#whilst simultaneously ignoring this resistance happening as we speak

[favroitecrime]

[literallythebiggestfuckingsimp]

SECRETS AND LIES

jj maybank x reader

( NOT MY GIF !!! credits to whoever made it ! )

Gentle fingers touch your sides, pulling you closer. You relax into the touch, knowing who it is. The warm breeze on your exposed midriff makes you shiver slightly, and you feel him wrap you up with his arms. You could’ve just told him that you weren’t really cold, but you were enjoying the touch of your best friend far too much for that — in fact, you were enjoying it a lot more than you should.

You can feel his skin against yours as he rests his head in the crook of your neck. Your good friend John B sits across from you both, telling some story you aren’t paying attention to. Kie is giving you a suggestive glance, noticing the way JJ is holding you, but you don’t see it. You‘re too busy wrapped up in his overwhelming presence, enjoying what little comfort you have now before you’d be forced to head back to an empty home.

“You good?” JJ speaks against your neck, and for a second you’re startled.

His breath feels warm, emitting goosebumps on your skin. You feel yourself nod half-heartedly. His head pulls back and he leans around to face you from where you’re sat in his lap. “Hey, what’s up? You can tell me.”

You sigh. “Nothin’, just thinking.” You don’t want to look at him because you know he already has that look on his face — the one that simultaneously makes you want to scream and yell at him whilst also wanting to come clean and cuddle up to him. It’s the one that reads ‘bullshit’, the one that makes you feel safe in the way that you could reveal all your secrets and he’d make everything okay again by just being there. You don’t look at him because you know that if you did you’d give in. But you can’t give in. You can’t.

“Really, I’m fine,” you stress.

He knows it’s a lie and so do you. But you can’t tell the truth, because you know it would break him. You can’t tell anyone. Not yet.

“Y/N, you know I can tell when you’re lying, right?” he asks, and you want to jump off the HMS Pogue and swim away.

Your friends aren’t watching you and JJ talk, having sensed something was up and moved away to give you guys some space.

“Pffft,” you wave him off. “I’m not lying.”

“Yes, you are,” JJ argues. “Everyone has a tell.”

You scrunch your nose up and turn to face him. You think you can look at him now because he’s just handed you the perfect opportunity to change the subject. This way, you don’t have to confront your issues.

“Okay, then what’s mine?” You want to hit yourself for the obvious attempt, because given a clearer headspace, you think you could’ve done it much smoother, in a way that would rouse up a lot less suspicion. JJ knows you inside and out.

He rolls his eyes. “Great way to change the subject,” he comments dryly. “Also, if I told you then you’re just gonna try your hardest to stop doing it and then I won’t be able to tell when you’re lying anymore.”

“I think you’re wrong,” you speak up, turning away from him. JJ frowns. “I don’t have a tell, you just think I’m hiding something and want to get it out of me.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Maybe,” he shrugs. “Or maybe I just know you well enough to be able to tell when you’re lying. Maybe I also know you well enough to know that you’re trying to change the subject right now. But you know me well enough to know that I’m not gonna stop trying to get it out of you, dumbass.”

“Don’t insult me,” you snap playfully, hitting his arm. He doesn’t join in with your light teasing like he normally would, though. There’s still a frown etched upon his lips as he looks at you, and you feel stuck. You know there’s no way to get out of it now. Maybe you could just come up with something, a quick lie to convince him that everything’s fine. Or maybe you could come clean, tell him— No! You couldn’t do that. You don’t want to do that, because that means that you’d have to face the truth, too.

“Come on, Y/N.” He’s pleading now. You cant bring yourself to look away from his face, but you know that you have to. You have to look away or else you’ll get absorbed in that look, and you’ll spill everything. “Just tell me.” Three. For a second you thought he was actually going to say please, but you know he wouldn’t. JJ Maybank is too prideful to use the word please. “Whatever it is cant be that bad.” Two. Just look away, Y/N! You can do this. “I thought we didn’t keep secrets.” He says it likes it’s a joke, but you know it’s not. He’s trying to guilt-trip you, and it’s working. Oh, it’s working alright. But you won’t give in. One.

You’ve done it! You’ve looked away!

But you can’t bring yourself to feel proud that you resisted the boy who stole your heart when you were just thirteen. You didn’t know it then, of course, but you think you’ve always liked him as more than a friend. With you and JJ there was always just that little bit more.

Guilt embeds itself in your stomach, weighing you down. It all feels so stupid, keeping secrets from your best friend. But you’re defence mechanism has always been ignorance. Forever the procrastinator.

“I told you, Jay,” you say firmly. You’re surprised at how strong your voice sounds, and so is he. You expected it to crack and shake but you were glad it didn’t. “I’m fine. Nothing’s going on.”

JJ inches away from you slightly. It’s a small action, barely noticeable, but not to you. To you it makes all the difference of a global pandemic. You feel the hurt with a pang in your chest, but you don’t let yourself feel it too much. You deserved it, you know you did. You deserve that little bit of rejection and hurt and you deserve more — worse.

You’re keeping a secret from your friends because you’re too weak to face the truth. You hate yourself for it, but at the end of the day, that’s just who you are. Someone who relishes in the bliss fitfulness of teetering upon the line of nothing and everything. Someone who keeps their problems to themself and, even when at the verge of breaking, conjures up the brightest smile to give to their friends. You’re someone who’d run away from their problems instead of sitting down and sorting that shit out.

You wish you weren’t that person, but you are.

“Yeah? ‘Cause it sure doesn’t look like it,” JJ says. You think you hear a tinge of anger to his tone, though you know he’s tried to keep it at bay for you. You don’t deserve that — you don’t deserve him, and you know it.

You don’t answer him. You just turn away. “I should probably head home now, anyway,” you say, your voice so quiet and muffled that you’re surprised he even heard you, but he did. He always has done.

You hear him scoff and walk away, and you know you’ve blown it this time. There’s no way you can make things up to him without coming clean, but there’s no way you could do that, either.

Footsteps pad along the floor of the small boat and someone sits down next to you, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder. You don’t look to see who it is, just continue to stare out into the water, tears threatening to break free.

“You okay?” You’re not surprised to hear the familiar voice of John B, but you didn’t really expect him. You thought it might be Kie, but she’s probably better off trying to get JJ out of the mood he’ll be in after your little disagreement.

“Fine,” you mumble back. You know he doesn’t buy it because, come on, who are you trying to kid? It was a half-assed condolence and you know it. John B leans closer to you for a second, giving you a quick side-hug.

“We’ll head back now, drop you off,” he says. You nod, mumbling a small “‘kay, thanks.” That’s all. He gets up and walks away, and you can feel the worried stares of your friends on your back.

This wasn’t how you wanted to spend the rest of the time you had left with your friends. This wasn’t how it should be happening. It’s not fair. None of it is. In fact, the whole situation is bullshit. Maybe you can find a way to fix it before your time is up, and then everything will be okay again.

You’re not unaware of the muffled voices behind you, whispering harshly to each other. You choose to ignore it.

“What’d you do to her, man?” John B says. JJ frowns at him.

“I didn’t do anything!” he argues, and Kiara gives him a deadpan look.

“You’re an asshole and an idiot, of course you did something,” she states matter-of-factly, malice lacing her tone. JJ glares at her.

“I’m serious,” he says. “I didn’t do shit. She was just acting off and I asked her what was wrong and she started getting all pissy at me. She’s been acting off for weeks now. I know I’m not the only one who’s noticed.”

“She has?” John B asks. He seems surprised by the fact that everyone nodded along to JJ’s words and he hadn’t noticed a single thing wrong until today.

Kiara rolls her eyes. “Oh, my god, you’re stupid.”

“Dude, she’s literally been acting weird for, like, two weeks, now,” Pope says. John B’s eyebrows furrow.

John B mutters a small, “oh.”

“Don’t worry, man. It’s not your fault. You’ve probably been so busy macking Sarah that you’ve forgotten how to function,” JJ snickers. “Ooooh! John B! Yes, right there!” he mocks. John B goes red.

“You’re disgusting,” Kiara states with a look on her face. JJ shrugs and winks at her.

—

A loud knock disturbs your thoughts. You’ve been sat in bed, trying to get to sleep for hours now, but to no avail. The knocking comes again, and you get up, sighing. It’s not like you were getting much sleep anyway.

“Hello—?“ you start at you open the door, revealing a distressed looking JJ. “JJ? What are you doing here?”

He ignores you, barging past and running his fingers through his hair. You’re not sure what’s got him in such a state, but the argument from before is forgotten to you as you grab his arm.

“Jay?” you ask. His eyes snap to meet yours in an instant. “What’s wrong?”

“May’s dead.” You feel the colour leaving your face, the breath being sucked out of you. How did he know? How could he have know? You suppose it was only really a matter of time. It’s a small island, news travels fast.

“May’s dead, and you didn’t tell me.” You want to cry, scream, anything, but all you can do is stand there, mouth agape. “And now you’re leaving. And you didn’t tell me any of it. Nothing, Y/N. Why? Why the hell didn’t you trust me, your best friend, enough to tell me that you were going away and I’d never get see you again!?”

He’s shouting now, demanding answers. He knows everything and you feel woozy. Now that it’s out, you’re gonna have to face it. But you didn’t want to face it. You didn’t want to face the fact that your aunt died and it was your fault, and now you were being moved away and you would never get to see your friends— your family, again.

“Jay, I- I didn’t mean to keep it from you, I just—“ You break off your sentence with a gulp, seeing your vision blurred with tears and the familiar lump in your throat that meant you were close to breaking down. “I don’t want to go. I dont want to. It’s my fault May’s dead, mine. And now I’m leaving but I don’t want to. I don’t want to— I don’t—“

The air in the room in getting thinner and it’s getting harder and harder to breath with every second that’s passing. You feel hands on your face, caressing your cheek. You can see the minimal movement of his lips, talking to you, but you can’t hear him. Everything’s blurry. Everything’s quiet. When did the room start spinning? You don’t know.

You’re thinking about the car again. About how May lost control when she came to pick you up from the kegger on the beach. You were wasted, and you called her for a ride. And then she died. And it was all your fault.

Hands shake you, but not more than the sobs that rack your body.

You feel the hands hold your cheeks and move your head to look in front of you, but you’re still not seeing anything except the consistent blur. You blink, closing your eyes.

There are two hands in front of your face, and you hear the faint sounds of counting.

He’s counting his fingers, you realise, and telling you to count with him. You’re starting to gather your bearings as you do. Your panic is fading but heaviness in your heart never, for a second, eases.

You see JJ now, as he is, with his blond hair messy on his head and his eyes blue with worry. You don’t waste another second, fists gripping onto the fabric of his shirt, wrapping our arms around him and burying your face in his neck. He holds you, whispering sweet nothings in your ear.

That’s what it’s like for the rest of the night. It’s just you and him, basking in the comfortable silence of being in each others presence during this time of need.

It’s the next day when he asks again. “Why didn’t you tell me?” There’s an edge of vulnerability to his voice. You know he’s hurt because you never keep secrets from him, and you know you never should, but you couldn’t help yourself.

“I ... I guess I thought that maybe if i just ignored it, it would go away,” you admit, looking down. “I’m sorry.”

His hands fiddly with your hair, something he likes to do often, and he stays quiet for a moment. “You can trust me with anything, you know.”

A small smile creeps across your lips amongst all the heartbreak and loss in the room. “I know,” you say. Your voice is almost a whisper but you know JJ heard you.

“I’m not just gonna let you up and run, you know,” he says.

“I don’t want to, but they’re moving me. They think I’m staying with May’s boyfriend, but he dipped right after the— the accident. I’ve got a week, more or less.”

“We’ll find a way,” JJ promises. You nod. “But just in case we don’t ... “

You look up to him, confused. He takes a breath, his eyes searching yours. You don’t notice them flicker to your lips. “What—“ He cuts you off, pressing his lips to yours. You freeze. Taking that as a sign of rejection, JJ pulls away. His cheeks flush pink in embarrassment, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen JJ blush — not in recent years, at least.

“I’m sorry. Fuck, I’m so so sorry, Y/N. I just thought — shit, I don’t know what I thought. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—“

This time, you’re the one who cuts him off. Your lips move hungrily against his, the feelings you’ve pushed off for so long coming free into your kiss. His eyes widen, and before you know it, he’s kissing you back, smiling against your lips.

You sit on your bed, eyes bloodshot, skin flushed and blotchy, all with crying. Your hair’s a mess, and you’re wearing one of his sweatshirts with a pair of pyjama shorts.

But in this moment, you don’t care, because you’re kissing your best friend, and he’s kissing you back, and all your problems are forgotten in the moment. And you know that you’ll figure something out, because there’s no way you’re going to leave him. Not now, not ever. You wouldn’t have dreamt of it before, but you had given up, and now he’s given you hope. You won’t leave your family behind.

And from now on, no more secrets and lies.

a/n: idk wtf i was thinking when i wrote this but eh. also i’m a wattpad writer so i like suck at using tumblr ?? like idek what happened to the layout lmao. nonetheless, i hoped whatever poor soul has read this enjoyed it.

[chipper9906]

Third Times The Charm

WARNING: SPOILERS FOR CHAPTER 15 (Episode 03: The Rupture, Episode 09: The Trap

Pairings: Castiel/Dean Winchester

Rating: General Audiences

Word Count: 6,508

Status: One Shot - Complete

Chapter Preview: 

“Well… not… not that part,” Dean stutters out, taken aback by the fiery, spitting rage that Cas so rarely displays towards him. “If you’d just let me-,”

“No,” Castiel interrupts him, slowly rising back up with his duffel in hand. “You think you’re trying, Dean. You really do. But when it comes down to it, you’re not entirely ready to apologize to me. Not yet.” Dean couldn’t even get a word out as Cas reached into his trench-coat pocket before firmly planting something into his hand – something familiarly rectangular and thin in shape. “And even if you are… I’m certainly not ready to forgive.”

* * *

Three times Dean Winchesters attempts to "apologize" to Castiel. Except... This is Dean Winchester. Apologies aren't exactly his strong point.

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He knew he’d messed it all up the second the words left his mouth. And yet, in that moment of overboiling, long over-due anger spilling out, he simply didn’t have enough reasoning left to realize it.

So, he said it.

“Yeah, why does that something always seem to be you?”

Cas had looked at him like he had physically hit him. He might as well have. But through the seething rage he felt, he just didn’t care that he had hurt Cas. A part of him felt good about it. Vindicated. Because if he was hurting, then Cas should, too.

And maybe that’s why… that’s why he can’t take it back. It’s why he can’t just apologize, tell Cas that he didn’t mean it, that it was a moment where he wasn’t thinking right. And that right there was the problem. He had meant it. He had been thinking back to all those times, all those fuck ups that have happened in their lives, and there was no doubt that Cas was involved in a lot of them. Maybe it had been something clung to the back of his mind, building, and building until he was pushed over the edge.

But it didn’t matter. He had said it, and he couldn’t take it back. He couldn’t remove the pain he had inflicted on Cas.

And he still wasn’t sure if he wanted to.

But that was beside the point. They didn’t have time for this. They didn’t have time for petty silent treatments, and the boatload of therapy they probably needed. Mom was dead, Jack was dead, Rowena was dead, they had just barely averted yet another goddamn Apocalypse whilst simultaneously being thrown into another; this one with God himself out on a personal vendetta against them, and the entire friggen Universe, and goddammit, they didn’t have the time for Cas to go off sulking on his own!

So now that’s why he was sat here on the edge of the map table, phone in hand, staring glumly down at Cas’s name as it glowed back at him from the screen, thumb hovering just over his name. He didn’t have much faith that the call would even go through, considering the past twenty or so times he’s tried so far were sent straight to Cas’s voicemail. And not in a way that suggested his phone was off, or even that he was letting it ring out and not answering it. Dean knew that the few brief rings he heard before being cut off by Cas’s voicemail could only mean that the bastard saw Dean was calling and was rejecting the damn call.

Which is why, as he waited to be greeted by the same annoying voicemail message he’s listened to way too many times now, he’s caught by surprise when he’s instead greeted by the click of the call connecting, and the loud silence of Cas on the other end, not speaking.

“Cas? You there?”

Nothing but silence greets him. For a moment, the annoying part of him that still cares starts envisioning the worst scenarios. What if it wasn’t Cas? What if someone or something had killed him, and the killer wanted to know who the hell was stubborn enough to call someone twelve times in the span of around four minutes.

But no, it’s Cas that answers on the other end of the line with a very curt and unfriendly sounding, “What?”

Dean just about holds his tongue – pretty much has to bite down on it to stop himself from saying something he shouldn’t – and takes a deep, not at all calming breath. “Any reason you’ve been ignoring both mine and Sammy’s calls?”

“I think the answer to that question is fairly obvious,” Cas’s answer is scathing, dripping with levels of sarcasm that Dean didn’t think angels could even reach.

“Alright, fine. But couldn’t you at least answer Sammy’s calls? Or even just his messages?”

“No.”

Another deep breath, Winchester.

“And why’s that?” Dean gets out through gritted teeth, hearing his phone crack and groan in protest under his vice-like grip.

“Because I don’t want to.”

Turns out, that’s all he needed to be pushed over the edge again.

“Yeah? Well, Cas, funnily enough, you don’t always get what you want. Woulda’ thought you of all people would have learned that by now, with as much time you spend with us. And you know what? Now isn’t one of those times where you get what you want. Hell, what neither of us want. But we both know that the crap going down right now is bigger than what you, or me, or Sammy, or anyone wants. So how about we both put aside our hissy fits for the time being, get over our own damn egos, and you get your feathery ass back here and help us figure out how the hell we’re supposed to kill God?”

His voice has raised perhaps a little bit too much near the end there, so much that he felt like it was ringing in his ears for a while after he had stopped talking; perhaps even enough to drown out whatever it was that Cas decided to respond with. Except, Cas didn’t respond. Not for a while, anyway. Nothing but silence – in the form of crackling white noise – emitted from Dean’s speaker, stretching on long enough that he had to take his phone away from his ear and check the screen to see if the phone was still connected.

And then Cas laughed.

He’s pretty sure he can count on one hand the number of times he’s heard Cas laugh, and this one… was not a good one. There was some amusement in it, but mostly it just sounded tired. And… a little bit bordering on insane.

“Something funny?” Dean damn near growled down the phone.

Cas’s laughter faded away at that. “No. No, I suppose there isn’t.”

A single beep emitted from the speaker. Gone was the white noise. Gone was Cas’s voice.

Cas had hung up on him.

Dean takes another deep breath, one just as unsuccessful as the last few. He holds the phone limply in his closed fist, staring blankly out into the bunker before bringing his fist down hard on the table, barely resisting the urge to launch his “too expensive to keep breaking through rage or hunts” across the room.

“You stubborn son of a bitch,” Dean grits out, balancing his phone in his lap as he massages his now sore hand. “Just gotta make this complicated, don’t you…”

The idea pops into his head right then and there, jumping down from the table and settling into an actual seat. He pulls his laptop towards him, flipping open the top and getting to work. “Fine, Cas. You don’t wanna come back home? Then I’ll come to you…”

* * *

 There were a lot of things Dean thought Cas might be doing in some small town out in the middle of nowhere.

Well, not a lot of things. Actually… Dean had no idea. The last time Cas went off on his own – admittedly, not of his fault – he had gone and tried to be a proper citizen of America with his own degrading, low-paying, soul-sucking retail job. He supposed that was a possibility, but, he doubted it. Most of the time, Cas is… well, with him, Dean supposed. Helping him and Sam with whatever big ugly had decided to rear its head for the year. Cas didn’t really get much free time, didn’t have much time for hobbies (neither did he unless you counted drinking and porn watching, but whatever), so of all the things he expected for Cas to be doing…

Fishing certainly wasn’t one of them.

Cas had managed to find himself a nice little dock to fish off as well. A cozy, hidden spot within the reeds, far out enough from civilization that Dean actually had to hike out here to find him. Admittedly, he was a little pissed to have to leave Baby behind and hike for four friggen hours in the heat whilst swiping away blood-sucking mosquitos, but it wasn’t like he had much of a choice.

There was a single fishing rod cast out into the water, its little neon orange bobber oddly still despite drifting amidst the gentle waves created by the evening’s wind as it blew across the surface of the water. Strangely, there was an honest to God boom-box sat next to Cas, which would have undoubtedly scared away any fish in the area if it was playing music. Which… it wasn’t. Even from the other end of the dock, Dean could see the tape holder was open and empty.

Dean stands there long enough to see the little bobber start bobbing in the water, flicking left and right as fish nibble on its bait. It’s not long after that the lure disappears completely, sinking below the surface of the water and into its murky depths as a fish takes the bait. But… Cas doesn’t react. In fact, he hadn’t even been looking at the lure. He must have been holding something in his hands - what exactly that is, Dean can’t see from here – as he can tell from Cas’s hunched posture that this mysterious object must be whatever had won Cas’s attention over his bait being taken.

“You know, you’re actually supposed to catch the fish when fishing. I get that it’s supposed to be relaxing, but… you could at least try to catch something when it’s on the end of your hook.”

Cas doesn’t jump or startle at his voice, much to Dean’s secret displeasure. Hell, he wouldn’t be surprised if Cas somehow sensed his presence. Maybe he could smell his scent or something. Hear his heartbeat. Feel his soul. Something like that.

What he does do is sigh. Loudly. Loud enough for Dean to hear from all the way over here, which kinda hurts if he’s being honest. That being said, he does put away whatever he was holding into his coat’s pocket and picks up the rod at Dean’s words and hooks the fish, reeling it in like he’s done it a hundred times before.

“I thought I’d give it a try. Perhaps make some sense of my thoughts,” Cas says without looking back at him, keeping his gaze fixated on the water ahead. “Try and see why so many are invested in this past time. I suppose maybe it’d be different if I was human, but… I just don’t get quite the same satisfaction.” It seems that, in a blink of an eye, Cas has the fish reeled in and dangling in the air in front of him. He gets the hook out of its mouth just as quick, looking down to the decent-sized carp he held in his hands. “What is it about fishing that makes it so worthwhile to humans? Is it the struggle of trying to reel it in? The sense of satisfaction you get out of pulling this creature from its habitat? Some feeling of power, a superiority, that you’ve outsmarted and outmuscled a lesser being than yourself?”

“Uh… I’m not much one for philosophical debates, Cas,” Dean looks to Cas wide-eyed, taking a few cautious steps onto the dock and towards him. “I just find it relaxing, I suppose. Bobby used to take me and Sammy out a few times when dad was off on hunts. We wouldn’t talk about dad, or where he’d be taking us once he got back - - if he got back. It was nice to just sit out in the sun, Bobby and Sam next to me and… get to feel some sense of peace that I haven’t felt since I was four.”

Castiel only hums at that, gently lowering the fish back down into the water and letting it swim away. “How did you find me?”

Dean steps even closer. “Sammy put a tracker on your phone a long time ago, bud. Can never be too careful.”

“Sam did?” Cas said, sounding genuinely surprised. The first bit of emotion Dean had heard slip into his voice.

“Yeah. I actually argued with him over it, believe it or not,” Dean shoves his hands into his jacket pockets, keeping a small amount of space between him and Cas. “Guess it turned out useful…”

Cas was still refusing to look at him, which was all kinds of frustrating. “When did…”

“Not long after you came back from… y’know… the Empty,” Dean gets out. “But, uh… he brought it up after you knocked us out with your mojo and ran off with Kelly against our wishes.”

Cas tenses up at that, carelessly tossing his fishing rod to the floor next to him and finally, finally, standing up from the edge of the dock and turning to face Dean. “And if I’d have gone with your wishes, there would have been every chance that Jack would have ended up dead – perhaps before he was even born!”

“Yeah? Well, he ended up dead anyway, didn’t he?” Dean says it like the words don’t hurt him as much as it does Cas. He says it like he doesn’t see the way Cas’s face fall, the little frustration he held shifts into what can only be described as both shock and grief. And then, to make it worse – and because he just can’t his mouth shout – he makes it a hundred times worse. “Maybe we’d be better off if we had stopped him from being born. At least then mom would still be alive.”

There wasn’t any grief left on Cas’s face. No sadness, no anger. It was nothing but disgust that he held for Dean and his words, and Dean knew he deserved such a look from Cas, but it wasn’t exactly like the rational part of his brain that knows this is in control right now.

“What do you want, Dean?” Castiel asks him, sounding too small and tired for a mighty angel of the Lord. “Did you track me all this way, come all the way out here to… what? To hurt me more?”

“No!” Dean yells, which totally defeats the point of what he’s trying to go with here. “No, that’s not why…” He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and scrunching his eyes shut. “I… I came to bring you home.”

Castiel raises a single eyebrow up at him. “To… bring me home?”

“Yeah. You know, back to the bunker. Look Cas, I’m not stupid enough to pretend that I… that we don’t still need you.”

“That’s surprising to hear,” Castiel bites back. “Considering you think I’m the ‘thing’ that goes wrong in every mess we’ve been through.”

“That’s not-,” Dean tries, but Cas has already turned his back to him; hurriedly picking his fishing rod back up and began disassembling it. “I’m trying, okay?”

“Trying to do what?” Castiel grumbles under his breath, pulling apart the rod pieces a little harsher than he intended.

“What the hell do you think?!” Dean throws his hands in the air, letting his irritation boil over. “I’m trying to make things right, I guess. Trying to… to apologize.”

Castiel actually pauses in trying to stuff the rod back into its duffel, his head snapping up to look at Dean. “Apologize…? In what part of you admitting your wish for Jack to have been terminated before birth should I take as an apology?”

“Well… not… not that part,” Dean stutters out, taken aback by the fiery, spitting rage that Cas so rarely displays towards him. “If you’d just let me-,”

“No,” Castiel interrupts him, slowly rising back up with his duffel in hand. “You think you’re trying, Dean. You really do. But when it comes down to it, you’re not entirely ready to apologize to me. Not yet.” Dean couldn’t even get a word out as Cas reached into his trench-coat pocket before firmly planting something into his hand – something familiarly rectangular and thin in shape. “And even if you are… I’m certainly not ready to forgive.”

There was nothing Dean could do. Nothing but stand there in astonishment as Cas simply walked right by him, leaving him there standing at the end of the dock staring down at the object Cas has pressed into his hand. And honestly, this in itself was more painful than anything Cas could have ever said in return.

In his hand was a clearly well used, well-loved mixtape, his own writing staring back at him in crudely drawn sharpie on the faded white label:

‘Deans top 13 Zepp TRA XX’

“Thought I told you you’re supposed to keep gifts,” Dean just about manages to get out, braving a look up at Cas’s retreating form.

Castiel’s steps halt for just a moment. Just long enough to say one more thing before continuing on his way. “You did. But, it is to my knowledge that you only keep a gift so long as it is wanted, is it not?”

Never mind. He was wrong.

That hurt a lot more.

* * *

He was a dick.

He knew that. He got that now. But now, it seemed, was too late.

He can’t say he wasn’t angry, because he was. What he can say was that he held onto that anger for too long. That he didn’t stop for a moment to look at things the way Cas probably did. Instead, he only saw things the way his anger wanted to, to keep him steeped in that burning rage, letting himself lash out at Cas because it was easy. Because he’d put the blame on Cas so many times before, so why not do it again?

And now, Cas might be…

No. No, he refuses to believe it. Cas is fine. He’s made it out of a few bad scraps before, he’s sure Cas will find a way to take out those dick-head leviathans and… and Eve… the mother of all monsters… right?

“CAS!” His yell echoes between the trees that surround him, seemingly amplified by the low fog that swirls around him. An endlessly hopeful part of him expects to see that trench-coat-wearing idiot stumbling towards him in the distance, maybe a little bloodied and battle-worn but otherwise whole. But there’s nothing. Nothing but the odd stillness of Purgatory when creatures aren’t busy ripping each other apart.

How long had it been now? It had felt like he has been out here, wandering aimlessly for any sign of Cas for hours. He reaches into his pocket, pulling out his phone, and that awful squeeze of fear clenches around his heart at the timer ticking down, making it hard to breathe.

29 minutes. That was all he had. 29 minutes to find Cas in the whole of Purgatory and get them back to the portal in time. It took him damn near an entire year to find Cas the last time. 29 minutes just wasn’t enough, and it wasn’t fair. He couldn’t… He couldn’t tell Cas what’s been tearing him up inside, can’t tell him what Cas shouldn’t have to hear from him to know, and now he never will and-

“No, no no…” The words spill out of his mouth without his permission, sounding as close to a whimper of pain that actual words possibly could.

He didn’t want to do it like this. Hell, he didn’t even know if Cas even had enough grace left to hear him. But he had to try. It worked last time, didn’t it? Every damn night…

“Cas? Cas I hope you can hear me… that wherever you are, it’s not too late,” It was harder than he expected, saying this out loud. Almost like he was accepting that he was never going to speak to Cas again. Never get to say these words face to face. “I should’ve stopped you. You’re my best friend, but I just let you go. ‘Cause it was easier than admitting I was wrong.”

The incessant burning in his eyes gets too much, the heavy weight in his nose forcing a shaky sniffle out of him. He reaches out a hand to the tree next to him, barely enough time to process the scratchy roughness of the bark before his wobbly knees are giving out, forcing him down to a crouch, leaning his weight against the tree.

“I… Ohh…” He nearly says it, but the words get caught in the back of his throat. ‘Not yet’ a voice seems to whisper in his head. It was at least better than the voice that would always whisper ‘Never’ whenever he let himself think those words. “I don’t know why I get so angry. I just know – I know that – I-it’s always been there. And when things go bad, it just – it comes out. And I can’t – I can’t stop it. No matter how-,” His voice catches once more. He was well past the point of holding the tears back. “-How bad I want to, I just can’t stop it.”

This was it. He couldn’t hold back now. Not when this might be his last chance. Even if… Even if Cas was no longer alive to hear this message. “And – And I – I forgive you. Of course I forgive you. And – God, Cas. I love you. You hear me? I love you. And I – I’m sorry it took me so long. I’m sorry it took me till now, till it might be too damn late to say it. Cas, I’m – I’m so sorry. I hope you can hear me… Please, hear me…”

He can almost hear the ‘whomp’ of wings he hasn’t heard in years. Could almost envision the sight of Cas stood behind him, head tilted to the side, looking to him in genuine angel curiosity as he answers Dean’s prayers. But when he looks around, the forests of Purgatory look just as empty through his tear-filled vision as they did moments before. “Okay…” Dean forces himself up, wiping a hand down his face to wipe away any evidence of what had just happened. Reset himself back to Dean Winchester. Hunter. Son of John Winchester.

Get the job done. Get back home.

His mind seems to switch off after that. He’s sure he looked every part the stereotypical zombies in the movies and tv shows and comics as he shuffles forward in the direction of the portal, face blank and devoid of life, shotgun heavy in hand and only the barest of survival instincts keeping an eye out for any movement within the trees.

He wasn’t far now. Just up ahead was his way out of here. He would step through, and be home. Without the flower. And… and without Cas. Mom. Jack. Rowena. Now Cas? What was the point? Would the world expect him to keep fighting if he lost Sammy too? And… God, what if Cas wasn’t dead? What if he walks through that portal, letting it close behind him, and leaves Cas here to be trapped for eternity?

Maybe he still had time. Maybe he could-

No. He didn’t. The timer on his phone displaying the numbers ’00:02:56’ proved as much. There wasn’t time. Cas was-

“Dean?”

Both hands are wrapped around his shotgun and pointing it towards the direction of the voice before his mind has fully caught up. His finger slides away from the trigger as his mouth falls open, lowering the end of the shotgun down at the sight of Cas, glorious Cas, looking a little worse for wear sat at the base of a tree. He looked every bit as dirty, bloodied, and miserable as anyone would after nearly twenty-four hours in Purgatory, but it didn’t matter, as it was the best sight Dean had ever seen.

Cas looks equally as shocked to see him, grimacing to himself as he pushes himself up to stand. “You made it?”

Dean can’t help but laugh. Not really the time for laughing, but it was mostly the delirium and pure, sweet relief bursting out of him. “I made it?”

Cas stumbles towards him, a bit of a limp in his gait, and Dean quickly makes up the short distance between them, throwing his arms around Cas and pulling the angel towards him. Cas feels real and solid pressed against his chest, and Dean thumps his hands against Cas’s back almost to prove to himself that the whole of Cas is here and intact. He almost wasn’t. He almost lost one of the only people left in this world he can say that he loves.

Which... which he’s said now.

“You okay?” Dean asks as soon as he feels Cas begin to push away from him, letting his eyes scan across Cas’s form to check for any obvious wounds or spilling of grace.

“I’m fine,” Castiel insists, probably a lie if Dean knows him. But, other than the sluggishly bleeding scrape on Cas’s head, he does look fine.

“What happened?”

“They were after me, not you,” Castiel gets out through panting, pained-sounding breaths. Yeah, sure. Fine. “I figured it would be safest to give myself up.”

And there it is again. Just another goddamn slap to the face. Even after everything that’s happened, after all the awful crap he’s said to Cas, the way he’s treated him… Cas was so willing to just put himself in the firing line for him.

‘These are not just monsters, Dean. They’re Leviathan. I have a price on my head, and I’ve been trying to stay one step ahead of them, to – to keep them away from you.’

“They take you to Eve?”

“Yeah. We were en route. I waited until I… saw this,” Cas reached into his trench-coat pocket, pulling out a sad-looking excuse for a flower that looked about as beat up as the person holding it. “It… got a little smushed.”

Dean could almost cry. Again. Here Cas was, somehow having escaped from a bunch of freak leviathans before being handed over to what would likely be horrendous torture and a death sentence from the mother of all monsters, manages to find the stupid fucking flower they came all the way out here for, get all the way back to the portal where he sits and waits for him… and he looks embarrassed that the flower got a little ‘smushed?’

That’s beside the fact that he probably crushed it by hugging Cas.

“Once I had the blossom, I fought; caught them off guard,” Cas continued. “They fought back. I managed to get away.”

Dean smiles. For what feels like the first time in quite a while, he smiles. “You did it. You did it, Cas.”

And then, by some miracle by God – wait no, not him, by something or someone… Cas gives him a tentative smile back. “Well, they’re still after me. We should hurry,” Cas gestures with a small shake of his head towards the portal, already starting to move away.

“Okay, Cas I need to say something-,”

“You don’t have to say it,” Castiel interrupts, that tentative smile back on his face. “I heard your prayer.”

But that wasn’t enough. Sure, it was of some comfort knowing that the prayer had at least reached Cas, but… but something didn’t sit right with him about that. Besides the fact that what he said is something that really should be said face to face (and maybe sending a message like that over the prayer is the equivalent of sending it over text message or… or voicemail?), Cas’s reaction was just… not what he was expecting. Not that Cas was ever entirely predictable in his reactions, and perhaps basing what Cas’s reaction would be on what his reaction would be if Cas ever confessed to him like that wasn’t the best of ideas, but… still, it was odd. Dean was expecting at least something, some sort of reaction to his words other than an acknowledgment that it had been heard.

Cas was right, though. They really needed to hurry; what with a bunch of leviathans after them and probably around 30 seconds left before the portal closes behind them.

They race towards the portal, his hand on Cas’s back helping to push him forward as he struggles with that new limp of his. Dean can hear his pulse racing in his ears as they step closer and closer to the portal, watching its light flicker and shimmer as it struggles to stay open. He wouldn’t be surprised if God had somehow caught wind of their plans, and was waiting until the very last second when they were about to step through, to close the portal a few seconds earlier and laugh in their faces as the portal disappears from sight.

But that’s not what happens. They step through the portal, one after the other, neither being left behind. There’s a split second of nothing but blinding white as the portal flares, losing sight of Cas for just a moment, and then he’s there again; stood just in front of him in the bunker, the tension and stress of Purgatory already draining away from his hunched posture.

The portal gives one last pathetic flicker, and then it’s closing down on itself. The bunker is left in silence, the crackle of the portal’s energy gone, and they’re both left standing facing each other in this awkward, “what happens now” kind of stillness.

“Um… I suppose I should-,” Cas begins, taking the flower out from his pocket and motioning towards the bunker hallway.

“Cas, wait,” Dean pleads, taking an unsure step towards Cas, who freezes in place with flower still in hand. “I… I really need to talk to you, man.”

Castiel’s forehead creases in confusion, hesitantly reaching back into his pocket to put the flower back. “I already told you, Dean. I heard your prayer-,”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Dean cuts him off with a wave of his hand. His tongue darts out to wet his upper lip, a nervous gesture he could never quite hide. “I just… I feel like you should hear it directly from me, if that makes sense?”

“Not really.”

Dean huffs. “Look Cas, it’s… I meant it, okay? Even if I was panicking over the thought of you being stuck in purgatory again and… it wasn’t just a “I might as well say it because you might be dead” kind of thing, okay?”

“I know,” Castiel says, still looking just as confused as he did moments ago. “I know you’re sorry, Dean. It’s okay. I believe you.”

And then Cas turns to walk away again, and Dean can’t help but get the feeling that Cas isn’t quite getting what he’s trying to say here. So, he darts out a hand and grasps Cas’s arm, bringing the angel to a standstill. Cas looks down at Dean’s hand around his arm in genuine surprise, almost as if Dean had done something incredible offensive, and then brings his gaze up to meet Dean’s desperate one. “Dean? Are you okay?”

Dean couldn’t help it. He laughs, though it sounds about as humorless as he was feeling right now. “No, Cas. I’m not. But… are you… did you hear my entire prayer?”

Castiel frowns at him again, blue eyes scanning across the sudden, unexpected timidness look on Dean’s face. “Yes. I heard all of it.”

Dean returns the inquisitive gaze, searching for any kind of reaction, a give of some sort that Cas was thinking back to those words he had prayed to him. But there’s nothing. Nothing but the usual patient look that Castiel always held. “Listen man, I’m always one for avoiding big girly talks as much as the next guy, but… are you really not going to say anything about it?”

“About what?”

Damn it. He’s really gonna make him say it again, huh?

“You know… the bit about how I uh… the thing I said, after I said I was sorry?”

“Oh!” Castiel says, his tone bright in realization. “When you said you love me?”

And wow, what a way for Cas to say it. Like it was just… a matter of fact. Like he was simply stating what the fucking weather was like.

Dean must be staring at Cas with a damn right bewildered face right now, as the look of concern Castiel had worn for pretty much this entire conversation began to increase tenfold. “What is it?”

“Seriously?” Dean splutters out, throwing his hands up in the air. “You’re telling me I had to discover this mind-altering revelation for myself, keep it pushed down, come to terms with it and finally get the balls to admit it to you, and your reaction is absolutely nothing?”

“But… I already knew you loved me?”

It’s enough to bring Dean’s mind to a standstill. Had he… he had somehow told Cas he loved him and didn’t remember it? Oh God, that damn memory spell… had he somehow called Cas and told him something before his memory completely went kaput? No, no, it couldn’t have been that… the counter spell regained all his memories of that shitty night, he’s pretty sure… Could Cas sense it, somehow? What if it was in his soul? Some kind of change to his soul that Cas picked up on?

“You… you knew?”

“Yes… You’ve reiterated to me many times that I’m like a brother to you, and, given your connection to Sam, I assumed that meant that kind of love extended to me as well? I don’t mean to offend you Dean, the fact that you put me in the same regard as Sam is an honor of itself-,”

Oh.

Oh.

Oh, Cas. Oh, Cas, Cas, Cas. He had listened to what he had said, but he hadn’t really heard him. Strangely, it kind of hurt to think that, upon hearing his confession, Cas had just sort of automatically assumed that he had meant he loved him like a brother. Perhaps it hurt because, he wasn’t sure if Cas assumed that because of the way he’s always treated him, or because Cas could just never see Dean in any other way.

“Not what I meant, Cas,” Dean says quietly, though the words sounded loud in the quiet of the room. “Oh, Cas. You damn fool… I didn’t mean as a brother.”

Cas almost looks scared, and it’s about the equivalent of a rusty knife being twisted in his gut. Cas looked scared to be hopeful. Like he was scared to think of what his words meant. Dean reaches out a hand once more, gently grabbing hold of the sleeve of Cas’s trench coat. Cas doesn’t flinch or move his arm away, so Dean lets his hand slowly slip down, lets his fingers settle in the gap between Cas’s. Cas’s breath hitches at the feeling of warm skin against his hand, his eyes darting to their entwined hands then back up to Dean. His mouth parts, a question on his lips, which Dean answers with his own.

It’s… not what he was expecting. There’s no moment of inner panic, no feeling of wrongness that has him ripping away from Cas and furiously wiping at his lips. But it’s no “fireworks” moment, either. Cas’s lips are, confusingly, chapped and dry from the cold winds of Purgatory, and yet have a tender softness to them that has him leaning closer for more. He doesn’t taste like… well, that one Dean wasn’t sure about. He had kinda been expecting some kind of… of… soapy cleanliness taste of pure, heavenly Grace. But no, Cas tastes like dirt and sweat with a little metallic twang from what was likely a busted-up lip. It’s nothing like any girl he’s ever kissed has tasted like, and strangest of all, he doesn’t give him a damn. He’s not panicking about kissing Cas because “It’s Cas!”, he’s sinking into it, melting into the touch of Cas’s hand on his back, because It’s Cas.

But the moment can’t last forever. Cas goes tense under his hands, a sudden fear taking hold, and then he’s holding Dean at arm’s length. His eyes are wide and fixated on Dean’s face, chest rising and falling in tandem with his harsh breaths, despite the fact Dean’s fairly sure Cas doesn’t even have to breathe.

“Did you mean it?” Castiel asks, his fingers tightening their grip around Dean’s shoulders. “You… you love me like…?”

“Yeah, Cas,” Dean says with a blissed-out smile. “Not like a brother. I don’t just love you. I’m in love with you. And listen, I know I kinda sprung this up on you at a bad time, and… I know I’ve acted like a real jerk to you lately, so you have every right to just pretend like this never happened and-,”

“Don’t be an idiot, Dean Winchester,” Castiel cut him off, but there’s no malice to his voice as he does it. In fact, the small pull of a smile at the corner of his mouth widens to a gummy smile that Dean knows means this is a really happy Cas, and considering how rare he sees that from Cas, it brings him a sense of satisfaction that he’s the reason Cas is smiling like that.

“Sorry, Cas. Being an idiot is just who I am. Especially considering I was apparently stupid enough to go and fall in love.”

And then it’s Cas’s turn to make Dean freeze up in disbelief and stare at Cas wide-eyed, because he chuckles warmly at Dean’s statement and tells him, “I suppose that makes me stupid too, then.”

“Oh…” Is all Dean can squeak out, probably the un-manliest he’s ever sounded, but considering the beaming smile Cas sends his way, he guesses Cas didn’t seem to mind. “You, uh… you don’t have to say it if you don’t-,”

“I love you,” Castiel confessed, soft and sweet, yet it punches into Dean hard. “But I thought you already knew that.”

“Maybe you should stop assuming things, Cas.”

“And maybe you should stop waiting until you think I’m dead to say how you feel.”

“Touché,” Dean settles, grabbing hold of Cas’s hand once more and tugging him towards the door. “Oh, and-,” He stops mid-stride, Cas nearly colliding into him. Dean forces down a grin at Cas’s curious head tilt as he searches in his jacket pocket, pulling out the mixtape he’s kept there ever since Cas gave it back to him and planting it perhaps a little too harshly against Cas’s chest. “Don’t you ever try and give this back to me again.”

Cas places his free hand atop Dean’s on his chest, giving it a reassuring squeeze. Cas grabs hold of the mixtape before it can drop to the ground as Dean removes his hand, fingers curled protectively around the tape as he looks down at it with a fond smile.

“I suppose I should have known,” Castiel murmurs quietly, eyes softening with realization as he stares down at the tape. “You already tried to give your love to me. It was just in a language I had yet to truly understand.”

[writcraft]

Racism, Tone-Policing and Speaking Out in Fandom

Unequivocal condemnation of fanfic or art that glorifies or romanticises the Nazi regime and/or promotes a narrative which erases its significant horrors feels like it should be an easy position to take. A no-brainer. This wasn’t an example of art designed to make us uncomfortable or to provoke discussion; it was an unthinking, romanticised depiction of a regime that committed galling atrocities, swiftly followed by the lightwashing of a canonically black fictional character. We inhabit an online space where misinformation travels rapidly, where white supremacism thrives. This should be a something people can publicly condemn without worrying unduly about any potential backlash. 

The fact that even speaking out on this topic has caused people - including queer, Jewish people - to feel silenced, attacked, tone-policed and chastised as they share their reaction to something they consider abhorrent is symptomatic of a much broader issue in fandom spaces broadly and it is that which I want to talk about in this post. I don’t want to conflate racism in fandom with the now two instances of Nazi-themed Harry/Draco art, but I think a lot has been said on the latter and want to take the opportunity to use what has happened over the last two days as a jumping off point to think about the former. When it comes to callout, to speaking out and to our responsibilities as fans, I think there are important connections. 

The unfettered protection of freedom of content creation is something I have passionately defended and will continue to do so throughout my time in fandom. This is demonstrated by the spaces I have either created or moderated for several years, most notably HP Kinkfest and HP Horror Fest. However, protecting that position is often the point at which conversations get closed, the trump card played to end all other discussions that might make us - and by us I mean white fans like myself - uncomfortable with the conversations being instigated. I’m not convinced that ‘unfollow me now’ posts are ever particularly helpful, as they have an air of performative allyship about them, leading to echo-chambers and knee-jerk responses, and one thing we are particularly bad at these days is engaging with any difficult topics with nuance.

As ever, this post is long, and there are some resources at the end should you wish to keep reading.

Difficult conversations in fandom are those which force us to critically interrogate our own modes of fannish engagement, and the extent to which we listen when invited to consider if the things we uphold as progressive are really progressive at all. Perhaps the fallout from this latest debacle is a good time to sit back and consider the things we speak out about, the things we don’t speak out about, the centering of white voices and perspectives, the privilege that comes from being able to leave certain discussions to other people simply because they are difficult and, by extension, the groups we expect to take on the responsibility and emotional labour involved with speaking out. Perhaps this might prompt us to examine the way we react to things without thoughtful critique of broader socio-political structures in place that become part of fandom’s hierarchy of conversation and content creation.

It is not enough to react to a something that creates a visceral response from the majority of people in a fandom but then ignore the less comfortable questions that flow from it. To assert a position on extreme examples of something that is not okay but then refuse to listen to people who express discomfort about things which might harsh your own fannish squee or might force you to consider the less instinctively obvious ways you might be contributing to racism in fandom is an inconsistent, safe way of engaging with the complexities that come from critiquing fandom spaces. The appearance of now two pieces of art that provoke almost universal fandom-wide disgust cannot be the only time we actively demonstrate an interest in expressing vocally that racism and white supremacy has no place in our fandom spaces.

We are ten years on from Race Fail ‘09 yet conversations around race are still being derailed, tones being policed, POC fans being portrayed as particularly angry, impolite or prone to complaint. I have seen this happen on multiple occasions, where the platform for critical discussion of content creation in fandom has been stripped away, or people have been silenced, in pursuit of protecting the fun part of fandom, the right to produce content unfettered, protecting the ability for women to create uncensored. I fundamentally believe the latter is an important, joyous and political act of fandom experience, but it loses some of its politicised resonance when that starting point is used to silence others trying to start critically nuanced discussions. 

Freedom of content cannot be the point at which we disavow ourselves of any responsibility to question the things that inform our own perspectives. We cannot allow our passionate defence of that position to cloud our ability to listen to other perspectives. I’m not here to protect the children, but we must not conflate resistance to conservative-leaning narratives that advocate for sanitised and problem-free content, with the issues fans from marginalised groups try to raise about the way fandom has work to do when it comes to having proper conversations around queerness, race, misogyny and so on. We cannot on the one hand rush to condemn a pretty obvious issue, and on the other fail to think about the other questions it raises because it might stop us from having a good time.

The difficult conversations that spring to mind – the ones that get immediately shut down – include thinking critically about objects of fandom, the tendency to approach questions of social justice through an American (frequently white) lens, the continued dominance of white, cis-male slash ships, inability to critique - or listen to critique of - the things we love when canon or creators make decisions that leave people distressed. The conversations include thinking about how fictional characters are romanced or sanitised to the point at which their fanon portrayal erases any of their past political choices, tokenism, shutting down conversations around racebending and failing to understand why – for some POC fans – that doesn’t feel representative when it is handled unthinkingly in fanfiction produced by white authors. 

To refuse to engage with these questions often involves shouting over or silencing people who are trying to explain why something makes them uncomfortable in pursuit of protecting freedoms afforded to us as we create unfettered content. I’m not suggesting that we should not be free to create content – we are, all of us – aware of the slipperiness of that particular slope, but with that freedom comes a responsibility. If we care about the voices frequently talked over within our fandom, we – and I include myself in this – need to be better at listening when people force us to examine our own modes of engagement. This involves taking the time to conduct our own research, to take that responsibility upon ourselves instead of expecting others to educate us. It involves researching political posts we put on our blogs together with assessing the fandom content we produce and engage with. Are they accurate? Are they correct? It involves labour, time taken to educate ourselves, and balancing speaking out with knowing when that becomes speaking over, knowing when to sit down, shut up and listen. 

I am writing this because I have been culpable. On many occasions I have remained silent on issues or refused to confront difficult situations for fear of losing friendships or to protect my own status within fandom. I have found certain conversations uncomfortable and have therefore avoided them altogether for fear of being seen as a trouble-maker, or someone who is trying to police or gatekeep fandom content whilst simultaneously wanting to so fiercely protect freedom of content creation. I have had several friends call me out on this, and my discomfort with taking on fraught topics when feelings are involved is something I have had to re-examine. Thank you to the friends who have challenged me on this. It is a brave thing to do, something I haven’t always responded well to, and I appreciate you for a much-needed dose of honesty. This post by @dictacontrion (rightfully) made me uncomfortable because it has called me out. In particular, this:

If we are not willing to speak up and take action, if we are not willing to risk our comfort, risk our status, risk our ease in order to defend freedom and equality, than we are not defenders freedom and equality. If we are not willing to speak up and take action in defense of our principles, our principles mean nothing.  

I am working on my own methods of fandom engagement. I apologise for all of those conversations I have taken myself out of because they were hard, and I promise I will strive to do better. As noted above we are a decade on from Race Fail, but these patterns continue to occur. I want to conclude by noting that the perspectives I have outlined above do not come from my own work. They come from the – often free and emotionally exhaustive – labour that has been put into raising these issues and asking those difficult questions within fandom space and within the broader sphere of fan studies. The work of Dr Rukmini Pande, Stich’s Media Mix and the many guests that have featured on @fansplaining episodes have been instrumental starting points for me and I have included some of the links below for that I would encourage people to consider listening to and reading together with exploring the links in the show notes and the Twitter accounts, blogs and tumblrs of the featured guests.

Episode 22A - Race and Fandom Part 1: Fansplaining’s Flourish and Elizabeth follow up on the last episode’s questions about the impact of racism in the Star Wars fandom—and how it’s a microcosm of fandom at large. They interview Rukmini Pande and Clio, and they hear clips from Holly Quinn, Shadowkeeper, and PJ Punla. Topics covered include the historical presence of fans of colour, space nazis, femslash and its discontents, and the Filipino perspective on the whiteness of media. 

Episode 22B - Race and Fandom Part 2:  In the second and final installment of Fansplaining’s “Race and Fandom” episodes, fans of colour continue to speak about their experiences in fandom. Elizabeth and Flourish interview Jeffrey Lyles and Zina, then hear clips from Roz, Traci-Anne, and zvi LikesTV. Topics covered include being Black and Jewish, Star Wars weddings, cosplaying characters of color, and why kink is never divorced from the real world.

Episode 89 - Rukmini Pande:  An episode where Dr. Rukmini Pande, a fan studies scholar whose new book, Squee From the Margins, explores race in both the field as well as fandom at large. Topics discussed include defining the boundaries of “fandom,” how queerness and gender structure fan studies while race typically does not, closed vs open digital platforms, how fandom discussions of racism are often relegated to “crisis points,” and more.

I also recommend the Transformative Works and Cultures Journal special edition on Fans of Color, Fandoms of Color (Vol 29 (2019)) which is freely accessible and edited by Abigail De Kosnik and André Carrington. 

[thedeevirus]

hi! if you're still taking requests, how about some nygmobblepot and gunplay? Ed seems to enjoy pressing his gun against Oswald's face and, well... thank you for sharing your lovely works with us xx

Anonymous said:Hi!! Could you possibly write something where Ed realised that Lee is using him, so he goes to the only person who he can trust- Oswald.

I hope you enjoy! Slightly NSFW!

Added to Nygmobblepot Ficlet Collection on AO3

***

‘SeemsI’m not the only one sleeping alone tonight’, Oswald says.

Edclicks the safety off, trying to ignore how his fingers are shaking as he gripsthe gun. Oswald sits up, the blanket sliding off his shoulders as he stretchesexaggeratedly. Ed swallows hard as he sees Oswald isn’t wearing a shirt. Hisnumerous scars are nearly luminous in the moonlight coming through the window blindsand his eyes are pale as he smirks at Ed, seemingly unbothered by the proximityof a loaded firearm. Ed can practically see the old joke running through Oswald’shead: ‘Is that a pistol in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?’

‘Youdon’t seem concerned how I found you’.

‘Ed’, Oswald deadpans, ‘I told you I was staying here after that day at the pier. Remember?’

Edreadjusts his grip. He had forgotten that.

‘Ithink we’re past posturing, don’t you?’ Oswald says, using a fingertip to movethe gun barrel away from him.

Ed,too bothered by his uncharacteristic forgetfulness, does not resist as thebarrel is redirected. There are too many thoughts in his head but beneath themall, he can hear a low laugh from his other half.

‘I amnot ‘troubled’’, Ed says pointedly and loudly, the better to drown out his alter’samusement, ‘Or a ‘fool’’.

‘That’s what’s bothering you?’ Oswald asks, the slightest hint of annoyance in his voice, ‘You felt the need to wake me up for that?’

‘Ifigured why wait for you to get a chance to track me down and seek your revenge?’

Oswaldscoffs.

‘Ihad no intention of tracking you down’.

Ed’sbrow furrows. He has expected Oswald to be as furious as he had been at thebank. It wasn’t in his nature to let bygones be bygones so easily.

‘What’sthe point?’, Oswald laughs, shrugging, ‘We both know you’ll end up crawling backsooner or later’.

Hiseyes widen in mock surprise, as if Ed has just materialised out of thin air.

‘Seemsit’s sooner’, he concludes, lip curling.

‘I’mnot crawling’, Ed says, trying his best to sound intimidating.

Technicallyhe holds all the power here. Oswald’s half naked, in bed and Ed’s got a loadedgun. So why does Ed feel like he’s on the back foot?

‘Likeyou’re not ‘troubled’?’ Oswald smirks, pushing the blanket down as he gets outof bed.

Edmakes an involuntary noise of surprise when Oswald stands. Oswald is completely naked.

‘Oh please’,Oswald says, ‘It’s nothing you haven’t seen before’.

Oswaldcrosses the bedroom to a drinks cabinet and pours himself a tumbler. He knocksit back in one. Ed doesn’t know whether to look or not: if he doesn’t Oswaldmight interpret it as a victory and if he does, he’ll have to try not to noticehow lean Oswald’s limbs are, the way he’s leaning against the cabinet, one legslightly in front of the other that’s doing little to conceal the lengthbetween his-Ed hears Oswald give a knowing laugh and to his dismay, realises he’s beencaught looking.

‘Honestly,I’m surprised the ‘troubled’ bit stung you that much’, Oswald says, swirling theice in his glass, ‘Good. Almost makes up for the inconvenience of being lockedin a bank vault in close proximity to a man who smells like a mix between achemical refinery and body odour’.

Oswaldgives a disgusted shiver and this time Ed gets to smile.

‘Youdeserved that’, he says, ‘You were going to rob us anyway’.

‘Atleast I was honest about using you to get the cash’, Oswald counters, ‘And atleast I seem to have spent less time incarcerated than your dearly beloved’.

Oswaldsavours the way Ed’s eyes dart away and leaps on his uncertainty like a cat ona mouse.

‘Whenexactly are you planning on breaking her out anyway?’ Oswald asks, ‘Shouldn’t yoube waiting by the phone? She gets one call if I remember correctly’.

‘You’vebeen thinking about these little jabs since the bank haven’t you?’ Ed asks sourly.

‘Onlythe best for you Ed’, Oz taunts, ‘Doyou really have so little self-respect? It baffles me what you see in this womanbesides the physical’.

‘Ineed to know the answer to the riddle’.

Ed’seyes widen at the hard sound of Oswald suddenly slamming his glass onto the topof the cabinet.

‘Ohfor crying out-!’ Oswald snaps and gives a frustrated growl before continuingwith his tirade, ‘There is no riddle Ed! You know she’s using you and you knowsooner or later she’ll cast you aside! Where’s the mystery in that?!’

‘No!She’ll love me! She will!’

‘Ed!Riddler! Both of you! You told me once that ‘love was a weakness’! Why do youkeep ignoring your own advice?!’

‘Youdon’t understa-‘ Ed begins but Oswald practically snarls, his state of undress surprisinglynot detracting from his vehemence.

‘Idon’t understand?!’ Oswald shouts, ‘Are you being serious right now?! Need Iremind you Ed, we’ve been down this road before and it is a very. Dead. End’.

‘It’s-it’s,no, you don’t underst-‘ Ed babbles, hating how he can feel himself tremblingunder the awful weight of the truth, ‘Because I-I don’t know….I just-I justcan’t think straight when I’m around her!’

Ed isstartled when he hears a thud and realises he has dropped the gun. It makes asqueaking noise upon impact with the floor. Oswald is looking at Edincredulously. Almost as if he is insulted Ed brought a toy to threaten himwith instead of a real gun. Ed, deflated, can feel the emotions he has beenstruggling to contain begin to spill out. He fixes his eyes on the floor.

‘It’sall wrong’, he says dismayed and downcast that these melodramatic breakdownsalways seem to happen in front of Oswald, ‘I know it’s crazy and stupid but I’mjust so desperate to believe that…I just want to feel….

‘What?’

Ed swallowshard, struggling to articulate whilst simultaneously trying to supress thetears building in his eyes. Why the Hell is Oswald speaking to him so gentlynow?! When Oswald sits beside him on the bed, Ed can’t bear to look him in the eyes.He’s supposed to be the Riddler! Yet he feels more like a child who is due ascolding.He’s come here because he needs to hear the truth. He knows Oswald will tell him the truth.

‘Whole’,Ed whispers.

‘Well,when was the last time you felt that way?’

‘When…’

‘Spitit out’.

‘WhenI was living with you’.

Edcan’t help it He turns his head and looks into Oswald’s eyes. They are soft withconcern and sympathy. Oswald never looks at anybody else like that.

‘I needyou Oswald’, Ed confesses, his eyes conveying all the meaning the statemententails.

Forgood measure, he reaches out, hand no longer trembling, and places it on Oswald’sgood knee. Oswald’s breath hitches and Ed notices his cock give a visible pulseat the contact.

‘Are-areyou asking me to-‘ Oswald begins but this time Ed interjects.

‘Youknow I am. Just like you knew I’d come here. For this’.

Oswaldnods and Ed sees his cheeks colour as Ed’s hand drifts up his leg, towards hiscrotch.

‘Howmany times do I have to say it?’ Oswald whispers with a quiet laugh, ‘I knowyou Ed. All of you. And I know what you’rereally running from’.

‘I’mnot running’, Ed says, heart pounding even as he readies himself for what’s tocome, ‘You said it yourself, she’s a virus. I-I need-ah!’

Oswaldis on top of him, the movement too swift for Ed to counter and he winces as hefeels Oswald’s cool grip on his wrists. Oswald is stronger than he looks. Edreflects on how he always has been. He wonders if Oswald can feel his pulseracing beneath his fingertips and bites his lip as those green eyes, shining inthe darkness descend towards him. In the same moment Ed feels his lips part automaticallyas he runs his tongue along them. His legs part as well, Oswald’s knee slidingbetween them. Ed catches a glimpse of Oswald’s erection and the thought that hecan provoke such a reaction from someone like The Penguin is strangelyflattering.

‘Ithink I can help get her out of your system’, Oswald purrs, half hooded eyesglinting, ‘Riddler’.

Astheir lips make contact and Ed is overcome by the heat and softness of thesensation, he reflects on how there is nothing more arousing to him than theunknown.Except perhaps, the finding out.

[britesparc]

My Unpopular Star Wars Opinion: Or, Why The Phantom Menace is Better Than The Force Awakens

Was it, though? 

Were the Star Wars prequels – The Phantom Menace, Attack of the Clones, and Revenge of the Sith, whose vary names have become entertainment-industry watchwords for disappointment – really, truly better than the current Disney-owned era of Star Wars, which so far has produced two widely-praised billion-dollar-grossing movies, and is about to unleash a third, about which expectation is as high as a city in the clouds? Can I really think that, for reals?

Well, yes and no.

Let’s get the obvious things out of the way: there were some very poor decisions made during the Prequel Era. Let’s not pick over the corpse of George Lucas’ story choices – the whys and wherefores of virgin births, whiny antagonists, and Jar Jar Binks – and focus instead on the filmmaking technique employed. The dialogue is wooden. The camerawork is rigid. The performances are flat. The pacing is all over the place: in Phantom, the much-vaunted podrace goes on for at least two laps too long; indeed, the whole Tatooine section of the film shoots the legs out from under the momentum. Prior to that it had been a breakneck chase from overwhelming odds, our heroes escaping Naboo by the skin of their teeth; as soon as they break down on Tatooine, they’re sheltering from sandstorms and going gambling. And, of course, there’s the whole “taxation of outlying star systems is in dispute” nonsense: doesn’t quite grab you as quickly as “it is a period of civil war”, does it?

But there’s still something about them that feels Star Wars-y. There’s still a sense, even though I know Lucas was making it all up as he went along, that this fits into the universe correctly (I mean, he was making everything up as he went along, which is why Leia kisses Luke in Empire). There’s a cyclical nature to how the prequels marry with the original trilogy that’s about more than a visit to Tatooine or the presence of a Mandalorian bounty hunter. The first films in both trilogies are, in essence, about innocence: a simple quest by simple people to prevent an immediate danger (removing the blockade of Naboo versus destroying the Death Star); the second films complicate things by splitting up our heroes on separate quests before uniting them for a finale that feels, at best, like a pyrrhic victory; before resolving their respective trilogies in an all-bets-are-off finale beset with divided loyalties and a dangerous Sith Lord. Revenge of the Sith and Return of the Jedi – even their titles are darkly mirrored – both deal explicitly with Vader and his relationship to the Force; he wrestles with his emotions and his commitment to his Order, the love of his wife compelling him to commit dark acts before finally the love of his son pulls him back into the light. The Force Awakens, whilst it does mirror aspects of Star Wars, feels more like a greatest hits package; we have another callow youth from a desert planet on a hero’s journey, another aged mentor, another cocky pilot, another tragic death, and another large object exploding in space, but it feels more consciously designed. A box-ticking exercise, rather than a thematic resonance. Or maybe it’s just because the iconography is so similar.

The First Order is basically the Empire, and the Resistance is basically the Rebellion. There are TIE Fighters and X-Wings. There are Stormtroopers and helmeted good-guy soldiers. There are English-accented characters walking around in SS outfits being glowery and evil. Whilst I’d never attempt to suggest that Amidala’s chrome-plated ship, or the wing-walking droid craft, were as iconic as what we got forty years ago, to go back to the same well is disappointing.

My wider issue, however, is how the new era seems to disregard somewhat the mythological aspects of Star Wars. I guess I’ve only seen one film in the trilogy, but despite the palette-swap nature of its craft and locations, it does feel markedly different to the Star Wars that came before.  There’s a sense of destiny in Star Wars, a “balance of the Force” that was hinted at in the original trilogy and made explicit in the prequels; the yoke of inevitability pulling characters in directions that they may not wish to go. The subtle, underplayed, and often-ignored theme in the prequels of once-noble institutions slowly crumbling into irrelevance and becoming the very thing they hated speaks to the wider issue of the “will of the Force”, of the Chosen One appearing to bring balance. That Chosen One is assumed to be Anakin, and we’re left to interpret for ourselves whether the balance was actually achieved; is it when he kills the Younglings? Or is it when he topples the Emperor? This thread ties the first six films together to produce something grander and more metaphorical, even if it is a case of Lucas essentially retconning to some degree his original intentions from the seventies and eighties. The Force Awakens feels a bit different, like the preoccupations of the previous films are gone; there’s a darkness to everything creeping in around the edges, complicating matters. Whether this makes for a better narrative is moot: what I’m saying is it makes it feel less of a whole with the rest of Star Wars.

This is exacerbated by the time-jump. Obviously we were always going to go 30-40 years ahead of Jedi. But so much has happened in that time. In the 20 years between Sith and Hope, the galaxy might be fundamentally different, but from a narrative view, nothing has changed: the Empire is still victorious and the Jedi still in exile, just like we left them. But in between Jedi and Force, we’ve seen Luke’s attempt at training new Jedi falter, Ben Solo fall to the Dark Side, the rise of the First Order, and the formation of the Resistance, to say nothing of the yet-unrevealed histories of Snoke and Rey. The film features flashbacks and a cliffhanger finale. It just feels odd, out of place, not at one with the cyclical nature of Star Wars. And, furthermore, it undoes so much of the happy ending of Jedi: despite the deaths of Vader and Palpatine, the Dark Side rises again, there's a new Empire, Luke goes into exile (apparently convinced that the Jedi as an institution is a bad thing) and Han and Leia split up. It's sad! It's tragic! And whilst I'm fine with all that happening in Star Wars, I think it should happen on-camera. Not in flashbacks or spin-offs, it should be part of the saga. To introduce it as backstory complicates the rhythm of the films. It feels less of a whole. It feels like a sequel, not the next episode. And from the trailers and pre-release hype of The Last Jedi, it seems like this is the new normal for Star Wars.

None of this makes the Disney films bad. In fact, going back to the popular iconography of the original trilogy makes perfect sense. Having the heroes still be a scrappy insurgency helps us root for them. Giving us a mysterious backstory to uncover is compelling. But my argument is, all these elements feel discordant with what's gone before. The prequels, for all their faults technically and narratively, helped weave a mythological tapestry for Star Wars that is being undone by the new films. I feel they're remaining too wedded to familiar imagery and story points, whilst simultaneously moving too far away from the more conceptual, mythological underpinnings of Star Wars as a fable. I kind of wish that Lucas had completed his mooted final trilogy – his own VII, VIII, and IX – before selling to Disney (especially if he took more of an executive role, as he did with Empire and Jedi, and left the writing and directing to others). Taken as individual films, maybe they wouldn't be as good as what we've got – because despite everything I've said here, I really do think Force Awakens and especially Rogue One are pretty tremendous – but at least we'd have Lucas' complex, contradictory, rhythmically compelling vision completed. Of course, then we wouldn't have Star Wars' new Holy Trinity of Rey, Finn, and Poe – perhaps the Disney era's most important additions to the overall mythos.

Look, Star Wars is complicated. George Lucas is complicated, and his legacy is complicated. I'm chuffed to bits he sold to Disney – not because DIsney is the be-all and end-all, but because they've proven their ability to marry corporate aims with creative excellence; look at Pixar and Marvel especially. The Force Awakens has issues but it's still a great, crowd-pleasing, immensely successful movie, and already we've got BB-8, porgs, and broadsword lightsabers sitting in the popular imagination in ways that, arguably, nothing in the prequels ever really managed (apart from Darth Maul and his double-ended saber, I guess). And again, the progressive casting of the new films is long overdue and utterly fantastic. I'm still really, really excited about The Last Jedi, and Abrams' Episode IX, and Johnson's new non-Skywalker trilogy. But I can't help feeling like something quintessentially Star Wars has been lost; perhaps it's an oddness, a willingness to duck when everyone is expecting a jump. Perhaps it was Lucas' own obsessions and interests that fuelled the franchise, that gave us everything from the sublime (Vader, the Death Star, lightsabers, Yoda) to the ridiculous (midichlorians, Gungans, Ewoks, Watto). Perhaps the new films are better films, but in my heart of hearts, I'm not sure I can love them quite as much. Maybe The Last Jedi will end up being the best Star Wars experience this side of Knights of the Old Republic, but it will still feel slightly separate. Further tales. An imaginary story. The expanded universe.

Maybe it's me. Maybe it's just knowing that Lucas had more stories he wanted to tell and never got the chance. Maybe it's because I've always been a lot warmer towards the prequels than most. Maybe things will shift with time – as more films come out in the new universe, with more characters, then this will start to feel like the status quo, the new normal. I hope so, because I love Star Wars – indeed, it's worth repeating, I think the new films are excellent, and are better films, better made films, than all three of the prequels. But although my head believes we're in a golden age of Star Wars not seen since the early 80s, my heart has yet to be convinced.

Anyway. I'll let you know if I still feel the same way after The Last Jedi...

[notafeeling]

Unconditional

Pairing: analogical (Anxiety/Logic), implied royality (Morality/Prince)

Genre: fluff, the tiniest teeniest bit of angst if you squint

Word Count: 1140 (y’all I whipped this up in like 20 minutes be proud of me)

Summary:

Anxiety and Logic debate over true love. Surprisingly (or perhaps not at all), Logan is on the believing side.

A/N I saw some asks on @prinxietys and I just had to, okay? Yes I have heaps of unfinished prompts,,, but like,,, why not?? (ask one and two) Also I kind of didn’t edit... Whoops.

This debate was somewhat… different.

After the one they had with Thomas as the moderator, Logan had come to the conclusion that debates with Anxiety were something he’d like to do more of, and so he took the other aside and asked him whether or not he’d like them to become a regular thing.

Whenever they felt like an argument between the two was coming to a rise, they would agree to debate the topic instead. It was a good way to keep their emotions in check and not be too snappy with each other. Overall, it was better for everyone if Anxiety and Logic weren’t at war.

The topic this time came about unexpectedly. Morality and Prince were watching a movie in the commons while Logic sat nearby, reading a book. Anxiety had walked in and scoffed quietly as the romance scene played, muttering something about “unrealistic and cheesy endings”. Thankfully, Prince hadn’t heard otherwise the problem would escalate far too quickly.

However, Logan did. He frowned slightly. “I know you don’t like Disney, but what have you got against the endings?” he had asked.

“I never said I didn’t like Disney,” Anxiety defended. “I’m just saying, the romance in all of them is just so predictable whilst simultaneously farfetched. I mean, ‘true love’ isn’t even a thing.” He shrugged, not thinking much of it.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Logan began carefully. They were still speaking in hushed tones as to not alert the emotional and romantic sides. “Although I agree with the predictable bit, I wouldn’t discard the idea of true love altogether.” At this point, his book laid forgotten on his lap.

“Don’t tell me you buy into that crap.” Anxiety arched an eyebrow at him.

Logic was getting increasingly frustrated. “The idea of true love doesn’t exactly have to be about romantic love. It’s based around unconditional love. That can and does happen. Therefore, isn’t the logical conclusion that romantic true love must also be a thing?”

“Nah. I don’t believe in it. Who could love anyone despite all their flaws? That sounds unhealthy to me.”

“No, it sounds like a healthy relationship. They don’t have to accept their flaws, but they do. They work around each of their so called flaws and manage to love each other all the same. Why are you so against the idea?”

“Didn’t you tell me that love was a chemical reaction in your brain? I.e. not a thing? And besides, why shouldn’t I be against the idea? I personally haven’t seen any evidence of it.”

Logan sighed at Anxiety’s cocky smirk. Prince and Morality were throwing worried glances at the slowly rising voices from where they were curled up together on the couch. “Let’s go.” He stood up and Anxiety followed.

“Are we really debating this? C’mon, Lolo, you know I’m right.”

Logic ignored the happy flutter in his chest when Anxiety used that nickname. Now was not the time for his emotions to get the best of him. Especially since they were arguing about love, of all things. He really hoped he didn’t mess this up.

And so here they were, facing each other slightly and going back and forth.

“As I said earlier, I haven’t seen any evidence of it firsthand. Take me for example. Can you honestly expect someone to truly love me without having a romanticised version of me in their heads that doesn’t have my many, many issues?” Anxiety didn’t even wait for an answer. Logan’s tensed state was enough to give him what he needed. “That’s what I thought.”

“My silence wasn’t an answer,” Logic ground out, his fists balled tightly. This debate was too emotionally-charged for his liking, and it was taking a toll on him. “Maybe someone does and you’re just too wrapped up in your disbelief to notice.”

Anxiety barked out a laugh, high, cold and disbelieving before making a show of looking around. “Wow, you’re right, I can practically see all those people lining up to tell me they love me unconditionally.” Sarcasm dripped from his tone and Logan flinched.

“You honestly don’t think that someone could? Why?! You’re- you deserve true love, Anxiety.” He knew what was happening and he couldn’t stop it. His emotions had gotten the better of him and now, they were all going to rush out of him at once. “You deserve someone who sees you and isn’t scared by your demeanour nor filled with hatred. You deserve someone who is willing to give their all for you. You deserve someone that will take the time to tell you why you’re wrong but in a kind way. You deserve love.”

Anxiety didn’t reply for a bit. Logan was still tense, wondering if he had screwed up big time. His feelings were supposed to remain hidden, damn it. Why couldn’t he let this go?

‘It’s because you love him,’ a voice taunted. And it was true. He knew it somewhat before but now, it was undeniably the truth. And that scared him a little. Especially when Anxiety still hadn’t said anything.

“I don’t deserve anything,” the side whispered finally, steeling himself.

Something in Logan snapped at that, and he pushed back his chair forcefully. He stood up and marched over to where Anxiety was sitting and leant over the table until his face was right in front of the other’s.

“I love you, Anx, so damn much. Don’t you dare try to tell me otherwise.”

He scanned Anxiety’s face, and, upon seeing no resistance from him, Logan surged forward and finally, finally, kissed him.

Anxiety froze and a million thoughts raced in his mind during those brief few seconds. ‘He said he loves me. Does he actually love me? He can’t love me, I’m me. Who would love me? Oh my god he’s kissing me. Why would he kiss me? I love him. I love him? I must love him, this feels too good not to be love. Love doesn’t exist. It has to exist, what else could I be feeling? Oh, he’s still kissing me. I’m frozen. I should probably respond. Why can’t I move? Why is he pulling away? No, damn it, Logan, come back.’

All too soon, Logic pulled away and straightened himself up. He was blushing. He coughed and opened his mouth to apologise, but he was interrupted by Patton walking in holding some sandwiches. He looked back and forth between the two.

“Uh, you two were debating for a while and I made lunch… Is everything okay?” Morality barely got the sentence out before Anxiety grabbed Logan’s tie and pulled him towards him in a messy kiss.

Morality jumped at the sudden movement, but realised what was happening soon after. He let out an “aww” before leaving the two alone to work things out. He didn’t have to know everything.

[we-say-nosoro]

Water Fight

I think this is day seven now… And we have some HonoKotoUmi, featuring an Umi who’s actually done with everything

— Umi really regrets agreeing to go to the beach with the rest of Muse. Not only is she the subject of many sea-related puns, courtesy of Honoka, but Kotori had also picked out a swimsuit that she’d rather not wear. She couldn’t say no, however, because Kotori had made it herself and her heart was set on seeing her friend wearing it.

“Why is this so revealing?” she mutters to herself, pulling at it in a vain hope for it to miraculously cover her more. Apparently, everyone else is ignoring her to do their own thing. That is, at least, until Honoka attacks her with a water gun, giggling to herself.

“I got you real good, Umi-chan!” she calls, watching Umi wipe her face to get rid of the water. Is a relaxing day at the beach too much to ask?

In the distance, she sees Kotori and Rin having a sandcastle building competition, with Hanayo and Eli as eager spectators. Maki appears to be sunbathing on her own, and Nico and Nozomi are having their own water gun fight.

“So, what are you doing?” Honoka asks, getting closer.

“Not much. Maybe I’ll go and join Maki and-”

Honoka pouts. “How boring! Come on, have some fun with us!” She grabs Umi’s arm, pulling her up, before making an announcement to everybody else.

“Hey, you guys! We’re all gonna have a water fight!” She pumps a fist in the air, and Umi tries to pull herself away. There’s no way she’ll be taking part in something so boisterous. No way.

But Honoka has other ideas. She rummages in her bag, pulling out a bright blue water gun. “This is for you,” she says, handing it to Umi.

Eli is the first one to arrive, sighing as though she knew that Honoka would pull off something like this. “It can’t hurt, right?” She carefully picks out her own gun, of a blue much lighter than Umi’s one.

One by one, the girls start to crowd around and take their guns. Well, apart from Maki, who is forcefully dragged over by Nozomi.

“Let’s split into teams! That’ll be much more fun!”

They’re all on board with Honoka’s suggestion. The first team consists of her, Kotori and Hanayo. The second team is Eli, Maki and Nico, and the remaining three form the third team.

Umi is slightly annoyed that she’s put with two of the pranksters in the group, but she doesn’t protest out loud.

“And let’s start!”

—

Beaches aren’t exactly the most exciting places to hold a water fight, so they decide to do it in the forest nearby. Umi decides to take control of her group.

“What’s our strategy?” she whispers behind a tree.

Rin tilts her head. “Do we really need one? I thought we could just attack!”

“No, no. We need to outsmart our opponents, so that we’ll have a better chance of winning!” Nozomi replies. She looks towards Umi, eyeing her up and down. “Actually, I have an idea…”

—

The first people to meet are Kotori and Maki in an open area. Eli watches from the other side of a tiny stream, ready to ambush Kotori if she sees that Maki needs help. They both have their guns raised at each other.

“Are you ready, Nishikino-sama?” Kotori asks with a sickly sweet tone to her voice. It almost sends a chill through Maki’s spine. Almost, because the ridiculous nickname ruins it for her.

“I didn’t know you could be so threatening.”

“There are hidden parts to everyone.”

There’s a click as Kotori shoots her gun, right when Maki opens her mouth to speak, and it completely drenches her.

“You really needed to have your guard up,” Kotori states. She holds out a hand, which Maki tentatively takes.

“No hard feelings, right?”

Before Maki can reply, Eli jumps in, firing her gun. It’s too quick for Kotori to dodge, and she simply stands there, water dripping down her swimsuit.

“Now we’re even.”

Smiling, Kotori drops to the floor in an act to play dead for comedy, something that is far beneath Maki to do. They watch as Eli walks on, mouthing an apology to them. What Eli fails to notice, however, is Nozomi standing silently behind a tree with her gun. It’s easy to guess what happens next.

—

Nico is almost too kind to let Hanayo slip past her. But she lightly grabs her wrist, flicking her water gun out of her hand, which leaves Hanayo defenceless.

“At least you’ll be killed by the great Nico!” she tells her, holding the gun up.

Hanayo nods, just because she knows that there is no way out of this. The gun is shot, and the water lands right in the middle of her swimsuit.

When Hanayo drops to her knees to pretend to be dead, Nico catches the sight of somebody moving behind her. She whips around, immediately with her finger on the trigger.

“Nicocchi…”

Nozomi’s arms snake around her waist, making Nico jump. She shoots blindly behind her, managing to get a lucky strike on Nozomi’s thigh.

“I swear I’m gonna kill you some day…” she hisses.

“But you already did,” Nozomi replies, smirking. With a fake scream, she falls forward onto the ground.

“That’s two kills, now…” Nico mumbles to herself, unable to hide the grin on her face.

However, somebody leaps out from behind a bush, stopping Nico’s train of thought.

“What did you just do to Nozomi-chan?!” Rin cries, slowly approaching her.

Nico tries to run. She’s fast, but Rin is faster. She catches her in a tight hold, putting the gun up.

“This is my revenge,” Rin says in an over-dramatic voice. She immediately shoots Nico, thus ending her kill streak.

“I did it!” Cheering in celebration, she skips on to try and look for Honoka, who appears to have gone missing.

The thing is, Umi can’t see properly from her hiding spot. Upon seeing somebody entering the area that she’s in, she shoots without a second thought, assuming that the intruder is an enemy. When in fact, it’s Rin, who shrieks when the water hits her, quickly telling Umi that she just killed someone on her own team. Good going, Umi.

She freezes when she feels arms wrap around her chest.

“H- Honoka?” She stutters.

“You wouldn’t mind it if I killed you, right? You didn’t even want to play to begin with.” Honoka grins.

Now this is a mistake. Umi gets extremely competitive if somebody mentions it to her, and now is no different. She abruptly stands up, turning to face her best friend. Honoka’s eyes trail down to Umi’s swimsuit, which has a large tear through the middle of it.

“Uh, Umi-chan…”

Umi resists the urge to cover it up. After all, this is all part of Nozomi’s plan, tearing her own swimsuit to distract the enemies.

Not that anyone in Muse is perverted. With the exception of Nozomi herself, maybe.

Whilst Honoka is distracted with the tear, wondering if she should say something about it, Umi raises her gun.

Her hand shakes as she does so, embarrassed with the thought of shooting somebody whilst a part of her chest is completely exposed for Honoka’s viewing pleasure. Despite this, she shuts her eyes in her best efforts to ignore it.

Eventually, she decides to shoot, and the gun slips out of her hand just as she does it. It flies upwards, spraying water all over the two of them. Realising her mistake, she mentally curses herself for letting her hand shake like that, otherwise she’d be the sole winner. But as it appears, they’re both out at the same time, leaving no winner.

Nozomi has the whole thing recorded.

—

“Sorry I messed up the swimsuit you made for me, Kotori,” Umi says once they’re all sitting back on the beach after the day’s events. Kotori shakes her head in response, not seeming at all disappointed.

“I had no idea that you had it in you to be so bold, Umi-chan! Maybe you’re just as bad as me!” Honoka pipes up beside her.

“No way! You’re far worse!”

“Hehe, it’s funny seeing you so flustered.”

Honoka and Kotori exchange silent glances with each other, before leaning in and simultaneously kissing Umi on the cheeks. That’s more than enough to make her entire body turn hot and want to crawl under the sand to stay in there forever.

She shoots up, looking down at her “friends”. “You’re- you’re both so shameless!”

Ok, maybe she doesn’t regret the whole day. She doesn’t want to admit it, but maybe that kiss did feel nice. Maybe.

This was Nozomi’s plan all along.

[drcontrarian]

Freedom

If Hitler was alive today, would he be interviewed on TV- or Radio Talk Shows?

If he was to be interviewed and given a ‘platform’, would that have been wrong?

There is always someone who seems to offend the sensibilities of the Left, so we might as well consider the worst case scenario.

Let’s ignore for the moment the bigotry involved by the left, for if their spokespeople (senior politicians - including Hillary Clinton - and celebrities alike) call for and end of civility and the result is undeniable Antifa violence in the streets, their talk is justified because it supports the cause and come from within.

Let’s just focus on the principle, and not the politics.

Freedom of speech is the liberty to express your thoughts.

The cliched example of yelling ‘fire’ in a crowded theatre is often trotted out as an example of how all speech is not free. It is not a good example, because that is clearly not merely an expression of thought.

I, too, don’t believe in unlimited freedom of speech. It only works in a certain context - let’s call it a certain socio-cultural environment. (More about that later.)

But freedom of speech is a core human right and any limitations put on this right is bound to have adverse ramifications. Freedom of speech is one degree removed from freedom to think; and I would argue that it is in fact inseparable because we often ‘talk through our ideas as a means of thinking.

If you are not free to speak, you are not free to think.

Unless you are free to offend, you are not really free to speak.

Unless you are free to think wrongly, you are not free.

As shocking as this may sound, it is perfectly okay to be racist, homophobic, transphobic, Islamophobic or whatever ‘wrong think’ someone might be accused of. Because unless you allow someone to think the opposite of what you think (say, anti-racist, anti-homophobic etc), why should THEY allow YOU to think the opposite of them?

And if you believe that other should not have the ability to make up their views because they happen to be contrary to yours, because they are ‘clearly wrong’, then you must surely understand that YOU are not only being a victim of an ideology, but also a bigot who denies others the freedom you claim for yourself.

Unless you can call for an overthrow of the government, you are not free.If you are not free to even incite violence, you are not free. There would have been no French Revolution if there wasn’t an incitement to violent uprising.

Ideas are expressed. When ideas are expressed as ‘speech’, they may be manifested in behaviours and practices and ultimately even law. When these ideas are adopted and become practice (or law) that is when a society is impacted and shaped in a certain way.

Racist laws may be enacted for example.

But that is only a problem if the society does not want that. Japan has pursued ethnic homogeneity for a very long time and this is embedded in their culture and their policies and their laws. One might call it racist. But it is not a problem for Japan if that is what the Japanese people want; whatever you or I may think about it.

I mentioned earlier that there is a context in which free speech is not only desirable, but necessary. A democratic society is one element of that context. Because in such a society, the best ideas will win and and will reflect the will of the people. There is no need to fear bad ideas and no need to ban them.

In the context of a democracy, freedom of speech has a natural inhibitor, the voice of the people, and it works. I have a serious problem when democratic opposition transmogrifies into boycotts, bullying and outright physical violence.

[The relatively new strategy to target people’s livelihoods and to threaten and bully anyone associated with a person you agree with is reprehensible and cowardly. Your ideas should battle against other people’s ideas.]

If one group of people reserves the right to ‘ban bad ideas’, how can we be certain that one day they won’t also ban a good idea? Because any cause, any human endeavour, no matter how noble,  eventually becomes irredeemably corrupted (just ask any Church).

The only safeguard we have is to deny ANY group of people the right to ban ideas. And I don’t really care how noble you think your cause is, or how meritorious the outcomes will be for some other group of people.

We are our ideas.

If Hitler was around, I’d absolutely invite him on my podcast, talk show or whatever, because I would love to shine a light on his beliefs, because I think my ideas about the human race are more meritorious than his, and any audience who is free to listen and think for themselves will draw the same conclusion.

The Hitler-problem became a problem when he usurped the authority to oppress dissident voices, which is exactly what the Left is doing.

Message for Marketers/Brands and Organisations

Brands need to think about this clearly, and then make a firm decision that they will stick to: What is your role in socio-political issues? Should you promote ‘causes’? Should you participate in the ‘conversation’?

Socio-political issues are important. I write about it all the time on this, what is essentially a business blog. But there is a world of difference between understanding what is happening in the marketplace, and taking sides in a debate.

An organisation (brand) is nothing more than the group of people who work in it. It is, in my view, untenable for any commercial enterprise (larger than 3 people) to arrive at a position (on any social issue) that will embrace the views held by every member of that organisation fully. The economic impact of promoting inherently divisive issues is rarely quantified, but I believe it to be significant. Knowing a little bit about human psychology, it stands to reason that people will be less engaged in ‘work’ if work also involves a cause that is anathema to them.

My advice is to be socio-politically agnostic as much as practical: when pressured to adopt a cause, resist, when targeted by activists, ride it out.

If you want to stand for something, stand for great service or quality products.

Postscript

I write this as a postscript so as not to muddle the key point I want to convey, but it is an important contextual consideration when we discuss freedom of speech.

There are other contextual elements that makes freedom of speech tenable; democracy being one and the other is that ideally the culture should also have a  Judeo-Christian foundation. If there is a coherent set of values that unites the body politic, and such values have been shaped in pursuit of eternal, transcendent and objective truths, then the people of that culture will naturally impose limitations on their own expression of ideas, recognising that some of these may be inappropriate or sinful. Ideally we want people to police their own thoughts, and not need others to do so.

Whilst secular commentators may be too theologically- and philosophically illiterate to realise it, but the very notion of sanctity and ‘worth’ of the individual (Imago Dei) is a Judeo-Christian idea. A truly Christian culture cannot simultaneously be fascist or oppressive.

Image: https://benamimusic.com/2013/05/13/what-is-freedom/