casualties and a few deaths.

Y/n clutched James' hand all the way there, and even when they arrived at the scene of the crime. Her heart turned cold when she thought of all her younger friends, especially Emmeline, and the chances of them being either injured or dead.

"James, I'm so scared," she whispered, hugging his arm.

"I know, Y/n." James kissed her passionately. "Don't worry. I'm sure it's going to be fine."

"It won't be," said Y/n quietly, so that even he couldn't hear. "Nothing's been fine for a long time."

When they arrived at the scene, Y/n involuntarily shivered. It was terrible. Shops and places were all in ruin, broken into and destroyed by Death Eaters no doubt, and it was completely chaotic, with Healers and teachers scurrying about in a disorderly fashion. There were screams and groans coming from everywhere, and upon the ground, there were dead corpses. The worst of it was, they weren't all completely discomposed to broken bones and flagged skin. No, instead they were just dead bodies of students, still quite healthy-looking, and each student lying eagle-spread on the ground had an expression of terror and astonishment upon their faces. It was sickening, and the eight of them cringed at the sight.

"That's perfectly horrible," whispered Peter, wiping his eyes from the stinging cold.

"Awful," acceded Sirius, his arm tightening around Arabella.

"C'mon, no use standing here," said Moody gruffly, as he tottered near to where Professor Dumbledore was, talking gravely to Professors McGonagall and Flitwick. "May as well be of some use, hey?"

"You're right, Alastor," said Jennifer firmly. "Let's see what Albus and Minerva have to say about all this."

They approached the two professors, who looked over at the eight adults and nodded in greeting.

"Hello, Misses L/n, Figg, Dean, and Walker. Messrs. Potter, Black, Lupin, and Pettigrew, hello to you, too."

"Professor, is it bad?" inquired Y/n anxiously.

"It may not be as bad as you imagined, Ms. L/n, but yes, it is considered bad. Not as bad as some of the attacks, but I think you may want to see some of the victims."

Professor McGonagall led Y/n and the others to where the injured or dead were, and Y/n gasped. There were many students that she didn't recognize, who were probably much younger than she, but there were two that she knew within a second. One, who lay groaning, was Kenneth Hughes, who had been Emmeline's boyfriend. Another was Laura Smith, but instead of groaning, she lay still. Too still. To add to it, she didn't move or budge at all.

"Professor," gasped Violet from Y/n's left side. "Laura isn't—she isn't—"

"I'm afraid so, Ms. Walker. Ms. Smith is indeed dead."

"That can't be," said Y/n dully. "No...Laura, she can't be dead!"

Suddenly, the truth of the statement struck her. Sweet Laura, who had been so shy at first, but then opened up to Y/n, was dead, and never to come back to life again. The Dark Side had killed her: the Death Eaters and Voldemort. Y/n had promised to visit Laura, but she hadn't seen her since graduation. She wouldn't know if Laura had passed her O.W.L.s, or if she had gotten a boyfriend! No, she would never know these things, because Laura was dead. She had been killed in the attack.

"Y/n?" James whispered. "Are you all right?"

Y/n nodded slowly, burying her head in his shoulder. "Oh, James, it's horrible! Laura dead and Kenneth hurt, as well as many other children who are so small. Look at that little girl over there. She looks to be about a first or second year, and she's dead. James, will our world ever be the same?"

"I don't think so, Y/n, but we'll try our best to pull together, and live through this. If we don't, then we know that the future generations will destroy Voldemort forever, and destroy all evil, if that's ever possible. For now, let's just concentrate on our present, instead of the future. I don't know when this will ever end, but whatever happens, I'll stick with you forever and never leave you. I love you, Y/n."

Tears sprang to her eyes, as she hugged him. "I love you, too."

James' eyes went over to the outcome of the attack, and suddenly his hand brushed against his eyes. No, he would stay strong like a man, and not cry. He had gotten the conception that only girls cried, and he would stick with that thought in mind. No, he would never cry, but somehow, the tears came out, and he wasn't ashamed of them. The mere feeling of Y/n's small body upon his gave him pleasure and hope for the future.

He understood why Y/n felt so passionate about the attack. He knew and liked Laura very well, and of course, he and Kenneth were good friends. He started at the thought of his young friend dying from his injuries. No, James wouldn't think of these things. It wouldn't happen...at least, that's what he hoped.

The world was turning upside down, to put it eloquently, and James knew it. However, he meant what he said to Y/n, and that he would always love her and stick with her. After all, he couldn't just leave her after two years of chasing after the h/c, now, could he?

Y/n looked over at her fiancé and saw him deep in thought. She smiled inwardly at having been part of the reason James was so mature and serious now and kissed him lightly. He was so handsome, standing there with his long arms around her small waist. His naturally untidy black hair was ruffled as usual, and his hazel eyes were mixed with a look of concentration and gravity. Y/n loved his eyes more than anything else about him did. Those eyes resembled everything that Y/n loved about him. He always had a look to them as well. Usually, it was a mischievous glint in those light brown eyes, but his eyes always matched the mood of the situation. Now, his hazel eyes had an appropriate seriousness to it.

James noticed Y/n looking at him, and grinned. It was the largest and first grin that he did in days, and it considerably brightened the situation slightly, since everyone else smiled slightly, seeing him do the same. Perhaps they would have a better future where there was no Voldemort, but for now, they were in the present and would have to deal with it, no matter what. However, James was optimistic, and knew, one day, Voldemort and evil itself would be defeated.

tags; @theredheadedwinchester

masterlist

[andryuska]

REALLY  LONG CHARACTER SURVEY. RULES. repost, don’t reblog ! tag 10 ! good  luck ! TAGGED. stolen off the dash! TAGGING. @extasiie @moscowsdragon @goodcousin @dearbewildered @inburgundy @anastcsie @bolkonskxya @youngwiife 

BASICS. FULL  NAME : Andrei Nikolayevich Bolkonsky NICKNAME : Andre, Andryushka (and many more, see this post) AGE : mid/late 20s - early 30s BIRTHDAY : November 13, sometime in the late 18th century. ETHNIC  GROUP : White NATIONALITY :  Russian LANGUAGE / S : French, Russian, English, German. SEXUAL  ORIENTATION : Greysexual. ROMANTIC  ORIENTATION : Demiromantic. RELATIONSHIP  STATUS : Verse and year dependent - Married in 1805, single from 1806 - 1809, courting and then being betrothed to Natasha in 1810 - 1811, single again in 1812. Generally dating Natasha in modern college verse, and single in modern verse. CLASS : Titled Nobility HOME  TOWN / AREA : Bald Hills, Russia CURRENT  HOME : Bugocharovo, Russia, as well as various other estates. PROFESSION : Adjutant to General Kutuzov, member of Military Council, Army Officer.

PHYSICAL. HAIR : Dark brown, and kept fairly short. What slightly longer parts there are near the top of his head are significantly wavy, but not necessarily curly. Parted on the left. EYES : Dark brown and very intense, made prominent by dark eyelashes and slight bags underneath.  NOSE : Average and pretty much not notable. One nostril is slightly larger than the other. It has never been broken. FACE : Conventionally handsome, though slightly asymmetrical. He has fairly well defined lines with his cheekbones and jawline ( though the latter is hidden under a short and well kept beard ). His eyes are deeply set and averagely far apart, and dark rimmed as well. He has no laugh lines, but his forehead has a couple wrinkles on it from stress, and there’s a crease between his well-shaped eyebrows that becomes especially visible when he’s troubled by something. LIPS :  Thin and usually pressed into a thin line. He’s usually either neutral or frowning. COMPLEXION : White and pale, but not to the point of being quite noticeable. Has a better tan on his face and hands than everywhere else, on account of wearing a uniform. BLEMISHES : Two small moles on his neck. A small birthmark that’s paler than the rest of him on his left hip, where the bone protrudes a little. SCARS : Some small, faded scars on his arms from childhood roughhousing. Larger scars on his side + back from being wounded at Austerlitz ( he was knocked over the head while carrying the standard into battle, and in lying there, was likely injured further in being trampled or by stray artillery fire. ) TATTOOS : None. HEIGHT : 6′0″. WEIGHT : 170 lbs. BUILD : Fit, but on the thinner side. FEATURES : Generally assertive and adult-looking. His features make him look responsible, though not entirely friendly. As said, he’s conventionally handsome. ALLERGIES : None. USUAL  HAIR  STYLE : Well-kept, and otherwise left as it is. USUAL  FACE  LOOK :  Andrei’s resting expression is a rather annoyed one. He doesn’t naturally smile or frown, but has a neutral mouth, and his eyes give off a very intent sort of apathy and indifference. He looks like he’s bored with everything and has seen it all before, and is irritated to have to experience anything at all. Of course, as soon as someone he likes engages him, or gets him on a topic that he has opinions about, he’ll animate in a very intense way, take on a very perplexed and troubled expression in arguing for what he thinks is correct. He very rarely smiles, and when it does, it’s usually small and somewhat veiled, and often without any real joy. USUAL  CLOTHING : A staple to any of his outfits is black boots and trousers. At home, he usually wears a shirt that’s somewhat open at the collar, and often prefers suspenders to a belt. Most of his shirts are whites or light blues, with minimal patterns, and most suspenders are darker colors, again without a lot of vibrant patterns. He tends to roll his sleeves. In going out, he has a heavy grey coat that’s fairly long, with leather sown into the shoulders for protection against rain and cold. His more formal wear is usually his military uniform, which consists of a green coat darker gold embellishments, occasionally worn with a sash. There are white trousers and a black leather belt to go with these. In terms of accessories, he has a saber and a pistol, both worn off a belt for that specific purpose, though he prefers not to carry these things around with him.

PSYCHOLOGY. FEAR / S : Failure, lacking a proper legacy, appearing vulnerable or weak, being completely isolated and unreachable, being inadequate, intensely emotional discussions... ASPIRATION / S : At first, Andrei wants very hard to define himself as a military commander and to rise to greatness in leadership. After Austerlitz, he makes it a goal to reform the military code as to bring more order to warfare. Once Natasha breaks her engagement to him, however, Andrei wants to punish Anatole on a very low level, and otherwise has not life goals or aspirations, he’s just tired of living. POSITIVE  TRAITS : Intelligent, polite, considerate, loyal, reflective, determined, responsible, trustworthy, committed, thoughtful. NEGATIVE  TRAITS : Irritable, cold, tends to over analyze, doubtful, selfish, easily bored, self-isolating, tends to internalize, unfriendly, condescending, MBTI : INTJ ZODIAC : Scorpio TEMPERAMENT : Melancholic VICE  HABIT / S : Paces relentlessly, escapism via intellectual discourses, doesn’t hold eye contact, clicks / plays with writing utensil ( or whatever is in his hands ), occasionally argumentative on purpose. FAITH : Russian Orthodox, but not strictly devout or heavily practicing.  GHOSTS ? : Undecided. AFTERLIFE ? : No. REINCARNATION ? : No. ALIENS ? : No. POLITICAL  ALIGNMENT : Conservative, and loyal to the Russian Empire. ECONOMIC  PREFERENCE : Used to living with wealth, though largely unconscious of it. He doesn’t care much for luxuries, and instead would rather his money be used for functional purposes and necessities. SOCIOPOLITICAL  POSITION : High class. EDUCATION  LEVEL :  Taught both at home and abroad by his father and a variety of hired tutors. Extremely well-read, and knowledgeable of politics, philosophy, and history. Still has some education to complete in military affairs. His poorest subject is mathematics.

FAMILY. FATHER : Nikolai Andreevich Bolkonsky MOTHER : Unknown, died when he was young. SIBLINGS : Marya Bolkonskaya EXTENDED  FAMILY : None of note. NAME  MEANING / S : Manly, brave. HISTORICAL  CONNECTION ? : It’s likely that the Bolkonsky family was modeled after the historical Volkonsky family, which had a few Russian generals who would have been Andrei’s age during the course of the Napoleonic wars. Additionally, it’s likely that Andrei was named after his grandfather.

FAVOURITES. BOOK : Leviathan, Thomas Hobbes. He thinks it fairly correct in many of its assessments, and himself has little optimism about human nature. MOVIE : Dunkirk (2017) dir. Christopher Nolan 5  SONGS : I Am a Rock - Simon and Garfunkel // The Show Must Go On - Queen // Smoke Gets In Your Eyes - The Platters // Tell My Father - Civil War // Miserere Mei Deus - Allegri DEITY : None. HOLIDAY : None. MONTH : None. SEASON : Autumn. PLACE : His study at home. WEATHER : Partly cloudy and somewhat cool. SOUND : Natasha’s voice when she sings. SCENT / S : Vanilla, cold autumn air, pine forests. TASTE / S : Rye bread, white tea with sugar. FEEL / S : Finely spun wool that’s very soft, being held by someone he loves / trusts, cool polished wood, cold marble, clean linens, general smooth, cool or cold surfaces. ANIMAL / S : Snowy owls, barn owls. NUMBER : Three. COLOUR : Blue.

EXTRA. TALENTS : Content analysis, writing academic prose, understanding political problems, organization and planning, debating and arguing, leadership. BAD  AT : Casual conversation and small talk, complex mathematics, handling emotions in a healthy way, comforting others, being supportive. TURN  ONS : Infectious laughs and smiles, unburdened happiness and brightness, private / secret intimacy, possessive talk ( you’re mine / you belong to me / etc. ), gentle and genuine reinforcement. TURN  OFFS : Overdone emotions and extreme acts of affection, publicity and PDA, vulgar talk, idiocy and ignorance. HOBBIES : Reading and writing. TROPES : Byronic Hero, Awful Wedded Life, Intelligence Equals Isolation, The Stoic. QUOTES :  “To spare oneself from grief at all cost can be achieved only at the price of total detachment, which excludes the ability to experience happiness.” - Erich Fromm. // “The majority of the people of that time paid not attention to the general course of things, but were guided only by the personal interests of the day. And those people were the most useful figures of that time.” - Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace //  “It’s not given to people to judge what’s right or wrong. People have eternally been mistaken and will be mistaken, and in nothing more so than in what they consider right and wrong.” - Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace.

FC INFO. MAIN  FC / S : Nicholas Belton ALT  FC / S : Blake DeLong OLDER  FC / S : None YOUNGER  FC / S : None VOICE  CLAIM / S : Nicholas Belton GENDERBENT  FC / S : None.

MUN QUESTIONS. Q1 : if  you  could  write  your  character  your  way  in  their  own  movie ,   what  would  it  be  called ,  what  style  would  it  be  filmed  in ,  and  what  would  it  be  about ?           A1 : Okay, so if I made a movie about Andrei’s life ( it would be sort of a biopic, but it would mostly focus on the wars ) it would be called War Weary and it would be a pretty stylized drama. I’d want to use a lot of symbolic methods for exposition and have mostly just natural sounds, and hold off on an elaborate soundtrack. It would start with the sky at Austerlitz and end with the Borodino wound, so it would kind of go full circle. It would get like three Oscars, I promise. Q2 : what  would  their  soundtrack / score  sound  like ?           A2 : It would be largely instrumental, and done in late classical style. Lots of minor keys and broken chords. It would have to give the impression of thoughtfulness, of never having any stillness, as to represent Andrei’s inability to stop thinking of things. The only really bright part would still have to be slow, and wouldn’t come to the very end. Heavy use of stringed instruments and piano, with some underlying percussion. Dave Malloy would compose it. Q3 : why  did  you  start  writing  this  character ?           A3 : I read War and Peace, and identified a lot with Andrei right at the beginning. That kind of gave me the idea of making a blog for him, but at the time, I wasn’t really in RP at all. After reading the book, I made a blog, and it sat there for a bit before I finally decided to start to actually put effort into it. INTJ solidarity also played a part, and encouragement from others on RP blogs that I did try and bring back later in this past summer. I really don’t make blogs lightly, and I don’t make a lot of them, so it really must have been a strong connection, because here I am, writing Andrei. Q4 : what  first  attracted  you  to  this  character ?           A4 : He’s so disinterested in social situations and other people, like he comes in to Anna Pavlovna’s soiree and just... Does not want to be there at all, basically insults a bunch of people, then goes off and complains about it to his only friend. That’s me. That’s a thing I have done. So yeah, I kept an eye on him since. Q5 : describe  the  biggest  thing  you  dislike  about  your  muse.           A5 : He can be such an asshole sometimes, let me tell you... Like there are reasons behind it, which you can find in numerous headcanon posts, but he can just come off in such a terrible and cold way. It’s especially bad when it’s to the people who are trying to help him / be good to him. it kills me that he pushes them away in favor of just isolating himself instead of dealing with his problems. Q6 : what  do  you  have  in  common  with  your  muse ?           A6 : Lonely. Single. One friend. In seriousness though, all those things, plus some more. We share a personality type and a general cynicism about the world and about other people. Honestly, I probably have a lot of his bad traits, which isn’t great, but hey, if there’s one thing Andrei and I can’t do, it’s change for the better. Q7 : how  does  your  muse  feel  about  you ?           A7 : We would probably be intellectual rivals... I can see us fighting over politics and philosophy, on account of having rather different ideological views. But like, not in an angry way, in a courteous and debating way. I don’t think Andrei would like me, to be fully honest. Q8 : what  characters  does  your  muse  have  interesting  interactions  with ? A8 : ANATOLE KURAGIN  ( blame extasiie, kay made me aware of anadrei ),  Pierre, Natasha, Marya B and Marya D ( especially in my modern college verse ), Sonya ( aka bring on the Angst ), and a whole lot of others. Q9 : what  gives  you  inspiration  to  write  your  muse ?         A9 : Reading War & Peace. There’s a few sections that I go to and reread if I don’t have muse - Andrei’s introduction through to his dinner with Pierre, his return from Austerlitz and the trauma that follows, sections with Natasha, his last conversation with Pierre, and his death. These usually get me thinking in character and it helps to read the source to get the style of prose right. For modern college verse, which I write in a lot, I can usually just go right into it without a lot of inspiration, because college!Andrei and I have plenty of similarities. Q10 : how  long  did  this  take  you  to  complete ?         A10 : I didn’t do it all in some sitting, so I don’t know. A couple hours at least.

[havokangel]

Shape Of You - Part 1/2

Warren Worthington III x Reader

written by @kurtwxgners & @alexsunmners

a/n; aka, the artist au no one asked for.

so first and foremost, this has been in the works since NOVEMBER. NOVEMBER. alex and i have been busting our ass for MONTHS over this fic and we hope we did it justice. sorry for keeping you all waiting, but we hope it was worth it! enjoy guys!

also on ao3

part two here

tags; @mvximoff @madelyne-pryor  @rax-writes @paperclipmac @v-writings @dicckgrayson @emmcfrxst @iamplaguedwithideas @hastyscribe @softwarren @jubillee @mutantlaura @idontknowwhattocallthisposts @theatricalenthusiast @themidnight-train @thequeen-ofnerds @xxencagedxx 

artist!warren playlist

ILYSB // LANY

Sex On Fire // Kings of Leon

The Less I Know The Better // Tame Impala

Comfortable // Lauv

Holy Ghost // BORNS

Why’d You Only Call Me When You’re High? // Arctic Monkeys

Never Be Like You // Flume 

Sex // The 1975

Post Break Up Sex // The Vaccines

Idfc // Blackbear

Nothing’s Gonna Hurt You Baby // Cigarettes After Sex

Trouble // Cage The Elephant

She Moves In Her Own Way // The Kooks

R U Mine? // Arctic Monkeys

I Walk The Line // Halsey

Boys Don’t Cry // The Cure

Summary; You know Warren better than you think anyone else does; you know about his art and his habits and a bit about his dad, and you know that he’s reckless and self-destructive and that he doesn’t do relationships.

 Which wasn’t a problem until now.

There’s no denying that Warren Worthington III is incredibly attractive. Girls and boys alike always seem so naturally drawn to him, and you wonder if the universe had specifically put him in your life to make you angry. Warren may be the Adonis of your university, but there’s always a catch with boys like him: his ego, which may as well be bigger than the sun, and you’re almost positive that he knows he’s got everyone in your art class wrapped around his finger. You’re first hand witness to that, for an hour and a half three times a week. Everytime he cuddles up to some wide-eyed girl and suggests that they swing by his place that evening, you roll your eyes so hard you’re almost surprised they don’t fall out of your head. He tells them he’d love to have them model for him sometime. You’re pretty sure that’s what he tells every girl he wants to fuck. It makes you cringe. So, that’s why you usually kept to yourself in that class - that is, until Warren actually acknowledges your presence.

The project you’re working on, is simple, so simple that even someone who was just taking this as an elective, like yourself, could pass with flying colors without giving it too much attention. It’s still life week and you’re meant to be drawing the fruit bowl in the middle of the room, which feels like a cliche or something, but who are you to argue with the teacher’s assignment. You had put your headphones in a while ago, before Warren had started making his usual rounds of the class, to project his ‘artistic advice’ onto other students who didn't know any better, who were probably only taking his incredibly condescending advice at all in the hopes of gaining his affection. Or an invitation home. You’re pretty sure Warren has fucked half the class already and for reasons that escape you, the rest of the class hasn’t figured out that they should probably just steer clear of him. So when you see out of the corner of your eye a stool being pulled up next to you, a sigh leaves your mouth. You pull out a headphone, and look at Warren, who’s oh-so-carefully examining your sketch through his probably fake and definitely expensive glasses.

“Y’know, if I were you, I’d shade in this area,” He suggests, finger pointing to the bottom of the bowl. “It’d really make the drawing more realistic, and it’d give it more depth.”

“Excuse me?” You say with offense, looking down at your paper.

“M’just saying, it’d look good if you shaded there.” Warren repeats, leaning his chin against his hand.

“Look, just because you’re some ‘up and coming’ artist, doesn’t mean I’m going to do what you thinks good,” You tell him, using air quotes around your words to make your point. “Besides, the prof is always telling us to develop our own art style.”

“Ouch!” Warren petulantly says, clutching his chest. “Didn’t expect you to be so sassy, princess.”

“Don’t call me that.” You say with a roll of your eyes, ripping your completed sketch out of your book. You get up to go turn in your sketch, Warren quickly following behind you.

“Look, we haven’t really talked before, I was just trying to break the ice!” He says petulantly, though the effect is ruined by the smirk tugging at his lips. You swear that he was born with that permanent smirk on his face. The teacher points to the pile of sketches, and you place it there. “You’re always so observant, and I just want to get to know you.”

“Way to break the ice,” you mutter under your breath, moving back to the table where your things are.

“Why don’t you swing by my place tonight, I’m having a little get together with some other art majors,” Warren suggests casually, as you gather your things. “I’ve got lots of good wine, and you could check out my portfolio.”

“Sorry Warren, I’d love to be around people I have nothing in common with, but I've got plans tonight,” you retort, hitching your bag a little higher on your shoulder.

“And that's what? Netflix bingeing until three a.m.?” Warren calls after you, watching as you make your way towards the door. You just turn and give him a blatantly fake smile, flipping him off to the amusement of the students watching. He just sighs with a smile, his hands moving to his hips. He'd always see you during class, and he always wondered how a girl like you was always so quiet, and observant during class. And to be quite honest, he was getting pretty tired of the usual girls he flirted with during this class; so he took an interest in you, initiating the conversation with you today. You looked like you could be fun, and the way you had snapped back at him only confirmed the idea.So as the next few weeks unfold, he’s not too sure why his usual lines and tricks aren't working on you, like they had on everyone else. And you're pretty sure you might wring his neck, if he asks you to come to one more of his art shows; or to his loft for “modeling purposes.”

Warren finds out that when you get angry or annoyed, you look undeniably attractive. He also finds it attractive, that when you think no one is paying attention, how you'll chew at the tip of your pencil out of concentration. And, when you're in the dark room together, you look otherworldly under the red lights. He hasn't felt the need to pursue someone like this in a long time. No matter how much you two may argue and banter, there's no denying the underlying chemistry between the two of you. Between hook-ups and Uni, he’d kind of forgotten what it was like to “chase” someone he’s taken an interest in, so when a partner project comes along that requires a human canvas, he’s quick to sign your name along with his.

“I'm sorry, but when did I agree to be your partner?” You question him, seeing your name scrawled out in his handwriting.

“Oh c’mon princess! I'm a good partner,” he winks, as you roll your eyes at him. “We could get a head start on it tonight. I got plenty of ideas, and not to mention, some good wine.” You can't deny that he's the best artist in the whole damn class, and you've heard from others that he actually does have the best wine, and he's a pretty decent host. You're positive he’s also got way better art supplies, which would no doubt increase your chances of getting a nice grade.

“Alright, alright,” You give in, rummaging around your bag for a spare pen and paper. As you scrawl your number on the paper, Warren’s smirk on his face grows. “Text me your address, Worthington. I'll see you at 7.”

And like you had planned earlier, that’s how you end up in Warren’s loft; watching him pour you a glass of wine. (You’d be lying if you said you weren't at least a little nervous. Worthington may be an asshole, but he's also definitely easy on the eyes.) Kings of Leon is playing softly in the background, as he hands you the glass of wine.

“Well, I’d never thought I’d see the day,” Warren says, leaning back against the counter, as he takes a sip of his wine.

“And what’s that?” You ask, even though you're pretty much certain of what he's going to say.

“The day I got you to come to my place. It's a miracle, it really is, princess!”

“God, you're an asshole,” you reply with a laugh, bringing your glass to your lips.

“Yeah, but you like it. Don't lie to yourself,” he teases, causing you to roll your eyes.

“Oh, you're right! I love when you tell me everything I draw is fucked up,” you quip, as he shakes his head with a grin.

“In the art world, that's called constructive criticism,” he says defensively, as you just laugh.

“Well in the real world, that's called being a douchebag.”

Warren grabs the bottle of wine, and circles around the island, cueing you to follow him to the living room. He plops down on the couch, patting the space next to him. You sit, crossing your legs as he rests his arm on the back of the couch. “Alright, down to official Uni business!” He exclaims, reaching to grab his notebook off the coffee table. “I have some experience with using human canvases, so I've got a few ideas.”

“Human canvases, huh?” You comment, swirling your glass. “That human canvas wouldn't happen to go by Emma, from our class, would it? I've heard some pretty good stories from her about you, y’know.”

“Ha, ha,” Warren says, rolling your eyes petulantly and making you chuckle. “Anyways, as I was saying, you know Tumblr, right?” You nod. Of fucking course, he’d have a Tumblr. “Well, you've seen those pictures of paintings on people's backs and shit, right?” Warren asks, his brow raising. It takes you a second to think of what he's describing before it clicks in your brain.

“Oh, Worthington, you've gotta get a couple drinks in me before I do that.”

“I knew you'd say that.” Warren laughs lightly, moving to grab the bottle of wine. “It's a good thing I got this, and more options.”

As the wine begins to flow, so do the ideas. None of them really sound that appealing or creative, and you're pretty sure you're closing in on a decision. As Warren, it’s the alcohol that’s affecting your decision making, but you’re almost certain that it’s the way Warren is so effortlessly making you feel at ease; like he’s taking down the front to an act he puts on all day.

“Fuck it,” you say, interrupting Warren’s list of ideas. “Let’s do the back painting.”

He actually looks slightly taken aback for a moment, his plump lips parting for a moment as if he’s going to say something; but closing them, lips curling into a small smile. He closes his notebook and stands, your gaze following him. “Alright princess,” He says, offering his hand to you. “Let’s get started.”

Warren rearranges his furniture in the living room, pushing the couches out of the way so he would be able to paint. He rummages through his closet for some old sheets, spreading the already paint stained sheets on the floor. You hurriedly finish your wine and pour yourself another large glass as you watch Warren set things up because it’s hitting you that you’re going to be pretty much half naked on his floor, with his hands all over you. You watch him as he sets up a couple lights around the area, arranging them to his liking. He leans down to the couch, and grabs a pillow, chucking it to you with a playful smile.

“For your comfort,” He says simply, running a hand through his curls. “I’m-I’m just gonna go into the other room. Take… take your shirt off, and get comfy. There’s an extra sheet over there, in case I get paint on your skirt, or whatever.” Warren quickly excuses himself, much to your amusement. You’re actually quite flustered if you’re being honest; you expected him to make some suggestive comments throughout the night, but he's been a gentleman so far.

Taking one last sip of your wine for some courage, you slip off your shirt and place it over the back of the armchair. You unclasp your bra and put it on the armchair as well. You wrap your arms around your chest for a moment, feeling the vulnerability set it. You can do this, you convince yourself, as you settle yourself on the floor. You're gonna be fine, and you're going to get a really fucking good grade.

“Worthington!” You call out, raising your head to look over your shoulder. “I'm ready!”

Warren comes into the living room, his hands full of his supplies. It takes everything he's got, not to drop them. He really thought he wouldn't be affected by you being half naked on his floor, but he was so wrong. With your hair splayed over your shoulders and sheet over your legs, you look like you had just fallen asleep after…. after some pretty suggestive activities. And it doesn't help that you look like this, on his floor. He just clears his throats and tries to get his shit together as he makes his way over to you, setting down his supplies beside your body.

“Uh, do- do you want me to play some music or something? Do you want any more wine?” He asks, trying to maintain his professionalism.

“Yes to the music, no to the wine, unfortunately.” You reply, earning a laugh from Warren. “I'm pretty sure I'm past tipsy.”

“Aw, that's cute,” Warren teases, as he puts on some soft music. Of fucking course, he listens to Tame Impala. “You're a lightweight.”

“Shut up,” you retort, as he makes his way back to you. “Not all of us binge drink as often as you do.”

Warren chuckles, and gets to his knees, pondering the best way to go about painting. If he wants to get precise strokes and details, he's going to have to be close to your back. “Is it… is it alright if I sit on your thighs?” He asks carefully, preparing for some snarky comment. You're quiet for a moment, and even though he can't see your face, he's sure that you're cringing. But he's proven wrong, as you just burst into a fit of giggles.

“Yeah, sure, that's- go for it,” You reply, between giggles. “Just don't crush me.”

“Was that supposed to be an insult?” Warren quips, moving to straddle the upper part of your thighs.

“Definitely not. You're like, way more ripped than an artist should be.”

“Wait, what?” Warren asks, not fully processing your statement.

“Uh, nothing, just- just sit already, Worthington!”

Warren feels his cheeks heat up, and shakes his head with a fond smile. When he settles on your thighs, that’s when he realizes how close he actually is to you. Christ, his dick is pretty much pressed against your ass at this angle. NO, Warren thinks to himself, Do not think of her ass. Focus on the painting. Focus on the painting.

Taking one last deep breath, he picks up a brush to start. He dips the paintbrush into a deep purple, moving his hand to the middle of your back. You instantly shiver when the paint comes in contact with your spine, eliciting a small squeak of surprise from you. Warren just laughs softly and asks you if you’re good. When you just nod against the pillows, he starts again. As he works, you’re pretty sure you’ve entered Heaven. His free hand is soft and inviting as it occasionally touches your skin, and the strokes from his brush are soothing against your skin. When Warren leans down to examine the details of his work, you feel his breath against you - and you’d be lying if you said that didn’t make your heart flutter. The music in the background fades as you slip in and out of consciousness, the mixture of wine and the paint making you sleepy. You’re not sure how much time has passed because before you know it, you feel Warren’s weight leave you; making you frown.

“Is it done?” You ask, voice laced with grogginess, as you turn to look at him over your shoulder. His hair is slightly disarrayed, and his white shirt has splatters of blue and purple on it.

“Yeah, it is,”  Warren starts, searching through some bags to dig out his camera. “Do you mind if I take a few for class?”

“No, not at all.” You answer, turning to rest your face back on your arms.

As Warren adjusts the lighting once more for the photographs, he realizes just how dangerously attractive you look. With your hair sprawled out and your body half covered with a sheet, you look like you’ve just fallen asleep in his bed. It’s almost a little too much for him, as you yawn. He shakes himself from his thoughts before he finally starts to snap some pictures. With every click, he can feel himself stray to thoughts of how you’d look underneath him, and how your lips would feel against his. He won’t admit it, but he definitely snaps more than he should, for nights when he can’t shake off the feeling of how your ass felt underneath him. When he sets down his camera, he takes note of how you’re more or less fast asleep on his floor. He kneels down to your face, where he gently places a hand on your shoulder.

“You want to take a shower?” He asks softly, as you rouse from your lax state. “Or I could wipe you off if you don’t want to move.”

“You do it,” You mumble back as if it was the obvious answer. “Don’t wanna move.”

Warren nods in understanding, moving to the kitchen to grab some washcloths. He runs them under hot water, and rings them out, before going back to you. He takes his place on your thighs once more, pressing the warm washcloth on your back. His free hand finds its home on your side, balancing himself as he wipes carefully down your spine. Your reaction is entirely unanticipated and it sets him reeling.

The groan you release is muffled, but not muffled enough for Warren not to hear it. It sounds akin to a pleasured groan; one that is produced when a person is in the midst of a climax and it shakes him to the core. He freezes, and tenses above you. It’s only then, you realize, that Warren fucking Worthington III is hard against your ass.

You’re suddenly not so tired anymore.

It takes Warren a moment for him to collect himself before he starts wiping off your back again. You do your best to stifle your groans, but you’re sure he’s doing it with more pressure deliberately. It’s not long before Warren is done wiping off the paint, and you’re about to thank him before the washcloth is replaced with his hands. The moment his thumbs dig into your shoulders, you know, that you’re completely and utterly fucked.

You’re sure he knows what he’s doing to you, as his deft hands travel around your back, his thumbs digging in all the right places. Warren bites his lower lip, as you’re underneath him, a wicked thought crossing his mind. His hands drift to the base of your spine before he lowers himself so that his lips are level with your ear. You physically shiver when you feel his lower lip brush against the shell of your ear, his fingers dancing across your skin.

“You okay, princess?” Warren’s voice is three octaves lower than usual, and the slight lust in his tone is enough to make a heat of wave surge through your body. You can’t physically make the effort to actually form any coherent words, so you just opt to make an ‘mmh’ that sounds pathetically desperate to your ears. There’s a long, tense pause, as he takes in your answer. You’re about to say something, say something to convince you both that this is maybe a bad idea, but your words are caught in your throat as he places a kiss to the nape of your neck, and he doesn’t stop there. His lips place hot, wet kisses down your back, and you’re pretty sure you’re going to lose it right then when his tongue traces the dip of your spine. His calloused hands travel down your sides, pulling down the dirtied sheet to reveal your skirt, that in the process of painting, has been hiked up a little. The way you’re fisting the pillow underneath you is enough permission for Warren to continue.

He pushes up your skirt and just lets out a dark laugh at what he’s met with. Your lace cheeksters make your ass look fantastic, and he loves the way they look against your skin. His large hands suddenly grasp the swell of your ass, causing a surprised moan to fall from your lips. “Goddamn, princess,” he groans, voice gravelly. You barely even process the feel of his lips suddenly sucking hard at one of your cheeks, his thumb moving to stroke you outside of your panties. You let out an absolutely wrecked moan as he marks up your ass, his thumb rubbing at your clit in uneven circles over your underwear.

He grows quickly impatient with that and opts to scoot forward slightly. Your back arches the second he starts mouthing at your clothed heat, a yelp escaping your lips. Warren hums in approval at your reaction, and that's when he takes the cue to rid you of your underwear altogether. His hands make quick work of the underwear, throwing them behind his shoulder, long forgotten. Your breath is ragged and short as his rough hands grasp your ass, and you all but scream his name when his tongue presses against your cunt.

The angle’s a little awkward, but you don't really care: because all you can focus on is the feel of his tongue lapping at you like a starved man, and the feel of his hands spreading your ass apart. Warren alternates between deep, longing licks and short, teasing ones. Your knuckles are turning white from how hard you’re grasping the pillow underneath you, and you nearly lurch forward when you feel his tongue against your ass.

“Fuck!” You curse loudly. Your voice cracks from how dry it is, but you don’t care. Warren fucking laughs at your reaction, because he knew you were close, too.

He keeps up the teasing, deep licks for a couple more minutes. He wants to see how far he can push you until you’re begging for the release you need. He’s always been a tease. It takes Warren by surprise when he feels your hand place itself in his curls, fingers digging into the roots of his hair. You impatiently press him harder into you, and he seems to get the point. His tongue immediately moves down to your clit, where he focuses his attention. With every movement of his chin, you could feel the day old stubble rub against the apex of your thighs, only increasing the pleasure. The second Warren’s fingers nudge at your clit, you gasp out his name; finally getting that release you’ve needed for the past ten minutes.

Your eyes shut tightly as you cum, your grip on Warren’s hair tightening as he rides out your orgasm. His fingers are still rubbing at your clit, making your body pulse and writhe underneath him. It’s not long before he finally detaches himself from your aching cunt, and hastily making his way up towards your lips.

He leaves a couple more kisses on your ass and spine before you’re resting your weight on your elbows to meet him halfway. You’re pretty sure a first kiss has never been so utterly filthy before. His tongue is immediately in your mouth, and you’re kicking yourself for being turned on by the taste of yourself on his lips. At the taste of yourself, you can’t help the needy little moan that leaves your mouth, which causes Warren to actually fucking growl.

It’s a blur, as Warren’s hands plant themselves on your hips, practically manhandling you to your back. He leans back on his heels to pull off his shirt quickly, returning to give you a bruising kiss. It’s a mess of tongue and teeth, as his hands greedily knead at your breasts. Your hands shove themselves between your bodies, fingers trying to unbuckle his belt as quickly as you can possibly manage. The second his belt falls to the floor with a ‘clink,’ Warren detaches his mouth from yours once more. He kicks off his jeans and briefs hurriedly, wasting no time to come back to you.

When he comes back down to you, you can’t really help yourself, as your hand slides down once more to grip his length. The second you stroke him, Warren gasps heavily into your mouth; his eyes screwing shut. His tongue darts out to wet his lower lip, as you stroke his cock. You let out a small noise of surprise when he regains his focus, his hand moving to hold the base of your throat.

His hips grind forward, the length of him sliding across your wanting entrance. When you whine in response, Warren just chuckles darkly, ducking down to brush his lips against yours.

“You want me to fuck you, baby?” He whispers, the hold on your throat tightening. “Want me to fuck you good?” You’re so far gone that your body feels like one huge pulse; controlled by the single hand on your throat, the soft lips ghosting against yours. Your slightly trembling hand moves to grip his wrist as your hips roll into his, your head nodding almost frantically, giving him the green light. He smirks down at you, and you can practically see the lust in his eyes. The second he tightens that grip around your throat, you can already tell that you’re going to have trouble walking straight.

He slides into you easily, filling you to the brim. The ragged moan that the two of you let out is so fucking filthy, that it makes the whole situation even sexier. He doesn’t waste any time in setting up a deep, punishing rhythm. Warren’s lips seem to be connected permanently connected to your jaw as he fucks you, his teeth scraping at biting at the skin there. Your gasps are loud but you don’t care because they’re quickly muffled by Warren. Your hands move under his arms, nails digging into his back, only causing Warren to thrust harder into you.

You’re already sensitive as hell from earlier, which makes you cum quickly around him. The second Warren feels you clench around him, eyes rolling back into your head, he knows he’s got you.

“Fuck, yeah,” He groans, his hand leaving your throat. “So fuckin’ hot when you cum.”

You wrap your arms around his neck to yank him back down for a bruising, mean kiss, his tongue fucking into your mouth, as he feels his orgasm creep up on him. All it takes is for him to pull back and take one good look at you, to finish; the fucked out look you give him is what does him in.

He cums with almost a yell, his hips slamming hard into yours and stilling; his hot cum spilling into you. Warren collapses against your chest, his breath ragged, his heart rate elevated. It seems like you both just lay there for an eternity, as he keeps his head resting in the crook of your neck. Part of you wants to believe that this whole thing was a mistake; something to blame on the alcohol. The other part of you wants to feel his lips on yours once more and to feel his hips thrusting against yours.

It feels like ages before Warren stands, moving to the kitchen to grab a warm cloth to clean you up with. You lie there feeling almost jaded as you let him clean you up, shivering at his touch when he moves the cloth between your legs. He leans back on his heels and offers you his hand, helping you up. You stumble slightly, but Warren is quick to catch you. Warren just coughs out a small laugh, which causes you to scowl at him playfully.

“I... I think I may need that shower now,” you tell him quietly. Warren just chuckles and nods in understanding. He helps you to the bathroom because lord knows your legs don’t work properly after that. In the bathroom, he starts up the shower and throws you a towel, turning to make his leave. Warren is surprised when you pull him back by his wrist, a tired smile playing at your lips. Your eyes are half lidded, high off the sex and still drunk off the wine. Warren wonders how you still manage to look beautiful, even after he just fucked you senseless. His breath hitches when your finger grazes the dips of his abs, his eyes following your finger, tracing over the paint smears that litter his skin.

“I know you’re sweaty from the sex, but don’t think I didn’t notice the paint,” You tell him, as you look up at him through your lashes. Your fingers idly trace up his torso and to his neck, tracing his collarbones. Warren’s adam’s apple visibly bobs as you move them to his lips, tracing them gently. His lips part, and as a natural reflex, they slip into his mouth. His tongue laves over them for a fleeting moment, before you’re caught off guard by his hands gripping your hips. He all but slams you against the counter, your fingers popping out of his mouth. Warren mouths at your neck, one of his hands moving to inevitably finger you again. You’re quicker than him though, your hand wrapping around his wrist to stop him. He pulls away like a docile dog, probably thinking he pushed your limits. Pushing his curls out of his face in reassurance, you say,

“Not that I’m opposed to the idea, it’s just that the water’s probably getting cold.”

The confused visage melts away, replaced with an almost bashful smile. He just leans forward, resting his face in the crook of your neck. It takes you slightly aback when he presses a chaste kiss underneath your ear - a kiss lovers most likely share. You try not to think about it too hard. He pulls back, and you both get into the shower. It’s quiet, but not uncomfortably so. You both clean up and share small, fond smiles as you pass the shampoo back and forth. When you get out, he wraps you up in a towel and leaves you be to change. As you dry your hair with your towel, the reflection in the mirror is only what can be described as a hot mess. He surely did a number on your neck, that’s for sure. Looks like it’s going to be nothing but scarves and turtlenecks for the next week.

He offers you his bed to stay in for the night, and as pleasing as it sounds, you have to deny. You have work early the next morning, and you’re sure if you spend the night he’ll add more damage to your neck, which you just can’t have. As you gather your purse, Warren comes up behind you. His arms wrap around your waist, and you squirm a little when he presses light kisses to the marks he’d left earlier. Your arms overlap his, as you try to break free out of his grip, only to fail. He spins you so that he can mouth at your jaw. The bastard.

“Warren,” You all but stutter out, with a smile. He pulls back with a smug grin, raising his brows in fake innocence. “You’re making it so hard for me to leave.”

“That’s the idea, princess.” He quips quietly, his lips ghosting over yours as he leans in for another kiss. You turn at the last second and push out of his grip with a mischievous grin. Warren sighs in defeat, pushing back his damp bangs.

Cutting him some slack, you stand on your tippy toes and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. When you pull back, he’s got a crooked grin on his face, and almost a wicked gleam in his eye. You back up to the front door, and before you turn the knob to leave, you say,

“See you in class, Worthington.”

The next few weeks are slightly surreal. Neither of you acknowledges that you had sex, but the dynamic between the two of you is very obviously different. You’re friends now-or at least friendly. Warren reigns in his ‘constructive criticism’ in class, and you work together on another project, and everything feels normal, besides the whole ‘being friends’ thing. You still roll your eyes when you see him smooth talking the other people in the class and you definitely don’t cut him any slack for his ego, but it’s less aggressive and more bantering now, and you don’t really know where this is going, but you like being his friend, so you just figure you’ll let it happen. You don’t go to his parties though, and you don’t show up to any of his exhibits. They feel like you’re committing to something, though you’re not sure what, or even why it feels like that, and it sets you slightly on edge.

Warren doesn’t keep asking you to things either, which is why you’re feeling almost as surprised as he looks when you push open the door to one of the campus art galleries where his latest exhibit is being displayed along with other top student artists from the area. He glances over reflexively as he hears the faint noise from the door, and then freezes when he sees you. You’re pretty sure this is the first time he’s seen you put any significant effort into your appearance, and you’re not hating the distinctly appreciative look in his eye as he takes in your dress and heels.

“What’re you-” he starts, and breaks off, still staring at you as if this is unfamiliar territory and he doesn’t know how to proceed. “I don’t think I mentioned this show to you,” he remarks with feigned nonchalance, and you smirk at him.

“You didn’t. But I’m here to see if you can back up all that shit you like to talk about being an ‘up and coming artist’ or whatever,” you quip, and a small answering smirk of his own curves his lips as he hands you a champagne flute from a passing waiter.

“Princess, I can back up all my talk,” Warren retorts, a slightly suggestive emphasis in his tone that makes you laugh as you take hold of his proffered arm and he begins to lead you around the small gallery.

He takes you through the other student’s sections first, and you expect him to trash talk everything about their exhibits, but he doesn’t-well, not all that much. He points out details in the pieces that you wouldn’t have picked up on and he tells you about the process and the techniques you’re unfamiliar with without being overtly condescending about it. You’re almost hyper aware of the other girls in the gallery throwing lingering glances his way, but not once does he leave you to fend for yourself.

It takes you the better part of two hours to reach his section of the exhibition, in part because he seems to have taken it upon himself to explain the aesthetically and technically impressive aspects of the other artist’s work and because he keeps being stopped by unfamiliar, but important looking people. When he finally reaches his own display, you’re astonished by his lack of overt arrogance, actually looking a little unsure of himself as you stand in front of the first big piece. It’s a hazy, unfocused, dimly lit photograph of his apartment living room in weak evening sunlight, and while you can certainly appreciate its aesthetic value, you feel like you’re grasping at straws as you try to come up with a deeper meaning for it.

“So what does this mean?” you say eventually, still studying the enlarged photo on the wall before you. “I mean, it’s a good photo, and I get the technique, but is there a message you’re trying to send or whatever?” Warren laughs sheepishly, one hand ruffling his hair unconsciously.

“I-uh-that shot was a total accident, to be honest. I told my professor that it was an attempt to capture the intangible sense of melancholy brought by the ending of a day, but actually, I fell asleep on the couch and my glasses fell off, and then when I woke up again the light was gorgeous, but I could barely see, so I grabbed what luckily turned out to be my good camera and sort of hoped for the best,” he explains, cheeks slightly flushed, and you can’t stop the giggle that escapes you as your gaze drifts from him to the photo and back to him again.

“Y’know,” You remark after taking a second to compose yourself. “I definitely thought you wore those glasses to be some ironic cliché hipster or some bullshit like that rather than actually needing to correct your vision.”

“Yeah, I’m blind as a bat.” Warren nods complacently at your remark and the utterly unperturbed manner in which he accepts your jab brings on a fresh wave of laughter from you, leaving a slightly inscrutable smile on his face as he watches you. The next block of work is a small spread of still life charcoals, and as you examine them a little more closely, you let out an incredulous chuckle.

“These are from class. Our class. I thought you were an edgy boundary pushing artist or whatever but you actually put some honest to god fruit bowl still life in your big exhibit,” you giggle in an almost accusatory manner, and he glares at you in mock offense.

“Hey, don’t knock the classics. My technique is really good in these and I gotta counterbalance my edgy stuff with something so the old people don’t have heart attacks,” he says defensively, and you roll your eyes, taking his arm again and tugging him on to the next display board.

“Whatever you say, maestro.”

Warren watches you as you pull him around his exhibit, asking questions about his work and more often than not teasing him about his answers, not taking any of his gracefully articulated pretentious explanations seriously when you ask what the art means. He’s utterly unaware of the other girls watching him enviously as he walks with you around the gallery and the thought crosses his mind that he hasn’t had this much fun with someone else in a long time. Your skin is warm against his and even though neither of you has mentioned that night in his loft, he sure as hell hasn’t forgotten it. That night and the events that transpired aren’t far from your mind either, and as you approach the final photograph in his exhibit, you can’t stop the soft gasp that escapes your lips, because it’s you.

The photo is familiar, but it’s not one of the ones the two of you handed in as your final project. The painting on your back is a technically excellent as you remember it being, but something about the lighting of the photo and the drape of the sheet over your lower back makes this one infinitely more suggestive, and you look away after a couple of seconds, heat rising to your cheeks.

“What, no questions about this one?” Warren asks, teasingly and you roll your eyes, even as you avoid looking over at him.

“No, I think I’m already pretty familiar with the details of this particular photo, thanks,” you retort, and he chuckles. Looking around the gallery, you notice that the rest of the guests have more or less cleared out now, and the staff hired for the event are starting to clear away the tables. You don’t check the time but you know it’s getting late, and yet you’re not quite ready to leave because you like spending time with Warren when he’s like this. No arrogant superiority and not blatantly flirting with anything that breathes. Glancing up at him, you make a split second decision, tightening your grip on his arm and starting to tug him towards the door.

“C’mon, let me buy you a drink. There’s a really good bar not far from here,” you say decisively. He doesn’t resist, but he gives you a quizzical look as you pull him along the sidewalk.

“I’m not complaining or anything, but is there a particular motivation to buy me a drink?” He asks and you let out a short laugh, leaning into his side a little because the night is colder than you had expected.

“Let’s just call it payment in kind, or whatever. I’ve talked a lot of shit about your art, and you proved me wrong tonight, so it’s the least I can do. Besides, I’ve been having a good night. Have you?” You tease him, and Warren chuckles in response, unwinding his arm from yours and tugging you to a brief pause as he takes off his jacket and drapes it around your shoulders before offering you his arm again. You give him a surprised look as you hook your arm through his, leaning a little more heavily against him than necessary because you never expected him to be like this with you, but you definitely don’t dislike it in the slightest. “Look at you being a gentleman, Worthington,” you quip, and you can’t quite tell under the dim glow of the streetlights, but you think he might actually be blushing.

“Don’t spread it around, I have a rep to maintain,” he jokes, and you roll your eyes and elbow him lightly in the side as you continue down the sidewalk together.

It takes five minutes to reach the bar, and when you slip inside, it’s fairly empty, only a few other patrons nursing drinks in booths or at the counter. You hand Warren his jacket and point him at a table in the corner as you head to the bar to order drinks for the two of you.

“Did you-you didn’t need to buy me a drink,” he starts and you scoff, cutting him off.

“I said I would and it’s not like one beer costs me all that much. You can buy the next few if you really feel you have to for whatever reason,” you say, and he just laughs, clinking his bottle to yours before taking a sip.

The two of you sit and drink for another hour, and true to his word, Warren buys the next few drinks for the two of you. It’s a little surreal, spending time with him like this, and as the night wears on, this unfamiliar tension starts to build between the two of you. It makes you feel like there are sparks skittering over your skin and you can’t stop thinking about the first time you and he were drinking together. His hair has gotten progressively messier and his shirtsleeves are rolled up and it could be your imagination or the alcohol or a whole range of other factors, but his crooked grin seems to be getting more and more suggestive by the minute and you can’t help but consider just how of big a mistake it might be to kiss him.

It only takes one or two drinks for you to be on Warren’s side of the table, leaning into his side with his arm around your shoulder, and you don’t really want to think about what the consequences might be if the night goes where you’re steering it. Not long after that, the pool table in the corner of the bar clears out and you get up from your seat with a smirk, grabbing his hand and pulling him over.

“You know how to play, or am I gonna have to ask someone else here to teach me?” You ask with a wicked smirk on your face. Warren smirks back at you as he downs the last of his drink, rising to his feet and following you as you tug him over to where the pool table stands in the corner.

“Don’t you worry sweetheart, I know how to play,” he drawls, slinging an arm over your shoulders and pressing in close to your side as you survey the table. You know how to play pool. You play pretty damn well. But Warren doesn’t need to know that. Though, you’re not sure he’d care that you were strategically miscommunicating about your skill level, given that result is having you pressed up against his chest as he leans over you, his arms around your shoulders to help you guide the pool cue.

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t enjoying the warmth of his body pressed up against yours or the way his arms felt as they wrapped around yours, repositioning you gently. His breath is warm on your neck and on an impulse, you deliberately rub your ass up against him. The way his breath hitches in his chest is enough to bring a satisfied smirk to your face as you do it again, a little less subtly this time. Warren lets out a low, muffled groan as you line up the next shot, hitting it dead on. His grip on your body is getting steadily tighter as you continue to deliberately roll your hips back against his, gratified when you feel his hard on against your ass.

It takes all of about ten more minutes of this teasing before he takes the pool cue from you, setting it on the table before gripping your waist tightly and ducking his head to graze his lips along the column of your throat. You let out a low sigh of contentment as you turn in his arms to face him, a hint of a challenge glimmering in your eyes as you wind your arms around his neck, briefly taking in the empty bar before smirking at him.

“Bathroom. Five minutes,” you whisper, voice low and suggestive, before pulling away, walking over to grab your bag from your chair and then past him to the bathroom in the corner, incredibly aware of his gaze on you as you go.

He’s there in less than five, but the bar is almost totally deserted so it doesn’t really matter. The second the door is locked behind the two of you, he’s pushing you up against the sink counter, hands heavy on your hips as he kisses you hard. Your tongue is sliding against his as you wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling him in closer as you slip back to sit on the edge of the counter. As Warren dips his head to mouth along your neck, you reach blindly into your bag, feeling around till you pull a condom out. He lets out a breathless groan of arousal when he sees what’s in your hand.

“You came here knowing you wanted to fuck me, didn’t you princess?” he growls, his voice rough and hoarse, and you just shoot him a coy smile as you undo his belt buckle, pushing his pants and boxers down past his hips to roll the condom on, feeling a surge of satisfaction at the low hiss he lets out at your touch.

“Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t. It’s not like you don’t wanna fuck me, though, is it?”

That’s all it takes for him to push you back further onto the counter, shoving your dress up your thighs as he hauls your panties down your legs and discards them before parting your legs with rough hands, pushing into you with an urgency that makes your head spin as he tugs the neckline of your dress down to knead at your breasts.

It’s quick and rough and hot and when he pulls away from you to dispose of the condom, you have an assortment of marks along the neckline of your dress that you can’t quite hide. Warren gives you a crooked, tired grin as he re-buckles his belt.

“That was a damn sight more fun than the gallery, sweetheart,” he says and you smile at him in the mirror as you touch up your lipstick.

“I know how to have a good time, Worthington.”

He pockets your panties before heading back out to the main bar, and you follow a few seconds later, a self-satisfied smirk firmly in place as you leave the bathroom. Neither of you mentions the sex as he walks you back to your apartment, and he doesn’t kiss you goodnight.

[hellofastestnewsfan]

The Nation recently published a poem in which a homeless narrator speaks a complex, nuanced variety of English with a long and interesting history.

The variety of English is Black English, and the poet is Anders Carlson-Wee, a white man. In the wake of the controversy, The Nation’s poetry editors have appended a kind of trigger warning to the poem calling its language “disparaging.” (They also apologized for its “ableist language;” the poem used the word “crippled.”) Carlson-Wee has dutifully, and perhaps wisely, apologized that “treading anywhere close to blackface is horrifying to me” and declared that the poem “didn’t work.”

However, I suspect that many are quietly wondering just what Carlson-Wee did that was so wrong—and they should.

The primary source of offense, in a poem only 14 lines long, is passages such as this, in a work designed to highlight and sympathize with the plight of homeless people: “It’s about who they believe they is. You hardly even there.” The protagonist is referring to the condescending attitudes of white passersby who give her change. Yet Roxane Gay, for example, directs white writers to “know your lane,” and not depict the dialect.

To be sure, America long harbored a tradition of mocking black speech in exaggerated “minstrel” dialect. Minstrel shows highlighting this kind of talk, full of “am” used in all persons and numbers, and mangled words such as “regusted” for “disgusted” (that one used as late as the 1940s on the radio show Amos n’ Andy, in which white men portrayed black ones), were central to American entertainment well into the 20th century.

This wariness of the minstrel stereotype underlies much of the discomfort that the artistic depiction of Black English often arouses. However, while verdicts on statutes of limitations will differ, barely anyone alive recalls seeing a minstrel show in person. It is ever harder to draw a meaningful line of influence from white (and black) men guffawing on stage during the Taft administration and anything being created today.

But more to the point, the Black English Carlson-Wee uses is not exaggerated: It is true and ordinary black speech. The production of Oscar Hammerstein’s rendition of Carmen in Black English, Carmen Jones, has elicited similar objections against its characters using Black English, with Hilton Als dismissing the libretto as stained with “ridiculous Amos n’ Andy lyrics.” James Baldwin had the same take on Carmen Jones, charging that the characters’ speech sounds “ludicrously false and affected.” Some might see pieces like this as the link between minstrel shows and our times. The characters, though, are actually using speech that would have been quite familiar to my relatives, and those of Baldwin and Als, in the 1940s. Carmen Jones, and especially its film version, has been adored by black people of a certain age, and I’ve known quite a few of them who would be mystified by the idea that Dorothy Dandridge and Pearl Bailey were forced to sing “minstrel” in it. I caught the current production, and as someone who has both studied Black English a fair amount over the past 25 years and also loves old radio, am quite sure that I did not endure an evening of Amos n’ Andy dialogue.

Whence the outrage among so many against black people depicted accurately speaking in a way that, well, a great many definitely do?

One source of the objection could be an impression that Black English is bad grammar. That notion is tragically common, and under it, many may suppose that even if black people do use Black English, it’s a bad habit, a legacy of lack of access to education, perhaps. Naturally, then, it will seem offensive for a white person to show black people engaging in it. Accuracy or even affection will be seen as bleeding into condescension and critique.

Black English, however, is not a degraded variety of the language—it’s an alternate form of English. If a sentence like People be lookin’ at him funny seems unsophisticated because the be isn’t conjugated, try wrapping your head around the fact that the be also expresses, overtly, a nuance that the standard sentence would not—that this looking in question happens on a habitual basis. You wouldn’t say People be lookin’ at him funny if it were happening at the moment. Black English jangles with things that we are trained to hear as “slang,” but which foreign learners would struggle to master, in the same way as they would with pluperfects and subjunctives.

A quest to get schools to respect African-American English

In many other places in the world, people live their intimate lives in varieties of a language quite different from the standard and no one operates under the impression that the vernacular form is “broken.” Try telling a Moroccan that his everyday Moroccan Arabic is “wrong” compared to the Modern Standard Arabic used on the news. He’ll tell you that it’s a matter of context: The news is in standard, you talk about it in vernacular.

The difference between Black English and Ted Koppel’s speech is of the same kind as the one between Moroccan and standard Arabic. Does anyone think the characters in August Wilson’s plays spend hours speaking “bad grammar”? Baldwin was, to me, more useful on Black English in the years after his Carmen Jones essay. “If this passion, this skill, this (to quote Toni Morrison) ‘sheer intelligence,’ this incredible music,” he taught us, “does not indicate that Black English is a language, I am curious to know what definition of a language is to be trusted.” What “broke”? Nothing—something grew.

Black English was born not of lack of access to blackboards, but of intimacy—people who spend more time with one another and trust one another more talk more like one another. Moroccans hang with Moroccans, and thus speak an Arabic of their own, different from that of Algerians hanging with Algerians next door. If black people didn’t have their own English, given the segregationist history of this country, it would be extremely peculiar.

Yet a white person’s depiction of Black English may still rankle, and I have often sensed that the rub is that the white person may think Black English is the only way that black people can talk, that they are somehow impervious to mastering standard English. And that prejudice was definitely real for a great while.

Now, however, educated whites are quite often aware that black people can talk in two ways depending on circumstance. Carlson-Wee, for example, is certainly aware of this: “If you a girl, say you’re pregnant,” the protagonist says, alternating between leaving out the be verb (a process actually subject to complex constraints in black speech—you don’t just leave it out willy-nilly) and using it (you’re). This is a spot-on depiction of the dialect in use, as something dipped in and out of gracefully.

Or, to take another example, Emmett Till’s great uncle Moses Wright has sometimes been quoted identifying Emmett’s killer in court by saying “Thar he” for “There he is.” One historian has questioned whether he would have spoken that way, at least in a public setting. This evidences a sensitivity to the reality of black speech of the kind I am suggesting, even bordering on insensitivity in that the reporter who depicted Wright as saying “Thar he” was black himself.

The idea that non-black people seeing black people depicted as using their own speech form will think that’s the only way black people can talk corresponds better to another time than our own. It assigns a rather brutalist naivete to people who, albeit hardly devoid of subtle racist biases, have come a long way from Jim Crow. Progress happens slowly, but it happens.

Of course, this controversy also touches on the issue of cultural appropriation. Whether Black English is coherent and whether black people are bidialectal, might we not consider it a kind of encroachment for whites to utilize what is “ours”? Especially when the utilization entails them expressing themselves, in a sense, in something rooted in a culture they don’t belong to?

What does “cultural appropriation” actually mean?

Perhaps—but we end up tripping over countervailing goals here. We often say that we want whites to understand black pain, the black experience, black difference. We want them to empathize. But upon achieving this understanding, white artists, as artists, will naturally seek to express it through their creations. Are we to decree that they must not? Would this muzzling of basic human creativity, as well as the fundamental drive to share between cultures, be worth something larger?

I’m not sure what that would be, other than a sense of victory in having laid down and enforced the diktat—and the novelty of that would wear off fast. Rather, Carlson-Wee, as a young white man dedicating a poem to a homeless black person’s suffering and trying to get inside her head, would seem to be displaying exactly the kind of empathy that we seek. “Feel it but don’t show it,” we tell him, instead. “Empathize, but block that empathy from your creative impulses, on the pain of hurting us by imitating us without our consent.”

There is logic here, but it is fragile. One suspects it will only ever convince a few. Quite simply, what do we gain, or what do we ward off, by drawing this line in the sand? What are we so afraid of? The Nation might consider publishing more poetry by black writers, such that Black English doesn’t only make a rare appearance in its pages from the pen of a white man. But that isn’t Carlson-Wee’s fault, and the question remains as to what he, as an individual artist, did wrong.

Of course, if a Carlson-Wee depicted Black English gracelessly in terms of the grammar, it’d be time to call foul. But he got it right. As did Hammerstein—in all of the lyrics of Carmen Jones I detect nary a flub, other than a tendency in the written text to apostrophize words that all Americans shorten in casual speech. Carmen Jones’s characters are written as saying “an’” for and, when all English speakers say it that way as often as not. But then, black writers depict Black English the exact same way, and have for eons. If a Carlson-Wee depicted a black person using the dialect who either would be unlikely to ever use it, or would not use it in the context depicted, then critique would be warranted—it’d be bad art and possibly “disparaging” as well.

The case against the grammar scolds

Gay in fact later wrote on Twitter: “The reality is that when most white writers use [African American Vernacular English] they do so badly. They do so without understanding that it is a language with rules. Instead, they use AAVE to denote that there is a black character in their story because they understand blackness as a monolith. Framing blackness as monolithic is racist. It is lazy.” Indeed. But it isn’t clear to me that Carlson-Wee is guilty of either of these flubs.

That is, when a Carlson-Wee briefly explores the pain of a black homeless person and shows her using precisely the speech variety she actually would, or an Oscar Hammerstein knows that working-class black people in a parachute factory would not talk like the characters in his previous hits Oklahoma! or Carousel, it’s time for educated America to get past the cringe of seeing Black English depicted on the page by someone who didn’t grow up speaking it.

Whites writing Black English in 1895 almost always meant it as either disparagement or infantilization. Whites writing Black English since then, more often than not, deserve some credit for having come a considerable way. The vigilance, the hesitation, the antennas going up—all of this has legitimate roots and will persist. But this evaluation metric should not swat down all nonblack artists who depict black people speaking the way most black people—alternating with standard English—quite definitely do, will, have, and should.

Anders Carlson-Wee engaged in nothing we moderns need slur as “blackface.” To wit, while we must evaluate each case on its own basis, to the extent that any white person’s depiction of Black English of whatever quality or diligence elicits rolling eyes at best and social media witch hunts at worst, we have lost step not only with linguistic science, but also with what most would consider norms of how human groups co-occupy social spaces and learn from one another.

from The Atlantic https://ift.tt/2viqvHx