#i just think our inherent humanity is the most precious thing about us

[gardenofnoah]

part one: you’ve been running behind, i’m afraid you’re too late

wc: 5.7K chapter tags: MDNI, dark content (domestic abuse/physical abuse within a romantic relationship (not between reader and shinsou), general violence, nonconsensual quirk use??, graphic descriptions of injuries), ptsd, healing and forgiveness, undefined relationship between reader and shinsou, gn reader (no pronouns), pet names (“angel”, “baby”), probably inaccurate description of shinsou’s quirk idk

Kyoji was good to you. He was older, he was handsome–he exuded a confidence that you’d not yet been privy to. He spoiled you, really–with gifts and dinners and glimpses into a lifestyle that your young naivety latched onto–you liked him for that. You were taken by his charm, and how he always knew exactly what to say. 

The very things you adored seemed to turn to sharpened weapons that nicked at your skin. But he was careful not to draw blood until he knew he had you.

You’d met at UA, you in your second year and he in his last. You were inseparable from the start–you hung off his arm like a little trophy he could carry around. What he’d ever done to earn that, you’ve no idea now. 

Hitoshi had been weary of him from the start. 

“I don’t know, angel,” he told you, sprawled across your extra long twin bed while you did your hair in the little mirror that sat on your desk. “He seems a little…” pausing between words, treading carefully, “off.”

You’d gotten angry with him at that. You told him that he just didn’t like that you were happy and not hanging out with him–that he was only jealous that he couldn’t follow you like a lost puppy anymore. Your words had very clearly wounded him, but he recovered before you could think too much of it–the hurt bleeding back into his practiced indifference. 

“Just be careful, okay?” he asked quietly as you all but tossed him out of your dorm. “Call me if you need anything.”

You’d brushed it off, along with everyone else's thinly-veiled warnings, and continued to see Kyoji. Things were going well enough–he graduated and took you with him. There might have been something foreboding about it, but it was fleeting and you didn’t put up a fight–didn’t dig your heels in at all as he was picking up the boxes made up of everything you were before him and loading them into the back of his car. You completed your last year at UA from the bedroom of the apartment you were suddenly sharing–all tall ceilings and chrome appliances. All for show, sparking and without a sign of life–just how Kyoji pictured it. There wasn’t a sign of you anywhere–all of your boxes had ended up in a storage unit not far from UA. They hadn’t even made it the whole drive to the apartment–it hadn’t taken long at all for him to convince you that he could buy you things that were far nicer than what you had in them. 

You still saw Hitoshi, but your interactions were rare. If he caught wind that you were on campus for any reason, he’d seek you out–joyfully ignoring the cold shoulder you usually tried to give him. He’d loop an arm around your neck, laughing at the way you bristled at his touch. You pretended not to notice how forced it was–how he raked his eyes over you, searching for something you didn’t want him to see. Both of you caught in a bizarre performance of make believe in front of your other friends, who all regarded you with the same, thinly-veiled apprehension. Scanning for something that wasn’t yet there, but that surely would be. All of you a group of dangling marionettes, creaking clumsily toward the final act.

Kyoji didn’t like Hitoshi. He’d made that clear from the beginning. He thought that your relationship with the purple-haired hero was strange, going so far as to tell you that Hitoshi was “toxic”– someone who was “isolating you from the people who cared for you”. The fact that Hitoshi behaved like he did–mostly aloof, eager to wound with his quick tongue–made it an easy sell, despite him only ever regarding you with a gentle fondness. Kyoji stressed that he was only worried, because clearly Hitoshi had manipulated you into some semblance of friendship with him–one that was surely only transactional to him. It had always been clear, to Kyoji–who was wiser and older and only ever wanted the best for you–so you let him steer you away from Hitoshi. You closed your eyes when he turned you away from your other friends, too–letting him take the wheel. He knew better than you did, you were sure. 

Now you know it was bullshit, but you were in love, supposedly–you believed him because you had no reason to doubt him. And he loved you–he told you so, in all of his elaborate, and often very public, displays of affection. Each overblown effort made you uncomfortable, but he’d gone through so much trouble–and made sure you were aware of it. So you let him love you like that, even if it left you feeling a little hollow. 

You scoff at the memory, now. Curled up in the corner, locked in your bedroom. Bruised and weak, you reach for your phone on the floor next to you. You scroll until you find his name.

He watches your face pop up on his phone on the coffee table. Half asleep, he reaches to pause the movie he’d been watching, and presses the green button by your name.

“Hi, angel.” he murmurs through a yawn. 

“Hitoshi,” you croak, and he’s upright immediately. By your tone, he knows you’re not safe. He curses himself for not catching this sooner–he should have known that things had gotten worse when you stopped answering his texts a few weeks ago. He’d given you space, hoping that time show you what kind of person Kyoji really was, but it’s apparent now that it only served to isolate you further. He’s made up his mind, though–the gears in his brain slip into place automatically, and he won’t let himself feel remorse over what he’s about to do–not yet, anyway. He’ll ask his questions–give you the chance to lie to him, like he knows you will–but he’s already decided. He hopes that you won’t hate him for it. 

“What’s going on?”

“Just–” a sharp intake of breath, like it hurts you, “so tired. I’m so tired of this.”

He takes a breath himself–deep and rattling in his chest, pleading with himself to keep a level head. He needs to, or he won’t be able to do this. He just needs to get you out–to get you somewhere safe. He squeezes his eyes shut, and pictures your reality–alone, hurt, and curled into yourself. He feels his pulse pick up, and tries to think of something else.

Questions be damned. He needs to do this now. 

He says a quick, silent prayer to whomever is listening. To please let this work. To make you understand–to maybe forgive him, one day. 

He steadies himself, and opens his eyes.

“Are you hurt?”

“Um–no, I don’t know, I–”

He’s flooded with pain, all at once. Sharp and radiating, in his eye and over his rib cage, and across his throat in a way that feels suspiciously like–

You were hurt, then. 

He’s overwhelmed by the full range of your emotions, too, as intimately as if they were his–shock, at first. He jolts as you startle, like the lights have just flickered out during a heavy storm. He feels the moment the recognition hits you–when you realize what he’s done–and he feels it when you start to fight it. 

“Please stop,” it’s a whispered plea that comes from him, into the receiver he keeps up to your ear. He hears your breath hitch.

“It’s okay. You’re okay,” he says, and he’s moving now–already down the front steps and out the door.

It’s effort, like this–he wasn’t sure if he would even be able to use his quirk over the phone. He’d asked Aizawa about it, who eyed him for a long time before he’d answered simply, “You should really think about it.”

And he has, but he sees no other option. Hitoshi knows, very acutely, that he is hurting you– that he’s not doing a good thing right now. The thought of it turns in his stomach, but he can’t stop. Not until he knows you’re safe. 

He envisions your body in his mind. It’s fuzzy, at best–the outline of you is warbled and distorted, but he can do this. 

“We’re gonna move now, baby,” he rasps, suddenly fatigued by the exertion of keeping himself moving and keeping you in his grasp. Like a villain, he thinks, and promptly ignores.

He starts to move you and the feeling is nearly blinding–you’re in pain. His own rib cage seizes and it knocks the breath out of him. 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he tries to placate you, even though he knows it’s shallow, “We just need to get you standing. Can you do that for me?”

It’s stupid of him to try to ask anything of you right now, and he hears you echo the sentiment–you’re still fighting him, though not as valiantly as before. He can feel how exhausted you are, and it’s not your injuries that make his chest ache now. 

He hurries past a gas station and realizes he’s closer to you than he thought. He hadn’t been paying attention, not really–hadn’t even bothered to disguise himself with more than his black hoodie pulled over his head. He hears voices to his right and realizes that he really didn’t think this through–that he could easily be caught off guard right now, with all of his focus on you. Driving wasn’t an option, though–it was dangerous enough just for him to try to walk and do this.

He catches himself trying to create distance in his mind. To call it this, instead of naming it. Because if he allows himself to recognize what he’s really doing to you, he won’t be able to keep you under his quirk, and he just needs to get you out–

He feels a bump to both knees, and he realizes that he’s gotten you up and moving. He sees the vague outline of your bedroom window, and thanks whatever god is up there that you live on the first floor. Now that he’s closer to you, your body is more in focus. He can manage like this.

He comes to a stop at a street corner, less than a block from your house. He takes a breath in, and focuses again. 

“Okay angel,” he says, keeping his voice soft, “we need to get this open. I’m going to be gentle, but it’s still going to hurt.”

It does–immediately. Having to lift the window with one arm to keep the phone to your ear–the only way to keep up the connection–is putting too much strain on the fractures of your ribs. He feels you thrash in his mind, and he almost wishes he could hear your voice, just so you could scream at him. He wishes he could at least give you that. 

All at once the pain is cut off and bleeds into something different. Panic, he recognizes. Hitoshi feels the adrenaline spike in your body and realizes he’s run out of time. 

He needs to get you out now.

He takes off in a sprint toward the direction of your apartment. His hold on you falters, only for a second, but it makes you stumble. He feels his own fear spike. 

“I’m coming,” he tells you, and it comes out like a plea, “I’m right there baby, just hold on–”

He hears the yelling as he rounds the corner. He sees you then, half way out the window, and he knows if he lets go of you now, you won’t make it out. 

He feels a bruising pain wrap around his wrist, and he goes cold.

Hitoshi makes it to the window before he knows it and lets you go. He wraps his arms around your middle as you go limp, and when he looks up, he is face to face with the man who did this to you. 

Kyoji, who is still crushing your wrist in his hand. 

“What the fuck,” Hitoshi grinds out, and it is lethal when it leaves him, “are you doing?”

“What am I do–” 

He doesn’t give Kyoji any time to give a real answer before he’s in his head. The fatigue is stifling, but his adrenaline fuels his quirk. The grip on your wrist falls slack. He pulls you the rest of the way out of the window, careful not to aggravate your ribs further. You whimper, not yet fully conscious, as he sets you down gently in the grass.

“Give me one second, angel,” he tells your limp form, brushing your hair back from your eyes.

He takes a step forward, as does Kyoji–rigid and clearly unwilling, but he moves despite himself, because he’s no longer in control. Through the window, Histoshi takes a long look at him, and feels nothing but contempt. He lets it bleed into the connection between them–feels only a white, hot anger coming from the man in his hold, and it makes him smile.

“You won’t make that mistake again.”

He watches from outside himself, then, as he leads Kyoji’s hands through the open window. Hitoshi feels nothing as he slams it down over his fingers. He lets the bastard go right as it connects.

Hitoshi hears the crunch of splintering bone, and only watches as his victim comes back to himself. Feels nothing as he watches him process what has just happened. And then, as a howl of pain breeches the silence, a sick part of him howls back—feeling more than a little justified. 

He watches for a second more, and then turns his attention back to you. Still limp in the grass–whether you’re still unconscious or you’re pretending to be, he isn’t sure, but he couldn’t blame you if it was the latter. Hitoshi gathers you in his arms, and you don’t fight him. He wonders if you have any fight left. 

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, rubbing his cheek against your temple in some vain attempt at comfort as he walks, “I’m so sorry.”

Hitoshi is a nervous wreck. 

He fumbles through his own kitchen like he’s never been in it before. He opens cabinets, closes them, and opens them again. He’s opened the fridge at least three times in the last five minutes, like something will be different each time he opens it.

He has no idea what to do with himself. 

He comes to a stop, finally, in front of the counter and braces his hands against the cool stone. He lets his head hang and takes in a deep, shuddering breath through his nose. The only thing he can focus on is the knowledge that you are asleep in the next room.

He’d brought you in and set you on his bed, checking to make sure none of your injuries were life threatening. When he was satisfied that they were not, he turned on his heel and all but sprinted out of his room, closing the door as softly as he could behind him. Sleep wasn’t an option for him after that. 

“Fuck,” he breathes, knuckles straining in their grip on the countertop. He was nothing if not cowardly. 

He nearly comes out of his skin when his phone rings next to him. He spares it a glance, and feels his stomach lurch when he sees who it is. He hits the green button, and it’s not a second after that the voice on the other end lays into him. 

“You fuckin’ idiot,” Bakugou seethes, “what did you do?”

Hitoshi has never experienced Bakugou as quiet as he is right now. The silence on the other end of the line stretches and expands like a living thing–it’s suffocating, but he allows it to drag on. He won’t be the one to break it.

He hears Bakugou sigh and lets out a breath of his own.

“The injuries–” he says finally, sounding tired in a way that Hitoshi hasn’t heard in a long time, “are they–”

“Not life threatening,” he grits, hearing the strain in his own voice, “I can take care of them here. But Bakugou–”

“I get it,” Bakugou cuts him off, gruff. For the first time in Hitoshi’s life, the constant of his harsh inflection is a comfort. “Was fuckin’ stupid, and you’re real lucky I was the one to respond. But I get it.”

Hitoshi says nothing. He can’t say anything. Bakugou sighs again, long and resigned. 

“I’ll handle it,” he says finally, and Hitoshi can barely breathe, “Just take care of your shit.”

“I will,” he whispers, but Bakugou has already hung up.

He stares at the phone in his hand then, like it might come alive at any second. Now that he knows what he can do with it, he thinks he ought to throw it down and crush it under his heel. 

His mind goes back to where it always does–to you. He knows that it’s a vile thing he’s done, and he doesn’t know how he’ll face you now. He just couldn’t stand the way your voice cracked every time you called–he isn’t too proud to admit that he was afraid. He’s responded to so many of these calls, and he knew of the few that heroes didn’t make it there in time–he doesn’t know what he’d do if he lost you like that. He couldn’t sit and wait for that to happen–that was never an option. 

He sighs, squeezing his eyes shut. He tries to resign himself to what's coming when you wake up. Tries to tell himself that it will still be worth it if you hate him–and he knows that it is, because you’ll be alive. But he will be another man that you can no longer trust, and as much as he deserves that, he can’t stand it.

He swallows thickly, setting the phone down and pushing off the counter. He supposes he could at least make himself useful and get some food ready for you while you slept.

You don’t know how long you’ve been awake, but it feels like far too long.

Every jagged intake of breath rattles an ache through your rib cage. It shouldn’t feel like that, you think, but the thought fizzles out of your mind with the rest of them. It’s enough effort to force your lungs to inflate. You reach out a hand, slowly, ignoring the pain that radiates up your arm when you close your fingers around the sheets beneath you. They’re soft, and they’re not yours. But you knew that.

You don’t have the luxury of survivor’s amnesia. You remember everything. 

You won’t cry. You wish you could, and you think it’d do you well–but to cry requires energy that you just don’t have. So you blink your eyes open through the sting, watching the fuzzy outline of the ceiling fan come into focus. It whirls around lazily, and it seems silly that it’s not doing much of any cooling, but you think that maybe Hitoshi couldn’t stand for things to be still when he put you there, so he turned it on. 

Hitoshi.

You suck in a breath, gritting your teeth at the flash of pain. You feel it everywhere, and you are catapulted back into the feeling of your limbs moving against your will. It makes you want to curl into yourself, but you have a feeling you’d risk puncturing a lung if you did, so you lay there and let the feeling wash over you, pinning you to the bed. 

You might be angry at him–you can’t be sure. You feel what could be anger, broadly, but you have a feeling that it’s true target is beyond Hitoshi, beyond Kyoji, beyond the way you’ve been rendered immobile more times than you care to count. You can’t reach it yet, but it is certainly there. 

You know that your injuries are severe, but that they will heal. The physical ones, anyway. You don’t know how to go about healing what lurks beneath the surface–what’s been circling in the dark for years now. You’d reached a point about a month ago, when the verbal abuse became physical–a new place, one without much feeling at all–that had startled you at first. But you found it was better when you allowed yourself to lean into it–the physical pain from a throttled neck or a broken bone paled in comparison to the vast emptiness of the quiet void you could escape into. But the feelings come back, as you lay here, and you yearn for the dark nothing again. You know suddenly that it’s not the broken ribs keeping you here in this bed.

Despite every nerve in your body screaming at you to stop, you push yourself to a sitting position. It takes a while, and you have to twist like one of those wooden snake toys you had as a child. You feel your bones clink off one another similarly, and you breathe out something that sounds to you like a laugh. It’s ridiculous, the whole thing–to be reduced to something so fractured and still feel the need to stand up and keep going. It’s hard for you to see the merit in that right now, but you do it anyway. 

Hitoshi nearly comes out of his skin for the second time that day when he sees you standing in the doorway out of the corner of his eye.

He looks at you and he knows he should stop, because he’s not in control of his face right now and he wants to be composed for you. But he is not, and he knows you can see it. 

He can’t look away. There’s a bruise that spans from your cheekbone to your eyebrow that he’s fixated on, which feels like the safest place to look right now because he knows if he looks at the one across your throat, he will lose out to the animal growling in his chest. Knows he will walk out the door and not stop at Kyoji’s broken fingers. 

He squeezes his eyes shut, taking in a deep breath. When he looks at you again, he can’t tell what you're feeling. You are more devoid of emotion than he’s ever seen you, and it scares him. He opens his mouth, because the tension is crushing him.

“I–”

“Overstepped.”

He blinks, unsure if he’s just hallucinated. It isn’t until he watches your mouth move around the words that he’s sure he didn’t.

“You overstepped,” you say again, flatly. 

“I know,” and he does. He thinks that’s an understatement. “I’m sorry.”

He watches the corner of your lip curl into something he doesn’t recognize. 

“You’re sorry.” You repeat him like you’ve never heard the words before. “What is it that you’re sorry for?”

“I know that I shouldn’t have used my quirk on you,” he says, too quickly, “I just knew that he hurt you and I was–”

“You were what?” the tone of your voice is a warning when you cut him off, “hoping to be the hero that saves the day? You were inside me–did you think that wouldn’t hurt me?”

“No–I know it did,” he hears the plea in his voice and hates it. He knows he has no right to ask you to hear him. Really, he shouldn’t say anything, but he keeps talking anyway. “I know it did, and I’m sorry, I just knew you needed help–”

You cut him off with a bitter laugh, and then a hiss, hands hovering over your abdomen like you’re trying to wave away the pain. He feels it in his own body, quirk or not. 

“I never asked for your help, Hitoshi.”

He’s quiet then, feeling the phantom ache spread to his limbs. He knows you didn’t–it’s not often that abuse survivors do. It didn’t matter how close you were to him–you were out on that island alone, all the same. 

“Would you have ever?”

You glare at him. You open your mouth and close it just as quickly–he hears your teeth clack together like you’re biting down on what you really want to say. He watches you think about it. 

“No.”

He sighs, running a hand over his face. He knew the answer, but it’s not any less jarring to hear you say it. 

“I didn’t feel like I had a choice,” he whispers, “I didn’t know what else to do.”

You let out a laugh–clipped and indignant. A knife, thrown right at him. 

“You didn’t have a choice?” you snarl, and he wants to grab his words out of the air and swallow them, but he knows he’s too late. “You took over my body and you want to talk about choice?”

He can’t say anything. He watches the emotion flood you and knows it’s his doing. 

“Jesus Christ,” you laugh, “did you ever consider asking me what I needed, before you did that? Or did you think that being a hero meant you knew better?”

It’s startling, how on the mark you are. The shame lumbers over him like a tidal wave– he’s never asked anyone what they needed, not really. He just acted. He was always just acting, never thinking first. Until now, the former made him a great hero.

“What I really need is for everyone to get their fucking hands off of me and to let me have the control that I deserve to have over my life.”

He can’t look at you, and he knows for that he is a coward. He knows that he has done something so unforgivable and he hates the way he wants to get on the ground and beg for your forgiveness anyway. He knows this is the part where you walk out of his house and never speak to him again. He considers telling you that he’ll call someone to come get you so you don’t have to stay here.

And that thought gives him pause, because there he goes again–deciding what’s best for you. 

He wants to stop doing that. He’s been looking at you as a statistic, and that alone breaks his heart, because you are his best friend.

You are his best friend—the love of his life—and you are hurting right now.

So he gathers all of his resolve and meets your eyes. He tries very hard not to flinch away from the anger you pin him with when he asks, “what do you want to do right now?”

Your face twists with an emotion he doesn’t recognize for an instant, and then it’s gone, and there’s that blank, unfeeling look staring back at him. You sigh, and it surprises him when he hears it tremble. 

“I–there’s blood. On me.”

“Yeah,” his voice is a whisper, “do you want to shower?”

You sag against the doorframe, like someone’s let go of your strings for the first time. He smothers the urge to go to you and hold you up himself. 

“I don’t think I can stand,” you rasp, eyes shut tight. 

“Can I run you a bath?” he asks gently, rising to his feet.

You nod tightly, watching him as he approaches you. He stops a foot in front of you, cautious. 

“Can I help you to the bathroom?”

You eye him like you think it’s a trap, and it’s a twisted knife in his chest. But he doesn’t waver—he waits. He leaves room for a no. 

He bites back the relieved sigh that wants to escape him when you reach for him. 

It takes a minute to figure out how to support you without hurting your ribs. You settle for looping your arm through his, and he covers it with his other hand, careful of your wrist. He gets you to the bathroom and sits you on the toilet while he turns on the faucet. 

“Hitoshi.”

He almost doesn’t hear you, over the water, but the shake of your voice has him whipping around, posturing to protect–

“Don’t do that again.”

And it’s him, then, who has hurt you– who continues to hurt you. He watches the tears pool in your eyes and feels so, so sick. 

“I won’t,” it’s quiet, but he hopes you understand that he means it, “not ever again.”

The water that ripples around your body is tinted pink. You wonder how long you’ll have to watch pieces of you slip down the drain until you’re whole again. 

For a while you just sit–the warm water offers some small comfort if you close your eyes and pretend that this is a regular day for you. That you’re not coming apart at your seams. But the temporary lull is interrupted when the water grows cold. 

“Hitoshi,” you call, quietly. You have a feeling he’s sitting just outside of the door. 

“Mm?” He is.

“The water is cold.” 

“Do you need help getting out?”

“No, I–” you struggle a bit, to vocalize what you need, despite so adamantly wanting that not 20 minutes ago. All of your bravado from earlier has slipped down the plumbing with the rest of you. “It’s cold.”

You think you can hear his brain go through the mental gymnastics routine you’ve tasked it with, and you try to feel a little sorry for him, but before you can get too carried away he catches up.

“Can you pull the curtain closed?”

It’s hard, and it hurts, but you manage. “It’s closed.”

You hear him come in and kneel beside the tub. You watch him reach into the water–the water that’s saturated with you–to grab the plug from the drain, and your heart kicks in your chest. 

“Hitoshi, the water is all–”

“It’s okay,” he says gently, and you hear the seal break with a little bubble beneath the surface, “It’s alright.”

He lets about half of the water out before he twists the faucet. You feel the water warm up again and you sigh, trying to relax a bit. Hitoshi dips a hand into the tub, moving the warmth around.

When it’s full, he twists the faucet back and moves to stand.

“Do you—” the words taste uncertain when they leave you, “do you think you could sit here with me?”

He doesn’t hesitate this time, and it makes you feel a little better. You hear him move to sit next to you–you watch his outline through the curtain. When you look down, the water is clear. 

“I shouldn’t have yelled at you,” you whisper. Not quite willing to apologize, but still feeling like you should say something.

“Yes, you should have.”

You pause, and when the tears come, you let them. “I’m tired, Hi.”

He lets out a breath at the nickname and you wrap your arms around yourself, needing to feel some sort of comfort.

“I know you are, angel.”

The silence is stretched between you, but it’s permeable this time. He’s trying to extend an olive branch—you decide to let him. 

“Will you help me out of here?” you ask quietly.

It takes some maneuvering to get yourself standing, and when you gather the bravery needed to draw back the curtain, Hitoshi is already holding up a towel and looking starkly away from you, the tips of his ears a little red. You’d laugh if you could, but instead you just lean into him and let him wrap the towel around you. It’s warm, and you realize he must have put it in the drier at some point during your bath. The consideration has you stepping out of the tub and further into his arms–wrapping yourself around his middle before you can think better of it. He goes rigid for only a second before you feel his arms around your shoulders, caging your head in and pulling you closer. It’s startling how familiar it feels–how safe it feels, despite what he’s done–and you don’t fight the sob that tears through your throat when he presses his cheek to your temple and runs his fingers through the damp tangles of your hair. 

He sways gently, rocking you like he’s consoling an infant. You don’t have it in you to be anything but comforted by it. You let out a broken whimper of his name through your tears.

“I know, baby,” he murmurs as you gather the material of his shirt in your fists, “I know.”

Before either of you know it, weeks have passed. You haven’t mentioned leaving and Hitoshi wouldn’t dream of asking you to go, so you stay. He takes every day as an opportunity to gain your trust. 

It’s a fickle thing–he notices every time you flinch away from him when he accidentally brushes against you. He notices how far you sit from him on the couch, and how quiet you’ve been. It hurts tremendously, but he knows it is his fault. He’ll give you all of the time and space you need. 

He cooks for you–both because he’s not sure how else to care for you right now, and because he just likes to know that you’re being looked after. He remembers how often he’d call in the middle of your “dinner”–something frozen and microwaved because Kyoji hadn’t bothered to follow through on the plans you’d made and you were left alone. Hitoshi thinks this is the best way he can help you heal–to make sure your body gets all of the vitamins it needs. It’s a small thing, really, but he hopes it means something. 

He sees you out of the corner of his eye–leaning against the doorway, watching him. He smiles softly at you before he continues slicing the vegetables he’s picked out.

“What are you making?”

“Soup,” he tells you, sliding the cubed carrots off the edge of the knife and into the broth that boils beneath it, “seemed like a good day for it.”

He hears you hum, a sweet little affirmative that makes him smile again. He pulls a potato from the vegetables in front of him and turns it over a few times in his hands–checking for blemishes and wondering if he should cut it differently than the carrots, to give it some variety–if you’d appreciate the extra effort.

He startles when he feels pressure between his shoulder blades–goes rigid when he realizes it’s your forehead pressed against him. 

“Angel?” he croaks, cautious.

“I’m trying, Hi.”

He lets out a breath, setting the knife down in front of him. “I know you are.”

“I just,” you start, pressing a little harder into him to emphasize your frustration, “I don’t want you to think that I’m punishing you–”

“Hey,” he calls to you softly, trying to interrupt whatever self deprecation is happening in your brain, “I don’t think that. I know that it’s going to take some time.”

You sigh, a strained thing, and when you wrap your arms around his middle, he indulges himself in the unbridled relief that comes with the knowledge that you want to forgive him. He looks down at where your hands cross over his abdomen–the bruise on your wrist is nearly faded now. A tiny yellow stain on your skin. He wants to smooth it away with his thumb, but he doesn’t–he keeps the ball in your court and his hands glued flat to the countertop.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m…” you pause, thinking about it, “I’m okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm.”

“Alright,” he murmurs, looking over his shoulder to get a glimpse of you, “you want to go find a movie to watch? The food’ll be done soon.”

You hum, untangling yourself from him to do just that. Hitoshi finds that the weight of your absence is far heavier than he expects it to be.

It’s a start. There are undoubtedly things you still need to say and questions that you need answers to. He’ll give them when you’re ready. For now, he reaches to turn up the flame on the stove, stirring the broth with new intention.

this fic belongs to me (@gardenofnoah). i do not allow anyone to repost, edit, or reproduce this work.

[dollarbin]

Dollar Bin #20:

Dump's International Airport

My famous brother's always been a big deal.

I remember his first peewee soccer game. Both teams just ran after him in a pack while he scored goal after goal. "Dear Lord Baby Jesus," I asked, "why is my little brother already a bigger deal than me?"

Nothing's happened ever since to disabuse me of my inherent secondary status. Just check him out today. He's in a killer band and I can't sing Happy Birthday on key; he blogs about Pharaoh Sanders and Sonic Youth for the mad rushing crowd while I blog about him for you twelve people; he's interviewed 2/3 of Crazy Horse, Richard Thompson and Robyn Hitchcock (twice!) and my cat won't even listen to me; he has a glorious head of hipster hair on top of his six foot frame; my bald spot swells and shines far beneath his stately chin.

Even so, there are a few things we have in common, and at the top of that list is the firm conviction that James McNew is a very big deal. A good drinking game would be chugging every time my brother and I mention his name while together. You'd get plastered.

Odds are we'll ruminate on McNew's status as the best musician in Yo La Tengo (even though we revere Ira Kaplan and Georgia Hubley), next we'll wish he'd make a new solo record, then I'd insist we talk about our close encounters with James (my brother occasionally shares a byline with McNew on Aquarium Drunkard or elsewhere, usually when they're both talking about the Dead, and when he interviews McNew they sound like old friends; I like to wave and shout James's name from the pit, hoping he'll remember the time I helped him move his amps after sneaking into YLT's soundcheck in '95 at the Alligator Lounge; James always politely nods then resumes his job of shredding everyone's soul to pieces with his furious musical chops; humble guy, James).

For the uninitiated: McNew emerged from a parking lot ticket hut in the early 90's and began recording solo music sporadically under the name Dump; he put out three classic full records in the 90's, and since then has issued a collection of Prince covers and a few other sporadic releases, the most recent of which was only released on tape in Spain. That's right, I'm writing about a guy who issues his music only to Spaniards who still have tape decks; I guess we'd better add "obtusely" in front of "humble" when describing McNew.

Meanwhile, he's spent the past 30+ years as the cornerstone of the world's greatest, still-operational, rock band, Yo La Tengo.

If you need any proof that they are the gnarliest group of rock nerds this side of Sterling, Mo, Lou and what's his name, or doubt that James is their pillar of obtusely humble virtuosity, check this out (and please note I was standing next to the dude with the camcorder when this insanity went down; I'm still reeling from the experience, and I still have the setlist):

Please note, I think my expert moving of McNew's amps earlier that same day was a prime contributor to this all out sonic assault on everything Stephen Stills stands for on the band's part. Ira Kaplan appears to be wrestling a giant man-eating octopus while Georgia and James slay the beat.

On his own McNew can be fragile and tender, sounding like a shivering adolescent rather then a human behemoth (when seen from pit and James looks like he's 6'6 / 325; some of this is because Ira, and especially Geogia, are fairly miniature humans, but most of his heft comes from his God-like approach to every instrument you can imagine; he also happens to be a big dude).

Listen to him warble on Into Fall from '94; yes his guitar has a touch of wobbling hippo, but everything here is precious, and McNew shows us he's a later-day Brian Wilson. All that's missing is Wilson's budget, torment and sister-in-law lust:

But McNew can also produce music that's straight up violent, write rock anthems and lay down shambolic funk. In other words, he's a one man Yo La Tengo, masterful in every possible mood.

International Airport, a vinyl-only EP from 95, puts every one of these qualities concisely forward. We open with Words, a droning prayer that sounds like Lou Reed slipped out of a dull stint in rehab so as to sit in on the demo sessions for The Cure's Faith. A song like this should not be interesting. But it's awesome, and when the guitar shoulders in late we tremble and get excited about what lies ahead.

Side two features everything from an a cappella Kinks song sung out the window that comes complete with polite city applause, to a brutal, call the cops on your psychotic neighbor, track Laurdine.

But it's the 12 minute title track, which fills most of the A Side, that raises International Airport, which I bought upon it's release for probably $6, up to Dollar Bin hall of fame status. All hail this sprawling ode.

McNew opens the track with a Casio riff, taking his time. Bass and drums rise only gradually until, around the two minute mark, we suddenly realize we are taking off, the international terminal long gone as a second riff expands and swerves about the first, like joint eagles protecting their nest. It's lovely flying, and we have to remind ourselves that McNew is responsible for everything here. Had McNew taken this song to YLT, I don't know what more his band mate Hubley could have done on the drum track, and I have a hard time remembering that it's McNew, not Kaplan, who's wrestling the octopus this time around. Seven minutes into it we expect things to fade out majestically but McNew instead steers his increasingly interstellar song through a cosmic, psychedelic carwash, the keyboards, then guitars, sounding like angry droids with laser cannons.

Wow.

When McNew's vocals enter at the 11th hour/minute to serenade us and wave good-bye we wish he'd take us with him wherever he's going. But sadly, we're not invited. Rather, James is probably hanging out with my famous brother as we speak: two humble and deeply masterful dudes.

[thepowerisyouth]

Hot take: if a person agrees that logic is a generally correct problem solving methodology, and yet fails to deny any of these postulates as true, then they will have to accept capitalism is inherently 'evil', and that a collectivism is the only way to not literally all die in the anthropocene.

Yes, that statement implies I am attempting to write a mathematical/scientific proof which can undeniably be used to deconstruct every capitalist argument. Deal with it. Still a draft, but I'm posting because its already long. Feel free to give suggestions. No, please give me suggestions

I actually believe this might work, because convincing irrational people that their arguments are fallacies is bascially what cognitive behavioral therapy is all about

Content included in discussion: death, sustainability, good, evil, (more to come)

1. All life is precious.

-Precious can be defined different ways but its important to use this term, and I think to me what it means is that we must grieve any loss of life. Grief is not easily defined, but this is an absolute rule to follow.

Precisely defining grieve as the philosophy sees it is on my to-write list

-Its still not clear what life is either, so when doubt exists we should assume something is alive. This is because I really believe it's a fallacy, a punch to the face, to deny public discourse its chance to run its course if there is any shadow of a doubt. Science believes all answers must be sought out over a period of time, and to never stop questioning

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

2. All 'non-life' is precious too

-because every resource is, in fact, finite in the universe. And we want to keep sustaining the entire universe as long as possible so we should assume every resource is absolutely finite in case there is any shadow of a doubt of a resource being 'infinite'.

-this argument, for purposes of this argument, is not seeking to define life. Atoms seem to me like they are also alive, okay? I think its more about using what most people can commonly understand as life, and reinforcing that both are precious. Its just easier for people to agree that 'life' is precious first, than use that first assumption to prove this second one

-we can prove that 'non-life', as might be commonly defined, is inherently essential to our survival. Best evidence is global warming, so a million things to go on there.

I believe these arguments prove we can apply our argument of things being 'precious' to 'non-life', using our 1st postulate and knowledge of the universe, as well as effects of global warming, to prove the 2nd postulate is true too

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

If all life is precious, and we grieve, it really starts to raise some 'why' questions, doesnt it?

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

3. Homo sapien sapiens are inherently empathetic creatures, and so are other animals that exhibit provable signs of empathy

-Defining empathy is hard. What's hard is that we all know what it feels like to 'experience' empathy, but feelings are hard to communicate. Will come back to this

- It is possible, although not proven, that because of genetic mutations a person might possibly be born without actual empathy.

-Christians call this type of person the anti-christ, a literal spawn of satan. Does the literal spawn of satan exist on earth? We don't know, we haven't proven it yet.

-Ive thought a lot about if my 3rd postulate should be thrown out by basis of example of people being, well. Fucking 'evil' with their actions. People make me sick sometimes.

-But I think it's important to at least acknowledge for arguments sake that a baby cannot be evil. That would be a scary goddamn baby. Humans are not, by 'nature', an 'evil creature'

In case some weirdo says a baby is evil-- It is a fallacy to believe a baby is born evil, because if all 'evil' people should be 'locked up' as I think most people would agree, than believing a baby is evil would make a person argue for locking babies up.

That notion sounds fucking evil to me dude idk about you

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

So-- why do humans act evil if they are not born evil? (Such as my hypothetically baby-locking-up person)

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

4. Homo sapien sapien's are capable of learning to be 'evil' as basically any point from birth until death, but at varying speeds of learning of course

-I have to define evil now. That's hard. What's even harder is that we all know what evil feels like. I think theres probably a million evil things in the world I can point out. All of those things would be evidence that there is evil in the world, however it would not give us a framework for determining evil

- I'm actually going to come back to this one. I think I'm satisfied, for now, in saying that most people who read this will know, intuitively, what evil feels like

-I guess I should double back and reinforce that my #4 postulate is true by example. Humans are not born evil, but we do see evil humans in the world, therefore, it follows that humans must learn at some point in their life to be evil

‐----------

5. Humans can learn to be 'good'

-Same issue with defining 'good' as with 'evil'. Yatta yatta, we all know what good feels like, I'll finish defining the framework later in the argument & fix this quick explanation later

-If someone doesnt support this notion, than they must also support the notion that 'therapy doesnt work', or more specifically, that there is such thing as a person who is 'untreatable' by therapy

-I do not believe the above is true, that a person 'cant change', and trust me when I say I am soooo confident about this. My proof is by example: "have you ever met a person ever, who didnt change in any way"?

-Because if you have not ever met such a person, as in a person who has never, ever changed their belief once, than there is no evidence by example that any person 'cant change'.

Every person you have ever met, that has changed at least once, is a key bit of evidence in support of postulate #5. Without evidence of people who have never changed, it becomes clear where the majority of evidence lies.

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

6. Being efficient is better for society than being non efficient

-i felt weird just writing that down and thinking someone would disagree-- but here we are in the year-of-our-lord-arguing-2024

- I dont feel like justifying this postulate now, but I need to soon because it's one of the pieces of my proof

-evidence by example is the way to go here. If you pick the right examples, it would be really hard for a person to obviously, sensibly tell you that 'more waste' is better than 'less waste'.

‐-----------

7. Collective intelligence is greater than individual intelligence

-mountains of evidence-- democracy being everyone's easiest to think about, if they dont already agree

-heres my thought-experiment evidence:

-"Is it possible, that if we sent a human baby out in space, never to interact with us again, that it would figure out all of scientific thought? Every single advancement in science would be re-created by this baby in a spaceship?"

-"no, that is probably impossible. It is almost certain that baby would die within its first week, and definitely unimaginable to assume this baby would figure out its way back to earth and be the greatest thinker to ever exist"

-I argue that if you believe that an individual always knows better than a collective, you must also support my idea of an evil-genius-spaceship-baby

-that should clear up most dissent to this 7th postulate

---------

---------

Time to get even wilder. I was raised Christian. I am not anymore. Please forgive me for using only Christian terms I'm familiar with for this next discussion. I'm trying to reconcile the ideals of Christians with the ideals of socialism.

I do think most of the Christian ideals are logical, and common sense. That is to say that these ideals reconcile with my overall framework here.

I also think theres a few really toxic parts of Christianity that can be scrutinized, and logically thrown out from our philosophical framework under false assumptions or something else. Lets give it a shot

8. No one, single mortal man is 'God' on Earth

-I define God as any being which is 'absolutely omnipotent, all powerful, and of probably infinite lifespan'

-the idea of jesus doesnt break this argument because, as I believe, the ideology goes that Jesus was not 'God' while on Earth, but merely a mortal man who wanted to join God up above. So if anything, believing in Jesus supports this idea because even that fucker wasnt God either while walking the Earth

-For all of us that, like me, arent Christian, let me explain why I believe this argument is still very true to us

-let me say first that I only became comfortable, personally, with a lot of the reasons for why the bible says what it says about God, only when I thought of it this way

-God isnt real. As in, there is not a literal, physical magical wizard flying in space who can wave a wand and make shit happen.

-God is, in fact, a theoretical ideal of what human enlightenment looks like which was thought up several millenia ago, and has since throughout history been misinterpreted (probably from lack of available evidence), and blended with the ideals of 'Satan', or 'Evil'. And I really think, the more I look at it this way, that the more things make sense.

-When you think of God as being the exact same thing as enlightenment idealogy, it helps our postulate by fitting it with the saying "no one is free until we are all free".

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

-which is to say, no one mortal man is God on earth until we all can become 'Gods' on earth, i.e. fully, absolutely enlightened

-god how well this framework, just, well... works

- Heaven: conceptual place where enlightened society can exist

- Hell: conceptual place where the anti-thesis to enlightened society exists

-Earth: conceptual place where humans learn to become enlightened

Guys lemme just say now-- its becoming clearer and clearer to me that we can actually disprove all non-enlightment ideals as literally "Satanist", and then argue for our point better than most Christians--because it makes logical sense given the additional information, the collective evidence of science & history, which society holds today

-Most 'bad ideals' that christians have make more sense if you think of the fact that every christian institution has been led by a 'prophet', who nobody can actually prove if they are acting in their own self interest, or 'God's'

-time for another postulate number I think

---------

9. It is impossible to prove that such a person exists on Earth who is acting as a 'sole communicator for God', i.e. a prophet

-people say they are prophets all the time. People lie

-actually, you know who lies best? Satan. Satan lies really really well, according to the Bible.

-theres more here to write about. I think I want to expand on the idea that you can prove that the behaviors of a prophet better aligns with Satanist ideals, than Godly ones, because of the withholding of information that is provable among prophets throughout history

-if a prophet does not provide its collective society with all possible information, than it is a fallacy to accept both the principles of an informed democracy, and also that a prophet for 'God' can exist on Earth

-it is NOT a fallacy to support the ideals of democracy and also that a prophet for 'Satan' does exist and it lies to people and says its supporting 'Godly' notion

-it is also NOT a fallacy to support the notion of a facist dictatorship, and also the idea of a prophet for God existing. Important point here that someone can easily hold these two beliefs and they dont contradict each other, unlike with democracy ideals

-guys I just now understood the holy trinity: God (collective intelligence, logic, absolute truth); Holy Spirit (our very valid feelings about our beliefs); Jesus (individuals more enlightened than us, who teach & bring us closer to God)

-however, as I should point out. I am firmly not a christian. I am ex-mormon. I am trying to reconcile the beliefs of a Christian with my own, by dismissing certain beliefs as fallacy, and redefining what I need to, until it works out

-the way I see it, Ive pretty firmly solidified my own notion, that Chrisitan beliefs are firmly socialist. I read the top of my post and realize I still need to finish all the way back up to Capitalism

---------

END OF FIRST POSTULATE SET

Time for supporting evidence of the 'master postulates' of this theorum. I should point out that these bits of evidence are also, in fact, postulates which much be scrutinized under the same framework. However, I am drawing a line as I think the ones about here are more umbrella postulates, while I'm starting to get more specific

6. Global warming is a urgent, life threatening issue to humans

-I mentioned global warming above, so I realized that yes, a person does need to believe in this idea, as its the biggest supporting evidence of postulate #2, which is a key part of my overall argument

-however, a person does not need to say they agree to global warming 'at first glace'. They only need to agree with global warming when its under the definition I use below

-I define global warming, for the sake of this argument, as "human worsened climate". I really think thats a more accurate framing of the issue at hand with global warming.

-So for my argument I only need someone who can agree both that humans are not optimally living in our environment, as in we are 'harming' our environment, and they agree that this is an issue which is starting to affect us every day (natural disasters from weakening jet stream)

-once all of these

Climate is complex, and no one issues creates everything is does, but it is undeniable to me

[sunsetofdoom]

I posted 2,587 times in 2022

43 posts created (2%)

2,544 posts reblogged (98%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@tearlessrain

@alexsrandomramblings

@chokopoppo

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I tagged 1,186 of my posts in 2022

#our flag means death - 461 posts

#hzd - 38 posts

#our flag means death - 24 posts

#hfw - 22 posts

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Longest Tag: 121 characters

#aloy is like 'well i could proceed with saving the world. or' and lists off all the sidequests she could be doing instead

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

Finally finished a fic for once in my life! You know how everyone makes “Avad gets pegged” jokes? Y’all better put your money where your fucking mouth is.

Let Her Be Soft, And Let Her Be Mine

title from this poem, swapped pronouns

It almost hurt to think about- probing the barriers he put up in his thoughts, not letting himself dwell on his trivial love affair when there were so many more important things to worry about. But Ersa was right there, the memory of her vibrant and shining. The lines on her skin, sun-darkened wherever her armor didn’t protect her and pale where it did, the calluses on her hands, the steadying way she touched him. Her scars- he’d spent ages over the years mapping them with his hands, his mouth; the whip marks on her back, the slave-brand on her shoulder, pockmarks on her thigh where the sparks of an explosion had caught her. The way she blushed, up to her ears and halfway down her chest, when he kissed every one like they were precious. She never made a sound- they had to be so careful- but often tangled her hand into his hair as her breathing deepened and stuttered. Always caught off-guard by his affection.

38 notes - Posted January 23, 2022

#4

it’s About the inherent eroticism of the title “Captain”

54 notes - Posted March 25, 2022

#3

everybody knows cats are witches

(a continuation of the daemon AU I started here, though really all the context you should need, even if you don’t know the general concept, is that Stede’s familiar is a golden retriever)

-

“It’s quite ridiculous,” Stede complained. His teacup sloshed in his hand, half-forgotten as he gestured. “Half my crew honestly thinks you’re a witch! This can’t just be Blackbeard’s fearsome reputation, Ed. Really, what have you done to them?”

Ed narrowed his eyes, a familiar smile twisting the shaggy beard, and said, “Come with us.”

Curious, Stede did, settling the teacup back in its saucer and rising to follow with Polly clicking gaily along at his heels. Likewise, Asher padded down the hall in front of Ed, a bit further away than would be comfortable for Stede and Polly; they seemed to have a longer range they could inhabit before the symptoms of human and daemon separation, a tight chest and emotional distress, began to plague them. Ash held his black tail high as he sauntered coolly over the mahogany floors, the very tip flicking back and forth with princely pride. At the end of the hall he jumped up onto the railing of the stairs, perching with all four of his paws in a straight line, and Ed gestured Stede and Polly up the stairs ahead of him.

When they were halfway up the staircase, he flickered his half-gloved fingers in a quiet good-bye. He stayed standing at the base of the stairs, and Asher continued his way up the banister, unconcerned with the distance they were putting between themselves.

Polly froze, her tail tucking between her legs. “Ed...”

He waved goodbye more emphatically, sauntering away in his big enormous boots with his hands on his hips. He was almost ten entire feet from his daemon, and even looking at him made Stede’s chest feel tight with sympathetic pain.

“Come on, then,” Asher drawled from the top of the stairs, rising up onto the decks, his dark fur catching the sunlight. “We don’t have all day.”

With one more nervous flick of his eyes to Ed’s retreating back, Stede followed.

Emerging above-decks was still a novelty, after all this time. The wind, the sunlight hammering down, the salt in the air catching on the back of his tongue- it was overwhelming and beautiful and terrifying. Polly shook her head, golden fur flying, and let her tongue hang out as she panted with an enormous doggy grin.

In front of them was Asher, intimately familiar- his dusty black fur, his scarred, torn ears, the ready-to-pounce tension of him even as he groomed himself meticulously. His tail swished back and forth against the wood of the deck, and he looked as though the entire world would wait until he was done cleaning himself- exactly like Ed, that absolute confidence in his own ridiculousness right up until the flash of claws the second they felt ridiculous.

Except Ed wasn’t there.

“Ash!” The deck tilting like he might be sick, Stede grabbed onto Polly, fisting his hand in her fur. Like their closeness could make up for Ed and Asher’s distance. He couldn’t quite tell if he or Polly had said Asher’s name; perhaps it was both of them at once.

Ash licked his paw, scrubbing furiously at the graying jowls of his face, appearing totally at ease. Alone. Oh, God, he was alone, with no human being to lean against or depend on, a thing of horror and revulsion like a human without a head. One of his ragged black ears twitched, and he stopped abruptly, put his paw down, and trotted away.

Stede pulled himself up by the banister, and followed, his face screwed up in concentration and worry.

The upper deck was empty at the moment, Izzy and Buttons both apparently busy elsewhere, so there was no one to scream or faint at the sight of a daemon with no human- all the more terrifying and unnatural for Asher’s nonchalance. Seemingly without rhyme or reason, Ash sat down in the middle of the deck, his tail curling around his paws until he looked like a statuette. 

Dizzy, Stede leaned on Polly where she was a solid weight against his thigh. Where was Ed? Was he alright, was this hurting him? They ought to have been doubled over in pain, their bond stretched too far for anything but crumpling up into a ball of agony and grief. He looked out past Asher and onto the sea to the south, the expanse of blue sky, and wondered if this was the same scene Ed could see, out of the window of the cabin...

The cabin which was right beneath the deck.

Ash stared up at them, green eyes pinprick-small in the bright daylight, and blinked slowly.

“But you’re not far from him at all,” Stede said out loud, for Polly’s benefit; she was still held tense against his leg. “He’s just in the cabin below. You’re still within range.”

A pleased, husky trill quivered in Ash’s throat, and he stretched out of his picture-perfect pose to trot over and touch noses with Polly. She whined with relief, nuzzling him as his battle-scarred head bumped up against her muzzle.

“See?,” he said, his silky-dark voice wry and amused. He turned, brushing Polly’s nose just barely with the tip of his tail as he walked away. “Scares the shit out of people.”

“Hey, boss?” As if to demonstrate, Frenchie pounded his way up the stairs, sugar glider daemon riding on his shoulder. Technically, crewmen weren’t allowed on the upper deck without an invitation from the captain or mates; such a rule had never been something Stede enforced, though at the moment he rather wished he had.

Catching sight of the lonely black cat daemon, Frenchie froze, his eyes enormous. The sugar glider squeaked, scurrying up into his hair and hiding on top of his head, shaking all over.

Asher saw the twitchy rodent movement and his green eyes dilated. A throaty noise burbled from him as he crouched down, tail lashing and claws digging into the deck, ready to pounce.

Frenchie screamed. Not bothering with the stairs, he vaulted over the railing and fell the full ten feet to the lower deck.

Shouting, Stede rushed to the rail to make sure he was alright, Polly barking in distress at his heels. Frenchie seemed to have caught himself on a pile of boxes, and was struggling to get out of the one he’d broken, stuck in what appeared to be a pile of spare sewing rags from their flag contest that absolutely no one had bothered to put away. He was tangled in scraps of fabric and trying to fight his way free, still squeaking with panic, and right on comedic cue the sugar glider sailed in her small downward spiral and landed spread-eagled on his face.

Straining forward, Ash craned his neck and tilted his head, trying to see- he must have hit the edges of his and Edward’s range, what a relief to see that they had one- and began to laugh.

See the full post

79 notes - Posted April 10, 2022

#2

not one hair of you would I rearrange

“Who named you?” Ed asked, mumbling around the end of the pipe in his mouth. “Never met a nob that’d name their kids’ daemon something s’common as Polly.” Nobs always had long daemon names, the very devil to pronounce and never worth remembering, and they were always out of some book or play that no one in their right mind had ever heard of.

“Ah,” Stede said, looking a little bashful as he put his bookmark between the pages, Polly a liquid lump of dog where she was lying on his slippers. Before them, the fire roared, leaving the cabin an oasis of cozy warmth among the old, comforting sounds of the waves against the hull. “It is, I’m afraid, a short form- her name is Polyhymnia. For one of the Greek muses, I believe.”

“I like Polly better,” she murmured from the floor, her normally-cheerful voice subdued and relaxed from the heat of the fire, and Stede leaned down to ruffle the long, golden hair around her ears. Her coat matched perfectly to his blond hair, and she looked clean and soft and rumpled, just like Stede in his dressing-gown.

“And you?” He asked politely, sitting back up. “Why Asher?”

Asher, taking up space on Ed’s chest, heaved a toothy yawn. He matched Ed the same way- midnight-black in their youth, he had faded over the years to the color of stormclouds on the horizon, fur going gray towards the jowled sides of his face. A thick, ragged tomcat with one ripped-up ear and singed whiskers, he’d left scars on the noses of daemons from here to High Brazil.

“Dunno,” he replied, his voice as low and dark as the voice in the back of Edward’s head that told him when everything was about to go to shit. “Biblical, maybe.”

“Mum was a God-botherer,” Ed agreed, drawing on his pipe and letting the smoke flow away with the words. Stede was the first person he’d spoken to about his mother in more than twenty years.

Stede pursed his lips, brow furrowing as he looked at his bookshelf like the answer was to be found there; Ed wondered if he had a Bible somewhere in those unreadable shelves, just for the sake of having it. That seemed like the sort of thing Stede would do, even if he never said a word about God either way.

“Genesis,” Polly contributed from the floor. “Jacob’s son,”

“Joseph’s brother! Yes,” Stede completed her sentence like always, snapping his fingers. “Sold his younger brother into slavery for spite and jealousy... something of a, er, despicable character.” He leveled Ed with a look that was somehow both fond and guilty.

“That’s us,” Asher stretched out his claws, clinking them against the wood of the pipe with the absolute confidence of an animal who never gave a single damn about being a nuisance. “Despicable all over.”

His weight on Ed’s chest was unfamiliar. They spent twenty years stretching their range, step by step and month by month, slowly gouging out space in their heart-deep bond that let Ash perch above-decks even when Blackbeard was ensconced away in the cabin, scaring the absolute pants off of the crew. The throaty pang of grief and pain in his chest was a constant, and its removal left him feeling almost weightless.

Ever since Stede had come into their lives, Asher circled closer and closer, both of them falling helplessly into his orbit. Ed took tea with him. Ash left dead rats at his doorstep. Edward taught him sword tricks in the dead of night while Asher and Polly play-fought at their feet, Ash rolling on his back and inviting a dog three times his size to snap at his belly.

And now Asher was lying on top of him, self-satisfied as a housecat. He wasn’t even keeping watch.

“When’d you settle?” Ed asked. Their silences were comfortable, but God almighty there was so much he wanted to know about Stede Bonnet, how in the Hell he’d ended up here, at sea in general and within arms’ reach in particular.

Sighing, Stede ran his bookmark over the edges of his fingers; Ed had felt less guilt about cutting mens’ hands off than he did for keeping Stede from his peaceful reading. “I was fourteen,” he said with a soft regret. “It was just before we left school- that school, at least. It inspired as much mockery as anything we did.” He glanced up, his eyes glinting in the fire-light. “A dog, you know- servants’ animals.” He took on a ridiculous and terrible approximation of those fickle Frenchmen, leveling the insult at him.

“Fucking cunts,” Ed said mildly.

Shrugging with faint agreement, Stede smiled in that soft, sad way that made Edward want to fold him up and protect him from the world.

He stretched out to kick his boots up onto the arm of the sofa, jostling Asher, who glared at him with one poison-green eye. “We settled young,” he said, trying to distract Stede from whatever recollection he’d fallen into. “Before any of the other kids, at least. My dad said I was a fucking witch.” Aside from telling that stupid fucking Kraken story, he hadn’t spoken about his father in decades, either.

“Very witchy animal, a black cat,” Stede concurred, smiling at Ash, who preened. Nobody else would’ve thought it, from Blackbeard’s ghoul of a familiar, but Ed knew him from the torn tips of his ears to the pads of his little asshole feet, and Asher was glowing with attention. “Really quite frightening. My peers, though, quickly deduced that Polly was no threat.”

Ed turned over on his elbow, shoving Ash when his tail dropped down in front of his eyes. Polly, in her place in front of the fire, was an average-sized, heavyset dog with clear eyes and strong legs; her constant, dopey smile obscured the fact that she was mouth-focused and picked up or bit everything in sight, and she went to point whenever Stede showed interest in anything. She was almost as attentive to the scrape of a rat in the ship as Asher, and he’d been a ratter his whole alley-cat life. “She’s got to be a hunting breed, though,” he said.

Stede shrugged again. “Perhaps,” he allowed. “My father, though, bred hunting dogs his whole life long, and he could make neither hide nor hair of her.” His tone said quite well that his father had been just as baffled by Stede himself.

Polly shifted, going from her inelegant splay across Stede’s feet to a tight ball on the rug, her enormous tail- so furry that it flapped like a fan when she wagged it- slapping down tight over the tip of her nose. Duly curled up, she heaved a woebegone sigh.

With a splay of his claws calculated to land right on Ed’s bare arm, Asher stretched luxuriously. In a show of nonchalance, he sat up, shook his head, cleaned his face, and with a clink of his claws against the buckles of Ed’s jacket, leapt to the floor.

“Fucking ow,” Ed muttered, rubbing his fingers along the small puncture wounds on his bicep, Asher’s asshole love-notes a lifelong sensation.

Asher padded over to Polly where she was curled up, plopped his enormous black backside next to her, and set his head on her shoulders. The rest of his body followed like water being poured into a shaped glass, drooping contentedly to the floor with the peculiar grace of a cat who was exactly where he wanted to be.

The silence settled into comfort, mood returning to contented laziness as Ed watched his daemon’s chest rise and fall as he breathed. Jesus fucking wept, how long had it been since that cat touched another daemon in something other than violence? Decades. More, probably. Asher regularly stalked and threatened Izzy’s kestrel daemon, knocking her from her perches around the ship; anything smaller than a bear was fair game for menacing, really. He’d even once managed to get a solid strike on Fang’s enormous golden eagle, clawing his way up into the rigging to drop down onto her back and pin her to the deck when she fell, snapping one of her strong wings with a noise like a dry branch.

And here he was snuggled up against a kennel-club, blue-ribbon princess of a dog, her angelic curls sparkling beside his patchy, dusty, ragged black fur.

“Ed,” Stede said into his book, and his head turned so fast it hurt, “forgive me if I’m being forward. But since we’re speaking of it...”

See the full post

110 notes - Posted April 17, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

so unfortunately for you all the above post inspired a daemons AU for these idiots

“Who named you?” Ed asked, mumbling around the end of the pipe in his mouth. “Never met a nob that’d name their kids’ daemon something s’common as Polly.” Nobs always had long daemon names, the very devil to pronounce and never worth remembering, and they were always out of some book or play that no one in their right mind had ever heard of.

“Ah,” Stede said, looking a little bashful as he put his bookmark between the pages, Polly a liquid lump of dog where she was lying on his slippers. Before them, the fire roared, leaving the cabin an oasis of cozy warmth among the old, comforting sounds of the waves against the hull. “It is, I’m afraid, a short form- her name is Polyhymnia. For one of the Greek muses, I believe.”

“I like Polly better,” she murmured from the floor, her normally-cheerful voice subdued and relaxed from the heat of the fire, and Stede leaned down to ruffle the long, golden hair around her ears. Her coat matched perfectly to his blond hair, and she looked clean and soft and rumpled, just like Stede in his dressing-gown.

“And you?” He asked politely, sitting back up. “Why Asher?”

Ash, taking up space on Ed’s chest, heaved a toothy yawn. He matched Ed the same way- midnight-black in their youth, he had faded over the years to the color of stormclouds on the horizon, fur going gray towards the jowled sides of his face. A thick, ragged tomcat with one ripped-up ear and singed whiskers, he’d left scars on the noses of daemons from here to High Brazil.

“Dunno,” he replied, his voice as low and dark as the voice in the back of Edward’s head that told him when everything was about to go to shit. “Biblical, maybe.”

“Mum was a God-botherer,” Ed agreed, drawing on his pipe and letting the smoke flow away with the words.

318 notes - Posted April 7, 2022

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[tasmiq]

Jumu'ah Khuthbah: 3 February 2023

Bismillah into day 1 of your Aunty Amira's SAIA (South African Institute of Architects) Presidential term. She enters with an immense will for spatial transformation, Subhana'Allah and Insha'Allah a measure of it is achieved. In the least, as the built-environment fraternity's first woman of colour with as much leadership acumen that she brings, we thank Allah for this immense opportunity within the profession! Now bismillah to our Khuthbah...

#1. Your Aunty Amira shared an emacipatory hymn that one of her assistants sent her; to usher the new means of transformative sustenance within the built-enviroment fraternity, under her reign! I commented on the fact that her assistants are this excited and regard her as the most involved SAIA President they've experienced, is a sign of positive possibility!

On this very point, Shaykh Taner proclaimed that positivity is representative of Allah against man's inclination towards negativity! Our Tariqa has gifted your Aunty Amira with our Positivity Prayers, which she cherishes. By focusing on the positivity of Allah, we are led to Allah's love, which she inherently gravitates towards in her perception of Allah. I believe that this is why she has earned innumerable blessings in her life.

Shaykh Taner continued to elucidate that Allah certainly has power but "He" approaches us with love, which I most certainly can attest to as a thriving accident survivor, Alhamdulillah... It therefore makes perfect sense to reciprocate that Divine love that is actually living in our every moment! With our free wills, we choose to live with Allah consciously, willingly, and lovingly!

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=T10pfn2FK2A&feature=share

#2. In our first live Zikr after COVID-19 safety regulations necessitated our virtual reality. It however proved just how resilient spiritual mechanisms can be too, in the face of dark unknowns!

Shaykh Nishaat was reflecting on the Qur'an burning in Sweden which dominated the news headlines for days. Here I was automatically thinking like a political scientist about why the Jewish Torah or Christian Bible was not chosen, my head enmeshed deeply in world power struggles.

Here, Shaykh Nishaat highlighted an undeniable truth, that no one can destroy the words of Allah! The Qur'an burning was clearly done to provoke a response. It was a reminder that we should avoid responding whenever we're provoked, which is actually counterintuitive to most of us!

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=XmIJX6ZPHEo&feature=youtu.be

#3. Shaykh Taner echoed into our consciousness that surrender is not a one time deal! In the mind you can intend to surrender, but the true test is whether you have surrendered in your heart and in your actions. Surrender has to be in the heart, in the mind and in the action.

As I truly realised in the numerous things that I have been blessed to surrender post-accident. Where I have been able to embrace being:

i. Materially minimalist,

ii. Parting with people of my past that had no positive influence and,

iii. Being able to part from vain social media platforms.

Thus opening the floodgates to focus on learning, living and loving Allah! Truly manifesting our dua'a:

Ya Fattah Ya Razzaq

(Yearning Allah as the openor of sustenance)

#4. When we are awakened in our consciousness, even the crumbs that we carefully pick up described by Jean-Pierre De Caussade, is a precious source of enrichment!

During Shaykh Taner's latest book project "Living with Allah" he reflected that as humanity, we are connected to light as the light of the universe, which is why we should maintain a state of conscious and loving reflection of that light.

#5. When the world drives one to understand the basic fundamentals of our faith as zakat (charity)... Learned souls as your Abbu and Uncle Tariq Toffa lead your Ammu to carefully pick up crumbs to demystify our collective iman (faith in Islam). Because your Ammu actually has the time to try make sense of what muddies the human conscience, eg. Thapelo Amad's antipathy for "biryani charity". Where we need to remind ourselves about the etiquette of disbursing Zakat:

https://www.imamghazali.org/blog/zakat?utm_source=mailchimp&utm_medium=email&utm_term=ayyuhal-walad&utm_content=zakat-guide&utm_campaign=bookstore&mc_cid=1eb60f6622&mc_eid=acb67de9cd

Ultimately as in all of humanity, there are different grades and preferences of need that should be considered. Most of all, so as not to impose the feeling of being a burden as a receiver of zakat.

This brings us to your Abbu's Arabic Khuthbah. Thereafter we convey continued gratitude to Allah for leading Ammu to much enrichment, during her imprisonment in disability 😅

Ya Shakur × to the power of infinity

[thesalvationofdoriangray]

The Monster Within and Discernment from the Double Edged Sword

Ludovico Einaudi- Leo

Everyone has within them "the flesh" as Christians call it. Essentially it is the sinful nature or the monster within. You know that feeling you get when you have perceived that someone has hurt you and you want revenge? Sometimes it makes us feel like a monster but it is a useful indicator that we are just "smarter animals" with inherent sin. People say hurtful things because they want control or are dealing with some intense emotion such as anger, jealousy, worthlessness, stress, trauma, or even something like hunger or sleep deprivation.

My depression is slowly fading. If Jesus is my oxygen, then his people are my food. I no longer spend my days isolated, paranoid of the intentions of humans. I can see the beauty, optimism, purpose and the way God is present in nearly everything. I have loving friends and I am immersed in the church. I am signed up for school. I am good financially. I've repaired and have made new friendships. I've developed new hobbies. I'm healthy. I'm strong but...now that I have a job from volunteering at the food bank, I've come to the realization that most people do not think of the consequences of what they utter from their mouth until it's too late. That's why Jesus said that the tongue is the dirtiest part of our body because it reveals what is manifested in our hearts. One cannot be virtuous until they are aware of the "monster" within and choose to react in a God honoring way. They must know they have the capacity to be dangerous. That with our sinful nature or the flesh, we have the potential to be St. Augustine or Hitler. Until one knows their monster within and chooses to do the right thing, they're only acting out of naivety and essentially pretending. When one encounters and controls this monster but chooses righteousness, he becomes spiritually powerful and moves out into the world with great force.

I choose righteousness. I choose to utter the words of life to bring about healing and light to illuminate the dark corners of broken hearts and weary souls. I've spent years in a room alone afraid and broken. For those that cry thinking that they're alone, I understand you fully. For our body is the temple where heaven overlaps with earth and our soul is the inner sanctuary for the Holy Spirit. That even when I felt alone, Christ was by my side. My spirit is one with HIM. Holy Yeshua, for your tears rained down upon me while I cried and when no one could see my tears when I was standing in the storm, you laid your omnipotent hand upon my shattered heart and pieced it back together. Thus I was reborn. I will NOT participate in the puny deviI's schemes. I will become a "wounded healer" with humility like my precious savior. I choose to utter love and wisdom from my beloved Jesus. I do this not because it's just some selfless, sacrificial, and get nothing in return action but rather I am also a beneficiary. That God bestowed this wisdom upon my fertile heart so that I may do this for myself and the byproduct is that I love my neighbor as Yeshua has loved me. For God smiles upon my existence with a purpose greater than my own. May the divine vine bear luscious fruit of the spirit .

I'm happy that God blessed me with quite the imagination and with it comes empathy. Anyone that lacks empathy is selfish with their imagination. I'm able to imagine how hurt the other person feels or would feel and from it I am more prudent in action and tactful in speech. I have been hurt so much in my life and God understands my heart perfectly for when I was in my mother's womb, my whole life was written in a book in the library of the King of Kings. I was never alone and in my heart I know I never will be

[missmentelle]

Why Smart People Believe Stupid Things

If you’ve been paying attention for the last couple of years, you might have noticed that the world has a bit of a misinformation problem. 

The problem isn’t just with the recent election conspiracies, either. The last couple of years has brought us the rise (and occasionally fall) of misinformation-based movements like:

Sandy Hook conspiracies

Gamergate

Pizzagate

The MRA/incel/MGTOW movements

anti-vaxxers

flat-earthers

the birther movement

the Illuminati 

climate change denial

Spygate

Holocaust denial 

COVID-19 denial 

5G panic 

QAnon 

But why do people believe this stuff?

It would be easy - too easy - to say that people fall for this stuff because they’re stupid. We all want to believe that smart people like us are immune from being taken in by deranged conspiracies. But it’s just not that simple. People from all walks of life are going down these rabbit holes - people with degrees and professional careers and rich lives have fallen for these theories, leaving their loved ones baffled. Decades-long relationships have splintered this year, as the number of people flocking to these conspiracies out of nowhere reaches a fever pitch. 

So why do smart people start believing some incredibly stupid things? It’s because:

Our brains are built to identify patterns. 

Our brains fucking love puzzles and patterns. This is a well-known phenomenon called apophenia, and at one point, it was probably helpful for our survival - the prehistoric human who noticed patterns in things like animal migration, plant life cycles and the movement of the stars was probably a lot more likely to survive than the human who couldn’t figure out how to use natural clues to navigate or find food. 

The problem, though, is that we can’t really turn this off. Even when we’re presented with completely random data, we’ll see patterns. We see patterns in everything, even when there’s no pattern there. This is why people see Jesus in a burnt piece of toast or get superstitious about hockey playoffs or insist on always playing at a certain slot machine - our brains look for patterns in the constant barrage of random information in our daily lives, and insist that those patterns are really there, even when they’re completely imagined. 

A lot of conspiracy theories have their roots in people making connections between things that aren’t really connected. The belief that “vaccines cause autism” was bolstered by the fact that the first recognizable symptoms of autism happen to appear at roughly the same time that children receive one of their rounds of childhood immunizations - the two things are completely unconnected, but our brains have a hard time letting go of the pattern they see there. Likewise, many people were quick to latch on to the fact that early maps of COVID infections were extremely similar to maps of 5G coverage -  the fact that there’s a reasonable explanation for this (major cities are more likely to have both high COVID cases AND 5G networks) doesn’t change the fact that our brains just really, really want to see a connection there. 

Our brains love proportionality. 

Specifically, our brains like effects to be directly proportional to their causes - in other words, we like it when big events have big causes, and small causes only lead to small events. It’s uncomfortable for us when the reverse is true. And so anytime we feel like a “big” event (celebrity death, global pandemic, your precious child is diagnosed with autism) has a small or unsatisfying cause (car accident, pandemics just sort of happen every few decades, people just get autism sometimes), we sometimes feel the need to start looking around for the bigger, more sinister, “true” cause of that event. 

Consider, for instance, the attempted assassination of Pope John Paul II. In 1981, Pope John Paul II was shot four times by a Turkish member of a known Italian paramilitary secret society who’d recently escaped from prison - on the surface, it seems like the sort of thing conspiracy theorists salivate over, seeing how it was an actual multinational conspiracy. But they never had much interest in the assassination attempt. Why? Because the Pope didn’t die. He recovered from his injuries and went right back to Pope-ing. The event didn’t have a serious outcome, and so people are content with the idea that one extremist carried it out. The death of Princess Diana, however, has been fertile ground for conspiracy theories; even though a woman dying in a car accident is less weird than a man being shot four times by a paid political assassin, her death has attracted more conspiracy theories because it had a bigger outcome. A princess dying in a car accident doesn’t feel big enough. It’s unsatisfying. We want such a monumentous moment in history to have a bigger, more interesting cause. 

These theories prey on pre-existing fear and anger. 

Are you a terrified new parent who wants the best for their child and feels anxious about having them injected with a substance you don’t totally understand? Congrats, you’re a prime target for the anti-vaccine movement. Are you a young white male who doesn’t like seeing more and more games aimed at women and minorities, and is worried that “your” gaming culture is being stolen from you? You might have been very interested in something called Gamergate. Are you a right-wing white person who worries that “your” country and way of life is being stolen by immigrants, non-Christians and coastal liberals? You’re going to love the “all left-wingers are Satantic pedo baby-eaters” messaging of QAnon. 

Misinformation and conspiracy theories are often aimed strategically at the anxieties and fears that people are already experiencing. No one likes being told that their fears are insane or irrational; it’s not hard to see why people gravitate towards communities that say “yes, you were right all along, and everyone who told you that you were nuts to be worried about this is just a dumb sheep. We believe you, and we have evidence that you were right along, right here.” Fear is a powerful motivator, and you can make people believe and do some pretty extreme things if you just keep telling them “yes, that thing you’re afraid of is true, but also it’s way worse than you could have ever imagined.”

Real information is often complicated, hard to understand, and inherently unsatisfying. 

The information that comes from the scientific community is often very frustrating for a layperson; we want science to have hard-and-fast answers, but it doesn’t. The closest you get to a straight answer is often “it depends” or “we don’t know, but we think X might be likely”. Understanding the results of a scientific study with any confidence requires knowing about sampling practices, error types, effect sizes, confidence intervals and publishing biases. Even asking a simple question like “is X bad for my child” will usually get you a complicated, uncertain answer - in most cases, it really just depends. Not understanding complex topics makes people afraid - it makes it hard to trust that they’re being given the right information, and that they’re making the right choices. 

Conspiracy theories and misinformation, on the other hand, are often simple, and they are certain. Vaccines bad. Natural things good. 5G bad. Organic food good. The reason girls won’t date you isn’t a complex combination of your social skills, hygiene, appearance, projected values, personal circumstances, degree of extroversion, luck and life phase - girls won’t date you because feminism is bad, and if we got rid of feminism you’d have a girlfriend. The reason Donald Trump was an unpopular president wasn’t a complex combination of his public bigotry, lack of decorum, lack of qualifications, open incompetence, nepotism, corruption, loss of soft power, refusal to uphold the basic responsibilities of his position or his constant lying - they hated him because he was fighting a secret sex cult and they’re all in it. 

Instead of making you feel stupid because you’re overwhelmed with complex information, expert opinions and uncertain advice, conspiracy theories make you feel smart - smarter, in fact, than everyone who doesn’t believe in them. And that’s a powerful thing for people living in a credential-heavy world. 

Many conspiracy theories are unfalsifiable. 

It is very difficult to prove a negative. If I tell you, for instance, that there’s no such thing as a purple swan, it would be very difficult for me to actually prove that to you - I could spend the rest of my life photographing swans and looking for swans and talking to people who know a lot about swans, and yet the slim possibility would still exist that there was a purple swan out there somewhere that I just hadn’t found yet. That’s why, in most circumstances, the burden of proof lies with the person making the extraordinary claim - if you tell me that purple swans exist, we should continue to assume that they don’t until you actually produce a purple swan. 

Conspiracy theories, however, are built so that it’s nearly impossible to “prove” them wrong. Is there any proof that the world’s top-ranking politicians and celebrities are all in a giant child sex trafficking cult? No. But can you prove that they aren’t in a child sex-trafficking cult? No, not really. Even if I, again, spent the rest of my life investigating celebrities and following celebrities and talking to people who know celebrities, I still couldn’t definitely prove that this cult doesn’t exist - there’s always a chance that the specific celebrities I’ve investigated just aren’t in the cult (but other ones are!) or that they’re hiding evidence of the cult even better than we think. Lack of evidence for a conspiracy theory is always treated as more evidence for the theory - we can’t find anything because this goes even higher up than we think! They’re even more sophisticated at hiding this than we thought! People deeply entrenched in these theories don’t even realize that they are stuck in a circular loop where everything seems to prove their theory right - they just see a mountain of “evidence” for their side. 

Our brains are very attached to information that we “learned” by ourselves.

Learning accurate information is not a particularly interactive or exciting experience. An expert or reliable source just presents the information to you in its entirety, you read or watch the information, and that’s the end of it. You can look for more information or look for clarification of something, but it’s a one-way street - the information is just laid out for you, you take what you need, end of story. 

Conspiracy theories, on the other hand, almost never show their hand all at once. They drop little breadcrumbs of information that slowly lead you where they want you to go. This is why conspiracy theorists are forever telling you to “do your research” - they know that if they tell you everything at once, you won’t believe them. Instead, they want you to indoctrinate yourself slowly over time, by taking the little hints they give you and running off to find or invent evidence that matches that clue. If I tell you that celebrities often wear symbols that identify them as part of a cult and that you should “do your research” about it, you can absolutely find evidence that substantiates my claim - there are literally millions of photos of celebrities out there, and anyone who looks hard enough is guaranteed to find common shapes, poses and themes that might just mean something (they don’t - eyes and triangles are incredibly common design elements, and if I took enough pictures of you, I could also “prove” that you also clearly display symbols that signal you’re in the cult). 

The fact that you “found” the evidence on your own, however, makes it more meaningful to you. We trust ourselves, and we trust that the patterns we uncover by ourselves are true. It doesn’t feel like you’re being fed misinformation - it feels like you’ve discovered an important truth that “they” didn’t want you to find, and you’ll hang onto that for dear life. 

Older people have not learned to be media-literate in a digital world. 

Fifty years ago, not just anyone could access popular media. All of this stuff had a huge barrier to entry - if you wanted to be on TV or be in the papers or have a radio show, you had to be a professional affiliated with a major media brand. Consumers didn’t have easy access to niche communities or alternative information - your sources of information were basically your local paper, the nightly news, and your morning radio show, and they all more or less agreed on the same set of facts. For decades, if it looked official and it appeared in print, you could probably trust that it was true. 

Of course, we live in a very different world today - today, any asshole can accumulate an audience of millions, even if they have no credentials and nothing they say is actually true (like “The Food Babe”, a blogger with no credentials in medicine, nutrition, health sciences, biology or chemistry who peddles health misinformation to the 3 million people who visit her blog every month). It’s very tough for older people (and some younger people) to get their heads around the fact that it’s very easy to create an “official-looking” news source, and that they can’t necessarily trust everything they find on the internet. When you combine that with a tendency toward “clickbait headlines” that often misrepresent the information in the article, you have a generation struggling to determine who they can trust in a media landscape that doesn’t at all resemble the media landscape they once knew. 

These beliefs become a part of someone’s identity. 

A person doesn’t tell you that they believe in anti-vaxx information - they tell you that they ARE an anti-vaxxer. Likewise, people will tell you that they ARE a flat-earther, a birther, or a Gamergater. By design, these beliefs are not meant to be something you have a casual relationship with, like your opinion of pizza toppings or how much you trust local weather forecasts - they are meant to form a core part of your identity. 

And once something becomes a core part of your identity, trying to make you stop believing it becomes almost impossible. Once we’ve formed an initial impression of something, facts just don’t change our minds. If you identify as an antivaxxer and I present evidence that disproves your beliefs, in your mind, I’m not correcting inaccurate information - I am launching a very personal attack against a core part of who you are. In fact, the more evidence I present, the more you will burrow down into your antivaxx beliefs, more confident than ever that you are right. Admitting that you are wrong about something that is important to you is painful, and your brain would prefer to simply deflect conflicting information rather than subject you to that pain.

We can see this at work with something called the confirmation bias. Simply put, once we believe something, our brains hold on to all evidence that that belief is true, and ignore evidence that it’s false. If I show you 100 articles that disprove your pet theory and 3 articles that confirm it, you’ll cling to those 3 articles and forget about the rest. Even if I show you nothing but articles that disprove your theory, you’ll likely go through them and pick out any ambiguous or conflicting information as evidence for “your side”, even if the conclusion of the article shows that you are wrong - our brains simply care about feeling right more than they care about what is actually true.  

There is a strong community aspect to these theories. 

There is no one quite as supportive or as understanding as a conspiracy theorist - provided, of course, that you believe in the same conspiracy theories that they do. People who start looking into these conspiracy theories are told that they aren’t crazy, and that their fears are totally valid. They’re told that the people in their lives who doubted them were just brainwashed sheep, but that they’ve finally found a community of people who get where they’re coming from. Whenever they report back to the group with the “evidence” they’ve found or the new elaborations on the conspiracy theory that they’ve been thinking of (“what if it’s even worse than we thought??”), they are given praise for their valuable contributions. These conspiracy groups often become important parts of people’s social networks - they can spend hours every day talking with like-minded people from these communities and sharing their ideas. 

Of course, the flipside of this is that anyone who starts to doubt or move away from the conspiracy immediately loses that community and social support. People who have broken away from antivaxx and QAnon often say that the hardest part of leaving was losing the community and friendships they’d built - not necessarily giving up on the theory itself. Many people are rejected by their real-life friends and family once they start to get entrenched in conspiracy theories; the friendships they build online in the course of researching these theories often become the only social supports they have left, and losing those supports means having no one to turn to at all. This is by design - the threat of losing your community has kept people trapped in abusive religious sects and cults for as long as those things have existed. 

[hoodoobarbie]

The mythology of the Siren, Mermaid, Water Spirits & Mami Wata and it’s origins within black feminity.

Today I had to listen to other another black woman rant about how mermaids/sirens/mami wata are evil low key. So this educational post was born in response. 

Did you really think the divine essence of the black feminine wouldn’t protect itself ? That energy exists for a reason.  Suddenly it’s evil, to have teeth and protect yourself from predators. Water is a precious resource. You will be tested to see if you are deserving of it or not. Also these spirits will defend natural resources so they don’t get fucked up by human greed. 

It’s common for some places in Africa for people to offer the Sirens/Mami Wata/Water spirits or make an offerings/contracts with them in order to use the resources on their land. It also keeps the white ppl away too because they cause so much trouble.

Sirens are also associated with being the killers of children and men, but often this is completely misrepresented intentionally.

Men fear the power of the siren because she can override the patriarchy at core and can completely unravel them. The orgins of many water spirits lie in matriachal societies, temples divine feminine and motherhood. This is why temples and sacred magikal knowledge was intentionally destroyed and stolen, especially to empower the white patriarch.

Sirens are also described as thiefs of children and child killers. Sirens have been known to kidnap kids who were being abused or have were murdered near water and take them to their kingdom to restore them.

Sometimes the child returns, sometimes they are not. However in general they are big on kidnapping people, mostly women and giving them powers, if they decide to return. The idea of them eating and killing children, was a lie perpetuated by Greeks to cover up some truly horrific acts. Unfortunate these false accusations have been allowed to continue to perpetuate.

If a siren is acting in a predatory way, there is a reason why as their energy as been disturbed. Sirens are natural guardians. 

So the real question is . . . what did you do ? Did you destroy their habitat ? Abuse a child or a person ? Commit an egregious act against a woman ie rape/murder etc ? Disrespect a sacred place, the land, the seas or rivers ? Steal precious resources that weren’t yours to take ?

These sacred traditions are more than just deities, spirits and our ancestors. All forms of ATR are access to our spiritual mind state as an entire community. When you move in Vodou, you can sense the whole of black consciousness and all of our problem spots, specifically  areas that need healing. 

Oxum-Oshun, Olokun, Yemaya, the Mami Wata, La Baliene, La Siren, Met Agwe, The Simbi - these are all spirits with a connection to waters. Water is life and has always been inherently associated feminine energy. I’m not going into detail about all these cross connections but let’s chat about La Sirene, specifically.

La Sirene, Queen of all Mermaids is more than just a powerful sorceress and queen of song/music and dreams, she is also a keeper of secrets an a guardian of sacred memories & knowledge.

Many of the souls of slaves, from the Transatlantic slave trade that were thrown off the boats into the ocean are her children, citizens and warriors now. She comforts them eternally & they live in paradise. That doesn’t mean all of these souls are at rest, plenty continuously ask their mother if they will be avenged, especially the young children. She also has a close connection with the Indigenous Taino. The isle of Hispaniola also known as Haiti (Ayiti) & the Dominican Republic is her most known domain. 

Let’s not act like slavery and colonization was a cake walk. Rape was common place and mermaids, water spirits offered African and Indigenous women protection and power over men. They became demonized overtime for their hypnotic powers and killing men, who often overstepped their boundaries. Women could leave offerings to these spirits, work or commune with them and be quickly avenged or gain great power and wealth. All of this was threatening to the white patriarchal standard.

La Sirene’s presence in Haiti and other merfolk tales that float around the Caribbean/West Indies, is not without purpose. She has ties to many people and many different cultures. Her sacred symbols are global. This is why I speculate she is much older than people think. La Sirene, is a fairly young evolution. She clearly has ties to much older things. Her older names might have been lost but she has evolved, to save her self and also document other forgotten elements of history in the process. There are those who speculate that La Sirene is the embodiment of a cross mixed culture, the evolution of Indigenous & African water spirits combined, due to the excess trauma of colonization and so the Mermaid Queen was born. Others will argue that she is the Orisha Yemaya but a newer avatar of her.  I hate to argue semantics but I will say this, she exists and her presence is felt to this day, all around the world. 

La Sirene is often depicted as a mulatto woman with eyes like the sea but if you have been blessed to see her in dream state, she does appear sometimes as a brown or dark skinned skinned woman of possibly mixed Indigenous/African ancestry with glowing hypnotic eyes.  Alot of her older depictions, deal with colorism and slavery, but as things have grown in the modern world this imagery has begun to change. However mermaids, are known for their shapeshifting powers - to truly behold her true form, is a gift reserved for the rare few. 

As a keeper of the mysteries, La Sirene also access to many forgotten things in the black subconscious. The element of water is an intensely psychic sign.  Water is her domain, and what is the human body 80% of? WATER! The truth does not hide from her hypnotic eyes. This sacred connection to water and her essence, also means you can  track forgotten elements black history and connect to other deities/cultures who’ve had contact with her & her whole court or other black water spirits as a whole. So let’s take a short historical trip down memory lane.

The Greeks & Black women. Sirens, Aphrodite, Sibyls and other Children of Water 🧜🏾‍♀️

The deity Aphrodite/Venus is of Grecian and Roman legend.  

A little known magikal fact is that Aphrodite/Venus is half siren. She is a child of the water, she was literally birthed this way after Uranus got his balls cut off & thrown into the sea. Much of her Venusian influence and powers of love and beauty come from this element. Now my Mambo doesn’t like mentioning it but Aphrodite, is tolerated by the oceanic court of sirens/mermaids. Any child of water, falls under the domain of the queen. La Sirene has a sort of strange fondness for her and so does Aphrodite for her. However this doesn’t mean they are best friends.  It’s tentative friendship at best and comes with some perks. Aphrodite works quickly for children of water sirens and often will send mermaids to her devotees who misbehave. She has deliberately placed me around her people have pissed her off, to cause mischief. She’s quite petty but also  very generous. I won’t go as far to dare and say she is in the queen’s court, but she does curry favor with the queen. Being born of water, her half siren/mermaid influence has definitely attributed to legends of her beauty in myth but also her treachery with men 🧜🏾‍♀️😂. She clearly also has some sort of homesickness for the world underneath the water, because many of her offerings are gifts of pearls, kisses, sea shells, beauty products etc. Anyone who serves the Mermaid Queen knows the meaning behind those gifts. If you’re a black gyal with water or siren energy and decide to work with Aphrodite, do it!  If you ever irritate her, the least she’ll do is give you pimples and fuck up your skin, she won’t have the full power to completely fuck up your love life like she does with the white girls.  And let me tell you, she has completely ruined some white girls lives by giving them terrible lovers or men.  

The trident 🔱 is known for its connection in Greek and Hindu cultures.  However La Sirene or other African water spirits are depicted carrying it, which is largely ignored in the occult world.

You can track the trident in Hinduism, with the serpent spirits, the nagas or Lord Shiva but let’s focus on it’s Grecian connection. The usage of the trident and Poseidon, even in mainstream society today is associated with him.  This lets us know there is a connection between the mermaids, merfolk and La Sirene/African water spirits. Poseidon’s trident was rumored to made in Athens by the Cyclops - this is the city of Athena. So now we can track an element of black history all the way to Poseidon & Athena. Keep that in your thoughts we’ll come back to that later.

Tridents were also used ceremonially in Africa & India as well, as scepters, tribal weapons and religious symbols.

They were also associated with the sea faring people and fishing. It’s highly likely the origins of the trident are cross mixed between these two societies. Indo-African relations, go back to the Bronze age and the Indus Valley civilization. Which means traveling over by sea to reach each other was necessary. There is historical evidence of African millet being found in a Indian city Chanhudaro, including a cemetary or burial ground for African women.  Maritime relations between these two groups existed before Grecian & the Egyptian Ptolemaic dynasties.

Now of course there are some deranged historians that will try to whitewash history and say the trident has its origins from the labyrs but the Ancient Greeks & Africans/Indians interacted regularly. The trident also looks nothing like a labyrs, which is quite literally a double sided axe.  This is one of the more painful obvious pieces of white washing and historical revisionism. 

Regardless, the trident is associated with water, ceremonial/religious purposes, fishing, battling in the coliseum and the symbol of power for a few African,  Black diasporian an Hindu deities.

🧜🏾‍♀️ Oracles & Sibyls

Some sibyls/oracles were known to be African prophetesses/Mamissi to the Mami Wata/Sirens in Africa, some were stolen or captured by Greeks or Romans, sold into slavery and made to be oracles, some of whom became quite famous in legend. Their connection to these water spirits, is what gave them their gift of prophecy. Not every sibyl or oracle was African but SOME were.  This lead to the sharing and theft of sacred knowledge. It’s likely these women shared this sacred information, with their colleagues, some whom may or may not have been enslaved or kept in these temple and likely this information was traded, for their freedom, power or money etc. This gave way to the usage of sacred spirits and magick being used by men. A great example of this is the snake spirits of the genii, genius spirits (not to be mistaken with genies) and which then evolved into a diluted lesser energy in Greek society being known as daemons (not to be confused with goetic demons) Instead of a woman commanding these specific energies/spirits, the patriarchs decided that these specifics powers were only worthy of being used by men. These spirits were whitewashed, adopted into their religious practices and said to only be given to men at birth. No woman was allowed to possess them anymore.

🧜🏾‍♀️ The whitewashing of Medusa & Lamia. 

In mainstream society these two women stories have been white washed but also to hide a very shameful history and narrative. These two were beautiful women, in older stories of black black mythology were known to be black and they were children of water & daughters of the powerful water spirit/snake/siren divine mother/feminine goddess. 

Medusa was raped by the GREECIAN GOD OF THE SEA, POSEIDON  and Athena covered it up, refused to avenge her and punished her by making her ugly to everyone. It’s speculated in several magikal circles that the snakes in her hair were actually dreads, due to their lack of understanding of black hair and also allegorically might have been a reference to her devotion to the fish or water snake, great mother goddess. A child of the divine feminine, mother goddess was assaulted in a temple by a man and a woman covered it up & celebrated it.

Let’s start there ... cuz this story says a lot! It’s one of the first historical cases  in myth that really documents the issues that surround the black feminine specifically and it was intentionally whitewashed. Then to add insult to injury, Athena made her hideous to all men and her chopped off her head and used as a symbol of protection but also a subtle sign of disrespect to the fullest. This still goes on to this day.

In fact ALGOL, the demon star, which is considered to be strongest protective magick talisman in the occult world today is the HEAD OF MEDUSA. The child of water! BITCH! This energy is invoked constantly and the spirit of medusa is never allowed to rest.

However these egregious acts did not come without a price. Athena at time was a goddess of fertility. However desecrating a child of water or the sirens, is seen as an attack by the divine feminine and can will cause people to be afflicted with fertility and other mental health issues as well. This is speculative but it’s also likely that after this they were constantly visited by droughts, floods or repeating issues with water sanitation & purity after this. Lowered fertility rates and miscarriages might be more prominent, for Athenians and Athena devotees & likely continues to this day.

Devotees of Athena may also develop severe issues when it to their mental health because of this connection. They completely lose touch with their feminine energy and become extremely misogynistic after continued work with her.

Not only did Athena, cause Medusa to be seen as hideous throughout the land but she celebrated when she was murdered and proudly wore Medusa’s decapitated head on her shield. From the feminist eye this virgin deity/woman was extremely male identified and adhered to the patriarchal standard. She was tested by the divine feminine and failed.

Even more strange, Athena’s birth allegorically proclaims her essential character: her wisdom is drawn from the head of a male god; the bond of affection between father and daughter; her championship of heroes and male causes, born as she was from the male, and not from a mother’s womb. A dreaded goddess of war, she remained a virgin and a servant of the patriarchal society and remains so to this day. She is the misogynistic cool girl and very asexual at the core. In fact if you explore more of her mythos, it becomes very clear she hates women. I’m bewildered at how she has become associated with lesbians and the feminine at large, when it’s been very clear that she was intent on transcending her gender from the very beginning, but never managed to escape it.  

To top it off, I’ll leave you with this quote from Aeschylus’ Oresteia by Athena:

“There is no mother anywhere who gave me birth, and, but for marriage, I am always for the male with all my heart, and strongly on my father’s side. So, in a case where the wife has killed her husband, lord of the house, her death shall not mean most to me.”

Queen Lamia was a said to incredible beauty who seduced Zeus, (a literal man whore) which as made Hera jealous. Hera cursed Lamia with infertility and insomnia. She went insane and is said to have killed her own children and ate them. Zeus is said to be the one who gifted her prophecy and gave her the ability to take out her eyes, so she would not be irritated at the site of other happy mothers.

She became associated with a child eating monster who was half woman and half snake, which ties into the Libyan snake cults. She was associated with phantoms, the shapshifting laimai or empusai and the daemon spirits.

Medusa and Lamia were Libyan by heritage and came from a place in Africa where temples to the water snake mother goddess & divine feminine were common before they were destroyed by invaders intentionally. These women likely had extreme gifts of seduction, mind control and other abilities etc. It’s highly likely that Queen Lamia used her powers of seduction, at the behest of her people to save them from colonization and was demonized for it. Zeus’s temple was in Cyrene in Lybia, so this is far more than an allegorical story. This may be a real life story that was disguised in mythos. Unfortunately deeper research into this subject has turned up many dead ends for me. It’s highly likely Medusa was a priestess of the the matriarchal Mami Watas or water goddess/snake spirits and was likely raped intentionally in Athena’s temple, as a show loyalty to the rising patriarchy by descrating the symbolism of the great mother and the divine feminine. This was likely an attempt to lessen power and status of the matriachal societies that existed at the time. Rape was common war tactic amongst colonizers and news of such disgrace would likely spread like wildfire. This also solidified Athena’s place amongst the male gods and gaining her their respect. Athena and her devotees went a step further to show their allegiance to the patriarchy, by stripping Medusa of her beauty supposedly and exiling her, then parading her decapitated head on shields, when going into battle likely with Libyan enemies.

This is just a brief explanation of a few horrific acts in history, which were whitewashed & explain why the essence of the black feminine has evolved to become more protective, predatory and fierce. She learned to defend herself. Now she kills those who threaten her. 

Fun history tip: Usually anytime you see a snake in Grecian mythology, just know something got whitewashed, because the truth was really fucked up, made them look really bad & a black woman was there.

🧜🏾‍♀️ The black feminine is capable of more than you know.

Yes, mermaids/sirens/snakes & the mami watas can be scary at times but that’s what stepping into mysticism of deep waters is like. Water is capable of many things, it is one of the most powerful elements on earth. It can nourish you and kill you, and that’s the beauty of it really.

We should all be grateful the black feminine is so beautiful, fierce & scares the living daylights out of everyone.

You would be dead if it wasn’t.

[imagine-darksiders]

A gentle touch.

[Strife/Reader]

Summary: Set three years after humanity is resurrected. Strife shows up unannounced in your bedroom in the middle of the night, which would have been rude enough without him getting blood all over your cream-coloured carpet.

Tags: Blood, injury, PTSD, knife, protective Strife, whump, hurt/comfort, fluff, angst, sharing a bed ;), bandages and cleaning wounds, how not to administer first aid.

-----

You have the apocalypse to thank for turning you into such a light-sleeper. 

Even though the nights of sleeping with one eye open are far behind you and Earth is back on the road to a long and arduous recovery, you'll still jolt awake if your unconscious mind hears something scuttle beneath the floorboards of your freshly-restored home, and God forbid a tree branch should happen to scratch at the bedroom window...

Waking up with the feeling that your heart is three beats from bursting right out of your chest is exhausting, to say the least. And it isn't just you who suffers from the onset of hyper-vigilance.

It was a decidedly cruel consequence that the resurrected humans were able to recall their lives before the end of the world. Crueller still, they woke up to remember exactly how and where they eventually kicked the bucket, and of course, nobody knew that a significant chunk of time had passed at all since the end of the world and its rebirth.

They thought they were still in danger.

In one moment, all they knew was immense and excruciating pain, and then, in what seemed like the blink of an eye, they woke up again, screaming and writhing in the echoes of phantom pain that had occurred almost a century ago.

Three years down the line since ‘The Great Waking,’ and there isn’t a human alive who could claim that they’ve slept through an uninterrupted night.

------

The alarm clock on your bedside table has just ticked over to read '2:36am' when your eyes suddenly snap open and you fling yourself upright in bed, your spine ramrod straight and your ears ringing with a sharp, tinny note.

It isn’t a nightmare that wakes you. At least, not this time.

Worse.

It’s a sound.

An out-of-the-ordinary sound that isn't in keeping with the normal ambiance of your bedroom.

But where...? 

....It's coming from your window.

Tired eyes swivel to the curtains whilst your hand immediately flies out to blindly fumble with the drawer of your bedside table. Once your fingers find the cold, metal handle, you rip it open and plunge your hand inside, rummaging around until you feel the reassuring grip of your most precious possession.

Your trusty bread knife. Serrated edge, nine inch blade, perfect for cutting slices of toast in the morning and for tearing through the toughened hide of a hungry demon.

Peace between the Universe’s species had been declared once humanity was fully introduced to the connected realms, a decision that suited a vast majority of Creation. Hell, however, had offered up a fair amount of opposition to the notion before eventually conceding and agreeing – albeit begrudgingly – to honour the peace treaty alongside angels, makers, undead and the rest.

Even demon-kind knew not to incur the wrath of humanity's strongest and most ferocious protectors, the Horsemen.

But... there are always exceptions to the rule. Some demons just... hadn't gotten the memo.

It wouldn’t be the first time one of them had tried to make an assassination attempt on humanity’s envoy.

Heart in your throat, you grasp the knife securely in your dominant hand and peer through the darkness towards the window. 

Only a sliver of moonlight peeps through a tiny gap in the curtains. In another blink, the light suddenly disappears, and you know better than to assume that the moon has simply ducked behind a cloud. 

Something is standing at your window, blocking out the light.

You think you might actually be sick when you hear the sound again, claws scraping on wood – a sound you know all too well – well enough to send your head spinning into a panic.

Swallowing back the nausea in your throat, you brace yourself, instincts flicking between running for the door and knowing never to turn your back on a demon.

Sadly, the decision is swiftly taken out of your hands. Through the darkness and the deafening roar of blood rushing through your ears, you can make out the distinct sound of your window sliding slowly open.

The knife is a comforting weight in your hand. But it’s less than useless if you don’t calm down and try to remember the lessons that Death has taught you. If the eldest Horseman were here, he’d probably have berated you seven ways to Sunday by now for freezing up and missing an opportunity to better prepare yourself for an attack.

A dark silhouette pushes the fluttering fabric of your curtains aside and pulls itself halfway into your bedroom. 

Whatever it is, it’s big.

Breath catching in your throat, you clasp a handful of your duvet and get ready to fling it at the intruder as a distraction, hoping that it’ll be enough to buy you a precious few seconds to gain the upper hand. You've learned that humans are inherently weaker than demons, but if there’s one thing you’ve learned from Death, it’s that strength isn’t necessarily the deciding factor in any battle. You still have your wits. You only hope the demon has less.

Two luminous, golden eyes turn in your direction and you press yourself backwards into the headboard.

Several seconds drag by in perfect silence.

Then... 

“Hey.”

And just like, that tension leaves your body like a balloon deflating of air and you heave the loudest sigh you can muster, dropping the bread knife into your lap.

“Damn it, Strife! You about gave me a heart attack!”

With a 'whump,' you flop back against your pillows and take a second to breathe whilst one of the Four Horsemen drags himself the rest of the way through your bedroom window.

Strife.

It's only Strife...

Whilst certainly a dangerous being in his own right, you know you have nothing to fear from the Horseman who had all but appointed himself as your friend three, long years ago, all in an attempt to irritate his brother, Death, of course.

At least, at first.

Death was the one who pulled you from the dying Earth and preserved your life-force as you journeyed together on a quest to resurrect humanity, but after he made the jump to introduce you to his 'little' siblings, it had been Strife who'd taken a particular shine to you, and it had everything to do with a compatible, if terrible sense of humour.

That first meeting sparked what was sure to be an interesting friendship between the pair of you.

-----

“So, my brother went and got himself a human, huh?” Strife had teased, pointedly ignoring the withering look he received from Death to add, “Gotta say, I'm impressed, Kid. Didn't think anyone would have the inclination to willingly travel with my brother. But then, I guess...” He trailed off and you could almost see the smirk growing under his mask. “Deathperate times and all that, huh?”

At once, his siblings all groaned out varying noises of disapproval. Fury, the loudest, cocked her hip and shot Strife a frosty glower. “You are singlehandedly ruining our reputation, brother."

“She's right, you know,” you spoke up, trying not to flinch when all eyes snapped onto you once more, “That pun was pretty deadful.”

The brief, startled second of silence was soon blasted apart when Strife threw his head back and barked out a triumphant laugh, while Death slowly turned to look at you, utterly betrayed.

“Ha!” Strife's eyes positively gleamed with mischief, “You're right, human. Guess I should'a considered the reapercussions of a joke like that, huh?”

“I ought to have known introducing you two would be a mistake,” the eldest Horseman grumbled, earning a sympathetic look from War.

“Sorry, Death,” you said with a perfectly straight face, “You want us to get out of your scythe so you don’t have to look at us anymore?”

Strife had howled.

Death, however, merely heaved a long-suffering sigh. Fury's eyes all but rolled into the back of her skull and War just stood there, struggling to keep his lips from twitching at their corners.

And you had looked around at all of them, a little proud and blissfully unaware of what you'd just unwittingly signed yourself up for.

You'd had Strife's attention from that day on.

-----

Shaking off the fond memory, you tiredly will your mind back to the matter at hand.

You reach across your bed and drop the knife back into the drawer before leaning down and skirting your fingers over the wall in search of a switch. The next moment, there's a 'click!' and the room is illuminated by clustered fairy lights that you've draped around your ceiling, forcing you to squint blearily against the intrusion of light as Strife hauls his leg into your room.

“Honestly. How many times have I told you to use the door?”

“S'locked,” he grunts.

You're in the midst of rubbing your eyes to try and stimulate a little life back into your bones, so you miss the way he stumbles a few steps away from the wall and presses a gauntleted hand to his abdomen. 

“Yeah, it’s locked because it's-” You take a quick glance at the clock next to you. “-Two thirty in the morning! Strife, I’m supposed to be up at six to meet Ulthane! What do you need so badly that you'd-... Hey.. Are.. are you okay?”

At last taking a long, hard look, it suddenly occurs to you that the Horseman is... not entirely himself.

He's hunched over, his shoulders pulled in around his neck and his chest rising and falling in long, languid motions. The tattered cowl he wears around his neck hangs loose around his collarbones and it faces the very real threat of slipping off to the floor. At last, your eyes drop to the hand that's clamped over the left side of his abdomen and you blurt out a startled gasp.

In the paltry, pink glow of your fairy lights, you spot an unmistakably crimson liquid dribbling between his fingers, starkly contrasted against the steel-grey colour of his armour.

The next few seconds pass in a blur as you frantically begin kicking off your duvet and scramble out of bed, flying across the room to the Horseman's side.

“Strife! What'd you do!?”

“Oh, that's real sweet,” the Nephilim chuckles wryly whilst he collapses back against the wall and slides down it with a strained grunt, “Why're you – ung... assuming it's something I did?”

Without missing a beat, you snap, “This would hardly be the first time you got hurt because you're a wise-cracking jokester with a big mouth! Now tell me who you pissed off?!”

You drop onto your knees next to him and reach out, fingers hovering tentatively above his stomach. With your focus directed away from his helm, Strife doesn’t bother to hide the way his eyes dart from left to right before they settle back on the top of your head.

“Ah, it was... just some demon, caught me slackin', that's all,” he shrugs, letting you carefully grasp his wrist and lift it away from his torso.

At once, fresh blood gushes from a deep gouge cut into in the dark, leather under-skin he wears beneath his cuirass and you yelp, slapping a hand over your mouth in abject horror.

The sound draws Strife's gaze to you and once he spots the shocked despair on your face, he gives himself a mental kick.

He hadn't meant to... He... doesn't like it when you’re scared because of him.

"Hey, no, no – I'm okay!” he rushes to reassure you, “Don't worry about this. I've had worse!”

“That's not the point, Strife!” you argue, dropping his wrist and carding your hands through your hair, “You're hurt now! And I don't – there's so much blood, and you-” Cutting yourself off, you squeeze your eyes shut and inhale deeply through your nose, willing your pulse to ease so that you can rationally address this situation. 

Another lesson Death had taught you - stay calm in a crisis. Panic kills.

Releasing a long, hard breath, you peel your eyes open again and nod, jaw set. “Okay. All right. I need to.. I need water. A-and I need to see the wound.”

The interrogation can come after you've dealt with... this.

“There's a bowl and flannel in my bathroom,” you announce, getting to your unsteady feet and gesturing towards Strife's cuirass, “Think you can get that off so I can have a look?”

Huffing out a breath of laughter, the Horseman winks at you suggestively and drawls, “An' here I was doin' things the hard way to get your attention. You know, you didn't have to wait till I got myself gutted before you asked me to take my armour off in your chambers.”

A wise-cracking flirt with a big mouth.

As exasperating as he is though, you don't mind it in the slightest.

This is your usual rapport, after all. A friendly back and forth interlaced with the occasional, flirtatious comment. At first, Strife had only initiated it because it drove an over-protective Death up the wall. The eldest Horseman had almost threatened to 'remove Strife's libido' until you'd up and flirted right back, distressing the old reaper even further.

It's funny. It's innocent. But right now, it's reassuring, if only somewhat, that Strife is behaving just like his shameless, old self.

Besides, you can give back as much as you get.

“Well, I had to wait for a good enough excuse,” you retort, “Couldn't come on too strong and risk scaring you off, now could I?”

In response, Strife just chuckles fondly and watches you turn and speed away to your ensuite, oblivious to the warm, soft glow radiating from his eyes.

In less than a minute, you're briskly striding back into the room, a dripping flannel in one hand and a bowl in the other, and he suddenly remembers that you'd asked him to remove his cuirass.

Mission failed.

But you don't even bat an eyelid to find it still in place, assuming that the Horseman can't get at the catches on the sides in his current state. 

In one, smooth motion, you drop down beside him once more and set the cloth and bowl nearby. “Here, let me help..”

The Horseman's pulse sputters when your tiny fingers reach around his torso and fumble with the buckles and straps that keep his armour securely in place. It doesn't pass his notice that your hands are trembling.

“Hey,” he calls, catching your eye for a moment before you go right back to fiddling with the cuirass, “This is nothin’, you know that, right?”

You only press your lips together and hum, clearly skeptical.

You're working fast and in almost no time at all, the straps have been released and you carefully take the Nephilim's broad shoulder, giving it a tug, guiding him to lean away from the walls so that you can start to peel the bulky armour off.

“Nng, hang on,” he mutters.

Reluctantly, you sit back to let him tug his chest piece loose before he simply drops it onto the carpet next to his legs with a dull 'clang.'

Exposed to the soft glow of your lights, your eyes are instantly drawn to the gaping wound that stretches in a horizontal line across the left side of his abdomen. It seems that something really has tried - and nearly succeeded - to gut him. Several inches long and goodness knows how deep, even against the iron-grey colour of his skin, the gash is alarmingly obvious and the blood far, far too noticeable for your liking. It still comes as something of a shock to learn that the Horsemen, barring Death, can actually bleed.

Wordlessly, you pick up the flannel and wring it out into the bowl of water, wondering if he'll mind that you didn't wait for the tap to get warm before you soaked it. It shouldn't surprise you that the Horseman doesn't protest or even flinch when you gently press the wet cloth to the bloodied skin around his wound, nowhere near the gash itself, not until you've cleared away some of the mess around it and determined its real depth.

You don't notice that his eyelids flutter closed once you press the cloth to his skin, nor do you see when their golden light fluctuates in contentment as the fingertips of your other hand press gently to his stomach, the pressure barely enough for him to feel, but enough to keep you steady whilst you daub at his drying blood.

It takes a formidable effort to suppress the shudder that nearly races up his spine. This is the first time he's felt your skin against his without a single piece of armour standing between you.

Creator, you're so soft! Just like he always imagined you would be.

“Jeezus, Strife,” you whistle, abruptly snatching his focus away from the soothing strokes of your silky fingers,“You've made a real mess of yourself. Why on Earth didn't you just go straight to Death? I thought he was the best healer in your family.”

The warm skin underneath your fingertips jumps as the Horseman puffs out a quick laugh, gazing dopily at your temple whilst you wipe at the edges of his wound with small, careful touches. 

“He is,” Strife readily agrees, “But the moody bastard wouldn't be nearly as gentle with me as you are.”

You blow an unimpressed huff from your nose and glance up at him in time to catch his lazy wink. “I can always press harder if you like?”

“Nah.” The Horseman settles himself more heavily against the wall, knocking his skull back against it and mumbling, “Just keep touchin' me all gentle like that. S'nice...”

Quite abruptly, the chatty Nephilim goes silent and the glow from his eyes that had illuminated your face only moments ago suddenly disappears.

“Strife?”

He doesn't respond.

“Hey, Cowboy! Don't you fall asleep on me, you hear?”

There's a long stretch of silence, then, “Won't,” he mumbles, cracking one eyelid open to peer down at you.

Harrumphing, you promptly turn back to the gash in his stomach and wipe the last of the dried blood off his skin, still far from clean, but at the very least, better than it had been.

“Right,” you declare, pulling away to stand up and drawing a decidedly petulant whine from the Horseman on your bedroom floor. “I'm gonna go get the first aid kit from downstairs.”

There’s a shift in his expression and something that hinges on alarm suddenly whistles through his blood.

“I won’t be long,” you promise, "Be right – Hey, woah! What're you doing!?”

Darting forwards, you hastily place your hands on each of Strife's broad shoulders, trying to push him back down as he grabs the window sill behind him and begins hauling himself up to his feet.

“What's it look like ‘m doing?” he answers gruffly, slouching forwards as if the weight of his own head is too much to keep aloft, “Comin’ with you”

Sputtering out a few, incredulous noises, you try to make him see sense. “I’ll bring the first aid kit to you! You need to rest! It's bad enough that you already climbed in through my second storey window!”

But Strife, stubborn as a mule and much, much stronger than you, isn't deterred by your protests. Grunting, he curls one arm over his stomach and takes a step forwards, ducking beneath your light fixture and standing to his full, imposing height.

Even with three years of companionship behind you, you’re still frequently taken aback at how effortlessly the Horseman can make you feel small and fragile when you stand close to him.

Knowing full well that you’ll never be able to force him down again, you allow your hands to slip from his shoulders and fall against your sides like lead weights. You aren’t sure why he’s suddenly so hellbent on following you, downstairs, of all places, but you don’t dwell on it, especially given that you’re far more preoccupied with the fresh blood that has already begun trickling out of his wound to replace the stains you’ve painstakingly cleaned away.

Puffing out your cheeks, you raise a hand and pinch the bridge of your nose. “Strife, please sit down?” You aren’t so proud that you won’t resort to begging, tired as you are and exasperated with his obstinate behaviour. “I’m worried about you...”

All at once, the Horseman stiffens. ‘Oh, now she’s fighting dirty,’ he muses to himself.

Gradually, you lift your eyes to meet his and try your very best to glare up at him, pinning him down with all the stern authority you can muster. For several, slow heartbeats, the Nephilim peers right back at you and you’re almost certain that you’ll lose this battle of wills, which is why it comes as such a shock when his fiery gaze falters, wavering slightly before it promptly drops to the floor near your feet.

It's... rare for Strife to be looked at by someone who isn't ashamed to show that they worry about him.

But the way you're looking at him now? Hell, the way you've been looking at him since he clambered through your bedroom window? You're practically broadcasting your concern.

Strife just... isn't used to seeing that. So he glances down instead, finding the fibres of your carpet particularly exhilarating tonight. Slowly, begrudgingly, he sinks down to sit on the edge of your bed, heavy enough that the frame creaks and groans under the weight of a fully grown Nephilim and he has to hold back a contented sigh at the softness beneath his legs.

From the corner of an eye, he can see that your jaw is hanging ajar and remains so until you give yourself a little shake and throw him a satisfied nod. “Thank you,” you huff before turning on your heel and striding purposefully from the room.

Strife listens raptly to your footsteps disappearing down the staircase, unaware that his hands have curled into tight fists around your duvet.

'It's fine,' he assuages the insistent voice at the back of his head, 'She's fine.'

He took care of the threat. That demon asshole isn't coming after his friend.

You’re only downstairs. He can already hear you pushing open the door to your little kitchen whilst the rest of his senses remain trained on the sounds and smells of the night.

It isn't as though something bad might happen just because his eyes aren't fixed upon you...

Frankly, he thinks he’s being more than generous to allow a full, Earth minute to pass as he taps his heel impatiently against the side of your bed.

Didn’t you say you’d be right back?

...

“Fuck it...”

-------

Perhaps, in hindsight, keeping your first aid kit on the top of the fridge hadn’t been one of your brightest ideas, given that you need a chair to reach it. Then again, securing immediate access to bandages and plasters hadn’t exactly been on the forefront of your mind when you were rebuilding your old home from the ruins it had been left in.

With a grunt, you drop your rickety kitchen chair next to the fridge and clamber up onto the seat. “I have got to find a better place for you,” you grumble at an apathetic first aid kit that sits gathering dust near the wall. Stretching your arm out, you manage to snag it by the handle and drag it towards you-

“The hell're you doing!?”

The violent jolt that shoots through you like lightening nearly sends you toppling off the chair. You let out a yelp, just barely catching yourself on the fridge with your free hand before you whip about to see none other than Strife silhouetted in the kitchen doorway.

“Wh- the hell are you doing!?” you retort, knitting your brows into a frown and clutching the first aid kit against your heaving chest, “Why aren’t you upstairs?”

The Horseman’s glowing eyes are fixed unsettlingly on the chair beneath your feet and rather than answer the question, he ducks under the doorframe and thunders towards you in a few, short strides, leaving you with no time to protest before he suddenly sweeps you up off the chair and into his arms, caging you against a solid chest.

At once, you begin to struggle. “Strife! Your wound! Put me down, you'll hurt yourself!”

But the Nephilim is hardly paying attention. His glare lingers on the flimsy, wooden chair legs for a moment before he flicks his gaze towards the large window above your sink, noting with no small degree of distaste that it isn't even shut.

It’s like you’re inviting danger in.

If you had any idea of the fate he and his siblings are currently trying to protect you from, you might just try a little harder to take better care of yourself.

“Hey!” you continue to protest against his hold but manage to refrain from jostling about too much, mindful of his injury. “For god's sake! What's gotten into you?!”

He offers little more than a noncommittal grunt in response and begins trailing back towards the staircase, casting brief glances at the french doors leading out onto your patio.

'Structural weakness,' he registers, 'Perfect point of entry for anything smaller than a Trauma...'

Shaking his head, he turns sideways to fit you through the kitchen door and takes the stairs up to your room.

After a second, he lowers his eyes to meet yours and finds himself meeting a highly unimpressed scowl. “What?” he asks, the very picture of innocence.

Raising your brows, you snap, “Don't you 'what' me! The hell is all this about? I told you to stay put!”

“You were takin' too long,” he shrugs.

“Too long!?” Indignant, you flick your wrist and rap the first aid kit against his collar bone, “I was gone a minute, max! If you were so worried about me taking too long to fix you up, then why are you moving around and making your injury worse!?”

The light of Strife's golden gaze dims and he turns his head away, staring up towards the top of the stairs and your bedroom door beyond. “S'not me m' worried about,” he mumbles.

It's such an about-face from his usual demeanour that you can do little but blink dumbly up at him and fall still against his chest, your mouth hanging agape.

In silence, the Horseman ducks through the door into your room and sidles over to the bed where, hesitantly, he lowers you down until you're sitting safely on the edge.

In the next moment however, just as Strife drops heavily onto the bed next to you, you slip away and settle on the floor instead, placing the first aid kit beside his boots and fumbling with the latches.

Despite blowing out a rough grumble of disapproval that sounds entirely too much like War for his liking, he lets you go.

Chewing on your lip, you stare at the contents for a moment before snatching up a pack of antiseptic wipes, tearing one out and bringing it up to his stomach.

“You want to tell me why you just exacerbated your injury to rescue me from my kitchen chair?” you ask him, adding as an afterthought, “This might sting a bit..”

When he doesn't reply, you glance up and quirk a brow at the underside of his chin, only to catch him peering back at you from behind heavy-lidded eyes. Then, with a weary sigh, he sags forwards and raises a hand to rub at the back of his neck, looking sheepish, of all things.

Unable to dispel your frown, you blindly begin brushing the wipe underneath his bleeding wound.

He doesn't even wince.

Strife tips his helm towards the bedroom window and slumps further backwards into your mattress, seeming so entirely out of place amidst the colourful duvet cover and frilly cushions.

“Okay,” he mutters, “I uh, I got a confession to make.”

Interest piqued, you make an acknowledging sound at the back of your throat and return your attention to his abdomen.

“Death didn't want us to tell you about this,” he continues quietly whilst you toss the now ruined wipe over your shoulder and pull out a fresh one, “And, to be honest, neither did I. We didn't want you to have to worry, y'know?”

You don't know. And you nearly ask him what you should be worrying about, but you soon let your mouth fall shut and settle for humming curiously instead, trusting that he'll tell you soon enough anyway.

There's a long pause, during which you find the courage to bring your fingers close to the edges of his wound and immediately have to withhold a gag when the motion sends another spout of blood oozing from the cut and dribbling down your wrist.

After a moment, Strife huffs and forges ahead, “Course, War and Fury did want to tell you-”

He's stalling, you realise belatedly.

“-War thinks you have every right to know. And Fury said there's nothin' for you to worry about anyway, cause we've got your back.”

“Fury said that?” you ask distractedly, dropping the wipe and rummaging around for a gauze pad. In response, Strife exhales, a tiny, hidden smile creeping onto his lips. “Fury says a lot of stuff about you that you don't know about.”

Gently, you unroll the gauze and press it against his wound. “Wow, you sure that's your sister?  Sounds like she might've been body snatched.”

“Ha!” The Horseman suddenly throws his head back. “Well, if she has been replaced, I sure as shit ain't going lookin' for the original. This Fury is... she's...”

He pauses, tipping his head in thought before eventually settling on, “She's learning.”

You blow out a long, impressed whistle and he nods his agreement, adding, “Yeah, s'weird for all of us too.”

The room lapses into silence once again as you stretch the gauze across Strife's abdomen and mutter, “Hold this,” before your hands are retreating and the Horseman's slide down to keep the bandage in place.

Reaching into the box once more, you take some bandages and begin to unfurl them gingerly over the top of the gauze. “Not hurting you, am I?”

You miss the soft expression he aims at the top of your head. “Never.”

You're more than aware that he probably won't tell you you've hurt him even if you were to stick your fingers in the wound twist them.

“Sooo~....?” you prompt.

Peering down at you, Strife cocks his head to one side and echoes, “Soooo?”

“What did Fury and War think I should know?”

“Oh. Right...” His reluctance is as painfully obvious as a slap to the face but you're slightly more focused on plunging your hand back into the first aid kit and rooting around for a roll of adhesive tape.

He observes you for a moment, growing more and more certain that despite your curiosity, you aren’t actually paying a great deal of attention to his words. Quite abruptly, he asks, “You listening?”

Emitting little more than a vague hum, you finally snag the tape and run your fingernail along the smooth surface, searching for the ever-elusive end.

“You sure?” Strife grunts skeptically, “Kid, this is kind of important.”

Without missing a beat, you nod your chin towards his injury and reply, “Yeah, well, you're kind of important too, buddy.”

Oh.

Oh, that's...

Strife wracks his brain, trying to pluck an appropriate response from amidst his tumbling thoughts. Part of him wants to scoff – of course he's important! He's Strife! The best, damn marksman who ever walked the realms of existence.

But then, there's another part of him that lurks deep behind the walls of hubris and brass he's been building meticulously for centuries, and it gives a little leap at the sound of your words, delighted beyond measure.

Averting his gaze, Strife lets out a chuckle. “You're getting soft.”

“Ah, I've always been soft.”

His heart thrums. “Wasn't talkin' about you, kid.”

You shoot him a smirk as you stick a piece of tape over the bandages covering his injury. “Well, if you're talking about yourself, then you're wrong again. You aren't getting soft. You've always been soft.”

The Horseman mutters something incoherent, but it's his distinct lack of an articulate response that speaks volumes to your ears.

The slight pressure of your fingers as they prod at the tape with tentative care leaves him mourning the centuries he's gone without knowing such a gentle touch. Rolling his eyes down to you, his smile droops and he sighs, sagging forwards to rest his elbows on his knees just as you attempt to place another strip of tape.

“Strife!” you complain, leaning back, “I need to put more tape on!”

He merely blinks at you languidly and says, “Later. I want you concentratin' on me right now.”

“I've been concentrating on you all night,” you huff, though you eventually concede and sit back on your haunches, peering up at the Horseman expectantly.

Studying your face for another moment, he breathes a long sigh and gestures to his stomach. "I told you a demon did this..."

“Uh huh...”

Solemnly, Strife continues, “So more specifically, it was a Shadow Caster. Been on her trail for a couple of weeks now. Finally caught up with her on some farmlands west of the city...” 

“Okay?” you nod, digesting the information, “And why were you on her trail?”

He hesitates, flicking his eyes between you and the window a few times before he quietly admits, “She was comin’ after one of my friends...”

“Who?”

The look he throws you is so pointed, you suddenly feel like a fool for missing the obvious.

“Ah.” Understanding, you slowly nod your head.

“Yup.”

“But, she's dead now, right?” You gesture to his wound. “You came straight here after killing her.”

Strife's eyes darken further and each time they try to land on your face, they seem to slide right off again and drop to the carpet. “Uh, yeah. She's dead.”

You heave a sigh. “She wasn't the only one who's after me.”

“... No..”

“I see.” Inhaling long and slow through your nose, you tip your head back and slap your hands on your thighs, rubbing at them anxiously as you gaze around the room. “So, do we know how many there are?”

The Horseman eyes you for several, silent seconds. Eventually though, he speaks up. “Got wind of a small group of about four of 'em. Demons mostly, one undead. You and I've got a mutual... uh, friend, who's been keeping his ears to the ground, and he reckons they’re aiming to provoke another war between Hell and Earth by killin' the human envoy.”

“Wow. Talk about sore losers,” you scoff humourlessly, “So, who is this mutual friend?”

Some of the tension bleeds out of Strife's posture once he notices that you haven't immediately flown into a panic. “C'mon kid,” he snorts, “You know I can't expose my source. He doesn't want you know that he cares about you. Thinks you might start askin' for discounts if you thought he was getting' soft.”

“Discounts, huh?” Your lips quirk up at their edges and Strife smacks a palm over his mask in mock distress.

“Ah, hell, I gave it away, didn't I?”

“I bet his name rhymes with Shmulgrim, doesn't it?” you laugh.

Chuckling, Strife leans back on his hands again and replies, “Hey, you came to that conclusion on your own. Technically, I never told you who my source was.”

With the atmosphere in your bedroom gradually becoming lighter and lighter, you follow the Horseman's lead and relax backwards onto your hands, stealing a surreptitious glance at the bandages adhered to his torso.

It's no longer as surprising as it used to be that Vulgrim is invested in the well-being of his 'valuable asset.' The Horsemen are perhaps his best clients, hence the vested interest in keeping himself in their good graces by looking out for their human ward.

Shaking your head with a knowing smirk, you push yourself up onto your feet and glance down at yourself, brushing off your pyjama shorts, only to grimace when your hands do nothing but smear Strife's blood all over the fabric.

“Sorry... for the mess.”

You raise your head at the sound of the Horseman's voice and find him glowering down at the stains he's dripped onto your carpet, his eyes hooded and glum.

Heaving a sigh that you hope conveys both exasperation and affection, you reach out and place your comparatively tiny hand on his shoulder to give the pauldron a reassuring squeeze, drawing his gaze back up to your face. “I don't care about the mess, Strife” you tell him matter-of-factly, “The carpet's just here to stop my feet getting cold in the morning. You're my best friend.”

Ever so slowly, his luminous eyes grow wide with wonder and he lets his jaw drop open to speak, but before he manages to utter a soft, 'what?' you give his shoulder a friendly jostle and add, “So long as you're okay, pal, that's the main thing. Now...”

Trailing off, you move back around the bed and let your fingers slide off the Horseman's arm, stepping up to the bedside table containing your pyjamas, oblivious to how swiftly and easily you've just swept the rug out from underneath Strife's feet. He twists himself around on your mattress to watch you, his eyes as wide as than dinner plates.

Did you mean to say... best?

He – well, he always knew that you considered him a friend! Hell, he'd even go so far as to say the two of you are close friends.

But best?

Best implies that there's nobody – nobody – that you hold in higher regard than him...

'How did I miss that!?' his psyche all but screams at him, 'When the Hell did I get so important!?”

You aren't even looking at him, too busy rummaging through your drawers, as if you have no idea that you've just pulled his heart right out of his chest and now you have it cradled in the palms of your hands.

You could crush the life out of him with hardly a word.

“So, you never did say!” you call out to him as you duck into your ensuite bathroom and flick the light on, hiding yourself from view whilst you change, “How does the master of marksmanship get tagged by a Shadowcaster in the first place? You’re not usually the type to get up close and personal. That’s more War’s thing, right?”

All at once, the threats that demon witch had made against you ring like klaxons in Strife’s head and he has to make a conscious effort to ignore his instinct to leap off the bed and barge into the bathroom just to be sure you’re safe. He hears the shuffling of fabric against skin as you pull off the bloodied shorts and begin to pull on the new ones.

Grinding his teeth, he spits out, “She just.. got me mad, is all. Made me wanna have the satisfaction of wringing her neck with my bare hands instead of filling her with bullets.”

“Wait, seriously?” Your silhouette suddenly appears in the bathroom doorway and and strife glances up, briefly enraptured by the halo of light glowing at your back. A fellow human might have likened you to an angel. Strife, however, knows that none of the feathery bastards could hold a candle to you. 

Garbed in clean shorts that smell distinctly of you, and not copper, you step out into your bedroom. “How’d a demon manage to make you mad? You’re like, the champ of not getting mad. It’s like your superpower.”

“Yeah, well..” he mutters, turning his helm away, “This time, she went too far.”

You’re quiet as you flop down onto the bed next to him, your eyes flicking between his downturned head to the fists that are clenched like vices at his sides, metal claws gripping fistfuls of your duvet so tightly, you’re worried he might end up poking holes in the cover.

Whatever had been said to him must have been bad if he’s this riled up.

Biting your lip, you let out a pensive hum and lean backwards, your fingers brushing over a soft lump near the headboard. At once, your eyes grow wide and your lips stretch into a sly grin as your hand closes over something fluffy and familiar.

Strife is still busy stewing when he’s suddenly brought out of his thoughts by a face that’s shoved promptly into his line of sight. He blinks, drawing his head away to properly see what you’re holding up in front of him.

He can’t contain a chuckle once he realises that it’s none other than your old, toy horse, dangling in front of him with its little, black ears flopping forwards to cover a pair of button eyes.

Allowing a smile to grace the edge of his mouth, the Horseman wordlessly relaxes his grasp on your duvet in favour of reaching out to gently take the soft toy out of your hands, lowering it down into his lap.

“I thought David Hasselhoof might make you feel better,” you tell him, bumping your shoulder against his companionably.

The Nephilim simply smiles, stroking his palm over the horse’s fuzzy mane.

“Hey, Strife?” 

“Mmm?”

You fiddle with your fingernail for a moment, dropping your eyes to the bed and taking a breath before you ask, “What did the demon say that made you so angry?”

It isn’t as though you want to pry. But having your friend turn up at your house in the dead of night with his stomach torn open warrants a couple of questions, in your honest opinion.

The Horseman’s brows knit together underneath his helm and he shifts slightly, twisting away from you further until you can’t even see the lights of his eyes. If you didn’t know any better, you’d almost dare to say that he looks shy. An impossibility, frankly.

When he speaks, his voice is gentle, a far cry from the normal, strident tone you’re used to hearing. “She, uh, she might’ve made a couple of threats about you.. Bad ones.” 

You wait for him to elaborate, but for some time, he doesn’t utter another word, prompting you to ask, “And?”

You very nearly reel backwards into your headboard when Strife whips around to face you. “And?!” he echoes, incredulous, “The Hell d’you mean ‘and?’ Isn’t that enough of a reason?!”

Taken aback, you lift your hands in a placating gesture and stammer, “Woah! I - I just meant... Well, it’s not like I haven’t been threatened before? Just seems like a weird thing for you to get so angry about.”

Without warning, the enormous Nephilim lurches to his feet, the cuddly horse left to tumble, forgotten out of his lap. “Did you not hear me?” he snaps, “She. Threatened. You!”

“A-and that... made you mad?”

“Did - Of course it did!” he all but howls, his voice cracking as it raises in pitch, “She made me listen to all the god damn, sick things she wanted to do to you when she found you! She said - she said, I’d never see you again!” Roughly, he drags his clawed fingertips through his spiky, black hair and exclaims, “Next thing I know, I’m droppin’ Redemption and Mercy, I’ve got her heart in my fist and I’m... I’m...” 

He trails off, knocked out of stride by his own admission. You remain silent, pressed up against your head board with the blankets clutched to your chest.

When he notices you staring up at him, small and wary amongst the sheets, the frustration saps from him like water circling the drain. “So... so yeah,” he huffs, his shoulders slumping and a great wave of shame crashing over him, “I got a little mad! I got a little pissed off. Cause I didn’t like hearin’ someone say they were gonna hurt my friend.”

And with that, he just... deflates, not unlike a punctured tyre. All the hot air inside him is dispelled with every heave of his mighty chest whilst he peers down at you, feeling the weight of your stare upon him. 

Guilt leaves a sour taste in his mouth, rancid and acidic.

You look so.. 

...scared.

Sometimes Strife forgets that to you, he’s an unassailable figure from biblical legend, a bringer of the end days and an ancient gunman with a body count higher than there are grains of sand on the earth. Of course you’re going to be scared of him when he’s raising his voice at you and towering over you like this. And all because he’d had the life scared out of him in the first place.

“I’m sorry, kid. I didn’t mean to -” The words die on his lips and he sighs, defeatedly casting his eye over towards your bedroom window. He doesn’t want to leave you, not without knowing that his siblings have dealt with the remaining threats to your life. But... “I’ll just.. I’ll go.”

Turning his back on you, the Horseman bends to retrieve his discarded cuirass and takes a step towards the window, but a voice, thin as the cobwebs in the corner of your room, stops him in his tracks.

“Strife.” 

The Horseman doesn’t move. he just stares at the darkness through your curtains.

Minutes pass without another word said between you. He remains stubbornly silent, hardly daring to breathe let alone respond to his name, until eventually, he hears a soft huff and rustling behind him.

Footsteps pad across the room and your scent grows stronger as you draw near, wafting over him like an intoxicating aroma before your hand places itself into his palm and he instinctively curls his fingers around it, shuddering at the feel of your soft skin pressed like silk against his roughened hide.

Your tiny, fragile hand... Creator, he really is just a beast standing next to you, isn’t he? The last time he felt this monstrous was..

No. Strife abruptly slams the shutters of his mind down around any thoughts of the Animus. Now is not the time to let dredge up old memories.

Luckily, your voice breaks through the haze and keeps him grounded. “Come on, big guy. Stay here, please?"

“You want me to stay?” he chokes out a laugh, “Even after I scared you?”

“Scared me? What?” It’s your turn to sound confused. “You didn’t scare me Strife, you shocked me. I’ve never seen you this serious before.” 

The Horseman half turns to face you, giving you a glimpse of his warm, golden eyes. “And, I’ve never had a best friend before.” he admits slowly, hearing a soft intake of breath behind him.

“Wait?... I’m your best friend?”

With your hand still in his, Strife steps around slowly to face you, shooting you a quizzical glance. “Uh, yeah? I mean, I don’t exactly have a plethora of friends to choose from, so the competition isn’t that fie- Oof!”

He’s violently interrupted by a soft, squishy body colliding with his. 

You fling your arms around the stunned Horseman’s waist and bury your face into his chest, momentarily forgetting about his injury. Strife, meanwhile, has to employ every molecule of willpower he owns to refrain from flinching, fearing that you’ll let go if he does. He can’t ignore how high his heart just jumped at the feeling of you pressed against him, nor the way his soul soars after realising that you still trust him enough to get this close. 

It’s something that both he and his siblings are all having to get used to, these impromptu hugs. 

Fury had almost flipped you over her shoulder and onto the ground the first time you came at her with your arms open wide, assuming you were going in for an attack. 

War had pulled the most remarkable face, a mixture of alarm and wary delight that caused Strife to keel over in hysterics when you threw your arms around his broad stomach.

Death... Well, Strife hadn’t been around to witness your first hug with his oldest brother, but he imagines it must have been like hugging a block of cold stone.

And Strife? Well, he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the first hug you gave him. It was so tight and comfortable, and for all of a moment, the only things that existed were the two of you. Inside the binding circle of your arms, his troubles couldn’t touch him, the anguish of his sins took a backseat and he became convinced that he could live happily and peacefully until the end of time trapped in your silent embrace.

The sentiment hasn’t dulled with frequency either. Every hug he receives is as powerful and intoxicating as the last. 

This one is no different. 

Strife's large, thickset arms carefully raise to your delicate back and shoulders, where he simply folds himself around you, pushing the nose of his helm into your soft, messy hair and drawing in a long, deep breath, earning your snort of amusement.

“You a big fan of coconut, then?”

“Is that what that smell is?” he mumbles, feeling the world settle around him as his eyes slip shut, “S'different from last time...”

“...Setting aside the fact that you remember what my hair smelled like last time we hugged.. I ran out of apple shampoo.”

“Mmm.” He trails off, humming into your hair, a sound that rumbles straight through you and leaves the top of your head tingling.

It takes your brain another few seconds to recall the injury on his torso.

“Oh, shit,” you hiss, leaning back and instantly finding your progress blocked by the Horseman's sturdy forearms. “I'm sorry, I didn't think -”

“- Eh, s'fine,” he cuts you off.

“It's not! I forgot, you need to be resting it!”

Strife grumbles his displeasure when you suddenly become very wriggly. “Strife, let go. You should be resting, not standing.”

Cracking one eye open, he roves his gaze over towards your bed. “Resting, huh? …. Not a bad idea.”

Without warning, he stoops down, and for the second time tonight, you find yourself suddenly swept up off your feet, bleating out a garbled squawk of alarm. “Stop picking me up! You'll start bleeding again!”

Smirking to himself, the Horseman takes two, loping steps towards your bed and lowers you down amongst the folds of the duvet, taking great pleasure in crawling over the top of you to get to the other side, armour and all. It isn't the first time he's rested in your bed, usually following a long night of playing your video games and catching up on all the human things he's been missing out on, and it likely won't be the last.

The bed springs creak despondently as he lifts his corner of the duvet and flops heavily onto his side next to you, grinning at the unimpressed glare you're shooting him.

“I like your bed,” he announces, burrowing himself deeper beneath the duvet, “You got a lot of pillows. And-”

His hand rustles beneath the covers for a moment before he winks... and slowly draws out David Hasselhoof, wiggling him back and forth in front of your eyes. “There's room for a threesome.”

“Oh my god. Goodnight, Strife!” Your lips quiver until you give in and crack a genuine smile, grabbing a pillow and whapping it softly down onto his helm. You get no resistance from the Horseman at all in retaliation. He merely lays there with his head hidden, black tufts of hair sticking out from behind your pillow as his shoulders bounce around a throaty chuckle.

Leaving him where he is, you roll over, turn off the fairy lights and plunge your bedroom into cozy, unassailable darkness.

A thick silence falls over the two of you, and the back of your neck begins to prickle, sensing without a shadow of a doubt that the Horseman's eyes are open and watching you. Sure enough, you peel your eyelids apart and find that your far wall is faintly illuminated by the golden light that emanates from his gaze.

Rolling your eyes, you resign yourself to a long night of fighting for your covers and kicking a wriggling Horseman back over onto his own side of the bed. And yet... if it's him, if it's Strife, it most likely won’t bother you in the slightest.

The alarm clock on your bedside table steadily ticks over to the three o'clock mark and you finally feel sleep crawl up behind your eyes. Just as you think you might nod off, however, the bed shakes ever so slightly, and behind you, there's the sound of shuffling sheets. It stops just as suddenly as it starts and you snort, chalking it up to a certain, restless Horseman trying to get used to the human-sized bed.

Several more minutes pass.

The shuffling starts up again, then it stops.

The same thing happens again a few more minutes later and your eyes snap open when something cool and solid nudges gently into the back of your head and you hear a quiet sniff before the whole bed shudders as the enormous Horseman laying upon it releases a monstrously low rumble of contentment.

-----

Strife leaves his helm right behind you all night, not that you'd know until the morning however, when you jerk awake to your bedroom door suddenly slamming open and Death thundering inside. He takes one look at his brother laying at your back and promptly begins a lecture that you're fairly certain will be the favoured topic of neighbourhood gossip for some time to come.

[96thdayofrage]

What is Critical Race Theory?

Basically, Critical Race Theory is a way of using race as a lens through which one can critically examine social structures. While initially used to study law, like most critical theory, it emerged as a lens through which one could understand and change politics, economics and society as a whole. Richard Delgado and Jean Stefancic’s book, Critical Race Theory: An Introduction, describes the movement as: “a collection of activists and scholars engaged in studying and transforming the relationship among race, racism, and power.”

Kimberlé Crenshaw, one of the founding members of the movement, says Critical Race Theory is more than just a collective group. She calls it: “a practice—a way of seeing how the fiction of race has been transformed into concrete racial inequities.”

It’s much more complex than that, which is why there’s an entire book about it.

Can you put it in layman’s terms?

Sure.

Former economics professor (he prefers the term “wypipologist”) Michael Harriot, who used Critical Race Theory to teach “Race as an Economic Construct,” explained it this way:

Race is just some shit white people made up.

Nearly all biologists, geneticists and social scientists agree that there is no biological, genetic or scientific foundation for race. But, just because we recognize the lack of a scientific basis for race doesn’t mean that it is not real. Most societies are organized around agreed-upon principles and values that smart people call “social constructs.” It’s why Queen Elizabeth gets to live in a castle and why gold is more valuable than iron pyrite. Constitutions, laws, political parties, and even the value of currency are all real and they’re shit people made up.

To effectively understand anything we have to understand its history and what necessitated its existence. Becoming a lawyer requires learning about legal theory and “Constitutional Law.” A complete understanding of economics include the laws of supply and demand, why certain metals are considered “precious,” or why paper money has value. But we can’t do that without critically interrogating who made these constructs and who benefitted from them.

One can’t understand the political, economic and social structure of America without understanding the Constitution. And it is impossible to understand the Constitution without acknowledging that it was devised by 39 white men, 25 of whom were slave owners. Therefore, any reasonable understanding of America begins with the critical examination of the impact of race and slavery on the political, economic and social structure of this country.

That’s what Critical Race Theory does.

How does CRT do that?

It begins with the acknowledgment that the American society’s foundational structure serves the needs of the dominant society. Because this structure benefits the members of the dominant society, they are resistant to eradicating or changing it, and this resistance makes this structural inequality.

Critical Race Theory also insists that a neutral, “color-blind” policy is not the way to eliminate America’s racial caste system. And, unlike many other social theories, CRT is an activist movement, which means it doesn’t just seek to understand racial hierarchies, it also seeks to eliminate them.

How would CRT eliminate that? By blaming white people?

This is the crazy part. It’s not about blaming anyone.

Instead of the idiotic concept of colorblindness, CRT says that a comprehensive understanding of any aspect of American society requires an appreciation of the complex and intricate consequences of systemic inequality. And, according to CRT, this approach should inform policy decisions, legislation and every other element in society.

Take something as simple as college admission, for instance. People who “don’t see color” insist that we should only use neutral, merit-based metrics such as SAT scores and grades. However, Critical Race Theory acknowledges that SAT scores are influenced by socioeconomic status, access to resources and school quality. It suggests that colleges can’t accurately judge a student’s ability to succeed unless they consider the effects of the racial wealth gap, redlining, and race-based school inequality. Without this kind of holistic approach, admissions assessments will always favor white people.

CRT doesn’t just say this is racist, it explains why these kinds of race-neutral assessments are bad at assessing things.

What’s wrong with that?

Remember all that stuff I said the “material needs of the dominant society?” Well, “dominant society” means “white people.” And when I talked about “racial hierarchies,” that meant “racism.” So, according to Critical Race Theory, not only is racism an ordinary social construct that benefits white people, but it is so ordinary that white people can easily pretend it doesn’t exist. Furthermore, white people who refuse to acknowledge and dismantle this unremarkable, racist status quo are complicit in racism because, again, they are the beneficiaries of racism.

But, because white people believe racism means screaming the n-word or burning crosses on lawns, the idea that someone can be racist by doing absolutely nothing is very triggering. Let’s use our previous example of the college admissions system.

White people’s kids are more likely to get into college using a racist admissions system. But the system has been around so long that it has become ordinary. So ordinary, in fact, that we actually think SAT scores mean shit. And white people uphold the racist college admissions system—not because they don’t want Black kids to go to college—because they don’t want to change admission policies that benefit white kids.

Is that why they hate Critical Race Theory?

Nah. They don’t know what it is.

Whenever words “white people” or “racism” are even whispered, Caucasian Americans lose their ability to hear anything else. If America is indeed the greatest country in the world, then any criticism of their beloved nation is considered a personal attack—especially if the criticism comes from someone who is not white.

They are fine with moving toward a “more perfect union” or the charge to “make America great again.” But an entire field of Black scholarship based on the idea that their sweet land of liberty is inherently racist is too much for them to handle.

However, if someone is complicit in upholding a racist policy—for whatever reason—then they are complicit in racism. And if an entire country’s resistance to change—for whatever reason —creates more racism, then “racist” is the only way to accurately describe that society.

If they don’t know what it is, then how can they criticize it?

Have you met white people?

When has not knowing stuff ever stopped them from criticizing anything? They still think Colin Kaepernick was protesting the anthem, the military and the flag. They believe Black Lives Matter means white lives don’t. There aren’t any relevant criticisms other than they don’t like the word “racism” and “white people” anywhere near each other.

People like Ron DeSantis and Tom Cotton call it “cultural Marxism,” which is a historical dog whistle thrown at the civil rights movement, the Black Power movement and even the anti-lynching movement after World War I. They also criticize CRT’s basic use of personal narratives, insisting that a real academic analysis can’t be based on individually subjective stories.

Why wouldn’t that be a valid criticism?

Well, aren’t most social constructs centered in narrative structures? In law school, they refer to these individual stories as “legal precedent.” In psychology, examining a personal story is called “psychoanalysis.” In history, they call it...well, history. Narratives are the basis for every religious, political or social institution.

I wish there was a better example of an institution or document built around a singular narrative. It would change the entire constitution of this argument—but sadly, I can’t do it.

Jesus Christ, I wish I could think of one! That would be biblical!

Why do they say Critical Race Theory is not what Martin Luther King Jr. would have wanted?

You mean the Martin Luther King Jr. who conservatives also called divisive, race-baiting, anti-American and Marxist? The one whose work CRT is partially built upon? The King whose words the founders of Critical Race Theory warned would be “co-opted by rampant, in-your-face conservatism?” The MLK whose “content of their character” white people love to quote?

Martin Luther King Jr. literally encapsulated CRT by saying:

In their relations with Negroes, white people discovered that they had rejected the very center of their own ethical professions. They could not face the triumph of their lesser instincts and simultaneously have peace within. And so, to gain it, they rationalized—insisting that the unfortunate Negro, being less than human, deserved and even enjoyed second class status.

They argued that his inferior social, economic and political position was good for him. He was incapable of advancing beyond a fixed position and would therefore be happier if encouraged not to attempt the impossible. He is subjugated by a superior people with an advanced way of life. The “master race” will be able to civilize him to a limited degree, if only he will be true to his inferior nature and stay in his place.

White men soon came to forget that the Southern social culture and all its institutions had been organized to perpetuate this rationalization. They observed a caste system and quickly were conditioned to believe that its social results, which they had created, actually reflected the Negro’s innate and true nature.

That guy?

I have no idea.

Will white people ever accept Critical Race Theory?

Yes, one day I hope that Critical Race Theory will be totally disproven.

Wait...why?

Well, history cannot be erased. Truth can never become fiction. But there is a way for white people to disprove this notion.

Derrick Bell, who is considered to be the father of Critical Race Theory, notes that the people who benefit from racism have little incentive to eradicate it. Or, as Martin Luther King Jr. said: “We must also realize that privileged groups never give up their privileges voluntarily.”

So, if white people stopped being racist, then the whole thing falls apart!

From your lips to God’s ears.

[leiascully]

Fic: Citius, Altius, Fortius (MSR, T)

This ficlet is dedicated to the commercial about the adopted Paralympian that makes me sniffly every time.  I don’t even know what they’re advertising.  All credit to AAVE for the “hip” slang Mulder uses and basically all cutting-edge words in American English.

The Olympic theme was more of a suggestion than a fanfare, but Scully still leaned forward and turned the volume down a few more notches.  She could feel Mulder giving her that crinkly-eyed smile.  She knew the remote worked just fine over the distance between the tv and the couch, but it felt like it worked better when she leaned.  It was like Jackson and his video games, a sympathetic movement.

“I don’t want to wake Gracie,” she said.

“Good plan,” Mulder said, and put his arm comfortably around her shoulders as she leaned back.  Jackson snorted and looked away, but peeked back at them to check in.  Scully was glad she was there for him, the Ginger from his journals, she and Mulder solid presences in his life, bracketed by the ghosts of his adoptive parents.

“I didn’t think you two would buy into all this jingoistic shit,” Jackson said.

“We are still employed by the United States federal government,” Scully pointed out.

“They’re basically our coworkers when it comes to repping the flag,” Mulder said laconically.  “Gotta respect the hustle.  Besides, compared to a lot of national anthems, ours kinda slaps.”

Jackson winced, predictably, at Mulder’s attempt to use slang.  Scully sensed Mulder mentally adding a few tallies to his side of the imaginary scoreboard.  It was all so sweetly familiar, a song she hummed in her dreams.

“Still,” Jackson said.  “It’s all so fuckin’ rah-rah America.  I thought you knew better.  Like you said, you work for the government.  You know all the shit they pull.”

“For two weeks every two years, I support the finest athletes that wealth, health, grueling training, and the opportunities inherent in living in the country possessing the world’s largest economy can produce,” Mulder said, a trace of irony audible in his voice.  “And also anyone competing against Russia.”

“It’s a distraction from all the shitty things happening in the world,” Jackson said.

“It’s a damn good one,” Mulder countered.  “At least they’re not supersoldiers.”

“Some of them might be,” Jackson grumbled.

“Those abs,” Mulder said, sounding a little mournful.  He patted his stomach.  “I should have gone for the upgrade when I had the chance.”

“When I was little,” Scully said slowly, “my mother would tell me that the prowess of Olympic athletes was proof that God loved us.  She said that their bodies were miracles.  I don’t think about it exactly the same way now, but there is something almost holy about that quest to go farther and faster than anyone else ever has.  In a sense, we fly without wings.  We climb higher than we thought we could.  We run faster and farther than early humans imagined.  We lift heavier burdens.  We test our nerve and our resolve in feats of endurance.  We subject our bodies to almost-unbearable forces and conditions.  We test the laws of physics, twisting in the air or gliding over the ice.  For a moment, we defy expectation, gravity, and in a sense, mortality.  The athletes of the Olympics show us the potential of the human body and the human spirit in a way that our daily lives don’t, and we feel like we are there with them as we perch on the edges of our seats, our bodies echoing their movements as if we could lend them our strength.  It’s possible that sometimes a distraction is a welcome respite.  For a short time, the world is focused on something other than war.  Many of the results may be predictable, but astonishing things happen and we learn to expect the unexpected.  Athletes from nations and peoples that have been overlooked and exploited dazzle us.  A runner falls and someone pulls them up.  Someone may shatter their leg and because of that tragedy, someone else realizes their lifelong dream.  The Olympics are a microcosm of our own attempts to strive for perfection, a supercondensed spectacle that reminds us of all our potential.  In pitting us against the people of other nations, the Olympics somehow unite us in the pursuit of a singular goal, reached by various paths: a gold medal, and the accolades of an awestruck world.”

“I love it when you give a dissertation on everyday life,” Mulder murmured, kissing under her ear.

“A spectacle that displaces the people who are already the most fucked-over,” Jackson said, but there was a little less disdain in his words.  “A profit machine for corporations and a propaganda outlet for governments.  It’s a slippery slope from athletic superiority to eugenics.  Only the strong survive.”

“George Orwell said that athletic competitions were essentially a proxy for war games,” Mulder told her.  She craned her head to look at him.

“I thought you liked the Olympics.”

“I do,” he said, “but Jack has a point.”

“Hell yeah, I do,” Jackson said.

“I wasn’t saying the Olympics are perfect,” Scully argued.  “Just that they could be perceived as creating a net good.”

The broadcast cut to commercial, sentimental strings music welling quietly from the speakers.  Mulder looked away, rubbing at his eyes.  Jackson chuckled.

“It’s that easy, huh?” he said.  “All they need to get into your psyche is footage of someone winning something and some sad music, maybe a Morgan Freeman voiceover.”

“Wait until you get old,” Mulder said.  “Then you’ll be welling up at every Visa commercial.  These ads are designed by experts in psychological warfare.  The Olympic mindgames.”

“They remind us of you,” Scully told Jackson.  “You weren’t supposed to exist.  You weren’t supposed to survive.  And here you are, capable of things your father and I could never have dreamed of.”

“Whatever,” Jackson muttered, looking away and definitely not dabbing his face on the shoulder of his t-shirt.

Scully settled back into the couch.  Grace would be waking up soon - she wasn’t an Olympic-level napper - but until then, she had a moment to enjoy the half-scripted pageantry of the Games, savoring the bittersweet combination of impossible victories and unpredictable defeats.  It wasn’t unlike her own life, in a way: she’d accomplished things she’d never imagined, uncovered truths too painful to endure, run up against her own limits over and over and overcome them all to be sitting here, in her comfortable home, with her stalwart partner, dragged back from the dead, and their miraculous children.  The glint in Jackson’s eyes as he argued with Mulder was more precious to her than any medal; the sound of Grace’s sleepy sighs stirred her heart more than any anthem.  She stood atop the podium of her destiny.

She leaned her head on Mulder’s shoulder and watched the marathon swimmers cut through the water, one stroke after another, keeping themselves afloat for hours. She understood their exhaustion.  She understood their triumph.

“I like the dressage,” Jackson said unexpectedly.  “It looks like mind control if you do it right.  I’m not, like, asking for a pony.  I just think it’s cool.”

“I knew we could find some common ground,” Mulder said.  “What’s your opinion on medals for horses?”

“Horse-sized medals,” Jackson said immediately.  “Bankrupt the IOC.”

“That’s your son,” Scully told him.

“No denying it,” Mulder said in a smug voice.  The broadcast changed to gymnastics and they all sat forward, watching in awed silence, as history was made.

[aerois]

Remarried Empress: Sovieshu Contextualized and Navier the Unreliable Narrator (SPOILERS!)

So recently I started reading Remarried Empress on WEBTOON. Honestly the whole premise wasn’t my cup of tea and I was solely reading it because it was part of an event where I could get free coins (lol). But then... I got hooked. I got invested. Started drinking in chapters whenever and wherever I could, and even now I still crave more. I wanted Navier to have some semblance of a happy ending (and, let’s be honest, I wanted to drag that precious little bitch Trashta by her fucking hair across the yard). At first it was mostly that. Raging at Trashta and her Simperor, pondering at Heinley’s true intentions, drooling over Kaufman. 

And then, I noticed something odd. I noticed-- the strangest thing-- Sovieshu seemed to be... not as enamored with his mistress as meets the eye. And there was even some hinting that his feelings for Navier weren’t what we assumed.

I have to preface this: I don’t condone Sovieshu’s crappy actions. He’s an idiot, and acts very poorly as a husband. And there’s no excuse for cheating. Absolutely not! So I don’t want this post to come across like In Defense of Sovieshu, because it’s not. But I do think that our view, the reader’s view, of Sovieshu, is warped. And this is mainly because we see the story through Navier’s eyes of course, but we forget that every individual person is fallible. Every person, at some point, harbors false assumptions that color their concepts of truth and reality. Put shortly, Navier is human, and therefore is not a reliable narrator at some points. Especially concerning her husband. We see Sovieshu entirely through the eyes of his wronged wife in the webcomic. Pin that: in the webcomic. Did you know the webcomic is actually based on a mobile game? Yes, it is! And I downloaded it! And I’m playing it! And... I’m actually... hating Sovieshu less?????????? 

Ok, ok, put the pitchforks down! Hear me out! I’m not saying any of the stuff he did was okay! But Navier’s narration of the story paints him as this cold, detached man who grew to hate his wife so much that he flew into the arms of some hussy for warmth and then just cast his wife aside and deliberately acted like a jerk just because he wanted her to suffer.  And there’s a grain of truth to that. There are points where Sovieshu feels bitter and does or says something waspish. But it’s not as black and white as you might assume. I played the mobile game, and decided to take Sovieshu’s route out of spite. I opened this app, saw it was an otome with this garbage-fire, cheating sack of shit for a romance option and thought “Hah! The nerve. Probably some semi-abusive dirtbag route aimed to appeal to girls who like men who treat them badly. You know, that mutually abusive relationship appeal that some girls like because drama.” And I needed to rack up in-game currency anyway (it’s like usual mobile games, where when you wanna make cool choices you gotta cough up cash unless you “diamond-mine” on crappy stories to save up the meager bits of free currency the app gives you for playing) so I figured I’d blast through the Sovieshu route and skip onto my darling Kaufman in playthrough 2.

And then the smoke genuinely compelling character development got me. So I could run y’all through Navier’s version of the events, but you already know that. For Sovieshu though? Here’s the kicker: this idiot has had a raging passion for his wife slowly building up for years throughout their entire lives, and only realizes it about halfway through the events of the story. This idiot, this buffon, this absolute brain-dead dolt... didn’t even realize he was pining over his own wife until he was about to explode from the desperation from it all. God, I wish I was joking. Lemme break it down for you:

Sovieshu’s POV: He and Navier are introduced as kids and are told they’ll be married someday. Life partners. They are raised in tandem to respect and care for one another. Kinda smacks of grooming (go mom and dad!) but whatever, that’s the background. These kids are mentally regarding each other as spouses their entire conscious lives. And Sovieshu, as he grows, quickly comes to realize his intended is a selfless girl who holds everything inside. The first spark of his affection for her is wrapped in this: that Sovieshu longs for Navier to take off her “perfect princess” mask and let herself be vulnerable with him. He admires her intellingence, her grace, and her devotion to her country. He looks at her and sees someone that inspires him. He craves the opportunity to comfort and protect her. He waits, and these opportunities come in small instances. But they get older, their burdens get heavier, and like most young women, Navier gets better at pretending nothing is wrong with her and putting everyone else first. Sovieshu feels more distant from her. But that desire to break through her wall still stands.

They marry, but Navier, in her infinite wisdom, makes the assumption that this marriage is entirely political (despite...the fact... that they were raised together??? they were literally best friends their entire lives??? are y’all seeing how this could be confusing for him???) and that there are absolutely no feelings involved on Sovieshu’s side. Expect there’s that little problem. That little problem. Of Navier’s absolute inability to be vulnerable. And so she starts this marriage all Elsa-Conceal-Don’t-Feel convinced that her husband (whom she is secretly in love with, shocker) holds no warmth for her because she’s never received any from him. 

Now I’ll acknowledge that this is a two way street, where Sovieshu fails as well. Should Navier have made a mature decision and asked for love and support when she needed it? Yes. Should Sovieshu have offered anyway, despite not knowing that she wanted it at all? Yes. They’re both in the wrong here. They’re both too passive, too afraid.

So the first few years of their marriage pass by like this. And Navier kinda melts into more of a depressed state over it, while Sovieshu becomes frustrated. But he doesn’t know why. He hasn’t quite put his finger on the fact that HE’S IN LOVE WITH HIS WIFE, GEE WHAT A SURPRISE BUDDY. And then... the little ingenue comes in. Trashta, with her crocodile tears, oversharing of emotions, co-dependent as all get-out. You see where I’m headed, right? It’s not just that she’s the opposite of Navier that gets Sovieshu hooked. It’s that she gives him that opportunity to unburden all this pent up romantic frustration. He can comfort, and protect, and wipe away the tears of a woman who loves him... And for a while, it’s intoxicating. That itch is finally being scratched.

Or so it seems. Because sooner or later, Sovieshu realizes that this woman is not his wife. And she’s a bit clingy, and clueless, and she’s... well, she’s not his wife. She’s not his wife. 

“Oh, dear God...” the idiot finally realizes. “I don’t want this hussy. I want my wife!” 

Ding ding ding! You did it! And it only took you--what? 20 years? After all this time, Sovieshu (and the audience playing his route) realizes. He’s not cheating because he’s bored, or because he hates his wife, or because he’s Inherently An Asshole And That’s What Assholes Do. He’s cheating because he’s using this woman as a stand-in for his wife. He’s been looking straight through this woman and seeking his wife the entire time. He’s cheating because he’s stupid and repressed and misguided and human. And again, that doesn’t excuse it. He still cheated, and that’s something he needs to spend a life-time making up for. It’s a mistake, and a big one. But it’s not fueled by a malicious hatred or a desire to hurt her. It’s fueled by confusion and fear. And, strangely enough, a desire to perform love for his wife.

So anyway, this stupid dweeb finally wakes up and realizes that no matter how much he plays around with the Town Skank, it doesn’t slate that thirst for the woman he’s spent his life growing to love. And that he actually, truly loves her to begin with. Now at this point, Navier was away travelling, doing queenly stuff. And he gets a message from a servant-- his wife is home. This boy books it. This man throws down what he’s doing, sprints across the imperial palace, to stumble at the feet of his wife; red-faced and breathless, absolutely undone. This man is screaming for his wife on the inside and now nothing he can do will quiet it. And his wife, ever the perfect pinnacle of a monarch, just raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow at him and wonders what’s got him in such a tizzy.

This is where the difference between the narratives hits especially hard. Navier has absolutely no clue that her husband is a hair-thin thread of self-control away from all of this just completely spilling out of him. She looks at him and sees a tormentor; someone who’s treating her like a used doll. And he sees this Goddess that’s been hiding in plain sigh the whole time. He sees his sins and repents before this, his wife, his almighty Goddess. But he doesn’t know what to do. She’s still been hurt by him, Trashta is still in their lives, and damn it all, he’s still frustrated. He still feels bitter and abandoned because even after everything, even after the years of marriage, his wife just seems so unaffected by him. This is where Navier’s “perfect queen” image that she tries so hard to curate really bites her in the ass.

These two dumbasses are hopelessly in love with each other but they’re deadlocked in an endless cycle of letting their prides get in the way. Navier doesn’t want to be vulnerable. Sovieshu doesn’t want to compromise, doesn’t know how to not lash out in anger when he’s really feeling sad. Unlike Navier, he can express emotions-- but not in a heathy way. So he says something mean, does something kinda shitty. And Navier thinks it’s because he delights in her suffering. So Sovieshu’s over here in his head like a cranky little child that’s mad at mommy because she’s on the phone, and Navier is over there in her head wondering why on earth her husband can’t notice a love that she’s never actually expressed to him. And it’s just terrible. But kind of hilarious. Mostly sad and terrible. But defintely hilarious.

To further illustrate this: even a lot of Sovieshu’s actions, for that matter, get warped by Navier’s unreliable narration. WARNING: SPOILERS AHEAD. THIS IS YOUR LAST CHANCE! In the chapter where Trashta is stabbed, Sovieshu immediately screams for guards to surround Navier. So I’ll sum up their thought processes here.

Navier: Oh my God, I can’t believe this asshole. Calling the guards? He really fuckin thinks I did this?! Jerk! Asshole! He really thinks I’d arrange for a pregnant woman to be stabbed!! He’s probably deliberately framing me too, so he can get me out of the way and live happily ever after with her!

Sovieshu: OH MY GOD, MY BEAUTIFUL WIFE COULD GET STABBED NEXT SOMEONE HELP well actually maybe she had something to do with it? nah. prolly not. but even if she did idgaf I LOVE MY WIFE, I’LL COVER FOR YOU BABY I’LL FORGIVE WHATEVER. GUARDS, FIND WHO DID THE STABBING SO THEY DON’T STAB MY PERFECT WIFE NEXT

Like I wish I was joking, but that’s how it read. Anyway, I’m not done with the comic or the game yet. But Sovieshu’s motivations aren’t all as they seem. And while he’s not a perfect husband, he has the capacity to mature, let down his pride, and make steps toward atoning to his wife. I honestly and genuinely believe this marriage could be salvageable if they could come clean with each other. A lot of people want to root for Kaufman or Heinley, and I get it. Those two would probably treat her well. But the fact stands that these two are married, and surprisingly, they both actually still hold a spark of love for one another. If Sovieshu could genuinely repent, and demonstrate this to Navier, they would attain the happy marriage with each other that they both strive for. Anyway, I find myself surprisingly hooked on the story now that I see Sovieshu’s POV. He’s not a hero in this story by any means, but I’m somehow, against my better judgement, rooting for him. I’m rooting for him to make the right choices and repair his marriage. 

It’s a bold strategy, folks. Let’s see how it pays off.

[dropsofletters]

wish-list

➡ summary: in a notebook she had written the answers to all the things that made him—well, him. the most important ones state that jung yoonoh tastes like regret, feels like solitude and loves in the name of life. only that people are not textbooks, they can’t be studied neither can they be kept, and she learns that once again with him.

➡ title: wish-list ➡ pairing: jung yoonoh x reader ➡ genre: newspaper girl!au ; singer!au ; strangers to friends to lovers!au ; slice of life!au ➡ word count: 8,481 ➡ type: angst ; fluff ; humor ; romance

Someone once told her solitude fits her like the wedding ring of an heir’s wife.

She was young at the time—the kind of younger that made her roll her eyes at the glimpses of the future. Better ignore it now, she’ll worry later. And later came. The friend who said it, now no longer by her side but still as gifted in the world of spiritualism, widened his hands in the air as he managed to explain the smoke around her. Gray. Not a single soul could match to hers. He said, with the breath of a drunken man and the air of arrogance of someone who knows too much, that faux pity in the tip of his tongue wanting to relish on the look of despair on her face, that she was made to be alone.

When the sun burns down her skin, and she still decides to wear a thick hoodie on top of her clothes, she decides that she does. Solitude is a choice, and yet, it’s that one addiction that you can’t seem to leave. A hole that she entered thinking she could jump out, without caring that she was never a gymnast. Loneliness is roaming the streets while everyone is asleep, phones turned off, pillows thrown across the mattress haphazardly, and basking in the tranquility of the absence of noise. One pedal forward, one back, her legs tired from rushing with her bicycle, each muscle on her thighs learning the curves of the seat.

Her seat.

Her job.

Because, being alone has taught her that she only has herself. Herself and that voice inside her head, sometimes more tranquil, sometimes a thought, sometimes a whole new discovery about the world. Most of the time, our minds are strangers to ourselves. We know us, but we also don’t—we think and think, wander on emotions, on possibilities, and never quite fulfill all of them. Never quite listen to that voice as profoundly as we should, like a real friend. Telling them to stop when necessary. Giving them support when needed.

Her steps come to a halt, lips silently parting at the sight of the house in the front. Mansions, some bigger than others, scattered right in front of her gaze. Some houses hold fountains in their front yards, others have the newest sports car, but all of them are meant to be visited by her. Though, no one notices the faint imprint of her boots on their precious green, glistening grass, when her hands let go of today’s newspaper right at their front door. One or two guards do nod her way, asking her how she is doing, making comments about the weather.

The heat is unbearable, but it’s the kind of thing that keeps her on her toes. Makes her rush and finish this job before she gets to see the happy individuals go get out of their homes to read the newspaper in between bites of their toast and sips of their scalding hot coffee. Odds are there will be someone who will drink tea, leaning back on a chair to catch up on all the wrong in the world. But their lives are perfect.

No one cares unless it’s their lives.

The whitened walls of the last house for this block catch her attention, for they are pristine enough for them to feel like the architecture of a dollhouse. The windows, spotless, showcased opened curtains, as if whoever lives here wants everyone to know about how much they choke on their own money. The water is running, she realizes by the time she puts the newspaper down, though she doesn’t pay attention to it at first. Someone must be doing the dishes, probably someone who works for the owner, but just when she gets on her bicycle again, ready to go to new streets, all equally as suffocatingly equal, she realizes just how wrong she is.

Typicality of those who have it all: they show what they have. Inherently put together, the human mind is, for we always need praise. In hidden touches, in loud words, in letters, in phone-calls, in the simplicity of a compliment when walking by someone. So, in order to receive the worst kind of praise—envy—, some people go out of their ways. Her feet rests on the ground, the other on the pedal when she stares through that window, straight into the enigma that stops her.

For the first time in the year she has been working as a newspaper girl, she stops against time. She doesn’t want to rush, but somehow, she still wants to leave.

She doesn’t.

The woman is older than the man she kisses. Over her thirties, she seems to be, while he is definitely around his early twenties. Though, that doesn’t stop the woman from threading her fingertips through his black hair, lips joined as if they ran out of oxygen and the only way, they could find it was on the other. His hand rests beside the dishwasher, the muscles of his forearm tightening when he extends his right fingertips. Hers have a twinkling gold band on her ring finger, while his are void of such clear indicative.

This is one of those forbidden sights—when she sees someone doing something, the kind of mistakes she knows they will regret on the long run, but she can’t warn them. Instead, her eyes study the way he taps on the lid, making the water come to a halt as he frowns down at her. Defined straight eyebrows, tousled hair, a high nose bridge and a pout to his lips even when he speaks. He is the kind of angel heaven sends when you need hope in this world, but they defy their own beliefs. No one that stands on Earth can spend a day without sinning.

He is the kind of trouble that makes her throat itch for a name. A routine breaker. A wish-list maker. Whoever this is runs a hand over his face, ignorance and rage joining inside him when he speaks a little too poised, earning knitted eyebrows and a shout from his lover. Passion meets real life. The clarity after the haze. Flipping out, the man that has captured her attention turns to the window, hands running through his hair when he leans his elbows on the counter. When he lifts his gaze, however, the real magic happens.

He looks at her. And, she looks at him back.

They are so different, but for one moment, she feels like she understands him. Silent frustration. Thousand regrets conjoining in one person. The world is too loud again, and she has to run, so she does, leaving him behind to stay mute in between a war.

People like him are the reason why good literature exists.

###

Three days later, and she has to go back to the same neighborhood.

Endless mansions, eerily silent. Today, the weight of the bag crossing over her chest is more noticeable. Her favorite notebook stays there; faded as shit, the brown leather looking pathetic at this point with how rugged it is, but it is ready for her to take when inspiration arises. It holds her favorite memories, her aspirations, her wish list. Places to go to. Dreams to dream. Memories to breathe in and out when she needs to look at a different world. Some are real, some aren’t. The best are the ones in between.

“Newspaper girl,” One of the security guards by one of the mansions says, tipping his cap higher up in his bald head to uncover sleepy eyes. A nap on the chair in the front yard of his employer didn’t seem to do him bad this morning. She had seen him a few times, heard him speak to her about the weather, but she had never paid too much attention. One of those people who speak too much for her, she guesses. Takes time out of the importance of life. “Can you check something for me?”

After putting one of the newspapers down on the front door, she places her hands on the strap of her bag. Everyone has a price in life. We are nothing but material beings, after all. Though, she raises one eyebrow at him in the process. “Depends. What it is, and how much you plan on paying me.”

“Five?”

“Five.” She repeats, a monotone tone to her voice. Since the past few years, she has trained herself not to show that much emotion through her voice—breakage of speech, loud laughter, that’s the kind of pain that slowly rips through people. They trust, and they ache. “Five, really? You expect me to check whatever is making you so scared, for only five bucks.”

Trembling hands, sweaty apart from that, hold onto the armrests of his chair for a second before he lifts them up in the air. “Ten, then. Damn, businesspeople need you in their companies to steal money from people, not out here delivering newspapers.”

“Fifteen.” She corrects, taking a few steps forward and placing her hand out. He better wipes those sweaty hands before he touches her, though. “Fifteen or no deal, Popeye the Sailor.”

Stirring him up for a reaction, she watches as the security guard lifts his body, searching for his wallet and taking out the amount of cash she asked for. Then, he fixes his cap, a habit perhaps, or he just wants to cover himself from the harsh sun. “Fine, I need you to go to that house—” Almost like a joke, he points at the latest house she had gone to three days ago. The dollhouse for a prince like the last one she had seen—those that don’t exist, and hide their imperfections behind charm. “And check if everything’s alright. The owner doesn’t like having security guards for some freaking reason, but I’ve heard too much screaming coming from there since a few minutes ago.”

“Alright.” She whispers, fixing her bag one last time before taking her bicycle in between her hands. “Good to know your employers have such a brave, capable man taking care of their house.” She sarcastically retorts, ready to end his day with a tinge of bitterness. Less money, and less pride in his job.

“Ah, you bitch—”

But she doesn’t listen.

When has she ever, really? It’s like she puts a veil around her eyes and she aims with an arrow to whatever decision she ends up taking. She doesn’t listen to the warnings, doesn’t let the voice inside her head scream for once…tell her that there is more to life than simply thinking of herself as the one to have all the answers. It’s easier if she pretends she does—if, for once, she moves through life like speed is in her blood and she’s endless. As if that mansion in front of her doesn’t have people far richer than she’ll ever be inside of it, and she is still making her way to the front door.

The doorbell rings, a gold button that she presses incessantly, yet the shouts inside don’t end. She hears three voices—one, a womanly voice, maybe the woman of the house that she had seen that last time; two, a man’s voice, that’s by far the most enraged, on the verge of a heart attack with the slur of his words; three, and that voice is almost gone. It’s a deep timbre, the kind that comes to people in the peak of the night, when sleep is long forgotten and they seek for attention. It’s the kind that makes you feel loved in daydreams, basks you in the innocence of a love confession that never happens. She’s been there, she knows what it feels like to awaken to an empty bed.

She moves towards the kitchen’s window, bushes leaving trails of their leaves on her leggings, the fresh grass underneath her staining the white soles of her shoes, but when she finally looks through that windows, it’s like she has entered a world that she had already seen. Maybe, the friend that told her she was going to end up in solitude was not gifted, they were just really fucking witty, but that’s the kind of talent that comes with time. To be so adamantly upset at the world to just think you know better than a big mass in the universe.

The second voice, louder in comparison and manlier, finally takes a form. Fists bawl the white shirt of the man she had seen three days ago, anger coating the cinnamon colored eyes of a man that does sport the same gold band on his ring finger as the woman of this house. The kisser of three days ago, that fairytale prince, bends his back slightly, cheeks tinged pink as the wife pleads for the husband to stop. There’s a trail of blood falling from his lips, and he looks to the side instead of staring ahead.

That’s how she knows ‘enigma’—as she had called him thanks to his lack of title—has never been in a fight.

Hence, she has two options: either she lets the husband take matters into his own hands, blaming the breakage of his relationship on the enigma rather than his wife, or, she does the wrong thing that feels just oh-so-right.

Tapping her hands against the window with force, she manages to catch the attention of the screaming man, the weeping woman and the young man that got himself into this mess. Once the center of attention, there is no way of going back. “Sir, can you please let go of my boyfriend? You’re hurting him.”

But, the enigma may be a good actor, because he maintains a stoic face even when the husband turns back to him. “You did all this even when you had a girlfriend? Listen, you motherfucker, you have no sense of respect for anyone but yourself—”

“Yoonoh, you had someone all along?” And the Princess in disguise, or rather the Queen who got tired of her kingdom, dares hint sadness in her voice when she throws that question to Yoonoh. Funny how she didn’t even need to ask him for his name.

She leans her arms on the railing of the window, speaking through the glass loud enough for them to hear, and she hopes the neighbors listen, too. There is something gorgeous about the fall out of things. “Yeah,” She says. “I let him do as he pleases. You see, if you love them, let them go, right?”

The husband, good in his morals and perhaps, the best person in this room, dares say, astonished: “Don’t you have some respect for yourself? This man cheated on you—”

Or not, because she doesn’t even know him, but she shrugs. “Who does?” Respect replaced by self-hatred, each day it gets harder to find people of pride. “So, if you could let go of my man, that’d be very nice.”

The fisted, crumbled t-shirt is let go of, making Yoonoh stumble backwards. His eyes divert from the man in front of him, much taller and bulkier, and the woman by the window. This stranger to him, yet a lifesaver, if she is being honest. “I’ll give you ten seconds to get out of my house and go back to your girl. I don’t want to see you around my wife again, understood?”

He hesitates for a second, trembling eyes and rosy, turned down lips when he finally makes up his mind. “Yes, sir. I won’t get close to your wife ever again.”

By the time he is out of the mansion, the newspaper has already been dropped by the entrance door, and she swears she sees the tiniest of frowns on the wife’s face when Yoonoh nears her. Though, once the door closes with a bang and the argument continues inside, they are left in silence. How is it that someone like her, who had opted to have silence in her life, decided to save someone who spoke too little, yet brought the weight of a train worth of trouble into his life? Questions like that are ones that never go answered, or she doesn’t respond to them because she doesn’t want to miss moments like this. People that feel like they are unreal are hard to meet these days.

He lets himself rest a hand on his forehead, though she studies his expression from up close only for a few seconds. His body visibly relaxes, no longer standing so upright, eyebrows softening after being saved from a bad situation. The blood trickling down his lip is stopped by his fingers, pressed directly to the reddened skin when he speaks. “Who are you?”

Though, she mocks him, pointing with her thumb towards the entrance door. “In front of this house, I’m your girlfriend.” She adds, though the sarcasm or humor in her voice doesn’t seem to get to him. Scared beyond what anyone could understand, if his shaking hands are anything to go by. But he’s the type to never voice it out, if she’s not wrong. “Though, for everyone else, I’m just the newspaper girl. For you…” She trails her voice, sending her name over to him in the form of quickened speech.

“Oh, right.” He speaks, though a bit muffled because of the fingers in front of his lips. “I saw you not too long ago. You were looking through the window.”

“Ah-hah, I was not.” She mocks, getting closer to her bicycle and yet, having him trailing right behind her.

“What were you doing, then?”

“Watching you make a mistake, of course.” She answers, settling down on her seat before fixing her bag, once again. Her best possession, if she’s honest.

Though, Yoonoh scoffs, deep from his tainted pride. “Who are you to say it was a mistake?”

“Who are you to be taking someone’s wife?”

“She—” Yoonoh stops himself for a second, letting go of his mouth when she rips a page from her notebook and gives it to him, pressing it down to his lips to clean up the rest of the blood. It’s not the best decision, but it’s what they have. “Alright, okay, I’m sorry. She was married, and I slept with her. How did you even know that just by looking at me?”

“…Mhm,” She thinks for a second, resting both feet on the concrete as she tries to arrange her thoughts. “The ring on her finger, but not on his. The fact that she’s much older than you. And also, the fact that she left the curtains open.” Though, a smile appears on her face when she looks up and down his body, as if mocking him. “Because she’s a housewife who married too early, probably, and just wants to feel young and frisky. You’re the kind of guy who prides of making someone feel good openly, just…that whole manly aura thing.” It’s at this point of her life that she realizes, just as his face falls, that her friend had never been more than just intelligent. Reading people comes from being an absolute asshole to them. “Leaving the curtains open brings thrill. She wanted to get caught. You wanted more.”

“…Alright, sure.” Yoonoh can’t help but laugh a bit to himself, looking down at the blood-stained piece of linear paper before looking up at her again. “Thanks, by the way.”

Even when she delivers the news to a lot of people in this damn city, she never gets that first word. Thanks, a form of gratitude, a sweet wrap of his lips that makes her feel unique, for once. “I don’t like words, Yoonoh.” She mocks his name, finally resting her feet on the pedals. “I like actions better. Why not some breakfast and we’re even?”

“You only want breakfast?”

“A bagel sounds good right now.”

Yoonoh’s smile gets big, then, and for the first time in a while, she feels like time has stopped…and it has purpose. “Let me get my car and I’ll lead you to a good place, okay?”

What he doesn’t know is that he is too good, even behind all the mistakes he makes. The kind of youth that comes with being a little stupid, but just to oneself, never to another person. He parked his car not too far away from the house, but far enough for anyone to think it belonged to anyone else from another mansion. Not too bad off, definitely a man that has some wealth in him, he sends her a wave from his opened window before instructing her over. She may lose some time from her rushing hours, but a little change is never too bad.

###

Sunday mornings. Yoonoh buys bagels for the two, one cappuccino for her, a latter for him. The place he invites her to feels far less expensive than she imagined, bricks covering the lower half of the walls, the rest cladded in bone white. The lights are mellow enough to feel melancholic, even as they sit there during the morning. An elongated spot, though not a wide one, this café is more for students who want to spent too much money on what they drink instead of anyone else. Young adults, mostly, scatter the light woodened tables in the place.

Two weeks, and Yoonoh always makes sure to invite her next time before he leaves. A little prying from her part and she had gotten him to open up enough to talk about his interests. A musician in the rise, Yoonoh sings in a bar downtown though that doesn’t pay his rent. What does, however, divides itself in two things. The first one, he poses for the art students in some university that she doesn’t remember the name of—though, he admits to feeling a bit shy when he was proposed to pose naked, but enough money and he’s consider it—, and second one is a bit more understandable. Explains his whereabouts when she first met him, and the reason why she is there two weeks later.

“I’m not a call boy,” He says, two roses standing tall on the tips of his ears, blushed beyond what one would imagine out of Jung Yoonoh. Attractive in more ways than one; physically and inexplicably. “And I’m not a gold-digger, but I figured…if I always fall for married women, why not ask for something in return when being their lover? If I can’t get them, at least I can get some to pay the bills.”

He lets his lips rest on the corner of his coffee, trying to down the words that had escaped him, though from his peripheral he studies her, waiting for her to say something. She does. “What?”

“Why don’t you judge me?”

“Okay, what?” She asks, sweet laughter leaving her lips as she opens her notebook, looking for an empty page. “Why should I judge you?”

“Because—” Yoonoh cuts himself short, placing his cup of coffee down before sighing. “I sound like a mess, that’s why.”

“Aren’t we all?” She can’t help herself asking a rhetorical question, leaning her weight forward just when she is looking for the pen she keeps in her bag, resting next to her on her seat and not across her chest as per usual. “There must be a reason why you like married women…and older women, at that. And—” She stops herself for a second, inspecting his face when she was about to explain the reason of his actions to him. Only that she doesn’t. He doesn’t. No one does. Everyone roams this world without knowing what they are doing. “You know what, what I think shouldn’t matter. What anyone thinks shouldn’t matter to you. You know what should matter? What you think.”

He leans his head back, crossing his arms over his chest enough to make his taut chest stand out in that white t-shirt. He always sports one of those. “I don’t know. It started with this woman I liked when I was nineteen, and I really thought we had something, but she ended up getting married and I just thought—” He stops for a second, laughing a bit at himself. “Hey, it fits. I can be there for a few hours, do what they want to do, and then, I can leave. I don’t have responsibilities, I don’t have anything to do as a boyfriend.”

“That’s good.”

“…But it’s not what I want anymore.” He answers, shaking his head at himself before letting his index finger roam the edge of the cup of coffee. “Did I just get sappy?”

“Yeah. All sappy on me.” She says, taking her pen in between her finger before clicking on it.

“What do you like on someone?”

As a little joke to herself, she writes down his name on the first line of the empty page. Jung Yoonoh, the— “I like enigmas.” She answers, tilting her head to the side to further explain. “It’s better to solve someone’s else puzzle than solve mine.”

“Aye, don’t say that.” His foot kicks her calf under the table softly, the touch warming her when he sends a smile her way. “In that little bicycle of yours, I’m sure you get plenty of people to look at you.”

“Maybe.” Though, she has never cared about being looked at. What the eye can perceive, the soul can’t read. “Tell me your birthday.” She says, jotting down the first question out of the many she normally asks.

“February 14th, 1997. Why?”

“Birthplace.”

“Seoul.” And she jots that down, too, though her ministrations are stopped when his fingertips slip through hers, holding the pen in between his hold when he asks. “What are those questions for?”

“Whenever I meet someone I don’t want to forget, I ask them these questions.” She answers, well aware that the notebook is older than it should be, and perhaps filled with people who left or she doesn’t talk to anymore. “It helps me know not all people in this world are bad, but none are perfect.”

“And you know that by my birthday and birthplace?” He asks, though he is sufficiently interested to capture his bottom lip in a subtle touch of his teeth, smiling a bit at her antics.

“No, but I have a good question for you.” Her voice has that faintness of excitement she had forgotten, for solitude only felt great when she had no other option. Now, every Sunday morning she has to get ready to awaken to the noise of the city, the chatting of people around her, and the sound of her voice. No longer alone, no longer timeless. “Favorite song, Jung Yoonoh?”

“Oh fuck, favorite song…” He repeats, looking up at the ceiling for a second before huffing. “That’s not fair. I can’t have just one favorite song.”

“Just, your favorite.”

“Don’t do that to me.” Feigning a groan, he takes the final sip of his cup of coffee before hissing at the cold taste. “Why don’t you let me tell you a list of my current favorites, and you can make two pages out of it in your little notebook?”

Though most people were worth a page, somehow, she feels like he may be worth more. “Okay, why not?”

###

“What’s the probability of me ever reaching the stars?”

Somehow, sitting there on the passenger seat of Yoonoh’s car just a month after meeting him, it feels possible. This is the daydreaming stage she always avoids, when the colors of the aurora of the night feel a little too magical. Blue is no longer sad, and white is no longer blank. There, she feels her heart palpitate when Yoonoh chuckles at her words. Not in a mocking way, but it almost sounds like he doesn’t believe her. As if, seated right beside him, he thinks of her as a ghost. Those he doesn’t believe in, but that somehow knows his baggage and accepts it.

This is just a game—this friendship, or the probability game, she doesn’t know. With one leg crossed over the other, her cheek resting on her knuckles as they watch the sky, she looks forward to that question mark that ends everything around them. It’s hard to understand, the kind of words that never string together perfectly, but poetry works like that. The person who thought of blue eyes as an ocean must have seen past reality. Idealists are always happier.

“One…two…three…” He whispers, a countdown for them to say the number they think of. Probabilities according to the question, really. The game consists on asking a question, thinking of a number from one to ten at the same time as an answer, and if they give the same response, it feels like they are more united. As if, though different, they share the same soul.

“Zero.” They say at the same time, his imminent smile plastered on his face when he runs his fingers through his hair, the dimples on his cheeks deepening when his shoulders shake in undesired laughter. “What’s the point of even asking that question?”

“Just to check if you’re a dreamer.” Though, he doesn’t miss a beat on singing that infamous line in Imagine by John Lennon, though she doesn’t know if he steals the air from her lungs or her heart. Those, there is a void in her chest, that is for sure. “Okay, ask the questions yourself if you don’t like mine.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t like them. I just said we needed to be realistic.” And, far from one would imagine in his dream-like stance, Yoonoh is not a dreamer. He’s the kind to sit down and think of all the questions in the world, finding rational answers for them. Though, she just lets it be. “What’s the probability of us kissing someday?”

There it goes. Yoonoh’s realism goes past what a painter could portray, for it is as though he has sensed her change of heart. No longer can she study him, when she doesn’t even know what she is thinking. Emptied out of thoughts, filled with love songs and heartbeats. Does his match hers with this question, enough to have her looking at his profile, a quirked eyebrow sent her way?

“Is that really a question?”

“It’s just a question.” Yoonoh replies, so inherently free in the way he sees the world. “Come on,” His fingers pat against her knee, as if coaxing out his own answer. “One…two…three.”

“Seven.”

“Nine.”

Hers is lower, as if she knows the connotations behind giving him a kiss. He’s an elixir, but also an addiction. The kind of flower that always calls her over, even when it has thorns. It’s the probability of humanity—to fall for someone equally as imperfect in a wrong period of time in their lives. Lost, too lost to be found, and yet looking their ways. Both under the imminent rain of finding themselves in the adult world, far too complex and wronged for it to be for anyone, he thinks more. Getting closer, he is fearless. The kind that doesn’t mind a little ache if that means living.

“Why nine?” She questions, voice soft when she looks at him. Yoonoh parts his legs, then, sitting back on the driver’s seat when he shares a look with her at the same time, barely lit by the moonlight when he speaks.

“Just a good number, that’s all.” Yoonoh replies, though he doesn’t miss a beat to retort. “Why seven?”

“It’s a safe number. Means I’d do it, but there’s something stopping me.” Not able to stop her tongue, she continues speaking. “Nine is certainty, but with a hint of insecurity.”

“What’s stopping you?”

“Huh?”

His eyes trail down to her lips, licking at his own when he asks: “What’s stopping you from kissing me?”

“You want me to be honest?” She asks, laughter lingering on her tone. “My fucking mouth. I can’t shut up when I’m around you.”

He scoots closer to her, enough for his hands to sneak around her waist, pulling their chests impossibly near, as if where she ends, he begins. Placing one thumb under her ear, the rest of his palm encaging her jaw, the twinkle in his eyes becomes visible. “Well, you once said you liked action, not words.” He mimics, that second meeting still engraved in her brain. “…It’s up to you.”

When the lights go on, it’s impossible to get used to the dark again. The parts of her that had fallen asleep in her solitude awaken at the touch of his lips, gliding against hers as if he needs her. As if, for once, all the passion in the world transcends towards her. Honesty falls short for the beauty of his soft breath against her skin, through his nose, deepening the kiss with the expertise of a lover of the world. A lover of feeling loved. Unsatiable, the droplets of water that build inside of her touch the brim, but they don’t splay. They don’t fall. Instead, the voice inside her head tells her to let it be, to kiss him with the fire of a thousand matches coming together only to shine. For once, she wants to battle the moonlight.

Why reach the stars when she can shine along with him?

With him, the city is loud, the music even louder, his breathing rapid when she climbs over the seat and settles on his lap. This feels like heaven in a person, like one of those fallen angels people should never trust, but she does. How can’t she trust him when her name sounds like poetry when coming from his lips, when each caress of his hands over her body makes her feel like every fold and every imperfection is cherished? For one second, silence collides with noise, chaos meets tranquility. The moment of fall down, those she mocked in the past, too pompous for her own good, now burning in the weight of her own words. And it feels damn good.

###

Then, the warning signs ignite again.

When they do, they take her off guard. Seated on the flooring of his apartment, the tiles cold against her bare thighs, she pushes her shorts down a little bit more to bring some heat, but she concentrates on the sketch in between her hands. One of the students in the art class Yoonoh is a model in had gifted it to him, a little note written on the back about ‘her favorite muse’ that she seems to ignore. Instead, she concentrates on the lines of the sketch—the rawness of it all. Each stroke of the pencil gave life to parts of him that people noticed, never her little secret. His beauty, for one, is the first one to recognize, but there is more to it. The mole on his cheek, his profile perfectly drawn to showcase his jawline, the length of his hair, going down to the curve of his back, his neck barely tilted down to showcase that one mark of the moon in its darkest state on its skin. Right on the prominent bone of his back.

Whoever drew him recognized his tranquility, the purity of his chaos, the imperfection of a mind that just acts—does as he pleases, lives as he pleases, feels as he pleases. She had once told him, albeit a lie, that she preferred actions over words, but that’s because she had never heard the words. Those he says when he takes the spot behind her, his legs extending on each side of her body when he places his hands on top of her arms, rubbing up and down even though he is equally as cold. She likes the heat, and he brings it to her.

Until when? She asks herself. He is the enigma, the one to be solved, but it shouldn’t be the other way around. He shouldn’t know that she’s a newspaper girl because she never found her passion. That, somehow, she skips every news article that screams about something negative. That, in the long run, everyone leaves. We are not meant to stay as people, not even in this world, and the day he leaves is the day she has to start again. Learn quietness, solitude, and all that existed before him.

“Hello, gorgeous.” He speaks softly, letting his chin rest on her shoulder in the process. His hands continue to rake up and down the skin of her arms, and if his only dream is to bring goosebumps across her skin, bring warmth to her heart—and it’s so fucking confusing. Love is confusion, heat and coldness, pain and greatness. It shouldn’t feel like her heart and mind have torn apart just to show the best of her. “What are you looking at?”

“At the work one of the beloved members of your fanbase of artists did.” She replies, just as pointy as she thought her voice would come out. She clears her throat, letting her weight rest against his chest to feel his heart. Five months and she doesn’t get used to that rhythm, to that sense of existing with another person in a form so intimate she feels like she may lose it all just by losing him. “It’s pretty…you are pretty.”

“Thanks.” He takes the compliment, as if the world had not written a thousand odes to those eyes, the way they crinkle when he smiles at her and catches it from her peripheral. “I bought some chocolate. You know, for movie night…”

Yoonoh doesn’t have to know a lot of things about her. He doesn’t have to know that the shoebox she dares call an apartment costs her more than she can pay, and that she’s on the verge of ending up homeless. He doesn’t have to know that she lets the sun bathe her in fear she once doesn’t feel at all, as if she is getting used to the badness in the world. He doesn’t have to know that each day that passes is another day in which she holds onto that purity still kept within her, bucket lists and wish lists of happiness unattainable at times.

“That’s good.” She mumbles, putting the drawing down to talk to him, barely turning her head in the process. “Yoonoh?” He hums, hair disheveled as always, munching on one corner of his lips. “I have one of those tedious girlfriend questions for you.”

Girlfriend. When Yoonoh had said it, it had not been in the form of a question—kisses in his car, on her ribs, on her spine, on the love handles by her sides or her knuckles as she speaks, goodbyes shared when she is hopping on her bicycle ready for the day or when she says farewell to him by the bar he plans to sing in for the night, they all conjoined to that word. That one that should give her tranquility, but only asks for one thing: to be better. “Oh my God,” He groans, elongating it for dramatics before ghosting his hands on her sides, interlocking them over her abdomen. “If I give a bad answer, just know that I’m a no-brainer.”

“You’re not.” Though, he steals a chuckle out of her even at those times, nudging his side in the process. Her breath gets caught in her throat; it’s the first time she has voiced out this insecurity, one of the many questions about herself that she can’t seem to answer. “What made you like me?”

“Is that it?”

“Yeah.”

“Everything.”

“Don’t be political, now.”

“Good. I won’t.” Yoonoh takes in a deep breath before he rests the entirety of his cheek on her shoulder, close enough for her vision to blur. “You’re wise. I like that.” Wise, speaking about life as if she has the answers with enough confidence makes her wise. Yoonoh has yet to see the true colors of her. The questioning. The insecurity. “You never judge anybody. You’re very organized with your time…” He continues naming matters of her present day. He loves her present, but he doesn’t love her past. His fingers glide over the strap of her shirt, pulling it down slightly before pressing a kiss to her back. “I like this mole over here, too, it’s cute.”

And she would have loved to laugh, but she can’t bring herself to. How is it that someone that has seen her bare counted times feels like he hasn’t seen her at all? As if he hasn’t taken the time to study her, look past the perfect picture she has painted to protect herself.

Right. He never liked enigmas. He liked the forbidden loves.

She was the one who liked enigmas, undressing him from his insecurities and thoughts.

“You’re hot, if we’re getting honest.” His raspy voice whispers to her just as his kisses trail upwards, resting on her nape with parted lips before puckering up to press to the side of her neck. “You’re a dreamer. What isn’t there to like about you? You’re all of it.”

She’s a dreamer, but he’s a realist. “I don’t know…” She trails her voice, playing with his fingers still splayed on her abdomen. “What if I stopped being those things?”

“Why would you stop?” He asks, grasping her chin in between his hand before pressing a short kiss to her lips, not forgetting to take a look at the reddened flesh. “That’s who you are. We never stop being who we are, we just evolve.”

But who is she?

Is she the insecure voice inside her head, or is she the one that talks about the simplicity of life? Is she the wisdom or the fall-out? Is she the noise or the silence? The solitude or the companionship? Are we all meant to be mixtures of opposites to create balance, or are we meant to live in a limbo of never knowing who we truly are?

She had once read that we’re never capable of fully loving unless we know who we are. And, at this moment, she fears loving Yoonoh. One day, when the notes left in her bag stopped being a blushed tone, he’ll realize just how difficult love is. It’s one of those things that never last, and we seek for it, seek for a friend that can be a lover or a lover that can be a friend, but in the long run, they end up becoming enemies.

“Are you okay?”

His voice lingers with concern, and she can’t bring herself to out all those emotions to him. Not when he is this beautiful masterpiece. Not when he thinks so highly of her. “Of course, love.”

###

Today, her morning bicycle ride takes her somewhere else.

It takes her to that hill where she had her first kiss with Yoonoh, but the night sky has left the sun on its wake. The city from far away feels far more tranquil than it really is, cladded in the smell of smoke, bathed in gray glows, filled with copies of the same people. All looking for answers, yet for different questions. It takes her one breath in for her to feel like it has been enough. Piled inside of her are the words that tell her this city is too big for her, too filled with people with realities bigger than her dreams.

People leave, it’s the only inherent truth she has known, but it can have variations. They leave when they feel like it has been enough, or when it’s not enough. They leave with the door ajar or closing it with a bang. They leave in innumerable ways, and she feels like leaving. A smaller city, perhaps, a new beginning, a place where she doesn’t have to carry her debt like her nametag, where dreams can be met with the most simplistic of awakenings.

It always leads to this, because it’s not people leaving, it’s her leaving. When she sits down on the ground, her fingers welcome the notebook hidden in her bag. The rough brown leather, the pen in between, everything holding on to her past. Who she was did matter—a woman whose dreams never come true, who can’t change the world in ways that she wants to. Vanishing through the air, that’s how she lives life, never once becoming a memorable matter, a person that is needed…

And when she is needed, she feels like she isn’t being truthful.

Because she isn’t wise, like Yoonoh says she is, she is just confident in lying. She doesn’t judge, because she believes in giving exactly what you get. She isn’t a lot of things, but she is a few—a dreamer, like he said, enough for her to feel like she needs to run again. Maybe, somewhere, she will be able to write the words that itch in her throat, a reality so magnificent it changes the world.

One person doesn’t change the world, but it’s a start.

And she needs to start with her world.

She rips every page on that notebook. Her first best friend. Her second. The group of friends she asked the same questions as Yoonoh, and just when she gets to his page, she stops. It’s then that she realizes that running away this time isn’t easy, finding another dream is not that easy when someone changed her life instead. Him, who wants to live life, while she wants to listen to it. Yoonoh lives in the noise, because his actions make it. She lives in silence, because she never does anything.

He speaks in promises.

Se speaks in dreams.

But…he is that stage of her dream that she doesn’t want to wake up from.

Someday, he is going to fall out of love. He had them all—wives of magnates, women his age, slightly older even, university students, artists, keep counting. He’s all his fair exchange of loving, and he is not going to settle for someone who lives up in the clouds. Someone whose questions are rhetorical, whose only answers to the issues in life is that we all go through them. Maybe, it’s that little nagging voice inside her head that brings her up her feet and running to her bicycle, eager to go somewhere else—that voice that tells her to leave before he decides to do so, again.

The woman by her side on the train is sleeping, and it’s the third hour she has been there seated. Her notebook ends in between her fingers, knees bundled up towards her chest as she listens to that playlist Yoonoh insisted on adding on his list of favorite songs. This is him, and this is who she is leaving. This is a person that deserves someone who knows who they are and what they are doing. Someone whose reality is better than dreams, and will hopefully earn him happiness.

From: Yoonoh.

Hey.

Hey.

Hey!

Where are you?

Why aren’t you answering?

I came to pick you up but your landlord said he threw you out.

Were you having issues paying rent?

Hey. Pick up the phone.

I’m not playing. Where are you?

I’m at your workplace. They said they haven’t seen you.

This is not funny.

You can come live with me if you want.

Hey.

Don’t be like this.

Talk to me when you want to. I’m worried.

The issue is that she needs to find a real dream, one that works, one that feels like she has a north. One that pays the rent, makes her own her name as more than just the insufferable sight of the bills. Yoonoh doesn’t need to take care of her, neither does she need to take care of him, it should all be equal. Maybe, it is about time she finds balance. We are neither too little nor too much. We’re an in-between.

To: Yoonoh.

I want to break up.

I’m sorry.

I don’t want to be a burden.

He answers almost immediately.

From: Yoonoh.

You aren’t.

Hey.

You really aren’t a burden to me.

We all fall down sometimes.

To: Yoonoh.

Sorry, I can’t do that to you.

From: Yoonoh.

You know that what you’re doing to me now is even worse?

And she locks her phone, relishing on the only pages left in her notebook, the best person she had met so far…and the one she just lost.

###

“Okay, Jung Yoonoh.” She asked at the time, pen perched in between her fingers as she played with it. “What’s your biggest fear?”

Yoonoh bit on a meringue-covered slice of cake, slicing a bit just for her to try from his fork. Once she opened her mouth, she welcomed the savory vanilla cake he had picked. Simple, yet so inherently him. “Ah, depends. Real fear or average fear?” He replied, always looking through her answers. If only he knew how smart he could be sometimes, she would not be there.

“Real fear.”

“Alright,” He answered, leaning forward to run a napkin on the corner of her mouth, laughing when he accidentally messed up her lipstick. “Sorry, I smeared your lipstick there.” His voice went lower as his eyes kept trained on her lips, trying to get rid of the stain as delicately as possible. “Love. I’m afraid of falling in love and for it to go to shit.”

Even after all those love songs he had listed, his answer was ironic. He loved a good romantic song, sang it under his breath if he could, was born on Valentine’s day and yet, he feared the mere existence of him. The sound of him was the shape of love, even. “That’s very valid.”

“Right?” Yoonoh questioned, pulling away from her before folding the napkin he just used. “What’s that notebook for?”

She lifted her gaze, bringing her notebook closer to her chest before saying: “Why? Curious?”

“Very.”

“Here, I write about the people I admire the most. Those who I never want to forget…” Though, maybe it was about time to let go, and become a person of her own, she thought at the time. “It’s kind of a wish-list. People I wish to have in my life, or my heart, forever.”

“And why are you still close with the people in that notebook?”

“As long as I have this notebook with me, yes.” She answered, swallowing the lump on her throat before sighing. “Tell me about your best memory.”

The day she wrote that memory of his childhood down on that linear piece of paper, she hoped to be the reason of that smile. Filled with love and confidence, with that tranquility of knowing where he was standing, of not being afraid of living. Jung Yoonoh is, perhaps, one of the best people she has met in her life.

[geekgirles]

Your Heart

Chapter 5 -- Research

Word Count: 12429

READ ON AO3

“Remind me again why we’re doing this?” Tucker complained for the umpteenth time. 

After realising the only way to end his regular meetings with Lady Arcana once and for all would be finding information on the portals she could use to help him close them, Danny took a very-Jazz-like decision; to immerse himself in countless moldy, old books in search for answers. 

Only he dragged Tucker and his sister along to put an end to the torture sooner. A decision which, whereas Jazz encouraged wholeheartedly, Tucker was none too pleased with. 

“Oh, quit your whining, Tucker.” Jazz admonished from the floor, a few volumes piled up around her. “Every time you complain, it’s precious time we’re wasting. Maybe I don’t mind being holed up here reading with you, but something tells me you’d much rather be tinkering with your PDA than doing this.”

Annoyed by Jazz’s accurate observation, Tucker, who was lying down on his bed, set the book he was reading down on his lap. “I’m just saying, a quick Internet search would give us many more results in a matter of seconds. If you’re worried about wasting time, then I think spending hours scanning for even the smallest piece of witch-related trivia is ten times more time-consuming.”

But Jazz wasn’t going to relent any time soon. “We already tried things your way, Tucker. Remind me again how much useful information we found online?” When her question was met by silence, she smirked, focusing again on the book she had open on the floor in front of her. “Thought so.”

“Okay, so the first few results were all about conspiratorial nutcases claiming the witches are actually aliens from a faraway galaxy and that what we call ‘magic’ is really superior technology our tiny, human minds can’t understand,” he paused to breathe, “but those were just the first few articles! I’m sure if we keep on looking, we’ll find something useful.”

“Do I really have to remind you that the most useful thing we found was a Satanist group’s website? I don’t know about you, but I’m not exactly looking forward to joining them anytime soon.”

Leaning back against his bed’s headboard, the techno geek crossed his arms, feeling defensive. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

“Will you two just stop?” Danny finally had enough. He slammed the book he’d been reading shut before setting it down on his desk, where his own pile of books lay. Leaning back on his chair, one leg over his knee, he crossed his arms as he sent a stern look at his sister and best friend; the kind of look a father would give when scolding his misbehaving children. 

Even though they had legitimate reasons to be cranky at each other, a selfish part of him thought the only one who could really act out of line was him. Tucker and Jazz tended to forget what really was on the line. True; if they didn’t find a solution to the random ghost portals soon, that could lead to severe repercussions on both dimensions, and dealing with Lady Arcana was both dangerous and nerve-racking in every sense of the word. 

But the real danger came from within. 

Although Danny had tried to limit their use as much as possible, the Witch Queen’s presence demanded he wore the Ring of Wrath and the Crown of Fire in hopes of forcing the sorceress to think twice before double-crossing them. But the mere use of the two mystical items was far more terrifying than anything the entire witch clan could have thrown at him. 

There was something inherently...evil encased in the ring and crown. Danny was sure of it. Damn, he could feel it with every fiber of his being. Even before donning the all-powerful objects for the first time during his coronation, the moment he held them after stripping them off of Pariah Dark’s form, they were already calling out to him. 

And the most horrifying thing was that he wanted to heed their call. The relics promised infinite power to whoever was in possession of them. When, ironically, the dreaded things took possession of their wearer! After a brief moment of doubt where he almost fell into temptation and gave in, Danny understood wearing the ring and crown meant the total enslavement of his soul. 

Ever since then, he lived in fear of succumbing to temptation and letting their sinister energy consume him. Whenever he had no choice but to wear the Ring of Wrath and the Crown of Fire, Danny found himself fighting an uphill battle against the hypnotising pull of power emanating from them. It was more tempting than using his powers to get back at Dash for all the wedgies. It was more inviting than dating Valerie, regardless of the very real possibility of dying by her hand. It was more dangerous than accepting to work with Vlad, who foolishly coveted the very same torture he endured every time he put those two horrid artefacts on. 

Because it was a literal deal with the devil; power in exchange of his soul. 

And to think he had to endure all that every time he met up with the queen of the two-faced creatures responsible for such evil in the first place, just to convince her against doing anything foolish...It was irony at its finest. 

With gentle spins of his chair, Danny kept looking alternatively at Tucker and Jazz, who were blissfully unaware of his inner musings, as he talked to each of them. First was Tucker. “Tuck, I know you’ve considered books a waste of time ever since we plugged you into the Cramtastic Mark 5 to break Ember’s spell, and I’m sorry for dragging you into this, but Jazz’s brought all these books from the library and we need as much information as possible.”

He then turned to his sister, who was laid facing down on the floor. “Jazz, same thing goes for you. Except the ‘book-hating' part,” he hastily added, “you know as well as I do that if there’s someone who can find anything on the Internet, it's Tucker. Just, give him time.”

His two teammates exchanged glances before giving up with an eye roll. “Whatever,” they said in unison before getting back to reading. 

Danny wasn’t quite finished, though. “There’s also the fact that I’m not even sure we’ll find anything useful in the first place. I mean, what Lady Arcana needs is either an explanation on what’s causing the portals to manifest, or a spell that can counter it. And I highly doubt we’ll find that sort of information in books from the public library.”

“Maybe if they were from Hogwarts…” Tucker snickered at his own joke. When he noticed the twin glare the siblings were sending him, he sobered up. “Sorry.”

Jazz rolled her eyes as she changed her position from lying down to sitting up, cross-legged. “That doesn’t mean we won’t find anything useful, Danny. If anything, just learning more about the witches should be of help when dealing with them, right?”

The halfa sighed. “In theory. But Tucker’s right; we’ve been reading for hours and we haven’t found anything useful, or even that we didn’t already know of.”

“Thank you!” Tucker deadpanned as he clapped his hands sarcastically.

Danny ignored him in favour of continuing. “I mean, what’s to learn about them? Their background is completely irrelevant to the issue at hand. Knowing of the Salem trials isn’t going to help me prevent disaster from happening!”

“And don’t forget we don’t even know how to tell true facts apart from naysay.”  Tucker pointed out, a finger raised in the air as if that’d give more credibility to his point.

But Jazz insisted. “All the more reason to find out more about them! For instance, Danny, what did you know about witches before meeting this Lady Arcana?”

Her brother gave a noncommittal shrug. “Only what Frostbite told me and what I read in the pages I found from Sojourn’s missing journalーand no, I’m not going to let you read them, Jazz; it’s too dangerous. Besides, I don’t even have them anymore,” he was quick to add, recognising the inquisitive look on his sister’s face all too well.

Annoyed at how well her brother knew her, and at Tucker’s ill-concealed snickers, the aspiring psychologist turned her head away in a huff. “Fine, keep your sister away from fascinating topics. It’s not like I’ve been keeping your secret for years; even from you.” She punctuated with a meaningful look.

If the look on Danny’s face was any indication, they’d had that same conversation too many times before. “Jazz, careful; you know emotionally blackmailing me will get you nowhere. It’ll make me want to keep more things away from you.”

The redhead stood up and got closer to him. With her arms crossed, she used her brother’s seated position to tower over him for once, since she had long lost the ability to look over his shoulder once Danny finally hit his growth spurt. “And you know trying to play hero and keep me away is going to solve nothing. If anything, it’s only going to make me want to help you even more.”

Watching the siblings from the comfortable distance his bed provided him, Tucker knew things would only get nasty if he let the tension escalate from there. He let out a wolf whistle, effectively capturing the Fenton kids' attention. “Wow. You know you two spend too much time together when you start using the other’s methods to get what you want.”

Danny and Jazz furrowed their brow in confusion. “What do you mean?” They asked in unison. 

Changing his position so his back was resting against his wall rather than his bed, which also allowed him to easily look them both in the eye, their friend just shrugged nonchalantly. He wasn’t going to say anything else; their attention was no longer directed at each other and that was enough. “Nothing. Hey, how about a break?”

“A break?” Danny echoed, incredulous. “Didn’t we just argue about wasting time? Tuck, we can’t take a break now!”

Seeing where Tucker was getting at, and that he had a very good point, Jazz sighed. Turning to Danny, she put a hand on his shoulder to get his attention. “Tucker is right. We’ve been at it for a few hours now. We’d better take a breather and continue later, when our minds are sharper.”

Danny was about to protest when he noticed their matching expressions. They were both tired after doing nothing but searching for clues for hours and bickering with each other. If anyone deserved a break, it was them. And as his own exhaustion finally kicked in, he realised, so did he. 

Sighing, he ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, you’re right. Let’s stop for a while.”

Satisfied, Jazz gave her little brother some space as she flopped down on his bed. “So, Tuck.” When his head snapped at the sound of her voice calling his name, she continued. “How’s your latest lady friend doing?”

It took the African American young man a moment to understand who she was talking about. “You mean Camille?”

“If that’s her name, then yes.”

“Oh, we don’t hang out anymore.”

“What?” Jazz gasped. “Why?”

Tucker looked at her uneasily. Danny, on his part, remained quiet, just listening to their conversation. “Uh, no offence, Jazz but...I don’t feel comfortable talking about this with my best friend’s sister; close as we may be.”

That made her frown. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It’s just...there’s things you don’t talk about with just anyone. And what happens between you and the people you choose to fool around with is one of them. I mean, how would you feel if my mum tried meddling into your love life?”

She just made a derisive sound at the back of her throat. “Excuse me? That is completely different!”

“It is not!”

“Oh, really?” Jazz put her hands on her hips, an eyebrow raised. “Please. Tucker, I’m Danny’s older sister, not our mother! Moreso, I’m the eldest by two years,” she put two fingers up to stress her point, “it’s not like I babysat you or cleaned your diapers. It can’t be that embarrassing!”

Refusing to say any more, Tucker just fell backwards on his bed, arms crossed. From his chair, Danny could only roll his eyes good-naturedly at their banter. 

After a beat of silence, Jazz tried again. “Was it your issues with commitment? Did she want more but you got scared?”

Exasperated, he pinched the bridge of his nose. Then, he turned to his best friend. “You can intervene whenever you like, you know?”

Danny just leaned back on his chair, his arms folded behind his head and an easy grin on his face. “Nah, I’m good.”

Abruptly getting up from his bed, unamused, Tucker walked over to his desk and turned his computer on. His back turned to the Fenton siblings, he started fidgeting with a program he’d just opened. He had no idea what to do with it, but he figured it’d be better than Jazz butting in on his love life. 

“So...is that it?” she ventured hopefully. 

Groaning loudly, he rubbed his eyes before fully facing the current thorn in his side. “Has it ever crossed your mind that the reason why I don’t feel comfortable talking about this with you is because you’re going to try and psychoanalyse me?” Seeing as there was no reply, Tucker took it as a sign that she’d finally let it go, so he turned to face the screen. 

...only to hear her whisper to Danny. “How much on them having trouble in bed?”

His face burning hot in embarrassment, Tucker slammed his head against the desk, startling the two other people in the room. At least Danny would never betray him, would he? No, he wouldn’t. It totally went against, like, fifty rules in the Bro Code. 

Unfortunately, Danny was having far too much fun seeing Tucker squirm under Jazz’s scrutinising, psychological curiosity. “Well, from what I’ve heard…”

Oh, no! No way in Hell was that traitor selling him out like that! If Danny wanted war, he’d give him war, Bro Code be damned! Getting up with startling speed, Tucker yelled loud enough to drown Danny’s voice out. “Danny’s met a girl!”

Both siblings blinked slowly at him before simultaneously screeching, “What!?” Although it was impossible to tell which of the two was more bewildered by the revelation.

In an instant, Jazz was on her brother like a vulpture on an animal carcass. “Danny, is that true? You have a girlfriend?” Suddenly, she looked much more offended than dumbfounded. “And you didn’t tell me?!”

“No!” he quickly denied, before all but flying from his chair and going over to his so-called best friend to smack him on the arm. Hard. “Tucker, what the fuck?!”

“Language!” Jazz admonished. 

“Where did you get the idea that I got a girlfriend? What, you’ve listened to me talking about how I fear for my life whenever I’m in the same room as the short-tempered, curse-inducing, infuriating Queen of the Witches of Amity Park and you obviously thought, Oh, man. That’s true love right there and then?!”

“Well, that definitely didn’t stop you from crushing on Valerie back in high school…” Jazz pointed out meekly. 

Seeing Danny’s eyes glow green for a fraction of a second was enough to make Tucker sweat bullets. “Jazz, you’re not helping!” He squeaked. “And, dude, you’re freaking me out a little with the way you’re burning holes in my skull. At this point, I really wouldn’t put it past you to have suddenly developed heat-vision or something…”

Forcing himself to take a deep breath, Danny finally got out of his best friend’s personal space. He was still pissed, though. “Talk.”

Straightening his clothes, Tucker rolled his eyes. “My, aren’t you sensitive today.”

“Well, duh! You just said I have a girlfriend! Could you be so kind as to tell me who so I don’t forget our anniversary or, I don’t know, her face!?”

The techno geek made a ‘pfft’ sound with his mouth, shrugging the notion off with a motion of his hand. “I never said you had a girlfriend. My exact words were ‘Danny’s met a girl.’ If you two are too obsessed with your love life to pay close attention to what other people say, that’s not my problem.”

“Okay, so who’s this girl?” Jazz asked, still curious.

“Yes, please, enlighten us, oh, King Tuck.” Danny quipped sarcastically. 

Tucker frowned, not appreciating the quip at his past mistake, but he spoke nonetheless. “Dude, it 's Sam.”

There was a beat of silence where brother and sister just stared at him before Danny whispered, shell-shocked, “Sam?”

Jazz, on her part, was both shocked and confused. “Wait, who’s Sam?”

He would’ve smacked him right then and there if it weren’t for his best friend having ghost powers he could blast him with. “Well, duh! Dude, have you or have you not met a girl named Sam recently? Because, I’m warning you, if you thought she was a guy, I’m telling on you. I don’t care if she beats your ass; you’d deserve it.”

“Ooh! A girl capable of kicking my baby brother's butt? Now I gotta know who she is! Also, Tucker, language.” The aqua-eyed girl half-heartedly scolded him, before her expression turned into a pensive one as she redirected her gaze to Danny “...are you sure you don’t have a type, though?”

“Sam and Valerie are nothing alike!” Danny exclaimed, throwing his arms up at his sides. Then he turned to Tucker, his hands now curled into fists out of sheer annoyance. “And of course I know she’s a girl. I just don’t understand how on Earth you’d come to the conclusion that I’m into her or something.”

Not for the first time, Tucker rolled his eyes before getting up from his chair and draping his arm around Danny’s shoulders. “And, again, I never said you were. I just said you’d met a girl…” Danny didn’t like that mischievous glint in his eyes one bit. “It just so happens I know you two enough to know you’d immediately assume I was talking about a lady friend, which would then make you forget all about moi.” Tucker explained with a cheeky grin. “And, lo and behold, it worked!”

Danny narrowed his eyes on him. He hated it when Tucker used their everlasting friendship to play him like a violin. Jazz, on the other hand, hated having her queries ignored. Taking a deep breath, she raised her voice to deafening levels. “Hello? Can anyone tell me who this ‘Sam’ is?”

“Agh!” Both halfa and techno geek exclaimed, taken aback. Nursing his ear, the youngest Fenton glared at his sister. “You're louder than my Ghostly Wail, you know that?”

“I can attest to that.” Tucker muttered, equally annoyed. 

Both sighed in defeat when Jazz limited herself to arching an eyebrow at them with her hands, curled into fists at her sides, stubborn as ever to get her answers. “Jazz, it’s no big deal. Sam is just a friend of Tucker’s who knows an awful lot about the occult and such. He thinks she might be able to help me with you-know-who.” He explained as he sat down on his bed next to her, Tucker following suit.

“Wait, Tucker is friends with a girl that’s not me?”

The aforementioned boy took offence at that. “Is it really that weird to see me hanging out with a girl because we’re friends and nothing more?”

The Fenton kids just stared at him blankly. “Dude, you literally hit on anything with a skirt. Remember the drag queen?”

The techno geek spluttered at that, while Jazz couldn’t help but chortle. “Dude, you promised to never bring that up again!”

Danny only chuckled at his best friend’s flushed face. “I don’t think you’re in any position to complain, Tuck. After all, you did break that poor queen’s heart...”

“Why, you!” Face burning hot in embarrassment, Tucker threw himself at Danny, ready to strangle him, ability to blast him to smithereens be damned! His own body reacting instinctively, Danny lay down on his back as he grabbed his best friend’s wrists. The two would’ve started roughhousing hadn’t it been for Jazz getting caught in between. 

“Hey! Stop it you two!” With a superhuman strength that could only be attributed to an older sibling separating her little brothers, Jazz shoved Tucker off of Danny, while she kept the latter down with a hand on his chest. A few minutes passed before the two calmed down. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she turned to Tucker, trying to keep the original conversation going. “So this Sam could be of help?”

Willing his own breath to steady, Tucker nodded. “Yeah. Sam’s a Goth, so she’s very interested in all that. In fact, she’s been of help before.”

Danny’s interest perked at that. “What do you mean?”

“Remember when I’d come up with a solution to defeat certain ghosts this past year? Like Medusa, or that giant Hydra, and such? That was all Sam!”

“Now that you mention it, it did take me by surprise that you’d suddenly know what a hydra even is…”

“Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence…” he quipped, before shaking his head to keep himself focused. “Anyway, whenever those ghosts appeared, I’d remember Sam talking about her latest mythology-related acquisition she bought from her favourite bookstore. So I just called her up, used the very convenient ghost in case to ask about its weakness and, ta-da! You’d have your way to beat them!” He exclaimed, proudly puffing up his chest. After a moment, he deflated, another thought in his mind. “The only creature she never told me about are unicorns, though. I don’t know why.”

“Maybe it throws off her entire dark, cynical persona.” Jazz guessed. Becoming Goth was a common coping mechanism for when people lost someone dear. For all she knew, this Sam could’ve lost a loved one and abandoned all things traditionally cute and girly as a way to put up a strong, undaunted façade, constantly exposing herself to the darker side of life in an attempt to grow desensitised to such things. 

“Maybe,” the bespectacled young man shrugged, “but if you ever meet her, don’t go around saying things like that. Somehow, I doubt she’d appreciate having her entire identity picked out and analysed.”

As Tucker and Jazz kept on bantering with each other, Danny’s thoughts were elsewhere. If what Tucker was saying was true and Sam had indeed marked the difference between victory and defeat during those ghost attacks, then it really would be better to have her by his side. 

Despite his years fighting ghosts and what he’d learned from Frostbite, his knowledge was limited to the Ghost Zone, which was why the presence of mythological or legendary ghosts tended to demand more of him than, say, facing off against Technus, or Johnny 13. Magical artefacts and abilities fell under that category, as well.

Aside from the lack of portal-creating and visits to the Ghost Zone, the witches, on the contrary, seemed to be knowledgeable of ghosts. And that put him at a clear disadvantage he couldn’t afford. But if Sam also happened to know about witches, maybe even partake in rituals for the sake of it, then having her near would be for the best. He would only have to make sure to keep a close eye on her in case the witches found out and went after her in retaliation. 

And also, deep down, he was sort of looking forward to meeting her again. 

...............

The seemingly never ending corridors were doing nothing to alleviate her already suffering nerves. Despite the velvet-carpeted floor that would other times muffle her heavy steps, she now felt as if every step she took resonated throughout the manor like the screeching tiles of a wooden floor. From the rich, maroon walls were hanging the portraits of every astounding witch their clan had ever witnessed; from queens and Council members, to especially adept sorceresses or even heroines who had saved their sisters one way or another. All those women she usually looked up to for guidance in difficult times now seemed to be silently judging her with their cold, unforgiving eyes. 

She walked in complete silence, afraid to disturb the peace if she were to utter a word. After discovering the grimoire she used to travel to the Ghost Zone wouldn’t be of any help in her mission, Sam was blindly following the beginning of a hunch; the spark of an idea whose outcome she still knew nothing of. But, even if she wasn’t sure what she was looking for, it was all she had. 

Sam had no choice but to follow that inkling. 

Hurriedly trying to keep up with her, Star and Paulina were close behind. Once again, their position within their Queen’s inner circle allowed them to understand Sam’s thought process better than most. Only they knew the true reason behind the Queen’s unprompted visit to their clan’s archives. 

“Your Majesty, what do you expect to find inside thー?” Before Star could so much as finish her question, Sam interrupted her.

“Indeed, Star. I would appreciate a warm bubble bath with deadly nightshade leaves.” The queen said, not even stopping to look back at her ladies-in-waiting.

To any other person, that cryptic message would have meant nothing but the typical request one would expect a queen to ask her personal maids of. But Paulina and Star knew better. Asking for deadly nightshade was Sam’s way of telling them to keep whatever she was up to a secret. By asking Star for a deadly nightshade bubble bath, she was instructing them that absolutely no one should find out about the true reason behind her visit to the archives. 

Exchanging knowing glances with Paulina, the blonde lowered her head slightly, fully aware that her Queen was watching her from the corner of her eye. “Yes, your Majesty.”

And with that everything that had to be said was shared between them. 

Time was of the essence.

Aside from the evident danger she faced every time she travelled to the Infinite Realms, there was the added possibility of being spotted by humans, regardless of how far away from civilization their meeting spot was. If anyone ever took notice of the three mysterious figures fraternising with ghosts, Amity Park’s greatest known threat, questions would soon arise. 

And whenever humans had questions, they turned to the so-called experts on the matter for help. While Sam wasn’t sure those incompetent Guys In White even suspected their existence, she still wouldn’t put it past them to investigate for the sake of burning tax money in some new toys. Those greedy, government puppets… Worst of all, if they took a genuine interest in her kind, they might as well be done for, and not necessarily because the GIW were good at their job…

If word got out that witches were real and living among them, the citizens could get scared. And whenever humans got scared, especially if it was of things they couldn’t quite explain or understand, that fear turned into aggression. If they kept wasting any more time, one day she’d open her door to find herself face to face with an angry mob. 

And to think it’d all be because of a group of incompentent ghost hunters who couldn’t even drive away the very same treacherous creatures responsible for her people’s need for secrecy in the first place...it was irony at its finest. 

However, despite the spike of anxiety in her chest, Sam couldn’t help but go back to her last visit to the Ghost Zone. Phantom’s attempts at dissipating the tension had been, as much as she hated to admit it, a welcomed thing. And yet, it was a little unnerving to learn the Ghost King shared her views on formality and the power of intimacy, because it made him look more human than she would ever be comfortable with. 

In all fairness, it was difficult to imagine Phantom talking like anything but his usual, cocky self in the first place. From what little exchanges the news broadcasts had been able to catch on camera during the years, the white-haired spirit tended to get overly familiar with his opponents, getting under their skin with puns or witty comebacks thrown at their expense. Still, as unusual as it was, Sam couldn’t help but feel that, perhaps, it would’ve been better to keep on using their respective honorifics. Because Phantom addressing her like he would any other misbehaving ghost, like she’d seen him do dozens of times over the years, somehow made it all the more...real. She truly was talking to the infamous Ghost King on her own volition. 

That thought alone scared her more than she’d ever be willing to admit. 

Before Sam could dwell on the matter any longer, a grating, shrill voice snapped her out of her thoughts. A voice she knew all too well and would do just about anything to never hear again unless it was absolutely necessary. 

“Sammy-kins!”

Stopping in her tracks, eye twitching in annoyance, the lavender-eyed girl forced a smile to materialise on her face as she slowly turned around to face the mother of all monsters. Her own. “Hello, Mother.” She forced out.

Pamela Manson was an average witch; the only thing stellar about her was her ability to distract humans with her lavish parties and over-the-top socialite persona. A woman obsessed with social status and appearances, Sam’s mother constantly got on her case due to her own disregard for the very things Pamela lived for. 

Mother and daughter were opposites in almost every aspect. 

Whereas Sam prided herself in her individuality and ability to go unnoticed unless she truly wished to make her presence known, Pamela was obsessed with blending in a way that would always draw all eyes to her.

Sam believed in standing up for a change, without fear of taking big steps as long as they led her to a better world. Pamela considered things to be fine as they were, and that the only changes that should be implemented were small, insignificant ones; such as her daughter’s fashion sense.

While Sam was a rather cynical individual who still cared about everyone deep down, her mother was preppy and optimistic, but her aspirations were limited to what could benefit her and her family.

But what truly set them apart was Sam’s insistence on being inconspicuous to the human eye; her coven’s anonymity her top priority. As opposed to Pamela who, had she been queen, would’ve accidentally exposed their secrets in her first week after being crowned; tops. 

In all fairness, it wasn’t that Pamela didn’t care for their clan; it was just that she couldn’t resist flaunting what, she believed, made her better than everyone else. 

And, right now, she believed her daughter’s manners could be much better. “What’s with the cold greeting, Sammy-kins? We haven’t seen much of each other in over a week and that’s how you treat me?”

On second thought, Sam much preferred her chances against an angry mob over spending five minutes in the same room as her mother. “Sorry, Mother, but you caught me in the middle of something important and…”

“What could possibly be more important than what I’m about to tell you?” Pamela questioned, her hands on her hips. 

“Perhaps finding a way to save two dimensions or, at the very least, our people, but you’re right, Mum, what was it that you wanted to tell me?”, was what the raven-haired witch wished she could’ve said, but instead she opted for, “And what is it that you have to tell me?”

Instead of answering her daughter, however, Pamela directed an expectant look at her two ladies-in-waiting who, upon noticing her steely glare on them, immediately straightened up before lowering their heads in submission. “Greetings, your Ladyship.” Paulina and Star droned, their heads low.

Although Pamela was never queen herself, as mother of the current leader of the clan she was to be regarded with respect. A fact the woman would constantly revel in and fully take advantage of. Smiling in contentment, she sighed. “Ah, much better. Now, Sammy-kins, I was thinking we could take some time away from your schedule to have a little chat on your wardrobe choices?”

Ugh, not that again. Ignoring her mother’s offended gasp, Sam turned on her heel to make her way, once again, to her original destination. Star and Paulina hurrying up to leave ‘her Ladyship’ behind and keep up with their queen after flashing her mother a pair of matching sheepish smiles

Unfortunately, the one thing Sam seemed to have inherited from her mother was her stubbornness. Quickening her own pace, the clicking of her high heels behind her haunting Sam even in her dreams, Pamela caught up with them in a surprisingly short amount of time. Having no choice but to breathlessly talk to her daughter at the same time as she tried keeping up with her would not be enough to get her to give up on her pursuit. 

“Seeing as we have much more important matters to discuss, I shall gracefully ignore your previous insolence.” Luckily for Sam, her mother missed the way she rolled her eyes at her. “I know this...Gore style of yoursー.”

“It’s ‘Goth’, Mother…” Sam corrected her, but her efforts fell on deaf ears. 

“ーis just your way of rebelling against the world because things don’t go your way, but don’t you think enough is enough? You’ve been dressing like a mortician since you were twelve!”

“If you’re done patronising me and the way I choose to present myself to the worldーwhich, not only have you insulted in every possible way but, allow me to remind you, is not just a phaseー, I really do have more important matters to attend to.” 

And with that, she sped up past her mother. It should’ve been the end of that conversation, but Pamela always had to have the last word. “But what about the clan? Don’t you think it’s selfish to compromise us like that?”

That stopped the Witch Queen dead in her tracks, the unexpected stop causing Paulina and Star to tumble back a few steps. Once they registered what Pamela had said, their blood ran cold; the stiffness in Sam’s posture only confirmed their unspoken fears:

Sam’s mother had just crossed a line. 

Fists clenched so tightly at her sides she could’ve drawn blood, her teeth gritting in aggravation, Sam hissed, not even turning around to face her mother. “What did you just say?”

Brushing her daughter’s anger off as just another tantrum, Pamela calmly walked over to where she stood, looking over her handmaidens’ shoulders. Resting a palm on Sam’s shoulder, a hand that, although meant as comforting, came out as condescending, mocking; the older witch spoke up. “I’m just saying, you’re always advocating for our anonymity, yet you seem to ignore that people will immediately associate your obvious, stereotypically witchy outfits with real-life witchcraft. All that black and those dark colours, the ripped fabric, the metal ornaments… Sammy, don’t you see? That’s like wearing a sign saying ‘I’m a witch! Come and lynch me!’”

Taking advantage of her turned face, Sam narrowed her eyes on her mother. She dressed like a WASP housewife from the 50’s when she was a Jewish woman living in the 21st centuryーshe was in absolutely no position to criticise her looks! 

How dare she? How dare she?! Using her duty to protect her people against her just to get her to wear some frilly abomination because she couldn’t fathom the idea that her daughter would want to be her own person?

It was moments like these that Sam missed Grandma Ida the most. Her grandma would’ve guided her in her darkest hours, giving her useful advice to approach the situation, but never making decisions for her, letting her live and learn instead! Grandma Ida would’ve never tried to use her to push some personal agenda on the clan. 

But Grandma Ida was gone, and Pamela was there to stay.

As insulted and, although she’d never let it show, hurt as Sam was, going to the archives took priority. Stowing her conversation with her mother for another time as she resumed her march down the hallsーpreferably when she’d be alone in her roomーSam shrugged her off the best way she knew; through biting sarcasm. “Oh, please. If I were nearly as ‘obvious’ or ‘stereotypically witchy’ as you say, Mother, I’d decorate this place after the Sedlec Ossuary.”

Pamela furrowed her brow in confusion as she, too, resumed her walk. “What does that even mean?” 

“She’s talking about a Czech chapel fully decorated with bones and skulls.” Star helpfully supplied. 

Paulina, on the contrary, shuddered in disgust. “Ugh, I’d rather not. I’d feel like I’m always being watched…”

Star tilted her head to the side. “How? Skulls don’t have eyes.”

Ignoring the handmaidens, Pamela opened up her mouth to speak when a raised hand from her daughter, who had abruptly halted, stopped her from even getting a word in. “As lovely as catching up with you has been, Mother,” Sam started, voice laced with sarcasm, “I’m afraid I must go. I have important matters to attend to, as I already told you, that I must take care of, in private.” She stressed before turning the doorknob of the large door before her and walking inside, swiftly letting her bewildered mother out after she all but slammed the door shut in her face. 

Leaning  her back against the door, Sam let out the breath she didn’t know she was holding. No matter how much time passed, her mother would always be a she-demon worse than any ghost. God forbid Phantom ever met her; if he were to take a page out of her book, Sam would personally burn herself at the stake.

“Is Pamela too much for you?” A sultry voice coaxed her out of her thoughts.

Opening up her eyes, Sam could feel the relieved smile forming on her face at the sight of the witch she most wanted to see at the moment. “Delilah.” She breathed out as she separated herself from the door, walking over to her friend to grab her hands in hers. “You have no idea.” Sighing dramatically, she let her head fall on the crook of the shapeshifter’s shoulder, eliciting a chuckle from her. 

“Oh, I don’t need to.” She said, gently patting her queen’s head. “Just by looking at you I can tell; you look like you’ve suddenly lost ten years of your life!”

“Make that twenty,” Sam grumbled. 

Separating herself from her leader, their hands still holding each other, the turquoise-eyed sorceress got to the point. “Well, what brings you here? As much as I love your visits, I thought you’d be busy with your little escapes to the Ghost Zone?”

Sam averted her gaze, the wooden floor suddenly much more interesting than a few seconds ago. “It’s precisely because of that that I’m here.”

“Oh?” Delilah tilted her head, slightly. “Okay...So, what are you here for, then?”

To her bewilderment, her queen’s eyes continuously darted from one place to another, as if expecting to be ambushed any minute now. “Are we alone?”

An odd question, but not necessarily a bad one. Putting her fingers on her chin in thought, the Council member tried to remember if she’d seen anyone that day. “Hm, I think Stephanie might be somewhere around here, engrossed in a book. But you know her, it’d be easier to get me to leave the archives than not seeing that girl with her nose deep in a book.”

Stephanie was probably with them. That was not a bad thing. Stephanie ought to find out sooner or later. Wringing her hands nervously, Sam willed her eyes to look at Delilah’s own curious turquoise ones. “I need your help with something.”

That caught her attention. “My help?” Sam nodded. “My, Sam, you’re starting to worry me.” Delilah admitted as she got closer to the Goth, her hand hovering over her shoulder but never close enough to actually rest atop of it, afraid that the sudden contact would startle her. It was unusual to see her so suspicious of everything around her. Maybe… “Did the ghosts do anything? Are we going to war?”

That seemed to snap the younger witch out of whatever she was going through. She didn’t lower her guard, though. “No, no. We’re not going to war.” She shook her head as she let Delilah gently guide her to another section of the archives. “But in order to avoid just that I might need to do something crazy…”

Delilah wrinkled her nose at that. “Something crazy? You’re not going to marry that Ghost Punk, are you?”

Startled, Sam jerked away from her touch, shuddering in discomfort. Where would she get such a ridiculous idea? She and Danny Phantom? She almost wanted to laugh. Instead, she let out a derisive sound from the back of her throat. “Don’t even joke about that.”

“So, what is it then? I’m sorry, Sam, but you’re not making any sense right now.” The shapeshifter insisted. “If we’re not going to war, and you’re not going to marry the Ghost King, what do you need me for?” Taking a few steps, she got closer to the young monarch, their faces mere inches apart as she tried looking for answers in her amethyst orbs. “What could be so serious that you’re so unnerved, Sam?”

Delilah’s intense gaze made her squirm, but she had a point. She couldn’t expect her to help her, no questions asked. For instance, she wasn’t just the best shapeshifter of the clan, she was also a Council member, and the archives guardian. She was the one tasked with keeping their people’s most precious treasure, their history and knowledge, safe. And considering what she was gonna ask of her, Delilah was in her right to know exactly what was going through her head. 

Steeling herself for what was to come, Sam straightened her spine, returning the intensity of the older witch’s gaze in earnest. “I need you to grant me access to a certain type of book.”

Delilah’s posture relaxed. “Is that it? Why didn’t you say so sooner? Sure, just tell me what you’re looking for and I’ll let you take a lookー.”

“I mean,” Sam cut her off, “I need you to grant me permission to take the book with me, outside of the manor...and into the Ghost Zone.” Her voice wavered when she muttered the last part. 

“Oh...I see...” The guardian’s expression immediately sobered up. She cleared her throat, awkwardly. “And, what type of book are you looking for?”

Now things were going to get really ugly. “I need a spellbook detailing everything we know about the Ghost Zone, specifically, its portals.”

For a while, Delilah just stared at her, almost unblinkingly. The good news was she didn’t appear angry or outraged as Sam had predicted, the bad news, however, was that her empty, unreadable expression was much worse. At least she’d have known what she was thinking had she been yelling at her for her idiocy; questioning her mental health. But as it was, Sam was almost as lost as her.

After what felt like an eternity, Delilah finally found her voice. “So you…” she quieted down, trying to find the words. “You want to take one of our most sacred texts to the Ghost Zone?”

Sam winced. Somehow, it sounded way worse when she said it like that. “I know it’s asking for too much…”

“Saying that’s an understatement wouldn’t even begin to cover it.” The Council member scoffed. “Seriously, Margaret would have a cow! And don’t get me started on Wilhelmina…”

“I know!” Sam was quick to reassure her. She was perfectly aware what she was asking of her might be a little excessive, but she wasn’t completely delusional! She knew just what kind of reaction their fellow Council members would have... “I know, but...the only way to ensure our people’s safety is helping Phantom. And he needs help closing numerous unstable portals that are suddenly opening. I thought the book I’d been using to get to the Infinite Realms would have the answers, but its contents were thoroughly underwhelming.”

Just like she did in Phantom’s lair, Sam got the spellbook out of her skirt before handing it to the guardian. In turn, she inspected its pages, concluding that, indeed, the book hadn’t much to offer. “Please, Delilah, you know I would never ask this of you if I didn’t think it’s our only hope.”

Sam wasn’t one to plead. The young Council member knew this better than anyone. She was headstrong and determined; the entire clan knew there wasn’t much that could be done to dissuade her once her mind was made up. Margaret herself found it to be both a blessing and a curse, while Wilhelmina thought it was a curse. Period. And Delilah...

Delilah prayed to all things above her that she wasn’t about to make a mistake. Sighing in defeat, she flashed Sam a small grin, earning herself a triumphant smile in return. Rolling her eyes good-naturedly, she motioned for her queen to follow her with a slight jerk of her index finger. “Come with me, your Majesty. I know just the thing.”

Sighing in relief, Sam allowed her eyes to wander around the manor’s archives. She really couldn’t blame Stephanie for loving the place to the point of practically making it her second homeーthe sight was breathtaking. 

The circular room, surrounded by large panel windows, located right below the Council Room, which put it in the three-story manor’s second story, was one of the best examples of a Pocket Dimension Spell put to good use. Countless shelves filled to the brim with colourful, leather-bound books went on as far as reached the eye; hanging proudly from the ceiling, the arrow-shaped banners with her clan’s signature colour and emblemーa black rose over a royal purple backgroundーadorned the room; leaning against the shelves, golden ladders could be seen moving on their own accord; which was almost as impressive as the floating books that flew from one place to another by flapping their two covers like an eagle would flap its wings. 

Walking through the numerous aisles, letting herself be, one again, amazed by the sight, Sam caught a familiar figure from the corner of her eye. Turning her head to the source, she found Stephanie Baker, sitting cross-legged on the floor with her back against a shelf’s lateral plank, an incredibly dense book perched on her lap. 

Sensing someone’s eyes on her, no doubt, Stephanie lifted her head up and away from her book, before a grin was plastered on her face at the sight of her queen. Her enthusiastic wave was answered by Sam’s much more subdued one, alongside a small chuckle. “She’ll never change; she’s at her happiest when surrounded by books,” Sam mused to herself. 

She and Delilah kept walking in silence, but with each step she took, the Goth couldn’t help but furrow her brow, anxiously. They were getting further and further away from the archives’ hot spot, the zone with the most activity disappearing in the distance until she almost couldn’t make it out anymore. Just where was she taking her?

Her question was answered when her guide halted abruptly in front of the wall. An empty space that, unlike the other walls encasing the archives, wasn’t even decorated by a portrait of one of the previous guardians. Not sure what to expect, Sam tilted her head to the side, speechless. “Uh...Delilah?”

But Delilah didn’t answer. Instead, she turned her back on her and extended her hands, palms open, in front of her. “Clavis mysteria!”, she chanted, her carefully coiffed onyx braid dancing around her, as if swayed by a sudden strong breeze. From her palms emanated a green fog that, as Sam could only look on in awe, speechless for an entirely different reason; seemed to open the wall in half, the resulting, uneven, wooden dents making way for it. 

An eternity or a few minutes could’ve passed, and Sam would be willing to believe anything she was told, when the green fog manifested again, carrying a rather large object with it. When the Witch Queen realised what it was, she could only gasp in astonishment.

Levitating before them was a royal blue, leather-bound book. Intricate designs were scattered throughout its back cover, engraved in gold. Two such designs, a pair of golden, twin swirls, flanked an equally golden fleur de lis on its spine. But the most amazing thing, what truly showed the book’s importance, were the golden letters, glinting under the light, on its cover: 

Arcana’s Grimoire

Mouth hanging open, the young witch could only gape at her friend, completely blown away by the revelation, as the grimoire landed safely on her hands. With a small chuckle, Delilah pushed some loose, black locks obscuring the right side of her face aside. “Sorry. No matter how tightly I tie my braid, spellcasting always messes my hair up.”

Her throat suddenly very dry, Sam swallowed before managing to speak, a finger pointing at the manuscript. “Is...is that…?”

With a knowing smile, Delilah nodded. “Arcana's Grimoire. If you want to find answers on what’s causing those ghost portals to open at random, this baby is your best bet.” Stretching her arms towards the queen, she handed the book to her, who held it with as much care as one held a newborn for the first time, almost reverently. “The grimoire holds the answers to all those questions time made sure to erase.”

“I-I…you...t-the book...” Sam stuttered, not sure what to say. “A-are you sure you want to entrust the g-grimoire, Arcana’s Grimoire, to me?”

“It’s risky, I know. But you said it yourself, you wouldn’t ask me to grant you permission to take a spellbook out of the manor if you weren’t convinced it’s our only hope.” Those few loose strands falling on her face, a stark contrast to her dark mane, she lay a comforting hand on Sam’s shoulder, a soft smile on her face. “And I wouldn’t hand the grimoire to you if I didn’t think it’d be safe with you.”

Eyes widening at the Council member’s words, Sam couldn’t do anything but send her a grateful smile in return. Clutching the grimoire close to her chest, she promised, “I’ll guard it with my life.”

Internally, she made another promise, only this time, it was much more violent than solemn. “And I swear, if Phantom so much as looks at it wrong, I’ll ask Danny to lend me some of his parents’ weapons and hunt him down myself.”

................

“You’re lucky this place sells some of the best pastrami sandwiches I’ve ever had, dude. Otherwise, you’d be on your own.” Tucker said in between bites of his heavenly pastrami with honey mustard sandwich. Wiping some sauce from the corner of his mouth with his sleeve, earning himself disgusted looks from the two other people present, he wagged a finger at his best friend. “Seriously, though. Who would’ve thought Sam would have good taste in restaurants?”

He winced when the Goth in question elbowed him on his side. “I have excellent taste in food in general, thank you very much. It’s not my fault only 9% of the global population can appreciate it.”

Once again, they were meeting up at the You Mocha Me Crazy, which, at this rate, was going to become their new favourite hanging spot. Unless Sam was willing to forego her vegetarian ways and ask for a Double Meaty Nasty Burger with extra bacon with them. Somehow, that seemed unlikely. Luckily, during their first visit Sam had introduced Tucker to their selection of sandwiches and cold cuts, making it easier for the techno geek to warm up to the café. 

After that successful first meeting, the trio decided to hang out whenever Danny needed Sam's help to write his ‘paper.’ All they had to do was ring or text Sam, and she’d tell them when she was free to meet.

Today was one of those days she was free and the guys were in need of her help. The three were lounging around a small coffee table Sam named ‘her spot’, for it was where she usually had her coffee or worked on her assignments in peace. The fact that she was good friends with one of the baristas also helped keep the space free of any ‘spot-stealing-squads,’ as she lovingly referred to ‘those vultures.’

Nursing his aching side, Tucker rolled his eyes. He’d already lost count on how many times they’d had that same conversation. “Is there anyone free from your vegan wrath?”

“For the last time, I’m ultra-recyclo-vegetarian, not vegan.”

“What’s the difference?” Danny intervened, an eyebrow raised in confusion. 

“Vegans tend to waste almost as much food as non-vegetarians. Ultra-recyclo-vegetarians make the most of every single meal.” Sam explained, forking a piece of tomato from her salad. “That’s where the ‘recyclo’ part comes from.”

“I thought that was freegans.” Tucker frowned, still munching his sandwich. 

“I’m surprised you even know what that is.”

“You and me both.” Danny said, turning to look at Tucker with a curious expression on his face. 

Rolling his eyes, the techno geek shrugged them off. “You meet the craziest people on Tinder.” He explained offhandedly. When he took notice of his two companions’ horrified expressions, he almost doubled over in laughter. Clearing his throat, he turned to Sam. “And you still haven’t answered my question.”

Shaking her head to erase the traumatising image that was Tucker’s love life, Sam started. “What? Uh...oh! Right. Ehem! As a matter of fact, there are people excluded from my ‘ultra-recyclo-vegetarian wrath.’” She corrected. “I’d never force people without enough resources to go vegan. Such as the Inuit community. Besides, those guys barely hunt anything compared to rich jerks with questionable hobbies, and they use everything of what little they do hunt.”

“Handy people.” Danny mused, before returning his attention to his laptop, resting on top of his lap, one leg crossed over his other knee. “Now, I don’t mean to be a buzzkill, but we’re here to help me with my...with my homework, remember?”

If Sam thought the way he seemed to overthink his words was weird, she didn’t let it show. “Yeah, you’re right.” She said as she turned her torso around, reaching for her notes inside her spider backpack. “Okay, you two. Lay it on me; what do you want to know?”

Tucker and Danny exchanged a glance, before the blue-eyed boy ventured. “Well...Sam, you’re the expert. What can you tell us of...um...of the witches.”

Scanning through her notepad’s pages, Sam froze at Danny’s words. Could her people’s secret have been discovered already? Before risking compromising her sisters, she had to test the waters first. “Why are you doing your paper on witches in the first place?” Her voice came out a little colder than she intended. 

Tucker furrowed his brow, taken aback by her sudden guarded posture, while Danny just rubbed the back of his neck nervously. “Uh...why not? The seminar I signed up for is on mythological creatures and folklore, and witches are one of the most legendary myths ever...right?”

Alright, that made sense. But she couldn’t be reckless, she had to make sure Danny didn’t pose a threat to her coven. “Yeah, they definitely are. I’m sorry, it’s just...with all the ghosts constantly attacking Amity Park, I thought, ‘why witches?’, you know? I mean, your parents are experts! If you just asked them for a little bit of help, your assignment would immediately turn into an easy A, wouldn’t it?”

Taking a gulp from his espresso, Danny carefully thought what to say next. He couldn’t let Sam think he had some sort of ulterior motive for asking about the mystical group of women; he’d promised Lady Arcana her people’s secret would be safe, after all. So he did the only thing he could; he expertly lied. “Well, I don’t really like having things handed to me, you see. What’s the point in signing up for a seminar if I’m just going to get an easy A thanks to my parents, you know what I mean?”

Tucker had to fight the urge to laugh at the irony of the situation. Oh, what Danny wouldn’t have given just to get easy A’s during high school... When his two friends turned to him, Sam looking at him in confusion and Danny quietly begging him to keep his mouth shut, he played it cool by taking a sip from his drink. 

“Anyway,” Danny continued, “I just thought ghosts would be...I dunno...too mainstream? The assignment is supposed to make me do research on mythological creatures, and nowadays it’s pretty obvious ghosts are anything but mythological.”

“Witches aren’t far behind, either…” Sam internally mused, sipping from her macchiato. Holding the carton cup with both hands, she decided sharing some information with Danny and Tucker would be safe. She’d just tell them the basics, debunk some Hollywood myths...the usual. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Danny echoed, hopefully.

“Okay.” Sam repeated with a smile. “Anything in particular you want to know about?”

“Just...anything you can tell us, really.” Tucker said, leaning forward with his hands between his legs. 

“You’re gonna have to be a tad more specific than that, guys.”

Crossing his arms, the Astrophysics student thought long and hard. What was it that he really wanted to know about them? Well, the answer to that was obvious. His only real question was why? Why did they do what they did? If only he could figure that out, then maybe he’d know how to approach Lady Arcana. But there was no way he could ask that without exposing who he was. And it wasn’t like Sam, of all people, would have the answer anyway. 

So instead he asked, “What’s their origin?”

That startled Sam, who almost choked on her lettuce, Tucker quickly coming to her assistance and patting her back. After massaging her throat and swallowing her food, she looked at Danny with an inquisitive eye. “Come again?” She croaked out.

“What’s their origin?” He repeated. “And...and I don’t mean this as in...as in a history lesson. Like, when did witches first appear or anything. If I wanted to know that, I’d just read a book or watch a National Geographic documentary. I-I mean, how is a witch even born?”

“Do I have to explain the birds and the bees to you guys, too?” She asked with a coy smile, having recovered from her coughing fit. Despite the seriousness of his query, the violet-eyed girl couldn’t help but tease him.

Danny flushed in embarrassment. He had to admit, he’d handed her that one. Shaking his head, he chuckled. “I’m good, thanks. You might need to talk to Tuck, though.” He joked, earning himself an offended gasp from his best friend, who punched him lightly on his arm in protest. “But, nah. I guess a better question would be, what makes a witch...well, a witch?”

Sam had to admit, it was a good question. Even if it may risk her people’s secrets, such depth earned the blue-eyed boy some respect from her. Not many people went beyond the basics when looking for information. Most would be content with reading the first few paragraphs of a Wikipedia article. But Danny… Something about the intensity of his ocean blue eyes made Sam feel he was more similar to his parents than he’d originally thought; despite having no interest in ghosts himself. Somehow, he shared their inquisitive and curious mind, albeit from a less scientific approach. Just by that question alone, she immediately understood Danny Fenton was much smarter than people gave him credit for. 

Exhaling, she began to explain. “Believe it or not, the one who got closer to the truth was Harry Potter.”

“You mean the children’s book with the extra creepy white dude?” The bespectacled young man raised an eyebrow, before exchanging disbelieving glances with his best friend beside him. 

She just chuckled. “Yeah. Witches are human women who were born with the innate ability to do magic, setting them apart from the rest.”

“So...this is witches vs muggles that we’re talking about.” Tucker insisted. 

“Yes, Tucker.” Sam said with a bit more bite than she intended. “Point is, being born different tends to alienate people, and considering we’re talking about magical-powers kind of different…”

“The witches were alienated and persecuted by society.” Danny finished for her. 

“Bingo.” The raven-haired girl picked up some photocopies with different articles printed on them and handed a few copies to both of them. “Although nowadays most people bel-know witches aren’t real,” she caught herself before her subconscious could rat her out, “some cryptology experts theorise they just eventually flocked together to keep whatever magical gene they had inside the coven. You know, as a precaution to avoid further persecution.” To this day, she still couldn’t believe a group of nutjobs would be right on the money. The sole idea was ludicrous, and yet…

“So, that’s it?” Tucker asked, looking up from his own set of photocopies, incredulous. “Witches are just humans who, inexplicably, won the superpower lottery?”

The Goth just smiled sheepishly at him. What could she say, anyway? Though witches weren’t against scientific discoveries or careers (Star herself was studying to become a mathematician), magic sort of was their thing; literally. So nobody had ever really delved on why or how they’re different from other humans.

Scratching his chin in thought, Danny tried reconciling what Sam said to his own encounters with the spellcasters. When he thought about it, Lady Arcana and her witches really weren’t any different from any other citizen of Amity Park; the only surprising thing about them was their Queen’s unique eye colourーher being breathtakingly beautiful didn’t matter since her personality needed an awful lot of workーand their characteristic ability to do magic...and maybe their questionable taste in pets. 

But that was it. 

Other than that they were as human as his own family. Even their hatred of ghosts was in synchrony with the town’s general opinion of him. Perhaps if he treated the Witch Queen as any other girl, things would smoothen between them. It made sense that part of her prickly personality was a result of him consciously treating her differently than he would treat others. Deep down, she knew they were unwelcomed, and therefore, built walls around her to avoid getting hurt. 

“Look at you, worrying over making the Witch Queen feel comfortable around you...You’re a lost cause, Fenton.” Danny resisted the urge to roll his eyes at himself, having more important matters to take care of. “Sam,” he called out to her, startling her and Tucker out of their own conversation, “is there a way you could tell us about their spells or something?”

It was a risky question, he knew. But, as useful as learning to deal with the witches was, what they really needed was a way to put an end to the crisis threatening both dimensions. And the only way to do it was by finding a portal-related spell. 

Eyes widening at his question, Sam could feel her stomach churning ominously. That question was a bit too specific for her liking. Depending on how she handled the situation, she could either masterfully take care of it or put her subjects in danger over a potential misunderstanding. “Their spells? What do you mean?”

Danny pretended to look through his own set of copies, trying to appear nonchalant, as if his question were born from mere curiosity, rather than a sense of impending doom. “Nothing, really. I was just curious. I mean, would witches even cast spells, or would they voluntarily just manifest their powers like ghosts do?” As he spoke, his mind raced back to the floating book Lady Arcana had, without any kind of warning, shoved in his face during her last visit. 

The Goth had to resist the urge to spit in disgust at the notion of being compared to those disembodied remains of human consciousness. She took a subtle breath to ease away her repulsion. “It’s hard to say.” She lied. “Since there’s no clear evidence that true, real-life witches ever existed, ーand I’m sure they don’t, obviouslyー.”

“Obviously.” The two men seated with her echoed.

“ーthere’s no definite hypothesis explaining if they truly casted spells or not. For all we know, their famous rites and ceremonies could just be that; ceremonies belonging to pagan religions that were thought to be witchcraft by Christians.” 

“Any chance we might be able to find any spell on the Internet?” Tucker wondered, readily taking his trusty PDA out of his pocket, causing Danny to sigh tiredly upon noticing the device in his hands. While Tucker used his tablet and computer when doing assignments or playing video games, that was solely because the screens were bigger. He’d actually been in a loving, committed relationship with his PDA since he first got it when he was 14. As time went by and technology evolved, instead of adjusting with the times, he put all his engineering knowledge to use with the sole intention of updating his baby and never having to part ways from her. 

It was both kinda cool and a little disturbing, to be honest.

Leaning back on her chair and crossing her legs at her knee, mirroring Danny’s own stance, Sam propped her face on her hand, a bored expression plastered on her face. “Although I do find your commitment to recycling that old thing of yours instead of falling for the capitalistic trap that is technology consumption commendable,” she said, and Danny was sure his eyes must’ve popped open at seeing her utter that long-ass speech without so much as pausing to breathe, “sometimes I worry about you.”

Offended, Tucker frowned at her, only clutching his PDA tighter in his hands. “I’m mercifully going to choose to ignore everything you just said except for the part when you call me ‘commendable.’ Now, can I look for information on the Internet or not?”

Leaning forward, this time resting her chin on her knuckles at the same time as she propped her elbow on her bent knee, Sam shrugged, not really caring. “You can try, but chances are you’re only going to find Halloween articles from children’s magazines, or weird Satanist websites asking you to offer a sacrifice in exchange for joining them.”

As Tucker flopped back down on his chair with his arms crossed, pouting and grumbling something along the lines of, “Damn it, Jazz…”, Danny tried fishing for more information. “So they don’t really cast spells?”

The discomfort came back. She knew Danny was only trying to be thorough with his assignment, but that didn’t change the fact that his questions hit a little too close to the mark. “The only way to find out for sure would be meeting one in real life.” She said in a voice so low, even with his enhanced senses Danny almost didn’t hear her. 

Noticing the tension suddenly coming off of Sam, her previously laid-back and even playful posture changing to a much more tense one: legs crossed tightly, her shoulders stiff, both hands clutching at the fabric of her shorts…; Tucker decided it’d be best if they let the topic go for a while. And so, he did what he did best:

He abruptly changed the topic. 

“So Sam,” he called out to her, quickly getting both her and Danny’s heads to snap to him, “I don’t think you’ve ever told me.”

“Tell you what?” What was he doing?

“What’s your deal?”

Sam blinked. “My deal?”

The teal-eyed young man just nodded. “Yeah, what’s your type?” He asked as he leaned forward, mindlessly toying with his PDA. “Because in all the time I’ve known you, I’ve not seen you once with a boyfriend, not even a fling.”

“Tucker, you’ve known me for a year.” She reminded him. “Not necessarily as much time as you make it out to be.”

“Hey, a lot can happen in a year!” He defended. 

“Tucker himself has had three different girlfriends in the last three months.” Danny added. 

“See?” Then, he turned to his best friend with an unamused expression on his face. “But, dude, don’t say it like that; you make me sound like a player.”

“I’m just saying,” the black-haired youth put his palms up in surrender, a lazy grin on his face, “it’s not bad for a guy who was rejected by every single girl back in high school.” 

Tucker just glowered at him, before turning his attention back to Sam. “So...back to the question; what’s your type of guy?”

She could not believe this was happening. Back when she was a teenager, a tinsy bitsy part of her she tried very hard to suppress secretly longed for talking about girl stuff with the other girls her age from her clan. Something as silly as talking boys, makeup, or any other teenaged-girl nonsense with other people would’ve made her lonely childhood all the more bearable, and now…

...now she was being offered to talk about boys...by other boys...at twenty-one. And the worst part was that she was actually considering it. Her life could not get any more complicated than that. Sighing through her nose, unable to believe how low she’d stooped, she gave in. 

Her type...that was a good question. Back when she was still in her early to late teens, she would’ve said she was looking for a unique guy. The type of guy who valued his individuality and who was above all the pointless trends dominating the public with their pre-fabricated, market-targeted predictability. A guy who didn’t fall into any of the classical high school cliques: someone who wasn’t a brainless jock, or a geeky kid, or one of those posers who hid behind a fake dark persona to get people to pay attention to him.

Someone who embraced being different rather than exploited it. 

Someone like her. 

But all those fantasies turned out to be nothing more than that; fantasies. Delusions. Sooner or later she’d have to open her eyes to the world. She just wished Gregor hadn’t been the one to open them up for her… After that fiasco, Sam finally learned what she was truly looking for in a partner. “...a good guy.” She practically whispered in the end. 

Tucker and Danny exchanged a confused glance once their initial surprise at Sam’s sudden reply, after several minutes of silence, had worn off. It was the former who spoke up, “...I’m not sure that qualifies as ‘a type.’”

“Of course it does!”, she protested. “Just like girls stereotypically fall for ‘bad boys’, we can also fall for ‘good guys.’ And I’ve had my fair share of bad boys, thank you…” she muttered before looking away from them. 

Something about the way Sam said those words hinted at a lot more going on than just a teenage girl crushing over a guy with a motorcycleーand hopefully not a ghost one who only wanted her as a vessel for his real girlfriendー, but she seemed to have closed herself off completely. Danny wanted to ask her about it, but something in the way her position stiffened changed his mind. No way would Sam open up to someone she'd just met over something so personal.

Instead he asked, "And how about looks?"

She flashed him a small smile and that alone made his entire week worth it. "I'll admit, I do have a soft spot for guys that aren't exactly average."

Tucker scoffed. "Well, duh! I'd also pick a supermodel over a plain-looking chick any day of the week..."

"That's not what I meant and you know it."

Despite the seriousness in her voice, she eventually broke down laughing, the other two joining in on the fun soon after. As her giggles quieted down, Sam stole a furtive glance at Danny. The way he seemed to sense her discomfort despite barely knowing each other and making an effort to keep her mind away from unpleasant thoughts was enough to make her heart flutter, making her blush slightly at the realisation. 

She shook the feeling off, though. Danny was sweet, and maybe a little cute despite his, apparently, natural awkwardness, but she wasn’t looking for romance, having much more important things to take care of. Besides, he really wasn’t her type, cute as he may be. Still, that didn’t change the fact that she wanted to thank him for his help in some way. And, against her better judgement, she knew just what to do. 

An hour passed by until Tucker had to bid them goodbye, saying he was going to be late for class if he stayed with them any longerーalthough he really, really wanted to skip that lectureー, and so, he left his two friends to their own devices. Another forty minutes or so later, it was finally time for them to go to their respective classes, too. 

Rolling her eyes at Danny as he opened the door for her, but thanking him nonetheless, Sam stepped out of the café, her companion close behind her. “About the spell thing you asked me about earlier…” she started, her words coming out of the blue and tearing Danny away from his own thoughts, “I guess, if witches are actually just humans with magical powers, then it’d make sense if they’d need some sort of way to activate said powers…”

Mouth slightly agape, he finally found the words, “You mean like a password or something?”

She looked over at him from the corner of her eyes, a cryptic smirk on her lovely face. “Maybe.” 

Turning to face him, her smile widening but never losing its mystery, she waved before walking past him, “See ya, Danny.”

Danny slowly waved at her in return, unbidden, too gobsmacked to form a coherent sentence. Because just like that, she was gone. 

[vivithefolle]

Hi Vivi, can you share some thoughts on the "Hermione deserves to be/should have married to XYZ because she is way too good for Ron" mentality of this fandom??

I’m gonna copy-paste a Quora answer of mine, because recycling is important!

Claiming that Ron is “out of Hermione’s league” is a statement rooted in sexism, classism and probably a bunch of other -isms.

It might seem like I’m just throwing buzz-words around but let me explain.

First off, the sexism.

Oh, the sexism.

As I’ve pointed it out in yet another one of my answers  (I’m so sorry for drowning you all in a plethora of links), Ron is very much a female-coded male character.

Ron is emotional, wears his heart on his sleeve, has anxieties and inadequacies, walks off in order to cool down, has a temper, puts other people before his needs, and pretty much adopts Harry when he rescues him in the second book. He’s the Heart of the Trio: he doesn’t rely on sole logic, he can believe something without proof, he is sensitive and thus is the easiest to hurt emotionally.

Whether you call it a “beta male”, a “wuss”, “defying gender roles” or a “soft boy” is your own business, but the core of it is that Ron doesn’t meet the standards for people’s vision of a “desirable” masculine figure.

The little things Ron quietly performs in the books - when he helps Harry into his pyjamas in Chamber of Secrets because Harry’s arm is bloop; when he’s worrying about Hermione’s whereabouts in Prisoner of Azkaban; when he helps Harry unwind after his visions in Goblet of Fire; when he puts food onto Harry’s plate and wakes him up from his nightmares in Order of the Phoenix; when he beams that Hermione was “perfect, obviously” when she passes her Apparition test - all those caring gestures don’t seem like much, but if you bother to think about it, they paint an enormous picture.

Who gets Hermione to stop overworking while making her feel good about her accomplishments? Who comforts Harry from his nightmares and cares for him in the dead of the night, when nobody is awake? Who makes sure his friends are healthy and happy? Who wards off the dark and depressing thoughts, be it with his fists or a joke?

It’s Ron.

When you think about it, “traditional masculinity” in Harry Potter is as much frowned upon as “traditional feminity” is - which sometimes bites Rowling in the butt when you remember how she obviously seems to consider that Hermione and Ginny are the only desirable kind of girls.

Vernon Dursley? The entrepreneur “king of the household” prejudiced suburbian middle-class Dad? Fits in the usual tropes of traditional masculinity.

Dudley Dursley? The typical “boys will be boys” spoiled middle-class only child who’s the apple of his parents’ eyes and even takes up boxing, as if he wasn’t traditionally masculine enough.

Draco Malfoy? See Dudley, but toss in “upper-class posh aristocrat bully who doesn’t like to get his hands dirty so he has henchmen do it for him because he’s too rich for this sh-t”, would remind you of a few Christian Greys or Gatsbys.

Dolores Umbridge? Oh no, cat pictures, decorative plates, talks to teens as if they’re babies and PINK, SO MUCH PINK!!! So disgustingly feminine!!

Rowling very much frowns upon traditional gender roles - with Molly Weasley being an exception because Rowling feels very strongly about being a mother, and relates to Molly a lot.

Right - so, being a beautiful mess of paradoxes and contradictions (a “soft boi” who also punches bullies in the face, a fussy mother-hen who swears like a sailor, a tall athlete with badass scars on his arms who’s nurturing and sweet; in short, a wonderfully human character), Ron is obviously going to be a polarizing character. You painfully relate to him and get defensive when he’s criticized, you feel his characterization hits a bit too close to home so you hate him, or you disregard him completely because you can’t see anything “special” about him…

Now, onto another very, very sexist point that is often made.

People say that Hermione “deserves better” than Ron, often claiming that they “aren’t intellectual equals”, then citing Harry (who is mistaken as being some sort of slumbering genius but honestly, the kid is really a bit daft) or Draco (since apparently, being rich must equal to being intelligent) or, god forbid, Snape (because he’s a teacher and teachers are meant to be clever).

Soooo, I could go the loooooong way and pull out all the receipts that prove that none of these characters are perfectly intellectually matched to Hermione…

Or I could go the long way and simply give you this: this obsession with finding an “intellectual equal” for Hermione reflects the mentality of “women are not allowed to be better at something than their husband”.

Yep.

A woman has to be all-around pretty good at everything, whereas a man has to be the absolute best in his area of greatest competence (surely better than any puny female!) with a help-meet there to compensate for his weaknesses. People are very, very uncomfortable when Ron and Hermione reverse this dynamic. Hermione is extremely intelligent and dedicated to intellectual pursuits, but is complete pants at things like self-care and people skills. Ron is bright enough to keep up with her and strong in her areas of weakness.

Even if Ron was as dumb as a sack of rocks (he’s not), his other virtues are more than enough to “justify” Hermione loving him. (Because she needs an excuse?) But no. A woman has to be with a man who outdoes her in her area of greatest strength. - credit to @lytefoot

People don’t want Hermione to be with a man who’s her “equal.” They want her to be with a man who can be The Man so she can know the contentment of being The Woman.

But, with this sexist line of thought, how do we justify how Ron is supposed to be such a bad match for Hermione? Because if it was just about mere sexism, Romione would surely be more popular. Imagine! Ron happily raising the children, being a house-husband and proud of it, while Hermione is out there fighting for justice in the wizarding world! What a power-couple, defying norms and gender roles and not being the least bit conscious of it, prime OTP material for sure! So why do people still want Hermione to put Harry, Draco, or god forbid², Snape in Ron’s place? Is this an irrational hatred of redheads? An Harmionian’s delirious wet dream? A failure to separate the actors from their characters?

It’s all this and, quite frankly, something more: the inherent classism that comes with Ron’s status as an explicitly working-class coded character.

I know, I know, “Vivian! Calm down with the buzzwords, you’re starting to sound like an online pretend-feminist magazine!”

Or “Come on, people who don’t ship Ron and Hermione together aren’t all sexist or classist!”

Of course, of course! I know that! I’m not implying that!

But some of the “reasons” why they claim that Ron and Hermione can’t work - are extremely classist in nature, that’s just it!

Come on, think about it! What are the Number Ones arguments people always pull against Ron? Or the most common Ron-bashing tropes (look at fanfics and watch the number of stories that use at least one of those)?

Ron is stupid/mediocre

Ron is lazy/useless

Ron resents his wife’s hard work/success

Ron is a homophobe

Ron is a drunkard

Ron (the big prude who at 16 had never kissed a girl and sees a first kiss as the prelude to a wedding) is massively oversexed and cheats on Hermione with anything that moves

Not only do these “reasons” completely ignore ALL OF RON’S CHARACTERIZATION - except for the “lazy” bit but come off it, all teenagers are lazy and Hermione’s the exception to the rule - but it matches perfectly with the negative stereotypes associated with working-class white men in fiction.

It’s also very funny to note how many (assumedly middle-class or financially secure) fans look down on Ron for being “whiny” or “greedy” when he expresses the desire to have money of his own, or blame his parents for “not knowing when to stop” or “being irresponsible”, or even look down on them for being “too proud to accept help”!! Also how shocked people are when Ron dares to stand up for himself when Hermione or Harry act badly towards him. How dare this country boy not listen to the wisdom of his social “betters”?

So, obviously, because our Heroine can’t go with a Nasty, Mediocre Working-Class Man, she must be paired off with someone of Proper Status: say, a Hero that was raised in a middle-class home and might be a bit psychologically damaged but it’s nothing all those gold coins in his vault can’t fix; or this Rich Posh Aristocrat who actively rooted for her death, he’s a little bit eccentric and has some exotic pet-names to call you, but I’m sure you’ll learn to love him and will unearth the gold coins in his bank account… I mean, the heart of gold that lies within the surface; oh, why not a Way Too Big An Age Difference Teacher if you’re looking for a “cultured man” who has zero things in common with you; we can also bring Convenient Plot Device Famous Rich Foreign Athlete if you want some diversity and you don’t feel original!

But we can’t - oh, we mustn’t let her be with this Terrible Working-Class Boy! His brothers are fine, they have money, they have jobs, so they’re obviously Not As Mediocre. But let our precious Hermione be with this Just-Got-Out-Of-School hooligan? She can’t possibly be in love with him! You’ll see darling, you’ll get bored eventually! He’s too mediocre for you, you deserve a man who outclasses you - I mean, who can provide for you! You’re a fragile little flower who scars people for life when she’s not happy with them, what makes you think that this boy can possibly handle you even though he’s done so for the past seven years?

You wanted it, you got it.

People are shallow, have misconceptions about Ron’s character that they are unwilling to correct or use classist and sexist arguments to try to make it so that either Ron is the Devil himself / Hermione is a higher kind of being that can only orgasm if sufficiently “intellectually stimulated” / what-have-you.

[chalkrevelations]

And finally, here we are, Episode 36 of Word of Honor, and I have some FEELINGS. Let me show you them.

There also will be Episode 37 here, btw, because I’m not gonna do a separate reaction for a three-minute episode, no matter how grateful I am that we got it.

(Spoilers, so if that’s not what you want right now, scroll on by and come back after you’ve watched it. Them.)

Let’s get to the meat of the episode right away: THE HAIRPIN. And Wen Kexing knowing Zhou Zishu would have it, because he’d definitely take it with him if he was going on a suicide mission! Y’all. I really have to yell about this for a minute: That’s how secure WKX has become in his knowledge of what he means to ZZS! After all that time angsting and hiding the truth of his identity and worrying that he’s not worthy of ZZS and that he’d be rejected if ZZS knew the truth about him! But now, WKX has finally reached a point where he understands and knows (zhiji, the one I know) he’s so important to ZZS that ZZS would never ever go off to die without taking his most precious possession, the hairpin that his husband gave him! I can’t. My heart. This is like a declaration, after all that time saying they were zhiji, that WKX finally is able to truly see ZZS as that, to know him in his bones, and all of this is also delivered in the middle of WKX in a strop, irritably chastising his husband as an evil brat for running away from home to get himself killed, with Gong Jun’s little  >:(  face in full effect, and I am so filled with love for this show and this couple at this point that I have to pause Youtube just so I can roll around on the sofa, clutching at my chest and scaring the cats with my inarticulate noises. This is so good, y’all. It’s everything I’ve ever wanted. Also, now you know how it feels, WKX, you asshole. Which I suppose is why you even confess that it will would be more painful for the one who survives when if the other dies. And you were prepared to do that to him a second time? I cannot believe you, you asshole. You get to sleep on the ice couch for a month.

And then there’s some Six Cultivation Power mind-melding and what looks to be an INCREDIBLY STUPID and HEARTBREAKING ending that would leave us Burying One of Our Gays, so it’s a good thing Episode 37 (all three minutes of it) exists. It would be nice, though, if the connective tissue from 36 to 37 made any sense. Or existed whatsoever. Just, like, throw me a bone, here, show. Some kind of explicit hand-waviness that actually gets mentioned for why Ye Baiyi apparently was not as smart as he thought he was and didn’t really know what he was talking about when he was doomsaying about how one of the pair will surely, oh surely perish. None of this “Sooooo, they managed to figure out the technique and master it?” from some random shidi who never actually gets an answer. I mean, the door was left open for fanwankery on this one, with what looks to be a very last-minute conceit of all this being a story told by grown-up Chengling to his disciples, which begs the question of how much of what he’s telling them is totally accurate, given any number of issues, including the spottiness of human recall, the possibility (based on the fact they’re still on the mountain in Ep 37) that Chengling never actually saw either of them again to get the full story, and the way Gao Xiaolian basically calls bs on the whole thing. But this is still a gossamer-thin thread on which to hang Ep 37. Ep 37 basically functions as reassurance because of the mere fact of its existence, because they’re clearly both alive, right there in front of your face, regardless of the other fact that it doesn’t actually make any sense, based on Ep 36. It ultimately doesn’t matter if there is no Step 2, because Step 3: Profit! is … right there. In evidence. Happening. On your screen. No matter how vaguely unsatisfying the lack of Step 2 may be.

I do feel like there’s an interesting meta thing going on here, in that the entire show has been about – let’s be honest, it was never really about the plot - queer-coding this couple in ways that supposedly fly just enough under the radar that people can handwave them as Just Good Friends and Brothers (I mean, I guess) with a Bury Your Gays tragic ending (ugh) for good measure. And Chengling is telling a story in-universe that seems to conform to some of this same formula. And yet, we all know well and good that these guys were husbands. (I mean, barring anything else, they’re a couple in the original source material, so checkmate, censorship.) So, are we supposed to carry the same assurance out of the show, on a meta level, that what appears to be happening at the end of Ep 36 - what we discover we’re learning through Chengling’s story-telling - isn’t really the truth? Just, look: While we’re getting the Good Friends and Brothers push, there’s stuff like obvious voice-over work that doesn’t match the much more queer version of what the actors actually said, which is apparently blazingly clear to any viewers who know Mandarin and can manage to lip-read. The show has literally put de-queered words into these characters’ mouths. You can’t trust what you hear. But apparently the show has also made this obvious enough that, if you’re a good enough speaker of the language the show is being told in, and you have a good enough eye, you can see what is actually going on. Are we being taught to trust our eyes more than our ears, are we being told that what we’re being told - by the end of Ep 36 on a meta level, by Ye Baiyi-through-Chengling’s-story on an in-universe level, and by what we learn about what happened from Chengling’s story, itself, also on an in-universe level - is inherently untrustworthy, but that if we “speak the language” of this show well enough, and have a good enough eye, we can decode it and see what “actually” happened and is later made explicit in Ep 37? Is Ep 37 canon? Does it matter, when “what is canon” is already so slippery on this show, where you can apparently lip-read something that’s different than what you’re hearing, and it functions as canon because of the mere fact of its existence, because it’s clearly … right there. In evidence. Happening. On your screen.

Anyway, just some thoughts on all that, which I guess is my own fanwankery work to join up the end of Ep 36 with Ep 37, which was, of course, delightful. No matter how much I might bemoan the lack of Step 2, I had a stupid, dopey grin on my face all the way through Ep 37 and might have even teared up a tiny bit at the very end. You can’t prove anything. Lemme tell you, though, it’s a good idea to have 37 on hand when you run into the brick wall of the end of 36, because while WKX’s willingness to sacrifice himself for love is theoretically great, it is not something I actually want to see come to fruition, given the pall it would cast over the entire joyous experience that the ZZS/WKX relationship is throughout the rest of the show. Sure, there’s always fic, but there’s a heaviness that hangs over the Bury Your Gays trope, and it’s retroactively ruined shows for me before. So THANK YOU, to those of you who hooked me up so I could immediately move on to Ep 37.

What else? Other things:

OK, so, first, I have to get this out of the way: Did we actually already see all of those “flashbacks” we get in the first part of the ep, during the conversation between Zhou Zishu and Jing Beiyuan, when all the political stuff is supposed to be finally falling together to give us the big picture? I would have to go back and scrummage through those eps to be sure, and I’m not going to spend time doing that (yet) when I still need to do some keysmashing about Zhou Zishu and Wen Kexing OH MY GOD, but I do feel like some of this was new information, not just stuff that I’d glossed over because it didn’t seem important at the time? If so, not on, show. I will be keeping an eye out for that on re-watch. I am, however, perfectly willing to accept – if it turns out to be true – that you utterly distracted me with the failboats-in-love storyline, to the detriment of my focus on, you know, plot or whatever. It’s happened before. (It’s one of the reasons I need to go back and watch The Untamed again, at some point.)

OMG FAKE KEY! And as ZZS points out, this has been foreshadowed for us from early on, with WKX’s fake Glazed Armors plot. :bangs table with fist: YES. This show is going to reward re-watching SO MUCH.

Duan Pengju, oh my god, this asshole. The look on his face when the Armory didn’t open was so gratifying. Also, ha. I wondered when ZZS was finally going to be done with his shit. In fact, so much gratification in this whole scene. Xie Wang’s face when he realizes WKX double-crossed him – what, did you think you were the only tricksy one in that little alliance, Xie’er? And, holy shit – I cannot believe that Xie’er actually words this as WKX failing him, taking us back around to this theme one more time again. I would maybe feel a little worse for you if you hadn’t been a hairsbreadth away from killing him before ZZS stopped you in the last ep, Xie’er. Also if you hadn’t helped get A-Xiang killed. So I think the fail in this relationship is going both ways. Unfortunately, it doesn’t look like you’re going to get the time WKX had to start untangling yourself from the ways your abuser has fucked you up and over.

It once again becomes blindingly clear why ZZS has been my ride-or-die during this whole thing: Under the grumpy, irritable, day-drinking yet somehow eminently practical exterior, he’s actually an idealistic do-gooder who just wants to make the world a better place for people and sacrifice himself for great justice. Never let it be said that I don’t have a type. Also, I mean. Zhang Zhehan’s FACE. Let’s don’t discount the power of that.

Final word: Don’t miss Ep 37. All three minutes of it. They are perhaps the most important three minutes of the entire show.

(I mean, not FINAL final word. I expect to be going back for a re-watch and posting more things, particularly on eps from before I started typing up 1000K-word reactions this first time around.)