#i will not even mention williams nation

[moviestarmartini]

albono nation we are never winning

[millersfinest]

WHERE THE WILD THINGS ARE | 1

ELLIE WILLIAMS, YELLOWJACKETS AU, SERIES!

SERIES MASTERLIST

001 — When You’re Gone wc: 14.4k

chapter blurb: the struggles of a soon-to-be high school graduate was rough—leaving home, leaving the girl you love behind knowing you weren’t strong enough to love her aloud; it was fear inducing. however, not as fear inducing as the sounds of a plane breaking down while in the air with you and everyone you care about inside of it. now, that was bone chilling! it’s the beginning of many, many, many nightmares to come.

cw: use of the word ‘dyke’, r and ellie being teenage lover girls, closeted abby, dramatic teenage girls, reader is working on her internalized homophobia, sarah miller, ellie being the best non-girlfriend ever, mention of a teacher/student relationship, plane crash, character deaths, reader lowkey has main-character syndrome, ellie/abby beef, reader calls her dad ‘daddy’ because she’s southern-ish (because it’s the midwest technically), 90’s accurate alcohol, little bit of r and ellie angst.

note: omg this is the first chapter in the summer act! by the time you guys see this, all of the parts for this act should be finished and queued for weekly releases (if i hold myself accountable)(i didn't but i refuse to sit on this). after i watched yellowjackets i immediately thought about ellie for obvious reasons. happy valentine’s day and happy yellowjackets s3 premiere day hehehe. hope you guys enjoy!! (if you wanna be added to the taglist, pls feel free to fill out this taglist form) also... if you see a typo, no you didn't!

The woody smell of a forest was never a comfort for you; however it wasn’t a disrupter either. Like most people, you loved the smell of flowers, fresh plants, the aroma, and texture of fresh soil—but you didn’t care for it enough to linger within it. Haunt the spaces between the tree, to feel a sense of connection to the Earth. That wasn’t the type of person you were. It didn’t mean that much to you. Although, you signed many petitions to save the trees. Save the wilderness. She had a right to be preserved.

The layered sounds of cheering echoed through the gymnasium as you and your team ran in a line toward the middle of the court. Grins adorned your faces, waving and pumping up the crowd like you were used to. Cameras flashed from the sidelines, snapping pictures of the celebration of Jackson Hole High’s victory. The Fireflies have been invited to Boston to participate in a national championship.

You’re fucking going to nationals in Boston!

Nearing the end of your senior year, with college looming at your door, it felt good that you could have one last hurrah with your favorite girls—loosely including the junior varsity players who were waiting for your dismissal so they could move up.

Loving every member of the team was hard, but you truly did; they were your sisters. Minus one faithful central striker who stood before you on the field. It would be weird to call her your sister since you’ve been sucking each other’s faces off since sophomore year.

The both of you may have been an okay pair off the field, but on the field… You were perfectly unstoppable! She was fast, while you were tactful. Even though, you were surrounded by supportive players who were eager to make a goal—a lot of times, it felt as though it were just the two of you.

You couldn’t help but be a romantic when it came to her. She was always determined to put on a show—a good show, at that. The eighteen-year-old had a reputation to uphold: mean, small town lesbian. But she was so much more than that. Under the many course layers of being a skillful forwarder, a notable lover of female company, and totally hot; she also respected the bounds of science, had an obsessive amount of Savage Starlight memorabilia, and has the intention of becoming an astrophysicist in the future. She wanted to become a scientist for the sake of the game, not to make a shit ton of money.

However, despite all of this good, there was a minor wooden hedge that kept the two of you at an arms length distance from each other.

And here’s the real kicker… You’re not one hundred percent out to the public about your sexuality. Therefore, in the past three years you’ve been sharing with this beloved girl, it’s all been experienced under pressured wraps. You didn’t necessarily hide your attraction from women—you just hated feeling other in your hometown. While you were cocky about your soccer skills, you didn’t harbor that same meanness to protect yourself when it came to who you romanticized.

Jackson Hole, or Jackson, was a town that was surrounded by elements of the Earth—right beside Yellowstone Park—there were so many other things to talk about than the fact that you were a lesbian. But that just wasn’t how small towns worked. Perhaps, it was a born and bred thing. Whenever you were born or bred into a small town, you activate this gene that forces you to be interested in everyone’s lives but your own. People from your town loved a spectacle.

And to be fair, hanging out with Ellie Williams was spectacle enough.

There were rumors that the two of you were gay for each other—that you were hooking up in hidden places. You never confirmed or denied whenever you were boldly asked. Unless your parents were pressing you about being out so late. Those claims were dead on, though!

Now, your parents were in on the whole thing, and they loved her. They were so supportive of the relationship that you sometimes thought they loved her more than you. She was labeled spunky in their eyes.

But, with all this considered, she wasn’t your girlfriend. She was just a girl that happened to be yours; someone you kept all for yourself. And Ellie being Ellie, didn’t always appreciate that phrase. It wasn’t until this year that she became indifferent to it.

“Let’s congratulate our varsity Fireflies for being chosen for nationals!” The principal of the student body praised over the choppy, cracking microphone. He had called your names out one by one, getting you onto that shiny, scuffed basketball court. Coach Tess Servopoulos stood at the head of the line, while the assistant coach, Owen Moore, stood at the other end. Accompanied by the soccer manager, Mel Teagan.

The pep rally was fast, and you were standing around the quad before you knew it, discussing a course of action for a junior varsity player who was good but not great. She lagged during games whenever she was brought on as a substitute—failing to take initiative to score. Since tomorrow was the morning that you were leaving for Boston, Coach Moore decided on throwing a scrimmage between varsity and junior varsity as a fun arrangement. However, some of the girls found this to be a moment of opportunity.

“I think we should push Lucy a little bit…” The auburn-haired player suggested, crossing her arms over her chest. Surrounded by her trusty friend group: you, Riley, Dina, and Cat.

You bunch your eyebrows, glancing at the other girls. “What do you mean by push ‘er?”

“I don’t know, make her actually work for her position.” Ellie responded, shrugging her shoulders. They all just looked at her, waiting for her to further explain. “If she’s coming with us to Boston as a substitute, she needs to work harder than just kicking a fucking ball around.”

“And she barely even does that…” Riley added, snickering, letting her eyes wander around the quad.

Cat put her hands on her hips, rocking on her feet. “If this includes physically pushing her, then I’m out.”

Ellie shook her head, holding out her hand. “Nah, that’s my job if it comes down to it.”

Dina deepened her eyebrows, squeezing her eyes shut. “So, what are we gonna do? Ice her out the whole game?”

“Yeah,” She nodded. “Only pass the ball to each other— everyone on the team except for her. Maybe it’ll finally get her to fight for a score.”

You puffed air from you lips in thought, glancing over your shoulder, uneasy. As captain of the team—yeah, you were team captain—it wasn’t ideal that you were plotting against your own. Although, she was junior varsity, it didn’t change the fact that she was a Firefly. You just wished that Lucinda Henderson did more for her team—she needs to learn to play aggressively not passively. That’s how you score. That’s how you win.

A sigh flees your mouth, peering at the central striker with narrowed eyes. “If you’re gonna push her, do it safely… I cannot afford to have a hurt freshman on my conscious.” You tiredly spoke, preparing to walk away, but Ellie grabbed your hand before you could leave the small huddle.

“Seriously, what do you think I’m capable of?”

You placed your hand over hers, squeezing, gently. “You’re different on the field… Just remember that, okay?” Sliding your hand from hers, you glance to the other girls. “I have to go run a few things over with Abby. See you in a few.”

Ellie scoffed as you trotted away, seeing your goalie talking on a bench with some bashful cheerleader. “Hey, Abs, can we talk for a sec?” You question, not giving her much of a choice by walking past the bench she was sat on, perching yourself beside a tree.

From a distance, you could feel the eyes of your undercover lover watching you from her spot. Her lips moved, still engaging in conversation about Lucy Henderson, probably, but her olive eyes remained on you. Whenever you had these sidebars with Abby, she tensed. Ellie rarely talks about why Abby gets under her skin so easily—you wondered if it was intimidation, or worse, jealousy.

Abby rolled her eyes, muttering a quick farewell to the cheerleader. “What now?” She perked an eyebrow, crossing her muscular arms.

“Don’t what now me. You think I didn’t notice those eyes you were giving to the coach?” You prodded, authoritatively. “What did I say about him— fucking drop him!”

The blonde groaned like a stubborn child. “Can’t you just mind your business, Turner?” Abby retorted. “I get that you’re captain an’ everything, but that doesn’t mean you have the right to poke your nose in things that don’t involve you.”

“You know, this is a crime, right? Statutory rape—“

“Ugh, you’re always so serious. I’m eighteen.”

“Yeah, but you’re still a student here, and he’s an instructor.” You placed your hands on your hips. “Do you wanna be on the front-page paper listed as a victim? I wonder what that would look like when you’re playing pro in a few years…”

A sneer stretched onto her lips. “Couldn’t be as bad as being called a dyke by ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the population.”

“Says the two-hundred-pound, six-foot goalie who was just flirting with Calliope Kimber…”

She stiffened, averting her eyes from you. “I wasn’t flirting…”

You chuckled behind your fingers, sizing her up. “You totally were.” With a perched eyebrow, you analyzed her features. Blue eyes shifting, twinged with bothered nerves at the mention of her behavior. “I don’t care if you’re using a man to hide behind, Abby. But I do care about the legacy of our team.” You began, nudging her arm. “Plus, Coach Moore is annoying as shit. If I were you, Henry Harmon would be more of my shtick.”

Abby shook her head, her long braid falling over her shoulder. “You’re such a control freak…” She muttered, sucking her teeth.

“Or I’m just a very passionate person.”

“Nope… You’re a control freak.”

“Okay, whatever, Popeye. God.” You hold up a dismissive hand.

The both of you walk around the school to the soccer field to prep for the scrimmage Coach Moore was hosting. You sat on the ground stretching and ensuring your laces were tight and knotted. Some of the junior varsity team sat around doing the same thing, conversing amongst each other.

Ellie, Riley, Dina and Cat joined the group as if they had something up their sleeve—not paying much of attention to the young coach marking on a clipboard. The auburn-haired player plopped herself beside you. Like usual, you adjusted yourself to do an assisted stretch with her, touching your straddled feet together and pulling each other’s hands like a seesaw. “How different am I on the field— what did you mean by that?” She asked, pulling you forward, causing her to lean backwards.

“Uhm, Ellie, you’re a threat on the field to anyone who isn’t on your team.” You pulled her forward, causing you to lean back, smiling in amusement.

“I’m not a threat, just a girl who takes her sport very seriously.” She shrugged, pulling you forward again.

You laugh, pulling her forward, but this time inching your hands up her arms so you wouldn’t lean back so far from her. “No, babe, you’re definitely a threat. But… I like that about you.” You bat your eyes at her, playfully.   

She smirked, glancing down at your lips in such an obvious way. A way that you couldn’t give much attention to—at least, not in the way you wanted. “Well, then… I guess I’m the worst of threats— the most threatening girl in the world.”

You snickered, sliding your hands back down to her hands. You pushed your legs together to do the same thing, back and forth. “Be whoever you wanna be.”

To be honest, you’d probably love her regardless of anything. She was so admirable to you—her boldness in her identity; God, Ellie was such a dream. If only she knew how much she meant to you.

“All right, I’m gonna break ya’ll up— some of varsity will be playing with jv, some of jv with varsity.” The assistant coach announced, with the sport manager standing right beside him, eagerly. Upon his immediate direction, the girls groaned—mainly, the older varsity team. Not caring for their younger peers or their feelings. “Don’t complain. It’s Coach Servopoulos’ choice!”

The choice to split them up made Ellie’s plan a bit difficult to carry out, especially if the group wasn’t split up on Lucy’s team. Coach Moore began to list out the names, the manager handing out jerseys to the ones he called. Luckily, Ellie and Dina were put on the same team as Lazy Lucy, while you and Cat were placed on the opposing team. Separated by your team with an orange jersey, and her team having a blue one.

Before the scrimmage began, you pulled Ellie aside. “Remember this is an opportunity to teach someone, not to hurt someone. Be careful out there.”

“I’m not a fucking child, y/n. I know how to be careful.” She responded, curtly, walking to her place across from you at the starting zone. You rolled your eyes, gritting your jaw in irritation. You were told to play central striker for your team, which meant that you and Ellie looked right into each other’s’ eyes before the match. Through a heavy glare, you attempt to remind her once more, but she ignores your gaze.

When the whistle blared, the game began, brutally. After all, that’s how the both of you played—even against each other. Unfortunately, her team had more varsity members, meaning you and three other people had to carry the burden of keeping your team afloat.

There was a moment where the ball was sequestered between your feet, and you were moving toward the goal with quickness. That wasn’t until Riley swiped the ball from your feet with a giggle, muttering a small apology. While you tried to get the ball back, you watched as Riley and Ellie shifted ownership of it. Obviously, excluding the calls for a pass from the copper-headed player, Lucy.

Instead of asking, Lucinda grumbled, running toward Riley to steal the ball, heading straight for your goal. You slowed down, getting the intuitive feeling that something was about to go wrong. Even Cat paused on the field, glancing at you with concerned eyes. Ellie cast her eyes toward Riley, huffing from her lips. And, just like that, she made an effort to steal the ball from Lucy—getting overwhelmed by her competitiveness.

Her cleats made a move for the patterned ball, but instead of kicking it forward, the steel of the tip of her shoe made a collision with Lucy’s fibula. A crack sound echoed over the field, followed by a shriek expelling from the girl. Lucinda dropped to the ground cradling her calf with horror.

Ellie stopped, emitting a gasp. She gripped the roots of her hair, noticing the image of her bone sticking through her skin. It was surrounded by oxidized blood, dripping all over the freshly painted turf. Briefly, you froze. Eyes widening at the scene. “Fuck,” You grimaced, sprinting over to the area, along with everyone else.

You glared at auburn-haired player, kneeling to try and help the girl, pulling her head onto your lap. “Fuck, it’s going to be okay, Luce.” You looked around for the adult authority. “Coach Moore!” You called, worriedly, trying to avoid looking at the appearance of the injured girls leg. Every time you looked at it, the image of her exposed bone caused bile to rise in your throat.

He was already in transit, with a look of weariness, running over with his hands on his head. “Shit! Mel, go to the office and tell Tess, so we get can 911 on the phone.” Coach Moore directed to the short-haired manager, clutching onto a plastic first aid kit.

“You mean Coach Servopoulos?” She raised a finger.

“Fucking obviously, Mel!” The blonde goalie told, crouching toward the sobbing freshman. The manager jumped into a sprint, running toward the building while Abby darted her eyes over the brutal injury. Her father was a surgeon, and she had always been really curious about his job. He was wildly busy, but on the weekends, when he was on-call, he’d take her with him. There was a surgery gallery above one of the operation rooms, and he snuck her in a few times. Blood never bothered her as much as it bothered others.

Coach Moore forced the girls that weren’t helping to head inside to the locker room and wait for an update, because practice was now over.

The ambulance came in due time for her to get the medical attention that she needed. Lucy winced and whined as they lifted her onto a gurney, loading her into the back of the loud ambulance truck. Abby and Nora stayed behind with you as you monitored the situation. You couldn’t help but feel at fault for this—you should’ve just told Ellie no.

“Is your girlfriend tapped?” Nora questioned, while the three of you watched the coaches tell the EMT’s what happened, even though they didn’t know much. All they knew was that a player accidentally kicked her fibula through her leg in an attempt to kick the ball.

“Nora!” You scolded, glaring at her. Partially, for outright blaming Ellie for her actions, but also for labeling her your girlfriend aloud. That part was debatable. While you were warming up to the idea, a part of you felt like you didn’t deserve that title.

Abby chortled, “It’s a valid point.” Shrugging with her arms crossed over her chest. “I watched her ice Lucy out the whole game, y/n. When she finally had it, Ellie tried to steal it from her— her own teammate. What the hell was she doing?”

You shook your head, puffing air from your lips. “Lucy played a little lazy, so she was trying to… Teach her a lesson.”

The curly-haired, right-wing central striker scoffed, fixing a pair of disappointed eyes at you. “And you let her? Some kind of captain you are.”

“Hey, I told her to be careful.”

“You should’ve told her not to do it. Now, we’re short one sub for nationals. So, thanks a lot.” Nora concluded, turning her back on you to walk toward the locker room, leaving you with the disapproving sighs of Abigail Anderson.

The both of you watched the assistant coach hop into the vehicle with Lucy, since her parents where meeting them at the hospital. Coach Servopoulos instructed that he did so—he didn’t decide to join the injured teenager on his own accord. “She took it too far…” Abby sighed, as the head coach approached the two of you with a grimace on her features.

“It was an accident, Abby. Ellie didn’t mean to hurt her.”

“You saw what her leg looked like… I find that hard to believe.” The blonde goalie frowned, walking away once Tess Servopoulos got closer, glaring at you. Like you mentioned to Ellie, sometimes she got carried away during games; she wasn’t her usual self. As in, her competitiveness gets the best of her at times. It skews her vision and makes her decide on the most aggressive courses of action, which aren’t always the best. There has been a few games where they consistently got penalties because of her rough housing.

“Turner, what the hell happened out there?” Coach Servopoulos questioned with a firm voice, running her fingers through her mousy-brown hair.  

You slumped your shoulders, rubbing your hand over your pulled back hair. “I don’t know…” You lied through your teeth, sighing. The idea of snitching on Ellie wasn’t option. She’d get benched, or worse, kicked off the team. Tess Servopoulos wasn’t a coach that just let things slide; so, there was going to be hell to pay.  

She raised her thin eyebrows at you, dryly chuckling. “Her fibula is sticking out of her leg, and you’re tellin’ me you don’t know?”

“It happened so fast, Coach. Too fast. I think it was just a misstep.” You told with layers of uncertainty.

She sighed, pressing her lips together. “This misstep just sent a fifteen-year-old to the emergency room… Now, this isn’t the first time Ellie—”

“It wasn’t her fault.” You tried, fiddling with your fingers.

Tess side-eyed you before speaking, walking toward the school building. “This isn’t the first time Ellie has been rough on the field, but it’s the first time it’s resulted in something this severe—which leads me to this… In Boston, if she as so much as shoves another player too hard, she’s getting benched. Do you hear me?” The older woman raises an eyebrow, peering down at you. A frown fell onto your lips as you casted your eyes at your moving feet.

“I hear you.” You replied, solemnly.

“I have a lot of paperwork to fill out, so… Do me a favor and let her know that. I’m not gonna care for her attitude in Boston if you forget to tell her. I’m just gonna look at you.” Coach Servopoulos told as you neared the school, entering on the athletics side, leading you to the locker room. You were absolutely dejected, feeling waves a guilt that you shouldn’t have. The image of Lucy’s leg couldn’t leave your mind, making your stomach to stir. On top of the responsibility of, basically, threatening your companion.

When you entered the locker room, the team was sat on benches tiredly, awaiting the verdict that you were looked upon to deliver. They all sat upright when they noticed you strolling in after the fuming head coach who had seemed to already reach her maximum level of stress. “What’s up? Is she gonna be okay?” Ellie was the first ask, standing to her feet from the bench, her features scrunched with worry.

“Well, I’m sure she’s getting pumped with fentanyl as we speak, so… I think she’s gonna be all right.” Tiredly, your hands fall against your thighs, passing her to walk to your locker. A frown pressed onto your features because of the nausea building in your throat.

Abby sighed, leaning her arms to the side on bench. “If only you didn’t wanna teach her a lesson…” She muttered, causing Ellie to shoot her a glare.

“What?” She snarled.

“Was that not your plan? Maybe y/n relayed it wrong tryin’ to save your ass.” Abby exposed, but you ignored her trying to focus on not throwing up, rummaging through your locker.

Riley stood up, crossing her arms over her chest. “How ‘bout you just mind your fuckin’ business, Anderson.”

The blonde snickered. “Yeah, you were probably behind it, too, huh? Best friends until the end—“

The feeling of bile rising in your throat caused you to drop the lock in your hands. It clambered to the floor, shutting them up mid-argument. “Fuck, I’m gonna vomit.” You covered your mouth with your hand, running to the nearest trashcan you could find. It was large, and thankfully, without any trash inside of it. You gripped the rim that was wrapped with a black trash bag, leaning your face over it to relieve yourself.

“Now, look what you made her do!” You heard the sound of Ellie’s voice.

You lurched, groaning at the uncomfortableness of unleashing your breakfast and lunch into the trash covered in stomach acid. You felt hands on your back, rubbing, softly. When you peered over your shoulder, you noticed the dark, wavy hair of Dina standing over you. “Made me barf, too.” She kindly smiled, patting your back.

When you finished, you wiped your mouth with your shirt. “Should’ve never agreed to that shit…” You murmured, shaking your head.

“Maybe it’s for the best that she doesn’t come to Boston with us, anyway. There’s an upside to everything!”

“Whatever, Dina.” You sighed, thanking her with a pat to her shoulder.

She mirrored your sigh, following you to the group, getting close to you. “This isn’t your fault, you know?” Dina starts, as you ignore the tension in the air while your teammates changed. Ellie had walked to the other side of the locker room to hide from everyone, probably drowning in that same level of guilt you were. The dark-haired girl leaned her shoulder against the cool, gray metal.

“Then, who’s is it? Throwing Ellie under the bus, would mean throwing myself under it, too. I might as well just do it alone.” You grumble, beginning to pull the athletic clothes from your body.

After you changed into your casual clothes, a pair of jeans, blocky sandals, and a printed tube top. A thin, knit cardigan covered your arms during school, but the final bell had rung a long time ago. Ellie had always been your ride home, so you found her waiting in the quad for you on a bench��lonely, with a pair of headphones covering her ears. They were connected to an old Walkman you gifted her some time ago.

You waved a hand at her as you approached. She slid the tiny headphones from her ears to hang around her neck. She stood up, slinging her school bag and duffle bag over her shoulder. “Hey…” Ellie greeted, timidly.

“Hey,” You smiled, watching how she adjusted herself. You adjusted the thick strap of your own duffle bag, examining her freckled features. “What a day, huh?”

“Yeah…” She started walking toward her truck, pulling her keys from her pockets. Now, would be the best time to tell her of the limited amount of fuck-ups she had left, but the words wouldn’t come out. You followed her, swinging each foot in front of the other. “You were right… I shouldn’t have pushed her… I fucked up so bad today.” Ellie shook her head, running a hand through her shaggy, short hair.

You shrug, pressing your glossy lips together. “It happens…”

“I shouldn’t have let you take the fall for it.” She takes your hand, as you walk toward the emptying parking lot. You glance at the desperate hand, grasping for consolation and understanding.

In return, you grip her to reassure her. “You’re lucky Coach Serv didn’t ask too many questions— I barely took the fall for anything.” You lean into her arm, holding her bicep with your other free hand. “She probably has loads of paperwork to fill out since it happened on the school’s property. I think she has bigger concerns, right now.”

When you arrived at her blue Ford Bronco, you trot to the passenger side. “But I don’t mind taking the fall for it. I wouldn’t wanna go on this trip if you weren’t going, too.” Ellie grinned, watching you toss your things into the back seat.

The both of you got into the truck, shutting the door at the same time. The auburn-haired girl started the engine, causing the radio to switch on. Her earthy irises looked over at you, with a gleam of adoration. You smiled, cheeks warming under her gaze. A giggle leaves your throat as you lean over the center console, pulling the fabric of her shirt towards you so you could plot your lips against hers. Her windows weren’t that tinted, but you didn’t care in that moment.

Kisses always heightened Ellie’s mood, and you didn’t want her to worry about what happened with Lucy anymore. It was nothing but a mere accident—she would never want to hurt anyone.

You pulled away from her lips, not before plotting one final chaste kiss, leaning back into your seat. “Are we going to your place or mine?” You reached over to stretch the seatbelt across your body.

“Do you have everything you need for the party later?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“My place it is then.”

As we die, both you and I with my head in my hands I sit and cry…

No Doubt played on the radio, distracting you from the minor, small town traffic that got on under your skin—even though, you weren’t the one driving. You leaned your head on your fist, watching Ellie from the side of your eye. Her window was wound all the way down, elbow resting on it while her other steered the wheel. Her shaggy, auburn hair was blown across her head from the intensity of the wind. But she didn’t care, and neither did you. Her thumb tapped along the leather steering wheel to the beat of the music, nodding her head, rhythmically.

God, you were so in love with her. You were going to miss the days driving down the skinny roads of your hometown with her manning the wheel—because you rarely drove when she was around.

There was a secret that you were keeping tightly under wraps, though—amongst that love. Away from her, and the rest of the team. The joys of traveling to Boston with your team, and your non-girlfriend, is that it’s like a final hurrah before you all graduate and go your separate ways.

A few weeks ago, you received a letter from the admission’s office at University of Notre Dame for their soccer and Literature program—you got in! To your knowledge, Ellie had already committed to Massachusetts Institute of Technology. There was a family friend that lived in the area, which made her feel comfortable with moving so far away. Once you tell her about your commit to Notre Dame, everything will be set in stone; that the both of you were moving on. Everything would be too real—too fast. You were really leaving each other.

That was a topic you always found a way to jump around. At the end of the day, she wasn’t really your girlfriend. The pair of you had been in his happy mix of a relationship and a friendship—calling each other friends but doing the things that people in relationships did for a few years now. It kept too many people from asking you questions you didn’t feel enough conviction to answer. But that left you in a vulnerable position.

Once she sets foot up North, girls will be all over her as if she were a walking aphrodisiac. The prefect blend of masculinity and femininity relied in her spirit. She’d be the apple of any woman’s eye—well, any woman in their right mind—if she does half of what she does for you. Perhaps, one day you’ll rack up the courage to claim her, loudly.

She pulls into the driveway of her two-storied, brick home, sighing, casually. “Oh, I forgot to tell you, Sarah’s back early from school for my graduation. I’m gonna try and get her to be our ride for tonight.” Ellie shuts off the engining, gripping the handle to open up the door.

“Ellie, you know she’s gonna say no. If you wanna drink tonight, I can take one for the team…”

“I want us both to be able to celebrate, and after today, we both deserve a drink. Plus, she owes me.” She shrugged, grabbing her bags from the backseat, and you doing the same.

You chortle, walking around the to truck, to her side. “A drink won’t kill me.”

She looks at you, adjusting the straps on her shoulders. “Okay, you hate driving. Why do you wanna be DD so bad?” Ellie passed you, walking toward her front door. The sound of you giggling, trailing behind her.

“I’m just making sure we have options. Did she drive, this time, from Washington?”

The auburn-haired nodded, unlocking the door and pushing inside. “No, she took a flight. So, she shouldn’t have a problem borrowing Maxie” She referenced the dull, blue Bronco that she trusted with her life.

Ellie’s adoptive sister was a second year at the University of Washington. Every summer she comes back home to be with her family because dorm-life called the shots.

You walked inside behind her, passing the kitchen to get to the pair wooden stairs that led to her bedroom. “I’m home!” Ellie called, walking toward the fridge with you lingering behind her. “Sarah!” She offered you a cold bottle of water, handing it to you as she awaited her sisters’ response.

“Up here!” Her sister responded from up the stairs.

You trailed after your lover, trotting up the wooden steps to follow Sarah’s smooth voice. There was a light echo of The Cranberries, When You’re Gone, playing on the radio, coming from her bedroom. She must’ve been playing the new album. Ellie peeked into her bright space, placing her eyes on her laying figure, doodling in an artbook. Her pale, blue eyes looked up from the coarse page, twirling her charcoal pencil in her left hand. “Dad’s gonna be workin’ late tonight. So, I might be the one dropping you off tomorrow. Hope that’s all right.” Sarah hit the eraser of her pencil against the page, looking up at her sister leaning on the threshold of her bedroom door. Before she had shipped off to Washington, there used to be a thick southern twang that caught the attention of many Jacksoner’s. Sarah replicated the vocal inflections of her father—and Ellie’s voice did the same occasionally. She glanced at you, wiggling her fingers as a greeting.

You smiled, waving your hand.

“I don’t see why it wouldn’t be. Also… Could you do me a favor?”

She rolls her eyes, pushing her stuff aside to adjust herself onto her butt, narrowing her eyes at Ellie. “y/n and I are going to this party tonight, and we wanna drink— safely, so… Could you drive us?”

Sarah sighed, hopping from her bed to turn her silver-gray radio down, twisting the knobs with her index and thumb, plum nail polish artistically chipped. “I thought you had friends, Els… With cars.”

Ellie chuckled, dryly. “I do, but I don’t trust them to drive us back sober.” She rocked on her feet, furrowing her eyebrows to show humility. “C’mon, Sare, you owe me.”

She raised a blonde eyebrow, crossing her arms. “I owe you? From what?” Sarah dubiously asked.

“That one time sophomore year when I lied to Joel about where you were— saying you were at Natalie’s house, when you really were at Cole Matthew’s playing horizontal Twister.” Ellie blinked, feigning innocence. “If you don’t take us… I don’t mind clearing that up with him when I get back from Boston.”

The college girl gasped, then shook her head in disbelief. “Teenagers are evil. Wow.”

“You just turned twenty in April…” Ellie deadpanned.

“Fine. I guess I’ll take you, but I’m picking you up no later than one.”

Ellie rolled her eyes, lips curling at the edges. “Whatever,” She pivoted, taking your hand. “Thanks.” Her eyes glanced at you over her shoulder as she led you a few paces down the hall to her bedroom.

You shut the door behind you, snickering to yourself at the little threat she made to her sister. “You’re a manipulator…” You mutter, dropping your bag near the door. Her room was comfortably dim, with a dark, earthy motif. While her walls were still a white-ish tone of beige, its starkness was diminished by the many posters layered over each other. There was a slight lack of orderliness to her bedroom—a touch of clutter, making it all the more comforting.

Immediately, Ellie walked to her closet to change into some comfortable clothes. She dropped her jeans, sliding on a pair plaid boxers and a t-shirt. “Sometimes you need to do a little manipulating to get the job done.” She shrugged, humorously. “Sarah’s been trying to live down Cole Matthew’s since they hooked up her senior year— it was an easy shot.”

The softness of her made bed called out to you, making you leap onto it after kicking off your sandals. You rolled onto your back, sprawling out over her mattress. “I don’t think Dr. Daniela Star would approve of this.” You sit up on your elbows, ogling her from the center of her bed, referencing the protagonist from her favorite comic. Ellie turned to look at you, lips curling into a boyish smirk.

She sauntered toward you, crawling onto the mattress, over you, settling between your legs. You drape your arms around her shoulders, looking up at her with gleaming irises, examining her round features—olive, doe eyes, sprinkled freckles over her cheeks and nose, plush lips exposing her straight teeth. “What she doesn’t know, won’t hurt her.” Ellie grins, pressing her body against yours as she leaned down to plot her lips on yours. Smooch. Smooch. Before she begins to devour your face like it was the last time.

She braced one elbow by the side of your face, using the other hand to drift down your body, gripping and groping in ways you’d ever allow her to do. You giggled against her lips, completely comfortable under her devoted and doting caress. You were going to miss this most of all—the intimacy of her touch.

So, you spent the time before the party, memorizing every crevice of her body. From the follicles of her auburn hair to the birthmark on her ankle, breathing her in like your own addictive brand of oxygen. After you indulged in each other for a few hours, she pulled out guitar and played for you. Sat by her desk, facing you as you watched her fingers press along the copper strings of her acoustic guitar.

When it was time to get ready for the party, Ellie didn’t do much but throw on an outfit that appeared to have come straight from a Delia’s catalog. You had packed a boxy corduroy mini-dress and a pair of converses that matched hers; they were just a smidge cleaner, though. While you primped and primed yourself, you managed to convince her to smudge some eyeliner around her eyes—it brings out green in your eyes, you say; after propping yourself on her bathroom counter, welcoming her between your legs to add charcoal eyeliner around her eyes.

Ellie then peered in the mirror, over your shoulder, cheeks warming up at her own reflection. She wasn’t a typical wearer of makeup, but whenever she did partake, you noticed her expression of elevation. If it was small, and dainty, she never minded adding to her appearance with a little bit of makeup. However, she only did so when you applied it for her.  

You left the house borderline fashionably late, with Sarah swinging Ellie’s keys around her index finger. She hopped into the driver’s seat, adjusting the mirrors and seat to accommodate to her style of driving. Ellie had to push her seat forward to allow you climb into the backseat. The blonde took her time, causing her sister to side-eye her, pointedly. “Sarah, you are killin’ me.” Ellie spoke, holding out an annoyed hand.

“You asked me to drive you, and you’re complaining? I got a hundred on my driver’s test for a reason—”

“Nobody cares. Please, just drive, dude.”

She pressed her lips into a line, shifting the gear to backing out of the inclined driveway. “Ellie, you just get bitchier with time.” You snickered in the back, pulling your seatbelt over your body, clicking it into the lock. As she started down the road, she peered into the rearview, getting a glimpse of you while her lips percolated to speak. “So, y/n, have you committed to a school yet? I know time’s just a’tickin’…” Sarah offered conversation, smiling in the small mirror. From the corner of your eye, you noticed the rigidness in Ellie’s shoulders at the mention of university.

Ellie nudged her over the console, scoffing. “No pressure…” She filled in, giving you comforting glance.

“I haven’t yet… I’m waiting until after nationals… I don’t want my decision to be heavily influenced by anything, you know?” You slowly explain, looking at the blonde through the mirror.

Sarah glanced at Ellie, making a face you couldn’t quite read. “Yeah, for sure.” She responded, chuckling, lightly. “I forget— what are you going to school for? I know Ellie’s doin’ Biophysics. She’s going full astronaut on us!” She playfully punched Ellie’s arm, laughing, joyously. Clearly, already proud of her.  

You lick the cherry gloss on your lips, priming them to speak. “I’m going for Literature. I used to want to be a professor, and I might still go down that route, but I think I’m going to take soccer serious for a little while.”

“She wants to go pro.” Ellie added, winking over her shoulder at you.

“Hopefully, I can qualify for the Olympics within the next two years.” You shrug, nodding your head, timidly. It was always hard to tell people what you wanted for your future—especially, when your goals seemed so far away. It was always fifty-fifty when sports players wanted to go pro—hit or miss! That’s why you wanted to get you degree; so, it could seem more realistic.

The eldest in the truck, hummed. “I’ve seen you play. I’m sure you could qualify now.” Sarah laughed. “Who do I have to call to make it happen?”

“Oh, my God! You sound just like Joel!” The auburn-haired player gasped, chortling in her seat. The two siblings then began conversing between themselves, asking for your input every so often.

In the dark, she pulled into a clearing that was already lingering with drinking teenagers. She sighed, putting the car in park. “I swear this is like the beginning of a slasher film— you guys be safe!” Sarah told, leaning down as the both of you exited the car. For a moment, you had to wait for Ellie to release the passenger seat, so you could climb out the same way you climbed in. “And cover your drinks… There’s some odd-lookin’ character’s out here.” Ellie gave her thumbs up, attempting to shut the door, but her sister had to say one more thing. The blonde snickered behind her slender fingers before speaking. “I was also gonna say wrap it up, but… You know—”

Ellie decided to cut her off. “Okay, see you at one!” She shut the door, peering at your amused face. “She’s so not funny.”

“I disagree.” You slide your arm through hers, holding onto her as your feet crunched through the grass. Her earthy eyes glanced at you, glancing down at the touching of your skin to hers��boldly in front of your peers. You weren’t entirely thinking, you just wanted to be close to her. That simple feel for physical touch caused her cheeks to fill with warmth, eyes sparkling under the full moon.

She didn’t say anything because she didn’t want to freak you out. Make you coil into your own touch. Earlier, Ellie didn’t make a note of your touch when you were walking to the parking lot after school, because barely anyone was around to tell the tale. The tale of two girls cuddling up with one another in a more than friendly way. Now, you were surrounded by your peers, other upperclassmen, and you were holding onto her like she was your girlfriend. Not your friend.

You approached a wiggling fire, burning a pile of logs, a bonfire. A few fireflies hovered around it with red solo cups in their hands, conversing and laughing. When they noticed you and Ellie, they smiled and waved—some of them. If the varsity team could be cleanly divided in half, that would show the exact turn out of the smiles and frowns.

“Hey, Turner.” Abby greeted you, and you alone. Nora lingered close by, with Dina and Cat hovering in the back. They waved, but they could see the tension developing and didn’t want to get involved.

Instantly, Ellie stiffened, groaning under her breath. “I’m gonna go find us somethin’ to drink.” She pulled from your grasp, leaving you colder than before—and it was leaning more into summer by the day. Riley held her red cup by the white line along the rim, following her as she walked into the dimly lit dark. You could already hear her rants of internal fury coming from Ellie’s pinched mouth.

“Stop trying to piss her off.” You tell the blonde, deepening your eyebrows.

She pushed her long blonde hair behind her ears, shrugging. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Let the situation be done with. It’s over, so get the fuck over it— I’m serious, Abby.” Your voice firmed, glaring up at her, since she was so much taller than you. “We are leaving tomorrow, and I want us to all start off on the right foot.”

“Right leg, you mean?” Nora lifted an arched eyebrow. Shamelessly, she referenced the bone-white fibula that was sticking out of Lucinda Henderson’s leg on the field.

“Is that supposed to be a joke, Nora?” You ask her, narrowing her eyes. “You were so upset about what happened, and now you’re joking about it?”

“Well, if it never happened, I wouldn’t be joking about it now, would I?” The curly-haired forwarder retorted.

You scoffed, having enough of their paired hooplah—it was annoying you, and you were wanting to have a good night. “You know, what? Fuck you guys.” You mutter, pushing through them toward Dina, Cat, and another one of the players, Aisha Conrad. They were watching with keen eyes, clutching their drinks in their hands.

“They’re such bitches…” You grunted, crossing your arms, wondering where Ellie was with your drink. You could certainly use one.

Cat swallowed a sip of the jungle juice, nodding her head. “Tell me about it.” She shook her head. “I should’ve never told my dad about this— we should’ve booked public instead. They would have booked an entirely different flight than us, and we could’ve all been spared of their endless bullshit.”

“You know, the only reason I think Abby is still on this team is because she’s fucking Moore.” Aisha added, rolling her eyes.

Dina gasped, covering her lips with her hand. “Wait, what?”

“Aisha, we shouldn’t be talking about that.” You remind her, widening your eyes, warningly.

“No, wait.” Dina held up a hand, eyeing you. “Abigail Anderson is fucking Owen? The same girl who I always catch chatting up cheerleaders?” She raised her thick eyebrows, guffawing, loosening up from the alcohol in her hands. “Hell, I’m surprised she’s not doing it right now!”

The short-haired midfielder, Cat, looked to the dark sky in thought. “I wonder why she chose Owen of all people. He’s so… Lame.”

“And good for nothin’.” Aisha added, shrugging.

You couldn’t help but chuckle at that—good for nothin’—yeah, that checks out. He definitely wasn’t as good of a coach as Tess Servopoulos; you didn’t even know why he was hired. Who cares if he attended Jackson Hole High a few years prior?

“Why not Henry Harmon?” The freckled girl questioned, swirling her drink in her cup. “Now, he’s hot.”

A surprised laugh left your throat. “Dina, don’t you have a boyfriend?”

“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him— plus, everybody knows that Henry’s hot. Even you. Just because you’re a lesbian doesn’t mean you don’t have eyes.” Dina rambled, carelessly, until she abruptly covered her mouth with her hand, again.

Instead of cowering from the term of your sexual orientation, you barely flinched. You only narrowed your eyes at your friend, chuckling. “Shit, sorry, y/n.”

“No, it’s fine. I’m sure half the student body already suspects it.” You wave your hand.

Aisha pursed her lips, glancing around the teenager-filled clearing. “I mean, it’s not like you had a boyfriend in the last four years…”

Cat nudged her, roughly, arching her lips in shock. Aisha could be a little bit too honest for her own good. You were surprised that she hasn’t told everyone in a five-mile radius that she was friends with a lesbian. Or, maybe, she had. There was one afternoon—junior year—when you checked your main locker and a note fell out. It was scribbled with pink cursive handwriting, signed with heart and purple lipstick.

I always knew you were a lesbo!

In that moment, you thought your life was over. Then, a girl by the name of Laura Leony privately came forward, saying it was all her doing. She didn’t declare why, but she didn’t have to—you could understand. After that, you just tried to lay low.

That might’ve been the worst of you and Ellie. To argue was to breathe when it came to the two of you last year.

“Aisha, what would I do without you.”

“Crash and burn.” Innocently, she touched her ears with her shoulders, giggling to herself. “I really don’t think people care as much as you think.”

Deeply, you inhaled. “You’d be surprised.”

The sound of your name was spoken from behind, causing you to swivel. It was Ellie and Riley approaching. She had two drinks in her hands, and was mid-conversation, talking with her eyebrows burrowed together. “Spiked punch,” Ellie informed, handing you the red solo cup, filled a bit more than halfway. “And it’s pretty strong.” She sighed, jutting her eyebrows up at the girls as a greeting.

“Did you guys know that Abby’s fucking the coach?” Dina abruptly asked them, pointing a lazy finger.

“Yeah,” Riley chortled, sipping her drink.

“Tess?” Ellie questioned, incredulously, snapping her head toward her best friend in confusion.

You sigh, rubbing your fingers along your eyebrows, tiredly. It was better that less people knew about Abby’s silly affiliation with the young coach—it was better for the Fireflies. “Owen. Not Tess.” Still, you clarified, glancing at her. There was a reason you kept this one thing from Ellie. Her and Abby rarely got along, what if she exposed this interesting fact aloud during an argument? They could open a case, and the entire team could be put on probation until it was solved.

Her jaw dropped in mischievous shock. “What? You knew about this?” Ellie asked you, while her eyes gleamed in the dark. The ‘and you didn’t tell me’ part was silent, but you somehow could still hear her saying it in your mind, filling the gaps.

Your response was none other than a sip of your drink, and a brief lift of your eyebrows. You’ve been captain of your team since the end of sophomore year—of course, you knew about this!

“It’s not obvious?” Aisha perched an eyebrow, downing the rest of her drink.

“Some of us mind our business, Aisha.” Riley snickered, crossing an arm under her elbow. She squinted her eyes at her as a bratty response. “It’s not a secret if it’s obvious.”

“This is great.” Ellie muttered into her cup, shrugging her shoulders.

You snapped her your head toward her. “No, it’s not great. Don’t get any ideas.”

Her best friend laughed, peering down at her amusingly. “Oh, Turner, you’re late. Far too late— the ideas have already began flowin’.” Riley laughed. She was always a subtle lover of chaos and disturbance. She rarely ever caused it, though; Riley was more the type to watch it unfold, and step in if she needed to.

“Ellie,” You warn, deepening your eyebrows.

She put her hands up. “Your secret is safe with me— or, I guess, her secret.” Her smokey, olive eyes glanced at her closest friend, snickering.

You suck your teeth, tapping your fingers against the plastic of your cup. “Why don’t we talk about something else? Boston! Are we excited about Boston?” The lip of your cup found your lips, and you began sipping the drink like your life depended on it. It was the only way to numb your anxieties.

Dina grinned, pointing her finger at Ellie. “Oh, my God— wait, didn’t you get into MIT?”

Immediately, she grew bashful, nodding her head. “Yeah… But I’m not going.”

You paused, turning your body to face hers. “What do you mean you’re not going?” Your eyebrows were deepened, eyeing her intently. “It’s fucking MIT…”

She inhaled, deeply, pursing her lips. “They didn’t have the major I wanted.”

“You never said anything about this.”

“You never asked…”

An awkward beat passed through the group. Mainly hovering between you and Ellie. Your free hand fell to your side, slapping against your bare thigh. Aisha’s voice barrels through the silence, looking around a few parked cars. “Henry!’ She called, waving her hand high above her head, breaking the silence. “I’m gonna go… Come on, Cat!” Aisha took Cat’s hand, dragging her from the group. Whoops, things just got awkward. However, you didn’t care; your eyes were stuck on Ellie’s with a worried irises.

“I’m sure Jesse is somewhere lookin’ for me… I’ll leave you guys.” Dina gave a tightlipped smile, slipping away, leaving the two of you by yourselves.

“You’re still going to college, right?” You ask, looking at her intently.

“Yeah, of course! Joel would have my head otherwise.” She responded, chuckling, glancing off into the woods.

You blink at her, scoffing under your breath. “Okay, so where? I know you applied to Brown, USC… Uhm—“

“Notre Dame.” Ellie answered, plainly, rocking on her feet.

Your jaw practically unhinged itself, flickering your eyes between hers. Notre Dame? That was your school. “What?”

She sighed, downing the rest of her drink, crumbling up the plastic and tossing it to the side. “They had the major I wanted. Biophysics. And… I saw the acceptance letter in your kitchen while you were in the shower a few weeks ago.” Ellie paused, running her hand through her short hair. “It’s your dream school— I knew you’d commit. Their soccer program is phenomenal— aren’t they, like, second in the country?”

With your lips gapped open, you were frozen in surprise. Ellie had decided to attend the same school as you? Even after her set plan of going to Boston? To say the least, you were surprised—as surprised as a person could get. The possibility of the two of you going to college together never seemed to cross your mind. Indiana didn’t seem like Ellie’s gig.

“I was hoping for a better reaction than this.” She tapped your jaw, lightly rubbing her thumb against the structure of your face.

You blinked, again. Taut breath escaping your throat. Instead of speaking, you wrapped your arms around her neck, tugging her against your body, causing your drink to spill down the back of her shirt—it was an accident. “Woah,” Ellie chortled, pulling you in from your waist.

“Fuck, I would’ve said something sooner about Notre Dame— I just…” You stammered, inhaling, sharply. “I don’t know… I was getting really existential about everything. Leaving the team behind— leaving you behind! I was fuckin’ losing it…” You pulled back, keeping your arms draped around her shoulders. Her fingers finding comfort at your hips. “But I swear, I was gonna tell you once we got back from Boston… I wish you would’ve said something earlier. Now, I look like an asshole.” You plucked her shoulder with your fingers, pouting.

“I was waiting until you wanted to tell me for yourself— it just took longer than expected s’all.”

Ellie was patient when she wanted to be. At first, you thought it was because she knew that you were separating soon, wanting to end on a good note an all. She used to gripe about being in an unlabeled relationship, but since the spring semester started, she was a sweet as pie. “I’m sorry…” You mutter, playing with the short hairs at the nape of her neck. The comment of your coach rang through you mind—maybe, you should warn her about messing up… But you didn’t want to ruin this moment.

“It’s fine.” She hummed, flickering her eyes over your features. It really wasn’t fine, in your mind, but whatever she said went. If you were her, you would’ve broken up with yourself a long time ago. “We’re goin’ to college together.” Ellie grinned, leaning toward your lips.

You laugh, adjusting your arms around her neck. “We’re going to college together.” You parrot, leaning into her, carelessly. Not caring for the off-handed looks of your peers—as their expectations were met by the physicality of your relationship.

Before your lips could meet, surrounded by trees, the sounds of an altercation pulled her from you. It sounded like—

“Is that Riley?” Ellie questioned, looking over your shoulder.

You turned around, narrowing your eyes on the figures getting at each other. They were pointing fingers and yelling, causing a group to develop around them. “What the hell…” You mutter, dropping your cup, and jogging over to the scene. Ellie was on your tail with a similar look of confusion.

People had gathered in a circle around them, urging them to have a cat fight. You shoved the guy instigating to the side, pushing into the middle of the crowd. Heat burrowed under your skin, glaring at the two girls—Riley and Abby—as you mentally decided on the course of action.

“You know what, meat-head? I suggest you keep your fuckin’ mouth shut!”

“Or what?!” Abby exclaimed, holding up her arms, tauntingly. “You gonna kick my shin in—? I’d like to see you try!”

“Am I gonna do that before or after you fuck Coach Mo—“

That’s when you interrupt, running between the two of them. Ellie following in your steps, placing a hand on Riley’s shoulder. “Riles, leave it.”

You snap you fingers, glaring at the both of them. “Fireflies! What the hell are you doing— let’s go!” You instruct them, pointing your fingers toward the semi-crowded wood. There was a path leading you down, but you need them to separate from the rest of your class. Abby hesitated, gritting her jaw, glaring at the girl with braids running down her back. “Go on…” You push her arm, lightly, guiding her to lead the group.

The core group of the team lingered in the crowd, pushing through as soon as you commanded. When you found privacy, they stood in a line before you. In the order of: Ellie, Riley, Aisha, Cat, Dina, Nora, Abby, Sid, Uma and Mei. You didn’t even realize Uma and Mei had been in attendance until they materialized from the shadows of the party.

You paced down the line like a military general, with your hands held behind your back. “Clearly, none of you heard me when I said that tomorrow we need to be starting off on a good foot— so, now, I have to treat you girls like children.” You scold, glaring at the most argumentative on the team.

Sid raised her hand, pursing her dainty lips. “You don’t have to…”

Your eyes peered at her, smirking. “Oh, my God! Sid, thank you so much for volunteering for my exercise—“

“Huh?”

“Come here.” You tell her, holding out a hand. She comes forward, stuffing her hands into the front pockets of her jeans. “Here’s what you’re gonna do… You’re gonna go down the line and say what love about your teammates— each and every one.”

Sid groaned, slouching her shoulders. “Ugh, that’s embarrassing! y/n, do I have to? My team knows I fuck with them…”

Dina raised her hand, snickering. “Actually, I didn’t know that… You’re always so quiet.”

You grip Sid’s shoulders from behind, peering over her shoulder. “Now, look at that… Why don’t you start with Ellie?”

She dragged her feet forward, positioning herself to stand before the girl. “Uhm, Ellie… I think you’re one of the best this team has. It may not always seem like it, but I appreciate the feedback you give me when it comes to defense.” Sid sighed moving into the player beside her. “Riley, despite how much it annoyed y/n… I do find it commendable that you were so quick to defend your friend for something that she wasn’t even around to hear.”

Riley glanced at Ellie, earning a soft nudge.

Sid continued, going down the line of the team, awkwardly complimenting until her turn was over. The line went from the end to the front, until everyone had gone; you being the last to compliment your team.

The core argumentative four managed to say nice things about each other, through their opposing opinions, causing everyone to neutralize their emotions. After, Riley Abel had found herself apologizing about nearly exposing the relationship between Abby and Owen—it was fucked up, she said.

Then, Abby apologized for tempting her to fight, which led to her apologizing to Ellie for her harsh judgement. Nora followed suit, hesitantly.

So, your plan worked! Either they were all completely humoring you, or the tactic that Coach Servopoulos mentioned last year actually worked.

It wasn’t long before you heard the horn of Maxine honking at you and Ellie. The complimenting session brought you guys to one, meaning it was time to leave. And neither you nor Ellie didn’t mind. The party wasn’t the most relaxing shindig, but improvements were made within the group. Hopefully, meaning that tomorrow morning everybody will be walking onto that plane with a fresh start.

Sarah had dropped you off at your house. Ellie letting you out the backseat, kissing you goodbye, longingly. Her hands clutched your sides like she didn’t want to release you—like you weren’t seeing each other in seven hours. When she finally did, you held onto her hand until your fingers slipped from hers, walking up the path to your home.

You were a bit of a last-minute packer, meaning you spent the next hour making sure you have everything you needed for Boston. Your uniform, pajama’s, cute clothes, three pairs of shoes—including your cleats. In the case of boredom, you shoved two options of books into your duffle bag. Since you were flying privately, because of a large, humble purchase made by Cat Yoon’s father, there was more give to the weight of your bag.

When you were finished, you put the bags by your front door, as quietly as possible to not wake your parents. Then, you showered and slipped into bed, falling asleep to the image of furthering your education with the love of your life. While it slightly worried you, excitement was the most noticeable emotion coursing through you. More so because it gave you time. Time to open up and be yourself to not only Ellie, but to the world moving and progressing around you. You didn’t want to hide beneath a blanket of neutrality anymore.

To love a woman wasn’t a crime to be charged with. Not anymore, at least—its 1996.

The morning came around fast. Your blaring alarm woke you up with a screech, which was followed by your mother knocking on your door for breakfast. Quickly, you did your hygiene routine. Then, you rushed down the stairs to consume something hearty to last the whole flight, or most of it. You never liked eating on planes. It always felt like the food never digested properly in the air, or perhaps, that was your slight neurosis of flying. Your parents spoke of how proud they were of you, going to nationals, getting into college—they were getting emotional before your eyes.

In a way, their emotions shifted onto you, causing your eyes to water. It felt as if you were already saying goodbye to them. Your father helped pack your bags into the car, before he kissed you farewell. He couldn’t drive you to the airport because work had called him in. “Please, don’t forget to call us when you get to the hotel.”

“Remember, your dad is prone to strokes…” Your mother added, walking around to get into the driver’s seat.

You laugh, pulling from the embrace he had wrapped you in. “I remember. I won’t forget!” You patted his arm, reaching for the handle of the passenger door. “As soon as I get to the hotel, I’ll call you, daddy.”

“All right, have safe flight, honey.”

The sound of the foreign engine of your mother’s car sounded as you slipped into the passenger seat with a departing smile. When your mother pulled out of the driveway, you waved to your father as he watched the car roll into street.

Jackson Hole Airport wasn’t far from your home—under ten miles. So, you didn’t spend a lot of time chatting with your mother before you drifted into the independence of traveling to Boston. You couldn’t get far from the drop-off point before she reminded you to call when you arrived at the hotel. After sharing quick I love you’s, you dragged your luggage, with your duffle bag draped atop of it, into the semi-busy airport.

On your way inside, you catch the frantic movements of Mei Hawkins. She was hitching two medium-sized luggage’s and a backpack. They kept falling over, tilting over sidewalk curbs and bubbles on the pavement. “Mei,” You waved, trotted over toward her. “You need some help?”

Her shoulders were hunched, a whine-like laugh coming from her throat. “If you can…” Mei smiled, showing her slight gapped tooth smile. “Flights always frazzle me.” You took one the luggage’s from her, pulling it along with your other hand. There was some weight to it, more than you thought. “A few years ago, my aunt was in a plane crash— it was minor. Barely lifted off the runway before it came back down. She was stuck in Kyoto for a week.”

You snickered, walking through automatic doors of the airport. “I don’t know if we could count that as a plane crash…”

“You can to! The wheels went up, so everybody felt the collision. It was like a bad landing, but worse.” Mei explained with lifted skinny eyebrows. “It’s freaked me out ever since. I haven’t visited Japan in three years because of it.” She shivered, adjusted the straps of her Jansport. “The only reason why I even agreed to this because, one— it’s nationals, and two— it’s within the country. Slowly, but surely, I’m conquering my fear…”

She was a bit of a nervous rambler, but she played completely opposite of that. Like you, she was a center midfielder—she stood right next to you on the field. When Mei focused, she was a totally different person compared to who she was off the field.

“That’s one way to look at it. Glad you could make it— we need you.” You told her, shuffling through people. The team was able to evade customs since the flight was private, thankfully. Especially, with the load that Mei was carrying.

She chortled, peering her hazel eyes around. “No need to butter me up. I’m already coming.”

“Yeah, clearly. And you brought your whole closet with you.” You laugh, looking over at her. “What’s in this luggage? A dead body?”

Mei looked at you with a pointed expression. “I pack for emergencies…” She leaned closer to you, as you approached the outer boarding area. “All types.” The girl spoke with such diction that made your mind go straight to the gutter.

“Mei, is there alcohol in here?”

Her lip fell between her teeth, mischievously. “I’ll tell if you sit next to me on the plane…” She shrugged, walking ahead of you.

“Sold!” Although, you were planning on sitting beside Ellie, the offer was too good to pass up. If she snuck in the goods, Boston was going to be so much more fun than you expected.

The aircraft came into view, obstructing the morning sun from your eyes. It was the perfect size for your team. A smile creeped onto your face, wheeling yours and Mei’s belongings toward the plane. Coach Servopoulos stood outside, chatting with Henry Harmon, and his brother Sam.

Your eyes widen at the sight of them, jogging toward the two. “Oh, shit! Henry, Sam— since when were you guys coming to Boston?” You ask through a friendly smile, doing a mixture of a waddle and jog to approach the brothers. Mei had simply waved at them, before walking up the metal stairs into the airplane.

Henry grinned, waving his hand, boyishly. He was a senior just like you, approaching graduation with ferocity. He was the president of the school newspaper and worked very hard to earn his position. His brother, Sam, was a sophomore following right in his footsteps, knowing how to man a camera like it was easy. Sam took the pictures, and Henry wrote the stories.

“We’re plannin’ on publishing a story on JHH’s Fireflies going to nationals. Coach T just approved the request yesterday.” Henry grinned, leaning onto his tough-box luggage.

Sam gave a shy, tightlipped smile. He pulled his camera around his body, aiming it you. “Smile!”

The flash of his camera shocked you into being ready, but it didn’t work. “Okay, Sam… At least try and get my good side.” You pose for the photo, turning to the side. He chuckles, snapping the picture, then giving you a thumbs up. “All right, I’ll see you guys inside.”

“What am I chopped liver?!” The head coach calls, slapping her hands against her covered thighs.

“Sorry! Morning, Coach Serv!” You grit your teeth, trotting up the steps. Slightly, struggling with Mei’s bag.

Most of the team had already arrived and they already sat in their seats. Abby jutted her eyebrows at you from her cushioned position, sitting beside Nora. They both had neck rests of different patterns and had faces that exposed their fatigue, and potentially, their hangovers. Dina sat beside Mel, and you knew that wasn’t by personal choice. She waved her fingers at you, keeping place in her book with her other hand. Cat and Aisha sat together, already talking up a storm. Ellie and Riley were the only ones running behind, and it made you frown.

“Mei,” You complain, attempting to put the luggage in the overhead.

“Sorry!” She hopped from the seat she was getting comfortable in, deciding to help you get the luggage into the compartment.

After securing it over your seats, you put your luggage in an empty one a little way from your seat, then the both of you sat. She took the window seat, while you took the aisle, in the front half of the plane. Perhaps, it made sense for you to be ahead of most of the team—you were the captain, after all. And, if you could choose a co-captain—which you asked Coach Servopoulos about a variety of times—it would be the girl sitting beside you, Mei. Not only would she deserve the position, but she’s the next best player beside Ellie. Because the two of you have been involved with each other for some time, choosing Ellie as your co-captain would be a recipe for disaster. Frankly, if she were, the decision would be made on the warm front of collective bias; she played entirely too rough to be considered the co to your captain. And the girls would have a riot.

You lean into Mei, squinting your eyes with inquiry. “What’s in the bag?”

Stubbornly, she shook her head. “I’m not telling you until we take off.”

“You say that like I’m gonna snitch on you, or something.” You bunch your eyebrows together. “I would never… As long as I have in on it.” A snicker fell from your lips, and she playfully shoved you.

“I don’t wanna tell you now because then you’ll just ditch me to sit with Ellie… Whenever she gets here.” Mei pursed her heart-shaped lips, looking through the oval window. She hid behind her words a bit, but you could feel the genuineness peeking through her skin.

An empathetic smile spread onto your lips, gleaming at her. It was always a soft feeling to be liked and appreciated. What a page-turner from the night before. “I already told you that I was gonna sit with you… I wouldn’t go back on my word. Swear.” You held out your pinky-finger, bending it to get her attention.

She narrowed her honey eyes, taking your pinky with hers, releasing a sigh. “Fine…” Mei released your pinky, peering over her seat for prying ears. She leaned toward your ear, and you waited with a slight grin of anticipation. “My sister’s boyfriend sells weed, so she got us fourteen grams to split— but only for the seniors, duh.”

You glance at her. “That can’t be it— your bag weighs a ton.”

“There’s two bottles of Mad Dog 20/20, and the rest of the weight should be my clothes…” She says, looking up at the ceiling in thought.

Your jaw dropped, blinking at her. She had two bottles of Mad Dog 20/20… You never took her for a girl who thrived under rebellion. “Mei, holy shit—” Did her parents know about this?

“What are ya’ll whispering about?” A familiar, raspy voice speaks. Immediately, she caught your attention, causing you to swivel you head around.

“Ellie, where the hell have you been?” Quickly, your attention was diverted—purposely, changing the subject from the items Mei had brought. Sometimes, she had the tendency to be late; and every time it drove you up a wall. “We were told to be here by a certain time for a reason. We’re on a schedule.” You nagged, ignoring the soft kisses she was plotting along your forehead.

She chuckled against your skin before speaking. “Last minute, we had to pick up Riley—”

“My bad!” The brown-skinned girl interjected, raising up a hand while she got situated in her seat toward the back of the plane.

“And some morning traffic picked up— this isn’t my fault. Plus, I bought you some tea!” Ellie offers up a warm cup, holding it in front of you. “It’s lavender.” She grinned.

Your eyes lit up to the drink in front of you, taking the warm cup with quick fingers. “Ugh, I love you…” The mumbled words tumbled from your lips before I could catch them. Every proclamation of love you gave to Ellie was all to yourself, or Dina because she knew about the most when it came to your relationship.

Her olive eyes widened, lips parting in genuine shock. For a moment the world went silent, and neither of you spoke. The process of saying I love you in an environment that wasn’t her bedroom, was an odd feeling. It modeled after the uncomforting bite of a crisp, winter morning—poking at your flushed, sensitive skin.

“Awkward…” Aisha poked her head above her seat, and you shoot her a glare.

Coach Tess Servopoulos walked into the plane, which automatically settled the team. Henry and Sam followed after her, finding their seats somewhere in the middle. Abby waved at Henry, reaching to dap his hand as a greeting.

And she wants to pretend that she’s not lesbian.

Just as she does so, the assistant coach walks steps into the plane, nodding his head curtly at those who spared him a glance. Mel jumped onto her knees in her seat, to wave at him.

Ellie scratched the back of her neck. “I’m assuming you’re sitting with Mei— hey, Mei.” She awkwardly waved.

“Hey, Ellie.” She kindly smiled, bending her index finger at the auburn-haired player.

As you held your warm cup, your skin wrinkled between your eyebrows with internal confusion. Did she not love you? Was this a bad time say that—did you say too much, too fast, too loud? Holy fuck. “Yeah, I am…” You respond, distantly, attempting to meet her eyes but you couldn’t fully.

“Cool, uhm, I’ll be back there,” She juts her thumb toward the pair of seats her best friend was settling in. “With Riley… Uh, maybe Mei and I can switch sometime after take-off…?”

“Maybe… I might be asleep, though…” You scratch your eyebrow, pressing your lips into an awkward smile.  

“Oh,” Ellie pursed her lips, chewing on the skin inside of her mouth.

“Yeah… You should probably go find your seat— take-off should be any minute now.” You found a way to blink at her. The auburn-haired player chortled, nodding her head. Her cheeks had reddened from your undignified confession, but with your sudden coldness, she felt the need to retaliate with frustration. A scoff left her plush lips as she stepped away from you, down the aisle. “Thanks for the tea!” You raised the cup, turning your head to face the leather in front of you.

Mei bored her eyes into the side of your face the moment Ellie left. “What the hell was that?”

“As if I would know…” You casted your eyes to the cup in your hands, feeling its warmth.

“I’ve known you guys for a long time…” Mei began, puffing air through her lips. “I thought you were the one with the concerns.”  

Mei Hawkins had known about your reservations with your sexuality and was one of the few people to understand why you felt that way. She wasn’t a lesbian or thought of women the way you did but she could empathize. Growing up in Jackson wasn’t always the easiest for her either. Her dark, often chained, fish-netted appearance was always a topic of discussion.

“Me too… I don’t know what the hell that was about.” You frowned, scrunching your eyebrows. Ellie has never acted like that before. The moment your louder with your adoration, wether it was on purpose or not, she quivered away. It was such a discomfort that it made your skin itch.

“Maybe, she was just surprised. I love you is kind of big…”

“I’ve already said it before. There’s no reason for her to be so surprised.” You curtly added, intently peering at your friend. Eyes glinting with a shell of worry. For a moment, you thought your eyes were welling up with tears, heating up behind blinking eyelids.

Before the plane took off, the head coach stood up to speak. She demanded that they were to behave the whole flight, be kind to the two attendants, and don’t cause a stir. The girls acknowledged her word all together, nodding their heads, and speaking the saying ‘heard’ in unison.

Within moments the plane finally took off with an unnerving shake of the vessel.

As it rumbled along the track, and gradually lifted off the ground, your stomach folded. Mei had reached for your hand, clenching it with a firm vice. You placed your other hand over hers, puffing air from your lips. Flights weren’t your favorite thing in the world, but your fear wasn’t as great as hers. Under the light weight of her hand, you could feel her trembling. What happened to her aunt must’ve really frightened her—phobia’s truly know how to bury its roots within a person.

Once you were in the air, you dropped her hand, not before massaging her palm, comfortingly. Soon enough, the attendants were walking down the aisle offering snacks and drinks. You were still good on drinks, considering your tea, but a bag a chips wouldn’t hurt. You weren’t hungry, but you offered to share with Mei. To get her mind off the fact that you were floating in the air in a heavy machine.

Within the next few hours, Mei was the first to fall asleep. She swallowed some allergy medication, probably something to help her sleep, and slumped against the window. You tried to sleep but the idea of Ellie being ashamed of loving you bothered your mind. Sure, it was a thought of insecurity, but she’s never done that before. Has she finally had enough of your tiresome ways? If so, you’d understand. That wouldn’t negate the fact that it would still hurt, though.

However, it wouldn’t make sense. She had just admitted to committing to Notre Dame… Because they had the major she wanted, but also, for you. You were confused, and overwhelmed. Perhaps, it was the flight that was making your brain run slow and obsessively.

There was slight turbulence that made you shut your eyes, holding onto the arm of your seat. But it wasn’t enough to completely freak you out—until the shaking got worse. A flight attendant was walking down the aisle, collecting trash into a bag with a kind smile. Another turbulent bump occurred, causing her to run face first into the wall leading to the pit.

After that, there wasn’t much reaction time to laugh or wonder if she was all right.

The private plane began to wave side to side in the air. Beside you, Mei was startled awake with wide eyes. “What the fuck is happening?”

You couldn’t respond because your eyes were stuck on the attendant. Blood had secreted from a wound the accident caused. Her forehead dribbling with thick, crimson blood. Then, the plane dipped in the air, dramatically.

There was a muffled sound of your seat partner calling your name, but your ears had tuned it out while chaos began to nest within the aircraft. Screaming, wailing, yells for order happened all at once.

Masks dropped from the ceiling, but as you began plummeting from the highest point in the sky, you froze. Hastily, Coach Servopoulos appeared, placing the masks over you and Mei’s face as you both panicked in different ways.

Unexpectedly, a hole materialized in the side of the front of the plane, peeling its mechanics away every passing moment. The pressure sucked the head coach out of it, right it front of you. Tears streamed down your cheeks as you released sobs of trepidation.

Mei was right. She had every reason to fear airplanes—but you hated that she was right. It seemed to be your final moments; you peer at her, reaching for her arm, deciding to cling to her. Somehow, your life flashed before your eyes. The moments you shared with Ellie, the moments you hid from the world in the hopes to be seen as normal. What a fucking waste of time.

With Mei in your arms, you shut your eyes, tightly. To brace for the impact of the earth. However, that was something you never got—well, while you were conscious.

In its plummet, sometime between the crash onto the ground and breaking down of its parts, yours and Mei’s seats had been sucked out of the same hole in the wall that Tess had. When it happened, your body shut down out of fear. And for that, you were subconsciously thankful.

However, when your eyes fluttered open after the fall… To your shock, you were hovering over the ground. Moist soil, covered in green leaves, was the only thing in your line of sight. Birds poked at the back of your head, pinching at your skin. Anxiously, you fanned them away.

There was a pressure pulled against your lower stomach, keeping you suspended in the air. You released a groan, reaching for the tightness restricting your lower abdomen. It was the belt of your seat, still locked into the gear that was connected to the cushion. Mindlessly, you tugged at it, dizzy from the fall and the oxygen being squeezed out of you.

When your thumb found the release button, you yelped as you dropped from your suspension, hitting the ground with a thud. Your arms barely braced your fall, causing you to fall face first into the dirt, getting a mouthful of soil.

Its dry, tanginess shocked your senses—waking you up from the trance that had enveloped you. You coughed it up, rubbing your tongue along the fabric of your shirt. “Oh, my God…” You muttered, leaning back onto your knees, taking in the endless environment that surrounded you. Slender stalks of trees went on for miles before you, and it set fear into your muscles.

Mei.

Just then, you gained the memory of the crash. The shutting down of the engine, a hole being blown into the side of the aircraft, the screaming and wailing—you crashed in the woods, but where? You were in a fucking plane crash!

“Mei!” You called for her, rasping, attempting to stand to your feet. You wobbled, scratching your sore throat. But, as you pivoted on your feet, you didn’t have to search far for your seat buddy. Your eyes widened at the sight, lips parting to erupt a horrified shriek.

Her body was strung up, caught in thick branches. Her warm, hazel eyes were wide open, frozen in a state of fear—looking at you. A branch was impaling her chest, propping her body up like a piece of meat on a skewer. It was the same branch that your seat was attached to; the one you fell from.

Your hands covered your mouth in horror, falling back onto your knees. “I’m so sorry… I’m so sorry…” You chanted, leaning into the ground, rocking your body to soothe yourself. Not that it was working. If you could climb the tree to take her down, you wouldn’t have enough strength to pry her from the branch. You couldn’t help her.

Then, the thought of everyone else flooded your mind. “Oh, my God— Ellie…” You whined, wiping your face that was getting covered in more dirt by the second. If something had happened to her… You wouldn’t know what to do. You’ve never been one for suicidal thoughts, but the idea would entice you.

For a moment, you couldn’t help but panic, imagining the worst. What if she was the one strung up like Mei—you wouldn’t be able to take it. The image of that flashed behind your eyelids, causing a cry to emit from your lips. Please, don’t be dead.

The smell of smoke and gas wafted into your nostrils, causing you to sit up. It must’ve been the plane.

Boom!

The sound of an explosion startled you, but it sounded close by. You refused to be alone—out in the middle of nowhere—so, you straightened up. You stood to your feet, dusting the dirt from your shorts. With a final glance to the fallen Mei, you pressed your fingers to your lips, sending a kiss her way. I’m sorry. Internally, you made a promise to never forget her because that was all you could do. She succumbed to one of her greatest fears—what a tragic way to meet one’s end.

However, you had a team to locate, despite the looming temptation of death looking you right in the eye—for the sake of self-preservation, and for the sake of proving to yourself that you weren’t alone in the torture that was the grief nesting inside of you.

taglist: @sawaagyapong, @violetszn, @vxsellie, @vahnilla, @cherryvinyl-777, @aphrodyk3, @lovinglynny.

[edenspoem]

copy that, romeo

— ellie williams was supposed to be your supervisor, not your object of infatuation ~ ♡

⋆❝ this is cordero tower, calling in.❞⋆

CHAPTER ONE: SUMMERTIME INTERLUDE . NEXT CHAPTER > ♡. pair; firewatcher!ellie x recruit!reader

♡. summary; it's 1995, and the angel crater national park welcomes you; a retrograde lookout all to yourself, a space nerd for a supervisor, and a whole summertime job spent in hues of sepia and juniper, waiting for the first sign of smoke. ninety–three days. you don't know her face, you share no breath— but by walkie–talkie, you know her voice.

♡. a/n; READ THESE; 1 and 2, HELP HERE, BOYCOTT. CLICK HERE. DO NOT BUY THE REMASTER, TLOU2, TLOU1, OR ANY GAME FROM NAUGHTY DOG! neil druckmann (the creator) is a zionist. PLEASE READ THIS. AND REBLOG THIS. ALSO THIS.

♡. content; EVENTUAL SMUT, narrator present, silly fourth wall breaking, a dash of comedy, slowburn (somewhat), living alone, long–distance pining, reader/characters are similar ages(mid–late 20s), depression, heavy metaphor usage, complicated poetry styles, mentions of organs, mentions of weaponry, metaphorical death, grim humor, drinking alcohol, drunk!ellie, drunken flirting (vaguely and bluntly), ellie jumpscare, uh-oh sassy masc apocalypse, she's corny and cheesy too (a dork), awkwardness, humiliation, lighthearted bickering, nicknames used. [lmk if i missed anything] . SERIES PLAYLIST .

WC; 6.1k+ ✮ thank you @trackinglessons for your sexy brain and beautiful ideas + custom art ✮ masterlist ✮ series masterlist ✮ ellie ref sheet

Summertime is the interlude between misery and Mondays.

  May was a rough patch for you. A coagulated chapter within the spring world, a shunned ponder, red jello in the gradience of passage. Tempus, time. Early months hence were just as pessimizing, doubt is an arid reservoir in you. But, as a maypole sits a svelte giant in the sweet Beltane soil, braving an invisible smile whilst little ones— little laughters, spun prances and wraps of dainty satin to an ensnare on its long body, it weeped for its delicate capture. You; flesh coarse like timber, relate to the log standing, ensnared. Sunk in that gelatinous texture, unmoving as pressures collided with the surface outward, ripples everywhere yet incapable of sprinkling through you. Something would have to delve itself to drag you out.

  Chapters; cusp of autumn to April, every single month, wound ‘round you. They each had separating colors, and spared turns to soundly fold your limbs and bulge your skin in ribbons. It snipped your circulation, shriveled the ripe breath in your skull and traded it for a pressure. A throb. Weight upon the cranium, you felt the narrowing cradle inside wilt from thought, drain from consciousness, and soften your stiff eyes locked on drywall. Hour to hour.

  But those weren't the only things taunting you with a dance— expectations danced faster. Expectators, paired minds heaping expectations; yourself and the selves blackjacking their wants expressed as worries onto you. Stressful creatures, they are. Bosses, co–workers, energy vampires disguised as lover boys prowling about your workspace, general creatures of the retail world. God, they're like ravenous wolves snarling hunger through their teeth, slobber moonlight–bright of that dire carnality for variety meats. Depression just took the first serving before they could.

  Even the domesticated places are a wilderness untamed.

  Stress drained you of life. It softened your desire to even try. Gods are dulling, blamed you, on another dull morning where the trickling sound of coffee pouring drilled irk into your ears, rather than simply a trickle. Caffeine, a roast so void–black was brewed to un–drain you. Yet, it fuckin didn't.

  Impugning was your everything, until it could no longer purify; Elaine. Emptiness. Hmm, you gave this state of vacuum–headed hollowness a name, keenly because it deserved so by its dismantling of your autonomy. You don't want it. It's not you. It's Elaine. A some–angel fallen out of grace, weary of its wander upon a washed up cove, beige toned and swept shivering–cold. Interested by the warmth your sundry organs pushed into its light silhouette. 

  And perhaps, if the bird was never freed from its heavenly cage, it would be powerless to pester you, to poke the meat inside with the pointy end of plumage.

  Elaine was an organized assault on your wellbeing, moreso against the pulpy, pinkish-gray blob sitting ugly above your throat. Believe it, or assume it. A paralysis, moving shoulders from bed sheets proved farcical, running bristles over your teeth twice a day rhymes with nonsense, and midnight ink born to swirl and curtsy to convey thoughts gone rancid, goes unused atop the white flutter between your journal hardcovers. You have a morbid case of the seasonal blues, except this time, the season is beyond its blue hues. Spring, a fuckin’ kaleidoscope embellished. Blotches of big fuck you greens so vibrant you'd long to die from your tears, and an abstract spit of smell me reds thorny as your stomach brought to a scream for something. Anything.

It was a slow, banal descent into the jello.

  January, floating atop the sweet delicacy, atop your bed.

  February, the solidity gave out beneath you, goo subtly etching around your ankles, calves, elbows, unforgivingly cold when it first hit. When in reality, the bed was heating from your lay.

  March, marrow goes heavy, your limbs at this time could not lift, your efforts waned, and satiating the rumble in you with sustenance was forgotten, as that rumble got so, so.. quiet. 

  April, the jello had stuffed your nose, your sockets, and lullabied your ligaments. You let it happen.

May.

  You let yourself sink. Let yourself decompose and go mush in the head. Like a zombie.

  The descent doesn't taste of sweet delight, but it also fails to churn your lips with a heavy saccharinity. Neutral, your hopeful side did say. Nothing, rationality slapped past your lips.

Five months, either a misery, or a Monday.

  Yes Eve, a bite out of the Apocrypha will indeed fill this human abysm in me. Forbidden knowledge is my craving. Contraband of truth, bite to bite, I envy that I could not cope with its coating of my empty gut earlier.

  Innocence is so dull. You are depressed, not a fucking saint for staying indoors, starving your rage.

  But on came a crisp bouquet of biker–boy newspapers; ‘Hiring’, and a few scans further; ‘Do you harness a great love for the evergreen?’

  A honed section in Missoula's local print— jobs. A publisher boldens and compresses enthusiasm sporadically; writing–on–the–wall hollers speckle themselves meticulously on the newsprint that strike a sense of obligation into the susceptible and soft–of–heart chunk of the population. A pert voice read with persuasion between your ears, gritty in tone and stereotypical of a middle aged ranger, vocals fried by cigarettes but as booming as a cannon.

“Do you care for the animals inhabiting our national sanctuaries?”

  Abutting small paragraphs, the sagging belly of a black bear, tender caramel snout and snoopy–faced, fitted on its head a mustard yellow campaign hat labeled, ‘Smokey’. Its burly, blundering frame on all fours stood out over a comic–style vista of the Montana rockies, paws obscured by blocks of thickset text reading ‘Only you’.

  Huh, a realistic depiction of Smokey Bear— over a not–so–realistic background, avant–garde. 

  Tree greens sprawly that didn't shout ‘Fuck you’ on your poor, sunken eyes searing for sleep and a twilight darkness. Sagey lichens that didn't draw out the spasms above your own bones, calling your regard to bring pin–sized problems and blemishes sprawling your own flesh out of the bliss of ignorance. Brunette muds with only a fleck of sun, a slice of earth dull, humble and unprocessed enough from benevolence to leave you unconsumed, unsunken. A mere slop and pudge in the future and wake of your walk. Nothing obnoxiously grand, nothing sanctimonious. Nature is by birth— righteous, regardless.

  “Before we can be proud of our nation, our nation must be proud of us!”

  The advertisement gropes for a summertime made free. A cyclopean sinkhole in the becoming of time. Recruits–in–waiting are called to bargain normalcy and the bustling cities plump with lumbering limbs of sheen–tight pantyhose shaded under short shapes of plaid skirts for boot–cuts n’ backpacks hefty with gear that could either save you the trouble of mountaineering by path, or trouble your time with a faulty snapping of two things. Rope and neck.

Too grim?

  A months’–long moment of tension snapped at the pressure joint— Summertime the snapper.  You'd be devoting ninety–three suns, ninety–two moons, and some two–million breaths of fir laden air up in Angel Crater National Park, northwest of here. Pupils flickering the double-page setup, you continue: A pictographic, old–fashioned lookout taller than the timber spires surrounding would be your station, your core of operations, for those three young and sunny months. Boxed provisions and supplies are guaranteed to ship every other week, and testimonies encourage even the anxious, balmy buzzes of your brain to sigh in solace learning that the weald creatures there— are mostly harmless, if you aren't bred an imbecile. Alongside, an appointed supervisor, whose name was never disclosed duly except for a scratch of text gingerly clasped in quotations reading, “E.R.W” trailing the mention of said supervisor. What’s required of you was delivered plain written and patent on that shoddy newspaper, held thick in your intrigued thumbs; Keep the forest from catching wild fire.

  You fiddled the idea. Should I? Or should I wallow the summer away? Fiddled it anxiously, fiddled it needily, bumped the clumped rim of the newsprint on your cupid's bow in bending rumination, steadied it cause newspaper smells oddly good— but next to minutes racing hours upon musing, a conclusion had to knock your static looping of gloomdom in the butt.

  One phone call, and the bird would be barred again. Pesterer, Elaine the Terrible, would be cast back where eyes can't roll over the cottony clouds. Just a couple fucking prods to your number–pad, might genuinely un–drain you.

  Luckily, you aren't an idiot reared to take bullshit longer than meritted.

You took the job.

May 30th, 1995, 7:28 PM.

  What does any clever pedestrian traipsing capricious terrain store in their pack to avoid total gangly–branch–grips–of–nature butchery?

Item one; Black nylons— scratch that, you aren't getting paid to snag at every kink and curl of the forest, tighties of gossamery fabrics are a no–go. Citywear stays citywear. Double scratch on those sweet, blackberry Mary Janes too prized and polished to muck up in shit of the earth. Immolating the rigid underside of some chunky hiking boots to the unruly woodlands is the adrenaline pinnacle of out–worlding, come on. It proves you've got a hardy backbone and the right row of teeth to chew what you've bitten off, sullying boots ‘till the color is forevermore stained. Backup boots are tradition, so that's item number two. Best get used to cargo, ankle–length overalls and miscellaneous graphic tees, cause the rockies’ fashion gurus can't get enough of ‘em!

Clothing, check.

  Swathes of ropes twined pumpkiny orange and plenty of clanging anchors to bolt them in, goddesses and gods forbid you be tight on anchors. Medical kits— duh, did you trudge all from yonder just to die out here? This country is dicey, at the cuddly claw of a bear, or not. Hair ties, scrunchies you hoarded as a teenager in the eighties, disposable camera to suit your flaky memories, and an eclectic dump of nutty and fruity cereal bars galore. Unless you're allergic. Substitute.

Accessories and essentials, check.

  Ah, and a spare pistol and switchblade in replacement of newcomer paranoia! Keep that hush–hush though. No matches or lighters, obviously.

True American, illegal weaponry, check.

  All this paraphernalia bangs and clangs heavily on the polyester holding of your backpack, straining your scruff uncomfortably as you tiptoe, scarcely tumble, and tread lightly across a log. It creaks, it groans, it wobbles slightly over the blaring white rush of a stream, suctioning your heart–to–stomach when it grinds a wee bit louder than you thought it should.

  “Shit!” you crimp your torso in and dart wary hands on the timber beam at your feet, assuming a gawky newborn–bambi–pose in hesitation, shuddering in cracked tones, “This can't be the right way..” 

  Hoping on an evaporated sun, you frazzlingly testify in repetitive thought that the map mailed by the rangers a week prior led you on this perilous and incorrect path.. for the last two days. Winding and wounding, literally— your bruises are measureless and on top of that ache your skin to want no more of this. But, you have to. A boulevard of brown, short and stout, wrung unyielding from one gray side to the greener other, a shortcut. Assumed to be a shortcut, based on the route drawn by utter confusion.

Oh yeah, and remember the advertisement stating the park was twenty-five miles out?

Nothing about that hot-press, black-cat inked newspaper accounted for the extra eight weighing your ankles down and your motivation dead low. Twenty-five only stretched out unto the ranger parking lot. The entrance, for fuck's sake.

  Shaky flit of your digits, they float gently off the carve–veined surface of the wood, unfolding your spine as you rise. “Wrong way—” you utter to your chest, oven–warm as it puffs, “—gotta be the wrong..” 

  Tentative–ism is normal here, right? Like, no way you're cautious and sweating at the brow for nothing. Right? 

  One foot— creeakkk— in front of the prudent other, two sailing lunges, three hurried hops and a matched thud soft as marshmallows plants your shoes to hallowed ground. Blades of verdant whiskers so innocent crush under, and it feels fucking— demeaning, actually. All that gulping and pausing.. for nothing.

  You tuck a shoulder–glance to the makeshift ricket of a bridge, and blankface, “Didn't feel like killing me today?”

The tree bears no reply.

  “Hmph, surprising. Seeing as someone killed you,” a sigh parts, fading into the whip and straightening of your head, “figured the pursuit of revenge doesn't stop at ghosts.” and the hoist of your boot up, carrying onward.

  Sundown paints, crescent layers repose approaching moonlight and dying sunlight sprawls psychedelic limbs above you. Balance ambling in tiny bops only made the swirling grasp of those gradient rays more trippy on your eyes and coercive of daydreams, rot–nip for the brain. You spot nutbrown brick— a fireplace in your mind, fevered heat roasting on the inside wall of your forehead too. It was Christmas before the storm, a subzero December. And it was, in fact, colder than the unreachable heaven. Dad was hunkered down in front of that innocuous amber crackle, his right leg slack to the ground and his left arched in the neck of an acoustic guitar, arms plaiting its hollow curve into his chest. 1971, when the veil through and within was thin, and love–vomit poured so easily through. A time of justified ignorance; Childhood. 

  Stood you adjacently, legs short and posolutely not stout, dimpled in the knees. Aged two years, and mushy as ambrosia, contorting your mouth jubilant as you're told for the camera, contrary to your father with his expression drooping to his strumming fingers. Sickly sweets, adult–you unpurposefully neglects to twirl lips at, your extraordinary grins now turned ordinary flat–lines. Holiday memoirs, those spoiled ripe quick after adulthood bolted itself in the slabs of your tender spine and instilled an artificial love for labor and country, displacing nostalgia from ever being seen as a flesh existence. 

“Say cheese!”

  America is sub–human, and sub–humans created America, the imperfect cycle. Families tear, eagles outcry, friends drink their death, and the days continue to unfold without a trace of acknowledgement. Days exist where you soak festivities and stave off the pointer–finger poking at so called slack you relish, and some twenty dwindling years ahead the slowly deadening oak grove road, carousals will be criminally known as layabout–makers.

Joy is a luxury now.

  A blockage prevents your foot from winching clean forward, meeting the bone–hard kiss of a boulder to sore your toes. “Fuck!” you brand your throat walls to a shout, pissed at the rock rather than your woolgather that lead you to said rock, “Fucking fuckhead rock!”

  Woolgather means daydreams, by the way. Funner to use words that don't make a split of sense. Yay for English.

 The sunset clouds dripped with a mania of fascination and had strung your brain to its hypnotic whims, like a siren had soloed a trance, drifting your mind somewhere utopian and phantasmagorical. It sounds silly, but, blanking out seems so often out of grasp from your control, you usually could never flag what caused it, when it started, and why. Nothing practical surfaces. Fuck, your head is so tangled upon memories, you haven't even noticed the progression of scenery twelve o’clock from you. 

  Ponderosa boughs band together where your eyes brush shapes and forage for a clue of what scene wants to greet you ahead. The sequestering silence of rustles indicates a clearing, possibly. Possible as it could be, you fully expected this cruel footslog to wallop your ass into a minefield, so you bet cards and course carefully beneath the crowns of pine, completely bent to the chance of another obstacle threatening your tender ankles. Leafy whispers above strum your ears brimmed with its sotto voce song, and then— colors it silently behind.

“Holy shit.”

  Presence crumbles above you, and opens before you. The lookout. Wood shafts slant in opposing directions, up and up along four brawny beams in three consecutive layers, like a blocky cone. The face closest to you overlaps the backing rest, giving the illusion of tufted wooden legs sketched under all lackadaisical. Endgame daylight spies from behind this one–roomed cyclops, gushing final spurts of citrus rays as if it truly was an orange squeezed to pulp. So, the flank and forehead of that towering, mountainscaping lookout rolling a cold shoulder to the sun, paves in a tattered tapestry of garnet smokiness instead. Shadow of sundown. From where you sow feet, a football field apart, petty details are difficult to squint into clarity, but the window panes appear tawny, too.

  An intimidation, “So much for a tiny room.” A beaute intimidation, “And no actual bathroom.” it makes you feel like a genuine insect compared.

  A sort of stairwell serpent faintly chokes the foot, the calves, the thighs, and punctures kindly a mouth leading up to the skirting balcony hedged in many gaunt teeth. Tamping gravel closer, subtleties and fine points fade as the tower's plank–lined and flat underbelly turns to you. Larger and larger, it dips darkly from miniscule masquerade.

  Bringing your decently aching foot to the first step, you press into the curb and meander your cruder aching— thanks to a random boulder— foot weirdly on the outer ridge of your boot. Making it up the stairs to fund yourself a fucking break was a palpable mockery in itself. Like, ‘Hey! Climb this long–ass stairwell for a teensy break before doing it all over again the next day!’. 

Un–fucking–believable. 

  Fifty years of history and past rangers grate in your walk, the floorboards thump with their stories, thump into your skin— verse you a wordless eulogy. Each step is a sentence, and every sentence branches into a whole tree of genealogy, lives. Lifestyles you can't understand now, but will.

  Really redundant of me to highlight the generations alive in those floorboards. The walk up there isn’t that exciting.

  After the last step, you're met eye–to–frame with a scratched door, pygmy window centered and paper–screened from within, and the stories predating your stay inspire a comical theory, “Jeez— bears make it up here?” you half–suppress a snort, palming a fist on the doorknob coldly before rotating and giving sympathetic pressure to the door.. jammed. 

  “C’mon..” knuckles pulse into the knobs plate, gradually upping the force you pushed, “.. losing light out here..” eventually adding your other hand to sweeten the push.

  Sure, a whole year has gone by since it homed somebody, and it's retro, but come on.

  Breaking splinters into the door was your last intention, so you try so–so carefully— to some extent, “Please..” now butting the tip of your boot on the rim to ease it— ease, and finally pry, a clapback of wind blowing dusty, nightfall air past your crescent cheeks following the snap of the fallow door.

  Thank goodness for your grace and balance, some days, avoiding a timely trip face–first to a floor so powdered in light dust, any kid would mistake it for a good time sweeping snow angels. 

  Not so good for the respiratory system though.

  Muggy space filtering your lungs tightly, you cough out, “Gah— fuck!” nothing higher than the level of a guttural wheeze, your chest punching into your throat. Gaping out the last flock of butterflies clumped at your collarbones, the tickle inside calms, and you find your sights taking in a dark box. A dim orb of lily silver glow rests in the middle of the pall room, raising the natural, “Where's the ligh— ah, big clunky thing—” 

  Flicking the off–white and stubby nub attached to an impractically sized lightswitch, which frankly resembles an electric box externally, an essence of Apollo ladens the room. Lemony–gold light, passably bright off the redwood ceiling, and murmuring a low buzz through one ear, and out the other, your pupils caper along the contrasting shades awakened.

  “Definitely retro, but.. no roommates.” spoke you, gingerly content with the colors piecing this camper pad together. You observe.

  Forget–me–nots bled the cotton bedsheets baby blue, leavening the mattress with a tidy emotion as it's tucked, folded at the top and draped in a complimentary quilt— benevolent blues, hues your lids soften on. The bed beelined from the doorway, a corner counter fawn–brown as the wood extends adjacent to it, covering the northeastern angle of the room. Magpied brands of canned food clutter shelves, spines spanning thick books of epic poetry to sci–fi comics create a ribcage of literature along a compact bookcase perching that countertop, and sunken in the east side of it, a steel sink. It shimmered sunflower bands of light as you moved, a rainbow–arched faucet brightened completely.

  Step by step, you draw near a circular table in the middle. Strange rods and gadgets stuck out of the borders, inlaid glass protecting a local map so sleek you could see a phantom of your face in it, and a black bar looming the width, so it rings with tangible importance. Of which you'll gauge about later. Truthfully, the journey by foot here? Dead–beating, your knees bloated, throbbed flesh hot, and almost buckled; fatigues infamous way of scolding you to sit the fuck—

“Sup Maple lake, you there?” 

  A pang hammers to your heart, and a crawlish wave of startled blood pales from your face and drops to your jaw, “Jesus!” sweat hitting you a blink after, every normal function just— flunked. That voice, more like a ruptured stereo sizzling, caught you the fuck off guard. Now you dither, dumbassery taking your eyes through a new loop of figuring out where–why–how and what the robotic intruder wants.

  But pre–realizing, your ears perk to a more coherent, and outstretched string of static, “C'mon, know you're checked in.” and post–realization tugs your eyes to a mustardy n’ black cased device; a walkie–talkie.

  Okay, way to creep recruits out. Whoever, for whatever reason— at the nick of night too, gimme’ a break. You wry, knitting raisin crinkles above your nose, trying to discern your palette of options; pick up the walkie, tap in and feign politeness in the shortest and sluggiest scraps of small talk to be done with the day, or rant off the bat— highlight how fucking late it is, and how taxing a double–goddamned–day hike made your head and patience feel. And right now, the second response route feels arguably more tempting than—

  “This is Cordero Tower, calling in. Can see ya’ standing by the Osborne, by the way.” 

  Its staticy feedback has waned completely, densening a thick husk and tilting towards a honeyed undertone. Relaxed sounding or not, what the fuck.

  You react predictably, flicking your chin west, then east only for you to meet the dead of night— thanks mountains— stalking perfectly in every single window. So, useless to check. Answering it was a yes–go, it would be sickenly awkward to thrust it under the rug now. Your knees pull forward, eyes calligraphing the power buttons tinted in cherry light, palm drawing to meet your focal point.

  The case is ribbon gentle under your fingertips’ graze, fresh and in store–new condition. Maybe the only thing hot from the pot of newfangled technology. Plastic intricacies roll under until you settle on a swollen button, denting the plush of your finger as you press, hold, and speak. A crisp crackle activates your line, tuning you in.

    Breath hesitates between your chords, “Maple.. lake.. speaking,” off–the–tongue words manifesting on–the–spot, “you can see me?”

  “Yeah.” the walkie chuckles, sugary curl pitching up and through their tone, “Look out ur’ north window, you'll see her.”

Her?

  Nooking your nose north, you only widen pupils on that same, starless coast of darkness nosing the rim of your window sills. What do they mean to—

  “Nh–no,” You literally said north, “get closer to the window, n’ look up.” What, are you a fucking sparkling, rasp–voiced eagle?

  “Fuck are you talking about,” mouthed you void of voice, stumped on what this person was getting at. Wedging your knuckles below the meshy underside of your backpacks right strap, you wrangle it down your arm as you glide rubbery sole along croaking oak, tossing that bag so cumbersome atop a lily white pillow— looking fresher than a daisy, and clamber the mattress pliantly dented to your knees to grasp a broader panorama. 

  And with that window hood washed over, a convoy of fireflies focus a tiny constellation in the murked glass. Little pinholes of light, dots in the distance. They rough–hew a blur, but the excess seconds taken to brood squints and balance the blurry blotches, an outline crops up. Another fire lookout, sprouting from rock and rise of a berg. Offspring of the distant cordillera that gives this whole park its sense of a cradled–woodland, but either way thought, a lookout hosts it home on top.

  “You can see me from all the way out there?” you wondered, truly. I mean— at minimum, a sore sprawl of miles bridges you both.

  “Mhm..” a pause loiters that fluid hum, then some really throaty syllables, “Binoculars~” you could almost envision— nah, feel the stare of those binocs, undoubtedly taking note of every contort in your body right now.

  “Oh thats, totally.. not,” you blunt your tone, shying a few inches from the glass, “.. creepy.” awkwardly. “Uh, who are you anyways— are you like, uh, another recruit?” as you engage small talk, grumpy frown pouting, the habit of kissing your wrist to your jaw as you would a piglet–tailed telephone overruns your burnt out focus, having to wince the walkie away when your eardrums nearly burst.

Ouch.

  “For one, I'm actually your supervisor. I know, I don't sound like a typical smoker–lunged, middle–aged white dude.” their tone gruffs and deepens to impersonate, finger air quotes practically radiating from the other end, “And two, my name is Ellie— Ellie Miller–Williams, if you care.”

  “Don't.” you heave out the pain stretching your head, aching each time you simply thunk.

  “Straightforward,” her timbre ups in approval, seemingly, “I like it. I like you, recruit I dunno’ the name of.” and a bubble hics her throat, quite audibly.

  “Not single.” Wrong, just uninterested. Hooking two fingers in the fabric handle of your bag and craning it to the ground, with scattered grates of plastic buckles skating the floor.

“What?”

  Oh, shit she wasn't— oops, ‘course she meant that platonically, heads so damn muggy,  “Uh, it's—my name.. sorry I’m just a bit out of the loop—” Dumbass, unscramble your brain alphabet soup, will you?

  “That’s a long ass name, what were your parents thinking? Haha.” Her duo–beat chuckle flares your humiliation, and then proceeds to pinch its swollen parts into total inflammation, “Where does it originate from?”  

  Cheesy bitch, “Can you not— I like, pfhh..” you temper yourself with a moon–cool blow to chap your lips and inflate your cheeks, ending up with a draw of an even more loosened tongue sour as it complains, “Did a whole two–day hike through the most torturous terrain just to get here, I really don't—”

Please.

  And if gripes trudged through teeth aren't persuasive enough, you recess your bone–ache bod avidly in the springy haven of your bed which chirped at your weights shifting motions, collarbones packing down on your vocal chords. You shouldn't sound up to chat whatsoever. Instead, vehemently drained, “I just wanna get some shut eye, talk me over n’ the mornin’.” your thumb lying a button away from disconnecting. 

  “Hey, hey—” Ellie ushered, her slurry breath fogging up the mic. Lips squeak softly into it, smacking before an intone, “Can't I be a little curious?”

  You synchronized in noise, sucking teeth behind heart–pursed lips, “Do you think somebody this exhausted has the appetite to entertain you?” stilling your thumb–pad on the power off key.

  “If I keep bothering you,” that alone ticked you, her blatant drive to carry on when your brain rejected its substance, “.. yeah. Maybe you'll be nicer then too.. huph!” a heartier peep hicced up on the speaker, and right then that noise jogged a discovery.

“Are you drunk?” has to be.

  Of course, she ignores the naked and sorely obvious, “Did your boyfriend break ur’ heart or something— an’ that's why you're out here?” bottle sloshing in the background of her mumble.

  Dumbstruck, you furrow a miffy expression, “W–what, boyfriend?” 

  “Said you weren’t single.” she recalls, warmly unspinning the fuddle that knit your brows, “Think I forget so easily?” drawled like a sultry retort, baking your ears.

You a hundred percent forgot though.

  Gosh, short–term memory sucks, or it's just your energy drought making you woozy. Blame it on lethargy, “No no, that was just.. tired talk. I thought you were hitting on me.” 

  “Oh? That's cute.” her choosing to say that latter statement unfolded discordantly, you seriously couldn’t gauge if that was a flirt, or another paper daisy— mock honey, a platonic notion. Even so, it sounded so damn smooth, lace to the ears. “But no, I wasn't— m'not like gay or ‘whutever.” stammered her, light snort fanning.

  A stifled chuckle hops from your chest, mixing with hers, “Uhuh, cool.” halfway uncaring and halfway amused, bafflement working your facial muscles. 

  “Yeah, um, but seriously..” her voice drifts into a ponderous rasp, the faint rustles of flimsy paper licking page to page subtler than her speech, “what's got you out here, newbie?”

“Newbie. Really?” A brow pricks.

  “I mean, you're new— new to the lookout, new to the job, in need of my phenomenal supervision and my wide range of knowledge. Yeah, a newbie.” 

  Then your brow mellows, tension held in your face dropping dead on backhanded flattery, “You are funnily agonizing.”

  “Aw.” her scratchily suave coo has your jaw set like stone, “That's so sweet.” but her short–lived song has your heartstrings soaked in ripe honeycomb, touched to the core by sweetness nebulose and an assortment of some foreign threads. Thickened heart, tighter ribs, a churn to weaken your stomach, a maverick of things unfamiliar to you.

  Momentaries, but still noticeable even if your senses were twisted backwards.

  Chewing over how you'll begin to explain, a few letters sift through your chords, until you hook on a sigh, “Ah, well, I'm out here for a fuck ton of reasons—”

“Reasons, or— huhp, problems?” Ellie blurt–hics, nosy.

“..”

  A brief gulp and exhale wheezes from her, “Sorry, it's the bourbons’— super good. Continue.” 

 You loosely split your mouth, gasping to exchange a gale for words pressing out, “A series of reasons, and problems, that I don't bother to lay on a grand platter, so you'll get a summary tossed on an appetizer plate.” you preface. Allow an elliptical gap to cut through, rousing her hum to let you know her ears are as intent–peaked as a Chihuahua’s, “Contact with my parents’ has gone cold, my last job made me want to hurl into a pack of crocodiles— and the city became too loud and too heavy–handed. Saw this job on the local paper, and got the hell out of dodge.”

An omissive summary, you meant. 

  There’s more that eats the heart. People can’t just.. drop the burden of knowledge wantonly on randos like they’re idling under fertile treetops waiting for the apples to plummet, biting into a pulpy biography. She’s just a girl, not a therapist.

  A discomforted purr lengthens into her reply, “Mmmmh, ever try a drink or two?” her intoxicated reply.

  “Oh, see,” you flap your hand and slap it to your denim clad thigh, “you are drunk.” as if she could even see your gesture.

  “No, I’m Ellie, hmhm~” comes with a giggle, and you consider her state of insobriety to be— wavering, but it’s stimulating to hear her fluctuate between groaned jokes and extra raspy comments, “Still haven’t told me your name though.”

  Some moments during this whole ‘Who are you?’ seminar made you concerned for your future here— if you’ll make it out psyche intact, but some moments found by winnowing through the illogical backtalk touched you with inbound camaraderie.

  Invisible touches that inhabit your neck with a leak of your name so— sincerely. It transforms into a fairer sound on your ears when she repeats it, affirming it. Nobody else's teeth clutches your name so welcome as she.

  “Hmm, ‘name kinda fits your voice.” odd commentary, but since composed with her already peculiar and drunken tongue, the shoe fits.

  That said, crabby confusion seems easier to articulate, “Thanks, weirdo.” but lips rebellious, they press an inevitable grin together. 

“No problem, sleepyhead.”

So many nicknames.

  Recognizing that downtick in hubbubs and breaths on the walkie, checking out for the night posed as a passionate option the burden weighing your eyelids couldn't or shouldn't veto. So you haul your torso up, kick and poke your toes over ankles to butt your boots off prior planting your heels, whisking toward the lightswitch and committing your lookout to swell with the outside's dark fresco. 

Stygian tones.

  “Speaking of sleepy heads..” you taper off speech, leaving the rest to her— touch wood— wide enough, hopefully–not–drunk–enough imagination to fathom as you slide and slip desperately beneath woolen blankets, sleepy worries, and sentences sailed to rest.

  “Aw man.” Ellie bums so, so stupidly, for comical value.

“Yeah, man.”

  “Mpht—” wetness smacks, “wanted to bore a pretty girl to death with recruit regulations and syllabi..”

How would you know?

  In reality, Ellie was reaching a transcendent caliber of wasted, drinking up your atmospherics and drunken to her gutly core. Woods hatch forlorn people; forlorn people get thirsty, “But, mhh, heads’ nearly falling off, whoof.” she expresses a soaring of vowels, but it parallels a gruff howl more. 

  Drowsy, buzzy jubilancy, plucking her flirty strums. You sugarcoat the flare in your chest hearing ‘pretty girl’, ears clicking to the swallow convincing your heart that Ellie was not flirting. As established; She’s under the influence, and not gay. Your brain repeats that, over and over, repeat, repeat, she isn’t flirting. 

  “Hey, here's a tip..” you inch the walkie a penny away from your flopped head, clefting your lip open, “Don't get drunk on the job. They didn't hire you to decoct your brain the day before chaperoning a recruit in the literal wilderness. So, stash that shit, n’ let's both get some shut eye, yeah?” and saying all that, may have just cashed in your last dose of breath and brain cells for the night.

  Ellie being Ellie— well, what you suspect is a ‘her’ thing after these few speckled minutes, dopily laughs at you. And dammit if she wasn't glamoring a dopey smirk in accord, you’ll have gleaned wrong.

  A voice, “Who’s the boss again?” her witty and cruel wisecrack, “They didn't pay you to boss the— hup, boss around.” 

  They will pay you to confront and reflect your spectrum of limits if this girl brushes their seams, that's for certain. Or, play God and lambast her, tender as milk.

  There's even a stroke of a chance, that your crooked lips poached her dopey grin instead, “Kay, well, maybe they'll reimburse me for your poor services.” 

  “My services are not poor. You'll see, tomorrow.” the volume of her melts away, going muted under liquid swills clanging on glass.

  “Please tell me that's the sound of you putting the bottle away.”

  “Mhm!” came out plugged, the bottle confining her garble, then popping clean as a cork, “Fuck— okay,” she siphons air in, pure little clink tinting the end of her sharp–edged sniffle, “Make sleeping in earlier worth it t’morrow, wanna drive you nuts with my questions.” she nasals, drawing near the mic again.

  Such a magpie, “Cause you're lonely?” and weird.

  “Shut up,” she shushes you, a satin whisper light–hearted and quick on beat, “M’not lonely anymore, right?” The type of softly spoken outcry that would balloon your cheeks with soreness if you were face–to–face with the throat that conducts it. Involuntary smiles plague you everywhere. But there is no mouth, no larynx, no throat that you view the swallow of. Just a walkie, so you settle in stoicism.

  You tug your upper–lip and pivot your eyes, drumming up something clever to combat, “In a sense. Not like we’re bunkmates, thank goodness.”

  “Fuck you,” Ellie breaks into a cuss spout so serenely, she sounded small and harmless, “just go to bed.” reduced to birch in winter shed of its brittle autumn arguments.

“Don’t gotta tell me once.”

  By the first full and emphatic giggle she cast just now that wasn’t suppressed nor achieved by humble pie, you take it that Ellie found you funnily harrowing just as her, two peas in an outstretched pod. Fault be with her, for getting wasted. Otherwise, you might have pried her skull open with questions dolled up as a pruner, clipping the forelimbs that are foliated in a messy breadth of first glance leaflets and attitudes until you piece it prettily, in a way that thralls you to never shrink your eyes back into their sockets. Drunk people are like prone beehives though, so you don't prod them.

Tomorrow, you can paint her portrait, or vice versa.

“Whatever you say, newbie.”

And with the whirry crunch of the walkie shutting off, Monday, came to a close.

if you enjoyed this chapter, please lmk what you thought!! i love getting asks about my content ♡

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[ideas-on-paper]

On Carlo and Romeo's relationship & homosexuality in Victorian schools

In my quest to find out more about Carlo and Romeo's lives at Monad Charity House, I have once again resorted to my tried and tested method of historical research, this time with a primary focus on Victorian boarding schools.

Along the way, I stumbled upon Lord Alfred Douglas, aka "Bosie" Douglas, the lover of Oscar Wilde. As people familiar with them may know, their gay romance caused quite a stir in 1895 due to the (in)famous trials of Wilde for “gross indecency”, the tragic result of which was that the latter was convicted to two years of hard labor that ruined his health.

Both already had their fair share of gay affairs beforehand though - Bosie specifically was very popular among his peers during his time at Oxford University, being excellent at sports, artistically gifted and incredibly handsome, so it's not too surprising he hooked up with some of his fellow students. What absolutely had me rolling on the floor was this statement, however (quoted from this page):

"[...] we argue that the English public schools in the last part of the nineteenth century tolerated, if they did not actually encourage the development of strong homoerotic friendships between students."

Apparently, homosexuality in boarding schools was so common people made off-hand jokes about it. In the novel Rites of Passage by William Golding, the protagonist finds a fellow traveler engaged in oral sex with a sailor, thinking of it as "that silly schoolboy prank". Admittedly, Golding wrote his novel in the 20th century, so we don’t know for sure if the 19th-century attitudes portrayed in it are accurate, but this might imply that sexual interaction between schoolboys was fairly common.

In the first edition of Tom Brown's School Days by Thomas Hughes, published in 1857, there was even a passage of the protagonist insulting two boys who were clearly in a sexual relationship with senior boys, with the author commenting that "everyone who studied at Rugby would understand why this passage was necessary". (Hughes himself was Christian and condemned homosexual relationships; the concerning passage was cut out in later versions).

This does not mean, however, that all the boys attending boarding schools were gay - rather, because boarding schools were restricted by gender, they had their first sexual experiences in this male-only environment. Many of them would try the exact same thing out with a girl later and find they enjoyed it much more. However, there were also those who never felt any desire to try it out with a girl - and given how close Carlo and Romeo were, I would honestly be more surprised if there wasn’t anything romantic going on between them.

I mean, it’s not like the entire LoP community isn’t already shipping Carlo and Romeo, but in case there was ever any doubt about it, take it from me: I’m positive these boys were gay.

And in case anyone feels like pointing out that “well, actually, the setting of Lies of P is based on France”: Homosexuality was already decriminalized in France as early as 1791 by the National Constituent Assembly, making France the first Western European country to do so - or rather, the penal code drafted with the intention to only punish "real crimes" made no mention of homosexual acts in private. Still, it was a major step for gay rights.

[afro-hispwriter]

The Diamond Queen

Soldier Boy/Ben x f!supe!reader

Summary- you loved Soldier Boy, but he almost killed your brother which made you erase him completely from your life… until he pops back up

Warning- A LOT OF DIALOGUE, ooc ben(slighty), mentions of 9/11

wc- 1.5k+

-

"I think I know who can help us find this weapon." Says Annie and everyone turns to her. 

"Who?" Asks MM.

"Diamond Queen." 

"Noir's twin sister?" Butcher asks and takes a step forward while squinting his eyes. "Nobody's heard from her since 9/11 when she redirected the plane that was intended to hit the Pentagon." 

"Yeah, she is a national hero for that b-but im sorry what does she have to do with Soldier Boy? I mean Noir is her brother and all so she had to have met him at some point but I don't see how she could help." Says Hughie. 

"She can help us because she was Soldier Boy's fiancé."  Maeve's voice pierces through the air and they all look at her. 

"What about Crimson Countess?" Asks Frenchie. 

"All an act by Vought, just like when me and Homelander were together," Maeve responds. 

"This is huge why are we just finding out about this?" Hughie asks in complete shock. MM sighs and cracks his knuckles. 

"Because. Don't think the world or really Vought wanted to see the Golden Son with a black woman, even if she is a supe." 

"Vought doesn't mess with her, they give her what she wants and leave her alone, in turn, she won't mind control all of them and tell them to jump off a building." Maeve finishes and Kimiko taps Frenchies shoulder and signs,

Who's Diamond Queen?

"Oh yes. Uh her name is Y/n L/n, her skin turns to Diamonds so it makes makes her impenetrable. But when she isn't diamonds her skin is like Translucents. Her telepathy is dangerous, it's even rumored that she could control every mind in New York and make them do her bidding. As for her telekinesis, it's strong enough to stop a crashing plane coming at full speed." Frenchie whispers to Kimiko and she takes in every word.

They knew they needed the weapon that killed Soldier Boy but they were underpowered and getting desperate. So they all collectively agreed that Diamond Girl was their best chance.

"Now let's go pay the telepath a visit?" 

-

You sensed a large group of people the second they stepped foot on your property. You had a nice house on your own property, a courtesy from Vought

Three were normal, two were supes, and one who you couldn't get a grip of what you were sensing. Their thoughts were loud.

What if she's dead?

What if she doesn't even want to hear us out and makes us slit our throats for even asking? It wouldn't be the first time.

What if she wasn't engaged to Soldier Boy? 

The mention of your old lover made you drop the dish you were washing. There was no way they could know about that. You felt like you couldn't move like you were trapped in your mind. You were brought out of it due to the loud banging on your door. You wiped your hands on your pants and shakily walked to the door. 

You opened the door and the man you instantly knew as William Butcher appeared. 

"William Butcher." You looked at him and them behind him. "Hugh Campbell. Marvin Milk. Starlight. I've seen you all on TV but I don't know your names." You pointed at the man and the Asian girl, with the slightest twitch of your eye. You smiled. "Serge, or Frenchie, and you are Kimiko." 

"Fascinating." Says Frenchie and crosses his arms. 

"What do you want?" You ask and swallow, already knowing the answer. 

"We need your help," Hughie says and you bit your inner cheek. 

"You don't need me." You say and start to close the door but Butcher stops it

"We have a plan to take down Homelander." At the mention of the man's name, your breath hitches. 

"Nobody can kill Homelander." 

"That's the same thing they said about your fiancé's love." You froze and your jaw slacked. 

"H-How did y-you-." 

"I know a lot do things, just like I know that you know your lover didn't just die from a nuclear bomb." You glare at the Australian before opening the door and walking away. They took the invitation to come in and all piled in your house. You sat down and looked at the kitchen and swirled your fingers. Everyone watched a tray lift and cups move out of the cupboard. From there the refrigerator opened and a water filter came out and started filling up the cups.

"Why do you want from me?" 

"We need you to work your magic and get us to Russia." Says Butcher and a small tray with a teakettle a cup and an assortment of teas floated towards him.

"What's in Russia?" There was a deep breath that came from Annie.

"The weapon that killed Soldier Boy."

"I can find minds, not weapons." The tray of cups of water set itself on the coffee table and everyone grabbed one, besides Butcher. 

"We need your mind magic and get us to Russia." MM chimes in.

"How?"

"There is a woman who I have a history with. Bad history. She can get us a plane to Russia but she is proving to be a bit difficult." Frenchie responds.

"What's in it for me?" 

"Justice for your former future hubby." You let out a loud scoff before chuckling, confusing everyone there. 

"You think I want justice for that son of a bitch after what he did?" They all looked at each other not knowing what to think. "I'll do this to help you kill Homelander, me and Noir talk so I know what he does. But not for Soldier Boy."

"Well just as long as it gets done, I don't care who you're doing it for." 

-

You got 'Little Nina' to arrange a plane for 'The Boys' as they have been calling themselves. 

You kept this deal away from your brother, making sure that he wouldn't find out about Butcher or the others being at your house. 

After Noir's 'accident' and he lost his ability to talk. You had built a connection between the two of you so you could communicate wherever you were(as long as both of you were in an acceptable range) and whenever. 

Quite literal Twin Telepathy. 

You watched The Boys begin to board the plane. You had to make sure everything went smoothly with Little Nina's men. But just as you were about to leave, Hughie stopped you.

"Hey Diamond Queen, can I ask you a personal question?"

"Oh, Hughie please don't call me that, that name and life is behind me. And no you may not but I know you are regardless." 

"Oh sorry. Well, I just wanted to know what Soldier Boy did to you that made you hate him so much?" You crossed your arms and swallowed. 

"He did something unforgivable and after he disappeared, sure I was sad but it opened my eyes to see how much of a dick he really was. Good luck to you all." 

-

You haven't heard anything from any of The Boys since they left and it's already been a couple of days. You couldn't deny that getting brought back to anything Ben-related gave you memories. The good and the bad. 

You had almost nothing left from Ben from your time together. Just a small box of pictures and tickets from events you had gone to together. Anything else that was his was given to The Legend, including your engagement ring. 

Queenie, your Sphinx cat jumped onto the couch with you and crawled onto your lap. She purred and stretched, digging her nails into your thigh. You brought your hand behind her ears and started to scratch them, letting her blue eyes slowly close. 

"Ben would've hated you." You said with a smile. 

-

You're not sure how you missed someone walking onto your property. The knocking on your door startled you. You sent Queenie to her hiding spot and walked up to the door and peeked through the peephole. 

It was just Hughie and Butcher. You let out a sigh of relief and opened the door.

"Hey, what's-."

"Hey, beautiful." The voice that interrupted you made you freeze. You slowly turned your head to the man and your jaw tightened. 

“Ben?” Hughie and Butcher stepped back as Ben stepped forward. You looked up at him and your eyes started going glossy. “How are you here?” 

“Those guys.” Ben pointed over to the two men who were off to the side. “I thought about you every day. I was worried you were gone after all this time and holy hell baby you’re still as beautiful as the day I lost you.” Ben’s hands found themselves on your face and his thumbs wiped away your tears. You let out a shuddering breath and your hands found themselves on his chest.

Ben started to lean in but he felt his body get launched back. He went through the porch railings and tumbled through the grass until he hit a tree.

“WHAT THE FUCK.” 

-

A/n- omg everyone I actually WROTE AND FINISHED SOMETHING😭

[ltwilliammowett]

Rachel Wall the mysterious pirate

A woman arrested and convicted of highway robbery, and the last to be executed like a pirate by the state of Massachusetts for stealing a bonnet.

Who are we talking about? Rachel Wall

According to legend she was born c. 1760 in Pennsylvania and ran away from home when she was 16 years old. As soon as she arrived on the coast, she met and married George Wall and moved to Boston. Her husband was a fisherman and so he is said to have left her quite quickly, leaving Rachel to earn a living as a maid. However, George returned one day in 1781 to see Rachel again and persuade her to become a pirate. She tells Sp in her confession. They are believed to have raided ships off the Isles of the Shoals on the New Hampshire coast, although there is no evidence of this and it is not mentioned in the confession. It is believed that Rachel stood on the deck of her ship after storms, pretending to be in distress and screaming for help; when sailors came to her rescue, George and his men killed them and plundered their ships. This did not last long, however after 12 ships it seems that George drowned 1782 during one of these raids, for even his wife did not know where exactly he was.

Rachel returned to Boston and worked as a maid, but never quite managed to become a law-abiding citizen. She continued to ‘plunder’ by sneaking aboard docked ships and taking what she could. She was caught and convicted of robbery twice. Now a third incident occurred in which she stole a 17-year-old girl's bonnet because she thought it was so pretty. As she had already been convicted in two cases of robbery, this third case was punished with death. Unable to deny her past, she listed numerous petty offences in her confession, being careful not to mention any that might be felonies. She was smart enough to know that she could not convince people of her innocence and instead presented herself as being under the influence of her terrible husband.

Attorney General Robert Treat Paine requested that the said Rachel Wall, the prisoner in the dock, be sentenced to death,’ and Governor John Hancock signed the execution order. One could perhaps speculate that she was convicted of far more serious crimes than the attempted robbery of a bonnet, accused of being a thief, but executed for piracy?

Unfortunately for her, Rachel's crime took place during the time of turmoil in the new nation, and the courts, which traditionally gave women lighter sentences than men, sentenced her as an equal, so piracy was not an issue here. The piracy case seems to have been a matter that was brought up at a later date after her death and was probably denied. She probably wasn't a pirate at all but just a thief who they wanted to give a good story.

On Thursday 8 October 1789, Rachel Wall was hanged on Boston Common along with William Smith and William Dunogan. Thousands of men, women and children came to watch the official procession as it wound its way through the streets. They listened to the execution sermon and Rachel Wall's last words as she stood at the gallows.

Her last words were‘...into the hands of Almighty God I commit my soul, trusting in his mercy...and die an unworthy member of the Presbyterian Church, in the 29th year of my age.’

Six years later, unarmed burglary was no longer punishable by death; the three were the last to be executed for robbery in Massachusetts.

Sources below

Massachusetts Historical Society. Proceedings of the Massachusetts Historical Society, (Boston: The Society 1905) Volume 39, March 1905 p.178-190

Rachel Wall, Pirate by the National Park Service (Accessed September 19, 2018)

http://www.cindyvallar.com/RachelWall.html (Accessed September 19, 2018)

[sstardustt3]

Star yaps abt what would i do from falsettos

(copy and pasted from her school paper…)

Over the course of the year I’ve had many obsessions (ranging through days to months) and my current one being from June, Falsettos by William Finn and by extension entire Marvin trilogy. If I could explain why I love this musical and all my thoughts on it I would but today I would like to focus on one in particular “what would I do?” The final of the song (or second depending on if you count Falsettoland reprise as a song).

The song begins after Jason’s bar mitzah; where whizzer after thanking Jason turns away and goes limp. From there he is carried off and the hospital room is stripped away and it is just Marvin alone standing in the same position to reflect.

Now this shot alone says so much. The set of falsettos is made mostly out of grey foam blocks that are made to represent Marvin’s mind state and I think by having everything stripped away shows how Marvin is mentally. He’s alone, he hasn’t moved on from where he was when whizzer died, he can���t. And for the audience it helps set in stone the reality of the situation and it stings.

In the religion of Judaism (which I’m not Jewish but the characters are so I think it’s important to mention but again I may be wrong ) it says that everyone, both good and bad gets what they deserve in the end. Even with that ideology he still feels robbed, and that whizzer died young and unfairly.

According to the World national heath organization people would die only weeks or months from their diagnosis. Assuming that whizzer died closer to the weeks mark it would’ve made less time to really grasp the situation even more so that AIDS wasn’t something with a lot of information. There was no real explanation to the violent death that killed his lover.

A very important fact is that whizzer is Marvin’s first real love. Marvin’s main issue and arch in the trilogy is that he can’t figure out love properly. He tries to love his sweetheart, but only ends up putting her on a pedestal and neglecting her. He thinks he loves ms. Goldberg but only an idealized version of her. He tries to learn to love Trina romantically but can’t bring himself to and ends up neglecting her. Whizzer is the first person he truly loves.

So he wonders to himself if he was never in his life, what would happen? Who would he blame everything that happened on? Whizzer states that he ruined the life Marvin had. Which is technically true.

If Marvin had never met whizzer he wouldn’t have cheated and he wouldn’t have gotten a divorce. If he never got a divorce Trina wouldn’t have went to Mendel (Marvin’s therapist) and they wouldn’t have gotten engaged. If Trina and Mendel never got engaged then Marvin wouldn’t have hit Trina in a fit of rage and hit her in front of Jason and he wouldn’t have seen how wrong he has been and how much he is hurting everyone around him especially Jason who he cares most about and been pushed to change.

Whizzer, who comes out later in this song about halfway through as what I believe to be a further representation of Marvin’s mental state; asks if Marvin regrets the time he spent with him and all he went through to hold him and Marvin says if he could he’d do it again. Which is in reference to a song earlier “love is blind” where at the end Marvin speaks on his of love. That it being messy and dysfunctional and something to never even consider doing over again and it shows how much Marvin has really grown and learned that love doesn’t have to be toxic and painful.

Another thing to be noted is that whizzer comes out in a white button up and brown pants like he had on at the start of act 1 except the shirt is white and not green. What I think this is meant to show is that Marvin is slowly forgetting details about whizzer which supports the idea that most people agree on that Marvin also has aids and dies soon after the ending since memory loss is a symptom of dementia which sometimes a result of aids.

Going back to an earlier point of Marvin and his grief he asks himself how could he move on? How could he face the future without him? Especially knowing that he’d most likely die the same way whizzer did. He wishes whizzer was there with him which is why whizzer shows up halfway through. He wishes whizzer was there with him to live a much longer life and talk to him. Whizzer died young and unfairly and so will he and they’ll never have the chance to better themselves.

The song closes with Marvin recognizing that there are no definitive answers and all he can do is wonder what could have been.

[queerwelsh]

E. Prosser Rhys won the Crown in Pontypool National Eisteddfod with 'Atgof' in 1924.

Influential in his life as a poet, editor, journalist and publisher, Prosser Rhys is remembered today for winning the Crown in the National Eisteddfod of Wales in 1924. As influential as his winning poem, ‘Atgof’ was, and continues to be, Prosser even more profoundly affected Welsh-language writing in his life than is remembered today.

Edward Prosser Rees was born on the 4th of March 1901 in Trefenter, Mynydd Bach in Ceredigion, and christened on the 9th of March at Capel Bethel. His father was a blacksmith, David Rees, and his mother was Elizabeth Rees. Prosser came from a family of blacksmiths, and they later moved to Morfa Du in Trefenter (after Prosser had moved away, in March 1918). Previously, they had lived in Llainffwlbert until 1900, where they had their previous six children.

Prosser Rhys attended Cofadail Primary School in Trefenter then Ardwyn Grammar School in Aberystwyth in 1914. Other writers, academics and politicians were educated here, who were known as 'Old Ardwynians'. His early academic success was then marred by ill health - he was diagnosed with Tuberculosis at a young age, in 1915, which affected him for the rest of his life, but immediately kept him home for the next 3 years of his life. 

Still, his name started appearing in Welsh writing as early as 1916, with the poem ‘Y Fam a’i Baban’ (The Mam and her Baby) in Baner ac Amserau Cymru, where he was published as E. Prosser Rees (under the pseudonym/ffugenw Eiddwenfab) from Trefenter, Llangwyryfon, Ceredigion. In 1917, he wrote eloquent letters to ‘Y Darian,’ a radical Welsh-language paper, where he first wrote briefly about joining a patriotic union, and the Eisteddfod. The latter was fitting as he next appeared in Y Darian in 1918 for his early Eisteddfod wins, then in local Eisteddfodau, listed within the winners from Ceredigion. He then appeared several times in Y Darian as a part of ‘Aelwyd y Beirdd,’ where he’s described as a young poet with great potential, at only 17, the brother of Reverend Wyre Rees.

Clearly, Prosser wrote, competed and performed his poetry quite a lot as a teenager. One of his early poems appears in ‘Cymru,’ a monthly Welsh-language journal founded by O.M. Edwards in 1891. It was in 1919 that ‘Canu’r Merched’ by E. Prosser Rhys appeared in the journal ‘Cymru’. This is the earliest (that I found) of his poetry appearing published under this name. Note that there are occasionally mentions of ‘Prosser Rees,’ his birth name, as well. As Prosser Rees, he also published a poem in 1917 in The Cambrian News and Merionethshire Standard in sympathy to Mr and Mrs Thomas Evans of Penbont, who lost their son, David Morgan, in France during the First World War.

Prosser worked as a clerk at Western Ocean Colliery in Nant-y-Moel, Ogmore Valley, before his community saw him coming back from the ‘sowth’ (south) as a journalist. He was at Nantymoel, apparently living with one of his brothers, John, who was a coal miner. He was still receiving treatment for tuberculosis and apparently then returned to this family in their new home in Morfa-Du. He then worked at the Liberal newspapers of the Welsh Gazette in Aberystwyth and Herald Cymraeg in Caernarfon in 1919 (where he worked with Morris T. Williams). He moved back to Aberystwyth in 1921 and became the editor of Baner ac Amserau Cymru in 1923, when they moved their offices from Denbigh to Aberystwyth.

In 1923, Prosser's poetry was first published in a book - Gwaed Ifanc with another poet J.T. Jones (John Tudor Jones). As the title suggests, they were proud of being the ‘new blood’ of Welsh poetry and writing, with Prosser then being 22 and J.T. Jones being 19 years old. There was certainly some backlash to that and the book was met with some controversy, also for their poetry being more sexual than older poets of the time. There was already a tradition of the new kind of Welsh writing, started by T H Parry-Williams’ win in the Eisteddfod in 1915 with ‘Y Ddinas,’ and Rhys was aware of these new ideas of challenging Welsh writing, the Eisteddfod and therefore Welsh-language society, which he was inspired by and sought to be a part of - and succeeded. This was an attempt to challenge the writing of older poets, as well as bring attention to the newer crop of younger writers, the men who’d survived the First World War and demanded attention.

He of course especially challenged the status quo of the Eisteddfod when he won the Crown in 1924 in  the Pontypool National Eisteddfod with his poem ‘Atgof’ (Memory - or also sometimes translated as Reminiscence). This long ‘pryddest’ poem, follows a ‘llanc synhwyrus’/‘sensible lad’s journey into exploring his sexuality, from seeing ‘Sex’ ruin his parents’ relationship, to exploring his sexuality with women, and then with a man as well (who was likely Morris T. Williams), while struggling against the morals and virtues of Welsh society and religion. The judges of the Eisteddfod were at odds, one finding it to be immoral and the others praising it. 

Of course, when Prosser won, the reactions were scandalized and ‘Atgof’ became quite controversial, for its explicit discussions of sex and of course the same-sex part of the poem. It has since been called ‘homoerotic’ by many writers, while today may be seen more as a bisexual poem, or queer one. Mihangel Morgan, writing in Queer Wales, finds this to be a negative depiction of homosexuality and downplays the significance of ‘Atgof’ as a gay poem.

A’n cael ein hunain yn cofleidio ‘dynn;

A Rhyw yn ein gorthrymu; a’i fwynhau; A phallu’n sydyn fel ar lan y llyn…

And finding ourselves in a tight embrace With Sex overwhelming us; and enjoying it;

And suddenly stopping as above the lake…

These lines describe the same-sex interaction and indeed it doesn’t take up a large amount of the poem, but Mihangel Morgan’s disappointment seems to come from the poem not being homosexual enough. And indeed it isn’t, but reads as a bisexual poem that takes us through Rhys’s whole journey of realising and battling with his sexuality at this age. It still resonates with much of the LGBTQ+ community, especially when realising how explicit it was for 1924 (or it wouldn't have been so controversial), 40 years before the decriminalization of homosexuality, and its win in the Eisteddfod was well, well ahead of its time.

On the other hand, later on in Prosser’s life, it was suggested that he was so shocked by sodomy in the writing of someone else to not publish them. There is the possibility of Prosser’s viewpoints and own sexuality changing in his life, though this is merely speculation that Prosser was ‘shocked’ by writing of homosexuality. There are many possibilities here when it comes to Prosser’s own feelings and sexuality, but it is certain that they have had a great influence on LGBTQ+ writing and the community in Wales and particularly in Welsh. 

‘Atgof’ and Prosser were also mentioned in US Time Magazine in 1924, adding to evidence of the influence and legacy of this poem. Internationally, we see links in the poems to the sexology and psychiatry of the time - the psychoanalyst Ernest Jones (and possibly abusive husband of the composer Morfydd Llwyn Owen) mentioned the poem in a letter to Sigmund Freud, though it’s unclear that either actually read the poem.

Caradog Pritchard wrote in his autobiography that as a friend of Prosser’s and Morris T. Williams’ that he believed the man Prosser wrote about was Morris Williams, and this has been accepted as likely the truth since then (though there were always rumours about this). Morris T. Williams was close to Prosser, when they were roommates in Twthil near Caernarfon, while working at 'Herald Cymraeg,' and they exchanged letters after which show their close relationship - this was before Morris married Kate Roberts and they together bought Gwasg Gee. All three remained close, being friends and remaining in the same social circles as poets, as well as in Welsh publishing. More recently, it has been theorized that Kate Roberts also was queer, based on her own personal writing, as well as her short stories which are about romantic relationships between women (such as 'Christmas' and 'The Treasure'). Morris T. Williams died in 1946, a year after Prosser Rhys, after a long struggle with alcoholism.

‘Atgof’ was published as a booklet, with a translation ‘Memory’ by Hywel Davies also published as a booklet. The poem reads less explicitly than the Welsh version, though it was praised at the time. It can be read here - though a modern English translation is definitely needed. 'Atgof' can also be read here.

In 1928, Prosser married Mary Prudence Hughes in Aberystwyth, which was when both he and she took the surname ‘Rhys’. They had one daughter, Eiddwen Rhys. He founded Gwasg Aberystwyth also in 1928 and began publishing books, with Gwasg Aberystwyth growing significantly in years to come. 

As editor of Baner ac Amserau Cymru, Prosser encouraged more poets to write and publish their work. Rhys founded Y Clwb Llyfrau Cymraeg/The Welsh Books Club in 1937. This was a subscription of Welsh books, where readers would receive 4 books a year for half a crown, and which published 45 volumes up until 1945.  As successful as it was under Prosser, after his death, it was decided that there were not enough Welsh-language writers to continue it.

(Executive committee of 'Plaid Genedlaethol Cymru,' 1927- Lewis Valentine, Ambrose Bebb, D. J. Williams, Mai Roberts, Saunders Lewis, Kate Roberts, H. R. Jones, Prosser Rhys.) Prosser Rhys was a founding member of Plaid Cymru, founded in 1925. He was also the editor of ‘Y Ddraig Goch’ with Saunders Lewis and Iorwerth C. Peate, which Prosser also helped to form with H. R. Jones, though he was initially opposed to the idea due to lack of funds. However, Prosser became vocally opposed to Saunders Lewis’ right wing views. He wrote in Y Faner that many of Plaid Cymru’s members had come from the Labour party or Liberal party, or were radicals who came from no political party, where none were supportive of the views appearing in the Daily Mail, implying that Saunders Lewis’ views were too close to the matter, but that most Plaid Cymru supporters were personally too loyal to voice their concerns over this. The expulsion of Prosser from the party was discussed and suggested but Saunders Lewis opposed this. 

Following his many successes, Prosser and his family moved to 33 North Parade, Aberystwyth, where he lived until his death.

After his health had deteriorated again from 1942, Prosser died in 1945 - at the age of 43, and less than a month before his 44th birthday. He is buried at Llanbadarn Fawr Cemetery, with his grave quoting T. Gwynn Jones: “Gwyrodd êfo î’r drugaredd fawr, Ni wyr namyn Duw ddirgelwch ei wên.” Here Mary Prudence Rhys, his wife, is also buried, who died in 1991, at the age of 87. They are also buried with William Dewi Morris Jones, who died in 1983, aged 56. Rhys’s death was certainly a loss to Welsh publishing and writing.

Gwasg Aberystwyth was bought by J. D. Lewis & Sons from Llandysul after Prosser’s death, the founder of Gwasg Gomer, who continued the Welsh Books Club and took over publishing of the club’s books until 1952. This, however, did follow a legal disagreement between Mary Prudence Rhys and Morris T. Williams, who was supposed to get the first offer and chance at refusal for Gwasg Aberystwyth, according to legal documents that Prosser and Morrisagreed upon, which Morris Williams did not feel like he had gotten.

Cerddi Prosser Rhys was published in 1950 by Gwasg Gee, Morris’s first collection entirely of his own poems - published 5 years after his death. Edited by J.M. Edwards, a fellow poet who competed in Eisteddfodau and was from a similar area to Rhys, Edwards also writes the introduction of the poetry collection. He notes that he decided that 4 years after Prosser’s death was enough time to finally publish a whole collection of Prosser’s best poems (the introduction was written in July, 1949, with the book published in February, 1950.) He writes that his previous poetry collection, in ‘Gwaed Ifanc’, was ‘a volume that attracted a lot of attention and also brought a new, daring note to the world of Welsh poetry of the period, something that was urgently needed.’ His memories of Prosser while growing up show he was a well-known poet even in his youth, who Edwards and others in his own school had heard of before meeting, who was known for competing and finding success in many local Eisteddfodau around Wales. 

Of his poetry found in Cerddi Prosser Rhys, Edwards notes that ‘Y Gof’ (The Memory) is a tribute to his parents and his early life in rural Wales. His two sonnets he most praises are ‘Y Pechadur’ (The Sinner) and ‘Duw Mudan’ (Mute God). Of ‘Atgof,’ Edwards significantly notes that it was "a bold poem that created a lot of excitement and was praised by some but damned by others. The saddest feature of the whole event was that it reflects an attitude of thought in Wales which is too ready to judge the values of the world of the arts by the wrong standards." The introduction finishes by repeating what many others have said about the premature loss of Prosser to the world of Welsh writing and publishing. Edwards also hoped that there would also be a collection of Prosser’s prose, which unfortunately has not yet come to be. 

‘Mab ei Fam’ (His Mother's Son) is to "M.T.W," likely Morris T. Williams - similarly to Strancio, which was translated by Mihangel Morgan as ‘Fooling About,’ which is to: ‘I gyfaill annwyl a fu’n cyd-letya â mi’ (To a dear friend who lodged with me)

Do, bûm yn flin. Ond weithian gwybydd di Fod Fflam yn llosgi ynof, ac aml dro Yn llamu ar draws fy nghorff materol i, A’m hysu hyd fy nghyrru i maes o’m co’,

A strancio a wnaf eto rhag fy ffawd Nes torro’r Fflam ei ffordd o’i charchar cnawd.

Yes, I was angry. But sometimes you must know That a Flame burned within me, and often Sprang from my material body Plaguing me until it drove me mad And I would taunt my fate Until the Flame broke free of its prison of flesh.

-Mostly translated by Mihangel Morgan.

As with ‘Atgof,’ Mihanel Morgan downplays Strancio by stating it to be cryptic and guarded - while I'd argue that the confession of his feelings towards a man in the 1920s is explicit for its time, especially following on from the Victorian poetry that was popular before the ‘New blood’. While Mihangel Morgan says it is ‘assumed’ to be about Morris T. Williams, the dedication at the start of the poem is clear enough, at least historically, to Morris T. Williams, especially when a previous poem also is dedicated to him.

It wasn’t until 1980 that Prosser Rhys was celebrated with a book about his life, by Rhisiart Hincks. T. Robin Chapman wrote in Y Traethodydd in 2006 that Hincks probably knew of the nature of Rhys’s relationship with Morris T. Williams yet it was omitted, from the only whole biography of Prosser Rhys. This is a sign of the times in which it was written and published but shows the need now to write biographies of Rhys that include what was previously excluded, his queer identity. Hincks mentions how Williams quickly became Prosser's best friend ('ei gyfaill pennaf') when they met in Caernarfon, that they moved together to 15 Eleanor Street and that it was Prosser who introduced Williams to literature. ‘Cyfeillgarwch clos’. He also mentions that such closeness led to spats, once when they fought all night, which does show the intensity of their relationship. Perhaps, this subtext Hincks hoped to be understood by the audience of the time. Of ‘Atgof,’ Hincks notes that Prosser had previously expressed that there was a lack of sex in Welsh in recent poetry, which he blamed on the chapel. This biography remains the most detailed on Prosser’s life.

A monument on Mynydd Bach, overlooking Llyn Eiddwen near to Trefenter, where Prosser was born and lived in his childhood, was unveiled in 1992, during the National Eisteddfod in Aberystwyth. Including Rhys, the monument, ‘Cofeb i Feirdd y Mynydd Bach’ celebrates 4 poets from the local area. J.M. Edwards from Llanrhystud also won the Crown in the National Eisteddfod, in 1937, 1941 and in 1944, and wrote the introduction to Cerddi Prosser Rhys. All 4 of the poets named on the plaque of the monument were successful in the Eisteddfod. B. T. Hopkins (Benjamin Thomas Hopkins) was a successful poet from Ceredigion, who lived and farmed on Mynydd Bach. T Hughes Jones (Thomas Hughes Jones) was a Welsh poet and writer from Ceredigion who won a medal in the National Eisteddfod of 1940 for a short story, ‘Sgweier Hafila,’ which was partly judged by Kate Roberts.

Interest in Prosser, his life and career, has been renewed by research into Welsh LGBTQ+ history and writing. Notably, in 1998, a historical docudrama called ‘Atgof’ aired on S4C, directed by Ceri Sherlock, which depicted Prosser writing the poem and his relationship with Morris T. Williams, which was represented as a sexual and romantic one. There was controversy around the film, similarly to 'Atgof' the poem, with some questioning how they depicted the relationship (with some speculated, fictional details) and some also questioning whether it should be depicted or speculated about at all. Despite the discourse, Prosser Rhys had already become an inspiration to the Welsh LGBTQ+ community.

In 2019, the show ‘Corn Gwlad’ was performed at the National Eisteddfod in Llanrwst, created by Seiriol Davies, which celebrated Prosser’s win at the Eisteddfod and depicted his feelings towards Morris T. Williams. It was then a work-in-progress show, with comedy and music, and part of the ‘Mas ar y Maes’ programme of events at the National Eisteddfod, which are especially for the LGBTQ+ community, or which may be relevant to the LGBTQ+ community. Prosser was also featured in ‘Mas ar y Maes’ events with ‘Cariad yw Cariad,’ and is of course heavily featured in the 2024 National Eisteddfod in Pontypridd, on the centenary of Prosser Rhys winning the Crown with 'Atgof.' 'Atgof' was also the theme of the poems submitted to the 'Coron' - which was won by Gwynfor Dafydd.

The lasting legacy of Prosser Rhys is to be a significant voice of this community from 20th century Wales, and an icon especially for Welsh language LGBTQ+ people, queer men and bisexual people. This is what has significantly brought Prosser Rhys back into the public eye in the 1990s, with the film Atgof, and in the 2010s with LGBTQ+ History Month, and in the 2020s around the 100th anniversary of his Eisteddfod Crown winning with ‘Atgof’. Prosser also had a significant impact in Welsh publishing, Welsh society, in his article writings, in politics. Prosser Rhys was a fascinating, complicated person, a passionate advocate for Welsh poetry, writing and publishing and is a hero of the communities to which he belonged, including the local community in Ceredigion and West Wales.

[aydaptic]

I find it weird how Todd is a child abuser, Zlatko experiments on androids and turns them into monstrosities, Perkins betrays and kills Markus but yet Gavin is considered the worst person because he *checks list* doesn't consider androids alive (like almost everyone else in the game at that point) and doesn't trust Connor.

Among those you mention, Gav is by far the most justified. Yet I wanna clear some things up here bc I'm not a hypocrite.

1.) Todd -- who doesn't think androids are alive -- is an android child abuser.

"You don't want anything, you're just a goddamn piece of plastic." - Todd Williams

It's still phcked up that he's abusing/can kill something that resembles a kid to the T, but it's important to make that distinction. We see no proof of him abusing a human child (...even though it can be theorized bc his wife took their kid and left.)

Abusing an android kid is just as bad as abusing a human kid -- we know this -- but Todd doesn't see it that way, so that describes/partly justifies his reasoning. There's no such thing as 'abusing' a machine and that's how Todd sees it.

A lot of ppl are also (wrongly) infantilizing Con, so I'm not surprised that they consider Gav's bad treatment of Con worse than Todd's bad treatment of Alice who is a literal kid. Seems like most of them don't even care about Alice/kids in the 1st place (...and that says everything you need to know about these POS'.)

Mistreating a kid (Alice) is way more abhorrent than mistreating a grown-ass adult (Con.) Alice is also passive while Con often instigates conflict. So Todd is way worse than Gav by that alone.

2.) Zlatko -- who is aware androids are alive -- thinks he's doing them a favor.

"Believe me, you’re better off being erased and feeling nothing… No more pain… No more hopes dashed… I almost envy you." - Zlatko Andronikov

He's the worst among those four, but this is again a scenario where you need to see the situation from his perspective. Yet he knows they're alive/capable of emotions and that makes him a million times worse than Gav.

3.) Perkins -- who is aware androids are alive -- is doing his job.

"That android… [North] You seem to really care about her… You don't want her to die, do you?" - Richard Perkins

...and if the lover status isn't there

"You could have what you've always dreamed of." - Richard Perkins

In Perkins' eyes, it's about national security. Androids have killed humans (Partners/Stormy Night/Broken -- even if Markus didn't actually kill Leo or Carl, that's what the public thinks -- Zlatko/Spare Parts/etc. too many chapters to mention,) destroyed public property (Capitol Park,) hijacked media (The Stratford Tower,) demonstrated illegally (Freedom March,) etc. Not to mention that androids are superior to humans in every way and nothing tells Perkins that they won't eventually get violent if taking the peaceful route.

Yet his knowing androids feel makes him (as Zlatko) a million times worse than Gav.

"'Could always try roughing it up a little. After all, it’s not human…" - Gavin Reed

Meaning Gav doesn't think they're alive (unlike Zlatko and Perkins.)

Gav isn't the only character I (partly) defend on shit like this. I just defend the others 'less' bc 1.) they're worse, and 2.) they don't get nearly as much undeserved vitriol as Gav does. Something that's legitimately insane bc, again, they're way worse by a longshot and I'll explain why down below.

Con stans (fandom majority) are thinking emotionally instead of logically

ppl hate/envy Gav bc he's a conventionally attractive white man (you don't see a lot of Todd, Perkins, Zlatko, Leo, and Allen fans even if there are a minuscule few bc they're not conventionally attractive)

Funny that we don't see a lot of hate for Amanda. An AI or not, she's the worst influence in Con's life with her emotional manipulation. Something way worse than physical abuse. I wonder why... (not really bc *cough* you apparently can't say anything bad about a black woman without being racist/misogynistic *cough*) Ofc there are some ppl that aren't afraid to speak up against her, but it's nothing compared to the shit Gav gets.

It's also why I'm not talking about North often bc the majority are (rightfully) defending her already. My voice isn't needed there. Every single person -- other than me, in my experience -- who defends Gav is being spinelessly backhanded about it.

Defending someone doesn't mean you agree with them or condone their actions. It's simply proof that one has the empathy/critical thinking skills to understand their point of view. Something lacking nowadays.

[misshoneyimhome]

i have more of a cute ask then a smut one but going back to the interview will did in sweden, what if it was him getting asked if he’s single and he starts talking abt his gf and how much he loves her and it’s all cute

Bb, you had me at cute ask ❤️ I’m all with you on this one, because let’s face it, that boy may not fall easily, but when he does, it’s deep 😉

➼｡ﾟ

Cause All of Me, Loves All of You I William Nylander

William had grown used to being in the spotlight.

As a star player for the Toronto Maple Leafs hockey team, his exceptional talent had consistently garnered attention. However, in recent years, he had found himself in the spotlight even more.

Currently on a global series tour, the team had the pleasure of playing in what he considered to be his hometown of Stockholm. Despite his birthplace being in Calgary, Canada, Sweden had always felt more like home to William. His familial roots lay in Sweden, and everything from the language to the traditions and homey cuisine resonated deeply with him, reflecting his strong connection to Swedish culture.

And as the team arrived in Stockholm, the media naturally focused their attention on the charming 27-year-old. Interviews, signing sessions, and a flurry of media engagements ensued.

Yet, none of this could have prepared him for what was about to unfold next.

William had been asked to appear on a national Swedish talk show hosted by the charming Bianca, to which he’d graciously accepted. It was nothing like he’d ever done before, but since he’d done numerous of interviews, he figured it might be enjoyable to give it a shot.

And as he sat comfortably in the make-up chair, nearly ready for the show, you quietly peeked in to check on him.

Him. Your boyfriend. William Andrew Michael Junior Nylander Altelius.

_

You had met him several months back, and casually dated for weeks before deciding to elevate your relationship to a more serious level.

Though he had shared snippets of his life on social media, he had never directly mentioned you. During interviews he’d deliberately avoided any mention of girls or dating, focusing solely on hockey, as instructed by managers. Not that you minded at all.

The spotlight belonged to him, not you. And you respected his desire to keep his private life just that - private - and to shield his loved ones from the unpredictable nature of the media.

At first, it had stung a bit, the thought that he might be embarrassed or not serious about you. However, following a heartfelt conversation after a minor disagreement, you came to understand his reasons for keeping your relationship private – he wanted to shield you from potential scrutiny.

And as time passed, your relationship evolved, and eventually, neither of you fretted much about others' opinions.

_

With a gentle stride, you approached him, a smile gracing your lips as you glanced at him through the mirror, feeling immensely proud of your remarkable man.

"Ready for the big spotlight?" you teased lightly, eliciting a soft laugh from William.

"Sure," he replied nonchalantly.

"Feeling okay, darling?"

William nodded gently. "Yeah, I suppose I'm just a bit nervous... I've never done anything like this before."

"You'll be brilliant, Willy," you reassured, leaning against the make-up stand, gazing down at him with a tender expression. "Everyone will adore you."

"What if I mess up?" he asked timidly, despite knowing he had been well-prepped and having years of experience in media work. Nevertheless, a faint sense of uncertainty lingered within him.

"Come on, babe, you've practically aced situations like this a million times," you reassured him with a comforting smile. "If they start digging into your personal life, smoothly turn the conversation back to hockey. And if they bring up anything negative about your career, family, or anything else that makes you uneasy, just flash them that stunning, confident smile of yours and throw in a cheeky comeback."

Your words seemed to soothe William; his tense muscles gradually relaxing as he regained control over his racing heartbeat.

"And in the worst-case scenario, use the political strategy - answer a question with another question. Journalists hate that," you chuckled, your unconventional communication advice amusing William.

"Wow, babe, you should be in PR," he jested, earning a playful huff from you.

"Yeah, right. Dealing with people and the media all day? No thanks, I'm good sticking to my desk," you retorted with a wink, teasingly.

And amidst your shared laughter, the crew arrived to usher William away and prepare him for the interview.

"See you later, babe," he murmured, planting a gentle kiss on your lips as he rose from his seat. "You'll be backstage the whole time, yeah?"

"Of course," you replied with a soft smile. As William exited the dressing room, your gaze lingered on the man you deeply loved, observing him getting ready for the show, a profound sense of pride and happiness filling you.

And as the stage lights prepared to illuminate and the show was set to commence, William felt the heat more than expected. The temperature seemed much higher than he'd anticipated, so despite his initial confidence in his casual attire for the night, the loose jacket gradually became too much. Eventually, he opted to ditch it, appearing on stage solely in a white tank top.

Your eyes fixated on him as he shed the jacket, causing you to gently bite your lower lip at the sight. "Fuck, he looks good," you thought, simultaneously feeling a twinge of disappointment as he exposed his impressive physique to the world.

But quickly shaking off the feeling, you reminded yourself that you'd be the only one appreciating his body later tonight. That is until Bianca remarked on his toned physique, and Marinna, sweetly and slightly embarrassed, delicately touched his upper arm while praising his defined muscles.

And she wasn't wrong.

William did indeed possess an impressive physique. His body bore the results of elite sports training - muscles finely sculpted and defined, with a hint of thickness that hinted at his love for food, almost rivalling his passion for hockey.

Among his many physical attributes, his thighs stood out, at least in your opinion. They were solid, strong, and defined, and overall, your favourite spot to snuggle up against.

Then there was his torso - a well-built frame adorned with a light smattering of chest hair that you often playfully ran your fingers through.

And those arms, strong enough to envelop you in a tight embrace, effortlessly lifting you as if you weighed nothing at all.

You understood precisely how the two women felt, sitting next to your boyfriend, their eyes lingering on him with a hint of desire. And a slight smirk danced on your lips.

The show went on smoothly. William handled each question with professionalism, infusing his responses with his trademark laughter, showcasing both his expertise and his enjoyment.

However, it was the subsequent line of questioning that caught you completely off guard. Bianca, far from being subtle, dove straight in with her probing questions.

"So, you're single?" Bianca inquired, obviously aiming to captivate the attention of anyone eager to hear that coveted 'yes' slip from William's lips.

And though you half-expected that response, considering he'd never publicly acknowledged your relationship, his words proved you wrong.

"No… No, I'm actually not," William chuckled.

Your heart sank at his announcement of his relationship status, fully aware that this would be broadcasted worldwide, potentially sparking a flurry of quotes and discussions across the internet.

"Aha, and who's the lucky person?" Bianca inquired, maintaining her professional tone.

William paused, contemplating how much to reveal. He understood that you preferred a low-profile existence, and his management had advised keeping his dating life discreet for as long as possible.

Yet, an overwhelming urge surged within him to pour out everything he adored about you. He wanted the world to know; how you crossed paths, seamlessly integrating into his chaotic life, adjusting effortlessly to his roller-coaster schedule. He yearned to shout out his love for you, to express how incredible you were for standing by his side through every high and low, and to proclaim your stunning beauty, kindness, and unwavering care. He wanted everyone to know it all.

However, composed he tried to remain, a broad grin crossed his face as he began, "She's this wonderful person who entered my life a few months back, and luckily for me, she decided to stick around," he added a casual jest, though he could feel his heart racing and his cheeks turning a faint shade of pink, by the mention of you.

"So, you've been together for a while?" Bianca probed.

"Um, only a couple of months… It took me ages to ask her out and convince her to go on a date with me," he chuckled, lightly rubbing his slightly sweaty hands together, excitement coursing through his body.

"Wait, she didn't want to go out with you at first?" Bianca chuckled lightly. "Wow, she must be out of her mind - how did that go?"

William couldn't hide his pure excitement as he started talking about you. "Oh, she definitely is! I mean, she's just so amazing and wonderful, probably way out of my league," he blurted out, his words running ahead of his thoughts. "She's intelligent, funny, and initially, she kept laughing whenever I asked her out because she thought I was joking. But on my fifth attempt, she finally agreed to give me a chance."

"On your fifth try? That's keeping a man on his toes," Bianca remarked, intrigued by the unfolding tale.

"Oh yeah, she definitely didn't make it easy, but it only made me want to get her to say yes more," William confessed, his eyes reflecting the nostalgia of those initial weeks after meeting you.

"So, what changed her mind about you?" Bianca inquired, observing William as he pondered his response.

"Honestly, I'm not sure - perhaps someone convinced her that I'm an alright guy and she should give it a shot," he answered, his words not far from the truth.

In reality, when William had persistently pursued you, and you had turned him down multiple times due to his overly confident yet enticing demeanour, it was Auston Matthews who convinced you to give William a chance. With his own charm, Auston had convinced you by highlighting how much William desired not just a physical connection but found your energy and personality irresistible.

"And things worked out in the end?" Bianca probed further.

"Well, somehow, yes," William continued. "I managed to take her out on a few dates, but relying solely on charm didn't work. I had to prove that I meant everything behind my words and eventually express how I truly felt."

As William delved into a more emotionally charged aspect of the conversation, his voice gradually relaxed. Expressing deep feelings had never been his forte, a pivotal moment in your relationship when you had urged him to be straightforward and honest because you couldn't read his thoughts.

This nudged him to make a genuine effort to articulate his innermost feelings, leading to heartfelt conversations about your emotions for each other.

Bianca smiled, noticing the interview taking on a more romantic tone, and then Marianna joined in.

"Did she make you ask?" she sweetly inquired. "Did you have to ask her to be your girlfriend?"

"Oh, absolutely," William chuckled again. "Yes, I had to ask directly, otherwise, she said it didn't count."

Laughter and smiles filled the studio as William's infectious laughter resonated once more.

The situation had unfolded just as William described.

He hadn't initially considered discussing labels, content with enjoying your company. But you, well acquainted with boys like him, knew their tendency to keep a girl around until they grew bored and moved on. So, you diplomatically and casually laid down the options: either you were dating with a view to be serious or simply good friends with benefits - exceptionally good benefits, of course.

So, realizing that to keep you exclusively for himself, William needed to take a more direct approach, and eventually he asked you directly, to which you naturally responded with a 'yes'.

As the interview gradually drew to a close, you found yourself unable to contain your amusement. Though slightly taken aback by William's sudden honesty and directness in discussing you, you couldn't help but smile.

Amidst the final applause and the cameraman calling "cut," William stood up and made his way backstage to join you before meeting up with his friends and family.

A smile graced your lips as you welcomed your man with open arms, both of you enveloping each other in a deep, affectionate hug followed by a tender kiss.

"You were amazing, babe," you gently praised after parting from the embrace, gazing up at him with sparkling eyes.

"Yeah, you think so? I hope I didn't share too much - I felt like I just kept talking and talking, and-"

"Willy," you interrupted his rambling. "You were perfect, love - I'm just surprised you said all those things about… us."

"Well, I just wanted everyone to know how much I love you… and," he exhaled softly, as if it were a relief to finally share his deep thoughts. "I can't stop thinking about how much I want you around all the time and… I never want you to leave me."

In that fleeting moment of profound tenderness, your heart quickened at his heartfelt words.

"Willy… I'll never leave you. I love you so much, and I'll always be by your side," you whispered gently, still wrapped in his embrace, feeling the reassurance as his arms tightened around you, drawing you closer.

"Promise?" he softly asked, his eyes reflecting a hint of concern.

"I promise," you almost breathed out, drawing him into another deep kiss.

For a moment, it felt as if the world had faded away, leaving both of you lost in the intimacy, until Calle's voice abruptly shattered the intimate bubble.

"Jeez, Willy, you might as well have proposed on stage with that speech about your girl," he chuckled loudly as he and the other Swedes joined you.

"Oh, please don't give him any ideas," you laughed lightly, with a hint of seriousness, gently pulling back from William's embrace, though his arm remained securely around your waist.

"Don't worry about that," Calle teased further. "He's already got it all planned out."

William chuckled along with his friend's playful banter, knowing that there might indeed be a hint of truth in it. At least in his heart, he was set on making you his completely one day, ready to offer you half of what he owned and all of his heart.

[bomberqueen17]

Liveblogging the Aubreyad: Book 3, HMS Surprise (part 1)

This one, I made notes on my phone while listening to the audiobook, so we shall see how well I distill them.

The series is hitting its stride now as a series, I think. M&C was kind of oneshottish, no real expectation of continuation; Post Captain was the pleased "oh! i get another one? great!" where he then crammed in three books' worth into one, and now HMS S is "ah. this is a series! Settle this plot down, then." pacing-wise.

So we pick up with politicians wrangling over the aftermath of the previous book, which had seemed to end so tidily and on such a happy note. Of course that is not the end-- there's a series now.

So at the end of the previous book, Jack was one of five captains sharing out a prize of some several million pounds, and this would have made him enormously wealthy and guaranteed his marriage. Of course.

In the opening scene of this one we hear that, legally, Spain had not declared war on Britain at the time, so legally, that money is not prize money, so legally, it should just be kept entirely for the government and not distributed to the sailors and officers who actually did the fighting at all, despite that being the well-established custom of the day. Legally, see, they don't have to hand it out, even though the people who designed the mission, and the people who executed the mission, all felt certain that it was a legit prize at the time and acted accordingly.

Stephen's friend Sir Joseph, head of Naval Intelligence, is arguing that of course it should be prize money, for large numbers of very good reasons, not least that he designed the mission with that in mind.

But the new First Lord of the Admiralty is a civilian politician. And he openly mentions Stephen Maturin's name, despite the fact that Sir Joseph had stressed to him that the man is a confidential agent. The First Lord does not catch the hint. And then he asks who the captains are, and remembers that Jack Aubrey's father is an opposition member in Parliament, and immediately Sir Joseph knows that it's over; this is political wrangling now, and this man will make a decision that harms the national interest and the morale of the service and everything else simply because General Aubrey is a politician he does not like.

So there is no prize money. And Jack is not out of debt. And cannot marry Sophie. And, far far far worse, Stephen's name is now exposed to a crowd of non-confidential people of no particular discretion, particularly marked as a secret agent with knowledge of Spanish affairs.

Anyway-- zooming out from that crackerjack first scene, and it is despite how it sounds, it's really well-told political intrigue with a very good layering of easy-to-understand, easy-to-deplore bullshit (and Admiral Harte gets his shitty little nose in there being a massive hypocrite, have no fear) -- the general situation is thus:

Jack, still in the Lively, is in the Med bottling up the French fleet in Toulon, and is engaged to Sophie-- legally, with all kinds of avaricious wrangles from Mrs. Williams, all the terms and conditions he acquiesced to unprotesting, so that Sophie will legally own most of their joint property. Diana has run off to India with Canning; Stephen has been collecting intelligence on them, though mostly it seems for the purpose of hurting himself with it. Stephen is to go to Minorca to do more intelligence stuff despite the fact that his name has been exposed-- the news will not have reached them, Stephen says coolly, declining to cancel the mission.

The Lively has a schoolmaster to oversee the young gentlemen's lessons. (Prior to being a midshipman, a young gentleman will be expected to have served three years of sea time, with the status of First Class Volunteer; many are listed as servants during this time, and many of them do not actually report to the ship during this time-- entering a friend's son on one's books to say he was on a ship long enough that when he joins he can just start as a midshipman with no waste of time is a perfectly accepted kind of little fraud, very common in Jack's social circles. "Young gentleman" as a category seems to include both the volunteers and rated midshipmen. But the Lively has a number of quite young gentlemen actually aboard, including the five-year-old [or, seven. he was five in the previous book but in this book, some weeks later, he is now seven] son of one of the lieutenants, as he came home from a voyage to find his wife dead and no family remaining to care for the child, so the little boy has been onboard ever since. Apparently Babbington may actually have still been a volunteer during some of the events of Master and Commander, but of course this is not consistently represented. I fully support an author doing whatever the hell he wants with timelines, and it is absolutely consistent with the inconsistency of historical records, LOL.)

Anyway-- Jack also actually went to sea as a volunteer very young, and the ship he was on did not have a competent schoolmaster, so he has suffered his entire life from not a very good education. He is sitting in on the young gentlemen's lessons ostensibly because he is concerned for them and wants to ensure they learn what they must, but in practice, he is taking advantage of this opportunity to get a proper thorough grounding in his own education, belatedly, and is thereby unlocking a real true love of mathematics, heretofore only instinctively guessed-at.

The Lively has seen long prior service in the South Pacific, and as such has a number of Asian crew members aboard. (So we do now see the word Chinaman occur, which unlike Indiaman does refer to humans, but is used as a neutral descriptor; I will nevertheless henceforth be avoiding its use, though to be fair I think it only occurs once in the book anyway.) Jack is pleased with the Chinese and Malayan crewmen, largely, as they all are unfailingly polite and have a number of useful skills, and are excellent seamen. But he finds out during an elaborate cutting-out expedition that many of them had formerly been pirates; they slaughter their opponents with absolutely stunning efficiency in a quite practiced manner despite how little combat the Lively itself has seen.

They make for Minorca to pick up Stephen but he does not make the rendezvous. Another Catalan man appears, and says Stephen has been taken, and is being tortured by the French in Port Mahon. Jack knows the city. With the Catalans, he sets up a rescue mission, and frees the prisoners, burns the house (coincidentally, the house where Captain and Molly Harte used to live), and rescues Stephen, who has had all his fingernails pulled out and has been stretched on a rack. (Touchingly, he has hallucinated Jack coming in to rescue him before, and so when it truly happens, is surprisingly calm, mistaking it for another hallucination.) It is a taut little action, badass as fuck. The officers of the Lively are disappointed when Jack won't take them, but this is not an official sanctioned expedition and there will be no glory, no report, no credit, no advancement of career-- it is simply a pragmatic necessity, and he wants only people who know the ground (his own people, Killick and Bonden) plus enough to pad out the numbers to make it work, so he takes those of the Chinese and Malay pirates who choose to volunteer, since this is just the ticket for them. (All of them volunteer.)

(A side note. The Catalan who helps them is named Joan. The audiobook narrator pronounces this Catalan man's name, which in Spanish would be Juan, and is pronounced the same, as the English woman's name Joan. Come on Simon. I believed in you.)

They get Stephen and get out, and we resume the tale in England with Stephen staying at an inn in Portsmouth. The Lively has been handed back over to her real captain, Hammond, at Gibraltar.

Jack is immediately arrested for debt as he tries to get the invalid Stephen into a carriage to go from Portsmouth to London, so off he goes to a sponging-house, hero or no; he goes quietly and resignedly. Sir Joseph Blaine is shocked to hear that heroic Jack is imprisoned; he had arranged for at least a consolation, an ex gratia payment, for the captains who were denied prize rights over the Spanish treasure, but it comes out that the agent has been slow in paying it out, and Jack is helpless without it. Blaine resolves to see it settled, at least, and does-- Jack is released. At least provisionally; there are other debts.

Sir Joseph, in his gratitude for Stephen's rescue, gets Jack another ship-- HMS Surprise, on an errand to carry an emissary to Kampong. It's a good long mission in a lovely ship (in which Jack served as a midshipman long ago), and he hopes it will give Jack's affairs time to settle.

Stephen turns to Bonden, asking him to write a letter for him, since his hands are so injured, and it comes out abruptly that Bonden is illiterate.

'Bonden,' cried Stephen, 'take pen and ink, and write -' 'Write, sir?' cried Bonden. 'Yes. Sit square to your paper, and write: Landsdowne Crescent - Barret Bonden, are you brought by the lee?' 'Why, yes, sir; that I am - fair broached-to. Though I can read pretty quick, if in broad print; I can make out a watch-bill.' 'Never mind. I shall show you the way of it when we are at sea, however: it is no great matter - look at the fools who write all day long - but it is useful, by land. You can ride a horse, sure?' 'Which I have rid a horse, sir; and three or four times, too, when ashore.'

Bonden takes the message on foot, and goes and fetches Sophie and Pullings, Sophie to write the letter from Stephen to Jack, and Pullings to carry it. This allows them to arrange for Sophie to come along to the rendezvous, so that she can see and speak to Jack briefly without her mother's knowledge. Jack had tried to release her from the engagement when his renewed troubles with debt became apparent, but she wished to refuse, but could not speak to him directly about it, so this is their chance.

She sneaks out at night and goes in the coach with Stephen, and there gets a half an hour (well, forty-five minutes; Stephen with the timepiece is soft-hearted) of conversation with Jack before they must part ways, her to go home and sneak back in to her house, Stephen and Jack to go on to the Surprise, waiting in Plymouth.

The Surprise makes her way off around the world, saddled with a moderately ineffectual but amiable first lieutenant named Hervey who has influential friends, and a second lieutenant named Nicolls who is inoffensive if clearly suffering from major depression, but with Tom Pullings as the third lieutenant, competent and familiar. They are becalmed awhile, and Jack teaches Stephen to swim-- badly, but at all, which is an accomplishment.

'Did you see me?' [Stephen] cried as Jack came nearer. 'I swam the entire length: four hundred and twenty strokes without a pause!' 'Well done,' said Jack, swinging himself into the boat with an easy roll. 'Well done indeed.' Each stroke must have propelled Stephen a little less than three inches, for the Surprise was only a twenty-eight gun ship, a sixth-rate of 579 tons - the kind so harshly called a jackass frigate by those not belonging to her. 'Should you like to come aboard? Let me give you a hand.'

Some of the men get scurvy. They run short of supplies and are down to eating rats, which they euphemistically term "millers" out of absurd delicacy. Stephen has pet rats, he is feeding them madder as an experiment.

They find St. Paul's Rocks, where Stephen begs to be put ashore for a moment to study the birds. Jack declines, as it is Sunday and one cannot ask the men to work on Sunday, but the second lieutenant Nicolls volunteers to take him over in the little rowboat for a few hours.

A sudden squall damages the ship and washes poor depressed Nicolls away, along with the little boat; Stephen survives, but is stranded, and the Surprise driven away by the wind. Some undefined time later (two days?), Babbington comes in the barge with Bonden and others rowing double-banked in a great hurry straight into the eye of the wind where the ship herself could not come, certain the Doctor must be dead but hoping against hope to find him. They do, alive, and bring him back to the ship.

Stephen claims that the extreme heat on the shelter-less rock has worked miracles on his torture-twisted tendons.

'I wish you joy of your rescue, Doctor,' said Mr Atkins, the only man aboard who was not pleased to see the barge return: Stephen was attached to the mission in an artfully vague capacity, and the envoy's instructions required him to seek Dr Maturin's advice; Mr Atkins's advice or indeed presence was nowhere mentioned and he was consumed with jealousy. 'May I fetch you a towel or some other garment?'- with a look at Stephen's scrofulous shrunken belly. 'You are very officious, sir; but this is the garment in which I shall appear before God; I find it answers pretty well. It may be termed my birthday suit.' 'That has choked the bugger off,' said Pullings to Babbington, just above his breath, out of a motionless face. 'That is one in his bleeding eye.'

During Stephen's absence, however, he finds that someone has stolen his rats, and he is furious.

Babbington is given an acting promotion to lieutenant to replace Nicolls. His perfect delight in this is marred only by his guilt at having, along with the rest of the larboard midshipmen's berth, eaten Stephen's rats, and he blubberingly confesses. Stephen revenges himself only mildly for this offense.

Jack wished to avoid putting ashore in Brazil, to avoid official delays, but Stephen suggests they just find a village and buy green stuff there, which works. Stephen of course has to go ashore. He promises not to return with any vampires, but in the event comes back with a three-toed sloth, which does not like Jack. Jack wins it over by giving it grog, in time-honored sailor fashion. Stephen discovers this and is indignant, leading to possibly the funniest line in this book:

Stephen looked sharply round, saw the decanter, smelt to the sloth, and cried, 'Jack, you have debauched my sloth.'

The dignitaries aboard are annoying and take up an enormous amount of space, including Jack's entire great cabin, so that he must room with Stephen in a smaller space. The envoy himself, a Mr. Stanhope, is dignified and kind (though a bit remote: "Once he had established that Jack and Hervey were connected with families he knew, he treated them as human beings; all the others as dogs - but as good, quite intelligent dogs in a dog-loving community"), but his head secretary, Mr. Atkins, is an officious, self-important, tale-bearing busybody universally loathed onboard.

Stephen teaches Bonden to read and write. They have their lessons up in the top, for privacy-- Bonden is not keen to be mocked on his scholarly habits, and hides the book when the midshipman Callow comes up to deliver a message. Stephen doesn't notice this.

They get, finally, to the high latitudes, where there is a huge blow, though Stephen is consoled by finally seeing the albatross. The dignitaries complain that the ship leaks and demand better accomodations. Stephen refuses to pass the message and tells the officious secretary to go tell Jack himself. The man declines to do this, as Jack is currently lashed to the wheel in the driving rain working like hell round the clock with all hands to keep the ship from broaching-to and foundering, and indeed shortly after winds up clinging for his life to a broken mast in the front of the ship trying like hell to keep the sea from overwhelming them. Surprise is damaged internally, her timbers strained, and they have to limp the rest of the way. Not a single rat is left in the ship, the stores are dangerously low.

I wasn't going to do this but I'm going to divide this. I swear I'll get better at making these short. I'm kind of doing a... rehabilitative exercise on my ability to write, here. Coming up is part two, Bombay! With critical updates on How Many Indiamen Tom Pullings Has Been In! And you'll never guess who gets the clap!

[mysteriouslytransparentwitch]

Currently Catherine is behaving selfishly (for me it's a problem of misplaced ego) which has brought stress and anxiety and revived trauma in William

Misplaced ego from what? (Which are your guessings!? And what has she denied that has caused stress!?

I mean, I’ve been reading all your readings and I remember that you mentioned that she didn’t like how W was managing many things in the marriage and as working royals, so maybe what she is doing is to make him wake up or else?

Anyways, I also remember that you mentioned that she was becoming more a believer of faith and more religious. Some days ago a royal writer just said that to the press, that he was told that she has become more religious (even saying that it’s now a contrast of how she is embracing it and how W doesn’t think on it)

ah yes it was obvious to me, the problem is that she wants to do her royal work (not as much as the other royal members) but also her personal activity (photography, gardening) is not very compatible. Queen Elizabeth and Prince Philip were fans of fishing, gardening and watercolors ... but duty above all.

That's the deal, you live in a privileged way and on the side you work for the nation. It's just that part that she forgot. It's public money

[blogthebooklover]

Kingdom of the Planet of the Apes Possible Theories

Okay, I made a list of possible theories regarding KotPotA. Again, these are just theories until the movie comes out (in like 5 weeks!!!! YAY!!!!!)

Underground Human Community

I'm calling it now, I think there's going to be an underground community of humans who retained their ability to speak. So far, we haven't seen any articles about this, beside the fairly recent Slash Films article about the Forbidden Zone and I am 100% certain this will be the underground human community (or I could be wrong). And I think this will be one of (maybe) a few Easter eggs to Beneath the Planet of the Apes.

SPOILER ALERT

The Human Mutants in BtPotA worship an atomic bomb, and it's one of the reasons why they're disfigured and have psychic abilities. I don't think Kingdom will go that far. I think they'll have humans that retained their intellect and speaking abilities.

2. Noah and the Ark Biblical Story

Again, I'm calling it now (and I think Wes Ball might have mentioned it in an article). Since the main character is named Noa, and Proximus Caesar's domain seems to be an abandoned naval base or some kind of abandoned shipyard with rusted ships. I think this movie will take inspiration from the biblical story of Noah and the Ark; since the "Caesar" trilogy was slightly inspired by the Moses/Exodus story, and the laboratory from Rise was called Gen-Sys (get it? Genesis???) And maybe just a little bit of the David and Goliath story between Noa and Proximus Caesar 🤔.

3. William H. Macy’s character is either Mae’s father, or a leader of the underground human community

I know William H. Macy will be in the movie, and so far he and the filmmakers haven’t revealed what his role will be. I think he’s either going to be Mae’s father, or a leader of the underground human community, or maybe even both. And I think there's the slightest possibility that he might be a human secondary antagonist, since Proximus Caesar is the primary ape antagonist.

4. Raka Knows Sign Language

Since Raka the orangutan seems to be some sort of religious leader/elder, I think he also knows sign language. And I think Raka or maybe Noa will teach Mae sign language.

5. Mae Is Going to Talk or Learn Sign Language (ASL)

So far, it looks like Mae is going to be a silent character. I do think she going to talk at some point during the movie, whether in the second act or later in the third act. I think she will also learn sign language to communicate.

6. Noa Is A Descendant of Caesar

Okay, I know this one is very obvious, and I'm jumping on the bandwagon. I do think Noa is a descendant of Caesar, mainly because he looks a lot like a younger Caesar and Blue Eyes. And even if he's not, that's okay too.

7. Andy Serkis Might Come Back

I'm taking a page out of the YouTube channel, Ape Nation's book here. I do think Andy Serkis might come back as a different character, or maybe (and this is probably highly unlikely) as Caesar in a possible vision/flashback scene for Noa during a very low point or maybe when Noa discovers the truth about the apes’ history.

8. Mae's Name

The recent IMAX trailer showed Noa shouting out for Raka and Nova. I recently found out that "Nova" is the name that the apes call the feral humans. I couldn't find the article confirming this, but Freya Allan said that Noa also calls her character "Echo" at some point during the movie. Personally, I like the name "Mae" for the character (and there's maybe the possibility that it is her real name, but I digress).

[eretzyisrael]

by Nicole Lampert

There have been so many incidents that have seemed upside down since October 7 that sometimes it is all too much to bear. The celebrations in the street on October 8, the way the BBC keeps parroting Hamas lies, the fact that the murder of Israelis led to record antisemitism in the UK, the Jew hate marching down our streets every weekend while the police watch on. I could go on.

But few examples have been more stark, in my eyes, than what is happening this week.

Yesterday I watched our Prime Minister tell a Labour Friends of Israel lunch that his government stands behind the ‘independence’ of the ICC to issue warrants for Benjamin Netanyahu and Yoav Gallant. That means – however much they are presently pussyfooting around the issue - our government will attempt to arrest the Israeli politicians should they step foot on UK soil.

Meanwhile, just a day later, we are literally rolling out the red carpet for the leaders of Qatar, the nation which has for years, housed and funded Hamas.

So eager are our leaders to show a huge welcome to the Qataris that the poor Princess of Wales disturbed her cancer recovery to be dragged out to Horse Guard Parade, joining King Charles, Prince William and the Qatari Sheikh Tamim bin Hamad Al Thani and the first of his three wives.

A lunch, golden carriages and a fancy pants Buckingham Palace state banquet await. But I’m thinking about the British hostage Emily Damari. Who knows what her last meal was? What rags she is dressed in? Has anyone even mentioned Emily to the Sheikh as they gladhand and grin in photographs with him?

Let me repeat: Qatar is the country which has both housed and supported Hamas as well as many other Muslim Brotherhood terror networks. They are a danger to the world.

There is an irony too that of the many things Israel is accused of doing, Qatar gets away with barely a peep from the sanctimonious crew.

Just a few years ago, it bought a World Cup, used slave labour to create the arenas and we stood by and let it happen. Controversial Qatari minister Nasser Al-Khelaifi – not only runs top French team Paris Saint Germain but is also chairman of the European Club Association, making him one of the most influential people in European football. Visit Qatar is an official sponsor of the UEFA Euros 2024 and 2028.

[witchyafterdark]

The Statute of Secrecy 📜

Disclaimer: This is just my personal opinion. I'm sorry if this was answered late but... I just wanted to answer this properly. And perhaps a late birthday post! 🎉 I'd love to hear more thoughts in the comments section or give me more asks!

The anon was pertaining to a previous post of mine, which you can find here.

Once again, this is a very, very long post. ✨ Please take your time!

Thank you so much for sending me this ask. This is my first one ever, and I couldn't be happier! You have no idea how long I've been stewing on this topic but didn't know where to start.

Let's talk about it! I originally just wanted to post my vague take about this topic but I got to thinking 🤔 If we're really going to talk about this, let's delve deep into it, and get all the proper information out. Lots of people are divided about this statute; some in agreeance, some in complete opposition.

Also, I know that I'm no expert in the areas of government that I'm going to mention here. But I think I have a decent handle on the topic at hand, and for once, I'd like to put my degree on International Relations and Politics to good use!

What is the Statute of Secrecy?

According to the wiki, the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy (commonly shortened to Statute of Secrecy) was a law in the Wizarding World that was first signed in 1689, then established officially in 1692. The purpose of this law was to safeguard the wizarding community from Muggles, and hide its presence from the world at large. This statute was inveterated by the International Confederation of Wizards — which is the equivalent of the United Nations in the muggle world.

The ultimate reason as to why this law had to be made and laid down in the 17th century was due to the severe Wizard-Muggle relations at that time. Witch trials were at an all-time-high across European nations. It was said that, "...[witches and wizards] that offer to aid their muggle neighbors with the use of magic was tantamount to volunteering to fetch the firewood for one's own funeral pure." This was evident in the many witches and wizards that were imprisoned and sentenced to death on the charge of practicing witchcraft.

On top of that, there had also been a time of widespread persecution of wizarding children by muggles, and both witches and wizards being forced by muggles to perform and teach magic for the latter's benefit; thus, increasing the numbers of persecution that inevitably included those of muggles mistakenly tried and burned as witches. At this point in time, the Wizarding World had to establish interventional measures.

During that period, Great Britain was ruled by King William III alongside his wife, Queen Mary II. There was a time during their reign when the newly-created Ministry of Magic attempted to convene with the muggle British Monarchy via a special Ministry Delegation. The British Wizarding World went as far as begging the muggle monarchy for the protection of wizards under muggle law. Of course, this attempt had failed, which promptly resulted in the collective decision of Wizardkind to voluntarily remove themselves from muggle societies, and went towards the direction of hiding and secrecy.

Now that the historical background of this law has been covered, let's now talk about what would happen if the Statute of Secrecy were to be abolished; which will make the Wizarding World known to all muggles. (Again, these are my personal views and hypotheses, backed by ample amount of research from both sides of the debate).

Of course, in an ideal world, we would all be accepting of each other, holding hands and singing Kumbaya. 😀🤝😀

But given the current status of wars we're facing today, we have to be honest with each other here. The power of love and acceptance is not going to be enough if the muggles themselves cannot even reach an amicable understanding between themselves. And this is without magic to begin with!

So, what will happen if the Wizarding World were to reveal themselves to the muggles?

I. Economic Repercussions

There are so many bases to cover when it comes to the economic impact of what the abolishment of the Statute would entail. If the Wizarding World were to reveal their truth during this time, I can only imagine the economic upheaval both the muggle and wizards will face. Assuming that the Wizarding World would unveil themselves today, year 2023, these are the highly anticipated events that may occur:

1. At least half of the Muggle jobs will be obsolete

The first that comes to mind are people who work blue-collar jobs. I believe they will be hit the hardest in the event that magic will be known.

Why would you need a couple of dozen of construction workers (who work at a slower pace, and costs more) if you have magic to do if for you; which is considerably cheaper, faster, more efficient, and safer for all who are involved? Sure, wizarding engineers do exist as Hogwarts was built both by hand and magic. But for the most part? Utilizing magic to build and construct infrastructure will be far easier and faster than its muggle counterparts. This alone would affect the economy of manual labor of the muggle workforce.

How about housekeepers? Servers? Customer service? Handymans? They are surely the backbone of our society. But with the integration of magic, again, it would be cheaper to hire one witch or wizard to do the job, and it would be faster if magic was involved with stacking grocery goods into shelves, enchanted clothing stores that automatically alter your clothes to your size and shape, and a swish of the Scouring Charm (a charm used for cleaning and washing things) will inevitably cut the muggle labor-force into considerable numbers.

Didn't we see the Leaky Cauldron's tables being cleaned and chairs being put up by one wizard? A restaurant wouldn't need lots of servers if this would be the case. That alone would wreak havoc on muggle economy. (Less workers = less income tax revenue for the muggle government).

We've seen in real life how the recent pandemic messed with our economic recovery simply because the service industry was not wholly available as it used to be during pre-pandemic times. Everything else became impossibly expensive and difficult to obtain.

2. Pharmaceutical Corporations and Insurance Companies

Come on, now. We all know this is a gargantuan beast to tackle.

The first thing that came to mind are the magical creatures and plants that will be harvested to extinction if the muggles knew of their medicinal properties. Poaching will be at an its height (poor Poppy) with both muggles and crooked wizards selling and auctioning these creatures for mass breeding programs. There will be a race to find and get ahold of the rarest magical creatures, such as the Phoenix, Unicorn, and some species of Dragons and Winged Horses.

Wizarding potioneers and apothecaries will be reaping the benefits of this, of course, but they will be swamped with millions (if not, billions) of desperate muggles who are in search of cures for their ailments. Skele-Gro for immediate regrowth of bone-related accidents, Wiggenweld for the immediate treatment of open wounds and post-operative incisions, and the Forgetfulness Potion and Draught of Peace for patients who are suffering PTSD or any other trauma-related symptoms; just to name a few.

But the most dangerous part is that there will be a race for the recreation of the Philosopher's Stone. This is the key to create the Elixir of Life. And this is something both the wizarding world and the muggle world will fight to the death over.

Muggle pharmaceutical corporations will be affected considerably due to the magical competition of potions and healing spells that are far better than some of the muggle medications. However, there are still medicines that are needed and irreplaceable at this time; such as post-operative maintenance medicine, emergency care, anti-psychotic drugs, chemotherapy, anti-seizure aid, and the like.

And as much as we all loathe our respective countries' insurance companies and policies, they are still an important factor in our economic system. These companies will also be affected by the decline of both muggle medicinal and medical procedures.

3. Doctors, Nurses, and Healthcare Professionals

In that same vein, all healthcare professionals and providers will be affected. There will be a demand for more wizarding healers than doctors, and there will be an influx of muggle patients seeking treatment from the Wizarding World. Yes, there will be muggles who will still be wary and untrusting of wizarding procedures. This will be the saving grace of the muggle doctors and nurses — but only for a little while. Once the legitimacy and credibility of wizarding medicine becomes apparent (which it will over time), lots of muggle physicians will be at a loss of employment as more and more wizarding healers will be on demand worldwide.

The bright side to this dilemma is if both wizard and muggle medical professionals learn to cooperate with one another and have an exchange of training information with each other. Wizarding healers can learn how to do first aid; such as CPR, resuscitation, defibrillation, Heimlich maneuver, etc. We also have to give lots and lots of credit to the muggles. We have survived thus far with our own studies and the sheer will to live.

And so, we also have a lot of knowledge to impart to the wizard healers. Surgery would be even more revolutionary with the brainpower of muggle surgeons and wizard healer's magic and potions; perhaps to the point where mortality rates would go even lower than what we currently have. Maybe the muggles would give the wizards an idea of replicating organs instead of relying on donors! These are some of the positives that can happen for sure.

The Wizarding World will finally get to know dentistry! 😂 I honestly can't believe they don't know the existence of dentists all the way to as late as the 1990's.

4. Transportation

Commercial air and sea travel will most definitely be hit by the presence of wizarding means of transport. Imagine: Floo Stations can be built almost entirely anywhere (from major cities to remote islands), Witches and Wizards can be hired to apparate and disapparate (making traveling much faster, given the Wizarding World could figure out a way to bypass splinching), and Portkeys can be made and sold for a price! (There had been an incident where a muggle accidentally touched a Portkey, and was transported in the middle of a Celestina Warbeck concert!)

Surely, the muggle way of transporting goods will still be there simply because there is just too many parcels and packages to deliver. But human transportation will be affected, putting a dent the industry of airlines and seafaring companies. Plus, wizarding travel methods are easier on the planet! They don't use fuel and gas to begin with.

Another thing is broom flight! Yes, it's fun for the most part. But there will need to be an entirely new set of transportation systems and rules to be implemented before it can even be introduced for public consumption. I assume it's cheaper to buy than a car, and so a lot of muggles will be enticed to opt for brooms instead of cars — and they can just hire the aid of wizards to enchant their bags with Extension Charms for their personal belongings.

But ultimately, automobile manufacturers and corporations will, once again, become obsolete. It would push for smaller car companies into bankruptcy, and the larger ones would probably have to sell their now-surplus stock of cars for a drastically cheaper price just to be sold. Can you imagine what this would do to the economy?

5. Muggle-Made Products vs. Magically Modified Products

Funny enough, I added this part last-minute. But I immediately thought about this from seeing a review of Lady Gaga's beauty brand, Haus Labs, and their "Atomic Lip Lacquer." A product review said:

I'm 100% convinced Lady Gaga found some glamour witches and hired them! This product is impossibly good and effective!

This set my idea lightbulbs off because true enough, I had sampled this product before — and it works! It's smudge-proof, transfer-proof, and the color is quite universal on a lot of skin tones. (This is not an advertisement, nor is this post sponsored by Lady Gaga). 😂

But of course, the caveat is that if this truly was enhanced by glamour witches, then there will be a problem. Right now, we know that Haus Labs probably just have really good cosmetic chemists in their lab. But if the world was to know that glamour witches can be hired to amp up certain products, there will be a power and economic impact in the market competition.

Sure, all major companies can hire their own witches and wizards to magically enhance their products. But what about small, family-owned businesses? What about those actually honest companies that pay their workers fair wages? What about small companies who rely on ethically-sourced products from indigenous communities; like woven garments and furniture? What happens to them, then? They will be obliterated by these major corporations who have the money to hire people of magic to modify their products that will ultimately (and unfortunately) overpower smaller businesses.

Even if we are to ethically buy muggle-made products in support of their honest work, it will become much more expensive to procure over time. Much like cultural products made by locals are more expensive than your factory-produced goods, even the masses will have no choice but to buy products that are magically enhanced because they're cheaper and they take less time to manufacture. And most importantly, the magical products are going to be much more effective.

Just like that Atomic Lip Lacquer.

6. Currency, Trade, and Stock Markets

This one's pretty straightforward. With the use of divination, legilimency, seers, and all sorts of other methods of prediction, the odds are in the wizards' favor. Even with muggle technology that aids them in stock market predictions, it wouldn't stand a chance against magical seers and divination. Not only that but it would wreak havoc upon the value of both muggle and Wizarding currency exchange.

Since their community is considerably smaller than the rest of the world's, their economy is pretty stable. The system of currency isn't really expounded in great detail in the books, aside from what we know that there are 29 Knuts for 1 Sickle, and there are 17 Sickles for 1 Galleon.

Interestingly, there have been systems from forums and websites that have shown the actual money exchange rates between the Wizarding and the muggle currency:

(This one, however, is no longer the actual rates because we all know that rates change daily. There used to be a website for daily conversion rates but it's currently inaccessible or have been taken down. Do try to see if this website's working by the time I published this post).

I am not an economist, and I suck at economics, but judging from how a Galleon is worth more than the Euro, the US dollar, and British pound, Wizarding currency is more powerful than muggle currencies. If the Statute would be taken down, the Galleon would now have to enter the International Stock Exchange! But the worst part is that the British Galleon is not the only Wizarding currency there is. In France, they operate with the Bezant (which was established around 1927), and in the US, they have the Dragot and the Sprink (from at least the 18th century).

Yes, Gringotts Bank do accept muggle currency for Galleons in the case that muggleborns needed to have them exchanged. But the goblins do find the way to put muggle money back into circulation. So, in reality, muggle money is worthless in the Wizarding World. Not only that, but assuming that Galleons are made from gold, that in itself will cause a lot of confusion as to how it would be converted, and which method of conversion would yield higher returns. The bottom line is that the Wizarding currency would suffer from the process of joining the muggle market.

—

🔹 Now these are the things that I can think of at the moment, but I'm sure there are tons of other things to consider. We're barely scratching the surface of the economic repercussions. Sure, there are advantages in the long run. But will the muggles and wizards even get to the long run with other factors to consider?

II. Religious Opposition

(Note: I am NOT pertaining to the derogation of any specific religion on this section of the post. Anything mentioned here is alluded to in a generic way or historical context. I am not siding nor criticizing any particular group or religious organization by refering to "real life" events; I am merely making historical references that align with the canonical events in the Harry Potter universe).

—

One of the other factors that I just mentioned is the religious opposition the Wizarding World will inevitably face. The contrasting beliefs and practices of the Wizarding World against the muggle religious organizations is the prime reason why the International Statute of Secrecy had to be made to begin with.

There are extensive historical references, records, and studies about the subject of the European Witch Hunts and Trials that go way back to the 1400's. There was a book — which is famous, even today — that is considered as the "handbook" of identifying, capturing, torturing, and executing a witch in captivity. This is called the Malleus Maleficarum, also known as the 'Hammer of Witches.'

It is because of this book that tens of thousands of people, 80% of them were women, have been put to death. Inevitably, this became the ultimate cause why the Wizarding World have decided to completely go into hiding. The differences in the acceptance of religious beliefs and practices were the driving force why the Statute of Secrecy had been passed and enforced.

Given that today's religious climate is arguably better than how it used to be during those days, there is a bigger and better chance that the youth will have a far greater sense of open-mindedness about the existence of witches and wizards. A lot of Millennials, Generation Z, and the oldest of Generation Alpha are scientifically considered smarter and the most educated generations in all of modern history. We are, as a collective whole, the most progressive and accepting when it comes to considering things that are unknown or are yet to be discovered. Most of us won't react with violence or have the need to gather our pitchforks against the Wizarding World.

However, the same couldn't be said for religious orders. Witchcraft and wizardry are real punishable violations under scriptures, and the history of this practice is one of dark times. If the Wizarding World is to be revealed to the masses, alongside the demonstrations of magic for everyone to witness, religious organizations will most likely take action against the Wizarding population. It would not be a surprise if religious extremists host groups of people willing to revive witch hunts and take matters into their own hands, citing holy scriptures and rights against the perceived enemy. (Keyword: Extremists; not the religious organizations as a whole).

Taking note of the political upheaval in today's warring nations (and to completely acknowledge the severity of what's going on these days without disrespecting real-life situations), muggles alone have taken part in religious crusades after another. Dominant empires of the past have conquered and colonized solitary societies who are living in peace solely in the name of their respective religions. We see this even today. It is not far-fetched to think that some (not all) factions within religious organizations will take up arms against the Wizarding World. It is easier to find a common enemy to attack and fight against. It is easier to wave white flags toward your usual enemy, and join forces to defeat the new threat.

On the other hand, we see a new wave of several revivals of pagan faiths by today's youth. More and more people participate in different forms of divination (such as tarot and astrology; here's my shameless plug: @tarotwitchy), some practice the Goetic rituals and methods of communicating with deities and spirits, others prefer to continue with their ancestors' lost pagan traditions according to their ethnic roots.

So, that is a good thing... right? Unfortunately for the youth, majority of world religious leaders are the elderly; who have grown accustomed to conservative and very traditional practices and systems. And while there's technically nothing wrong with that, I personally do not see them willing to put aside their beliefs in order to allow the Wizarding World to be acquainted and assimilated in the muggle world. Pagan and indigenous spiritual people (and those who have folk religions in their cultural heritage) have a higher chance of tolerance towards the new comers. Again, I could be wrong, and I'm very open for discussion. But the judging from the current situation of the world, muggles cannot even set aside their differences to realize that we're all human with the right to live. What more when it comes to a completely new "species" of humans that will most definitely be perceived as a threat?

III. Cultural Nuances

There are obvious cultural nuances when it comes to the acceptance of the practice of witchcraft around the world; as a matter of fact, it wouldn't be so popular in today's new age of spiritual resurgence if these nuances haven't been a part of ethnic cultures in the first place. Some countries in Asia, Africa, Eastern and Southeastern Europe, the Carribean, and in Central and South America, witchcraft is basically a part of "folk culture," wherein the practice is deeply embedded into the traditional heritage of the people. Some cultures do not necessarily look upon witchcraft and wizardry as evil practices but something to respect (or at the very least, steer clear from out of ambivalence).

I can only speak for my own culture, but here in my country, located in Southeast Asia, we are part of a handful of countries that practice "folk Catholicism." This is when the influence of colonial religions have meshed alongside the natives' pagan traditions and practices. The assimilation of the two groups make for quite an interesting culture! Here, as much as 86% of the population are Catholic. But in spite of the clear-cut religious law that witchcraft and wizardry are not to be tolerated, the indigenous roots of folk practices can never be forgotten nor erased. For example, whenever the Church has done all they could do to help someone under spiritual attack, most people would turn to the ancient pagan practices for cures and solutions.

And I know we aren't the only country that does this. The Haitians and Romanians also have these practices deeply embedded in their culture. (I don't claim to expertly know about these countries, and I understand that not all citizens of those two nations practice witchcraft and wizardry). Mesoamerican culture entails the assimilation of the Catholic faith and its indigenous beliefs as well! (This was a really interesting and enlightening read for me to have researched, and people should read about it, too).

Therefore, I think majority of the muggle population around the world would have a lukewarm reception of the revelation of magic, in general. Of course, there will be fear. There will be wary people who might even spurn the existence entirely. But with how the younger generations have been extremely curious and eager to participate in these practices with an open mind, I wouldn't be surprised if the culture of the Wizarding World will be assimilated into the mainstream in just under a decade. That is, idealistically speaking, if the younger generation would really push for the human rights of the wizards as well. None of this would matter if wizards won't be given the same human rights and freedom as the next muggle. Only then would the wizards be granted the lawful freedom of practicing their own culture (besides other lawful implications and regulations).

Nevertheless, as good as that sounded on paper, greediness and envy does not have an age bracket. Both young and old will be tempted to take advantage of magic simply because it is power, in its natural form. You can see this phenomenon happening in high school students' social experiments; wherein one group of students are being given good school materials, better grades, more attention from teachers than the other group. The less "privileged" group of students began to complain and raise their concerns, and some even gave up entirely. But at the end, since their concerns were left unheard, they plotted against the other group to covet what those students have for themselves.

Of course, these feelings can somehow be justified on the perspective of the muggles. Why should the wizards have all the power? Now that they revealed themselves, they should also share their magic! These muggle concerns, in turn, will alarm and scare the Wizarding World even more. Given their respective histories, they didn't have a good parting to begin with. And this is why, on the grounds of Cultural Nuances, it would really depend on the heritage of the country or region; and how they received and perceived witchcraft and wizardry throughout their histories.

IV. Sociopolitical Upheaval and Power Vacuums

[Note: I have seen and read different takes on this issue, and I must say, there are some who see this issue in an entirely new light that I haven't considered before. Alongside my own personal research and beliefs, I will try to put all of the information together in a cohesive way. Again, all of these are the amalgamation of my own opinions and of others'. This post is for entertainment purposes only, and I am in no way pertaining or pointing fingers to a specific governmental body of any nation in real life. If there are countries mentioned in this segment, it's only because of comparison, and I'm correlating the given information that coincides with the Harry Potter universe]. 🙂

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A little interesting fact: It was common knowledge that the Malfoys used to be staunch and vocal protesters against the Statute. Why? Well, during the time before the Statute, they enjoyed being part of high-society muggle circles that ensured the steady rise of their wealth from collecting muggle artifacts, currency, and assets. They also used to align themselves with the muggle monarchy, providing discreet (and shady) services to King William the First. The Crown rewarded these services by giving them annexed land from local landowners in Wiltshire — that's why they have a huge manor! But when the new law was passed, the Malfoys became adamant in their denials of interactions with upperclass and royalty muggles.

Now, the discovery of the existence of the Wizarding World can most certainly go in so many different directions. I'm about 99.99% sure that at least half of the world's governments would not take kindly to this shocking revelation. Personally, these are the things I think would happen from the moment witches and wizards made themselves known to the masses, to name a few:

1. Governments would be on high alert

The first thing that I can imagine happening is that the muggle world will be in a state of frenzy. The simple fact that the Wizarding World has managed to hide under the muggles' noses this entire time could make the majority believe that they are not safe at all. If the wizards have lasted this long without the muggles knowing their existence, what else could they be hiding, right? Not only would the public masses become paranoid and fearful of their surroundings, their respective governments will issue a high-alert status all over their nations.

Remember, the wizards are considered the aliens and new outsiders in this scenario. We've seen time and time again in different movies (Transformers, The Fourth Kind, Signs, 10 Cloverfield Lane, Arrival, Edge of Tomorrow, and The 5th Wave) that humans in general will employ all strategies to contain and annihilate the foreign species. And so, this is most likely the first thing muggle governments would do. It wouldn't be far-fetched if these world leaders might also go as far as to call for martial laws to their countries for total control over all citizens. But of course, this would just be a façade for what would actually happen; which is the unlawful and literal witch hunt for the wizarding population that may have been living in muggle communities.

Looking back at when the existence of aliens have been "confirmed" by the US government, most people didn't even bat an eyelash or react with frenzied panic. Given that it's because these disclosed aliens don't pose a perceived threat, most of the youth didn't really react with hostility or fear. If anything, they treated the whole thing with a tired lightheartedness. People knew all along that aliens existed. While some muggles might have an interest for learning magic, the government would treat magic as an ultimate threat against their security, AND they would covet it at the same time. Which brings us to the next point. ⬇️

2. Political upheaval, and the struggles for positions of power in the government

Personally, I don't see fair play happening at all. The first thing that I thought of is assassinations. Dark witches and wizards for hire will do the bidding of high-ranking muggle officials "under the table." That is if the Wizarding World will even allow themselves to be henchmen for long. Can you imagine: the only reason why wizards would "work" for muggles is to truly get to know the entire system from top to bottom, then dismantling everything themselves? National security would be compromised, muggle protective and intelligence agencies will be on red alert, targeting all of the Wizarding World (even the good ones). It will all just be a disaster.

{I wanted to get into the entire Warfare and Security Issues but this post has gotten so long already. So, if anyone is interested in seeing that, I can insert that in another post. Maybe a presentation?}

Solution?

1. Develop a whole 'International Muggle Affairs and Intelligence Agency' for all Ministries of Magic.

As far as I know, the British Ministry of Magic only has TWO offices that cater to handling muggle affairs — not even official departments! One is the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office (the same one where Arthur Weasley is working for), and the other is Muggle Liaisons Office (which is more like catastrophe-handlers office at this point. They're in charge of fixing the collateral damages wizards have caused to the muggle world than anything).

But what they need the most is a wizard equivalent of a CIA or FBI. They need to be on top of all muggle affairs in each region and continent. There is a Japanese Ministry of Magic (since they also have Mahoutokoro School). They should work with other neighboring Asian wizarding bodies to stay on top of political, social, economic, and technological developments of the muggle world. The British Ministry of Magic should also get off their high-horses and collaborate with neighboring European wizarding officials to maintain the latest knowledge of muggle happenings.

The only reason why the Wizarding World was unscathed during the World Wars of the muggles was because they were sequestered and protected with spells around their secret territories. But I don't think that would suffice any longer against muggle technology and nuclear weapons. Drones are everywhere, the countryside are getting more and more urbanized, and the wizards communities are getting smaller and smaller. If I were them, I wouldn't wait until the very last minute to get to understand the importance of muggle powers and knowledge. I'd get on top of it now.

2. Secret Muggle Integration Project

On top of that, I truly believe there needs to be a Ministry project that hire muggleborns to report back the situation of the muggle world to their respective wizarding ministries. They know it best, as they were born and most likely raised in those communities. They need to collect gadgets, latest hand-held weaponry, books, clothing, and other materials for the Muggle Artifacts Office to study very carefully.

The Wizarding World needs to adapt to the changing times. The muggles are already looking to the stars and neighboring solar systems for new life and possible habitation for the next generation of humanity, whilst the wizards are stuck with their narrow-minded ways. Quill and parchment, really? This isn't to scoff at traditional ways. But we all know that they are severely stuck in the middle ages. They have become complacent and comfortable with the tried and tested magical methods.

Muggles have bled and learned the hard ways of life. That's why they soared to new knowledgeable heights. Muggles weren't handed things the easy way. People died from illnesses and catastrophes and accidents; and that's when we learned to advance ourselves as a collective whole. Wizards need to understand this, and assimilate this kind of thinking in their lives if they hope to catch up with the muggle status quo, or they'll be sorry they didn't once the muggles discover them in due time.

I understand the historical bad-blood between the two factions. The primary reason why wizards cloistered themselves away from the muggles were because they were being persecuted in the first place. And it would be very insensitive to force their communities to accept the muggle ways.

That's why in my honest opinion, they shouldn't lift the Statute of Secrecy.

They should only study and be up to date with everything else that's going on in the world while maintaining anonymity and secrecy.

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I hope this truly provided a complete picture and breakdown of what would happen in this scenario, and I apologize that I do not agree with your position. I still hope you enjoyed this, anon! Thank you for being my very first ask.

[jovianwishes]

Hetalia and the myth of the Dutch independence war: a mini essay/rant

One thing I often see go by in the Hetalia fandom is the notion that the 80 years war/the Dutch Revolt was an independence war against the Spanish and solely that, sort of American Revolution style. This is not surprising, since for many years, over two hundred, this notion has been pushed and propagandized here in the Netherlands. But, modern historians are now pushing a different view on the 80 years war: the independence of the Dutch Republic was completely accidental and not the intended goal.

Ever since I began studying history in university this has been quite a special interest of mine. So I'd like to shed some more light on this new look at the 80 years war and why it actually makes complete sense. First of all: before the 80 years war there was no interest or idea that the Dutch provinces form 1 nation together. In fact, all the provinces, and especially the cities, were highly independent ever since the beginning of the middle ages. They all had their own identities, coin and even language sometimes. These provinces (which by the way, were their own countries (editors note: with which i actually mean duchies, counties, bishoprics, etc) but for ease I'm calling them provinces) and cities have centuries of history with each other as allies, rivals, and sometimes even conquerer. In generally, none of them really liked the other. The concept of a united Low Lands came *solely* from the top, from those that colonized the provinces (e.g. the Habsburgers, but before that as well with the Burgundy's).

The 80 years war started because the Spanish king began taking away the rights of cities and provinces, began taxing them heavily and started imposing trails against non-catholics. After peaceful negotiation didn't work, riots began breaking out in the south, in what is now Belgium (back then kind of the southern Dutch provinces). These riots formed a reaction that went all the way to the north of the Dutch provinces. Then the Spanish send in troops and the 80 years war was truly kicked off. Before I continue, it is also good to mention that some consider the 80 years war a civil war, which indeed had it's merits. Not all provinces and cities were in agreement with each other (in the contrary...) and religious differences caused a lot of tension within the rebellion.

So as I said, modern historians are in agreement with each other that until the last few years, there was no real interest in forming one country. The (northern and southern) provinces wanted to regain their rights, lower taxes and have religious freedom, that was their goal. The forerunner of the 'have the provinces become one country' party was William of Orange, an important noble who, although he was symbolic the figure head of the fighting Dutch provinces, did not achieve anything of what he wanted before he died. So, in the later stages of war (and, it is good to mention here that the war was not one monolith - it was a long series of conflicts stretching out many years), there came a slow realisation that the only way to win was to unite. And eventually, that is what happened. What follows was a true "Golden Age" for the Dutch Republic but also a time of *extreme* political unrest - the Republic was honestly constantly on the brink of falling apart because again, no province could agree with each other.

Anyways, I want to end this way too long post with saying that you're not wrong for depicting the 80 years war as an independence war. It's a notion that has been pushed for many years, but I would like people to consider a different way of looking at the NL. A way that considers that the provinces were just like the HRE: a collection of countries with long histories that deserve to have their own story told. I personally, in Hetalia, consider all the provinces their own personifications. Ned is for me the personification of the "Low Lands", an imagined community of trading and fighting provinces that would love to stab each other's hearts out and then steal their gold, hahah. Oh, and also, people need to remember that Belgium was an incredibly important factor in the 80 years war. The Belgian provinces, which back then were just the southern Dutch provinces, helped enormously in the fight against the Spanish but eventually they were too weak to hold up. Anyways, thanks for reading!