#not hiding my light under a bushel

[nokingsonlyfooles]

Nobody Goes to Hogwarts (Yes, the frog writes fanfic)

If you don't want a vicious Harry Potter deconstruction, do not click. I am serious, this is for your own mental health, angry fans. If you yell at me, you will boost my content with the algorithm. I don't want your attention and you don't want me to be seen, so our goals align. Just walk away.

I started this during Rowling's meltdown, for funsies, and then it got so bad that I quit. This was always meant to be a critical take on the Wizarding World, but I decided it was better not to name-check its author or prod the hornets' nest of her offended fans. So I did one and only outlined the rest. I got hit with a poll asking if I'd ever written fanfic, and I'm thinking about how people get discouraged and stop sharing their work, so now I'm putting it out here anyway. Potter's not going away, so we might as well deconstruct the hell out of it.

These are my characters from my story, which is firmly post-Potter. I put them in her world to see how badly people like them would frig it up. I'll write the rest if anybody want's that - it's fun for me! let me know! - but I'll summarize at the bottom, for the curious.

The one I wrote is for Hyacinth, and it's set in 1945 - they are wizards, so I had to spread their ages out a bit. (I don't really know how living for hundreds of years works in Potter, and neither does Rowling, so just roll with it.) She would've been a Hufflepuff, but she never got sorted, and this is why:

Barnaby leaned against the doorway and folded his arms. “Running away from home are we?” he said. “That’s a lovely hat for it. You look as if you’re about to deny the murder of your third husband.”

“It’s Tabby’s.” She adjusted it. It gave the abstract impression of a black swan with lace trimmings and a veil. “And I am not running away,” said the little blonde girl with the suitcase. She balled up another pair of stockings and stuffed them inside. There was also a full load of comic books, a painting of a bullfight, and she seemed to be stealing one of David’s smaller musical automatons, but she had neglected to pack any dresses. She wasn’t wearing one either, but she had put on a simple linen slip and some shoes and stockings, along with the hat. “I am going to school. I got my letter.” She held up the envelope.

The gentleman plucked it from her fingers and regarded it. “Hogwarts. Aren’t you a little old for Hogwarts, Alice?”

“My name is not Alice. They said it’s all right because of my injury.” She knocked her hand on the side of her head.

“I suppose this is your parents’ doing?”

“Beats me, and I don’t think I care,” she replied. “If I need anything signed, I’ll put David’s name on it. One of his names, anyway. He taught me how to sign all of them. I’m stealing some of his money, and I’ll stop by Diagon Alley and buy myself a wand. I don’t think he’ll notice.”

“I don’t think he’ll notice the money, but he might notice when you don’t show up for dinner a few days in a row.”

She shrugged. “I’ll write him.” She paused with her hands in the suitcase. “Do you think I ought to have an owl? I don’t know if I’m really an owl person. I suppose a cat wouldn’t carry a letter, but how about a kangaroo? You know, with the pocket.”

“I don’t know, but I’m sure David would be happy to buy you one if you gave him an excuse, so please refrain.” He sat on the bed next to the suitcase and held up the letter. “You do know I went to Hogwarts, don’t you? Briefly.”

She closed the suitcase and set it on the floor. “I thought you and David were Beauxbatons boys.”

Barnaby winced. “Yes. Although I’m not sure David was authorized to be there, he may just have decided he wanted to go and showed up. If I’d read my tea leaves a little more closely, I might’ve stayed at Hogwarts and left him alone, but I don’t think I would’ve been very happy there. I doubt anyone is capable of bossing you around and I’m not about to try, but I don’t think you would be happy there either, Hyacinth.”

“What? Because of their stupid hat? I’ve got a better one.” She tugged on the veil. “Maybe they’ll fall in love and have baby bonnets. Besides, I don’t care if they put me in Slytherin. I don’t mind being evil. I’ll make the best of it. David does.”

“I think you’re more Hufflepuff material, but it’s not that,” he said. “Do you know they have house elves at Hogwarts?”

“House elves?” said Hyacinth, blinking. “Plural? Just two or lots?”

“Lots,” Barnaby said, nodding.

She began to grin. She clutched both hands to her face and then threw her arms in the air and cried, “Hooray!” She spun a joyful circle. The veil lifted away and her hair flew. “They can’t do any schooling at all if they’ve got multiple house elves, Barnaby! Why didn’t you stay? Were they more annoying than David?”

He sighed. “I never saw them, Hyacinth. Not one.”

She planted both hands on her hips and leaned forward. “Barnaby, I know you’re dumb, but you’re not dumb enough to let multiple house elves whiz past you. Don’t you even remember stepping over their weird art projects? Were they all into transcendental meditation or something quiet?”

Barnaby pointed at her. “You think all house elves are like Tabby and Herringbone, don’t you?”

Hyacinth took off her spectacular hat. “Well, I’m not racist, Barnaby. I don’t think they all paint matadors and do fashion design, but they’re both very single-minded and odd and proud of it. David would only want the best house elves around. Is there something wrong with the other ones?”

“Oh, dear-oh, dear-oh, dear,” said Barnaby. He shook his head. “This isn’t the sort of conversation I’d like to have sober, but Herring basically lives under the drinks cart when he’s not painting, and if we go into the kitchen Tabby is going to dress us and feed us — and I think they’d both be embarrassed to hear me talk about it. Hyacinth, let me sit here and explain about house elves and then if you still want to go to Hogwarts I’ll take you to Diagon Alley myself and we’ll get you a kangaroo. All right?”

She plunked down on the bed next to him and drew up her legs. Her expression was grave. “Well?”

“House elves are,” he began, and then he didn’t know how to finish. He looked up and pointed out the door, in Tabby and Herringbone’s general direction. “Well, first off, they are not like Tabby and Herring! They are quiet. They cook and they clean and that’s basically it.”

“What about in their off hours?”

“They don’t have off hours, Hyacinth!” He shook his head. “They claim they don’t want any. It’s cultural. That’s like an insult. And they don’t want money, and you can’t give them any clothes, that’s like firing them… Only it’s worse than firing them because…” He put his head in his hands and raked his fingers back through his thinning hair. “Let me start again: Hyacinth, house elves are property.”

“Don’t be stupid,” she said. “You can’t own a person.”

“But we don’t treat them like people and they’re fine with it,” Barnaby said. “I mean, Tabby and Herring aren’t — not anymore — but to the best of my knowledge they’re the only ones like that. My family had one as I was growing up and I barely saw her. And I’m the third child, so I won’t get her when my mother dies, my older brother will. A house elf is like a dinette set.”

He shut his eyes. “No, a house elf is like a slave, and they’re happy to be that way. When David gave Tabby and Herring clothes, they were miserable. They were ashamed. And they kept following him around anyway because they had no idea what else to do with themselves. They were like that when I knew him in school, two tiny people in perfect little outfits who lived under his bed and cried a lot.”

“Why did he dress them up if they didn’t want…” She put up her hand. “No, that’s a stupid question. He does whatever he wants, I already know that.”

“They usually wear tea towels and things and he thought they looked shabby,” Barnaby said. “I have no idea where he got them, you know how he is with his stories and they back him up no matter what he says, but he thought they looked shabby so he put them in clothes and they disintegrated. Emotionally. He told them he didn’t want them to leave and he’d take care of them as long as they wanted, but they didn’t believe him. He used to feed them.”

“What, like, with a spoon?”

“No, more like pets. He put plates down on the floor near his bed and every once in a while you’d see a wrinkly little hand come out and take something. The first time I saw it happen I damn near had a heart attack. I thought we had a gnome infestation or something. But he picked up the bedskirt and showed me his house elves. They even had little shoes — I mean, you know what they look like. They live here. But they’re not supposed to look like that. Tabby liked fruit salads. He used to steal them from the dining hall for her, but she’d only eat if she didn’t think we were looking.”

Barnaby sat back on the bed. “I’d known David ten years before Herringbone produced his first bullfight painting, and it was fifteen before Tabby sort of delicately asked if she could have a fashion magazine. And I have no idea how long he had them before I met him!”

“So the ones at Hogwarts just haven’t had enough time,” said Hyacinth. She frowned. “And maybe little shoes. Do they need me to bring them little shoes, Barnaby? I’m happy to do it. Tabby always says a new outfit can make you into a new person, but I thought it was a metaphor.”

“They wouldn’t take the little shoes, Hyacinth,” Barnaby said. “You’d have to force them, like David, and they wouldn’t thank you for it. They wouldn’t even consider themselves yours, so I’m not sure what they’d do. They might all march into the lake and drown themselves out of despair. They are happy being slaves and they don’t know anything else. There’s a reason Tabby and Herring don’t have any house elf friends, it’s not just their taste. They’re outcasts, because the others literally do not understand how they can be that way, and they don’t understand the others anymore.”

Hyacinth tented her fingers against her mouth. Barnaby was aware that he did this himself in his more pensive moods and felt oddly flattered. “So we have to wait until they have children, however long that takes, and make sure the kids grow up knowing they have choices and opportunities and they can go to Hogwarts too,” she said. “I think they all ought to have scholarships, Barnaby. And they should get their parents’ back pay!”

“Hyacinth, this has been going on longer than recorded history. If they do have children, and I assume they must, they end up just like the parents.”

Hyacinth slapped a hand on the mattress. It bounced. “But they live with us!” she said. “Why aren’t they forgetting their culture and picking their favourite bits of ours to copy? Like we stole Christmas and curry!”

“I don’t know, Hyacinth,” he said. “But nobody’s extremely keen to find out because they work for free.”

“So what we have here,” said Hyacinth, “is an entire race of people consigned to a lifetime of servitude, right up until someone decides to dress them in clothes, and then it’s like they wake up and they have no idea what to do, even though they’ve seen how other people live freely.”

“Yes, rather.”

“And they can, in fact, learn how to live freely themselves, but not until someone dresses them up, then it’s like they’re starting over from square one.”

“Yes.”

“As if they were under a spell,” said Hyacinth acidly. “Not unlike one of those curses that gets you locked up in Azkaban, except nobody does anything about this one because it gets them a free cleaning service?”

Barnaby rubbed his eyes with both hands. “You’ve put it a bit more bluntly than I would, but I still feel badly I didn’t do anything about Hopscotch.”

“This would be your house elf you grew up with?”

“Yes. I mean, to be fair, I had no idea Tabby and Herringbone were possible back then. It’s only since I’ve seen them grow up that I wonder about poor Hoppy, but I’m not allowed to go back and get her. Legally.”

“Because she’s property,” said Hyacinth, practically melting her way through the bed.

“She’s rather attached to my mother too, she does have feelings!” Barnaby cried. He sighed and looked away. “She’s a person with feelings.”

“We’ll wait until your mother dies then,” said Hyacinth, in a matter-of-fact tone that Barnaby found borderline offensive, but not as offensive as slavery. “But Hogwarts owns their elves and they could free them and pay for a good alienist anytime they wanted and they don’t.”

“I’ve written them letters but they never reply,” Barnaby said. “They printed the one David and I sent to the Daily Prophet but they called us both crackpots and sexual deviants.” He laid a dignified hand on his chest, “I am not a sexual deviant. I just don’t give myself airs when other people are.”

Hyacinth picked up the suitcase and threw it on the bed. “Looks like David will be paying for my private tutors at least until I’m old enough for the W.O.M.B.A.T.s.” she said. “I’m perfectly happy being held to a lower standard in education, I have better things to do than school, I just thought I might like a wand and a kangaroo. I’m glad nobody knows where the hell David came from with his money and my family is in no way respectable.”

“Your family is quite ancient and respectable, Hyacinth,” Barnaby said, blinking,

“Those twits at the estate in Devonshire are not my family,” Hyacinth said. “They decided they’d rather be respectable than have a matched set of daughters, so to hell with them. I’m going to go give Tabby and Herring a big hug!”

“Hyacinth!” Barnaby called after her. “If you don’t put on a dress, Tabby will tie you up and stuff you into one of hers!”

“This time, I’ll let her!” Hyacinth yelled back.

[Well, I think that formatted all right! As for the rest of the Hyacinth's House Mob: Barnaby got sorted into Ravenclaw in 1914 and got ejected for cheating - he made it obvious because he preferred the future where he ends up at Beauxbatons, little knowing it would include David. Room 101 broke the sorting hat with, er... his/her/their/it's abilities, in 1931. Mordecai fed a Malfoy a bar of soap on the train, was horrified wizards don't seem to know who Hitler is in 1933, stalled the hat, and fled in terror after being assigned Gryffindor. Sanaam (Ravenclaw, never sorted) ran into the Forbidden Forest to have a look at the animals, in 1950, and never came back. The General got sorted into Slytherin in 1952, contrary to her wishes, and demanded to know why they have an evil house, before choosing to continue her education with her abusive mother. Milo (Gryffindor, never sorted) got dumped in St. Mungo's in 1977, due to his significant issues, because Hogwarts doesn't do special education or accommodate disabilities. Calliope (Ravenclaw, never sorted) chose not to answer her owl for similar reasons in 1978, although her whole family is wacky so they don't parse autism and ADHD as disabilities. Maggie (Gryffindor, never sorted) also chose not to answer her owl after some discussion about the virtues of resisting the system from within versus refusing to participate. Erik got sorted into Slytherin in 1992, and was dragged home by a horrified Mordecai after writing one letter home about how all the "pureblood supremacy" wasn't much fun. Lucy got sorted Ravenclaw in 2000 and got dragged home by Calliope after writing one letter home about how there weren't any art classes. And, finally, in 2006, Dave (also a potential Ravenclaw) did not answer his owl for reasons which will become obvious, but are a bit spoilery for my readers. By that point, Hyacinth's house would have advanced owl defences anyway, so I might've been able to cite that as a quick gag without ruining the surprise.

But I haven't written any of that out for real. I will do so ONLY if you tempt me! I really wanted to do Mordecai's, that one would probably be the longest. "...Oh, I'm only a bit worried because I'm Jewish, that's all!" "What sort of a wizard is that?" "...It's a bit like an Animagus. When the stars are right, I have the ability to turn into a pastrami sandwich." "Let's see it." "Can't, I haven't had my Bar Mitzvah yet. ...Here, have another one of these Muggle candy bars, Mr. Malfoy."]

[ilsrevent]

saw fic snippets will continue until morale improves

[honkytonk-hangman]

Big Girl

Jake Seresin x Reader

Summary: Jake Seresin doesn't believe you should hide your light under a bushel, no.

Notes: Just a lil drabble i've been working on. I just think Jake would be the kinda guy who loves his girl to be big and loud and successful!!!!!!! ty to @roleycoleyland for being my rock the past few months holy gosh this one's for you bbyyy!!!! <3

Masterlist

“It’s a deployment, Samuel! It’s not like I have a choice!” you hiss, before closing your eyes and trying to get a hold of yourself. Afterall, it's not as though you and your boyfriend were in the comfort of your apartment. No, he’d decided to start this argument in the parking lot of the damn Hard Deck.

“Having a choice has nothing to do with it. You want to go, that's the real issue here!” Sam all but spits at you. You reel back, and throw your hands up in exasperation.

“So what if I do?! This is a big deal for me! This is a big deal for my career! I should be allowed to be excited about that!” you insist. Sam rolls his eyes at you and scoffs.

“Oh, there you go again! It’s always got to be about you and your big career, right?! Can’t let anything come before that!”

“That isn’t fair,” you lower your voice, and try to keep it from wobbling. “I have tried so hard to make sure you know you’re equally as important to me, but that was never going to work, was it?” Your voice does break a little this time, and you suck in air as you cross your arms over your chest and take a step back from him.

“You have decided from day one that you feel inferior, and you are never going to let me forget it! I have done everything to show you otherwise but you won’t let it be enough! You don’t want to change, you want me to change.” you probably shouldn’t let all of this air out in the parking lot of your favourite local bar, but you can’t stop yourself now, and the words tumble from your mouth faster than you can think things through. “I have tried to put myself in the box that makes you comfortable, but the truth is that I’m too big for it, I'm never going to stop being too big, so I’m never going to fit your stupid box!”

The two of your stare at one another for a few moments, you huffing tearily, and Sam staring at you in what looks like disgust. At last he scoffs again, and looks away from you, off toward the beach before he pulls out his car keys.

“Good luck with your big career.” he says mirthlessly, and you shut your mouth, swallowing hard as he climbs back in his car, giving you only seconds to step out of the way before he’s throwing it in reverse.

Suddenly you’re standing alone in the parking lot, blinking at the space where your probably-now-ex boyfriend just was. You don’t feel regret, exactly, but you do feel a deep sense of disappointment pulse through you. It’s not like you didn't mean everything you said, but you wonder if perhaps you might’ve said it differently.

Before you can get too far feeling sad though, a righteous kind of anger takes you over and you kick into action, stomping inside the bar and pushing through the busy crowd. When you order a straight bourbon, Penny frowns at you, and you know your eyes must be all red and glassy, but she doesn’t ask you, simply gives you her kindest smile and slides your glass towards you.

You down it quickly, and take a few deep breaths, hoping the alcohol might steel you some more, but it frustrates you to find your tears have started leaking, and you angrily wipe at them with the back of your hand.

“I don’t mean to pry…” a voice, somewhat familiar, sounds from next to you, making you turn. You’re slightly startled to find one of the pilots you’ve seen around base leaning casually against the bar. You know him to be a TOPGUN graduate, like yourself, but you’d never spoken before, let alone shared the sky. Hangman, you remember suddenly, and square your shoulders somewhat. It was coming back to you now. He had a bit of a reputation.

“I happened to arrive at the same time as you… couldn’t help but overhear all the commotion,” he speaks like he finds it all rather funny, but straightens up and clears his throat when you can’t help but look away from him, struggling to blink back tears. Dropping all pretence, he stops leaning and steps in a little closer with a frown on his face.

“Hey, I’m sorry, I wasn’t tryna’...” he trails off once more and you suck in a deep breath as you try to calm down.

Embarrassment lances through you, and you mostly just wish Hangman will leave you alone completely, but he doesn’t. Out of the corner of your eye, you see him shuffle on his feet in a manner you hadn’t been able to imagine him doing before now, and you try to get ahold of yourself.

Hangman seems to watch you for a beat before his demeanour changes up and he ducks his head down to catch your attention.

“For the record, if you hadn’t of said any of that, I might’ve,” His voice is somewhat humorous again, but this time it’s like he’s trying to make you laugh, which, caught off guard by his words, you do. You sneak a glance over at him, not feeling so intimidated anymore, and you almost laugh again to see him look so proud.

You watch as Hangman flags down Penny once more, ordering you another round and a beer as you use a napkin to blot at your face discreetly. When he looks back at you, his expression is much more intent than you’re fully comfortable with.

“Don’t you ever let some guy put you in a box, alright?” he tells you like it’s an order. It takes you a moment, but eventually you find yourself nodding at his words, not bothering to hide your surprise. The little you knew of this man was that he was prickly at most, and a complete asshole at worst, so his almost angry words in your defence take you off guard.

He stares at you until he seems satisfied you’ve heard him, and then his shoulders sag just a little and his expression softens.

“Find someone who’ll love that bigness, alright?” he says after a moment, before clearing his voice and straightening up once again as your drinks are delivered. Your cheeks want to warm in embarrassment at his referencing your little speech outside, but then he’s taking his beer with a thanks to Penny, and gesturing blindly toward you.

“Put her drinks on my tab tonight, alright?”

He doesn’t give you time to protest before he’s pushed away from the bar and disappeared into the bustling crowd of patrons.

The next time you see Hangman, his sudden appearance is just as unexpected as the first time, and just as welcome. You’re in a bar again, of course, only this time halfway around the world and thankfully, not crying. Your squad had a limited amount of shoreleave, so you were making the most of it while you could, before you needed to be back on base in the morning.

You hear a loud cheer from somewhere by the pool tables and glance over your shoulder toward where most of the Navy personnel had gathered, but you can’t see much aside from a few new faces. You assume they must be the other squad that Roukie had mentioned were passing through, but you’re quickly distracted again by the bartender coming your way.

Just as your server begins moving away to sort out your rather large order, you feel a hand at your back, quickly followed by the materialisation of a uniformed man beside you, his massive grin and sparkling green eyes flashing as a welcomed sight to your slightly hazy mind, and you let out a gentle sound of excitement as you turn to greet him properly.

“Hangman!” you exclaim, feeling only a little funny about being so happy to see him when you don’t even know him that well. Hangman thinks little of it, his smile turning brighter, more genuine as he eases into a lean against the bar, mirroring the last time you saw him, all cool and casual confidence as he nods towards you.

“How’s my Big Girl?” he asks, eyes crinkling in the corners. You can’t help but let out a laugh, but force yourself to look away from him for a second and pray to any god listening that he can’t tell how flustered you are.

“I think this is the first time in history a man has said that to a grown woman and isn’t going to get gut punched for it.” you deflect from the barrel rolls your stomach is doing. He chortles, and settles in even closer to you, his eyes never leaving your face.

“Well?” he prods, still staring at you even as the bartender returns, and you go to pay for your round, only to have Hangman push your outstretched hand away and hand over his own card instead. “Come on now, don’t keep me waitin’,” he says with playful sternness, and your already two-drinks deep mind can’t help but give in, and you begin gushing about your deployment so far, a few of the assignments you’d gotten to do, and some of the achievements you’d earned. Hangman stays staring at you through it all even as you gesticulate wildly as you speak or describe manoeuvres, and you’re so invested in your story telling that you barely register how or when you’d both moved back over to the surrounds of the pool table, where you assume Hangman had circulated the round you’d (he’d) bought all the while still listening to you talk.

You must be four or five drinks down when you at last come to a stop, giggling a small amount at the tail end of your last story. The sun has well and truly set now and you’re crammed in one side of a sticky pleather booth, Hangman on the other. You realise then, that you must have been talking for over an hour, probably much more.

“I’m sorry, that was so much!” you say, bashfully ducking your head a little. Hangman cocks his head at you, a wry smile pulling at his lips as he watches you fiddle with your drinks coaster.

“I know what I asked for.” he tells you with an assuredness you can’t question, and even as you glance away from him to catch yourself, his attention remains on you. You have to blame your four or five, maybe six drinks for the next words out of your mouth.

“You know, I don’t think you’re an asshole at all,” you declare, face growing hot when Hangman lets out a surprised, but amused bark of laughter, but doesn’t question your statement.

“Oh, is that right?” he asks instead, leaning forward like he’s very much intrigued by this assertion. “What am I then?”

You think he’s teasing you, but again, you can’t really help what comes out of you, and you draw your arm up onto the table to rest your head in your palm, and blink back at him slowly.

“Pretty, for the most part.” you tell him, trying to suppress a sudden yawn. Hangman's laugh is less boisterous this time, more of a chuckle really, and you find that your blinking has slowed even more, longer pauses between closing your eyes and opening them.

When you startle back awake some seconds later, you think you might’ve just fallen asleep, but you see that Hangman is watching you softly again, and you can’t help but smile as your eyes flitter shut once again. Warm hands guide you to your feet moments, maybe hours later, but when you pull back at the grasping, a soft shushing joined by a gentle voice lulls you back into sleep.

“Alright, Big Girl lets get you home.”

[b0tster]

ever since coming out, i’ve had a very difficult time inserting myself into the lgbt community, specifically the trans community. i don’t know why; i’ve just never felt like i belong in any specific place, like i’m not good enough or look “proper” enough to take part. i’m not sure if that’s rooted in how isolated i was a kid and teenager just trying to to sort through this stuff. but i can’t be that way any more, and i guess in seeking to view myself as more “valid” i’ve gone through a lot of personal changes. and despite my internalized feelings towards myself from my childhood and parents and society at the time, i’ve come to love and accept myself for the project that i am.

i guess i just wanted to get that out since we’re all doing this.

to the anon, i just want to say: i was in a similar situation for years and years. i first started questioning myself when i was a child. it got worse as i got older. eventually i learned to just shove it down and ignore it. as i got older though, and grew more autonomous, and grew as a person, i realized that those feelings never went away. and from 19-25, i just kept crushing them down, but every time took more and more out of me.

i came out to my sister in tears at like 12:30am in the office of my workplace. her response? “yeah no that checks out for you.”

i’ve never been more relieved or angry, or laughed so hard, at a response, but that was the push over the edge i needed. and i don’t want you to think any of us are directly telling you that you are trans, you should transition, blah blah blah.

i have a lot of regrets about how i handled my transition. i wish i had access to more information in the 90s and 00s. i wish i had people like those that are all over this website, encouraging me to look inside myself to see what was going on. i wish i had had all of you incredible people to talk to. i spent the better part of 26 years denying who i was because i was afraid of what it might mean, and because i didn’t have any base of knowledge to understand any of my feelings. i felt alone and isolated, in that tiny ass rural town in virginia. it wasn’t until i got to college that i really saw people like me, and even then i was too intimidated, too afraid to approach or talk to them.

anon, my only real advice to you would just be to talk. find people to talk to. talk to yourself if you have to. if you think they’re steps you want to take? give them a shot. you can always stop if it doesn’t jive with you.

i started transitioning at 28. i lost my hrt a year and a half later. i just got it back a month ago, and now at 31, i’m back at square one.

my biggest regret will always be, that i didn’t give myself the chance to be myself sooner. don’t rob yourself of that chance, anon, by hiding your light under a bushel. we’ll all be around. talk to us. talk to everyone you can, and you’ll learn a little more about yourself each time. i just wish someone had told me that sooner.

love all of you guys. 💜. thank you for giving me a place to put this, botster, and thank you anon and botster for giving me an excuse to share my story.

Thank you so much for your kind words. I don't even know how to properly respond to this 🥺

I know its not fully directed at me though. But this shows how important it is to be out and proud for those who are willing.

Having a platform where people feel safe enough to ask these questions is so important.

[the-august-one]

Men apparently think about the Roman Empire everyday.

Women apparently think about Egypt everyday according to a tiktok I just saw.

So my question is, what time bit of history do nonbinary folks think about everyday?

No wrong answers.

(I personally think about Medieval England, but that's probably less to do with me being nonbinary and more to do with me being autistic and that being one of my special interests.

But the nonbinary bit comes in where I wanna be the knight in shining armor, but I also kinda want to be the courtly damsel in distress, and I also kinda want to the be the dragon that is the problem...)

p.s. if you want to leave an answer, please dont hide your light under a bushel by putting it in the tags? Let everyone enjoy your glorious non binary opinions by putting it in your reblog. 🖤💜💛🤍

[many-sparrows]

I'm not the original anon, but please do share more about how you can be Christian without being a part of a church. I'd love to hear your thoughts! ☀️

So, if church isn't right for you, or is inaccessible, or isn't right right now, here are some tips:

- Lean into the curiosity. Learn about your bible, read books written by pastors and theologians and stuff. Learn about church history of you're into that. Even if things are wrong or strangely interpreted, it opens up your thinking, which helps you grow.

- I found ritual really important. For me, I find a lot of God in nature, so I would turn off my phone and take a long, secluded walk on Sunday mornings. Setting up a prayer ritual can be nice. When I wasn't in church and found myself also in a depressive moment, I would take really long, ritualistic showers on Sunday night. Self-care because you are part of God's creation, you are part of the body of Christ and so loving + caring for those things means loving and caring for yourself.

- Reflection. Giving yourself time to really think about faith stuff since you don't have the time blocked out by a church service.

- Serve. Serving others (whatever that might mean in your life) is a really important directive in the gospel and should be part of our spiritual practice for all of us. It takes on a different importance and a different kind of value when it is one of the anchors of your faith (and I think that should be the case for every Christian everywhere).

- Don't hide your faith. This one sounds a little weird but hear me out. A lot of us are quite hesitant about advertising Christianity in this day and age. And you shouldn't be an asshole with how you do it, you shouldn't be calling yourself a Christian to show off or pontificate or to convert. However, it can be a real difficult line to be sensitive and hiding that light under a bushel. And you shouldn't be hiding this part of your life. If people ask you why you do certain things or care about certain issues, be upfront with the Christian part of it. I think especially if you're not going to a church or scheduling your life around church, wearing a cross or something can keep that front and center in your life, both for you and for the people who are watching you live your life. Keeps you grounded and makes sure that it's something you're open about.

- Keep wrestling. Like Jacob and the angel, it's all about engaging and wrestling with god instead of walking away. Don't put it down when it's difficult or there are questions. Hold your doubts and keep exploring.

Rb with more fellas!

[ome-magical-ramblings]

A simple method to contact Ophiel with pen and paper.

illustration courtesy of my hubby, @desdemonasarchives. One of my friends wanted to work with Arbatel's spirits without calling on God or Jesus which is somewhat ironic considering it is a...Christian grimoire but nonetheless who am I to hide the light under the bushel(Matthew 5:15) right? I will have to put emphasis that this is only and specifically for Ophiel. His Spirits are 100000 Legions: he easily giveth Familiar Spirits: he teacheth all Arts: and he that is dignified with his Character, he maketh him to be able in a moment to convert Quicksilver into the Philosophers stone.

I will first say the words as told to me by Ophiel.

sincerity of heart, Pureness of mind, Calmness of body, Write me a letter as much as you can and I will draw near to you and get closer to you. Shred to pieces in the wind, burn it, bury it, in running water, any of these works and the more you write letters to me the more I will draw near to you, inspire you, and talk to you.

note: running water as in a stream or a river if possible. That's basically it. Write them a letter, you can start it with "Dear Ophiel[his seal]...." followed by a sincere request from you to contact them, and just keep approaching them respectfully and cordially :)

Surprisingly simple method to do it :) hope it works well for you.

[rjshepofftheshits]

Ok real talk tho, here is how they can improve dead space 3 for a remake.

Less focus on saving the world and more focus on the characters. i want to see isaac and ellie try to repair their relationship, i want to see carver go from grumpy git to isaacs friend and i want to see robert norton go from a good man with good intentions to someone who cracks under pressure, not because of some dumb jealousy thing with Isaac. if you were feeling REALLY spicy you could even make Danik a reasonable if categorically wrong man who eventually goes absolutely fruit loops by the end instead of starting out that way.

give isaac more story besides running after ellie. i know saving people, particularly the women in his life is a running theme with mr clarke, we do stan a feminist king. but he was perfectly capable of doing everything in dead space 1 WHILE ALSO looking for Nicole, his every other word wasn't about her. Dead space 3 makes me feel like he is only capable of pining after ellie and that is just not him. Isaac and ellie were together for 2-3 years, he knows her and he knows she can look after herself, it's the rest of the fucking universe that needs his competence and intelligence, not her. and if you must go this way, please don't make it another rescue mission. Again, ellie is a survivor and an intelligent person maybe even as smart as isaac she does not need saving.

also give the girl back her sports bra im sick of the cleavage. how she jumped 3 cup sizes is beyond me.

keep carver in the story but make him either an AI companion or do what NIER : Automata or RE2MAKE did. you play all the way through as isaac, then as carver and then once again as whoever for the ending OR you play all the way to the end as Isaac and then on a second playthrough you can be Carver and the way that you played as Isaac is now how your ai partner isaac behaves.

do not lock Carvers story behind coop missions. i know visceral didnt want to do this, they were made to by ea but still it seems like a dumb move even on their part. Carver didnt need to be there but since he is, why are you hiding that light under a bushel ea???

big one: get rid of the micropayments and retool the fucking weapons and combat. most of the guns are like water pistols and the necromorphs tank hits like brick shithouses. i know SCAF weapons are 200 years old by the time of dead space 3 but like. Isaac is smart enough to make a ripper, a line cutter and a plasma cutter on its own without bolting them together.

do not hide the true ending behind a dlc paywall. i think i was the only person on the planet that actually liked Awakened, better than the base game too. so it pains me to say that it didnt need to exist: either cut it completly and use it as the opening for dead space 4 or merge it into the ending of dead space 3 somehow.

lastly i think the story needs some tweaking. if we look at the progression it goes > outbreak on one ship > outbreak on a station> universe wide outbreaks everyone is doomed. now granted i understand you need to escate things for sequels but i just dont feel the same gravity of the situation in 3 as a did in 1 or 2. we never see the world outside isaacs pov which is fine but i would still like to see some of the world before it got fucked over a picket fence by the unitologists. the only glimpses we get are in text logs and it would make me feel more urgency to save the world if i actually knew what the world was like.

Continuing on with my story point: isaac needs some tweaks. he is a broken and cynical man by 3 which is very fair given all hes gone through but he is also a savior and defender at heart. no, he didnt ask for any of this but since he's stuck in this situation you know damn well he is going to do his best to fix this. I always found it weird that Isaac was essentially suicidal by the time of 3s opening, he was killing himself with indifference and clearly not looking after himself but when Norton comes knocking he still says "find someone else for your suicide mission" outright refusing all of it until ellie is mentioned. why didnt norton open with "ellie is in trouble, she sent us to get you to help" ? and why did isaac flat out refuse if he didnt care about his own life???

all this to say i would very much like to see isaac living a somewhat normal life after 2. ok maybe hes still depressed and alone but hes also still trying to move on, anything better to explain his reluctance to get dragged back into things . Maybe instead of having isaac backed into a corner and avoiding the world it could be more of a case of "i fucking told you so" like the mass effect series. Isaac has spent 2 games telling everyone who will listen "do not fuck with the markers" and now maybe he could be really fucking annoyed that no one has listened and as the only competent man in the galaxy hes got to go sort this shit out on principal.

here also are some things id just like to see.

Isaac struggling with his marker problem less like psychosis and more like a general disability or chronic illness. yes it sucks ass and yes its disabling but hes still a badass despite it. i dont like the wooohhhoooo mental illness scary vibes i get from other marker touched people like stross. thats just not how it works.

isaac with psysical scars from his time in project teleomere/ the hospital in dead space 2. i would like to see him with wounds from the first game healed and also maybe some marker scrawl on him as a permenant reminder of what happened.

id like to see ellie have a more active role or even be a playable character. doesnt have to be a big thing, do something like the born from a wish scenario in silent hill 2, maybe cover the 2 weeks she was lost in space before ds3 takes place.

id like to see the necromorph process slowed down. it happens so fast its almost meaningless, not to mention unbelievable. if it happens over time and the characters can see and react to it happening that has more emotional impact.

In the ending where carver and Isaac get blown off the platform, I want to see them holding hands to stay together.

if i think anymore ill put them in the reblogs or something

but yeah ea hit me up im ready to advise

or if ur not ea and just wana chat shite about dead space you can hit me up too

[talesfromtheenchantedforest]

the best 12th-century pickup lines I found in The Art of Courtly Love

(Negging) “Hey babe, how’s an angel like you still single? Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you, even if you are my distant social inferior.”

When the Divine Being made you there was nothing that He left undone. I know that there is no defect in your beauty, none in your good sense, none in you at all except, it seems to me, that you have enriched no one by your love. I marvel greatly that Love permits so beautiful and so sensible a woman to serve for long outside his camp. O if you should take service with Love, blessed above all others will that man be whom you shall crown with your Love! Now if I, by my merits, might be worthy of such an honor, no lover in the world could really be compared with me.”

“Look. Let’s be real, you’re going to do all, and I mean all, of the work, but, on the plus side, you will get to break me in like a new pair of boots.”

That is why I, a new recruit in Love’s service and awkward in love, ask you to be my teacher and to train me more fully by your instruction. For it will be considered greatly to your credit if by your good sense you make a trained soldier out of me who am now awkward and untaught. It is fitting that an awkward, untaught man should serve a lover by whose industry he may hide his heedless youth. (also): Besides, if I have any lack of judgment in love, I must necessarily seek the love a woman of great wisdom and worth so that my inexperience may thereby be remedied and I may learn all the desire of love. If an inexperienced man should ask for the love of an inexperienced woman, their love could not develop properly or long endure in the proper condition. For even though a favorable breeze springs up after a ship has been exposed to unfavorable conditions at sea and has been subjected to tempests, if a moderate gust strikes it, it will sink and go to the bottom unless it has a trained steersman and rowers. Both of your arguments are therefore silenced by the best of answers and can in no way oppose my proposal.

“I know what you need. You need a page or two of mansplaining.”

Woman: “Since you would rather have love denied you outright than be left in doubt by a ‘perhaps’, I shall try to humor you and I shall refuse to love you” Man: “I beg Your Prudence to inform me whether, in your heart, you are disposed to love anyone else.” Woman: “Neither the law of Love nor the custom of lovers requires me to inform you of the state of my heart. For even if I were inclined to love someone else, it would not be proper for you to ask or for me to tell you about it.” Man: “Then in the present case there is no help left for me but to argue with you at length and by discussing the matter find out whether or not it is proper for you to deny me your love if you haven’t given it to any other lover. Now I shall prove to you that you cannot properly deprive me of your love.”

“Marriage is a prison”

I admit it is true that your husband is a very worthy man and that he is more blest than any man in the world because he has been worthy to have the joy of embracing Your Highness. But I am greatly surprised that you wish to misapply the term “love” to the marital affections which husband and wife are expected to feel for each other after marriage, since everybody knows that love can have no place between husband and wife.

“Don’t hide your light under a bushel, babe, think of all the stupid quests you could be sending me on.”

Indeed I believe it is true that God has inclined all good men in this life to serve your desires and those of other ladies, and it seems to me that this is for the very clear reason that men cannot amount to anything or taste the fountain of goodness under the persuasion of ladies. But although all good things seem to proceed from women, and although God has given them a great privilege and we say that they are the cause and origin of everything good, still they are clearly under the necessity of so conducting themselves toward those who do good deeds that by their approval the good character of these men may seem in every respect to increase from strength to strength. For if their brightness were not to give light to anyone, it would be like a candle hidden under a bushel, whose beam is not able to drive away anybody’s darkness or shine to anybody’s profit.

“Love can’t be a sin, or else God wouldn’t have made it so fun”

I believe, however, that God cannot be seriously offended by love, for what is done under the compulsion of nature can be made clean by easy expiation. Besides, it does not seem at all proper to class as a sin the thing from which the highest good in this life takes its origin and without which no man in the world could be considered worthy of praise.

“Only idiot stupid men want to marry virgins, trust me, this affair will HELP you get married”

Your theory seems to lead to a particularly grave error when you especially condemn the love of maidens; countless ones of the very best character are said to have been in love as we find in the cases of Anfelis, and Iseult, and Blanchefleur, and many others. Unless a maiden strove to raise her reputation by the instigation of love, she would never deserve to have a praiseworthy husband, nor could she fully comprehend anything great. She cannot because of such conduct be hateful to a good husband, for a good husband always believes that he could never have found such a worthy wife if she had not learned the theory of love and carried out what it requires.

“HE’S NOT GOOD ENOUGH FOR YOU WELL OKAY MAYBE HE IS BUT PLEASE TOP ME INSTEAD OR AT THE VERY LEAST IN ADDITION”

But even if I did know surely that you were engaged to another man, and I thought he was not a fit match for you, if I could talk you out of such a match I would not feel that by doing so I was violating Love’s precepts, but rather that I was faithfully obeyed his mandates. For that precept of his that we are talking about speaks of people who are properly joined, and this adverb properly shows that it was put in very deliberately. For a woman is not properly joined in love when the character of the man is not as good as that of the woman or when the pure affection of the heart is not equal on both sides. Moreover, even if I did know well that you were properly joined in love, although it would not then be correct for me to ask for your love, since Love’s mandate forbids me to do that, I do think it would be proper for me to beg you to allow me to be well disposed toward you and for you to praise my praiseworthy deeds by accepting them and to set me right with a secret reproof if through thoughtlessness I go wrong in anything.

[quotation--marks]

What can a woman do, who is addressed by a man of talents inferior to her own? Must she throw away her talents? Must she hide her light under a bushel, purely to do credit to the man? She cannot pick and choose, as men can. She has only her negative; and, if she is desirous to oblige her friends, not always THAT. Yet it is said, Women must not encourage Fops and Fools. They must encourage Men of Sense only. And it is WELL said. But what will they do, if their lot be cast only among Foplings? If the Men Of Sense do not offer themselves? And pray, may I not ask, If the taste of the age, among the Men, is not Dress, Equipage, and Foppery? Is the cultivation of the mind any part of their study? The men, in short, are sunk, my dear; and the Women but barely swim. 

Samuel Richardson, The History of Sir Charles Grandison

[13eyond13]

My biggest Fun Police opinion is that this question made me realize I have so many opinions I'm just a hater. I'm going to go stare at a wall now and think about my life.

😆 Hey, every fandom needs a few perceptive haters to stir the pot interestingly once in a while! Don't hide your light under a bushel, now...

send me your biggest "fun police" takes and I'll post em

[cassynite]

Question 2 for Sparrow, please :D

Aaaah thanks Min!

2. Why does your oc look the way they do? What are your reasons for their appearance?

Aaaah interesting question. Sparrow's appearance has changed a lot since I first conceptualized her and most of what's gone into her current design is informed by what I found out about her during my playthroughs of WOTR and what I'd chosen, as well as what I decided Sparrow was like as a person.

So--some of it comes from mechanics. I made Sparrow a plumekith aasimar to begin with because after my first playthrough where most of the people I kept around had such high charisma I decided to make that my dump stat, so I chose the heritage that didn't give a charisma bonus.

That led to the idea that Sparrow is very quiet and pretty awkward, and when I figured out her backstory and her motivation of keeping under the radar, I leaned a lot into the idea of her being someone who deliberately hides her light under a bushel and leaned on that when figuring out the rest of the details regarding a lot of her appearance--she's small, and plain (especially for an aasimar), brown hair and golden eyes that will often seem brown. Circling back around to her heritage made me decide to get rid of the halo/light/vibrant colors aspect of typical aasimar appearance and change the major sign of her heritage to feathers as well.

The other part of her backstory--that's it's really fucking sad and she's a really sad person--kind of led to the rest of the idea of her giving off the air of melancholy. She hides, so she doesn't emote often, but she's also got wet cat energy. Finding Victoria Pedretti as a faceclaim was great because when she plays Nell Crane she always looks about five minutes away from bursting into tears, which was kind of the vibe I was going for at the time, though Sparrow's leaned far more stoic since then.

And that's mostly it! It's pretty funny seeing early pictures of her before I settled on a backstory and figured out who she was, she was a whole ass different person then lol.

[nakedpastor]

The Amazing You

I’m observing an online friend of mine who is enjoying some success in her life. She’s truly amazing, and it’s fun to watch her enjoy her amazingness being appreciated.

I’m thinking, “Girl, you have no idea how amazing you are! You just wait!”

Marianne Williamson has said, “Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, 'Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?’”

I exactly know this feeling.

And even though the sayings of Jesus often get turned into evangelistic propaganda, such sayings as, “Don’t hide your light under a bushel” or “A city set on a hill cannot be hidden”… are powerful messages to our selves and how we can live courageously, authentically, and openly.

Like my cartoon illustrates, we only reveal a tiny bit of ourselves. As amazing as we are, we dare expose only a fraction of our amazing selves.

Why is that?

I think about this a lot.

Here are three reasons why I think we hide our light:

1. We Don’t Even Know It’s There

Socrates said the unexamined life is not worth living. I see it all the time… when we start examining our lives, we discover an infinite universe of who we are. So many people I know have no idea how amazing they are. To be honest, I’ve come to conclude that I am far more amazing than I already think I am. That’s funny to say, and sounds egotistical, but it’s true! I know I have some amazing qualities and can do amazing things. I admit that. I own it. I embrace it. But I know enough about human nature that there is unfathomable amazingness waiting for me to discover and uncover and reveal to you. And I already know this is one hundred percent true about you too!

2. We Don’t Want to Appear Proud

I had a friend who was a carpenter. He did excellent work and was in high demand. He did very well financially. So he bought a nice pickup truck fully loaded. Beautiful! But the response from the locals was like, “Look at that guy! Who does he think he is? Some kind of big shot!” You know what I’m talking about. I was always instructed to keep my head down unless I wanted it shot off. Society is a powerful levelling force that we all obey for fear of being singled out, ridiculed, and rejected. We don’t want people to think we are proud, arrogant, and haughty. We know we are good at what we do, but we are afraid to say so because we’ll quickly be put in our place.

3. We Don’t Want to Admit to Ourselves How Amazing We Are

This is the hardest one to grasp. From childhood I was taught to be humble and not proud. Even to admit, “I’m good at this!” was a no-no. My biggest revelation that this dynamic was at play in my life was illustrated best in my Sophia drawing Angel. She realizes she is amazing, but is embarrassed to admit it. Do you know this feeling… where you suddenly realize you are beautiful, you are talented, you are wise, you are whatever… and you’re almost ashamed of it? I sure do! It’s too bad we do this to ourselves because ultimately, we aren’t just creating a barrier between ourselves and our Selves, but also between ourselves and others. Yes, we need ourselves as we are in all our fulness, but they need us too… in all our fullness.

So… let’s discover more and more of our amazingness. Let’s disregard the attempts of others to dampen us down. And let’s own our light and let it shine!

[kenneth-williams-diaries]

Michael Palin interviewed by Kenneth Williams on the British talk show "Wogan", aired 23 April 1986.

In April 1986, Kenneth hosted three episodes as stand-in for Terry Wogan. He commented on his appearance: "I was surprised when they asked me to do this show; not that I hide my light under a bushel - I used to go around with a candelabra until Liberace pinched it." ... just Williams! ♡

[regexkind]

therapists are fine with my use of tupperbox to do IFS-adjacent shit, until I have all my proxies one-by-one say shit like "don't hide your light under a bushel" to justify going around topless

[vashtijoy]

fic excerpt: akechi and shido

So I wrote ... a lot, back in December and January, and I got distracted from it. I looked this up last night for unrelated reasons and I quite like it, so here it is. CW for Shido being Shido, essentially.

Akechi is sixteen in this. I'd write it differently now—I don't think Shido is routinely abusive to Akechi (he's playing a different game), and I think Akechi is much more of an active agent in his own corruption. Plus he tells Shido up front that he has "special powers".

nonetheless here it is or something

---

That Friday evening, he does his week’s work for Shido: a blackmail dossier to compile, an interrogation, and two junior Diet members whose personal loyalty needs refreshing. The amount he’s called on to do is steadily building, but that’s good. Shido’s ambitions are growing. His own bastard son, Akechi gloats, is already the secret jewel in his crown.

He sends all the information he’s gathered to Shido’s encrypted dropbox, expecting a brief text of acknowledgement, and maybe a “well done”; there’s some really juicy material in that dossier.

Instead, he gets a summons to Shido’s apartment. An ugly shiver runs down his spine. Does he know? He can’t possibly.

Pulling himself together, he grabs his jacket and heads out of the door.

When he gets there, Shido greets him with a shot of whiskey. “Good work this week,” he says.

Akechi gathers himself; praise has always been a weak spot of his. Then he takes the glass, but doesn’t drink it. “I’m underage for this, Shido-san. In fact, I’m very underage for this.”

Shido snorts. “You’re underage for a lot of the things you do. Sit down.”

Akechi sits. He mostly got alcohol out of his system before he was twelve, and he has no intention of drinking the shot unless Shido makes him. The mere fact that he’s offered it has sent Akechi’s every last nerve into high alert.

Shido asks not about the dossier, but about the interrogation—finding out whether a senior police chief is open to bribes. “Tell me how you confirmed that.”

Akechi swallows. “I asked him, Shido-san. I think you’ll find it to be the case.”

“You asked him. You.” And Akechi knows what Shido is seeing: a slight, soft-faced boy in clothes he could never afford himself, somebody who could never be truly intimidating, let alone go up against the police and walk away.

The shiver down his spine becomes a trail of ice water.

“You’re hiding your light under a bushel, Akechi,” Shido goes on. “I know it will check out. Everything you’ve done for me has checked out. Things it should be impossible for anyone to know, things I’m not even sure these bastards know themselves.”

The untouched shot is tilting in Akechi’s hand. Shido has him pinned like a bug, eyes cutting right to his secrets, right to his soul and everything he’s planned. He takes a breath. “As a clever man, Shido-san, you must realise my methods are… unusual.”

Shido snorts again. Akechi tries not to flinch. Then Shido downs his own shot and puts down his glass. “And you flatter me like you were born to it, too.”

He sits back in his chair. “Tell me what you know about how thought affects reality.”

Akechi stares. Just stares at Shido in shock, totally off-balance. And in that moment he knows he’s given himself away. His hand is shaking; he sets his glass down on the table with an unsteady clink.

Shido is watching him, mouth curled in satisfaction. It looks familiar as hell, Akechi dimly registers. “You know, boy,” he says, “I think that’s the first real response I’ve ever seen from you. I was starting to wonder if you were even human.” Akechi bites his lip to contain his screams of what the fuck! “Don’t feel bad. I guess I did spring that one on you.”

… Actually, Akechi thinks he preferred the raptor’s claws to this fake bonhomie. He takes a breath, thinks he can talk without his voice cracking. “I’m fascinated to know how you deduced that.”

“It’s been an interest of mine for some time,” Shido says. “Cognitive psience generally, and”—his eyes fix on Akechi—“the cognitive world.”

Akechi feels his jaw drop, fuck! Fuck, he knows everything! Carefully, he closes his mouth and folds his hands in his lap. “Cognitive science?”

“Pscience. A quirk of the researchers, who are as taxing as researchers generally are.” The mention of research catches Akechi’s attention, and Shido’s voice drops in disdain. “Don’t tell me you were stupid enough to think only you knew about any of this.”

It hurts. Somewhere Akechi didn’t know he could be hurt, those words and that tone stab him. But he gives Shido his best level look; it’s not terrific right now, admittedly, his hands are still shaking, but in the depths of his panic he’s starting to get the measure of what’s going on.

“What I don’t understand, Shido-san, is why you’re telling me any of this. You obviously have an advantage over me, in that you understand more of how I work than I was comfortable revealing. Why give that up?”

He realises the answer just as Shido smiles like a snake.

“Imagine it,” Shido says. “Me, chosen for a greater destiny, striving to make sense of the cognitive world. And you, with what seems to be an inborn ability to use that world, and the wish to make my destiny a reality. Call it fate, if you like.”

Huh. That … is a bit strange. Akechi’s not sure he wouldn’t have taken another route entirely, like beating his father’s shadow until it stopped twitching, if he’d known Shido was this familiar with the Metaverse.

“It does seem a little unlikely,” Akechi agrees, zigzagging around a fawning tone and coming down on curious. “Far more than mere chance could account for.”

“Mm,” Shido agrees, pleased now that Akechi is back in his box, now that his ego has been suitably massaged. He leans in. “But I want to know how you do it. These researchers—” he waves a dismissive hand—“they have oceans of theories. Reams of useless experimental data. You could put all of them out of a job.”

And the trickle of ice water down his back becomes a torrent, even as the praise coaxes him to obey. He wants to replace me. Or to train others to do what I do. Or even to do it himself. Because, of course, depending on one boy, no matter how talented, was never going to satisfy a megalomaniac like Shido. Not somebody who sees the people around him as dirt under his feet.

Not that Akechi doesn’t feel the same. It’s just that he has no delusions that he isn’t dirt as well.

“I’d very much like to see that research,” he dares.

“You will,” Shido promises. “In time.”

And in time, Akechi knows, means never. Or, never, unless you tell me what I want, and do what I want. Unless you please me.

I’m not going to tell him about Loki. I’m just not. He has no way to know, and I don’t need to give that away. I’m not going to tell him I transform, that would just sound ridiculous. I’m not going to tell him how I do what I do.

But maybe I can satisfy him with the mechanism?

Shido’s smile is broadening. As if he thinks he sees Akechi already on the hook. Struggling to look his father in the eye, Akechi sees him for what he is, crocodile smile, flattery and all. He thinks of his mother, the same way he’d prick himself with a pin. He hears her speak his name though he can’t recall her voice, breathes her perfume though he can’t remember its scent.

And still he starts to speak.

“You encounter an image of your target in the cognitive world.”

“Their shadow. Yes.”

He has Shido’s full attention. Nobody has ever, ever been as interested in Akechi Goro as Shido is right now.

“And it speaks as they do? It thinks and acts as they do?”

Akechi shakes his head. “Not exactly.”

“In what way is it different?”

“Shadows are honest. They don’t lie to themselves. And they can’t lie to me.”

Shido regards him. Akechi is struck with the feeling he might have made a mistake. “And why is that?”

He chooses his words carefully. “Because I know how to question them.”

The regard grows deeper, sharper, more amused. “You torture them.”

Akechi’s mouth opens. He’s actually never thought of it like that. Shadows aren’t real. But because Shido seems to approve, and because it’s true, and because Akechi is a short-sighted idiot, for all of these reasons, he says, “Sometimes, Shido-san. Not always.”

“Why not always?”

“Because not all of them are so protective of their secrets. They can’t lie, Shido-san, but they do resist.”

Shido drops back in his seat, pours a glass of water for himself. He doesn’t pour one for Akechi, who has done most of the talking. “How old are you, again?”

Akechi’s eyes flick up. “Sixteen.”

“Fifteen when you came to me in February.”

“Yes.”

Shido does pour Akechi a drink then, pushing it across the table. Akechi takes it and sips; it’s just water. Shido’s eyes strip him to nothing, shirt and sweater, skin, muscle and bone. He knows what Shido’s thinking: that Akechi is a psychopath, the sort of child who stabs small animals just to see them bleed.

He finds he doesn’t particularly care if that’s true or not, which probably gives him the answer. But shadows aren’t human. That’s the whole point. You can do anything you want to a human’s shadow, within reason; there are effects, but never more than mild subconscious ones. Not unless you do something really dramatic.

Admittedly, Akechi does have a flair for the dramatic, when he’s let off his leash.

He wonders how many cameras are recording this conversation, and just how incriminating it is.

Shido lifts his glass, still stripping Akechi with that stare. “And have you ever spoken to my shadow?”

Akechi reaches for Loki, heart pounding. “Of course.”

“Why?”

“I’d hope that would be obvious, Shido-san,” he dissembles. “I wanted to work for somebody who could go all the way to the top.”

“Of course you did,” Shido mocks. Akechi lifts his chin, just a little. “And somebody who would take you all the way with them.”

He risks a smile, just a small one. “That would be for you to decide, of course. My intent is to be useful enough to be worth taking with you. With all the abilities at my disposal.”

Swirling the water in his glass as if he wishes it was something else, Shido finally looks away. “Settle your mind on that score, boy. You are that. So far.”

Akechi can’t help being pleased; everything is working exactly as he hoped. Assuming the other shoe that’s about to drop doesn’t break his neck.

He doesn’t have to wait long. Shido looks back up at him like a basilisk, with eyes meant to paralyse, to see Akechi’s secrets engraved on his retinas, and he asks:

“What would happen if you kept torturing them?”

Akechi nearly drops his glass. “Shido-san?”

“Don’t play stupid with me now, boy. Answer the question.”

Stupid is the least of it. There’s only one way this ends, only one reason Shido would ask a question like that. Akechi’s fingers knit carefully around the glass, locking themselves in place. “You’re asking, um—”

He swallows, suddenly very sure the room is not being recorded. “You’re asking me if it’s possible to inflict harm on a human’s shadow—indefinitely?” No, idiot, he wants to know if you can kill them. But I’m not going to tell him that. I won’t. Hell, I don’t even know if I can do that!

Shido’s basilisk glare turns to acid and ice. He leans in, smacks his glass down on the table with a sharp clink that makes Goro jump. “You know exactly what I’m asking. What happens if you destroy somebody’s shadow?”

Goro licks his lips. He feels damp inside his clothes. “I—I don’t know, Shido-san. I’ve never needed to go so far. I’m not even sure it’s—”

“Don’t lie to me!”

Shido gets to his feet. Curls his lip. Goro stares up at him, frozen, a rabbit beneath a hawk, spilling blood and sinew along with the soul in its eye. “I didn’t expect to find you weak,” Shido spits, turning to the window. “How disappointing. I guess it was all big words after all.”

Goro leaps to his feet, losing what little of his fake manner he’d hung onto. He cannot let it end here. He can’t. He won’t. He swore it to himself, and to the ghost of his mother. “I’m not weak!”

It doesn’t impress Shido. Shido is preoccupied with the window, with all the lights of the centre of government spread out far below. Goro stares at his back, lips drawn back, fists clenched, desperate to be the hawk. “Shido-san. Give me a name. Any name. And I’ll test it for you.”

I’ll do anything for you.

And Shido turns back to Goro, away from the window, and he measures out his smile in the tiniest dose.

It’s late by the time Akechi escapes.

His homework is done, at least. But it’s past midnight, and he has school in the morning, and his head is spinning. He doesn’t want to cross into the Metaverse—he feels watched.

If he heads down toward Roppongi, he can probably still get a coffee. So that’s where he goes, a small figure trying to be untouchable, under a dark sky.

He’s probably about to kill somebody. And he thinks he’s fine with that, now that the shock has worn off. He knows the kinds of people Shido targets—filth at least as bad as he is. Is filth more important than the memory of his mother? Than Akechi himself?

He has a little more trouble with the second question than the first, but fortunately he doesn’t need to think too hard about it. His hands slip into his jacket pockets.