#like so many of these movements are deeply flawed but if your response to its shit isn't to start your own or join a better one then bruh

[thewuzzy]

worried that just stop oil is a psy op and think that activists could do better? congrats, you're an activist! it's time to join or start your own local climate justice group!

[matthewtkachuk]

love in all its forms - rafe cameron

you love rafe cameron and he loves you too. sometimes it’s better shown than told

pairing: rafe cameron x reader

warnings: allusion to sex, light angst (duh its me), no dialogue (is that a warning? idk)

words: 1k

a/n: this has been in my drafts for ages, finally finished her up this morning. this is probably the last thing i write for obx for a while, hoping s2 will bring some more motivation

Rafe Cameron has never been big on ‘I love you’s. He loves to hear it from you - your cracked sleep-laden voice first thing in the morning, a breathless whimper when he’s inside of you, rushed and casually as you peck his lips and leave the house, softly in his ear before you fall asleep in his arms, a quick text throughout the day. There is no sweeter sound that falls from your lips than those three syllables, except maybe for your soft sighs and moans.

Growing up, he never heard the words. A dead mother and an absentee father who didn’t have the time to ensure his emotional needs were met. It worsened as he got older, saddled with responsibilities and expectations he couldn’t keep up with, his father’s absenteeism grew into cold malice, the lack of love became an intentional absence. Ward Cameron only loved two of his children, and neither of them were his only son.

And so Rafe finds the words difficult to say. He means them, oh God does he mean them. He loves you like he’s never loved anything before. When he looks at you he sees an unbridled future, the two of you against the world, surviving and thriving, despite obstacle after obstacle. He sees marriage and a white picket fence and a dog and two and a half children that he will love the way he never was loved. He sees possibilities and hope and everything he ever dreamed of. He sees love in its purest form.

While he can’t say the words back when you utter them, he shows you in so many other ways. A vase of calla lilies brought home on a random Tuesday ‘just because’ and ‘they made me think of you’. Makeshift candle lit dinners when he knows you’ve had a bad day. Always vacuuming the living room carpet before you even have a chance to ask, because he knows it is your least favorite cleaning duty. Grabbing you a blue gatorade and your favorite snack when fueling up on a road trip even though you said you didn’t want anything. Gentle lovemaking, held hands and foreheads pressed together, intermingling breaths and soft kisses on bare skin. 

You treated him so good, he isn’t sure he deserves it. He knows he can be an asshole, and his temper needs work, and he can be overly possessive which you hate. He often says the wrong thing, can snap at you when you don’t deserve it. He sometimes forgets important things like your anniversary or dinner with one of your parents, and you don’t like it when he blows you off to go golfing with the boys. But you love him, flaws and all, and you will always forgive him. 

You knew love. Growing up, your parents had always told you they loved you and each other. with words, with actions, with gifts. Every morning you would witness the blissful domestic form of love, as your parents moved around the kitchen, movements a decades long choreography of your mother making coffee as your father made eggs. Stolen kisses and slight squeezes. A kiss atop your head and to your mother’s cheek before your father left for work and your mother was left to get you off to school. Dancing in the kitchen and family vacations and quiet Tuesdays. Father/daughter dances and dates and your mother pulling you out of school early one Friday a month to take you to get your nails done and a late lunch at your favorite restaurant. Consequently, you grew up very loved. 

However you also knew love could hurt. As a teenager, you had watched as your parents’ love for each other couldn’t combat their issues with each other. As your mother sought love in a man ten years her junior and as your father blamed himself, that his love hadn’t been enough for her. You knew that despite love’s best intentions it could very quickly turn to resentment, hate and impatience. You had witnessed the death of love, seen love in its most desperate and despicable form.

Despite this you had fallen deeply and quickly in love with Rafe Cameron. From the moment you had met freshman year at some stupid social your roommate had dragged you to, you knew he was it for you. He was dressed like a douchebag, blue henley and backwards baseball cap with your university team written across it, a red solo cup full of jungle juice grasped in one hand, the other hand flicking through his phone. Ordinarily he was exactly the type of guy that you would avoid but there was something about the look in his eye, or maybe it was the small smirk that graced his lips when he caught you staring for a minute too long. Whatever it was, it possessed you to cross the makeshift dancefloor, place your hand in his and drag him to dance with you; all without even knowing his name yet. He’d let you guide him and hadn’t stopped following you like a lovesick puppy since. 

At first it bothered you that he couldn’t say the words. You had an idea in your head of what the perfect progression of a relationship was, and when you had said the words first and he had been unable to reciprocate, you had stormed out of his apartment in a mix of embarrassment and sadness that your feelings were not shared. As he explained the next day, that wasn’t quite the truth, that he had never been comfortable with the words but that didn’t mean that he didn’t mean them too. 

As your relationship progressed, you began to see the ways he told you he loved you without having to physically speak the words. Picking you up at the bar after a few too many without any judgement. Taking on your least favorite household chores so you wouldn’t have to. You realized that love was more than three words, eight letters. It was every action, every conscious choice where he picked you every time. 

Your love wasn’t perfect. It was selfish and petty at times, it wasn’t always fair. But it was beautiful too, understanding and compassion and light. It was a combination of all you were and all that he was, and in all of its forms it was yours.

taglist babies (im so sorry if u dont care abt this anymore, i just copy pasted from my last fic lov u ) @velyssaraptor @danicarosaline @copper-boom @x-lulu @prejudic3 @rekrappeter @downbytheouterbanks @ilovejjmaybank @bricksatanakinswindow @jellyfishbeansontoast @rudyypankow @im-a-stranger-thing @alexa-playafricabytoto @hoodpankow @girlsru1eboysdroo1 @sortagaysortahigh @socialwriter @bloodyheavcn @anxietyandtacos @diverrdown @starkeyseguin​  @dmonchld​@rafej-cambanks @stfukie @obxmermaid

[five-rivers]

Goals

Hey!  @puns-are-great-and-so-is-danny!  Here is your gift fic!  It got a little out of hand, and it doesn’t have a super solid ending, but I hope you like it.  :)  

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Dear Albus,

I hope this letter finds you well.  I know these are trying and troubling times, both here and in Britain, and part of me hesitates to ask this of you for exactly that reason. But, as ever, circumstances leave us with few viable options.

News of what happened to Amity Park this Spring has spread far and wide at this point, so I won’t waste your time repeating what you already know.  What is not common knowledge, however, is that after the dust settled, the Aurors assigned to the case encountered several irregularities, not the least of which was a disturbingly high number of completely untrained young witches and wizards.  

Once news of them gets out, I have no doubt the official line will be that they simply fell through the cracks, that, unfortunately, our spells for finding young magically-gifted persons are imperfect, that the nature of Amity Park obscured them from view.  This, I fear, is a lie.  

I have no proof, but I believe they were deliberately removed from MACUSA files on account of their heritage.  Albus, they are descended from Scourers.  

Perhaps that should be obvious, perhaps you had already guessed, considering the so-called reasoning behind the attack on Amity Park, the ideals those murderers professed, but I want to make myself and my own reasoning clear.  Though it shames me deeply to say it, those children will not be safe at Ilvermorny, nor, I believe, will they be at any other school on this continent.  For all the time that has passed, the Barebones Incident and its repercussions are too fresh in the minds of the people.  

There are seven of them.  Well, seven that are of concern to me.  The others have found or are seeking alternate arrangements.  They have been staying at the school, for the time being.  My colleagues and I have been attempting to give them a good grounding in magical basics. They would not come to you without foundations.

Albus, I am begging you, accept these students into Hogwarts.  I know this is a poor time.  I have heard rumors, horrible, horrible rumors, about what is happening in Britain, about what happened at Hogwarts last year, but I fear for these children’s future, for their spirits, should they be forced into a place where they will be hated simply because of who their ancestors were.  

I know that even in Hogwarts they would be unable to escape that, but it would be less.  Britain does not have the same history with Scourers that we do.  More, for some of them, they would not be forced to walk in the same halls as the kin of their parents’ murderers.

I will understand if you refuse, but I am relying on your compassion.  

Eagerly awaiting your reply,

Agilbert Fontaine

Headmaster of the Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

.

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore looked down at the letter from his old friend and colleague and sighed, his heart heavy. Agilbert was not a member of the Order of the Phoenix.  Albus knew more about the situation in Amity Park than Agilbert assumed and likely was aware of things that Agilbert himself was not.  

For example, while the bulk of the group that had devastated and decimated Amity Park were indeed Magical Separatists and those looking for generations-late revenge on Scourers, their core leadership included American Death Eaters.  

He was also aware of the children Agilbert had mentioned.  Most of the truly astonishing number of magically inclined children and adults in Amity Park had chosen to find private tutors, go through correspondence or summer courses, or attend one of several small schools in North America that had quickly shuffled to make accommodations for them, on the condition that they hide their origins.  

The seven mentioned…  Well.  They didn’t really have those options.  Either their names were too infamous, or they had no one to stay with while they puzzled through correspondence courses.  Or both.

And the names.  Even here, some of them were well known.

Albus could understand why Agilbert had asked for his help.

But was it responsible to drag these children here while Voldemort was lurking in the shadows, building up his power base once again? To offer them safety he could not give?

For those students already attending Hogwarts, it was one thing, they were already involved, simply by virtue of where they were born and where they lived.  But those seven, in America, they would be—

Well.  Not safe, perhaps, not with their parents killed and their home ravaged by hostile magic. But… farther away from the direct line of fire.  

But would they be?  Beyond simply spreading fear and hate, was there another reason for the attack on Amity Park?

Albus heaved another sigh.  

At times he enjoyed making decisions like this.  Enjoyed power, knowledge, experience, those things people tended to mistake for wisdom, even though he had made more mistakes than anyone else he knew, and all the privileges and responsibilities that came with it, all the control over other peoples’ lives.  This was a failing, a flaw, he knew, and time and time again it had come back to bite him.  Karmic vengeance for being an old man who kept too many secrets.  

But times like these…  In times like these, he despised the choices he was forced to make.  

“What troubles you, Albus?  I can hear you sighing from the other room.”

Albus did not flinch or startle at the ghost’s approach and gently chiding tone.  He looked up and smiled thinly at his former and present colleague.  It seemed Cuthbert was having a good day.  It was a pity so few students saw him at his best, and regarded his lessons as utterly boring, but Albus could never find the heart to replace him.  Nor, sadly, the budget.  Damn the board of directors.

In answer, Albus turned the letter to face him.  Cuthbert Binns was not a member of the Order, either, but he, like every other member of the Hogwarts staff, had been informed of what had transpired at the end of the Tri-Wizard Tournament.  He would understand Albus’s dilemma.  

“Amity Park?” murmured Cuthbert, tapping the second paragraph.  “That sounds… familiar.  That—” Cuthbert broke off.  

If Albus had not spent significant portions of his life surrounded by ghosts, he would not have caught the subtle change in Cuthbert’s silvery complexion.  

“Perhaps you heard about the tragedy that happened there recently.”  Which would be a first, even alive, Cuthbert had never really cared about anything that happened more recently than a hundred years ago, but not impossible.

“Tragedy?  No.” Cuthbert shook his head.  “Amity Park it’s—It is…”  He trailed off, looking down at the letter, disturbed.  “Albus, I have known you for many years.  You have been here for many years, with all us ghosts, and…  You know there are things the dead do not speak of to the living.”

Albus did know.  “Are you saying Amity Park is related to one of those things?”  Could this be another attempt on Voldemort’s part to defeat death? His suspicion regarding horcruxes was bad enough, what that could mean for Harry…  But if that man had yet another way to stave off death…

Cuthbert dithered, and Albus wished fiercely that he could trust him enough to tell him about the Order, about Voldemort’s plans, to impress upon him how important this was, how vital that Albus know.  

But he couldn’t.  It would just take one bad day, and one misplaced question from a student related to someone unfortunate, and everything would come tumbling down.  

No.  Albus could not push him.  

“I—I must go,” said Cuthbert, halfway through the wall. “I have to look into something. I’ll be back before you know it.”

He was not.

.

Albus had still not made a decision on Agilbert’s letter the next night.  He had consulted Minerva, Severus, and the other teachers who were also in the Order on the matter, and had distracted himself with other, arguably more important, matters.  

(The eyes on Number Four Privet Drive, the movements in and out of the Malfoy residence, the horribly dangerous games Severus was playing, the master schedule for the next school year, the still-empty Defense Against the Dark Arts post, extra protections on Hogwarts’ boundaries, how to keep the Order safe…)

But he shouldn’t put something like this off for much longer.

It would be much easier to deny Agilbert’s request.  As tragic as the seven students’ circumstances were, they weren’t his responsibility, and he had so many.  

Would you feel the same if the attackers had been Gellert’s people?

They’re children.  Like your students.  Like Adri—

Albus closed his eyes and forced the tiny and vicious voice away, out of his mind.

“Sir Nicholas wants to speak to you,” said one of the portraits.  

Surprised, Albus turned his head to face the image of his predecessor.  “Of course. Could you tell him he can come in?”

A few minutes later, the Gryffindor ghost floated through the wall.  “Hello, Albus,” he said, the outlines of his figure crisper than they usually were, and continued before Albus could greet him, “I am sorry to interrupt you like this, but is it true?  Seven students from Amity Park?”

“Cuthbert told you?”

“He told all of us,” said Sir Nicholas, shrugging in a way that made his head roll unsettlingly.  “You should accept them.”

Albus raised his eyebrows.  

“There is a certain element of risk involved,” the ghost’s voice was careful, “but if they come to Hogwarts, there is a possibility that you may gain a powerful ally, and that…”  Here, Sir Nicholas hesitated.  “Certain ancient wrongs might be righted.”

“I suppose it is that second the ghosts are interested in?” asked Albus, both curious and, despite himself, amused.  

Sir Nicholas gave him a gentle smile.  “Do not imagine that we are careless of your struggles, Albus, but many of us were long dead before you were born.  We care, but… sometimes the picture in front of our eyes is not the same as the one before yours.”

That was reasonable.  

However.

“Can you give me any more detail?” asked Albus, hopefully.

“I’m afraid not,” said the ghost, drifting backwards.

.

The next letter from Agilbert was much thicker and contained the records of seven new Hogwarts students.  

.

The wand turning in his fingers was made of pear wood.  Not that Danny could tell, just by looking, but the wandmaker, who had accompanied her wares to Ilvermorny, had been very talkative, even when Danny had… not.  

Pear wood, cut from a tree that had grown up through a chain-link fence on the wandmaker’s property.  She had meant to cut it out, she said, but by the time she had gotten around to doing so, there had been bowtruckles in it, and she wasn’t about to cut down a good wand wood tree.

Danny still wasn’t entirely sure what bowtruckles were to be honest.  

The wood of the wand was normal.  The core, apparently, was not.  It was hair from a magical creature, which most wand cores were, but the wandmaker had cheerfully admitted to having no idea what the hair was from. It had shown up in her workshop one day, in a little box, black and white, in neat little bundles.  

Danny had suspicions about where it had come from.  

Suspicions that had been exacerbated by the fact that both Sam and Tucker had been ‘chosen’ by wands with the same core.  

Anyway, Danny had liked the wandmaker, even if he thought she was a bit weird, for using components that just showed up out of nowhere in her work.  

(She reminded him a bit of Mom.)

Danny wasn’t sure why he was thinking of her.  It had been months since then.  But he was feeling lonely, even though his friends were just in the next room, and Jazz was here, and maybe she was the closest he would let his mind get to…

To…

“If you keep doing that,” said Jazz, “you’re going to put your eye out.”  

Danny glanced over at her.  There was an east-facing window behind her, and the sun was shining through her shoulder, lighting her up like stained glass.  

“If they catch you in color, they’re going to have questions.”

Jazz rolled her golden eyes, but the color drained out of her, leaving her ‘properly’ silver and gray.  “If they actually listened, instead of dismissing everything weird in Amity as untrained magic acting up, then they wouldn’t need to have questions.”

“Yeah, but they didn’t, and I don’t think they’re going to. So, considering what we have to do…”

“We need all our advantages.  You don’t have to tell me again,” said Jazz.  She pulled a face.  “Well, you did, actually, I guess.  I’m sorry about that.”

“It’s fine,” muttered Danny.  “You only died a couple months ago.  It takes time to recalibrate.”

“Mm,” said Jazz, sticking her head through the windowpanes and looking down.  She pulled back.  “Your escort’s coming up.”

“Oh?  Yeah?”

“Or at least someone.  It’s hard to tell who, what with the hats and all…”

It was time to go, then.  Danny gathered his things and joined the others in the common area.

.

Hours later, as the sun was setting, nine Americans stepped out of a fireplace in the Ministry of Magic.  Seven were students.  One was a very haggard chaperon.  The last was a ghost whom aurors and representatives from the Department of Spectral Affairs hadn’t quite been able to dissuade from haunting her brother.  

Such was life.  Such was death.  

“Alright, kids,” said the chaperon, chivying them towards a central area.  “We just have to go through customs, and then we can find a place to relax until the representatives from Hogwarts get here.”

“I thought we already went through customs,” protested Dash.

“Yeah,” said Paulina.  “The American side.  To make sure we weren’t smuggling anything out.  Now we have to go through the British side, to make sure we aren’t smuggling anything in.”

“Smuggling isn’t really the main issue,” said the chaperon, “but, yes.  MACUSA knows you aren’t in the states anymore, and we have to make sure the Ministry over here knows you are, so you can comply with their laws and such.  Oh, and so you can get the Trace, but that isn’t important.”

“The Trace?” asked Sam, doubling her word count for the day. Ever since the attack, she had been rather taciturn.  

“It’s how they keep track of underage magic over here,” explained the chaperon.  “MACUSA phased it out a few years ago.  It isn’t very reliable, and besides, recent studies show that magical persons of any age can use magic accidentally, and there’s no good way to tell if there is a magical adult nearby, so…”  She gave herself a little shake.  “But it’s the law here, and it doesn’t matter.  You’ll be at Hogwarts the whole time, anyway.”

“You mean they’ll be tracking us?” asked Danny, trying to keep the alarm from his voice.  That could be… problematic.  Considering what he was really here for, and all.  

“Not you in particular,” said the chaperon, snagging Tucker by the back of his shirt before he could make a detour to investigate a guarded cart of ominously sparking electronics.  She pulled him back.  “It’s my understanding that every child with the trace on them shows up as a dot on a map, and the dot changes color if magic is performed near them.  Some of the more sophisticated versions can determine what kind of magic, but, well… it isn’t like they ever know which dot belongs to which person, so unless you’re living with all no-maj family members—They call them muggles, here, I think—in a particular house, it is very difficult for them to determine who did what.  I’d tell you more, but this isn’t my area of expertise.  Perhaps the customs agents will know more?  You should ask when we go through…”

Danny began to tune her out.  He caught Sam’s eye, then Tucker’s, and they all nodded at each other a little bit.  Not that they had a plan or anything, but sometimes it helped to know that other people also found a situation to be sucky.  

Where would the Minister of Magic be in all this mess, anyway? Danny let his eyes rove over the hall. There was no guarantee that he was even here today, and Danny wasn’t to the point where he wanted to reveal himself. He had been given lots of instructions, but one of them had been to keep himself safe.  Clockwork had even said it was a priority.  

Best to stick to letters, for now.  Even if none of them had been answered, yet.

They reached the long, winding line that was customs, had their luggage gone through yet again.  Tucker lost another PDA, and Danny had to wonder how many more he had hidden.  The American side of customs had done a pretty good job of finding them.  Sam got taken aside for questioning, because some of her goth paraphernalia had a passing resemblance to ‘Dark’ objects.  Star had to explain her medications.  Valerie set off some sort of magical metal detector, and the customs agents started arguing about what had caused it.  No one had found out about her suit yet.

Meanwhile, Danny was sent to another table, to fill out forms for Jazz.  Again. Because, for reasons Danny didn’t fully understand, even with everything Clockwork and the other Ancients told him, wizards thought they could control and regulate what ghosts did and where they went.  

Danny did not particularly care for wizards, as a group. The paperwork—The stupid, pointless paperwork, because Jazz was going to do what she wanted and no one would stop her, he’d make sure of it—made him angry.  A lot of things made him angry, lately, when they didn’t just make him depressed or sullen.  

“Breathe, Danny,” said Jazz, leaning down, next to his ear. “The language in this is stupid, but I don’t mind being called names.  We both know they’re wrong, and what they think isn’t important anyway, yeah?”

“Yeah,” said Danny, forcing his muscles to relax.  He finished the paperwork.  

They passed through the last customs barrier together, and soon found themselves in a large atrium with a large, extremely gaudy, gold fountain in the center.  

Now, Danny had to admit, he had only the briefest of encounters with house elves and goblins, and none at all with centaurs, but he couldn’t imagine that the look of adoration on their faces was at all accurate. At least not for the species as a whole.

He tried to imagine the statue with a ghost in it, with a half-ghost in it, and he just—

Yeah.  No.

Wizards.  

Or, at least, these wizards.  Whatever.  

They found a bench off to one side, to wait for the Hogwarts representatives.  Danny had to wonder how they’d find them.  Would they hold signs?  Seemed probable.  Everything in the ‘wizarding world’ seemed to be stuck fifty years back in time, if not more.

Or, maybe, the chaperon knew who they were meeting and would wave at them.  Like she was doing now.  

Okay, so, Danny had to check himself to make sure he wasn’t coming up with random prejudices.  Ancients.  If his first encounter with the supernatural had been those people in cloaks showing up out of thin air and starting to kill people, he’d probably never be able to pull himself out of that mindset.  

Not all wizards were terrible.  Like the wandmaker.  She was okay.

He took the time to assess the two witches who had come to pick them up.  They were opposites of each other, at least in appearance.  One was tall, thin, and severe, almost sharp.  The other was short and round and sort of soft around the edges.  The only areas in which they demonstrated similarity were their age and apparent gender.

“Alright, kids.  This is Professor McGonagall,” she gestured to the taller woman, “and this is Professor Sprout.  They’re the heads of Gryffindor and Hufflepuff, respectively.  Minerva, Pomona, these are Dash Baxter, Daniel Fenton, Tucker Foley, Valerie Grey, Samantha Manson, Paulina Sanchez, and Star Thunder.”

“And Jazz,” said Danny, annoyed that his sister had, once again, been left out.

“Hey,” said Jazz.  “Nice to meet you.”

Professor McGonagall nodded.  “We will be taking you to Diagon Alley to pick up school supplies for the year before we go to Hogwarts.”

“Yeah,” said Star, eyes tracking a flock of apparently animate paper airplanes, “we know.”

McGonagall raised an eyebrow but otherwise didn’t comment. “Do you want to come with us, Cerise?”

“No, I have a few other things to do on this side of the Atlantic.  That’s why they sent me.  Have a good time in Diagon Alley, kids, it’s a historic place!”

.

Danny had to wonder about goblins.  Did they just… really like banks, or were they forbidden from holding jobs elsewhere?  Or effectively forbidden by prejudice?  Because, thus far, he had only seen goblins when changing currency.  ‘No-maj’ money to the denominations used by American wizards, and now from that to the infinitely more confusing British ‘galleons.’

It would probably be rude to ask.  

Maybe he could find a book…

But were these people self-aware enough to write about stuff like that?  He shook his head. ��Prejudice, prejudice…  He barely knew anything about any of these people, he shouldn’t jump to conclusions prematurely.  

Not that he didn’t already know several unsavory things about their system of governance, thanks to the Ancients.  And their not-so-little terrorist problem.  And the fact that they thought erasing people’s memories with a spell that could cause long-term brain damage was A-Okay.

Yeah.  But that didn’t mean all of them were bad.  Just that their government sucked.  Which was true for almost all governments, so it didn’t mean anything.

McGonagall and Sprout were very efficient as they went through the shops, giving the impression that they had done this, or something like this, many times before.  They did not allow detours, despite the many, many distracting things on display on the street and in the windows.  Professor Sprout, however, kept up a running commentary on what things were, so it wasn’t too frustrating.  

About halfway through the shopping trip, they stopped at the place that sold uniforms.  Sprout stayed with them, while McGonagall left to go get other supplies.  It was an experience.  Other than his jumpsuit, Danny had never had any clothing fitted specifically for him before.  

The fitting made him… nervous.  

The tape measures and needles flew close to his skin.  The seamstress who had been assigned to him also kept touching him, which was part of her job, and it wasn’t invasive or anything, but still.  Also, there were a lot of other teens, and even some preteen kids, in the store, getting their uniforms, and they were all staring.

What they were staring at wasn’t the same from person to person, Paulina and Jazz seemed to be the biggest targets for whatever reason, but it was still staring.  The parents waiting with their kids were staring as well, and Danny started to fidget. Which meant that he got stabbed by the needle a few times.  Which wasn’t fun.  

But eventually that was over, and they were on their way to Hogwarts.  

.

Considering that Agilbert had tried to compress years’ worth of magical education into the space of a few months for these students, the results were remarkable.  True, with one notable exception, none of them were on a fifth-year level in Transfiguration, but Minerva didn’t feel the need to put them all in first-year or remedial classes, either.  

She could only hope they did as well in their assessments in other subjects.  They would have a hard enough time figuring out schedules for these seven, without having to account for them bouncing across year levels.  

She picked up the written assessment from the one student she would be accepting into fifth-year Transfiguration.  His penmanship was shaky, none of them had quite mastered writing with quills, and his grasp of the theory behind the spells was incomplete, but it was better than some.  She tried not to roll her eyes as she thought of Crabbe and Goyle.  

As a teacher, she should be above that.  Alas.  

Mr. Fenton did have some insights in his essay questions that were truly extraordinary for a person who didn’t even know magic existed at the beginning of the year.  Perhaps they had another Hermione on their hands, although he didn’t give off the same air as she did.  Or he had spent the summer focusing only on Transfiguration.  Or Mr. Fenton had a singular talent in Transfiguration. Regardless, gifted and motivated students were always a pleasure to teach.  

Minerva gathered her papers and left to meet Filius, who had tested the students before her.  She was tempted to go look in on them now and see how the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor was handling her first teaching experience but suppressed the urge.  She would see them, and, sadly, Delores Umbridge, at lunch in only an hour.

Which was why she was so surprised to find the children in a hall so far away from Delores’ room.  

Then she reminded herself that, appearances aside, these were not fifth-year students.  They had no experience navigating the castle.  

“Are you lost?” she asked.

The students exchanged glances.  “Uh, sort of?” said Miss Sanchez, twirling a curl of hair around her fingers.  “We weren’t sure if we should try to find Mr. Snape, or if we should go to the lunch hall.”

“Professor Snape,” corrected Minerva, mildly.  “Did you already finish Professor Umbridge’s assessment?”

“She didn’t give us an assessment,” said Miss Manson, angrily.  

Minerva’s eyebrows went up.  “Excuse me?”

“Yeah,” said Mr. Fenton.  “She basically said that she was doing the same curriculum for everyone, so she didn’t need to.  So, we were wondering if we should move on to, um, potions?  Potions.  Or if we should go to lunch, or just hang out, or what.”  

“Professor Snape is unlikely to be expecting you at this point,” said Minerva, feeling a headache growing behind her eyes.  What was Delores thinking?  The same curriculum for all years?  For eleven-year-olds and eighteen-year-olds?  There would be riots.  Or at least hexes.  “I can take you to the Great Hall.”

“Thanks, Ms. McGonagall,” said Mr. Foley.  And what was that he was hiding in his robes?  How many cursed muggle machines had he smuggled in?

Minerva sighed.  Honestly, it was probably harmless, though she possibly should speak to Charity about it.  “Professor McGonagall.”

“Sorry,” said Mr. Fenton.  “It’s just… hard to adjust.”  He rubbed the back of his neck.  

“I suppose it is,” she said.  “This way, children.”

.

Jazz floated through a wall, carefully avoiding the paintings.  Their inhabitants weren’t quite ghosts, from what she and Danny could tell, but they also weren’t not ghosts.  

It hadn’t taken her long last night to find the actual wizarding ghosts.  They’d been expecting her, in more ways than one.  But they had been weird.  Empty. They didn’t have any ectoplasm in them, and the intensity that was a part of every other ghost Jazz had ever met, Danny included, was absent.  

Clockwork and the Lady had warned them about that, before sending Danny, and by extension Jazz, Sam, and Tucker, off on his mission. Jazz just hadn’t quite believed it.  

Wizarding ghosts weren’t made of passion, need, want, duty, or even stubbornness.  They were made of fear.  Fear, by itself, didn’t hold ectoplasm well, especially not fear of death.  Wizarding ghosts might as well be mere imprints for all the power they had.

From the beginning, Jazz had been less than enthusiastic about pretending to be one of them.  Now, she was even less so.

It wasn’t their fault, though.  At least, it wasn’t entirely their fault.  None of the ghosts here were around back when the Ancients and the wizards of the day came together and put their names to the Tenebris Carta, and they were trying to make amends.  It sounded like they hoped the old treaty could be renegotiated, or that they hoped Danny and Jazz could get them an exception.  

Jazz didn’t hate them.  Didn’t dislike them or anything, and Danny would probably try to help them, so long as they didn’t turn evil or anything.  That was just the kind of person Danny was.  

She just needed more time to… adjust to them.  And the paintings.  Because wow.  

“Ah, Miss Fenton!”  

Jazz twisted herself over, mid-air.  “You can call me Jazz, if you want, Sir Nicholas.”

The silvery ghost smiled.  “If you insist.  We’re going down to the Great Hall, to introduce ourselves to your companions over lunch.  I was wondering if you would like to join us.”

“Sure,” said Jazz, descending to float by the other ghost. “But who do you mean by ‘we?’”

“All the castle ghosts,” said Sir Nicholas, “and possibly Peeves, though he won’t be invited.”

“Peeves?”

“The poltergeist.  He isn’t really a ghost.  At least…  he’s not a ghost like us.”

“Mhm,” said Jazz.  “Should I look forward to meeting him, or should I be very afraid?”

“Ah, neither, I suppose?  He tends to play pranks, but he never does anything terribly dangerous, and he couldn’t hurt you if he tried.”

“Well,” said Jazz, “as long as he doesn’t mess with my brother, we’ll probably get along just fine.”  She flexed her hands to disperse the pale green flames that had started to creep up her fingers.  “If he does, I’ll tear him apart.”

“Speaking of your brother, do you have any guesses as to which house he will be joining?”

“I wasn’t under the impression it was a choice,” said Jazz.

“It isn’t, exactly.  Students are sorted into the houses with, well, I don’t want to spoil the surprise, but houses are selected based on a student’s personality, aptitudes, and values.  Normally, if they came in as first-years, they would be sorted on the first, but given the circumstances, they’ll be sorted tonight.  I’m rather hoping to have a few new students for my house.”

Jazz grinned, detecting a note of competition.  “And what does your house look for?  Gryffindor, right?”

“Bravery,” said Sir Nicholas, proudly.  “Considering your brother’s accomplishments, I’m looking forward to seeing him join.”

“He is the bravest person I know,” said Jazz.  

.

Several dozen ghosts phasing through the walls didn’t just set off Danny’s fight-or-flight response.  Sam readied her wrist-lasers, while Tucker grabbed Danny’s wrist and started hunting for a place to hide Danny so his transformation wouldn’t be noticeable.  Dash and Star took cover under one of the tables.  Paulina pulled out her wand.  Valerie materialized a hand blaster.  

It wasn’t entirely clear what weapon went off first, but it didn’t really matter.  The end result was chaos.

“Oops,” said Jazz.  

.

“I am so, so, sorry,” said Jazz, hovering over Danny. Literally.  

“It’s fine,” said Danny.  “Really.”

“No, it isn’t.  I should have realized how everyone would react.  I should have told them to stop it, or something.”

“They were already on their way through the walls when you got there, weren’t you?” asked Tucker, swinging his legs back and forth as he sat on the end of the hospital bed.  

No one had been seriously injured, but a few tables had been exploded before the teachers had calmed everyone down and confiscated the ‘bizarre muggle weapons.’  On the other hand, everyone had a number of inconvenient scrapes and bruises that Madam Pomfrey insisted on taking a look at.

“Still,” said Jazz.  “I know all of you have PTSD from repeated ghost attacks and those people, I should have known what that would look like to you.”

“Er,” said Dash.  “It really is fine.”

“Yeah,” grunted Valerie, which was surprising.  

Outside of ‘Team Phantom,’ none of the others interacted with Jazz very much.  They didn’t seem to know how.  Valerie, however, outright avoided Jazz most of the time.  

Which, well.  Danny wasn’t about to call her behavior reasonable, but it was definitely in-character. This seemed like a good sign, though.

“Yes, dear,” agreed Madam Pomfrey.  “It isn’t your fault.  We adults should have said something before things got out of hand like that.”  She waved her wand back and forth over Star’s prominent black eye, and the bruise just… vanished.  Like Star had never been hurt.  

Danny inhaled slowly.  It wasn’t the first time he had seen magical healing—The aurors who had arrived a few hours after the attack on Amity Park had done a great deal—but if there was anything of magic that Danny wanted to learn, it was that.  And anything protective.  

“Is there a class for that?” he asked.  

“For what?”

“Healing.”

“Yes, it’s an elective,” said Madam Pomfrey.  “Though it does have a few required courses. Perhaps you will be able to take it next year?”

Danny swallowed down envy and nodded.  “Yeah, I guess we aren’t going to have time for electives, for the most part.”

“You may be surprised.  Now, I think you’re all set, unless you’re hiding something from me?”

The students shook their heads.  

“Good.  I believe Professor Snape is expecting you?”

.

“Did that seem… weirdly easy to you?” asked Sam.  

Danny thought about it for a second.  “Not the ‘what does this plant or animal part do’ questions,” he said, finally, “but the practical part of it?  Yeah.  It was just… cooking.  Really fiddly cooking, but still cooking.”

“Speaking of,” said Tucker, “how did you get by the parts where you had to use animal body parts.”

“Oh, I didn’t,” said Sam.  “I just skipped those.  I’m pretty sure I failed, judging by the look on Professor Snape’s face.  My end result was pretty nasty-looking.  It smelled bad, too.”

“You’re the reason we were stuck in an unventilated basement breathing in burnt hair fumes?” asked Paulina.

“Yeah.  I mean, it didn’t smell like burnt hair to me, but probably.”

Paulina sighed.  “I have to hand it to you, girl, you stand by your convictions.”

“I don’t think it’s unventilated,” said Star, contemplatively. “I wasn’t really paying attention, but there was definitely movement in all the, uh, vapors, or whatever. Professor Snape totally needs a better teacher face, though.  Like, does he just have the one expression, or what?”

“No, no,” said Sam.  “The look he gave me when I turned in my disaster was way more pronounced.”

“Still needs more than disdain and mega-disdain,” said Tucker. “Even Lancer had a wider range.”

“Come on, guys,” said Danny, “he can’t be much more than, what, thirty?  He has time to develop more emotions.”

“Yeah,” said Valerie, flatly.  “Give it a couple more years, and maybe he’ll nail down hyper-disdain.”

This surprised a snicker out of everyone.  Almost everyone.

“Uh, guys?” said Dash.  “I think I might have been the one who made it smell like burnt hair.  What was it supposed to smell like?”

“I’m so glad I don’t need to breathe,” said Jazz.  

“Oh my gosh, Jazz, that’s way too soon.”

.

“What do you think?” asked the hat.  

The hat.  

Danny could understand the paintings.  He could almost understand how the paintings worked, even.  They had the shapes of people who had once lived, their image, their likeness, and had by virtue of magic snagged a piece of their soul as they left this world.

But a hat.  Who would try to give a hat sentience?  And how?  Was the thing possessed by an extraordinarily unfortunate ghost?

“Um,” said Danny, shaking off the shock.  “I liked it!”

“Sorry,” said Star, “I’m just a little surprised.   Are you really a… a hat?”

“Yes, I am the Sorting Hat!  It is my job to divine which of our four houses each of you should belong to.  Weren’t you listening?”

“We were,” assured Star, “it’s just…”

“You’re a hat,” finished Tucker.  “Did you used to be a wizard or something?”

“Goodness, no, I was Godric Gryffindor’s hat!  He enchanted me.”

“So, are you like a computer program?” continued Tucker. “Are you an AI?”

“No Skynet,” muttered Sam.  

“Why do you guys keep thinking I’m going to make Skynet?”

Professor McGonagall cleared her throat.  The other teachers were all present, except for the headmaster and Professor Umbridge.  Their absences had not been explained.  

“When you hear your name,” said McGonagall, “please come up and put the Sorting Hat on.  It also usually helps if you sit down on the stool.  Once the hat has determined your house, take it off, and put it down for the next person to use.”

Alright.  That sounded easy enough.  Danny wasn’t quite sure why such a big production was being made of this.  A few comments from the teachers and the ghosts—not that Danny had talked to them very much, this was the first full day they’d been at the school—suggested there was some kind of rivalry between the houses, but it couldn’t be that bad.  It was school.  

Except Casper High had its nasty cliques, too, and he could just imagine how school-sanctioned cliques would work out. Especially if they were backed up by centuries of history and a magic personality test.  

Fun.  

Not.

He hoped he, Sam, and Tucker would all be in the same house. And that Dash wouldn’t revert to being a bully as soon as other students were added to the mix.  And that…  Oh, he hoped a lot of things, but he would be thankful if the ‘school’ part of this whole ordeal was as easy and drama-free as possible.

After all, he had other things to worry about.

“Baxter, Dash,” said McGonagall, evenly.  

“Good luck, man,” said Tucker, holding up his thumbs. Everyone mirrored him.  

Dash looked very strange, sitting on that small stool, but he wasn’t on it for more than a second before the hat shouted, “GRYFFINDOR!”

The hat was very loud.  Dash returned to the bench with a confused expression on his face.

“Fenton, Daniel.”

Danny stood up slowly.  He had expected something more like a conversation.  Was this a mind reading hat?  Was the ‘take a peek inside your head’ bit literal?  

Ugh, this was going to be a pain.  Good thing he had a lot of practice in compartmentalizing.  

“Ah, a burgeoning occlumens!” said the hat in its warm voice. “How unusual.”

“I have no idea what that means,” said Danny, mildly.  

“Oh, I’m sure your teachers will explain it to you.  I won’t take the pleasure from them.”  

The voice was, Danny decided, more than half in his head, which was…  Unsettling. Voices in his head usually either meant mind control, some jerk with telepathy, or someone trying to overshadow him. He didn’t like this.  He really didn’t like this.  

“No need to be so nervous,” said the hat.  “I keep everything strictly confidential.”

“Forgive me if I’m not reassured,” said Danny.  

“Hmf.  In any case, you have traits that would do you well in any of the houses.  Perhaps not Ravenclaw, though.  As clever as you are, you are behind academically.  You need a more nurturing environment, I imagine. As for the others… You are brave. You love your friends.  You’d do anything for them?”

“Yeah,” said Danny.  

“And there’s… something else you need to do?”

Danny was silent.  

“I can’t see it very clearly, but it is an important task?”

Danny shrugged.  

“A goal.”

“Sure.”

“I think, then, the choice is between the badger and the snake,” said the hat.  “But I believe the decisive phrase here is ‘do anything.’  Therefore, you will be SLYTHERIN!”

Wow.  Even bracing himself, that had been loud.

Danny stood up and carefully deposited the hat back on the stool.  He noticed on his way back to the bench that more than one teacher looked flabbergasted, and several spectating ghosts looked disappointed.  Almost crushed.  He resisted the urge to roll his eyes.  Yes, he was a celebrity among the undead, no he couldn’t be in two houses at once. They should have prepared themselves.

Not to mention that, as important as education was, it was somewhat secondary to his true goals here.  Which the ghosts partially knew about.  

“Foley, Tucker.”

.

“I can’t believe it,” said Filius later that evening when all the teachers (sans Umbridge) gathered for a drink.  

“I did say you would find the results surprising,” said Sybill, smugly.  

“Two muggle-born American transfer students in Slytherin,” said Filius, wonderingly.  “I didn’t expect to get any of them for Ravenclaw, but Slytherin?”

“I would appreciate it if you didn’t denigrate my house, Filius,” said Severus.  

The diminutive teacher waved his hand.  “Oh, that’s not my intention.  But you have to admit, it seems like a strange choice.”

“They aren’t really muggle-born, though, are they?” asked Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank, opting for tea instead of wine.  “I’m not sure about the Sanchezes, but the Fentons were quite prominent, back in the day, weren’t they?  At least, one of their ancestors wrote the first English book on new world magical creatures.”

“Muggle-borns and half-bloods are chosen for Slytherin all the time,” said Severus, annoyance clearly increasing.  “Not, perhaps, as often as for the other houses, but it does happen regularly.  You don’t have to be so shocked.”

“It’s nothing against Slytherin,” assured Pomona.  “We were just expecting them to get split between Hufflepuff and Gryffindor.  American stereotypes in play, I suppose.”

“Mm,” said Septima, who was doodling equations on the back of her wrist.  “On my end, my thought process was more that they wouldn’t do well trying to play catchup in Ravenclaw, and they wouldn’t have the ambition and drive to hold their own in Slytherin.  The Sorting Hat disagreed.”

“Evidently,” said Severus.  He didn’t look especially pleased, but then he never did.  

“Better you than me,” said Filius, after a few minutes.  “I can’t imagine it will be easy integrating them.”

Minerva, who had three of the students, laughed, “You aren’t getting out of it that easy, Filius.  They still have charms.  How did they do, by the way?  We never really got around to discussing it.”

“None of them were brilliant,” said Filius.  “But they have promise.  I was wondering what you all thought about doing an accelerated class for some of them, to get them to a higher year-level.”

.

Being on the Hogwarts Express without Ron at his side felt wrong.  Sure, he wasn’t entirely alone, Ginny was with him, and Hegwig, but it felt different. He felt exposed.  

Although, that might have had something to do with all the people staring and pointing at him.  

The Daily Prophet had spent most of the summer convincing everyone he was a lying show-off.  The only things that had really competed with the ‘Harry Potter is delusional’ articles were the ‘haha, America is going to hell in a handbasket, aren’t we glad we aren’t them?’ articles.  

(Harry wouldn’t have even cast a glance at the second, except that he and the others had overheard some of the Order members mention Death Eaters had been behind the attack on the muggle town.  Even so, reading them made him feel grimy.)

They had to go all the way to the end of the train to get away from the unfriendly eyes, and that’s where they found Neville.  

“Hi, Harry,” he said, out of breath.  “Hi, Ginny…  Everywhere’s full… I can’t find a seat…”

Ginny squeezed past him to look at the compartments behind him.  “What are you talking about?  There’s room in this one, there’s only Loony Lovegood in here—”

“I don’t want to disturb her—”

“Don’t be silly, she’s alright.”  She slid the door open and pulled her trunk in.  “Hi, Luna.  Is it okay if we take these seats?”

It took a couple minutes to get situated in the compartment, during which time Harry tried not to stare at Luna Lovegood very much.  The blonde girl was surrounded by an aura of almost impenetrable oddness.  

“Have a good summer, Luna?” asked Ginny.  

Luna opened her mouth to answer, then closed it, frowning. “No, actually.  My father had some friends in Amity Park.  The town in America, you know.”  She turned her head slightly.  “You’re Harry Potter.”

“I know I am,” said Harry.  

The four of them then proceeded to have a fairly enjoyable conversation, right up until Neville’s mimbulus mimbletonia sprayed them all with rancid sap and Cho Chang opened the compartment door.  

Cho Chang who he had a crush on.

Yeah.

Harry had a strong desire to curl up and die.  

Ron and Hermione did not turn up for over an hour, by which time the food trolley had come and gone, and most of the bounty acquired from it had been eaten.  

“Oh, you have food.  Brilliant,” said Ron, taking a Chocolate frog from Harry and throwing himself into the seat next to him.  “You won’t believe what happened.”

“Malfoy’s Slytherin prefect?” asked Harry.  The fear had been buzzing in the back of his head ever since Ron and Hermione had gotten their badges.  

“Well, yeah,” said Ron.  

“And that complete cow Pansy Parkinson,” said Hermione.  

“But that’s not the real surprise,” said Ron, oddly dismissive. “You remember all those articles in the Prophet?  Not the ones about you.  About that town, in America?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, some of kids who survived were wizards.”

“And witches,” added Hermione.  She pulled Crookshanks into her lap.  

“Well, apparently their ministry didn’t think they’d be safe over there, so they sent them here.  Seven of ‘em.”

“What?  They think it’s safe here?” In Hogwarts, maybe it was, except Harry had been snatched away even with all eyes on him, in the middle of a heavily attended competition.  “With Voldemort on the loose?”

Everyone flinched.  

“Well, that isn’t exactly being publicized,” said Hermione. “Not—Not in the right way.  Besides, none of them knew about magic before this summer.  They’re all our age, though.  It must have been a shock.  Especially after losing their families like that.”  She shuddered.  “We’ve been asked to help them acclimate.  That’s why the meeting ran so long.”  

“Are they in Gryffindor, then?” asked Luna.  

“They’re sort of spread out,” said Hermione.  “They’re in all the houses but Ravenclaw.”

“And I’m still not sure how they got put into Slytherin if they’re muggleborn,” said Ron, who had tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling.  “It doesn’t make sense,” he complained.

“Merlin was muggleborn,” said Luna.  “He was a Slytherin.  I’m sure there were others.”

Ron pulled a face.  

(Harry thought about Voldemort—About Tom Riddle and his muggle father.)

“Anyway,” said Hermione.  “We have three of them.  Hufflepuff and Slytherin each have two.”

First Death Eaters in America, and now Slytherins from there?  Harry shook himself internally.  No, it probably didn’t mean anything.  

“We probably won’t see much of them,” said Ron.  “They’re taking mostly remedial classes.  First and second year stuff.”

“Say,” said Luna, “do you know who the prefects are for the other houses?”

“Anthony Goldstein and Padma Patil for Ravenclaw,” said Hermione.  

“And Ernie Macmillian and Hannah Abbot for Hufflepuff,” added Ron.  “You know, other than helping keep track of the younger kids and patrolling corridors every so often, there’s not really much we’re supposed to do as prefects.  From how Percy talked about it, I always sort of thought there’d be more.”  Then he grinned.  “We can give punishments out if people are misbehaving.  I can’t wait to get Crabbe and Goyle for something…”

Predictably, this set off Hermione.

.

“There’s nothing else about the Americans?” asked Draco, frowning. “I’m not sure how we’re expected to ‘help them acclimate’ with so little information.”

The Head Girl rolled her eyes.  “You’re expected to talk to them,” she said.  “Considering that they’re real human beings and all. They’ve been through a lot, apparently, and I can appreciate them not wanting to have it spread around.”

Unspoken was the ‘do you?’ at the end of her sentence.  Draco let his lip curl.  People from other houses were always so eager to think the worst of Slytherin when all they were trying to be was logical.  

“I’ll do that, then,” said Draco, stepping out of the prefects’ carriage.  He needed to find Crabbe and Goyle.  Annoying. As much as he was their leader, and he watched them, they were also there to watch him and—

(Draco chose not to think of the people who had arrived at Malfoy Manor over the Summer, of the things he’d seen.)

(When he was quite young, he’d read a book about muggle Germany during the time of Grindelwald, and how Grindelwald had subtly influenced things in that country.  He’d always been struck by the use of informants, of how everyone had been convinced to watch one another and report those who stepped out of line.  He found he could appreciate it even more now that he was inside a similar trap.)

But the Americans.  It was so odd.  They couldn’t have any lineage to speak of.  Not if they were living like muggles in some backwater town.  

… some backwater town the Dark Lord had seen fit to destroy.

… ‘Fenton’ sounded vaguely familiar.  

… Perhaps ‘Sanchez’ was from a Spanish pureblood line.

Draco would have to do research.  He was good at that.  But whatever he found, he’d have to keep an eye on the Americans.  

If nothing else, it would be good to have friends overseas.

.

“We’ll be in different dorms after this,” said Danny, vaguely depressed.  “Different classes, too, most of the time.”

“We can still see each other during the day,” said Sam.  “I think the only meal that’s segregated by house is dinner, anyway.  We should be able to hang out at all the other times.”

Danny sighed.  He had yet to have much success in his missions.  

He’d felt something wrong on the seventh floor, but he hadn’t been able to pinpoint it.  He’d found a giant inaccessible dungeon full of snake statues, a snake skeleton, and a number of other somewhat questionable things underneath the school. There had been an echo of something there, but whatever it was had been long gone by the time Danny got there. He also had the faint sense of a ghost—a real ghost—beginning to form there, and he hoped he hadn’t messed it up by spreading his ectoplasm around.  

On the second front, he hadn’t heard anything from any of the leaders of the wizarding world.  Unless he counted a reply from a secretary who thought he was disturbed.  

But there was one bright spot.  They’d met the Headmaster yesterday, and Danny was certain the man’s wand was one of the two subjects of his third quest.  Which was hilarious.  Out of everything, he’d thought the Hallows would be the hardest to find.  

Not that he could just take it.  Not now.  Not yet. Not with everything else still so uncertain and Clockwork’s quiet assurance that he would find most of what he needed to at Hogwarts.  

(Clockwork and the Lady had made a deal with him, bound in old magic and ghost law.  Three tasks. Three nearly impossible quests, but at the end of them, the one who had destroyed half of his world, who had harmed his people, would be gone, and in the meantime Amity Park would be protected. Danny knew he had gotten the better half of the deal, with Clockwork practically on his side.  Even with the… other requirements.  Still, he couldn’t help but feel discouraged.)

So, he’d stay, and wait, and keep a careful eye on the Headmaster, and try to find the thing on the seventh floor, and figure out what spells worked on ghosts and if he could circumvent them, and figure out how to intercept at least one magical head of state, and, and, and…

Ugh.  

“If we aren’t too busy,” said Danny.  

“You know we’re here to help,” said Tucker, prodding Danny’s side.  “And even if the rest of them don’t know about, you know, I think they’d be willing to help, too.”

“Within reason,” said Sam.  

It was true.  Surviving near-death experiences together tended to make people—well.  Not necessarily friends, but something more than mere acquaintances.  Allies, at the very least.

(Especially if a lot of other people had died at the same time, and the survivors were holding on to the relationships they still had with all their strength.)

“I know,” said Danny.  He bit his lip.  “There’s something on the seventh floor, I think.  Need more time to figure out what, though.”

“We’ll keep an eye out,” promised Sam.  

“And an ear, too,” said Tucker, tapping his.  “I’m sure there’ll be lots of rumors and legends in a place like this.”

“Me too.  Jazz has been interrogating the paintings, you know.”  He frowned.  “They’re so weird.”

“Everything about this is weird,” said Sam.  “Can’t believe we thought ghosts were the whole extent of the supernatural.  It seems so dumb, now.”

“Not really,” said Danny.  “I mean, ghosts were all that we saw, and they didn’t really mention anything else.”  He sighed. “Guess we should get ready for the feast or whatever?”

“Yeah,” said Sam, standing.  “Good luck meeting your classmates.  Housemates?  How are we even supposed to say that?”

“I don’t know,” said Danny.  He sighed.  “At least we each have at least one person from Casper with us.”

“That’s true,” said Tucker.  “Can’t say I feel like I have much in common with Star, though. Other than,” he gestured, vaguely, “all the Amity Park stuff.”

Sam raised an eyebrow.  “And you think I have a lot in common with Dash?”

“You have a lot in common with Valerie,” offered Tucker.

Sam shrugged.  “We do both fight ghosts.”

Tucker’s grin turned slightly wicked.  “And have a crush on the same guy.”

“Take a walk off a

Danny let himself smile.  It had been a while since the three of them had gotten some good banter in. It was hard to verbally spar when you were depressed.  

.

Sitting next to Paulina at an otherwise empty table felt strange.  But it would feel even stranger to sit not next to Paulina at the very large empty table.  Danny let his eyes drift over to the other three house tables.  It seemed that the others were of the same opinion, sitting together in little, painfully awkward clusters.  

All the close friend groups had been pulled apart, after all.

“Danny,” said Paulina.  Her voice wavered at the end.

“Yeah?”

“The wizard kids will have cliques.”

“I mean, yeah, they’re still human, right?”  And even ghosts formed groups.  

Paulina nodded and clenched her jaw.  “We’re going to get into one,” she said, firmly.  “We’ll have to find the best one, and fast, otherwise we’ll wind up at the bottom of the pecking order.  You know how much that sucks.”

“Yeah,” said Danny, his eyebrows raised.  He was a little surprised to be included.  

“The wizards we’ve met so far are pretty weird.  You know how to deal with weird.”

“Uh,” said Danny.  “Is this a strategy thing?  Isn’t it a bit too late for that?”

“It’s never too late to salvage social standing, and we haven’t even started,” said Paulina.  “Anyway, you’re the backup plan, in case they’re aliens who don’t fall for my charm.”  She put a hand to her heart and fluttered her eyelashes.

“Should we even use charm like that here?  I mean, since it’s a class, now.”

“Hmf.  I’m good at that, too.”  She examined her fingernails.  “We’ll probably attract a bunch of people, just because we’re here and visible and new.  We just need to make sure that people stay interested in us.”

“I’m not sure I want attention, Paulina.”

“Then pay attention and follow my lead.  If you’re in the right clique, you can fade into the background.  Like Star. No one notices the stuff she gets up to. They’re all too focused on yours truly. As they should be.”

This was true, actually.  People didn’t really pay any attention to Star, except in her person as Paulina’s satellite.  Even Danny, before becoming Phantom and gaining a new perspective on life and the people in it, hadn’t.  

“Besides,” continued Paulina, “now that we, well.” She didn’t quite blush.  “You guys don’t suck as much as I thought you did.”

“Uh, thanks.  You, too?”

Wow.  That was quite possibly the worst response he could have had.  

Paulina sighed heavily.  

However, she was distracted from whatever she might have said to him by the first of the Hogwarts students coming in.  Paulina turned her attention away, her eyes flicking from one set of green and silver highlights to the next.  Whenever a student looked their way she smiled and waved, pouring on the charm.  

Danny didn’t know how she did it.  Social engineering was never going to be his strong point.

(Perhaps he could set Paulina and Star on the Minister of Magic’s trail.  They might have more luck.)

Before he could follow the train of thought, they were surrounded.  In a simply physical sense.  There was no malice and very little aggression from the students that sat near them, more than one of whom had prefects badges.  Still, Danny did have to fight down a knee-jerk reaction.  He saw Paulina shift uncomfortably as well, and he gave her robe what he hoped was a steadying tug.  

She returned it with a tight smile.  

There wasn’t much time to talk before Professor McGonagall stood up with the hat and started calling names.  Everyone went very quiet during the sorting, except for the cheer that rose with the hat’s every shout.  

Then there was food.  A lot of food.  Most of it was recognizable, but some of it was sort of weird.  Many things were pumpkin flavored.  There was even something Danny was fairly certain was pumpkin juice.

He didn’t know how to feel about that.

Paulina took the time to engage in social engineering. Danny took the time to watch.  They were both watched back, of course, but Paulina naturally drew more attention.  

However, there was one boy who kept staring at Danny. He was about their age and had pale blonde hair.  Really pale blonde hair.  

(Danny had thought Star and Dash were blonde.)

“You’re Daniel Fenton, correct?” asked the boy.  

“Um.  Yes. And you are?”

“Draco Malfoy.  I’m the fifth-year prefect.”

“Oh, Draco like the constellation?”

Draco blinked.  “Yes.”

“Did your parents like astronomy a lot, then?”

“Astrology,” corrected Draco.  “Astronomy is what muggles do.”

Danny carefully forced down the white-hot rage he felt at that statement.  Yeah, he had more than a normal admiration for astronomy, and, therefore, a more intense than normal reaction to astronomy and astrology being confused, but magic was real, apparently, so maybe astrology wasn’t useless.  Right.  Yeah.  And they were both about stars, planets, and space. Nothing to get mad at.

“It’s been a tradition in my mother’s family for generations,” Draco was saying, “although we occasionally make some allowances for other traditions.  My mother’s name is Narcissa, for example.  Is there anything similar in your family?”

“Dad’s side does ‘J’ names for the first born.  Jazz got stuck with that.”

The boy’s eyebrows went up.  “You have a sister?  She isn’t magical?”

“Magical enough to haunt me,” said Danny.  

“Pardon?”

“She died.  She’s around here somewhere, though.”  He gestured vaguely.  “Didn’t want to be around big crowds.  I think she said she was going to hang out with Myrtle?”

“Myrtle?  Do you mean Moaning Myrtle?  Who haunts the bathrooms?”

This time, the reaction Danny suppressed was a cringe, the emotion embarrassment on behalf of the young witch ghost.  “She just introduced herself as Myrtle.  Well, Myrtle Warren, but…  Yeah.  It’s kind of rude to describe someone as moaning, isn’t it?”

The boy puffed up, slightly, clearly offended.  

Oh, dear.  

.

The Americans were… interesting, Harry thought.  

Ron and Hermione had sat near them as part of their ‘prefect duties,’ with Harry and therefore Ginny and Neville following after.  

Well.  That may have had more to do with curiosity than anything else.  

They introduced themselves by their first names only. Dash, Valerie, and Sam.  Dash was… well.  Harry had encountered people like him both before and after coming to Hogwarts.  For example, McClaggen.  Harry hadn’t ever interacted much with McClaggen, even if they were in the same house, but Dash definitely gave off the same feeling.  Meanwhile, Valerie just sort of glared at everyone, resisting all attempts at conversation while tearing at her food with extreme aggression.  Sam had managed to engage Hermione and Katie Bell in a conversation about dark magic that was getting Hermione progressively more flustered.  

Harry couldn’t tell if it was because of the misconceptions Sam had about magic in general, or because Sam seemed to think some kinds of dark magic should be legal.  

He was starting to get a very bad feeling about these Americans.

.

“Hey,” whispered Tucker, while the students around them were distracted by something a rather round ghost was saying.  

“What?” whispered Star.

“Is it just me, or is everyone here sort of depressed? Like, I can understand us being depressed, but…”

“No, no it’s not just you.  Wasn’t there something about a student death?  Some kind of freak accident.”

“Oh,” said the student sitting across from them.  “You heard about Cedric.”

.

Danny wondered if he could get to the Minister of Magic through Dolores Umbridge.  He hadn’t gotten a good read on her during their very brief encounters the previous week, but now...  She gave off the impression of having some kind of political power.  His understanding was that the headmaster had a lot of influence among the wizards and witches of this country, so for her to be interrupting him like that…

Or maybe he was like Danny and weak against social awkwardness.

Also, her speech seemed to have a deeper meaning he couldn’t decode.  He didn’t understand wizarding culture or their political climate enough, despite his research.

Eh.  He’d have to get a better grasp of her personality and position.  Hopefully, that wouldn’t be too hard.  He did have a class with her.  

.

“The events of last spring have left a mark on the whole school,” said Severus Snape into the muffled quiet of the Slytherin common room, his voice just barely more emotive than during the placement test he had given the Casper High students, “and no doubt on many of your home lives as well. I want you to know that if you have any… concerns… regarding the behaviors of fellow students or… more sensitive topics, you can come to me.”

The man blinked slowly at them.  

“That is all,” he said, finally, and with an overly dramatic swish of his cloak he departed.  

The room quickly filled with light chatter, students breaking off into little cliques, some of them slipping away down shadowy corridors.

Paulina tugged him towards one of those groups.  

“Hi, Pansy,” she said, giving the girl a little wave, “hi, Draco.  We were wondering if you guys could show us around?  We were told our stuff would be moved here, but…”  She trailed off, shrugging elegantly.  

Danny tried to echo the movement.  

He most likely did not succeed.

(It wasn’t like he could tell.  His superpowers did not include seeing himself from the outside—Or maybe they did.  There could be a spell for that, he supposed.)

He had to admit, as the prefects made a (just slightly supercilious) show of presenting the Slytherin dormitories to them, that he rather liked the space.  It was surprisingly well-ventilated and warm, but there was still a general air of closeness, of security of bone-deep chill that spoke so well to his ghost half.  

Of course, a lot of that would probably evaporate once Danny tried to sleep in a room with half a dozen strangers, but, well, he’d deal with that when he got there.

.

Magic was great and all, but Tucker would trade it all away in a second if only to get his PDA to work properly.  

In the tent formed by his bedsheet and his body, Tucker hissed and rapped on the staticky screen, hoping an impact adjustment would do… something.  He didn’t know what.  The last three hadn’t done anything.  

The way the metal casing was heating up under his hand was disturbing.  Quickly, he thumbed the power button.  He didn’t have a lot of these left, and he wanted to be able to use them to communicate with Danny and Sam.  He missed their late-night Doom sessions.  

(Along with everything else about his life in Amity Park. He at least had the power to make talking to his friends possible.  The rest? Not so much.)

He groaned into his pillow.  He’d been working on this off and on all week.  Another night wouldn’t matter in the long run.  

Maybe one of his classes would help him understand what he was doing wrong.

.

Sam had sort of enjoyed needling Hermione (the girl reminded her a lot of Jazz), even if she knew she shouldn’t, but the nasty fight between some of the fifth year boys in the common room had really ruined the mood. Hermione’s friend, Harry, was apparently some sort of celebrity.  Like, in the same way Phantom had been a celebrity following Walker’s invasion.  

So.  Not really a great thing for him.  

Ugh.  Sympathy. Feelings.  She sighed and stared up at the red and gold ceiling.  If the color scheme didn’t do her in…

.

Danny met Jazz in the air over the school.  

“I didn’t see you much today,” he said, twisting hands that he is keeping carefully transparent.

“Yeah,” said Jazz.  “I’m just…  I’m still adjusting.  I think you’ll like Myrtle, by the way.  She’s lonely, but fun.  I think there might actually be a bit of ectoplasm in her, believe it or not.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.  She can flood the toilets, apparently.  Although… I’m not sure if she meant the toilets themselves, or just the room in general.”  She frowned. “Because she said something about sinks…”  She shook her head.  “Not important.  Want to hear what she told me about the secret underground room and the giant snake skeleton?  Not to mention all the other ridiculous stuff that’s happened here.  If this is ‘safer,’ I don’t want to know what the rest of the wizarding world is like.”

“Like what happened in Amity, I guess,” said Danny. “But!  Yes.  Please tell me what you found out.”

.

Breakfast was nice.  Especially when Sam, Danny, and Tucker compared schedules and realized that they had more classes together than they expected.  Not with all three of them at once, but even just two of them together was better than nothing.  

Yes, they got a lot of strange looks, especially when Jazz joined them.  Evidently, eating breakfast with people from other houses just wasn’t done.  Which was stupid, in Sam’s opinion.  Actually, the whole house system felt increasingly stupid to Sam.  She just didn’t understand the point.  Was it for sports?

It was probably for sports.  Sports were the root of all evil.  Just look at Dash.  He hadn’t had any sports for a whole Summer, and now he was acting like an actual decent human being.  

Okay.  That reasoning was suspect.  Sam would have to come back to this when she was more awake.  Early mornings were the worst.  

Anyway.  She had an acceptable breakfast with her friends and the people she’d grown to tolerate, then she set out to find History.  

Which is how she overheard the conversation between Hermione and her friends.  

“What’s S.P.E.W.?” she asked.

Hermione’s two friends glared at Sam.  Probably for the sin of eating with people from another house. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

“Well,” said Hermione, just slightly hesitant.  “It’s the Society for the Promotion of Elvish Welfare…”

(Sam found a new cause to get incandescently angry about. Wizard society sucked.)

.

Harry was surprised to see five of the Americans, the three Gryffindors and the two Slytherins, standing by the door to Defense Against the Dark Arts, quietly talking to each other.  

“What’re they doing, then?” asked Ron, scowling. “Consorting with the enemy?”

“Honestly, Ron,” said Hermione, rolling her eyes.  “They aren’t the enemy.  And they’re from the same place.  It must be difficult, being so far away from home.”

Ron grunted and shrugged.  “What d’you think Umbridge’ll be like, anyway?” he asked, changing the subject.  

They filed into the classroom, the remainder of the class, including the Slytherins, their green looking horribly out of place amongst all the red trim, following shortly after.  No one knew what Umbridge would be like, regarding punishment, so they didn’t want to immediately get on her bad side.  

“Well,” she said, in a sickly-sweet tone, “good afternoon!”

There was a mumbled response.  

Umbridge said “Tut, tut.”  She actually said tut tut.  Out loud.  “That won’t do, now, will it?  I should like you, please, to reply ‘Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge.’  One more time, please.  Good afternoon, class!”

“Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge,” said the class, in something approaching unison and the least enthusiastic tone Harry had heard since Ron had tried to convince Hermione to help him with his Divination homework last year.

“There, now,” said Professor Umbridge.  “That wasn’t too difficult, was it?  Wands away and quills out, please.”

Many of the students exchanged gloomy or exasperated looks. Lessons without wands tended to be uninteresting, with very few exceptions.  

(Instead of quills, the Americans produced pencils and pens from their bookbags.)

Umbridge opened her handbag and pulled out her own wand, which was as stubby as she was, and tapped the blackboard.  Words appeared on the board at once:  Defense Against the Dark Arts, A Return to Basic Principles.

Harry couldn’t quite repress a groan.  Luckily, he wasn’t the only one.  

“Well now, your teaching in this subject had been rather disrupted, hasn’t it?” stated Professor Umbridge.  She turned to face the class, her eyes briefly lingering on Harry, and then the Americans.  “Or completely nonexistent.  The constant changing of teachers, many of whom do not seem to have followed any Ministry-approved curriculum, has unfortunately resulted in your being far below the standard we would expect to see in your O.W.L. year.

“You will be pleased to know, however,” she continued, still acting like she was talking to kindergarteners, “that these problems are now to be rectified. We will be following a carefully structured, theory-centered, Ministry-approved course of defensive magic this year.”

Each word Umbridge spoke made Harry’s heart drop farther. How could Dumbledore let this woman teach them?  This year?  When knowing how to fight dark magic was more important than ever?

Umbridge rapped the board again, and new words appeared. Course aims:  1. Understanding the principles underlying defensive magic. 2. Learning to recognize situations in which defensive magic can legally be used.  3. Placing the use of defensive magic in a context for practical use.  

Oh.  This year was going to be bad.  As for the day, it got worse when Umbridge assigned a reading from what had to be the dullest book Harry had ever read.  Including that one time—No.  Focus.

He massaged his temples and wondered if he needed to get a new prescription for his glasses.  The words on the page refused to stay sharp.  

Harry looked up when the Americans started to whisper among themselves and caught sight of one of the most shocking things he had ever witnessed: Hermione not reading.  

Soon, everyone was staring either at Hermione or the Americans, who had left off whispering after some pointed glaring from Umbridge but had replaced the whispers with passionate gesturing at something in the back of the book.  Those, too, died down after a while, in favor of looking at Hermione.  

Eventually, Umbridge could no longer ignore the situation.  

“Did you want to ask something about the chapter, dear?”

“Not about the chapter, no.”

“Well, we’re reading just now.”  Umbridge smiled.  It wasn’t pleasant.  “If you have other queries, we can deal with them at the end of class.”

“I’ve got a query about your course aims,” said Hermione, undeterred.  

“And your name is—?”

“Hermione Granger.”

“Well, Miss Granger, I think the course aims are perfectly clear if you read them through carefully.”  

“Well, I don’t.  There’s nothing written up there about using defensive spells.”

“There’s nothing in the book about using spells, either!” said the Slytherin boy, waving his copy angrily.  “There aren’t even any of the, um.”  He paused and looked at Sam for a second.  

“Incantations,” said Sam.  “I mean, that’s what I’d call them?  I don’t know the official term.”

Umbridge inhaled through her teeth.  

“Using defensive spells?” she asked, voice pitched unnaturally high.  “Why, I can’t imagine any situation arising in my classroom that would require you to use a defensive spell, Miss—”

“And what about outside of the classroom?” interrupted the Slytherin boy.  

“Like, this is supposed to teach us how to not die, right?” asked the girl next to him, examining her fingernails.  

“You have to practice self-defense to actually get good at it,” agreed Valerie, crossing her arms.  “What’s the point of this class if we’re not going to actually learn how to do stuff?”

“Yes,” agreed Hermione, “surely the whole point of Defense Against the Dark Arts is to practice defensive spells?”

“Students,” gritted Umbridge, “will raise their hands when they wish to speak in my class.”

At once, a dozen hands went up.

“Miss Granger?” Umbridge asked, voice dangerous.  

“Isn’t the whole point of Defense Against the Dark Arts to practice defensive spells?”

“Miss Granger,” said Umbridge.  “As you are not a Ministry-trained educational expert, you are not qualified to decide what the ‘whole point’ of this, or any, class is. Wizards much older and cleverer than you have—”

“I really doubt that,” interjected Ron.  

Umbridge took another deep breath.  “You will be learning about defensive spells in a secure, risk-free way—”

“What’s the use of that?” demanded Harry, loudly.  “If we’re going to be attacked, it won’t be in a—”

“Hand, Mr. Potter!”

Predictably, Umbridge turned her back on him as soon as he thrust his fist into the air.  Instead, she called on Dean Thomas.  

(The part of Harry’s brain that wasn’t vibrating in frustration noted that the Americans were passing notes between each other.)

“Well, it’s like Harry said, isn’t it?” he asked, once she had gotten done with interrogating him about his name.  “If we’re going to be attacked, it won’t be risk-free—”

“Do you expect to be attacked in class?”

Harry was very tempted to say yes, considering that three of his four previous DADA teachers had wound up attacking him.  

… Did Professor Lupin’s werewolf form having a go at him bring the count up to four?

Umbridge talked over Dean.  “I do not wish to criticize the way things have been run in this school,” she said, with the air of someone who was about to do just that, “but you have been exposed to some very irresponsible wizards in this class, very irresponsible indeed—not to mention,” she gave a nasty little laugh, “extremely dangerous half-breeds.”

The Slytherin boy stood up, chair scraping across the floor. Sam, next to him, had gone pale. Her fingers were wrapped tightly around her wand.  

“Sit down, Mr.-?”

“I’m leaving,” said the boy, not deigning to give Umbridge his name.  He picked up his bag.  “Maybe I can sit in on an actually useful lesson.  I mean, if I can figure out how to make a pineapple tap dance, I can get it to fly into someone’s face.  At least that’s something.”

“Sit down,” repeated Umbridge.  “I do not know what your classmates have told you, but you, all of you,” she said to the class, “have been frightened into believe that you are likely to meet Dark attacks every other day—”

“We haven’t been frightened into believing anything!” exclaimed Dash, also rising from his seat.  “Our entire city was attacked!  We need—"

“Which was a tragedy.  One that is unlikely to be repeated!  Now, sit down.”

The other Americans stood up.  

“We heard about Cedric Diggory, you know,” said the Slytherin girl, coldly.  “And a lot of the people who attacked us were never caught.”

“We also know about the giant murder snake that apparently lived here,” said the boy.  

“I, for one, can’t believe that wizards are less likely to be murders than any other human,” said Valerie.  “If normal people need to take self-defense classes, I don’t see why we shouldn’t be able to.”

“The government preventing people from learning how to defend themselves is historically a bad sign,” said Sam.  “Of course, slavery is also a bad sign, and you all have been ignoring that for God only knows how long.  There are actual slaves in this school.”

“Wait,” said the Slytherin boy, horrified.  “Are you serious?  Is that what you were talking about before?  Oh my God—"

“Children!” exclaimed Umbridge.  “Your hands are not up.”  

The looks Umbridge got after that outburst were filled with incredulity, not

Parvati Patil raised her hand.  

“Yes?” asked Umbridge.

Harry was beginning to wonder if she was looking for punishment.  

“Isn’t there supposed to be a practical bit in our Defense Against the Dark Arts O.W.L.?”

“As long as you have studied the theory hard enough, there’s no reason you shouldn’t be able to—”

The room exploded into a flurry of objections, spurred on by the Americans.  

“Who exactly do you think is going to attack you?” shouted Umbridge over the ruckus.  

“I don’t know!” shouted Harry back, even though part of him knew this was a bad idea.  “How about Lord Voldemort?”

Silence.  

“Ten points from Gryffindor, Mr. Potter?”

“Points?” whispered Dash.  No one else spoke.  

The Slytherin boy was looking at Harry with something like hunger in his eyes.  

“Now, let me make a few quite plain.  You have been told that a certain Dark wizard had returned from the dead—”

“He wasn’t dead,” said Harry, “but yeah, he’s returned!”

“Do not make matters worse for yourself, Mr. Potter!” exclaimed Umbridge shrilly.  “As I was saying, you have been informed that a certain Dark wizard is at large once again. This is a lie.”

“It is NOT a lie!  I saw him! I fought him!”

Glee spread across Umbridge’s toad-like face. “Detention, Mr. Potter.  Tomorrow evening.  Five—  What do you think you’re doing?”

“Um,” said the Slytherin boy, who like the rest of the Americans was halfway to the door.  “Leaving. Like we said?”  He hadn’t stopped walking.

“You will do no such thing!  All five of you will be joining Mr. Potter for detention.”

“Pass.”  His eyes flicked towards Harry again.

“Excuse me?”

“We have better things to do than humor someone who’s refusing to do their job,” said Sam.  

The classroom doors slammed shut right in front of the Slytherin boy’s nose, and he took half a step back.  

“Tomorrow evening, at five o’clock, all six of you will join me for detention in my office.  Now.  The rumors of that Dark wizard’s return are lies.  The Ministry guarantees that you are not in danger from any Dark wizard.  If you are still worried, if someone is alarming you with fibs about reborn Dark wizards, come see me outside of class hours, I would like to hear about it.  I am here to help.  I am your friend.  Now, kindly, continue your reading.  Page five, ‘Basics for Beginners.’”

The Americans slunk back to their seats but pulled a variety of colorful transfiguration textbooks from their bags instead of Defensive Magical Theory.

With an air of triumph, Umbridge sat down behind her desk.

Harry stood up.  

“Harry, no!” whispered Hermione, tugging at his sleeve.

Harry ignored her.  (Which was, in all honesty, a stupid move.  Ignoring Hermione rarely had positive consequences.)

(In his defense, the preceding several minutes had been… stressful.)

“So, according to you, Cedric Diggory dropped dead of his own accord, did he?”

“Cedric Diggory’s death was a tragic accid—”

“Just like Amity Park, huh?”

“A tragic accident,” continued Umbridge, voice full of ice.  

“It was murder.”  Harry was shaking.  He felt like he was under a spotlight, and he wanted to be anywhere but here, talking about this.  “Voldemort killed him, and you know it.”

For a second, Harry thought Umbridge would start screaming, but instead her lips curled up into a parody of a smile.  “Come here, Mr. Potter, dear.”

As Harry walked forward, Umbridge started scribbling on a small, pink, piece of paper, angled so that Harry couldn’t see what she was writing.  Something moved out of the corner of his eye, and Harry flinched.  

The…  What were they even doing?  Why were they sitting like that?

“Take this to Professor McGonagall, dear,” said Umbridge, holding out a roll of pink paper.  

Harry took it from her without a word, turned on his heel, threw open the door, and—

Was almost trampled by the Americans all escaping the room at once.  

Dash grabbed him by the upper arm, and soon all six of them were running down the hallway.  It took several seconds for Umbridge to start shrieking, and, by that point, the Slytherin boy had pulled them all into a secret passage that someone who hadn’t been at Hogwarts for even a month shouldn’t know about.  

“Wow,” said Sam.  “You work fast, Danny.”

“Thanks,” said Danny, giving her a thumbs up.  “Got to thank the Bloody Baron, though.”  He paused.  “Still can’t believe that’s his actual name…”

“Sorry about dragging you with us, by the way,” said the Slytherin girl.  “I’m Paulina. This is Danny.  You already know these three, I think?”

“Er,” said Harry, not at all sure how to deal with this situation.  Part of him just wanted to shout.  He was still vibrating with suppressed rage.  

“I didn’t really catch your name in all that, though,” she continued, gesturing behind them.  

“It’s Harry.  Potter.”

It was… interesting, how his name didn’t spark any recognition in them.  At least not at first.  Then Danny stiffened and—

“The poltergeist is coming this way,” he said, mildly.  

“You can tell?” asked Paulina.

“I could always tell.  Why do you think I was always in the bathroom when ghosts were around?”

Valerie scowled, and shot a truly venomous glare at her watch.

“Do you think we can convince him to bug Umbridge?” asked Sam.

Danny shot a look of surprise at her.  Then he smiled.  “Maybe,” he said.  He turned back to Harry.  “It was nice meeting you.  I hope we can talk again sometime.  It sounds like you’ve been through a lot, and, well…”  He shrugged.

Harry suddenly remembered that the Americans were here, for the most part, because their families were dead.

“But you should probably track down Professor McGonagall sooner than later.  I’d bet that Umbridge put a timer on that.  If that’s possible.  Is that possible?”

“I don’t know,” said Harry, suddenly a hundred times more anxious about the paper clenched in his hand.  

“Gosh, imagine if Lancer could do that,” said Dash.

“I’d take Lancer any day,” said Danny.  “He actually tried to teach stuff.  Anyway, I’m going to go head off Peeves.  You might want to go around.  I hear he can be kind of a jerk?”

“Right,” said Harry, walking further down the secret passage, because he had been here for a proper length of time and had learned about it properly.  

… Although he supposed that asking the ghosts was a proper way to go about learning the secret passages.  

No, he had to focus on how to explain getting kicked out of class to Professor McGonagall, not on the weirdest interaction with Slytherins he’d had to date.

[tobacconist]

ill put it here since its hard to have a proper discussion through replies

@solomonjones 

God’s will is mysterious, and we as humans cannot know it. i dont pretend to, but i can aspire to atleast attempt to understand it. regardless of your religion; either you believe: God ordains all events throughout history as part of his greater unknowable plan, and that it is He who causes the rise and fall of nations, peoples, ideologies, etc or, you believe: when good things happen to you God is blessing you but when good things happen to your enemies it is satan who blesses them. if that is the case, you do not worship the One True God. you worship an imposter deity who presumes to call itself “θεός”, or “Бог” or “ الله ”;  who is caught in deep rivalry with all the other pretenders to the throne of God Almighty.

this is what the story of the old testament is fundamentally about. even though the israelites were God’s chosen people, they were continually overtaken and oppressed by pagans. as it is written, the LORD hardened the pharaohs heart. in my opinion, it is impossible to understand the wider context of the bible (old and new testament) without understanding it in relation to pagan history and mythology (and in relation to the modern world) they didnt include, say, the odyssy in the holy canon of course because the pagan peoples being converted already knew these stories intimately. they did include the scriptures of the jews however (even though they were in many ways just as spiritually flawed as the pagans) because people were less familiar with them and the scriptures of the jews are very important to understanding the significance of the life of Jesus Christ (as he fulfilled prophecies of both the pagans and the jews)

when i say i have deep respect for the orthodox churches, please understand that i am being completely earnest. but i see it for what it is, an imperial religion of temporal power, like any other. this is going to sound quite harsh, and im writing this from an antagonistic perpective because, i presume, as someone who is quite devout; you do not need to be convinced of the deep need for religion in the world (now more than ever) that said... throughout history, kings and theologians have torn the Body of Christ, the church herself, into pieces. like DOGS they have torn the body of christ to pieces! like some horribly blasphemous tug of war. catholics pulling the head and protestants pulling the legs. baptists pulling out the intestines, the orthodox snarling and territorially guarding the heart, and the gnostics scooping up the spilled brains. and yet they are all convinced they know best, that they are the ones with grace, that they are the only true pure and correct church. this is what i mean about spiritual pride, and everyone knows it. especially when their actions and morals are in so many ways clearly at odds with what Christ actually taught. the only reason atheism exists is because of centuries of corrupt religious leaders; you can blame no one else for this godless world.

you claim the tsar held grace by his ceremonial anointment; but God hears the cry of the oppressed. thousands dead for your cause seems very reasonable compared to thousands dead for your enemies cause. but God gave people a rational mind, and although we are all misguided, he gave us wisdom enough to (eventually) see through deceit - whos author is the devil. it took centuries, but he taught us the ignorance of idolatry. the foolishness of worshipping kings. many more centuries it took until we abolished slavery. when the LORD let loose his hand and upturned the entire order of civilisation; throwing the chess pieces everywhere. fortuna’s wheel made such a global revolution; scarcely ever seen before. the nobility of the world, once so proud, learned through the bitterest chastisement the desserts of one who believes he can do no wrong.  i cannot question the judgement of the LORD, but i do wish history had been different. less bloodshed, less mess; but God knows best.

on the topic of miracles, you can believe whatever you like, my friend. jesus said blessed are those who believe what they cannot see; but in my opinion you are as naive as one who believes hindu swamis can manifest gold rings out of thin air.  all religions are guilty of this chicanery, but the spell only holds as long as people still want to believe. God gave us the power of reason, and His essence is truth. a great spiritual mystery; that (atleast for the past hundred years) Gods chosen people have been the atheists who knew him not! contemplate it! deny it if you want! there is great wisdom to be found there. not that they are blameless. the very opposite. i do not deny the horrors of communism which i assume you as an orthodox christian will know intimately well; but communist movements (and growing secularisation in general) cannot be thought surprising when one considers history. but has not the LORD advanced their science? has He not given them the power to perform many miraculous (and diabolic) deeds? babylon, rome, and america all play their part in His great plan. Blessed are the Naive, for they will not be punished as severely as those who should have known better. you can bring up some (rather weak) scientific validation of miraculous events to prove that God is on your side, but every single religion does this. and if you look at who is actually out there curing the blind, deaf and lame, who is it?

do you feel a deep spiritual calling in your heart which demands your soul to cleave unto the orthodox church? good. listen to it. that is God talking to you. that is God telling you what role you must play here in your lifetime. in some peoples hearts, that voice tells them to cleave to islam, or to buddhism, or to fucking wicca some people it tells them to ardently support nothing but science and secularism and to reject any fairytale from the past that they cannot prove. to some it tells them not to worry about any complicated theological or scientific shit that they would never understand anyway; and instead to simply follow what they know and try to be a good person by whatever ethical system they follow.

to some of us, it says we must always, always strive to be wise. that it is our sacred duty to solve every great paradox and to unveil every mystery that while the rest of the world argues in the dark, we must take our small spark of light and study deeply what we see within its radiance; and combine our little lights whenever we can. that we will be punished for our failings, as we will never be truly wise. no man can be omniscient. we will be punished for everything that we know, and for everything that we dont know, and that we must accept this. for being lukewarm and middling, for being passionate and taking a side. but we must do it anyway. that it is our duty. because ignorance is a condition which feels disgusting. that voice, it tells me that this is the task, the monumental task that all mankind undertook when we chose to eat of the fruit of the tree of knowledge of good and evil, when we had been warned not to; to become like gods. and God himself, the LORD almighty said to us: okay.  but you will die. you will die thousands of times. thousands upon thousands, upon thousands of times. and each time, you will become just a little bit wiser until maybe, just maybe, you will become like i. my “only begotten son” who will reign with me in paradise when you finally realise what a profound responsibility it is to be God.

[justasparkwritings]

Codename Cupid: Chapter 10

Previous: Searching for Seokjin Pt. 2

Pairings: Light Jungkook x Reader 

Genre: Secret AgentAU, AgentAU, Government Agent AU, Slice of Life

Ratings: PG13

Word Count: 2.7K

Warnings: Swearing

Summary: She finds Taehyung at the local dog park, an unfamiliar face by his side. 

Tailing Taehyung

Present Day

          I’ll be honest, this is my favorite part of the job. Music low, tinted windows, unmarked baseball cap adorning my head, GPS tracking my every move so I can retrace my steps. I’ve already downed a grande latte, two bagels and a family sized bag of sour skittles. But it’s the quiet waiting, the planning of every move, the sleuthing and interpreting, anticipating another person’s every move.

         Kim Seokjin is predictable. He gets up, goes to work, comes home. There’s no romantic partner, no gym time, nothing. His office building, non-descript, standard skyscraper. It’s painful how predictable he is. Which is why after three days, I begin to search for another name on Euna’s list. Kim Taehyung.

         He’s easier to track, beloved librarian, he works at the downtown branch where he packs the house for his weekly story hour. Costumes, characters, voices, he commands the room, never demanding adoration because it’s so freely given. His name at the Library, though, is not Kim Taehyung, but Jung Taehyung, as if he got married and changed his name without telling anyone. My only indication that they’re the same person are photos from Euna.

         Tailing Taehyung is thrilling. He’s going to book launches, gallery openings, museum exhibits, clubbing, and on a few nights, stays late to close the library. Those are my favorite, he puts headphones on and dances around the library, re-shelving children’s books and shaking his ass. He lives across town from Seokjin, in a quaint house with a green door. He seems to have an abundance of friends, rarely goes out with the same people twice in one week. No partner on record, no flirting or taking someone home with him. He does have a dog, something he must’ve picked up after leaving the Lee’s.

         Picking up Johnson from my sister’s house, I park near the dog park by Taehyung’s house, a frequent weekend spot. He might go to different clubs every Thursday or try a new restaurant with a pair of gentlemen, but he goes to the same dog park on both Saturday and Sunday, then to the coffee shop on the corner, where he tries a new drink on Saturday. If he likes the drink, he gets it again on Sunday, but if he hates it, he picks something new. He never orders coffee, only tea and juice concoctions. How he exists, with all that energy, and no coffee, I will never understand.

         Another thing I will never understand is Johnson. A golden doodle with a slight limp, she’s both deeply loving and simultaneously polarizing. She runs hot and cold, licking you one minute, growling the next. There’s no reason for her split personality, her ability to turn on a dime, but I’d like to think Johnson is struggling with her identity and would really benefit from therapy. At two years old, still fully a puppy, she has gone to obedience school three times, and is only truly unkept when forced to be with humans for too long. The dog park is her happy place. She loves running around, sniffing everything, frolicking in the grass, no leash, totally free.

         What a blessing to borrow my sisters fur baby to ensnare Kim Taehyung.

         Maisy pulls me towards the dog park, excitement coursing through her body. It takes everything in me to not drop the leash and let her go, but she has a high chance of running into traffic and her death cannot be on my conscience. Within moments of stepping into the park, I spot Taehyung and his little pup. A black and gold Pomeranian, he weighs the same as Johnson’s front paws. Taehyung stands, sunglasses on, black hair parted slightly to reveal his honeyed forehead. He looks too cool for school, and I’d believe he was, if he wasn’t laughing energetically at the man to his right. The man is familiar, one of the usual men he tries a new restaurant with every Tuesday.

         Setting Maisy free, I move around the park, monitoring her, hoping she’ll land exactly where I want her to.

         The initial contact with a mark, or suspect, is the most precarious. I can’t come on too strong, can’t give too much away or seem too eager. I have to have every moment planned in order to get the information I need. In this case, it’s getting close enough that I can speak with Tae to find out what he knows regarding Lee Euna and her family, and maybe see if he’ll drop hints about her manifesto.

         I circle the park, my eyes on Johnson and Taehyung, slowly moving closer to the man and his friend.

         “Did you catch the end of the game last night?” The other man asks.

         “No, was I supposed to?” Taehyung responds.

         “It’s too early in the season to be calling it, but they’ve got a chance to go to the Superbowl,”

         “Huh,”

         “Excuse me, sorry to interrupt,” I say, turning my body to face them. “Is that your dog? The little one?”

         “Yeah, it is,” Taehyung answers, smiling lightly at me.

         “It’s so cute, what’s its name?”

         “Yeontan, or Tannie,”

         “Adorable, is that Korean?” I ask.

         “Yes,”

         “Very cool, my boyfriend’s Korean,” I lie. Jungkook isn’t my boyfriend. He’s just a guy I’ve slept with once and fallen asleep next to twice … or whatever.

         “Nice, I wonder if we know him,” Taehyung said. “What’s his last name?”

         “Jeon,” I tell them. I clock the miniscule movement in their brows, the exchanged glance, but I don’t know what it means.

         “Not too many of those, what’s his first name?” The man next to Taehyung asks.

         “Jungkook” I tell them. My eyes don’t leave their faces as they both nod, neither daring to share a glance.

         “I don’t think I know him,” Taehyung says.

         “Well, what are your names? I can ask him if maybe he knows you?” I offer. Take the bait, take the bait.

         “I’m Taehyung, this is Jimin,” He says.

         “Y/N,” I offer my hand to shake, which they each accept.

         This is my moment, “This is going to sound crazy, but do you know Lee Euna?”

         “Who?” Jimin asks.

         I scrutinize his features, no slight quiver of the upper lip, no pupils dilating, no quickened breath. “Lee Euna, she’s part of the family that owns Lee Enterprises?”

         “Oh, Lee Enterprises, I’ve heard of them, they’re brokers?” Jimin asks.

         “Traders,” Taehyung responds.

         “Candlestick makers,” I finish the rhyme, both men look at me quizzically, then laugh. “They do banking and stock trading for the top 0.01% of society, royals, billionaires, human traffickers, etc.”

         “Ah,” Jimin nods. “Not my area of expertise.”

         Agreeing, Taehyung nods, “Mine either,”

         “Same,” I add. Maisy runs up to me and begins growling at the men I’m standing with. “Johnson Maisy Lou, knock it off,”

         “Johnson Maisy Lou?” Taehyung laughs.

         “I didn’t name her,” I shrug.

         “Her?” Jimin continues laughing. He’s like, really pretty.

         “Yeah, my sister’s dog. She gives no shits when it comes to gender norms. Johnson was a bet she lost though,” I inform them. I reattach Maisy’s leash and give her a good once over. “You ready?”

         She wags her tail in response.

         “It was nice to meet you guys, maybe I’ll see you next weekend?” I smile again, friendly and kind to a flaw.

         “Yeah, bring your boyfriend, we might have some friends in common,” Jimin smiles again.

         I wave before dragging Maisy back to the trail and slowly to the car. They know Jungkook, I don’t know how, or why, but something in their reaction tells me that they are more than just friendly with him. Maybe they went to school together? Or worked together before their respective positions at the library and whatever Jimin does? That would answer few questions but makes me feel uneasy.

         When I return to my car, I’m met with a familiar sight. An envelope resting on my driver’s seat. Car locked, windows intact, it sits, waiting. My blood runs cold, chills down my spine as I stare. I swallow the bile in the back of my throat and survey my surroundings.

         “The first was a warning shot. This is your last chance. Stop. Looking.”

         I panic, glancing all around me, trying to find someone who stands out in the weekend shuffle. There’s no absurdly dressed person, no one in a weird hat or harboring a long-range camera, no one glancing at me in my sheer panic, fear pushing my fight or flight into overdrive.

         Choosing a stance somewhere between fear and power, I walk swiftly towards the coffee shop. Ordering a concoction I’ve heard Taehyung order, I ask the cashier a leading question.

         “That’ll be $3.57,” He smiles. I glance at his nametag, Robert.

         “Thanks, Robert. Can I ask you something?”

         “Of course!” He answers.

         “You see that black car?” I point towards the general direction of my vehicle. “Have you seen anyone approach it in the last hour?”

         “No, but I just started my shift twenty minutes ago,” Robert informs me.

         “Okay, thanks,” I move out of the way and watch as other customers flit through the shop, the open concept rustic café is a hot spot, known for their tea infusions and gluten free pastries, it’s a hot ticket. The line is often out the door, and everyone who works here receives massive tips. I don’t know who gives their spare change, but I’ve seen the jar completely full on more than one occasion. Tipping for leaf water is preposterous, but then again, a good cup of leaf water is hard to find. I think, I’ve never really truly looked for it.

         After giving myself 30 minutes to calm down, I head back to my car, taking the note and slipping it into an evidence bag. I drive the 15 to my sisters, knocking aggressively as I am positive Maisy is one bark away from biting me.

         “Did you have to bring her back?” C asks, opening the door.

         “I don’t want to be arrested for dog-abuse, that’s a serious crime,” I hand her Maisy’s leash, and she obediently retreats into the house, running towards her food bowl.

         “Oh, I’ll stick the ASPCA on you for sure. How was she?” C asks, stepping back to allow me into the house.

         I sigh, “Useful, did exactly what I needed her to.”

         “That might be the first time in her life she’s listened to directions,” C laughs. “Water?”

         “And probably the last, isn’t that right Johnson Maisy?” I ruffle behind her ears and take the can of Bubly from my sister.

         “How’s your little man friend?” She asks, hope in her eyes.

         “He’s not little, and he’s not a friend,” I correct her.

         “Right, right, how’s lover boy?”

         “Don’t call him that,” I squeeze my eyes closed, knowing full well where she’s headed.

         “Oh, baby, how’s baby?” She does her best Jennifer Grey impression.

         “You’re the worst. And he’s fine,”

         “Have you been seeing him regularly? What’s his name again? JK? Did his parents just really like New York Undercover? Or I’m sorry, the Killing Joke?” C laughs at her own jokes, which makes me hate her cleverness even more.

         “Jungkook, and yes you can call him JK,” I sip on the pineapple flavored sparkling H2O.

         “And?”

         “He’s great, he’s wonderful, he’s sexy and intelligent and thoughtful and kind and I could swim in his Bambi eyes forever, okay?”

         She laughs at my tone, frustration evident as I blush profusely.

         “You like him,” She sings. 

           “Too much it seems,” I roll my eyes.

         “Are the feelings mutual?”

         “He took me to breakfast, after dancing, we didn’t have sex, and then, he took me to dinner and a movie the next day, a ‘traditional date’ as he called it. It’s been a month? Not even, and I think about him constantly. I want to see him every second of everyday and I feel so sad when he’s gone. I’m literally handing him my heart to break and I think, all signs are pointing to him handing me his,” I bury my face in my hands, feeling the heat radiate onto my palms. Why is this so embarrassing?

         “Are you going to take it?” C asks.

         “Haven’t I already?”

         C lets it hang I the air, my willing acceptance of heartache at the hands of this lionhearted man, my willingness to be absolutely gutted by him, and in return, his vulnerability to be tossed out like every other man who has ever dared to get close to me.

         “Maybe he’s worthy,” C offers.

         Shaking my head, “It’s not about being worthy, I don’t deserve anyone.”

         “No, no one deserves anything except basic human rights, food, shelter, education, healthcare… but maybe you’ve found a guy who is actually going to be supportive and challenging, someone who isn’t scared of your callousness and thrives in your ability to love without bounds. Maybe he’s that person for you.” Her stare is knowing, and I hate how correct she could possibly be. I hate that I’m falling so quickly, and I hate that he might be falling too. It’s easier when one person has the upper hand, when a bluff pays off with a win. But if we both fold, then are hearts become collateral, and to whom the pieces go becomes a mystery.

         “Can we please stop talking about him?” I request, the tears brimming giving way to my distress.

         C smiles softly, her knowing sisterly gaze on my tears. “Absolute. How’s the case going?”

         “Fine, I found another guy with Taehyung, they both seem to know Jungkook, but I don’t know how they know him or why they lied about it. Neither mentioned anything that was useful,” I wipe the few tears away and pick up my drink.

         “Will you keep digging?” She asks.

         “I’m not sure there’s much more to dig. Euna has her list, she knows what they did, she doesn’t want proof that they’re guilty, she just wants to know where she can find them.” I inform her.

         “That’s the business you’re in, finding people who don’t want to be found?” C clarifies. She knows better than anyone what I do. Though I function in dark allies and make backroom deals, C follows the letter of the law and works for a branch of the CIA. Doing what, I do not know, but she understands the importance of hiding, and the lengths people will go to, to remain out of sight.

         “It’s not my job to protect them, C, if I can find them, anyone can.”

         “Why does she want to find them?”

         “Revenge is my guess, why she had to come to me when she’s worth billions is beyond my understanding. She could’ve hired anyone, had a mole in the government search, literally anything other than showing up at my broken-down door,”

         C pauses, “What if they’re in witness protection? What if she was abusive?”

         “They’re not in witness, if they were, they wouldn’t use their real names or live in the same city she does. That and you would’ve found out. And, there are no records of abuse in the system, no restraining orders, nothing.”

         “Could they be hiding from her?” C questions.

         “In plain sight?” I counter.

         She laughs. “Staring Mary McCormack now streaming on Amazon Prime.”

         “I’m leaving,” I roll my eyes.

         “Just, be careful, okay?” She reaches for me, and I enter her embrace. Sister hugs always carry more weight.

         “I will be,” I say into her hair.

         “Don’t dig a hole bigger than you can fill,” She kisses my cheek gently, her lip gloss sticking to my skin.

         “That’s not a saying,” I reply as I wipe the goo from my face.

         “Don’t care. Love you,” C stares me down, her words echoing through me.

         “Love you, mean it,” I respond, and her shoulders relax.

         We haven’t always had the best relationship, the most love, the most respect. She’s anal and controlling, I’m easy going and dare I say, happy? We’ve always been opposites, she loved analytics, statistics, history. I craved action, drama, constant stimulation. We both love puzzles, though hers remain recreational and mine professional. At our core, we’re cut from the same cloth. Mannerisms mimicking the other, eyes of similar shape, looking enough like sisters to never be questioned.

         But she’s right.

         Am I digging a hole bigger than what I can fill? Has Lee Euna, Euna Lee, set me up to completely fail? Do these men want to remain in hiding, and if so, what’s the level of risk I am putting them at?

         Maybe solving the mystery of who the man was with Taehyung will guide me towards an answer.

Next: Codename Another Shot at Love Pt. 4

[where-dreamers-go]

“Aligning Stars” TMR Newt x Reader

(A/N: This is my first attempt at writing for The Maze Runner character Newt. Forewarned, I’ve only seen the movies. This insert reader takes place between The Maze Runner: The Scorch Trials and The Maze Runner: The Death Cure.

Word Count: 1,177)

You were enjoying some quiet and occasional people watching that night. Listening to the water. Clearing your mind.

Everyone was working to help one another; the basics of survival and truly living. A select group was tracking W.C.K.D.’s movements. There were still so many kept against their will and being transported elsewhere.

You sighed.

There were times when being thankful for freedom only reminded you of friends that were not so lucky. Hope, courage, and a bit of wit would be beneficial.

“Thought I’d find you here.”

Your start was internal while your smile had no filter.

You turned your head and said, “Hey, Newt.”

“Hey.” He sat beside you on the concrete. “Not tired?”

“I am…Just wanted a little more quiet before turning in.”

“I can leave—.”

“No. It—it’s fine.” You said, keeping your hands on your lap. “You don’t run your mouth like others about the bad times. Some others.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should.”

Your sights returned to the night sky.

Stars, virtually countless and clustered in their own patterns, shown in their brightness.

“Our lives seem so small here at night…. There’s such vastness out there. If I look long enough, I can forget the scary parts of being down here.”

“Do you ever think of the good parts of being down here?” Newt asked. “Even down here where we hide or fight to just live…there’s light here too.”

“I think of the little things that make me happy.”

“Food?”

“Yeah,” you laughed, “definitely food.”

“Anything else?”

You tilted your head, words stuck on your tongue as you kept thinking.

“When the others smile or laugh. It’s the closest we all are to normal. The world seems more whole then.” Your gaze went over the water with its mixture of reflections. “Waking up in the morning when everyone’s half-awake or stumbling around is good. I don’t really prefer waking up too early, but it’s still good. No one is running through a maze.”

“Not running through a maze is more than ‘a little thing’.”

“True.” You looked over at Newt. “But…talking about nothing or something random is pretty big to me.”

“Yeah?”

“It pulls me out of any thoughts that are too heavy or those days when I feel like I’m hidden deep inside myself and don’t say a word. Having nice conversations brings me back to the moment. Out of the past and away from the future….just…the now.”

“Does this here count?” He asked, leaning closer with a small smile seen in the faintest light.

“It does.”

Your chest warmed to a greater extent as your heartbeat gained speed.

“Even if you didn’t bring food,” you snickered, covering up for your semi-flustered state.

“Back to food… Should’ve known,” he teased.

You sent him a grin.

“But…in all seriousness, thank you. You’re easy to talk to. You’re a good listener too. I appreciate that.”

“Any time, love.” Newt’s voice was soft. “Whether you need an ear or a shoulder…just let me know.”

“I’ll…um…keep that in mind. Thank you.”

Your boots were suddenly extremely fascinating.

There were many things in your life you could not remember, however spending time with Newt gave you a hopeful outlook. The future had so many possibilities for new moments. New memories that you could access. Ones you dreamed of.

Waves crashed in the distance and the sounds of night carried on.

Newt continued sitting beside you as you both soaked in more quiet before going to bed.

“I like being with you,” Newt said. “You can find the good in any situation. I don’t see how you do it.”

“It doesn’t mean it’s easy.”

“I know. It’s not easy for any of us, but seeing your smile helps.”

Any response you had shattered.

“You think of other’s smiles to remind you of what makes you happy and—(Y/N), you….you…I don’t want to imagine a day without you.”

You chanced a glance at Newt.

He was continuously running his fingers through his hair, a nervous twitch.

“Shuck.”

“It’s okay,” you whispered.

In honesty, you couldn’t think of any more helpful words at the moment. How would you be able to express that his words were beautiful, you hoped he’d be your friend forever, and hint that you’re basically falling in love with him without risking possible rejection?

Scooting closer, you set the side of your head against his shoulder.

Newt remained silent for a few moments. His hands returning to his lap before one of them reached for your own.

You watched on short breaths as his fingers cautiously laced between yours. They were callused and slightly cold. But they were his.

Without a word you curled your fingers to bring his hand more snug in hold.

You smiled, though still hesitant to believe it was all so real. The two of you had hugged on occasion, but what was being done—the affection—was much more.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said.

Newt squeezed your hand.

“(Y/N), I need to tell you…I…,” he took an intake of air. “You’re special to me…I just—.”

You lifted your head to face him. Encouragingly, you nodded for him to continue.

“I was wondering,” his eyes locked with yours and his voice became even softer, “if you care for me as much as I care—so deeply—for you?”

A slight pressure behind your eyes warned of oncoming tears.

Your free hand came to rest over his hand that now clung to yours.

“I know that I’m not the fastest or the strongest….and I have a limp—.”

“Newt.” You quickly interrupted him. “What you see as your flaws are not negative to me. Please know that. I will run beside you, not in front or behind. I love being with you.”

Newt’s lips turned ever so slightly. His eyes flickered between your eyes and your lips for only a moment.

In his eyes he asked your permission.

You feared that your hands were shaking and deterring him.

Taking in the sight of his parted lips, you nodded.

A slight tilt to his head and he leaned in. Some locks of his hair falling forward as his nose touched yours.

Measured breaths mingled as Newt’s other hand touched your shoulder and—

“Newt!”

Newt cursed under his breath.

You were whisked back into the present. Secret hideout and all.

“Poor timing, mate.”

Clearing his throat he looked over his shoulder.

“That shank never sleeps.”

You released the grip you had on his hand and opted for wringing them together.

“Sorry love,” Newt gave your hands a quick squeeze before standing up.

“Newt?”

He paused.

“Would you like to sit here with me tomorrow?….If that’s okay?”

“I wouldn’t mind that.”

Flutters erupted in your stomach all over again.

“Newt,” Thomas’ voice was closer.

You waved as Newt languidly made his way over to his friend.

Perhaps the next day would have more affections to share underneath the stars.

~~~

(If you love my writings and want to support me, I have a Ko-Fi where you can buy me a coffee. I would be eternally grateful. coffee

Best wishes and happy reading.)

[virtuamaes]

Playing the Audience: Dealing with the Reality of Video Game Representation

If I asked you who comes to mind when you picture your friends or relatives that enjoy playing games, it’s likely that you draw a broad spectrum people of all races, age groups and genders who you know that spend hours on end enjoying video games whether on their phone, computer or consoles. Now for a follow-up question: think of as many lead characters from the most popular video game franchises as you can. The odds are that there is a wide disparity between the variety in the people you’ve known to play games, and the types of characters who take major roles in all the games that we play. As reported by the ESA in 2018, 41% of game-players in the US are women, and 31% of the entire game playing population are women over the age of 18, making a larger portion of the total than boys under the age of 18. So why is it that games aren’t representative of such a more diverse audience?

Well, the answer is rather simple when you break it down: the games industry is plagued with inequalities on several levels that prevent the prevalence of stories and games including or starring people from minorities or marginalized groups from being told. In a study done by 20-first for Forbes in 2020, they found that a mere 16% of the executive teams of the top 14 gaming companies across the globe were women. The battle against systemic inequalities in the entertainment industries and tech fields have been fought for decades at this point, with gaming as one of the newest fields when compared to businesses like the movie industry, which is currently going through its own reinvention as the deeply embedded tendrils of patriarchal dominance were made clear before the public in the recent #Metoo movements.

This could paint a rather bleak picture for the direction that games are headed, but the truth is that the gaming audience has certain advantages in helping influence where games can go from here. While insiders with industry access can do great things like create networks and organizations to help women and people of color land positions at studios to help their voices be heard, the gaming audience is well on its way to taking full advantage of social media and other resources to develop platforms to promote diversity in the industry and share exceptional examples of positive change in the industry.

Criticism is a Kindness

In her popular online web series Anita Sarkeesian argues that, “It's both possible, and even necessary, to simultaneously enjoy media while also being critical of its more problematic or pernicious aspects.” Anita is saying here that audiences gain nothing if they passively accept the flaws of the media they consume, whether they are fans or not. A conscientious audience must strive foremost to develop on those complex feelings they have with games such that they can continue to build and improve upon media no matter how foundational the problematic works are considered.

This isn’t to say that all criticisms come from a place of good faith, however. Anybody connected to the gaming space throughout 2020 will easily recall the wildfire that spread across social media when leaked footage and documents revealed controversial plot details in the much anticipated PS4 title, The Last of Us: Part II. This type of outrage does little to advance audience relationships with developers or promote an environment of critical thinking in the gaming audience, especially considering the game in this example hadn’t even been released yet.

An Informed Opinion

Given the rise of social media, it’s easier now than ever to develop a platform for you to share your opinions. Examples like this springboard post by Aaron Anthony Williams give us a great example of how modern audiences utilize their voices to contribute to the discourse and discuss issues our friends and those who we share interests with may not be fully aware of. Thoughtful critique of games has exploded within recent years as the cost of video editing and production software has decreased to an accessible level. Often times, developers pay special attention to these voices, especially when those concerns are shared over platforms that developers personally frequent themselves or where studios have accounts they make to interface with fans, good examples are Twitter and Reddit.

A queue building outside of my local Best Buy on Cyberpunk 2077's launch day, in December, during the pandemic.

Your Wallet’s Voice

Controversy surround games these days get as much or more publicity when things go south. Take Cyberpunk 2077, one of the most anticipated games of last year: controversy seemed to follow the game for several months preceding its release when CD Projekt Red, the games polish developers were entailed in a handful of scandals surrounding the game’s representation of trans people and ethnic minorities in trailers and demos. When we’ve got the advantage of reliable news sources reporting on the questionable content of upcoming games, we’re able to hold those companies accountable to their decisions by not investing in those companies when their games release.

This concept also extends to pre-orders, which are often incentivized by additional content or pre-release access by developers. Cyberpunk had earned much of its cash haul in the years between its announcement in 2012, and especially after its “gameplay trailer” in 2018, well before controversies surround its questionable depictions of minorities had become public knowledge. The lesson here being that the sooner a developer has its audience in their pocket, the less mindful they need to be to their audience’s sensibilities.

In conclusion, the relationship between developers and their audiences is a fresh new ground for change given the new tools available for the gaming audience. The majority of game development studios including those at the height of the industry have a long way to go in accurately representing the audiences that play their games, but the voices of marginalized groups have developed new ways to broadcast a more critical and responsible means of analyzing and sharing thoughts on games. This new wave of discourse surrounding popular games has a potential to affect change one even the largest game titles from a consumer level, which was an as yet unheard-of degree of cooperation between developers and their audiences, which casts a bright portend for the future of inclusivity in games.

Works Cited

· Sarkeesian, Anita. “Damsel in Distress: Part 1 – Tropes vs Women in Video Games”. YouTube, uploaded by Feminist Frequency, 7 March 20 21https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X6p5AZp7r_Q

· Wittenberg-Cox, Aviviah. “Gaming Industry: Please Wait… Gender Balance Loading”. forbes.com. Forbes, 28 August 2020. Web. 26 February 2021.

· ESA. ‘Essential Facts: Diversity in the Video Game Industry’ 2020, ESA: Entertainment Software Association.

· Williams, Aaron A. "What Does Gender Have To Do With It: The Biases Of The Video Game Industry". The Future of Video Games. Springboard. 20 May 2016. Web. 26. February. 2021.

· Henley, Stacey. “It sucks that Cyberpunk 2077’s edgelord marketing worked so well.”. polygon.com. Polygon, 4 December 2020. Web. 26 March 2021.

· @zehugex. “Cyberpunk 2077 pre-sold 8 million copies prior to launch. That’s over $500m in revenue prior to release. For reference, GTAV did $800m on its first day including pre orders + day one sales.” Twitter,20 Dec. 2020, https://twitter.com/ZhugeEX/status/1336974249144315904

[96thdayofrage]

The anti-racism consulting industry does deserve both some sympathy and some credit. Its intention, to prod white Americans into more awareness of their own racism, is beneficent. And their premise that white people are often unaware of the degree to which racial privilege has enabled their success, which they can mistakenly attribute entirely to merit and effort, is correct. American society is shot through with multiple overlapping systems of racial bias — from exposure to harmful pollution to biased policing to unequal access to education to employment discrimination — that in combination sustain massive systemic inequality.

But the anti-racism trainers go beyond denying the myth of meritocracy to denying the role of individual merit altogether. Indeed, their teaching presents individuals as a racist myth. In their model, the individual is subsumed completely into racial identity.

One of DiAngelo’s favorite examples is instructive. She uses the famous story of Jackie Robinson. Rather than say “he broke through the color line,” she instructs people instead to describe him as “Jackie Robinson, the first Black man whites allowed to play major-league baseball.”

It is true, of course, that Robinson was not the first Black man who was good enough at baseball to make a major-league roster. The Brooklyn Dodgers decided, out of a combination of idealism and self-interest, to violate the norm against signing Black players. And Robinson was chosen due to a combination of his skill and extraordinary personality that allowed him to withstand the backlash in store for the first Black major leaguer. It is not an accident that DiAngelo changes the story to eliminate Robinson’s agency and obscure his heroic qualities. It’s the point. Her program treats individual merit as a myth to be debunked. Even a figure as remarkable as Robinson is reduced to a mere pawn of systemic oppression.

One way to understand this thinking is to place it on a spectrum of thought about race. On the far right is open white supremacy, which instructs white people to fight for their interests as white people. (Hence the 14-word slogan, “We must secure the existence of our people and a future for white children.”) Moving to the left, standard-issue conservatism tends to discount the existence of racism and treat all problems in pure color-blind terms, as though racism has been banished. To the left of that is standard liberalism, which acknowledges the existence of racism as a problem that complicates simple race-neutral solutions.

The ideology of the racism-training industry is distinctively to the left of that. It collapses all identity into racial categories. “It is crucial for white people to acknowledge and recognize our collective racial experience,” writes DiAngelo, whose teachings often encourage the formation of racial affinity groups. The program does not allow any end point for the process of racial consciousness. Racism is not a problem white people need to overcome in order to see people who look different as fully human — it is totalizing and inescapable.

Of course, DiAngelo’s whites-only groups are not dreamed up in the same spirit as David Duke’s. The problem is that, at some point, the extremes begin to functionally resemble each other despite their mutual antipathy.

I want to make clear that when I compare the industry’s conscious racialism to the far right, I am not accusing it of “reverse racism” or bias against white people. In some cases its ideas literally replicate anti-Black racism.

Glenn Singleton, president of Courageous Conversation, a racial-sensitivity training firm, tells Bergner that valuing “written communication over other forms” is “a hallmark of whiteness,” as is “scientific, linear thinking. Cause and effect.”

This is not some idiosyncratic oddball notion. The African-American History Museum has a page on whiteness, which summarizes the ideas that the racism trainers have brought into relatively wide circulation.

“White” values include things like “objective, rational thinking”; “cause and effect relationships”; “hard work is the key to success”; “plan for the future”; and “delayed gratification.” The source for this chart is another, less-artistic chart written by Judith Katz in 1990. Katz has a doctorate in education and moved into the corporate consulting world in 1985, where, according to her résumé, she has “led many transformational change initiatives.” It is not clear what in Katz’s field of study allowed her to establish such sweeping conclusions about the innate culture of white people versus other groups.

One way to think through these cultural generalizations is to measure them against its most prominent avatar for racial conflict, Donald Trump. How closely does he reflect so-called white values? The president hardly even pretends to believe that “hard work” is the key to success. The Trump version of his alleged success is that he’s a genius who improvises his way to brilliant deals. The realistic version is that he’s a lazy heir who inherited and cheated his way to riches, and spends most of his time watching television. Trump is likewise incapable of delayed gratification, planning for the future, and regards “objective rational thinking” with distrust. On the other hand, Barack Obama is deeply devoted to all those values.

Now, every rule has its exceptions. Perhaps the current (white) president happens to be alienated from the white values that the previous (Black) president identified with strongly. But attaching the values in question to real names brings to life a point the racism trainers seem to elide: These values are not neutral at all. Hard work, rational thought, and careful planning are virtues. White racists traditionally project the opposite of these traits onto Black people and present them as immutable flaws. Jane Coaston, who has reported extensively on the white-nationalist movement, summarizes it, “The idea that white people are just good at things, or are better inherently, more clean, harder working, more likely to be on time, etc.”

In his profile, Bergner asked DiAngelo how she could reject “rationalism” as a criteria for hiring teachers, on the grounds that it supposedly favors white candidates. Don’t poor children need teachers to impart skills like that so they have a chance to work in a high-paying profession employing reasoning skills?

DiAngelo’s answer seems to imply that she would abolish these high-paying professions altogether:

“Capitalism is so bound up with racism. I avoid critiquing capitalism — I don’t need to give people reasons to dismiss me. But capitalism is dependent on inequality, on an underclass. If the model is profit over everything else, you’re not going to look at your policies to see what is most racially equitable.”

(Presumably DiAngelo’s ideal socialist economy would keep in place at least some well-paid professions — say, “diversity consultant,” which earns her a comfortable seven-figure income.)

Singleton, likewise, proposed evolutionary social changes to the economy that would render it unnecessary to teach writing and linear thought to minority children. Bergner writes:

I asked whether guiding administrators and teachers to put less value, in the classroom, on capacities like written communication and linear thinking might result in leaving Black kids less ready for college and competition in the labor market. “If you hold that white people are always going to be in charge of everything,” he said, “then that makes sense.” He invoked, instead, a journey toward “a new world, a world, first and foremost, where we have elevated the consciousness, where we pay attention to the human being.”

Whether or not a world along these lines will ever exist, or is even possible to design, is at best uncertain. What is unquestionably true is that these revolutionary changes will not be completed within the lifetime of anybody currently alive. Which is to say, a program to deny the value of teaching so-called white values to Black children is to condemn them to poverty. Unsurprisingly, Bergner’s story shows two educators exposed to the program and rebelling against it. One of them, Leslie Chislett, had to endure some ten anti-racism training sessions before eventually snapping at the irrationality of a program that denigrates learning. “The city has tens of millions invested in A.P. for All, so my team can give kids access to A.P. classes and help them prepare for A.P. exams that will help them get college degrees,” she says, “and we’re all supposed to think that writing and data are white values?”

Ibram X. Kendi, another successful entrepreneur in the anti-racism field, has a more frontal response to this problem. The achievement gap — the long-standing difference in academic performance between Black and white children — is a myth, he argues. The supposed gap merely reflects badly designed tests, he argues. It does not matter to him how many different kinds of measures of academic performance show this to be true. Nor does he seem receptive to the possibility that the achievement gap reflects environmental factors (mainly worse schools, but also access to nutrition, health care, outside learning, and so on) rather than any innate differences.

Kendi, like DiAngelo, argues that racism must be defined objectively. Intent does not matter, only effect. Their own intentions are surely admirable. But the fact is that their insistence on denying that America provides its Black children worse educations inhibits working toward a solution. Denying the achievement gap, like denying the gap in how police treat white and Black people, seems to objectively entrench racism.

It’s easy enough to see why executives and school administrators look around at a country exploding in righteous indignation at racism, and see the class of consultants selling their program of mystical healing as something that looks vaguely like a solution. But one day DiAngelo’s legions of customers will look back with embarrassment at the time when a moment of awakening to the depth of American racism drove them to embrace something very much like racism itself.

[cloudphillips]

There Is A Place

Summary: A place where Seungwan and Joohyun could be free.

The kingdom of Daegu was in high spirits as citizens of different ranks chattered on excitedly when they went about their day. The market was even more crowded than usual and the merchants not only to sold their wares much cheaper than the usual amount but also added a little bit of gossip with every successful purchase made. Delighted squeals and laughter could be heard from the street children near the local pastry shop since the baker decided to give away his baked goods for free. Some people from neighboring kingdoms travelled far and wide just to hear the news. The academy was void of students since the headmaster announced that classes would be suspended in favor of celebrating this momentous occasion.

 The princess was betrothed. She was to marry the prince of Seoul.

 It was the king himself who announced the engagement. Standing by the balcony of the royal palace alongside his wife, he had his subjects gathered in the square to declare that there will be a matrimony of royal blood. The union of the two kingdoms will bring peace and prosperity for the future to come.

 The citizens were beyond ecstatic that they could barely find the motivation to do mundane tasks. Instead, they chose to dance on the streets and sing praises to those who were willing to listen. Everyone was in a festive mood. Today was a special day. It might as well be considered as a holiday.

 Although, the palace was more subdued. The imperial guards patrolled the halls with marked vigilance, checking for any unusualities and occasionally helping the palace staff with the heavy lifting. Every once in a while, a servant would rush along the corridors carrying trays of food, loads of books and numerous expensive gifts just to cater the whims of every noble. The king was currently having a council with his most trusted advisors to discuss matters on how to improve the economy while protecting the land borders of Daegu. Meanwhile, the queen basked in the well-wishes and congratulations from the courtiers when they talked about the engagement as they drank tea in the gazebo.

 Everyone was happy with the prospect of marriage.

 All except for one.

 On an empty field just a few yards away from the castle wall, there was a worn down path that wound through a series of twists and turns which eventually led to the forest. Graveled stones and dried twigs soiled the ground and the path opened deeper into the wild. The tall canopy of trees provided shade against the blaring heat of the sun and kept the place relatively cool. Birds and other wild animals sang a music only mother nature could know. The long twisted path eventually led to a clearing, big enough for a small pond to fit in the middle, and a variety of flowers that grew untamed with the lush green grass.

 As soon as Seungwan arrived at the clearing, a small, almost heavy, sigh escaped her lips. She was drenched in sweat and tried to catch her breath. Her short blonde locks clung to her neck in sticky waves and her listless brown eyes searched the calming waters of the pond for comfort. It was a good thing that she wore a loose white linen shirt today since it allowed room for movement and felt a little less constricting. Removing her ragged boots and bending down to fold her black trousers, Seungwan walked towards the pond and gently dipped her feet in its cool blue waters. She closed eyes and let the calm wash over her weary soul but even that wasn't enough to quench the heaviness in her heart.

 Seungwan left as soon as she heard. The news of the princess' betrothal left her numbed with shock. Her mind at lost for words and she didn't know what to do. She needed to escape to a place where she wouldn't feel trapped. So she ran to the forest until her feet ached and her lungs burned. She ran until her eyes blurred with tears that watered the ground like droplets of rain.

 The princess was to be married to the prince of Seoul in two months’ time. It was expected since she was in the appropriate age but it was too soon and Seungwan wasn't quite sure if she was ready for that... If her heart was ready for the inevitable... if she was ready to spend the rest of her life being incomplete. Seungwan closed her eyes and felt her soul resonate within. This was bound to happen. She had seen this for a long time coming and she had no right to object for she was merely a servant. Their worlds were heavens apart.

 But why can't her heart accept that?

 "I thought I'd find you here."

 Seungwan's heart raced once she heard that familiar lilting voice and she quickly jumped to her feet. She smoothed out her clothes to a more presentable manner before bowing deeply.

 "Your royal highness." Her eyes stared hard at the ground and she didn't dare lift them in fear that her heart might betray her. It was already traitorous enough as it is.

 "I told you not to call me that Seungwan-ah." The princess sounded annoyed at the honorific. She did hate formality especially coming from the little servant girl. Seungwan could just picture the intense glare emanating from her eyes. "Look at me." 

 But the servant girl made no move to look at her, opting to study the ground instead.

 A beat of silence.

 "Please."

 It was her little plea and Seungwan didn't have it in herself to deny the princess from her wishes. She swallowed the lump in her throat and prepared herself to become undone.

 As usual, the princess took her breath away.

 There she was, in all her stunning glory, wearing that ocean blue summer dress that emphasized her smooth pale skin, sporting that soft gentle smile she always reserved for Seungwan. Her raven black hair tumbled past her shoulders in silky waves and there was an excited glint in her chocolate brown eyes as she pulled the servant girl into a swift embrace. Seungwan found it difficult to breathe, much less even think. Her touch burned Seungwan's skin and left tendrils of fire in its wake. After all this time, the princess still had the same effect on Seungwan.

 "Joohyun." Seungwan whispered breathlessly and lifted her trembling hands to return the princess' embrace. Sanity has long left her now and she wondered if Joohyun had some sort of magic within her... If she somehow bewitched Seungwan with the charm she wielded.

 But of course, Joohyun wasn't a sorceress. She wasn't some kind of mythical being that existed in the minds of people. She was very real and beautifully flawed and Seungwan loved her for that.

 Joohyun lingered for a moment and Seungwan thought she saw her features turn forlorn the second she pulled away but quickly dismissed it as one of her imaginations. The princess straightened her composure before a mischievous smirk graced her lips. Seungwan knew that look. She'd been the recipient of that smirk too many times throughout the course of their friendship and it was never a good sign for it spelled trouble.

 "I'm supposed to be having tea with the court ladies today but I feigned sickness and somehow managed to avoid my responsibilities." Joohyun seemed quite proud of herself and Seungwan could only frown in disapproval as she watched the princess slip out of her heels, hike up her dress and dip her feet into the cool waters just as Seungwan did earlier. "Now I'm free to spend my afternoon with you."

 That didn't seem wise but Seungwan knew better than to scold her. Joohyun was as stubborn as it gets. Arguing with her was completely pointless because she rarely ever listens.

 Seungwan settled beside Joohyun and the princess proceeded to recount how her day went. How she was caught in a dull conversation with the ambassador of Seoul during breakfast. How she couldn't escape her lessons about Daegu history and most of all, how she tried hard to convince her father to call off the engagement.

 "I've told him many times but he wouldn't listen. Marriage isn't what I want." A scowl marred her elegant features when the princess slapped the water in frustration, sending splashes of fluid in all the wrong directions. Seungwan thought that anger didn't suit Joohyun. "It's like my opinions don't even matter."

 The servant girl could only patiently listen to the princess as she droned on and on about her frustrations. She stared at the princess the whole time not only because she liked hearing the sound of her voice but mostly because Joohyun was being herself. She didn't play the game of pretenses when she was around the servant girl. She would always let her guard down and allow Seungwan to witness the vulnerable parts of herself that she didn't let others see.

 To Seungwan, Joohyun was just Joohyun.

 The same Joohyun whom she grew up with and treated her like family. The same Joohyun who snuck out at night to visit Seungwan in the dungeons after being punished for accidentally spilling wine on a noble's trousers. The same Joohyun who defended her when she was accused of stealing food from the kitchens. 

 "Seungwan-ah?"

 The servant girl was completely immersed in her thoughts that she failed to notice the change in Joohyun's mood. The princess had gone very quiet.

 "What if my heart longs for another?"

 That statement alone pulled Seungwan out of her reverie and she stuttered out a reply. "W-What do you mean?" 

 "What if I want-" Joohyun was looking at her now, staring directly into her eyes in search for something, and Seungwan was unable to look away. For a moment, she was afraid... terrified that Joohyun would see through her barriers and discover the feelings Seungwan had long kept hidden. "-to marry whom I choose?"

 The air was thick with tension and Seungwan tried to lighten atmosphere by cracking a joke. "Why? Is the great princess having a hard time asking someone out?" She knew she was being a coward but her heart can't - wouldn't - shouldn't hope. The path to Joohyun was a lonely road and wishing for the impossible would only end in heartache.

 The smile on Joohyun's lips didn't quite reach her eyes and Seungwan's attempts to lighten the atmosphere backfired. Both of them lapsed into an awkward silence, with the princess gazing at the sky and the servant girl fidgeting listlessly in her seat.

 "Why did you come here?" The princess asked after a while.

 "Oh. I just came here to think." Seungwan shrugged noncommittally, trying to brush it off like it was nothing, when in reality she came here to forget. 

 To escape the reality that the love of her life was betrothed to another man. 

 To accept the fact that the more Seungwan yearned for her, the more she realized that they could never be together.

 The princess furrowed her brows and pursed her lips into a thin line, a clear indicator that she didn't quite believe the servant girl. "So you came to our place? You only ever come here when something's bothering you." The intensity of her eyes was enough to melt away whatever control was left in Seungwan.

 Our place

 For this little clearing by the forest had become their sanctuary ever since they were children... their little safe haven that shielded them from the cruel world. This is the place where the magic occurs. This is the place where everything is possible. This is the place where Seungwan was free to love Joohyun in silence.

 "Yes."

 "But-" The princess tries to press further but the servant girl shook her head and kept silent.

 "Let's just enjoy the moment."  Seungwan found the courage to hold her hand and joined the princess in watching the skies.

 She closed her eyes and dreamed of another life where Joohyun could be hers.

 =============================================================================

 Two weeks have passed since the announcement and now the kingdom of Daegu was preparing for the upcoming visit of the prince of Seoul. Banners of blue and silver hung on every house and stall and lanterns lit the cobbled streets. There was a shortage of red roses and the florist was at her wit's end trying to resupply her stock. A demand for heart-shaped cookies and chocolates caused the local baker to create more pastries. Expansions for the church were fully underway so as to accomodate the attendants from Seoul. Music could be heard from the academy since the students were tasked to be the lead choir for the welcoming ceremony. Artisans reknowned from far and wide, hired by the king, came to help decorate the plaza square.

 Meanwhile, the palace was plunged into madness. Imperial guards were stationed at every exit and entrance, still observing for anything unusual while servants darted on and about the palace, scrubbing the walls immaculately clean, replacing old flowers from vases, dusting away dirt from large marbled statues, stripping off the soiled linens in each sleeping chamber and changing them into new ones. All the while still catering to the whims of every noble. The cook and his apprentices busied themselves in preparing the food and sometimes, a little servant boy would steal a freshly-baked muffin from the kitchens. The king had a private assembly with his trusted advisors to discuss how to strengthen Daegu's pact with Seoul while the queen made a quick visit to her royal tailor for her gown measurements.

 Everyone seemed preoccupied for the special day.

 And Seungwan wasn't exempted from that.

 She was on stable duty and spent the whole day shovelling manure, cleaning the stalls and grooming horses. Once or twice, she was whisked away by the matron and ordered her to fetch some things from the market. Seungwan complied with every demand that was requested of her since it kept her from thinking about Joohyun. She hadn't been the same since the announcement. She spent her days lost and confused while at night, she could barely fall asleep. So in order to keep her mind off of things, Seungwan busied herself with work.

 Maybe this way, she could stop dreaming the impossible.

 Maybe this way, she could finally come into terms with the inevitable.

 And maybe this way, she could learn to let Joohyun go.

 But why was there a constant ache in her heart that refused to disappear?

 The servant girl sighed and continued brushing on the horse's mane. She just finished removing the saddle from the animal's back when Johnny, one of the Imperial guards, appeared out of nowhere and shoved a small piece of parchment to her face. "Oi Seungwan! A letter for you." He marched off before Seungwan could ask any questions. Cautiously unfolding the paper, Seungwan immediately recognized the elegant script written in cursive.

 It was a letter from Joohyun asking her to come visit her chambers tonight.

 Seungwan furrowed her brows. What did the princess want?

 No matter. She'll find the answers sooner.

 For now, she has to finish cleaning the stables.

 When the night came, Seungwan snuck out of the servants' quarters and crept along the dark hallways of the castle. A guard almost caught her lurking around the throne room but thankfully she managed to evade him. Standing outside the princess' chambers, she knocked gently on the mahogany doors. There was no answer. She was about to knock again when the door opened and the princess abruptly grabbed her collar and dragged her into the room. Joohyun pushed her against the wall before securing the locks to her chamber. "Did anyone see you?" And when the servant girl shook her head, the princess sighed in relief and slowly wrapped Seungwan in a tight embrace.

 Seungwan felt her throat closed up and mouth go dry when she noticed their apparent closeness. Her mind had a hard time recovering its sanity and it also didn't help that the fine lace robes Joohyun was wearing did nothing to cover her undergarments. The valleys of her breasts and the curves of her hips were tantalizing. It was a sin to look at her and Seungwan should be punished for having such lewd thoughts about the princess. She held her breath in the hopes of preventing herself from being overwhelmed but it was hopeless. She was already intoxicated with Joohyun's scent.

 "I was beginning to think that you wouldn't come." Joohyun buried herself on Seungwan's neck and breathed in her sweet fragrance. The servant girl was suddenly painfully aware of the fact that they were by themselves... alone... in the princess' chambers. She imagined the scandal it would cause if someone discovered them. "I missed you."

 Seungwan felt her breath hitch. She tried hard, tried to resist whatever enchantment the princess cast upon her, but she was fighting a losing battle and her traitorous heart wouldn't stop beating Joohyun's name. In the end, she stopped fighting and eventually succumbed to her touch.

 She allowed herself to enjoy the simple pleasure of having Joohyun in her arms.

 Spare me a little taste of forever with you.

 Her grip on Joohyun tightened.

 Just this once.

 "I missed you too."

 The embrace lasted for a minute longer before Joohyun took her by the arm and led her towards the bed. Together, they rested on the soft mattress and silken sheets. Seungwan kept her distance but the princess had no concept of personal space and simply scooted closer and draped her arms around the servant girl. Seungwan wondered if she had always been this masochistic. Wanting someone she can't have and wishing for the impossible felt more like self-destruction but she was happy with it. "So what did you want to talk about?"

 Then Joohyun asked a rather unusual request. "Tell me your dreams."

 Seungwan thought for sure that she had stopped breathing. The answer was right there, almost at the tip of her tongue, but she didn't dare say it because she was terrified of giving it meaning once she voices it out loud.

 To spend my life loving you.

 Seungwan was a coward because only a coward would choose to love in silence. "I want to find the place where I could be free."

 "Have you found that place already?" The princess traced random patterns on her arm and the servant girl found herself lying again.

 "No."

 Yes.

 Right here beside you.

 A moment of silence passed and Seungwan cherished every minute of it for this might be the last time she'd ever feel Joohyun's touch.

 "Seungwan-ah?"

 "Yes princess?

 "Why is it that the burden I carry flies away when I'm in your arms?"

 Seungwan suddenly lost the ability to speak and the wild beating of her traitorous heart felt difficult to control. This is what those poems authored by dead men must feel like. To long for someone you cannot have. To have all love contained within you and have no one to give it to. To have your soul wither away. This is what must it feel like to slowly die inside.

 She wondered if this was the God's punishment for her because she loved a woman. She loved her best friend. Maybe this was His punishment for her, for not knowing her place, for asking the impossible, for thinking that she and Joohyun could ever be equals.

 The princess had already fallen asleep by the time Seungwan could find the courage to respond and as she watched Joohyun sleep contently in her arms, she finally found an answer. If the heavens wanted to punish her then she would gladly face its wrath because Joohyun was worth the sacrifice.

 And there was no greater sacrifice than laying down her life for the one that she loved.

 "Sweat dreams Hyun." Seungwan gently caressed the princess' cheek and planted a soft kiss on her head.

 Her eyes suddenly fluttered to Joohyun's mouth and for a moment, she felt the deep-seated longing to kiss her. Seungwan wanted to taste those soft lips and ingrain Joohyun's essence deep into her mind forever so that when the time comes when Joohyun finally leaves, Seungwan will have something to remember her by.

 Seungwan wanted her. God, she loved her.

 She leaned closer until she could almost feel the warmth of Joohyun's breath brushing against her cheek. Seungwan traced the outlines of her lips, slow, gentle and even reverent, taking great care not to break Joohyun with her caress. She was unworthy to touch her this way. "Just this once."

 If equal affection cannot be, let the more loving one be me.

 She leaned closer and closer until their lips were only inches apart.

 No. Stop! This is wrong.

 Seungwan felt the tendrils of guilt wrap her heart. She took advantage of her best friend Joohyun. Sweet and kind Joohyun who trusted her with all her heart and yet Seungwan almost betrayed that trust by giving into her desires. Her love was not pure. Her love was dirty and tainted. The universe was right to punish her.

 With an aching heart, she carefully extricated herself away from Joohyun. The servant girl felt disgusted with herself. Only a lowlife would take advantage of their best friend like that. What she did was unforgivable.

 “Seungwan?” Joohyun stirred when she felt the warmth disappear and when she noticed Seungwan leaving her chambers, she grabbed hold of her arm and begged for her to stay. "Please stay with me until the sun rises."

 Seungwan could never deny the princess so she relented to her wishes. She went back to bed and Joohyun wasted no time wrapping her in an embrace. She clung to Seungwan desperately as if her life depended on it and the servant girl found it difficult not to care.

 "Don't go." Joohyun yawned when the remnants of sleep finally overtook her.

 And as Seungwan laid in bed, her thoughts wandered to the sleeping woman in her arms. There was no going back now. She had fallen way too deep. Her gaze landed on the ceiling and she sighed.

 "You're making it hard for me to let you go."

 =============================================================================

 Prince Bogum of Seoul and his entourage finally arrived to the kingdom of Daegu and the citizens celebrated his coming. A ceremony was held at the palace square to laud this joyous occasion. The royal family, along with the trusted advisors and nobles, received him and gave him a warm welcome. Seungwan was one of the onlookers, moving through the crowd to get a better glimpse of the prince. She was supposed to be in the palace, cooking in the kitchens and doing the laundry, but she snuck out and joined the crowd. Of course, she'll surely be punished by the matron but she can worry about that later. For now, she's focused on knowing the man who'll be taking Joohyun's hand in marriage.

 "I welcome you, Prince Bogum of Seoul, to the illustrious kingdom of Daegu." The king beamed proudly as he swept his hand over his beloved nation. Behind him, the queen and princess stood graceful and elegant. Joohyun was great at acting calm. If she was nervous then she was certainly doing a good job at hiding it.

 "The stories I've heard about your kingdom doesn't do much justice. I thank you for giving me this honor of witnessing for myself the greatness of Daegu your majesty." Prince Bogum bowed respectfully. "I come bearing gifts!" With a simple flick of his hand, his servants emerged bringing caskets filled with gold and fine linen. The king seemed quite pleased with his thoughtful gesture.

 The prince was strikingly handsome with his charcoal black hair neatly styled to perfection and fair skin unblemished by scars. His chocolate brown eyes sparked with youth and he carried himself with poise and vigor that immediately charmed the king and his regents. Prince Bogum seemed like a respectable man. Anyone would be lucky to have him.

 "I'd like you to meet my daughter, Princess Joohyun of Daegu, whom you'll be marrying in a few weeks' time." The king gestured for his daughter to come forward and proceeded to introduce her. Seungwan could tell that Bogum was rendered awestruck by her beauty. She could relate to him. After all, Joohyun always took her breath away.

 "I've heard tales of your beauty princess and it's such a blessing to finally witness it for myself. I am a truly lucky man to have you as my wife." He stumbled upon his words while trying to greet her and everyone seemed to find it a little endearing.

 Everyone except Joohyun. 

 She remained passive the whole time.

 "A pleasure to meet you too my prince." There was a subtle frown on Joohyun's features when the prince gently kissed her hand.

 Seungwan observed the interaction with a growing heaviness in her heart. Prince Bogum was perfect. He had perfect hair, perfect eyes and perfect smile. He would be the future king of Seoul. He would be good for Joohyun. They would get married, yield beautiful offsprings, have a family and live their lives in utmost happiness. Meanwhile, Seungwan could only watch from afar as she tries to mend the pieces of her broken heart.

 This sudden realization struck Seungwan like lightning and she suddenly found it difficult to breathe. She felt trapped, constricted, and the crowd was suffocating her. She needed to escape, somewhere far away from here.

 Joohyun scanned the crowd and was surprised to find Seungwan amongst the people. Her surprise turned to worry when she noticed the tears threatening to spill from Seungwan's eyes. The princess moved to approach the servant girl but she was stopped by her mother, who gave her warning look and urged her to strike a conversation with Prince Bogum.

 And Joohyun stayed rooted in her spot as she helplessly watched Seungwan escape to the forest.

 ...

 The sun had set and it was already night time when the sound of jovial music and laughter could still be heard throughout the whole kingdom. The people were still celebrating the festivities and sang songs on the streets. The local pub was handing out free drinks, much to everyone's delight, and provided a place for merriment. The Baker was too drunk from the ale to notice that his pastries were slowly getting eaten by the children who visited his shop. An imperial guard left this post and started flirting with the local florist. A ball was held in the palace in honor of the prince's arrival. The king and queen were having a merry chat with Prince Bogum and courtiers wasted no time socializing with the guests from Seoul and getting into their good graces. The servants busied themselves by ensuring that the whole event ran smoothly while catering to the whims of every noble.

 Everyone was having a good time.

 Everyone except Seungwan.

 The servant girl didn't join the merriment because she didn't feel like celebrating. She stayed by the clearing to drown herself in solitude. Prince Bogum's arrival felt like being struck by the cold harsh truth and Seungwan was far from prepared to face reality.

 She can't, not yet. 

 She still needed time.

 Time for her to let go.

 She laughed hollowly, a strange broken sound that echoed through the night, when feelings of despair started to settle in. What good will wanting Joohyun do? She was a princess and Seungwan was a servant. Even then, she knew that they could never be together. There was nothing she could give Joohyun. She had no riches, no kingdom and she wasn't even of noble birth. Seungwan could only offer her heart but it wasn't enough, it will never be enough. Prince Bogum was perfect and he would be able to provide Joohyun the things Seungwan never could. They would be happy together.

 So why can't her heart accept that?

 "I knew I'd find you here." 

 Seungwan would recognize that voice anywhere. There seems to be no escaping the princess now, is there? She sighed in defeat and bowed deeply in reverence.

 "Your highness." The servant girl could barely look directly into her eyes. Seungwan never displayed this kind of formality towards Joohyun in their long years of friendship but it needed to be done. A line was needed to be drawn in order to remind Seungwan of her rank.

  "I thought I told you not to call me that." Joohyun wasn't at all annoyed but she did sound a little sad. She took a step towards Seungwan but the latter backed away. She didn't bother to hide the hurt she was feeling. "Did something happen? I saw you by the square earlier and I wanted to come to you but you ran away." Joohyun reached out to caress her cheek but Seungwan stepped out of her reach.

 "This needs to stop." The finality in Seungwan's tone terrified her completely. It's as if she was about to say something drastic and Joohyun didn't know if she was prepared to handle it.

 "S-Stop what?"

 "This friendship. It needs to stop." What was going on? Why was Seungwan acting like this?

 "But why?" Joohyun's heart ached and her tears threatened to spill. "We've known each other for so long. Why suddenly end this beautiful bond that we have?"

 "Exactly that. We've known each for so long that I forget myself when I'm around you Joohyun. You're a princess while I'm merely a servant. It's time you start treating me like one." Seungwan wanted to take back the words she said but the damage had been done and Joohyun was already fighting back tears.

 "What are you saying?" Joohyun told herself not to cry. She would not cry, not for her, not for Seungwan.

 "I'm saying that no friendship should ever exist between us." Seungwan didn't dare look into her eyes.

 "So are you just gonna throw away all those years of us being together? Is that it?" For the first time in Seungwan's life, she became the recipient of Joohyun's harsh glare and it saddened that it had to end this way.

 No. She should not feel remorse now. She was only doing this for Joohyun's sake.

 Be strong Seungwan.

 "Yes."

 Then she left and fought hard not to look back.

 =============================================================================

 The kingdom of Banora was in a solemn mood. The palace was decorated with white roses and ribbons while lanterns hung on every household. The streets were deserted and no merchant could be seen selling their wares in the market. The local bakery and flower shop were closed. Children, together with their parents, dressed in white formal attire gathered in the square to witness the holy matrimony of Prince Bogum and Princess Joohyun. The imperial guard were stationed at every entrance to ensure the safety of the event. The king and queen and the rest of the nobles settled inside the church, all hushed in excitement as they prepared for the ceremony to begin. Prince Bogum stood by the altar and tried to calm his nerves as he waited for the princess to arrive.

 Seungwan stood by the entrance of the palace with the white chariot parked behind her. Dread was creeping to her bones and she was starting to think that this was a bad idea. As punishment for having skipped her chores, the matron thought that it would be fitting for Seungwan to safely escort the princess towards the chariot where the rest of the handmaidens would be waiting. She wondered if this was the universe's cruel way of punishing her, to see the love of her life for one last time before she was whisked away to marry someone else.

 But the servant girl thought that it was only appropriate. No amount of punishment could take away the hurt she inflicted on Joohyun.

 The sound of sharp heels hitting the floor signaled the princess' arrival and Seungwan looked up from her feet to see Joohyun looking as breathtaking as ever. Flowers adorned her head and her raven locks were pulled into a braid. She was wearing a silk lace white gown that clung to her body like a second skin and the diamonds resting on her neck couldn't compare to the sheer magnitude of her beauty. She held in her hand a bouquet of white roses and Seungwan couldn't help but think that Joohyun looked so beautiful in white.

 The second their eyes met, a fond, almost melancholic, smile graced Joohyun's lips when she tentatively approached Seungwan. "I never thought I'd find you here." She stopped just a few inches away but she was close enough for Seungwan to revel in her beauty.

 "I'm here to escort you to the chariot your highness." The servant girl swallowed the lump in her throat before bowing reverently.

 "Right... I'm the princess after all." Joohyun sounded helpless and Seungwan berated herself for causing this mess in the first place. She rose to her full height and their eyes met.

 There was a beat.

 A moment of silence.

 Both of them stared at each other, committing every detail into memory, realizing that this would be the last, knowing that things would never be the same again.

 A beat.

 Silence.

 And Seungwan decided that she was tired of denying her heart.

 "Run away with me."

 Joohyun's eyes went wide and she stuttered out. "W-What?"

 "Run away with me." Seungwan found her courage and declared the love she had long kept hidden. "We'll go somewhere far away, just you and me, and start a new life. You can be whatever you want to be and I-" She let out a shaky breath. Her hands wouldn't stop trembling. "-I will spend the rest of my life making you happy."

 "Why?" Joohyun couldn't stop the tears from falling. It was the first time that Seungwan saw her cry. "Why did you have to say this now? Just when I'm about to get married."

 "I just thought-" Seungwan tried to explain but the princess cut her off. 

 "I waited for you Seungwan! Ever since we were children, I always adored you. I was even willing to forsake the crown for you! But when I already made up my mind, you decide to profess your undying love and hope that it would somehow change a thing?" Joohyun shook her head in disappointment. "You are a cruel person Son Seungwan."

 "I just thought that you should know. I'm sorry if it took me long enough." Seungwan tried to wipe away Joohyun's tears but caught herself at the last minute. She had no right to touch the princess, not after all the pain she inflicted upon her.

 "I have a duty to my people Seungwan." The princess looked resolute and there was finality in her voice and just like that, Seungwan knew that this was the end. She had resigned herself to a life without Joohyun.

 This is what dying must feel like.

 She gathered her courage and flashed Joohyun a smile, though it was a little strained. "Meet me at our place if you ever change your mind." She gathered the princess into her arms and inhaled her scent for one last time. "I will wait for you there."

 Even if you never come

 Joohyun trembled against her and the servant girl tried her best to comfort her. The princess held on to Seungwan tightly, desperately, as if her life depended on it, then softly whispered into her ear. 

 "My heart will always belong to you."

 And when they pulled away, Joohyun bid her a final farewell before heading to the chariot and Seungwan could only watch as the love of her life walked away.

 Maybe in another world, their lives wouldn't be so different.

 Maybe in another world, Seungwan would be the one that makes Joohyun happy.

 Maybe in another world, they'll both be free

 But not in this world.

 In this world, Joohyun was a princess and Seungwan was a servant.

 In this world, she was betrothed to another

 In this world, they could never be together.

 It's time her heart finally accepted that.

 ...

 Seungwan grunted in exhaustion as soon as she saw the clearing. After the chariot drove off, she quickly gathered her things and ran to the forest. The pond's clear waters was inviting but no amount of comfort could alleviate the ache in her chest.

 Then the sound of the cathedral bells echoed through the whole kingdom and dozens of white doves soared to the sky. Seungwan released the shaky breath she had been holding.

 It was over. The wedding was over.

 Joohyun will never come.

 She was all alone now.

 For now, Seungwan has decided that she will run away, away from the prison that once felt like a home, to chase her dreams and find the place where she could be free. She gazed at the clouds above and the image of Joohyun flashed into her mind and made her smile. Her friend did love the sky.

 "Someday, I'll learn how to live without you."

 Seungwan uttered her final prayers before she stood up to leave. Just as she slung her pack over her shoulders, there was a distinct sound of hooves pounding against the ground and the shrill whine of an animal. She turned around, only to be rendered speechless at the sight of Joohyun riding on horseback, all happy and free, forgetting the burden of the crown that she used to carry, laughing in delight as she called out her name. "Seungwan!" 

 Seungwan couldn't believe her eyes and stood rooted in place. She didn't dare move and wouldn't even dare breathe. This is what dreams must feel. After dismounting off the horse, Joohyun approached the stunned girl with a single purpose. Her eyes burned with intensity when she grabbed Seungwan's collar and pulled her in for a kiss.

 It was a kiss that contained worship and reclamation. It was a kiss that shattered the distance between heaven and earth. It was a kiss that brought two different worlds together as one.

 In this kiss, Joohyun wasn't a princess and Seungwan wasn't a servant.

 No more crowns and titles.

 In this kiss, they were equals.

 No more barriers and inhibitions.

 In this kiss, Joohyun was just Joohyun and Seungwan was just Seungwan.

 When Joohyun pulled away, tears cascaded down her cheeks as she gave Seungwan the promise of forever.

 "I'd go anywhere with you."

[elmidol]

Harmony Precarious :: Death is an Art

Three Blind Tooke Part Two Precarious Harmony

Read on AO3

Warnings: some death

Three Blind Tooke

 Part Two: Precarious Harmony

 Chapter Forty-Two: Harmony Precarious :: Death is an Art

 No matter what anyone else said, you viewed life, and death, through a scope. That was not to say it was your ideal method of connecting with others. War demanded that people adapted, however, and so you had. How many possible outcomes were there if Rey were to return to the Resistance? There were three ways you could tick off the top of your head that resulted in her demise. Two possibilities that you hoped for. Many more that passed through your head even as you whispered to her once you were absolutely certain that no one else would hear your words. It was through a scope you had witnessed Kylo Ren on the battlefield, and it had been through a scope, while on a mission, that you had seen it—he had her becoming just like the monster he had been. You did not explain it to her quite so bluntly. Instead, you kept the focus on her ensuring Finn and the others were safe. You stressed that Master Skywalker would be able to provide training that Kylo Ren would not. The jaded Jedi Master would aid Rey on her journey in learning of both herself and the Force.

 Rey barely listened to you. Her eyes glazed over, her mouth pinching tight, and she stared sightlessly at the far wall of the room. She was struggling with the darkness. You saw it; it was the same power that tempted you. The power that granted strength, which you required in order to save those you loved. That was the ironic thing. Sometimes, to save what we love, we destroy ourselves. To bluntly tell her that she wouldn’t be able to save you would have put an end to the conversation.

 You knew who you were more than she knew who she was. Strange. Ironic. You had been destroyed in a variety of ways, however you had had the privilege of being raised by two strong parents that had assisted you in your very first journey of self-discovery. She hadn’t. Rey had waited in limbo for all those years. Waited for her family to return when they would not. She had survived. It was not the same as living. You? You had lived. Now you were focused on surviving, on aiding others in surviving. But you had had your chance. Rey hadn’t.

 That was who you were, a part of who you were. You were someone who wanted those you cared for to succeed, and you cared deeply for this young woman who had for so long now been your hope. You wanted to pay Rey back for the burden you had placed on her. To put someone on a pedestal was a sure means of pushing them over the edge, of watching them crack. People were not objects. They were flawed. All of her insecurities, cracks for her mind. To fail you was to increase the crack that symbolized her self-doubt.

 You also learned that you were a liar. With the best of intentions, you touched her leg and whispered, “This is the only way you can protect my mother. Hux will find her here.” It was a lie because your mother going to the Resistance would increase her risk of being discovered by Grand Marshal Hux. You waited there with bated breath, wondering if the young woman would realize this as well.

 “Master Skywalker will be able to protect her. I can try to ask him—”

 “And if Kylo somehow hears you through the bond?” you asked, a tad bit harsh though also growing gentle near the end. You sucked your lips into your mouth, bit down on them, and shook your head. “You would lead the entire First Order to them. And if my mother’s there when they arrive, she will die.”

 The close proximity of the fallen Supreme Leader Snoke’s ashes to your heart may have darkened your soul. It was far too easy to say a lie when you believed it was for a righteous cause. A part of you knew the wrongness of it. It made your stomach ache. You felt nauseated for an entirely new reason that had nothing to do with the medication that had been helping your body mend.

 There were reasons that she hesitated that had nothing to do with the dark power offered to her if she remained active in Kylo Ren’s plans. Those two members of the Knights of Ren that had continued to grow close to her. To propose to them that they defect offered an opportunity that the plan would amount to nothing. For her to not offer had the reverse possibility; if they would have gone with her and she failed to ask, she was damning them to forever remain her enemy.

 “Rey,” you said quietly, pulling one last trick from your bag. “After I kill Phasma… Grand Marshal Hux will know. He will look for any way to retaliate at that point if I do not join him by betrayed Kylo. Please help my mother.”

 Cruel. Manipulative. You swallowed thickly, and hoped that she did not see how your body was reacting. Rey rose from the end of the bed, informed you that she would think things over, and walked out of the room. You did not mind that there was a delay in the answer. You hoped that it meant she would figure out a way to safely remove your mother from Naboo, that perhaps she would know how to address the Knights and have them join her.

 Staring at her retreating form, you wondered how the former scavenger would fare if Grand Marshal Hux had given her the ultimatum. Kill Kylo Ren or lose everyone she loved. Because, just like it had been with you, there was no winning. You would both lose in the end. The people you loved were either in the Resistance or simply rejected the First Order and its ideology. The former general knew this. He would attack where it hurt. Always. As each person changed, they developed a new weakness. Grand Marshal Hux would find and exploit that weakness. Rey had shown that she was compassionate by remaining behind with you.

 You did not for one second doubt that Hux would not use that to his advantage. He was the destroyer of worlds. He, along with Kylo, had forced your ally to break in an interrogation by hurting you in front of them. Rey had the Force while the Grand Marshal did not. That would not stop him. According to the stories from other Resistance members and your parents alike, the Jedi had not been hunted only by Force users—not only Darth Vader. The Force got one only so far. The mass arsenal at his disposal and the merciless nature that would allow him to kill innocents, that was how Armitage Hux would break Rey’s spirit. Unless she returned to Master Luke before the redhead could verbally deliver that ultimatum. That lie that was worse than yours. That he would spare someone if she worked for him. She would be torn in two by that decision.

 How am I different by using my mother to make her leave?

 You wrapped your arms around yourself, and looked at the clock. It would not be long until dawn, at which point the ship for you would arrive. Aside from having the young Supreme Leader act as bait, there were other factors in your plan that would lure Captain Phasma to where you wanted her. Armitage Hux, whether intentional or not, had dropped far too many hints for you to not have realized that he was responsible for the death of Brendol; more than that, that Phasma had played a part. She would not allow this information to sway the minds of those loyal to her. Thus you had had Kylo Ren plant the seed by mentioning the elder Hux in passing, and he would have followed that up with the death of Han Solo. Patricide, both of which solidified one’s place in the war. Armitage as Grand Marshal. Phasma as Captain. Kylo Ren as Supreme Leader. The chrome-armored female would collaborate with the redhead. To what extent, you were not certain. The only thing you knew was that she would see to matters with Kylo personally. She could not trust another to attempt his murder. Could not chance him walking away alive.

 There was no more time for you to attempt to convince Rey to leave and rejoin the Resistance. You had offered the suggestion. The rest was up to her.

 A smaller scope provided you with view of your husband. A slightly larger was necessary to track Captain Phasma’s movements. She had surprised you by arriving with what could amount to a tiny army—army may not have been the correct term given its size, however it would do. These ‘troopers had to know what Phasma’s end goal was. In certain respects, you had expected as much; that there existed officers and stormtroopers alike not content to serve under Kylo’s rule. Snoke had not exactly passed the torch willingly. If the female was spinning a tale that Kylo Ren had betrayed the First Order by killing Snoke—which, yes, he technically may have, to an extent—there were those loyal enough to her that they would risk their lives now to try to right that wrong.

 This very much complicated your mission. It was a reason you had only rarely gone on solo missions when with the Resistance. You were assigned a target, and your comrades had worked to remove other obstacles. Somehow you would need to eliminate Phasma as well as these troopers before they could do whatever it was they planned to with Ren. Kill him obviously, your mind shot back. The unknown method was the issue. Numbers alone would not ensure a victory.

 Maker, for all you knew, they could be sporting thermal detonators. Given that Phasma would have no death wish, you doubted it. She would sacrifice all of those stormtroopers in the blink of an eye, however she valued her own life. Maybe that was the plan instead. Use the stormtroopers as fodder—if they had smaller explosives on their person, the chrome-armored woman would be able to shoot them, detonating an explosion, and rid herself of Kylo and witnesses alike. Or else she would kill the stormtroopers later. It occured to you suddenly that she may not have revealed every ounce of information she was holding to those in white. There was no need to do that.

 It made you absolutely sick to your stomach. The First Order treated people like fodder. The casualties of war had always refused to sit well with you. That was one of the reasons you preferred the scope. The limited view.

 You estimated the length of time it would take them to reach the designated area where Kylo was waiting. Captain Phasma would have to make something of a production for the stormtroopers to work with her, even if she planned on killing them. You could not risk a transmission to the Supreme Leader being intercepted, and so you had to wing it while hoping that he could sense the presence of the stormtroopers. This was more akin to when you had been hunting Kylo Ren than when you had been given officers as marks. You could not chance a shot not hitting its target.

 Once more switching to the other scope, you observed the man you had married making adjustments to a device in his hand. If memory served, this was a recording device that he would use to prove Phasma’s duplicitous nature. Depending on what was caught, the footage would have to be edited. These stormtroopers might make it difficult. Unless Ren could sway them.

 If Hux had come with Captain Phasma, would I be hesitating at all? Or would I hope for a thermal detonator? Shoot it myself? All three members of the triumvirate gone in one attack.

 If Kylo Ren had complicated you, Rey had added a new layer of complexity. She had ingrained in you a sense of hope that people could be changed. Even with all of your feelings for Kylo Ren, for the Ben Solo he had been and could have been, you had been prepared to kill him. The moment Rey had entered into the equation, it stopped being so simple.

 You wished that you could return on a temporary basis to the Resistance to ask General Organa for advice. Perhaps Luke Skywalker as well. They had faced the Emperor and Darth Vader in the Empire, and now faced the entire First Order. Imperialists had turned. Some in the Resistance had told you the story of Han Solo, how at one point, prior to becoming a smuggler, he had been on the track to becoming an officer. People changed every day. Some atoned for their sins, or at least tried to.

 Kylo Ren would never be able to undo the deeds he had done. He could not take back off the murders, the ordered executions, any of it. Rey’s influence on you had you imagining a Kylo who did good instead. Someone who helped others with what life he had left.

 Behind the scope in your hands, you were crying.

 You thought of the families of the officers that you had killed. Colonel Riggards. Widowed with two children. Orphans now, tooke. Those children would grow to despise the Resistance with a bias that you could understand. You had robbed them of their father. The deeds they went on to commit, if they chose to join the First Order and kill members of the Resistance, you were their reason. It did not make you fully regret your mission; you knew the reason Colonel Riggards had been made a target. His needs had helped to create you. That was the endless, vicious cycle. An eye for an eye until the whole galaxy was blind.

 And there Rey was, a young woman with the ability to have mercy and compassion for her enemy.

 But in the end, we all just become monsters.

 You shoved aside the scope to eliminate the view of the man who was the catalyst for your transformation. Lifted the other to once more assess the speed of Phasma and her stormtroopers. That was the moment you noticed an inconsistency. The contact that you had had with Captain Phasma was limited. Yet the figure you observed in the armor there moved differently than the woman you had seen in the throne room of the Supremacy. You ran a calculation through your head to include the distance and how tall you knew Phasma to be. This person was not her.

 Panic seized you. A cold sweat broke out across your entire body, and you could hear the chattering of your teeth. This was far too similar to that fateful day that you had become Kylo Ren’s prisoner. The hunted becoming the hunter. How had you not seen it sooner? You had been far too wrapped up in your own thoughts.

 You whipped the scope, your view, back in the direction of the shuttle that they had arrived in. Nothing. Back and forth across the plane in futile attempts to locate the missing woman. Not that you had any idea as to her appearance. If you spotted a random female, you could not say with certainty that it was her. Would you hesitate to pull the trigger?

 Relinquishing hold of your scope, you patted the ground beside you in search of the comm device. That was the moment you felt searing pain. All air knocked out of your lungs, your body convulsing. You rolled onto your back.

 There. How had you not heard her? She was in her element; a miscalculation on your part. She could have slaughtered you if that had been her intention. Which meant that you were in for far worse. Another flashback to Kylo Ren taking you alive. Death would be an escape. You began to slip your tongue forward between your teeth.

 Her lips curved upwards. The short, blonde hair slicked back with gel in a similar manner to how the Grand Marshal wore his. There was the possibility that it was his hair product that she used. Both so merciless. She wore First Order regulation slacks coupled with a tank top. So calm. The weapon with which she had pierced you remained in her hand. A thin, needle-like spear. The wound was not deep enough to kill you; she had avoided anything major. You were a pawn to her.

 “You do your homework well,” she said, complimenting you in a way that also mocked everything you had worked for. It was apparent to both of you that you had not done your homework well enough. The hand not on the spear dropped down to a sack secured to her hip. She patted it. “So do we all.” It was large, and something within it moved. “Myrkr.” The smirk widened into a feral grin as realization dawned upon you.

 He had always called you a weapon, a tool. Armitage Hux sprinkling what information was convenient for his plans. You had misstepped in the past. Always doomed to repeat your failures, you had stored away knowledge of the ysalamir and refused to mention it to Kylo. How many did they have? So do we all. Every one of those stormtroopers and the fake-Phasma were equipped with the creature. Multiple, when grouped together, could expand their Force-neutral bubble sometimes by kilometers. Ren did not stand a chance.

 “Do they think they’re hunting Rey?” you shot through clenched teeth. Your hand felt along your back, at the wetness gathering in the material of your shirt. If you made an attempt to grab your weapon, Phasma would have you pinned by the shoulder. What you wanted to say was that she was not going to get away with this, but she very well could. The Resistance would not be intimidated—it was so ingrained in you to say that. You held your tongue, and waited for her to answer.

 Her smirk faded away. Now the passive exterior revealed just how commonplace betrayal and death both were to her. She lowered herself onto one knee in unison with setting the tip of her spear against your shoulder in the exact spot you had believed she might. It bit through the material of your shirt and nicked the first layer of skin. Phasma’s free hand grabbed hold of your weapon. All the while, she did not break eye contact with you.

 “You can save those stormtroopers. Kill him yourself. Think of the lives you will save.”

 A challenge. It did not matter one way or the other to her. She simply wanted to see if you were able to set aside your humanity to kill your husband—all to save your enemies. They should have both been considered your enemy.

 “It was your mission, wasn’t it?” A taunt, yet also genuine. Her eyes swept up and down your countenance. “Everything he did to you.”

 So many things. Countless wrongs. Every fracture into who you had been morphing you into this person. All of that bringing you to this exact moment.

 That she wanted you to pull the trigger, you understood this. The Knights of Ren would retaliate if they could say with certainty that she had been the one to kill him. The seed of doubt. The same game that you had played on her. She could blame Rey. Anyone who was not her. If Rey did choose to listen to you, if the female Force user left now to go to the Resistance, it did not matter what you did. The Knights of Ren would believe that you had killed their Supreme Leader.

 Grand Marshal Hux had played you, had played Kylo Ren, had possibly played Rey. The three of you blindly trying to do what you each believed was right. All the while he kept Captain Phasma in the loop. When you had failed to express more interest in the ysalamir plot, he had chosen to go a different route.

 They needed you alive for their plan to work; currently they were not in possession of a planet destroyer that could take care of the Knights of Ren on Naboo. Although, that was also the issue. Not all of the Knights were there.

 You pulled in the muscles of your abdomen, which became more concave. “Very well.” The hard metal of the spear shaft whipped to the side, knocking against your head. You saw pops of red and black. Another smack.

 It was through a scope that you would have watched the look on Kylo Ren’s face when the stormtroopers turned on him. Unless it had been Captain Phasma to cut through her own men and women after the fact with that red blade. Their bodies littered on the ground. The chrome armor damaged, albeit not beyond recognition. The Knights of Ren would believe her dead. Any argument or contradiction that spilled from your lips would be meaningless. The same plasma blade that had dealt death blows to the armored corpses had been used to cauterize the wound on your back.

 The pouches containing the ysalamir were missing. That would have been damning evidence. A weak chuckle from the body beside yours, and you turned away from the dead. “Personal interests… You were the death of me, tooke.” There were pauses between several of the words. And you could not figure out what he was feeling. Even a warrior as mighty as Kylo Ren was no match for a shot he could not detect. You recognized the size and shape of the wound as belonging to the weapon that you had brought with you to kill Captain Phasma. She had dragged you here while you were unconscious. Your hands so red from all the blood.

 There had been no need for her to kill you. Your head throbbed where you knew an egg had formed. You forced yourself to fight through the nausea, and touched the man’s chest. Despite the presence of the ysalamir, you could tell that he had been able to use the Force enough to lessen the blow; just like what he had done with the bowcaster shot. Only this time it had not been strong enough.

 You rested your forehead over his heart, turned your head, and listened to his heartbeat. For so long it had been just the two of you. You knew what you should have been hearing. It wasn’t this. This? It was too weak.

 You should have been happy. He had been your target for so long. What. Then. Tooka? You felt numb. Alternately, you experienced a sense of loss, of sadness. You were who you were because of him. Even before your imprisonment, his existence had assisted in shaping you. That was fading away. Which was hard to believe—he was too strong to die of this, wasn’t he? Had it always been this easy?

 It had not been easy. You had lost yourself along the way.

 Shifting onto your knees, you tugged him backwards, his head resting on your lower stomach so that your hands could lay splayed over his chest, one atop the other to where you could see the pair of tattoos. Is this what he had felt when you had died? Your lips were moving in a silent plea. Please. Over and over again. Although you were not certain what you were asking for. For him to die? For him to live? For someone to explain to you how you had gotten it all wrong?

 The two who had conspired to put Kylo Ren into this position, they would be leading the First Order. Merciless. Willing to sacrifice so many people, so many worlds for their cause. They would destroy a planet to kill Luke Skywalker. They would use the ysalamir to void his powers, just as they had done with Kylo Ren. They would hunt down Rey the exact same way.

 “Please,” you said, managing to vocalize the word. “Don’t leave me alone.”

 Kylo weakly lifted one hand away from the wound in his stomach. A gut shot. A slow death. Maybe he would have found a means of finding a way off of this planet if Phasma had not taken the comm devices. If she hadn’t cut through his face, blinding him. That was the strange thing. He could not see you, though he had seen you. He felt you in the Force, with the Force. He was the only person who truly knew who you were. All of those times inside of your head; the one person in all of the galaxy who had truly known the person you had become. He had known the girl you used to be, and the woman you now were.

 You did not want to die. You did not want to be alone either. The hand he had raised touched the backs of yours. “Blinded by sentiment.”

 “Shut up,” you whispered. He was smirking, amused at the irony. You attributed that to the bloodloss. He should have been angry. His breaths were more shallow.

 “You won, tooke.”

 “Shut up.” This was a victory and a loss. This was the shattering of that precarious harmony you had started to rebuild your life around. Where did he end, and where did you begin? Your vision swam. Gloved fingers touched the two digits that held the tattoos. It had never mattered if he lived or died; he would always be a part of you. You wanted him to live. Then, thinking of everything he had done, you thought it might not be bad if he died.

 He might not die, you thought, feeling his breathing become softer again, understanding that he had lost consciousness even as you heard the ship. Two ships. To ensure that her plan worked, Captain Phasma would have had to contact Grand Marshal Hux, who would contact the Knights. They would arrive before you could leave. If he holds on…

 If he held on, the war would not be over. If he died, the war would not be over. You had wanted to make a difference in this galaxy. That was why you had joined the Resistance.

 What. Then. What happens after Ren is dead?

 You had never allowed yourself to form an answer. There had been countless ways that Kylo Ren could die. All of those scenarios… Did you return home? Did you find yourself?

 Undoubtedly, Kylo Ren had been a monster in many respects. That only meant that Grand Marshal Hux and Captain Phasma were soulless beasts by comparison. You hunted monsters.

 Leaning forward, you stared through blurry eyes at the hand atop yours. A droplet of water hit the leather. Tears. Only five. The numbness returned in a fresh wave. He remained breathing. The ship had touched the ground, shouts meeting your ears. You could not decipher what was being said. They spoke Basic, yet you understood absolutely nothing. Could hear them drawing their weapons. That did not register immediately though. Your heart hiccuped in your chest then pounded with such ferocity. His, on the other hand, had stopped.

 You were grabbed away from his body by just one of the Knights. The bruising grip threatened to jerk you back to the present. Instead you stood there, the numbness stronger.

 Something about Rey… She was not there, which meant she had heeded your advice. Should have known...her mother...gone… They thought you had killed Kylo Ren��hadn’t you, though?

 Was there a part of you that had willingly overlooked all of those variables? They seemed so obvious now. Had there been a part of you that hated Kylo Ren that much, that wanted him dead so badly?

 There was a weapon at your throat. A different Knight shoved its owner away, locked you in cuffs, and roughly steered you towards the second ship. You understood the necessity in these actions. There were medics present, grabbing hold of Kylo Ren’s body and bringing him to the other vessel. The Knights followed, no doubt to berate the medics for any misstep. Blood still poured from the wound.

 He’s already dead. It’s too late.

 You knew this by the utter emptiness you felt. The Force was in all living beings. It connected everything. You ached at the loss of that connection.

 The ramp to the ship you were on started to raise as the Knight hit a button then pressed you into a seat. He strapped you in restraints. They would torture you, interrogate you to learn how you had fulfilled the task of killing Kylo Ren. Would press to know if Rey had been involved—her absence from Naboo meant that she could have been there on this planet with you when things had happened. She had already assisted in killing Snoke, why not the next Supreme Leader?

 “Why did you do it?” the Knight asked. You did not turn to him, although you recognized his voice. He had bonded with Rey the most out of them all. “She told me to bring you to her after the mission ended...to be with your mother.” He had been willing to betray the Knights of Ren, but not kill them. “He kept your mother alive. Why didn’t you spare him?”

 It was such a human thing to ask. It was what you knew Rey would ask you as hurt flashed across her face.

 You should have seen Phasma through your scope. Instead you had seen a ruse without realizing it.

 You won, tooke.

 You remembered what it felt like when your father had relinquished his hold on your hand, had returned you to the world of the living. This was sort of like that. The feel of Kylo’s heart stopping as you held him in your arms.

 “The Resistance will just love you, won’t they?” The bitterness in his voice was also so human. The sense of betrayal. Rey had left the Resistance temporarily, but that did not mean she would allow them to be killed. You could see just how this man was able to grow attached to her, enough that he would walk away from the First Order. He had, like Rey, hoped that Kylo Ren could change.

 You did not understand why, if he hated you so much, he wouldn’t simply return you to the First Order like his fellow Knights were assuming he would. You did not understand why the Knights were taking the body to the First Order; it did not matter how much the medics worked on him. His heart had stopped beating. Grand Marshal Hux desired that it never restart.

 The ring fingers on either of your hands twitched.

 You did not want to die.

 It felt like, along with him, you had.

[doroyamz]

Love in Accra

The road looked like it was sweating.

Rain. Heavy rain. The rush hour traffic on the 37 Military Hospital Road had come to a standstill. The downpour, from nowhere, was a welcome distraction for Tony. Last night’s encounter with his wife, Alicia, still all too fresh in his mind.

Cars were barely moving along on in the ever-rising storm.

He felt a movement on his right thigh but was too preoccupied with his thoughts to give it any attention. Esi by this time was growing restless, tired of Tony’s now constant rebuffing of her advances. Last night, and for many nights in the past month, he was totally limp when she unzipped him, a far cry from the throbbing pistol that had thrilled her to no end when they first began their countless rendezvous.

In those early days, they were lust personified. Crazed and addicted to each other beyond reason. Their constant need to feel each other’s skin had a near cataclysmic pull on them and their respective worlds. Alicia got pregnant in those early days, an event Tony privately regarded as a spillover from being with his now long-standing mistress. Esi’s marriage was virtually in the gutter. She often showed up at home disheveled and night after night, retired to her marriage bed wearing a satisfying post-coital daze on her face. Her husband, would just watch her. Mute and completely emasculated.

But now her once insatiable incubus was limp to her touch. She could not understand it.

xxx

Alicia had found the video on his phone.

Tony’s entire world came to a screeching halt. His throat was so dry, he wasn’t sure if he had one anymore. He stood paralyzed; the phone screen thrust in his face. Cocked his head at an angle as if in disbelief at the two actors in the tiny screen.

The man in the screen was bald, tall and dark and looked very much like him. He stood at about 6”3 with an NBA player’s build and had the beard to match. The male actor was indubitably approaching climax and his voluptuous female understudy, on cue, fiercely gripped onto dear life – which in that moment, was her male lead.

The ochre-skinned woman in the screen was of the finest fettle. Folasade was a full-blooded Nigerian but her unapologetic curves screamed South Africa. She looked like a Marvel comic heroine brought to life.

Fola and Tony met at a seminar for West African business executives at the Kempinski Hotel, a few months after his wedding. Fola was leading a breakout panel session which Tony sat in on, intoxicated by her form and presence. The two had exchanged steamy glances all day long, making no attempt to restrain their mutual intentions for each other when the conference ended.

Tony could never get enough of Fola and in Tony, Fola had found a man who could satisfy her every whim. They could go for months on end without so much as a text message to each other. But whenever contact was made, their respective schedules were cleared until further notice. They were fully aware that their combined desire was a vast black hole with the potential to consume them, so they took conscious steps to maintain some modicum of balance in their meeting arrangements.

The night the fated video was shot, Fola was headed for a month-long business trip in Morocco. They had arranged to meet at her private office on Volta Street in the Airport Residential Area.

Fola’s suggestion to record themselves as a temporary parting memento was inexplicable to Tony. Her claim that it would be something that would hold her while she was away, seemed puzzling to him. Her feigned desperation, even more perplexing.

Tony was completely against the idea of recording their liaison. Remonstrating over and over again about how technology and affairs of love should never cross. Fola ogled him for a while, offered tiny chuckles as he groped her every now and then during his rant.

Tony became so engrossed in his personal deliberations that he missed her slip into the bathroom. When he finally took a moment to break from his monologue, he was out of breath and had worked up a sweat. The man felt he just needed to wash away all traces of that unholy proposal.

Once on the other side of the bathroom door, Tony became Pavlov’s Dog.

That was over a year ago and Fola still hadn’t returned from her trip.

His mind slowly drifted back to the screen. The soft moans and cries. The sound of skin on skin rhythmically playing from the Samsung phone speakers.

He didn’t feel shame. He didn’t feel regret. He heard Alicia’s cries, felt her pain slide across his skin. He just stood there. Numb.

xxx

“We have asked around about Tony…Alicia…for your sake, for your parents’ sake, for all our sakes…please…do not marry this man.”

One of the many admonitions Alicia fielded from her aunts and cousins after announcing Tony’s marriage proposal at her younger sister’s festive birthday party.

In the ensuing weeks after her announcement, the family matriarchs conducted an extensive background check to gather as much intel as they could on her suitor. From what Alicia’s mum told her the matriarchs searched far and wide, even unearthing some very unsavory stories about Tony’s maternal grandfather in Mampong, a township in the Ashanti region.

The women came back with a most damning report on Alicia’s debonair Asante. Alicia, however, was defiant and unmoved by their findings.

She stood up to address the mini-assembly.

“Each woman here knows how highly I value them. You have all shaped me, guided me and helped me become the woman I am today,” she said in a restrained voice.

“But with all respect, none of you know Tony like I do. You don’t know what I see in him, his potential. The depths of emotion I have felt in the time I’ve gotten to know him. None of you can know that. He’s not perfect, Lord I know he’s far from it, but I know he’s the one for me. Nothing you say or do can make me feel differently.”

She loved Tony deeply. She had never believed she was capable of loving a man, let alone marrying one, after all the damage she had seen men wreak in and around her life. And Tony had flaws, many serious ones, but he had a certain light to him and he had showed her honesty and a vulnerability she had never known men to possess.

Deep down, she believed she could change him, iron out his weaknesses and over time drive out his especially troubling womanizing habit. She knew he liked women and on countless occasions, with her own eyes, she noticed the magnetizing effect he had on them. Alicia also believed some of his troubles with women lay in the fact that he was a true empath. That he, unfortunately, had never learned to draw boundaries to his empathy which inadvertently led to his many ‘situationships.’ 

“I won’t lie Alicia. I know I have a woman problem. It’s like an addiction. The intimacy, the need to connect, the sex.” They were having lunch at the Hinlone Chinese Restaurant in Labone. The night before, as they lay in bed, Tony had told he loved her for the first time. Alicia simply smiled at his declaration, electing to play it cool although inwardly, she was beside herself with joy.

Flashes from the video.

The woman’s legs splayed. Tony’s thrusts. The glistening sheen of sweat.

“But I swear to you, most of my things with these women often start out because I pity them or I want to help them in some way…along the line, things just get muddled up and…I lose my way...”

The woman crying out in throes of pleasure.

Her mind was a broken dam. Thoughts, memories and conversations flooded her head and receded at their own leisure.

She wondered why these memories and conversations were coming up at this time. The video was still a freshly opened gash, one she had already accepted was going to be a large and permanent scar. But for the other flashbacks, she questioned their relevance to her current predicament.

He was always a monster. Why was I pretending all this time that he wasn’t? Who was I kidding?

The video was the bomb but Tony’s desensitized demeanor and harrowing forced confessions were the firestorm. She knew there was so much more he would have confessed to if she had had any more emotional stamina during her five-hour interrogation of the stranger she called her husband. She had been beyond foolish.

Time had lost its meaning. She had spent three days huddled in the corner of their bedroom tormented by her broken heart and mind.

Alicia just wanted to disappear.

xxx

One week and seventy-seven unanswered calls had passed since the explosive encounter. Tony wasn’t sure if Alicia was alive.

He was parked outside the Total House Clinic in Adabraka on a Saturday morning. Completely engrossed in his thoughts and yearning for divine intervention to offer him some guidance. Since his exposé, his mind had been in a fog that thickened with each passing day. The only silver lining were the test results from his urologist. Tony’s recent erectile issues were deemed a stress response and his dysfunction persisted due to a lack of proper rest. He needed to relax.

His wife was even more inaccessible now than she’d been during the miscarriage. For Tony, the miscarriage was a living hell made more intolerable by how suicidal Alicia had been. He was disappointed to have lost the baby especially after how hard they’d tried over the years but a small and, perhaps, darker part of him felt relieved. He didn’t think it was right to have conceived a child with his wife barely an hour after stealing sordid moments with another woman. A woman he met through his wife. In his mind, it was perhaps the universe’s way of warning him that he had gone too far this time. He would never have been able to look at that child without seeing Esi in his mind’s eye.

This time though, he had overstepped the good faith that the universe seemed to constantly extend to him. He knew his credit line with the powers-that-be was now in the red and would stay there indefinitely. His latest debt, while not his most damning by a long shot, was irredeemable. He had nowhere to hide. There were no more lies he could spin around Alicia.

But he needed her. He couldn’t lose his North Star. She was the only thing that prevented his chaotic nature from engulfing him or so he thought. Surely, after all these years she knew what she was signing on for. Why was she so surprised? That video was nothing compared to the numerous other unspeakables he’d committed over the course of their marriage. Of all the things to do him in, it had to be a twenty-minute porno. What a sick joke.

In a bloodrush, he let out a hollow scream. His mind was drowning in haphazard thoughts.

“What have I done? God what have I done?” he blurted out repeatedly at his steering wheel, as he fought to hold back tears.

“Why? Why now? Why did it happen like this?” he plaintively questioned.

No answer.

Deflated and resigned, he took out his work phone and called the only person who would always welcome him with open arms and accept him for the depraved and gluttonous animal he was.

xxx

Incense burned as Jill Scott’s ‘He Loves Me’ played softly from the soundbar. The room had been steamed to perfection.

The Executive Suite at the La Beach Hotel was their favourite love nest. Any sexual fantasy - from orgies to swing parties - either party happened to be in the mood for or could imagine, this was the room that staged its enactment.

Tonight it was just the two of them.

The toned, dark-skinned Ga woman on the bed was in her early seventies but inexplicably did not look a day past twenty. Tightly twisted Senegalese crochet braids, flowed magnificently from her scalp to her dainty waist. Her oval-shaped face remained flawless as did her soft, wrinkle-free skin. How she managed to defy time with her looks and poise was a much pondered upon mystery to all who knew her.

Dede was naked underneath a black, sparkling see-through gown. Her shea-butter glistened body glowed through the gown. A wet, willing and wanting goddess. Ready to be ravaged by her young midnight warrior. She rose to sit on her knees, directing her eyes to her nude captor’s crotch. She rendered a wry smile.

The warrior was flat-out flaccid.

“Mm,” she remarked, as she beckoned him to draw closer.

“Looks like our little man needs a little something before he comes out to play eh?” she teased in playful Ga.

He smirked as he approached her, only stopping when his groin and her face were level.

The mind-fog was still present but he closed his eyes as he begun to feel the slow and perfectly measured licking sensations in his nether region. Dede was always masterful with the things she could do with her mouth. Two lifetimes worth of experience to draw from.

Two minutes passed but Tony’s situation did not improve.

She paused to look up at Tony, “Is something the matter? You usually perk up for me with no effort. Have I done something wrong?”

“No…it’s not you love…,” he paused, longer than he’d intended.

“Just been under a lot of stress lately,” he sighed as he pulled away. He turned his back on the regal woman to look around the room for his clothes.

Dede wasn’t buying it. His tone. That pause. Something was definitely up. She had never known her beast to act or sound so tame in all the years she’d known him, not even during his grooming period.

“But you’re even more marvelous when you’re stressed…or have you forgotten Abidjan?” she asked, biting her lip.

He shrugged at her retort.

Tony was troubled by his recurring limpness.

xxx

Esi’s heart froze when she saw the Caller ID on her phone screen.

Alicia.

Why would Alicia be calling her? For what reason? Was it about Tony? Had she found out about them?

The phone was still ringing but Esi just stared at her mobile. A million worst-case scenarios flying around in her mind each time her ringtone looped over.

She decided she would not answer the call.

It’d been over eight months since they last spoke and the distance that had grown between them suited Esi, considering the increased frequency of her liaisons with Tony in those months. After years of clandestine maneuvers, she felt she was finally closing in on Alicia’s husband.

Both women had known each other from childhood. Esi even witnessed Alicia’s declaration of Tony’s marriage proposal.

The announcement was a mild shock for her at first but she remembered feeling something resembling happiness for her longtime friend. Alicia had found a man who could actually hold her attention. He had to be special. She’d seen Alicia turn down the most desirable of bachelors - a few of whom Esi herself subsequently sampled extensively - on countless occasions.

In her quiet moments, she sometimes wondered why her then soon-to-be-engaged friend seemed to routinely attract men of a higher caliber without even trying, while she often had to go above and beyond to pull a semi-decent man. She felt she was equally as - if not more - attractive than Alicia and just as accomplished professionally but somehow, she always seemed to come out second-best to her childhood friend when it mattered. These thoughts irked Esi more than she cared to admit to herself.

Alicia mirthfully introduced her old friend and soon-to-be-husband to each other a few days after her announcement.

Their eyes locked for a brief but intense moment during the exchange of pleasantries.

xxx

Nyarko Abronoma could not look at the man she called her son.

She was disgusted.

Why were the men in her family such cancers?

To the uninitiated, her family’s men were walking gods. Dazzling men who could bend the wills and desires of the staunchest hearts. They were gifted manipulators and they used their power to wreak havoc. Their preferred targets, were often women of high standing and character. They swarmed on these women like bees to honey. Once ensnared, their targets were mentally and emotionally stretched and bent beyond their limits, enduring relentless acts of gross disrespect and shame on account of these bedeviled men. And in no time, the prey merely became a shell of their former selves.

Nyarko, at the age of nine, saw her mother gradually lose her mind. A year later, a young Nyarko watched on as her mother was lowered into an unmarked grave. Both events, her father’s handiwork.

Her mother used to say that the men of Nyarko’s lineage were descendants of the fallen angels from the Book of Genesis. The Nephilim.

Even in her womb, she already knew Tony was one of them. Throughout her pregnancy, Nyarko prayed, fasted, sought the counsel of several spiritual leaders to save her unborn child. She desperately wanted her son to chart a different path than the men before him.

Tony didn’t know how to break the silence between them.

His mother had always been his trump card whenever things between him and Alicia were coming to a head. This time around though he was seeking his mother’s intervention as a Hail Mary. He knew she admired and loved Alicia. She would probably have traded her for him as her child if she had her way.

He told her what had happened, leaving out a few details.

Nyarko knew her son hadn’t told her everything.

She raised her head to observe her son. A beautiful boy with a Machiavellian heart. He was a poisoned chalice like his predecessors.

Tony looked away, uncomfortable with her soul-piercing stare.

“I can’t help you and I won’t,” she said in Twi.

He was stunned.

“I won’t let you drive that poor woman to the grave. If I help you, you are only going to repeat what your grandfather put my mother through and what my brothers did to their wives. Alicia is too much of a good woman for that. Too much. She deserves better. This time you have been exposed for all to see and we both know there are countless more lies and secrets behind those scheming eyes of yours!”

Tony’s throat tightened. He hadn’t anticipated this tirade from the old woman.

“You think I don’t know about you? The things you scurry around town doing like a possessed rat? I weep for Alicia everyday. I always pray to God to give her strength in dealing with you. You have no shame. Even during your wife’s miscarriage you had no decency, no respect for her, not an ounce of self-control. Hiding in and out of Accra with your concubines.”

Nyarko spat at her son’s feet.

“If anything should happen to Alicia, it will be on your head and I pray you pay for it.”

xxx

Three weeks and still no word from Tony.

Alicia’s call coupled with Tony’s prolonged radio silence led Esi to assume the worst.

She was driving back into Accra, via the Accra-Tema Motorway, after wrapping up a meeting in Tema's harbour area. Hawkers streamed along either side of her car, as she neared one of the highway's three toll booths.

Esi's mind was spinning. Everything seemed to be falling apart. Had she been stupid? Why couldn’t she be allowed to have her own slice of heaven? Was it a crime to want to be loved? She didn’t mean Alicia any harm but the connection between her and Tony was unavoidable.

Why was Tony all of a sudden ignoring her? Why weren’t they making love anymore? She knew  he had a harem of ‘playmates’ he could call on but he always came back to her. Was he over her? Had somebody else taken her place?

Too many questions with no answers. She wracked her brain to think of a solution, a way out through all the madness.

Dede. The Madame. The old woman would probably know something. She and Tony were close, a little too close for Esi’s liking. But Esi figured that a woman at that age didn’t have that long to live, no matter how well she kept herself or how many boys she gobbled up, so Esi was fine with their relationship. Besides she was on good terms with Dede, the three had had some raunchy episodes through the years.

Esi called Dede and inquired about Tony.

“I last saw him about a week ago but I haven’t heard from him since then,” Dede stated.

More worry for Esi. He had gone to see Dede but had not even bothered to call her for three weeks? What was going on with him? Was he over her? She knew Dede had some skills but the old witch had enough boy toys to keep her satisfied.

Dede hummed an Erykah Badu tune. Esi forgot she was still on the line.

“Thank you Dede. I’ll give him a buzz again.”

“Dear girl, hold on for a second please.”

Esi was caught off guard by The Madame’s request. Outside of their fervid love-ins, Dede was typically brisk and forthright with her.

“Have you noticed anything…strange about Tony lately?” Dede asked, an almost mischievous lilt in her slivery voice.

“Strange? What do you mean?” a puzzled Esi asked.

“His performance, has it changed in any noticeable way?” The Madame was sipping on something in the background.

“Oh Dede…,” Esi responded bashfully.

“My girl let’s not beat around the bush. Is anything different or not?”

The sudden firmness in The Madame’s voice unsettled Esi.

“W-Well…recently he doesn’t respond to my touch. You know…,” she didn’t know why she was so shy in speaking to Dede about her sexual affairs with Tony. She had seen the woman on all fours.

Static on the phone.

“He can’t get it up,” Esi muttered feebly.

“Mm..I see. Thank you Esi, that’s all I needed to know. Best of luck reaching him.”

The line cut.

Why would Dede ask that? Was she experiencing the same issues she’d been having with Tony?

The suspicion that had been floating in Esi’s mind for the past few weeks was too absurd to now consider an actual possibility. It was impossible for that to happen to Tony, he was too red-blooded, way too potent for that.

It couldn’t be.

No...no..not Tony...

Tony couldn’t be…?

No!

It isn’t possible. Tony couldn’t be impotent. The mere thought alone was utterly absurd.

But how else could she explain his sudden limpness? Plus Dede would never have asked that question if she hadn’t noti---

Esi fatally rear-ended her Nissan Qashqai into a heavy cargo truck.

xxx

Their luxury three-bedroom apartment home on Second Circular Road, Cantonments, was a stone throw away from the U.S. Embassy. It was a $600,000 property that Tony had astoundingly managed to wind down to a sale price just short of a $100,000. Alicia used to call him ‘Puppet Master T,’ for his uncanny ability to always get what he wanted.

Tony lingered outside the apartment door for nearly half an hour. He was jittery.

A flurry of deep and quick deep breaths filled his lungs as he steeled himself and turned the doorknob.

The apartment felt hostile as if it despised his presence.

His sweep around his marriage home confirmed Alicia had packed up, that much was clear. Their bedroom was half empty, with no trace of his wife left in the room. Alicia was gone and she was gone for good.

A small stack of papers was neatly arranged on the bed. Divorce papers and a small sheet with a number to call when he was done signing. That was Alicia, methodical and precise, even in the worst of circumstances.

Tony sat on the bed, staring at the divorce papers.

He wanted to call Alicia but thought better of it. She’d probably blocked him on all platforms. When his wife didn’t want to be found, she did it well.

The die was cast. There were no more moves he could play.

Something vibrated under his left thigh, briefly snapping him out of his self-pity. He shifted his weight to find the smoking gun that had ended everything.

Tony unlocked the phone to find a freeze-frame shot of a busty Fola in a most compromising position. Alicia must have watched the video countless times, trying to make sense of it all. Her soon-to-be ex-husband zoomed out of the video application to the notification center.

Ato, his closest friend and fellow degenerate, had just sent him series of confusing text messages.

The first message read: “Bro...I have been trying to reach you.” Tony checked his call log to indeed find several missed calls from his main man.

Second message: “I don’t know if you’ve heard already.”

Third: “Bro…I’m so so sorry about Esi...I can’t imagine what you’re feeling. I’m so sorry bro. Please call me if you need me. I’m here for you…”

xxx

Marijuana smoke filled the air of the love nest.

Tony’s head lay buried in Dede’s bosom. He was silent, as Dede gently stroked his head and offered hushed words of consolation.

She drew a few more puffs from her joint and moved it down to Tony’s lips but her wounded warrior declined.

They stayed silent for a lengthy period of time as Dede spaced out from the weed.

Memories of a lifetime’s worth of sexual dissipation with her favorite boy streamed across her mind. Despite her wanton admiration for his sexual prowess, she had grown to develop an affection for her former protégé over the years.

The Madame, as Dede was referred to by Accra’s high society, had known Tony since he was fourteen. Even as a sprightly teenage boy - and much to her pleasant surprise - he oozed raw potential with his savage-like lovemaking abilities. By seventeen, the boy could do things she had never known men to be capable of. He had a frightening and near bottomless appetite that bordered on the frenetic, that even her infamous grooming techniques couldn’t temper.

She shed an unseen tear for her paramour’s wasted manhood. To be completely robbed of his virility in his prime was a cruel blow from the gods.

Dede nonchalantly crushed the end of the burnt-out joint into an ashtray on the bedside table.

“It’s a pity but it seems I have no use for you anymore, my dear,” she said sofly.

Tony was still, his eyes shut. It was what he expected from his Madame.

“There’s a young French couple coming by shortly. Quite the adventurous duo. It’s a shame you wouldn’t be joining us,” she sighed airily.

“A shame,” he whispered.

She started running rings around his lips.

“You’re of course welcome to stay and watch if you please my love,” she said somewhat coyly.

Tony slowly reached for her moving hand and kissed it.

He rose from his resting place, stretched to his full height, and promptly made his way to the door without looking back.

“Tony..,” he heard Dede call out before he shut the door.

Two spirited European-looking girls gaily passed him in the lobby hallway.

As he stepped onto the elevator, the vivacious couple turned around to take in the view of the brooding stud exiting the floor.

xxx

Tony hopped over the fence that separated the La Beach Hotel premises from the beach.

It was a little past midnight and the cool and salty breeze of the sea, soothed Tony’s mood. The mind-fog was clearing up. Whether the fog’s retreat was a result of the second-hand smoke from the weed or the effect of the beach, he wasn’t sure but he was grateful.

It was a moonless, starless sky. The ocean’s waves roared gently, calling to him. He had been here before, in another life perhaps.

He took in the scene before him one last time and smiled. All was fair.

Tony took the first steps towards his death.

xxx

[cryptidandwren]

MY FETISHES ARE REAL AND SO CAN YOU

Let’s talk about porn, but really let’s talk about literary realism. Coming up with a practical definition of porn is famously difficult. Supreme Court lore holds that during the period in the Court’s history when a legal line between art and porn was sought, the Supreme Court would have viewing parties to read tea leaves to determine the difference between the two. Supreme Court Justice Brennan, who was going blind at this point in his life and had to have a clerk provide a play by play synopsis of the “films”, blurted out during one of these viewings “That’s it! I know it when I see it.”

After much time and ink the Supreme Court finally agreed that porn is art, but it’s not art that the First Amendment cares about as much. Porn is any art that highlights one emotional response at the expense of all others. Sexuality is of course a very complex topic and there is a lot of room for content under that umbrella, but porn in the conventional sense (big tiddies Anime gurl do sex stuff) does not make room for, let’s say, contemplation on the justifications, or lack thereof, for imperialism and colonization.  Once you’re trying to make porn, you have a goal that might conflict with more nuanced narrative goals. Complex real world problems that leave most people feeling uncomfortable and a little hollow just don’t mesh well with porn. I mean if it works for you it works for you, and no shame. Just count your blessings and go into history, sociology, or some similar field. Papa always used to say you never work a day in your life as long as you do what turns you on. Porn is about meeting indulgent desires whether sexual or not.

Literary realism is a movement that takes the artifices of fiction and analyzes them. Let’s look at MCU “Civil War”. The general rule in the genre is that heroes are heroic, and people see them as heroic even if there is damage. Realism asks the question, but what if people held the heroes personally responsible for losses? For example, the woman who lost her son holds Iron Man personally responsible in “Civil War”. Now aside from the lazy worldbuilding that this employs (because were the face eating alien invasion force not going to eat your kids face?) realism as it has been practiced and illustrated in this scene is fundamentally flawed. Most people do not create contrived and twisted world views to lay blame at the feet of someone else that was doing the right thing. Yes it happens, but the set up has to be more complex than MCU ever gives us. There isn’t a moral grey area to be explored when one of the sides is Space-Hitler-eat-your-face-lately and the other is Iron Man. Reality isn’t a constant parade of one horrible event after the other - and I see you 2020. You don’t have to raise your hand. Ill get to you next.

Realism can far too often fall into a trap where it becomes misery porn. There is a lot of misery in the real world. Genocide, plague, racists, sexists, a forever war, and twitter trolls as far as the eye can see, if that’s where you are looking. There are also acts of incredible kindness. People using social media to keep up with each other and lend an ear in troubling times. The many, many people sewing and making masks for health care works in light of governmental failure. And to be honest, the people that are willing to sacrifice and stay home. Where art focuses on one aspect to the exclusion of any other it has a tendency to become pornographic. That’s not a judgement on the substance. I rather like hope porn. The speeches of real-world President Obama and fictional President Bartlett are some good shit. Like me some hope.

Now let’s look at another show that uses literary realism well: Avatar. Superman and Aang both come from a people who have been entirely wiped out. Superman is by and large unaffected by it, because he is superman. He has incredible strength, including the strength to just not feel bad things. (I am choosing to ignore modern DC Superman, because its bad). Aang doesn’t. When the sand benders take Appa, the last thing that he has to connect him to his people, he’s ready to enter the Avatar state and go full Anakin on their sand people asses. That’s real. That’s a trauma response -right there- if I’ve ever seen one. Aang only calms down when Katara reminds him that even if his old family is dead, he still has a family that loves and cares for him, and that he is safe. That’s real. A deeply problematic trauma response by a male presenting figure being mitigated by the continued and tiring emotional labor of a female presenting figure. Even the “good” to balance the “bad” has nuance and complexity to it, but Katara’s actions don’t just come from gender roles. She genuinely does care for Aang and his wellbeing, and it hurts her to see Aang in the grips of a trauma response. Which launches into a several show arc where Aang completely disassociates, because the last time he felt something he hurt the people he cared about, and he will not allow himself to do that again.  (The Show is soo good. Watch it. Its on Netflix. You have no reason not to. I know you have time.)

Reality in literature has to be real in some way, and reality is complex. If your realism singles out one emotional reaction playing only that note, it’s as real as anything in conventional porn. See “Big tiddy anime gurl do sex 2 electric bougalu the re-cockining”. It can be a safe play space, but it important to contextualize and identify the play space. Literature informs our world views, and we have to respect what our media diet can do to us. Just as in conventional porn, feminist, anti-colonial, and queer theory remain helpful tools to help manage our relationship with the media. It is just as dangerous to thoughtlessly let porn inform your relationship expectations as it is to let multi-million-dollar corporations inform your view of reality, if not more so.  

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Read: Jeannette Ng's Campbell Award acceptance speech, in which she correctly identifies Campbell as a fascist and expresses solidarity with Hong Kong protesters

Last weekend, Jeanette Ng won the John W Campbell Award for Best New Writer at the 2019 Hugo Awards at the Dublin Worldcon; Ng's acceptance speech calls Campbell, one of the field's most influential editors, a "fascist" and expresses solidarity with the Hong Kong pro-democracy protesters.

I am a past recipient of the John W Campbell Award for Best New Writer (2000) as well as a recipient of the John W Campbell Memorial Award (2009). I believe I'm the only person to have won both of the Campbells, which, I think, gives me unique license to comment on Ng's remarks, which have been met with a mixed reception from the field.

I think she was right -- and seemly -- to make her remarks. There's plenty of evidence that Campbell's views were odious and deplorable. For example, Heinlein apologists like to claim (probably correctly) that his terrible, racist, authoritarian, eugenics-inflected yellow  peril novel Sixth Column was effectively a commission from Campbell (Heinlein based the novel on one of Campbell's stories). This seems to have been par for the course for JWC, who liked to micro-manage his writers: Campbell also leaned hard on Tom Godwin to kill the girl in "Cold Equations" in order to turn his story into a parable about the foolishness of women and the role of men in guiding them to accept the cold, hard facts of life.

So when Ng held Campbell "responsible for setting a tone of science fiction that still haunts the genre to this day. Sterile. Male. White. Exalting in the ambitions of imperialists and colonisers, settlers and industrialists," she was factually correct.

Not just factually correct: also correct to be saying this now. Science fiction (like many other institutions) is having a reckoning with its past and its present. We're trying to figure out what to do about the long reach that the terrible ideas of flawed people (mostly men) had on our fields. We're trying to reconcile the legacies of flawed people whose good deeds and good art live alongside their cruel, damaging treatment of women. These men were not aberrations: they were following an example set from the very top and running through fandom, to the great detriment of many of the people who came to fandom for safety and sanctuary and community.

It's not a coincidence that one of the first organized manifestations of white nationalism as a cultural phenomenon was within fandom, and while fandom came together to firmly repudiate its white nationalist wing, these assholes weren't (all) entryists who showed up to stir trouble in someone else's community. The call (to hijack the Hugo award) was coming from inside the house: these guys had been around forever, and we'd let them get away with it, in the name of "tolerance" even as these guys were chasing women, queer people, and racialized people out of the field.

Those same Nazis went on to join Gamergate, then take up on /r/The_Donald, and they were part of the vanguard of the movement that put a boorish, white supremacist grifter into the White House.

The connection between the tales we tell about ourselves and our past and futures have a real, direct outcome on the future we arrive at. White supremacist folklore, including the ecofascist doctrine that says we can only avert climate change by murdering all the brown people, comes straight out of sf folklore, where it's completely standard for every disaster to be swiftly followed by an underclass mob descending on their social betters to eat and/or rape them (never mind the actual way that disasters go down).

When Ng took the mic and told the truth about his legacy, she wasn't downplaying his importance: she was acknowledging it. Campbell's odious ideas matter because he was important, a giant in the field who left an enduring mark on it. No one disagrees about that. What we want to talk about today is what that mark is, and what it means.

Scalzi points out:

There are still people in our community who knew Campbell personally, and many many others one step removed, who idolize and respect the writers Campbell took under his wing. And there are people — and once again I raise my hand — who are in the field because the way Campbell shaped it as a place where they could thrive. Many if not most of these folks know about his flaws, but even so it’s hard to see someone with no allegiance to him, either personally or professionally, point them out both forcefully and unapologetically. They see Campbell and his legacy abstractly, and also as an obstacle to be overcome. That’s deeply uncomfortable.

He's not wrong, and the people who counted Campbell as a friend are legitimately sad to confront the full meaning of his legacy. I feel for them. It's hard to reconcile the mensch who was there for you and treated his dog with kindness and doted on his kids with the guy who alienated and hurt people with his cruel dogma.

Here's the thing: neither one of those facets of Campbell cancel the other one out. Just as it's not true that any amount of good deeds done for some people can repair the harms he visited on others; it's also true that none of those harms cancel out the kindnesses he did for the people he was kind to.

Life is not a ledger. Your sins can't be paid off through good deeds. Your good deeds are not cancelled by your sins. Your sins and your good deeds live alongside one another. They coexist in superposition.

You (and I) can (and should) atone for our misdeeds. We can (and should) apologize for them to the people we've wronged. We should do those things, not because they will erase our misdeeds, but because the only thing worse than being really wrong is not learning to be better.

People are flawed vessels. The circumstances around us -- our social norms and institutions -- can be structured to bring out our worst natures or our best. We can invite Isaac Asimov to our cons to deliver a lecture on "The Power of Posterior Pinching" in which he literally advises men on how to grope the women in attendance, or we can create and enforce a Code of Conduct that would bounce anyone, up to and including the Con Chair and the Guest of Honor, who tried a stunt like that.

We, collectively, through our norms and institutions, create the circumstances that favor sociopathy or generosity. Sweeping bad conduct under the rug isn't just cruel to the people who were victimized by that conduct: it's also a disservice to the flawed vessels who are struggling with their own contradictions and base urges. Create an environment where it's normal to do things that -- in 10 or 20 years -- will result in your expulsion from your community is not a kindness to anyone.

There are shitty dudes out there today whose path to shitty dudehood got started when they watched Isaac Asimov deliver a tutorial on how to grope women without their consent and figured that the chuckling approval of all their peers meant that whatever doubts the might have had were probably misplaced. Those dudes don't get a pass because they learned from a bad example set by their community and its leaders -- but they might have been diverted from their path to shitty dudehood if they'd had better examples. They might not have scarred and hurt countless women on their way from the larval stage of shittiness to full-blown shitlord, and they themselves might have been spared their eventual fate, of being disliked and excluded from a community they joined in search of comradeship and mutual aid. The friends of those shitty dudes might not have to wrestle with their role in enabling the harm those shitty dudes wrought.

Jeannette Ng's speech was exactly the speech our field needs to hear. And the fact that she devoted the bulk of it to solidarity with the Hong Kong protesters is especially significant, because of the growing importance of Chinese audiences and fandom in sf, which exposes writers to potential career retaliation from an important translation market. There is a group of (excellent, devoted) Chinese fans who have been making noises about a Chinese Worldcon for years, and speeches like Ng's have to make you wonder: if that ever comes to pass, will she be able to get a visa to attend?

Back when the misogynist/white supremacist wing of SF started to publicly organize to purge the field of the wrong kind of fan and the wrong kind of writer, they were talking about people like Ng. I think that this is ample evidence that she is in exactly the right place, at the right time, saying the right thing.

https://boingboing.net/2019/08/20/needed-saying.html

[monisse]

Finding Hope in Change

Pairing: Conrad / Nic - featuring the chickens. Summary:  With the premise that people seek relationships similar to their parents, and on the verge of becoming parents themselves, Nic and Conrad discuss how different and changed is their own relationship.

A light spring breeze played with the few strands of hair that fell from her bun, while the wooden swing chair rocked her body gently back and forth. Her eyes traveled intently across the words on the magazine she held, until a movement in the distance caught her attention. Nic watched as Conrad crouched by the coop on the other side of the backyard with all his attention focused on the little fat birds that ran aimlessly around the small space. She saw his lips moving without discerning the words at such distance, though his smile was quite evident.

These days, he was far from the man she met years ago. He was calmer, as if most of the restless energy had morphed into a steadfast baseline and the cacophony of thoughts that had once populated his mind were in order at last.

These days, Conrad talked to chickens. He found it soothing, yet Nic could not grasp why talking to such creatures, which seemed to lack even an ounce of understanding in their blank stares, could bring him peace of mind. Even after all this time, and the fact that she was the one that brought the birds into their lives, Nic was still suspicious of them and preferred to maintain a safe distance. His regard for the chickens was very odd to her, but the infectious, childlike smile on his face was worth their presence. She smiled as well at last, letting him spend some quality time alone with the chickens.

Nic had been so absorbed by the magazine that she only realized Conrad had joined her when the swing balanced dangerously fast under the weight of his sudden presence.

"What are you reading?" he asked while returning the swing back to its slow cadence by steadily pushing against the ground with his feet. Out of habit, his hand landed softly on her round belly.  

“An article that says people usually seek love relationships that are similar to the ones their parents had.” the words came out casually as she threw her legs over his lap.

Conrad stared at her with eyebrows raised high, “You believe that?”

“It does make some sense,” she replied, “the author made a very compelling argument.”

“Really?” he sounded doubtful. “How was your parents’ relationship then?”

She sighed deeply at his question and began close to a whisper. “My mother was a very nurturing person and she cared for my father without expectations. Even before she died, he made plenty mistakes and had no sense of responsibility whatsoever, but she forgave him every time and I didn’t understand why. But then…”

Nic paused for a moment, her eyes suddenly focused on a backyard far different from the one surrounding her, one that only existed in memories now.

“When I was a kid, sometimes I woke up to my mother singing while she worked on the flowers of our small garden.” The memory brought a smile to her lips and a thickness to her voice. “Then, the song would stop and from my bedroom window I would watch my father lean down to kiss her. They would then smile at each other as if there was nothing else in the world except themselves. In those moments, I knew I wanted a love like that.”

“It seems like they loved each other very much.” Conrad added after a while.

“They did and she loved him in spite of his flaws. Since then I've learned that love sometimes means acceptance and forgiveness.” she said as her fingers caressed the back of his neck while he nodded in silent understanding.

“Have you found a love like that?” a small smile was upon his lips.

“Yes, I did.” she smiled brightly in return and leaned in for a lingering kiss.

In retrospect, it had not taken long for Nic to instinctively know he belonged in the big picture of her life. It was surprising how quickly she had agreed to go out with him, especially at a time when all her defenses were built high and she never relied on anyone except herself, but there had been something about that incredibly infuriating, self-assured first year intern that she couldn't resist. The impulsive behavior was only matched by his compassion and brilliance, and that had been enough to capture her heart. Yet, even though he cared about others fiercely, he did not allow to be cared for. Conrad had seldom let her reach through the cracks in his soul and ease the palpable pain from a past he barely spoke about, although it was written all over his nightmares, his recklessness, his heavy silences. And that had been a constant repulsive force tearing them apart, until she finally saw his growth and realized the futility of wasting time fighting against the inevitable.

When their lips parted, Conrad was silent for a while. Nic noticed that his eyes were unfocused, and even though his hand stroked her belly in small circles, his mind was far away, engaged in deep thoughts that she could not reach.

“Well, I definitely do not want a relationship like my parents had.” he finally said.

“How was it?” Nic knew perfectly well that his childhood had been an unpleasant one amidst divorced parents, but she still yearned to know more.

“The man you know now is very different from the father I had growing up. He was a man of judgment, stern words and long absences. In contrast, my mother was a kind, patient woman, and she deserved more than that kind of relationship. I don’t even remember seeing some semblance of love between them, it was always as if the only thing that held my parents together was a marriage vow and a child, until not even that was enough.”

Tears started to form in his eyes and his voice became rougher with emotion. Moments like this, when he allowed himself to be vulnerable, just for her, were precious, and Nic encouraged him to go on.

“When the engagement was over and got shipped off to the Marines, I was certain that love hurt too much to be worth it. I learned that from my parents. From then on the brief relations with no strings attached were enough to fulfill me without the pains of a broken heart.”

“What changed then?” she asked.

Wrinkles formed at the corners of his dark eyes made by a spreading smile. “I met this really brilliant nurse practitioner.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah! And I made a fool of myself so many times that she pushed me away for a very long time. Luckily, I’m a patient man.”

One of her eyebrows shot up. “You mean persistent?”  

“Well…” he said amidst a laugh, “she gave me a tough time, but I deserved. It made me realize that she was worth any pain.”

Nic felt her cheeks burn hot under his gaze, after all these years Conrad was still capable of making her heart seemingly soften with the intensity of his love.

“So, it seems that this article is wrong.” she threw the magazine aside and leaned further into the warmth of his body.

“Maybe, but I know we'll make a good example for this little one and all the others.”

“The others? How many do you want exactly?”

“I'm thinking at least a little league baseball team.” he replied with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“What?” Nic sat up straight as quickly as her enlarged belly allowed and looked at him incredulously.

“I mean...” he started, the innocence in his voice only betrayed by a large grin, “as many as you want!”

“Smart answer, Dr. Hawkins.” Nic leaned into him once again and felt his chest vibrate with laughter.

His hand resumed the caresses on her belly and Nic observed in awe as his eyes closed slowly. Long, blond lashes brushed the skin under his eyes while he enjoyed the peacefulness that settled between them. She felt a languid movement within as the baby drifted in its watery home towards the side where Conrad’s hand rested. A rush of emotion burned through her bloodstream in that brief moment and she felt as if their heartbeats, hers and the little girl she carried inside, slowed down and began beating in unison.

While the three of them balanced slowly on the chair, a little smile pulled at the corners of her lips with the realization that their lives were far different from the ones their parent’s had, and though the path was not always smooth, their love was as much an inevitability as it was hard work to change their unhealthy patterns and accommodate to each other.

[holyxvi]

WHAT’S YOUR MUSE’S ENNEAGRAM TYPE?

TAGGED BY: @nicholas-wolfwood TAGGING: @pretty-little-teacup​, @elisethetraveller, @neko-mun-rp, @fleursouverain, @manenimittliv, and whoever else I accidentally pressed enter before I was done editing this smh.

It is not clear from these test results which Enneagram type and wing you are.

You are most likely a type 1 Taking wings into account, you seem to be a 8w7

Type 1 - The Reformer - Perfectionists, responsible, fixated on improvement Type 8 - The Challenger - Taking charge, because they don't want to be controlled Type 3 - The Achiever - Focused on the presentation of success, to attain validation (bonus)

Full descriptions under the cut; striked are innacurate or don’t apply, and bold is ESPECIALLY accurate

The Reformer.

People of this personality type are essentially looking to make things better, as they think nothing is ever quite good enough. This makes them perfectionists who desire to reform and improve; idealists who strive to make order out of the omnipresent chaos.

Ones have a fine eye for detail. They are always aware of the flaws in themselves, others and the situations in which they find themselves. This triggers their need to improve, which can be beneficial for all concerned, but which can also prove to be burdensome to both the One and those who are on the receiving end of the One's reform efforts.

The One's inability to achieve the perfection they desire feeds their feelings of guilt for having fallen short, and fuels their incipient anger against an imperfect world. Ones, however, tend to feel guilty about their anger. Anger is a "bad" emotion, and Ones strive sincerely and wholeheartedly to be "good."  Anger is therefore vigorously repressed from consciousness, bursting forth in occasional fits of temper, but usually manifesting in one of its many less obvious permutations - impatience, frustration, annoyance and judgmental criticality. For this reason, Ones can be difficult to live with, but, on the high side, they tend to be loyal, responsible and capable partners and friends.

Ones are serious people; they tend to be highly principled, competent and uncompromising. They follow the rules and expect others to do so as well. Because they believe so thoroughly in their convictions, they are often excellent leaders who can inspire those who follow them with their own vision of excellence. Reform movements are frequently spearheaded by Ones.

Ones are often driven and ambitious, and are sometimes workaholics. But whatever their professional involvement, they are definitely active, practical  people who get things done. They are natural born organizers, listmakers who finish everything on the list, the last one to leave the office, the first one to return, industrious, reliable, honest and dutiful.

The relentlessness of their pursuit of the ideal can make Ones tense people who have a hard time relaxing and who unnecessarily deny themselves many of the harmless pleasures of life. They tend to be emotionally repressed and uncomfortable with expressing tender feelings;  they generally see emotionality as a sign of weakness and lack of control. They are seldom spontaneous. They have multiple interests and talents however; they are self-reliant and seldom run out of things to do.

Ones are often intelligent and independent and can easily mistake themselves for Fives, but unlike Fives, Ones are primarily people of action, not thought. Ones tend to worry and are prone to anxiety and can sometimes mistype as Sixes, but they are far less affiliative than Sixes and their standards are not reached by seeking consensus with a group. Finally, the relentless pursuit of perfection can take its toll and lead to depression.  At such times, a One can mistype as a Four.  But Fours have a tendency towards self-indulgence whereas Ones are self-denying. Fours are emotionally expressive; Ones are emotionally constrained.

The Challenger.

People of this personality type are essentially unwilling to be controlled, either by others or by their circumstances; they fully intend to be masters of their fate. Eights are strong willed, decisive, practical, tough minded and energetic. They also tend to be domineering; their unwillingness to be controlled by others frequently manifests in the need to control others instead. When healthy, this tendency is kept under check, but the tendency is always there, nevertheless, and can assume a central role in the Eight's interpersonal relationships.

Eights generally have  powerful instincts and strong physical appetites which they indulge without  feelings of shame or guilt. They want a lot out of life and feel fully prepared to go out and get it. They need to be financially independent and often have a hard time working for anyone. This sometimes necessitates that the Eight opt out of the system entirely, assuming something of an outlaw mentality. Most Eights however, find a way to be financially  independent while making their peace with society, but they always retain an uneasy association with any hierarchical relationship that sees the Eight in any position other than the top position.

Eights have a hard time lowering their defenses in intimate relationships. Intimacy involves emotional vulnerability and such vulnerability is one of the Eight's deepest fears. Betrayal of any sort is absolutely intolerable and can provoke a powerful response on the part of the violated Eight. Intimate relationships are frequently the arena in which an Eight's control issues are most obviously played out and questions of trust assume a pivotal position. Eights often have a sentimental side that they don't even show to their intimates, such is their fear of vulnerability. But, while trust does not come easily to an Eight, when an Eight does take someone into the inner sanctum, they find a steadfast ally and stalwart friend. The Eight's powerful protective instincts are called into play when it comes to the defense of family and friends, and Eights are frequently generous to a fault in providing for those under their care.

Eights are prone to anger. When severely provoked, or when the personality is unbalanced, bouts of anger can turn into rages. Unhealthy Eights are frankly aggressive and when pushed, can resort to violence. Such Eights enjoy intimidating others whom they see as "weak" and feel little compunction about walking over anyone who stands in their way. They can be crude, brutal and dangerous.

( BONUS ) The Achiever.

People of this personality type need to be validated in order to feel worthy; they pursue success and want to be admired. They are frequently hard working, competitive and are highly focused in the pursuit of their goals, whether their goal is to be the most successful salesman in the company or the "sexiest" woman in their social circle. They are often "self-made" and usually find some area in which they can excel and thus find the external approbation which they so desperately need. Threes are socially competent, often extroverted, and sometimes charismatic. They know how to present themselves, are self-confident, practical, and driven. Threes have a lot of energy and often seem to embody a kind of zest for life that others find contagious. They are good networkers who know how to rise through the ranks. But, while Threes do tend to succeed in whatever realm they focus their energies, they are often secretly afraid of being or becoming "losers."

Threes can sometimes find intimacy difficult. Their need to be validated for their image often hides a deep sense of shame about who they really are, a shame they unconsciously fear will be unmasked if another gets too close. Threes are often generous and likable, but are difficult to really know. When unhealthy, their narcissism takes an ugly turn and they can become cold blooded and ruthless in the pursuit of their goals.

Because it is central to the type Three fixation to require external validation, Threes often, consciously and unconsciously, attempt to embody the image of success that is promoted by their culture. Threes get in trouble when they confuse true happiness, which depends on inner states, with the image of happiness which society has promoted. If a Three has a "good" job and an "attractive" mate, she might be willing, through an act of self-deception which is also self-betrayal, to ignore the inner promptings which tell her that neither her job, nor her mate are fulfilling her deeper needs. Even the most "successful" Threes, who generally appear quite happy, often hide a deeply felt sense of meaninglessness. The attainment of the image never quite satisfies.

[briannmayy]

Request (Brian x Reader)

Hey, again guys! First things first, this is not my gif!!! This particular request didn’t give me anything specific to do so I kinda just did my own fantasy thing? It didn’t get as kinky as I wanted it to get, but I’ll probably write some kinky stuff if I get the request to do so. I hope you guys enjoy xx

Summary: You wanted to show impress Bri but teaching yourself guitar. Brian offers to teach you some chords and one thing leads to another 

Warning: Dom!Brian, fingering, face fucking, like lowkey daddy kink stuff. 

Word Count: 1.7k

You had started to take an interest in playing guitar to impress Brian. The two of you had been dating for a handful of weeks now, and you felt the dire need to impress him. You had found an old and busted up guitar at a yard sale a few days ago and decided to fix it up. The body was cracked in a few placed and the head had a few chips taken out of it. Overall, you thought the six string was beautiful despite its flaws so you restrung it yourself.

Brian was coming to visit after work, and so you pulled the restrung guitar out of its case and casually laid it across your lap and waited for Brian to walk in. He was usually dead tired after rehearsals so you were patient, quietly brushing your unskilled fingertips over the cords.

Within a few minutes after you got the guitar from the case, the front door creaked open and Brian walked in, looking as tired as ever. Dark bags hung under his eyes like heavy purple suitcases and his cheekbones looked gaunt as hell. He lit up as soon as he saw the guitar in your lap as if he were coming to life. “I didn’t know you played,” Brian said with intrigue, pulling off his black coat and setting it over the arm of the sofa. He sat down next to you and looked over the beaten down six string, ”will you play me something?” He asked, moving his eyes up to you.

It was like your fingers forgot to work, for you had no idea what to play or even do. “Uh...y-yeah.” You said, looking down to your hand that steadily held the neck of the guitar. You pressed your fingers into the strings and gracefully played a chord. Your confidence grew and you tried switching off to another chord, but your fingers placed on the wrong strings, causing the sound to be off. You flustered and turned away, ”I don’t know much,” you admitted, feeling your cheeks turn hot out of embarrassment.

Brian only laughed and shook his head,” it’s alright, how about I teach you a few things?”

“Please, I-I can’t seem to figure it out,” you said, your cheeks still resembling the color of cherries. and handed him the guitar, which he took obligingly.

“Now you come here,” He said, pulling you between his legs with your guitar. Brian took your hands, placing one on the neck and resting your arm on the body. “I’ll place your fingers for you and you’ll strum, alright?” Brian asked, his voice sounding gentle. His breath on the back of your neck made you shiver as he placed your fingers on the cords. “This is an A.” He made you strum, your pick gliding across the strings. “Now you try,” He said, putting his hands on your hips. You bit your lips and wanted his hands on you instead of this old guitar.

You crossed your legs like you usually do while playing guitar, causing your skirt to hike up. You pressed your fingertips into the same place where Brian had put them and drew your pick over the strings, “Like this?” you asked, glancing back at him.

“Mhm, just like that, love.” He said, his hands still keeping on your hips. You played the chord over and over again to retain it in your memory before Brian took your hand again, wanting to try and teach you a new chord. “This is a C, it’s just as easy as an A.” He said, putting your fingers back onto the strings. You deeply wanted him to use those precise fingers on you, like how he was with the guitar. You began to notice a certain hardness while you sat with him, making you once again blush, you shifted, which caused his breath to hitch, ”a-and...this is a B minor.” he said, replacing your fingers on the board. He planted a soft kiss on your neck this time, that made your posture almost as straight as a pole. You notice his grip on your hips tighten as he pulled you back to him.

“I thought we were practicing.” You teased. You really didn’t mind that practicing wasn’t the first thing on his mind right now.

“I know, but you’re beginning to distract me.” He replied, planting another kiss on your neck. You and Brian had yet to have sex yet. It wasn’t like one of you were waiting for the right person to come along, or whatever, you both were just too busy to do much else besides go on weekend dates and call almost every weeknight over the phone. Brian had mentioned here and there that he hasn’t done the deed with too many people, but you were alright with that fact.

Brian’s hands found themselves at the buttons of your skirt which led from the top all the way down to the hem of the black little article. Each button was undone easily in a quick motion as he sunk his teeth into the back of your neck. “Brian!”, your face beginning to feel hot, ”I wasn’t ready for that.” you whined to him.

“I’m sorry, love. I’ll make it better,” He whispered, kissing on the spot where he bit you.

“How are you gonna do that?” you asked playfully. You felt Brian’s hands move down between your legs and press into you through your underwear.

“By doing this,” He said, biting your neck again, this time you swore he left a mark on you, ”you like that?” He moved his hand in small motions, causing you to press against his hands. He clicked his tongue in disapproval and grabbed your hips with his other hand, keeping you still.

“M-mhm.” You said, nodding your head quickly.

“Good girl,” He said, his voice lowering. He pushed your underwear to the side and delved his fingers into you, making you tremble under his control. A choked moan came from you as he brushed his thumb over your bud, “So noisy, hm? My god, you’re soaked.”

You caved in like a wilting flower as he entered into you, his fingers curling into you. “Bri, please…” You whined again.

“You’re gonna have to wait a little bit more,” he said biting your earlobe. Another quiet moan escaped your lips as he added another finger. “You’re so good, kitten, I can’t imagine what you feel like when I take you.”

You whimpered, melting back into him. You felt an orgasm creep on you as he kept a consistent rhythm. Your legs began to shake involuntarily and rubbed you, ”I’m g-gonna-”

Suddenly, he pulled away from you. Falling down from your high, you protested,” wh-what the hell?” You said, partly in a daze.

“I’m not done with you,” He growled into your ear, “on your knees.” You obeyed his commands and dropped down to the floor for him. He undid his belt and released his throbbing member. “Go on,” he demanded. You took no time hesitating with this order. You drew your tongue up the sides of his shaft. He shuddered, not hiding the pleasure you were giving him. He ran his hands through your hair, a low groan escaping from his lips. He pulled your hair and pushed you down his length just as you started working on his tip. Your body tensed and you gagged on him. He pulled you up after a moment and then back down, fucking your face. When he pulled you off him, your face was red with tears welling up at the corners of your eyes. “You look so pretty, hm? Don’t you, my good girl?.” You nodded in reply, your eyes half-lidded. He grabbed your chin and wiped off saliva from the corner of your mouth. He pulled you back up and onto his lap, having you straddle across his lap. He pushing your underwear aside once more and pushed two fingers back into you. You whimpered in response and tried rocking your hips with his motions. “Tell me what you want, babe.” Nothing but another louder whimper came as a reply, ”Use your words,” He said, grinning up to you. You were surprised by how well he was making you unravel for him.

“F...fuck....” You whined, rocking your hips on his fingers.

“What was that, baby?” He cooed up to you.

“Please fuck m-me.” You managed to say through clenched teeth.

“You even said please, so polite.” He said, removing his fingers and pushing you down onto him, impaling you on his member. You couldn’t formulate words, instead, you just cried out in response. He kept a steady hand on your hip, holding you down. You moved your hips in circular motions, trying to get the most of him. “You really can’t get enough, can you?” He growled into your ear, trying his best to be collected as you desperately rocked your hips on him. It surprised you how quickly he reduced you to this, all you wanted was pure satisfaction from him and he wanted to comply with you. He let your hips loose and moved his hands up to your waist to steady you as you bounced on him. Brian’s grip on you became somewhat painful, he was trying his best to not lose himself as he met you each time you came down. In one quick movement, he pulled you down onto the couch and rolled on top of you, pushing himself back into your heat. His thrust into you hard and fast while pressing his thumb onto your bud with circular movements. You arched your back and for him as your eyes rolled back. “Bri, please don’t stop I-I’m-” you were cut short by your own cry, coming on him. You felt Brian’s muscles tense and relax, his hands gripping you tightly as he came quickly after you. He was breathing heavily as he pulled out of you, resting his head back onto the back of the sofa, his eyes closing. “You’re so fucking amazing, Y/N.” Brian said, rubbing your thigh as you rested his legs across his lap, “I think we should practice guitar more often.”

“I agree,” You said, laughing breathlessly as you felt tiredness overcome you.