#And once again reminding me that I was raised VERY Christian when apparently none of those buddies ever watched it

[astro-b-o-y-d]

I need to rewatch The Prince of Egypt

[labyrinth-runner]

The Greatest Thing

The LAST Chapter of The Greatest Thing

Moulin Rouge Fanfic

Christian x OC

Estelle opened the door and the whispers ceased. Instead, all eyes focused on her as she walked back out into the ballroom. With measured gait, she walked over to Christian with a tint of blush on her face- the only outward sign of her nerves.

"May I have this dance?" she asked softly, but with the stillness of the room, all had heard her.

He held his hand out to her, "It would be my honor."

Together they walked out to the middle of the floor. Estelle looked at the band and gave them a resolute nod to start playing. Slowly, they began twirling around the room.

"You've caused quite the stir, darling," he murmured softly so that only she could hear above the music. "Everyone is staring at us."

"Let them," she replied softly. "They're just unsure of what to do now."

"What do you mean?" he asked with a slight amused smirk.

"We've thrown out all the social scripts. They don't know what to do now that they don't have them to follow," she said with a wink.

"If I remember correctly, the Queen said she'd watch your debut with great interest," Christian said thoughtfully, "However, I don't believe this is quite what she had in mind."

A blush settled onto Estelle's face as she looked down. "I have caused quite the scandal, haven't I?"

"No," he said with a smile. "You have just done what all of them are afraid to do. Now they have to reevaluate their own relationships, thinking about how if you can do it, then so can they."

"But they won't," she said with a sigh. "As much as they may envy our happiness, they wouldn't dare leave their gilded towers. Their security means more to them than anything else."

"Do you want to know what I admire most about you?" he asked, tipping her face up from the ground.

"What is that?" she asked.

"You were never afraid," he said. "Even as a child, you were fearless. You followed me without even stopping to worry about it. You just accepted my proposal based off your own feelings. Never once did you worry about you being penniless or having nothing."

"Because I wouldn't have nothing," she said adamantly, eyes shining brightly. "I'd have you. I am fearless because I know I would never go through things alone. As children, you were always there to hold my hand, and even now, I know you will be there for me. No matter what happens, we'll be facing our problems together. Come what may."

"They're staring again," he said, whispering in her ear.

"I should say something," she replied.

"I don't know how much more they can handle, darling," he teased.

"This is important. This is something they need to hear," she said simply before letting go of Christian's hand. They were still the only couple dancing. No one else wanted to give them approval by joining in. To do so would be social suicide.

Estelle took a deep breath before stepping back from him. She stood with her head held high as she addressed the room. "Is there a reason none of you are dancing?"

Her guests looked back and forth between each other, but none of them said a word.

A knowing smile settled onto Estelle's face, "Oh, I know what it is. None of you approve, because not only did I cause a scandal by breaking my engagement, but some of you also have the misfortune of thinking that I have traded down. Is that right?"

Her guests shuffled awkwardly.

"Well, I'll have you know that it is not I who have traded down, it is you. You all may have money and finer things, your useless titles, but they are all pointless. In the end it matters not who we are, but rather the people who loved us, because they will be the ones who will remember us when we are gone. The lot of you may have all the education and knowledge that your wealth can buy, sitting in books upon shelves or degrees on the wall, and you still will have learned nothing," she said, finding her stride, "Because the greatest thing you'll ever learn, is just to love and be loved in return."

Estelle held her hand out for Christian for strength. He took it in an instant, giving her a reassuring squeeze as he came next to her.

She turned to him and spoke softly, for his ears only, "I would very much like to leave now."

He nodded, escorting her out of the building. When they had gotten outside, Estelle let out a sigh of relief.

"You were a sight to be seen," Christian beamed at her, spinning her before hugging her close.

"You think so? I was worried I might become reacquainted with my champagne," she chuckled. "Do you think they heard me?"

"I think they heard you, but I don't know if they'll listen," he said with a sad smile.

"I don't care what they think," she admitted. "I just wanted to give them my thoughts before I left."

"Where are we going now?" he asked, resting his forehead on hers.

"Paris," she said with a smile, "I'd very much like to see your show."

"The ending is rather unfortunate," he said with a smile. "It's rather unrealistic."

"Well, I suppose we can take solace in reality being better than fiction for once," she said with a wink, "And perhaps with your next play, art will imitate life."

He took her hand and kissed it before starting to walk with her back to her house to fetch her things. "I'm not sure I want to write another play."

"No?" she asked in interest.

"No," he winked, "I want to write a book."

"A book about what?" she asked as they walked up the stairs to her family's townhouse.

"Love," he grinned.

"I think it would be the greatest thing," she smiled back.

"No, darling, that's where you're wrong," he said as they stopped in front of her door.

"How so?" she asked softly.

"The greatest thing is you," he said in earnest before taking her face in his hands and kissing her like he had never kissed her before.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The house was empty without Estelle. It was something that her father had noted when she had first left on her trip with Annalise, but now it was glaringly apparent in the months that followed her engagement party. He had some idea of where his daughter was, after all, he had gone to Paris shortly after she left with the address Annalise had given him. She had made her choice, and for once he was going to respect it. The dressing down she had given him the night of her engagement party had caused him to think, and to realize that she was, in fact, correct. Her mother had been happy with him. When he watched her give the same kind of reproach to the members of society that night, instead of the burning embarrassment that he should have felt, he had felt pride. He had had a happy life with his wife out of love. He was just disappointed with himself that it took his daughter to remind him of that. He looked up at the portrait of his wife in the library.

"Oh, my dear, she is so much like you," he murmured.

"Father," Mary said softly from the door, "A letter came for you. It's from Paris."

He locked eyes with his daughter. "Well, bring it here, little one. Let's see what the news is."

Estelle's father read the note in his hands aloud to Mary. When he finished they both shared a smile.

"You're to be a grandfather," Mary grinned, "And I'm going to be an Aunt!"

"They'll be back for Annalise's wedding," her father added. "We'll have to have them stay here. No daughter of mine will be staying anywhere else."

"And Christian?" Mary asked with a raised brow.

"Well, I can't let my son-in-law and the father of my unborn grandchild sleep in the streets," he said reasonably. "I suppose he'll stay here as well."

"I'm glad that you decided to apologize," Mary murmured. "I know that was a difficult trip that you took."

Her father sighed. "When you make a mistake, you must own up to it, Mary, and I made a mistake. Your sister deserved better, and I can only hope that I can make it up to her someday."

"You will, father," Mary said, gently patting his hand, "You will."

"Now, about you and this Renton fellow," her father said with a raised brow.

"If you'll excuse me, I have some... sewing to do. Since I am to be an aunt, I'll have to make something for the baby. I better get started now!" Mary said before getting up and leaving.

George Devereux chuckled as he looked up at his wife's portrait on the wall. "Oh, Maggie, they are your daughters."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Estelle sat down at the typewriter on his desk. Experimentally, she pressed a few keys, giggling slightly at the ding.

"I can't believe you use this," she said as she started to type. "It's so... foreign."

"Well, when you're writing a manuscript, it's a saves time when compared to writing everything out by hand," Christian said, settling behind her. He rested his chin on her shoulder and kissed her neck.

"Stop distracting me," she said, but there was no conviction in her voice.

"I'm sorry. It isn't my fault that my wife is just so tempting to be around," he purred in her ear.

"You like saying that, don't you?" she teased.

"What, 'my wife'?" he asked. He stopped to think about it for a moment. "I suppose I do. It has a nice ring to it, doesn't it, Mrs. Thompson?"

"I think it's especially great since we know the journey of how we got here was not an easy one," she replied.

"'The course of true love never did run smooth,'" he quoted.

"Shakespeare," she murmured. "I prefer your words to his any day, husband."

"You're such a supporting wife," he grinned, peppering kisses up her neck and face.

Estelle focused on her letter, absentmindedly replying to his teasing, "I'll make an even better mother."

"What?" he asked softly as he stopped.

Estelle blinked, realizing what she had said. She turned slightly to face him. His eyes searched hers.

"You don't mean...?" he asked.

She nodded. "We may have to start looking for a larger apartment. With all the money you've earned in returns from the play, we could afford to do so."

He hugged her to his chest, turning her head over her shoulder to kiss her deeply. Estelle returned her husband's kiss with a smile on her face.

For a long time as a child, Estelle Devereux had often wondered what her purpose in life was. For a while during the season, she had assumed it was to marry whomever would help her advance in society and make her the best daughter in the eyes of her father. However, now she knew the truth. Her purpose, as is the purpose for all of us, is to love and love deeply, putting our trust in someone who will love us for who we are. Once we deem ourselves worthy of love, we can know true happiness, because as a Bohemian once wrote: the greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return.

[thewhumperinwhite]

Guardian Angel, part 4

Part One / Part Two / Part Three

(I’m gonna make a masterpost for this one later today cause I’ve got.... Some Plans for this one)

@whumpitywhumpwhump

TW for: religion/Christianity, including probably some mild blasphemy; mild body horror (reanimated corpse); referenced seriously ill parent.

----

The priest seems like a nice enough guy, based on the not-even-two-minutes of interaction Karim has had with him. He’s also looking at Karim with deep concern and not moving from his seat in the front pew, so at this moment he’s Karim’s least favorite person on earth.

“I can’t tell you why I need it,” Karim says through gritted teeth. “I just need it. It’s an emergency.”

The priest’s frown deepens, and Karim fights back a frustrated groan. “What emergency are you having that you think holy water will help with?” the priest says, in the kind of calm voice you use for children you think are idiots.

“None of your business,” Karim snaps, because he’s way, way too stressed to come up with a convincing lie, and not crazy enough yet to think this guy with his carefully-ironed cassock and his uber-sensible wire-rimmed spectacles will believe the truth.

The priest sighs and removes the glasses, slowly, like a teacher who thinks you’re making them tired on purpose.

“Young man,” the priest says. “Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t bless water and just give it to you. The Church sanctions the use of holy water for a limited number of purposes. Now.” He looks at Karim with an over-exaggerated kindly-old-man expression. “I’d be happy to accompany you and help you with whatever emergency you’re facing.”

Karim scowls, and points behind him toward the back of the sanctuary. “You can’t pretend it’s a, a controlled substance or something, you’ve got a big bowl of it just sitting back there.”

The priest looks over Karim’s shoulder. At the end of the sanctuary’s center aisle there’s a big glass bowl nestled in the top of a carved wooden stand. He looks back at Karim, looking patiently disapproving in a way Karim hates down to his bones. 

“The font is intended to remind parishioners of their baptism when not in use,” he says, a bit more severe, and then his face softens and he turns to face Karim fully, folding his hands in his lap. “Young man, I’m happy to help, if something is frightening you. I understand there are many things you might wish for holy protection from. Tell me, what is it that’s got you so upset?”

Karim stares at the man for a second. Then he says, “Oh, fuck this,” and turns on his heel to run.

By the grace of God— who he can apologize to later, if he thinks of it— the bowl that comprises the top of the font isn’t secured to the bottom, just like he hoped. It’s heavy, but now that he is actively sprinting out of a church he’s filled with enough adrenaline that the weight seems very manageable. A little of it slops over the front of his hoodie when he spins to shove the door of the church open with his butt, but it’s still more than half full by the time he skids to a stop next to his mom’s car, awkwardly repositions the bowl— it’s way too big to hold securely, but by some miracle he doesn’t drop it, maybe that means God is fine with it after all— and pulls the car door open by shoving the toe of his sneaker under the handle and yanking it towards him.

“What the Hell are you doing?” the priest squawks from behind him, and Karim laughs hysterically.

Whatever else this is, it’s a much better distraction than stealing his mom’s car ever would have been.

Art half-sits up in the back of the car, his eyes widening when he sees Karim holding an entire baptismal font balanced on his knee. “The fuck are you—?”

“What do I do with it?” Karim yells, because they don’t have time for this.

Art blinks at him at the same time that he hears the church door slam behind him, which means the priest is only the length of the parking lot away now.

“Wh— fuck, here,” Art says, and he leans forward, grabs the edge of the bowl with his good hand, and tips the bowl toward himself. Karim follows his momentum, pouring the entire contents of the font over Art’s ruined arm and leg, and incidentally also soaking the rest of him and practically flooding the backseat of Karim’s mom’s car, which he doesn’t have time to think about at the moment.

Karim slams the back door, turns, holds up the empty font, and sets it down on the asphalt next to the car, and blurts, “Thanks Father!” before he spins, throws himself back into the driver’s seat, jams the car into gear and peels out of the parking lot literally as fast as the car will go. He looks up once to see the bewildered form of the priest, holding the bowl and staring after them, and then he grips the steering wheel hard, feeling laughter bubble unstoppably up out of his chest. He can feel the hysterical edge to it, but he doesn’t try to stop it; this is the best he’s felt in—well, in six months, at least.

He hears Art laugh, too, from the back, though he mostly sounds confused, and meets his eyes in the rearview mirror, grinning. “Did it work?”

Art laughs again, breathing hard, and his answer sounds a bit strained. “It’s— in the process of working.” Karim can hear some deeply unpleasant cracking sounds from behind him. In the rearview he can just see Art stretched out on the back seat, his neck a tight painful arch, exposing his scarred throat. “Fucking— hate this part,” Art mutters.

Karim catches his breath, though his stomach hurts pretty bad from laughing. “You need me to pull over?” he says, trying to watch the road while also craning to see if he can see what’s happening any better in the rearview.

“No no, it’s—ah—it’s fine. I’m—” Art laughs, bitterly. “Used to it.”

Karim frowns at the rearview, where he can see Art’s eyes squeezed shut in obvious pain, and once he’s put another three blocks between them and the church, he pulls into an empty parking lot and turns around in his seat.

“Jesus,” he says, wincing back immediately.

Art’s leg seems to be almost done knitting itself back together, but Karim does get to see about three seconds of the bones snapping back into place. Art collapses back against the seat, panting.

“God,” Karim says. “I’m— um. I’m sorry, dude. About hitting you.”

Art waves his newly-repaired arm dismissively, then lets his hand drop onto his forehead, where Karim can see the cracks where he hit the windshield have closed up, too. 

They’re a bit harder to see, now, lit by street lights at an odd angle, but it doesn’t look like the scars on his throat and arms have gone anywhere.

“‘sfine,” Art says breathlessly. “You’re lucky it was me, actually. Would’ve killed anybody else.” Pushing his hair out of his face, he cracks one eye to squint at Karim. “What the fuck were you going so fast for, anyway? And is this— what, Farah’s car?”

Karim jerks backward hard enough to honk the horn with his spine, making them both jump badly. “You know my mom’s name?” he blurts. That’s the most terrifying thing Art has said so far.

Art raises an eyebrow at him, like that’s funny. “I know Farah, yes,” he says, smirking. “You could not pay me to try and steal her car, to be honest. What the fuck—is—” He trails off, the smirk sliding off his face, and he sits up, running his hand through his hair and no longer looking at Karim. “Wait,” he says, apparently to himself. “2009. Shit.” Then he turns his head and looks at Karim like Karim has just turned into a hurt puppy before his very eyes. “Your father,” Art says quietly, and Karim feels his stomach muscles tense painfully, like he’s waiting for a blow. “I’m sorry. I forgot about that.”

Karim looks at the dead boy, and his ears immediately start to buzz a little.

“Is that why?” Art says softly, looking at Karim with his dead eyes full of pity. “Are you—”

“No,” Karim snaps. Art blinks, surprised, and Karim shakes his head, stiffly. “That’s not what we’re doing. I don’t know you from shit, and I’m not talking about this.”

He isn’t sure what he’s expecting—more pity, maybe, or else a fight—but Art nods immediately, saying “Okay, right, yeah, absolutely,” so fast he trips over the syllables. Karim watches his shoulders relax, like he’s grateful for the out, and it soothes a little of the knee-jerk that was building bitter at the back of Karim’s throat, too. “Absolutely, dear, whatever you need.”

Karim breathes out, trying to come down from his immediate defensive position, and then he shakes his head, slowly. “Hold on,” he says. “Hold on, you—you noticed the year right off,” he accuses, frowning at Art, who jumps guiltily. “I said it was 2009 and you—swore, or something, like you knew it was bad. You must have known about,” he swallows hard, makes it come out, “about m-my dad from the beginning, or… you…”

He trails off. Art is looking away, chewing on his cracked and colorless lower lip. When he looks back at Karim, his face is hard to read—somewhere between discomfort and nervousness and maybe guilt, too.

“What?” Karim says, alarmed.

“It’s, um. It’s gonna be kind of a big year,” Art says.

[lowkeyhockey]

cat and mouse (for a month or two or three) - freddie andersen

Pairing: Freddie Andersen/Single Mother!Reader

Mentions: Mitch Marner, Nazem Kadri

Warnings: Curse words, slight sexual innuendo, two POVs

Word Count: 6.5k

Credits: @hockey-reblogs beta’d this for me, and like. thank g od IDEK what i did to deserve her help and support <3

 Summary: Someone can’t wait to get on the ice, someone wants to meet up off the ice, and someone has an unexpectedly intense reaction to coffee. OR: a story of how you two met. 

 Writer’s Note: This is a standalone fic that’s a part of a bigger verse titled Can I Go (Where You Go) featuring [Y/N], a not-very single mother, Lila, your very opinionated daughter, and Freddie Andersen - a man very happy to be invited along for the ride. 

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

The first thing you notice upon arriving at the Mastercard Centre, your new training facility for the next five seasons (if your contract has anything to say about it) is the noise. The words sound about the same, shouts about cellys and sick dangles and benders and dusters, all the words North American players like to throw around to make it sound like they're from a generation older and greater than they are, but the pitch is - different. 

 A lot higher, for once, the voices a lot softer, and you're frowning even before you turn the corner to the Leafs' locker room. Mitch Marner and Nazem Kadri are standing near the doorway, Naz grinning in a way that you know from watching game tape means he's probably going to lay a hit on someone, and Marner looking - well - scared, but they're not looking that way at each other. 

Which, is probably good. Mitch is as new to the Leafs as you are, which means you'd probably have to take his side against Naz, and you've seen Naz's hits. Game tape. It's weird to think of them as teammates now, with how you've memorized the slightest shifts in their stances to figure out split-seconds before the recoil of their stick exactly where the puck is going to go, but you're good at dealing with weird. 

 Dishing it out, taking it. Part of hockey, and part of being a goalie. You're not good at, however - you're not used to - dealing with the sight that had apparently frozen Naz and Marner into caricatures of themselves. 

 About thirty girls, give or take, all of them minors, in green tartan skirts and hockey skates and green and white sweaters. You wonder if the Leafs are taking another PC shift on the ice crew, though the girls aren't even in Leafs colours. But then you see that half the girls are holding hockey sticks, and suddenly you're feeling just as worried - worried, not scared - as Marner's obviously feeling scared. 

You can't blame him, though. Kid looks about twelve, looks like a couple of the bigger girls could beat him up without breaking a sweat. He's probably worried about his voice cracking in front of them or something. 

 It's Naz who sees you first, shit-eating grin in full effect as he calls you over, but his voice is drowned out halfway through "Yo Andy, get over-" (which, thank you, but no) as a girl shouts, "motherfucker, get on the ice and I'll show you roughing." 

 And then you change your mind. 

 Naz cracks up laughing at the threat and you match Marner's smile, but a woman is there in the next heartbeat - this one, thankfully not in uniform, though you wouldn't mind seeing what she could do to a schoolgirl skirt - pinching the girl's nose in a way that you're almost certain isn't part of the school's disciplinary code. 

Or maybe it was. California didn't have corporal punishment, and it didn't have school uniforms either, and judging by the way you were looking at the woman - the teacher? - up and down and trying to picture her in pumps and tiny skirt and blazer, with maybe a green ribbon in her hair, it was probably for the best. 

The girl doesn't look like she's in pain or anything, so you wander over to the boys, trying to not make any sudden movements just in case the girls could smell fresh blood. "School trip, we're teaching them the ropes," Marner says to you before you could ask, and Naz's expression turns a little wry, his smile a little dry as he adds. "Private school girls, so make sure none of them breaks another nail or we could be looking at a lawsuit." 

*****

 You'd been helping one of the younger girls with her skates when you'd glanced up and saw Freddie Andersen - the Great Dane, the Ginga Ninja, the new goalie for the Leafs - approaching through a break in the cloud of girls, and you bite back a grin that was - okay, maybe a little mean. 

 But his furrowed brow-stoicism was an expression you knew well, from the faces of men who just didn't know what to do with a small army of girls - which, good. You girls can handle your own, which is a weird thought to have when you're on your knees in front of an apprehensive-looking sixth grader, but all the other girls had gotten each other laced up and strapped into protective gear and you wonder whether it was actually necessary for the headmistress to insist that the Leafs drop in to "show you the ropes", as it were. 

 It was a school in Canada, after all, and in Toronto to boot, where hockey wasn't so much a pastime as it was a minor religion. An open, accepting religion - you could be both practicing Christian, or Muslim or whatever and a Leafs fan. There was a reason why games aren't scheduled for the same time as Sunday Mass, or Friday prayers. 

 God and the NHL both knew which one people would rather attend. 

 But Branksome Hall's new to allowing hockey to be played and not just watched at the school, and having been a hockey fan for most of your life (not to mention a young and new teacher, which made you an easy target for assignments such as these) you were an obvious pick to get girls into the sport. 

 You probably won't have a school team this season, but it's always nice to get girls on the ice, and your girls could always use an outlet for their excess energy (not to mention aggression). 

 Brianna's all talk and you tell her that, giving a last, gentle tug on her nose before she pushes you away, laughing, and you turn to the boys just in time to hear the tail end of Nazem Kadri's words. 

 Which, ouch. But not at all wrong, and it's your turn to laugh, though Madame Mercier - who's just as suddenly by your side - is looking considerably less amused. 

 "Branksome Hall takes the health and safety of our girls very seriously," she says, her French accent - French, and not Quebecois, she'd remind anyone with a faux-haughty look on her face and a twinkle in her eyes - thicker than it usually is, and you jump in to alleviate the tension before the boys could apologize - or very pointedly not apologize. 

 "We do, but we also understand how dangerous skating and hockey can be, and the girls and their legal guardians have all signed the disclaimers we've passed along to your organization," you say with a smile - not the practiced one you hold in reserve for overbearing parents, because god only knew what you'd do if you ever ran out of those - but something easy and warm. 

 You'd been an athlete yourself, when you were in school, and you hadn't gone to a school like Branksome Hall, where the Board of Governors could up and decide to introduce a new sport to the school and then have the pull to have some of the best athletes in the sport go and teach it to the girls themselves. Never mind that it's still off-season, and that the boys would probably rather be in board shorts than hockey gear. 

 You're just you, a little messy, a little too casual, you have nothing of Madame Mercier's dignified grace as you offer your hand out to the newcomer. Frederik Andersen, who's all ginger scruff in the early light of day, brown eyes looking a little wary even as he takes your hand. 

 His hand's large, because of course it is, and a little rough, because of course it is, and you feel an impulse to sandwich it between your own for a full study. But a smaller hand covers the back of it before you could embarrass yourself, yanking both your hands down - 

 and you look further down to see Lila coming out from behind Mitch Marner's legs, all toothy grin despite the fact that she was clearly feeling ignored, and you laugh again. "Sorry about that," you quickly say, dropping the goaltender's hand and dropping to your knees to scoop up your little girl. 

 Mitch, sweet boy that he is, reaches out to tickle her sides, and you suppose you're thankful that he's learned his lesson about having his hands too close to her teeth. 

 "I'm [Y/N L/N], and this is my daughter, Lila." Lila frees one of the arms you'd pinned to her sides in an attempt to stop her from squirming out of your arms to give the man a wave, looking almost shy, and Freddie in turn - surprise fading into something that almost looks like shyness, too - reaches out to pat her head, as though copying his teammate. 

 God, if you were just unlucky enough the boys might come to see Lila as some kind of lucky charm to be fussed over or petted, like a team mascot in tiny human form. It seemed a little far fetched, but you know hockey players and how superstitious they could be, and you turn around to pass Lila off to your nanny before any of your dire predictions could come into fruition. 

 When you turn back around, Freddie's hand is still hovering in midair, and you can't help but raise an eyebrow at him, watching a flush slowly spread across his cheekbones as though in slow motion. He looks so dumb, looks something like a piece of art. You'd title it: hockey player vs social situations or something like that. 

 You squash the urge to paint him. 

 "Frederik Andersen, right?" you ask, because he hasn't introduced himself, and smile encouragingly when he nods, feeling like you were talking to one of your younger girls. 

 "Call me Freddie," he says, and you grin, turning to include the other boys in it. 

 "Freddie, Mitch, and Naz," you say as though to check their names, though of course you know them all. "Thank you guys so much for coming, I'm sure all the girls are going to love this. Now, are you guys ready to meet the next group of miracles on ice?" 

A little kitschy, a little corny, but Mitch is grinning back at you, and Naz is looking amused, though you suspect that with the latter that's pretty much his default expression. Freddie's not looking at you, though, and you follow his gaze to the near-empty corridor, wondering if he's looking for an escape route - but no, he's watching Emilie and Lila. 

And you feel - jealous? Emilie's very pretty, and she's so good with Lila, and you were only expecting two hockey players with you today and not three and - Frederik Andersen could do whatever he wants, really, it's nothing to do with you. 

Naz gives you a light punch on the arm, like you're a part of the team, though you're just a teacher for the group of girls he's been made to babysit. "Lets get at it, coach," he says, as he follows Mitch to the entrance of the rink, and you give Lila a small wave before following suit

Madame Mercier doesn't even own skates and she's not about to start trying it at fifty-two, and Freddie Andersen - you realise, then, that he hadn't even been wearing skates. He was still in his coat, for god's sake - he was taller than you even though you're in skates so you hadn't noticed. 

But then the girls are calling for you, tapping their sticks against the ice where they all stand in a loose circle on center ice, and you and Mitch and Nazem hurry up to join them. 

*****

 "Freddie," you repeat to the little girl, all brown, windswept curls and a grin that takes up about half of her face, and her hazel eyes look like they understand but all she does is blow a raspberry at you. And then giggle, like it's the funniest thing in the world, and maybe it is, because her nanny laughs too. 

 Emilie, she'd said her name was, in the same accent that the strict-looking teacher had.  The one that wasn't [Y/N]. You didn't even realise that you hadn't asked her name, and now she's ignoring the three of you, leaning against the glass like she's worried one of her girls might actually break another nail. 

"She's only three, Mr. Andersen," Emilie says to you, and that Lila decides to repeat, the lisped "three!" sounding jubilant in her voice. Emilie smiles down at her, expression so fond, and you can see why. "She has one month before she turns three," Emilie corrects herself, as though the one month makes a difference, and you nod a little dumbly because maybe it does. 

"She looks a little older," you say, though she doesn't. "She looks smart." And she does. There’s something assessing in her gaze, more curiosity than shyness or fear.

You've always liked kids, but they've always looked a little fragile, especially compared to you. And the kids you usually meet are excitable boys either starting out in or already playing hockey, eager to show the world that they have what it takes. 

And Lila's just staring at you with her large hazel eyes, squirming for a moment before she suddenly flops back, body going limp all over until her nanny relents and sets her down on the floor. Her little shoes squeak with each step, and you both watch her as she makes her way - just as determined as any young boy you've ever met - to the rink entrance. 

"Too smart," Emilie says with a smile, and you grin as Lila drops to the ground in a deliberate collapse, patting both of her hands against the ice. It looks like she doesn't want to walk in - she's ready to crawl in instead, but Emilie is on her in the next heartbeat, scooping her up and pressing kisses against her little face. 

"No, silly, your maman said to stay here," she tells Lila. 

 You take the chance to step in then and say, "I can take her in, she'll be safe with me," but the look Emilie shoots you is arch, a little too knowing, and you feel heat rise on your cheeks again. 

"If her maman wanted the little one on the ice she'd take her herself, non?" But her grin turns friendly again as she tilts her head to the ice, before swinging around so that Lila isn't pushing out of her arms to take matters into her own tiny hands. "Now go, before her maman wonders why I'm keeping you."

And you're fairly certain that this isn't in your schedule, that no one's expecting you to stay, but you already have your gear and skates in your bag and you wanted to get some solo training in before training camp, anyway, so. 

 You go. 

 *****

 He's easy on his feet, you realise with a pang. Quiet. You hadn't even realised that he was standing right behind you until Wei Yan slammed into his side, not hard enough to make him stumble, but enough to catch your attention, making you turn around with a slight frown. 

 She's not at all apologetic about it, grinning as she says, "inertia" as though that alone's an explanation, even though it isn't. Freddie's looking down at her like he doesn't quite know what to do with a fifteen year old girl suddenly attached to his side and spouting Newtonian principles at him, which, fair. 

 The girls love to show off what they'd learned in class - little teachers' pets, all of them, and you could relate - and usually, it makes you smile. It means you've done a good job. Nut somehow inertia is always the first thing they remember, probably because it allows them to do things like this, and you can't have them breaking the new Leafs goalie before he's even broken in yet. God knows the Leafs need a good man in the crease. 

"Goon," you shoot back at her, waving your hands like you're shooing off some stray chickens. And you might as well be - wherever Wei Yan led, the rest of the girls usually followed, and soon there'd be no one doing the skating drill you had set up. 

Mitch was in the far end of the rink, coaching most of the girls through puck-handling drills, and Naz is on center ice dropping face off puck after face off puck while girls battled for dominance. You could see his grin from here, delighting in the role he's getting to play in the chaos. 

 When Wei Yan doesn't move, leaning against Freddie's side and giving him a narrow eyed look that he seems intent on returning in full measure, you skate over to them to give her a gentle nudge. "Shoo, you know how hockey players feel about a hit on their goalie," you tell her, and she turns to face you, grin unnervingly like Kadri's.

 "There's no D-men on the ice," she points out, sly, and it takes Freddie by surprise - the laugh he lets out is over-loud, and it looks like the sun had broken out just over his face. 

 You're soon giggling too, more from the sound of his laughter than anything else, and Wei Yan skates away looking smug. 

 Silence stretches after that but it's not awkward, not really, the two of you watching as Wei Yan lands another hit - this time against Marie, who's a full head shorter than her and maybe fifteen pounds lighter, but she's so gentle about it that you can't help beaming. 

 They're good girls, and you're so proud of them, and you're so happy that the school's letting them have this outlet. 

 Freddie's apparently thinking along the same lines because when he breaks the silence it's to ask, voice light but sounding just a hint too serious to be properly teasing, "you went to all the trouble of bringing Lila to the rink and won't even let her skate?" 

You turn to him with brows raised, more amused and curious than annoyed by the personal question, and he smiles a little at you, as though encouraged by your expression. "Seems a little mean, is all," he explains, and you laugh. 

"My dad's a diehard Leafs fan," you explain. "He'd never forgive me if I didn't bring her. But she's still a little too young for skates. " 

 There's a beat of silence, and it looks like he's studying you now, as though he's memorizing the planes of your face the way you'd tried to memorize his hand, and you're already blushing - your gaze sliding from his eyes to his lips - when he asks - 

"Would he forgive you if you said no to the Leafs' new goalie taking you out for coffee?" 

And the colour's exploding over your face in full force, now, you could feel even the back of your neck getting warm, it's like you've never been asked out before. And you might be a single mom but you're only twenty-six and still attractive, still in full possession of a sex drive, thank you very much, you're clever and you're articulate and you're athletic. 

You shouldn't be staring up at him looking like you'd just finished a 5k on the treadmill, mouth in a flat line, arms crossed across your chest. 

 He shouldn't be looking down at you, looking somewhere between confused and mortified, but god that was such a pro hockey player question - I have money, I have fame, I can hit a puck really, really hard, wanna come home with me?

And he'd just been talking about your daughter - Lila, of all people, who absolutely doesn't deserve to be around more hockey players. Once burned and all that. 

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that," Freddie finally bursts out, and you shake your head. 

"Of course you didn't, Mr. Andersen, I apologize if there's been any confusion," you say, and you know you're using your stern teacher voice, and now he's looking down at you like he doesn't know who you are. 

 Which, of course he doesn't. He doesn't know why you're so opposed to - well, if not hockey players, then hockey players pulling what he'd just tried to pull. 

And you would have let it drop at that but he's moving just a little closer, brows furrowed, looking contrite. "I didn't, I'm not trying to use my position to ask you out. I'm just - I was trying to be funny." 

 He looks half- in pain is the thing, and you believe him. You can certainly believe he's not the best at being funny. You relax a little, make a show of untensing, giving him a small smile and putting a hand on his arm. " It's fine, really. It's just that I'm working - and I have Lila." 

 Not that Lila's really an excuse, with the full-time nanny Sid hired and pays for. But Freddie doesn't need to know that. 

"Can I make it up to you?" he asks, and he still looks like you'd kicked a puppy, and he looks softer than you're prepared for. But when he continues, words tumbling over themselves in the rush to be said, "I can get you tickets for the opening game, you said your dad's a fan and you can bring Lila -" 

 you shake your head, laughing. "I said it's fine, and my dad has season tickets anyway." Honestly, you think it's the biggest family heirloom your family has to your name. 

 He looks like he believes you, he looks like he's relaxed somewhat, and he looks like he's not some pro-athlete dick so you even tease him with an "I'm sure I'll come and see you sooner or later, see if you're any good," 

 and if it sounds like flirting it's possibly because you are, just a little. 

 But he's smiling back at you, looking like you'd given - well, not a puppy, but maybe a dear friend - CPR, and you find yourself smiling back. 

 And become aware, in the next moment, that the girls closest to you have stopped doing their drills, and are looking at the two of you just smiling at each other like idiots with expressions that ranged from surprise to delight.  Which meant that Madame Mercier was probably watching, too, even if you both had your backs to her - which meant you had to disguise what you'd been talking about. 

 "But if you still want to make it up to me," you say to Freddie, voice low, not waiting for him to reply before you skated to the girls. "Line up, ladies, Mr. Andersen's going to get in goal for you. Make sure you show off a little, eh?" 

And the sound of his laughter from behind you, the quiet swish of his skates as he moves to set up between the posts, makes you smile. 

*****

 You go to all the pre-seasons game you have the time to attend with your dad, and once with Emilie, though the poor girl ended up with a headache from all the noise. You - you were in your element, in your old Sundin sweater that still hit you about mid-thigh, usually with blue lines painted under your eyes even though it was just the preseason. 

 After your first game, a young man with a Leafs intern lanyard comes over to your seat with a puck and a kids' jersey, and you're frowning just a little until he tells you that they're both from Marner. You ask the kid to give Marns your number, so you can thank him personally, and when he texts you later that night he tells you that he's just excited to have someone wearing his number in the coming season. 

He's just a sweet kid, and you thank him about ten more times, and you take it to mean that you're going to have to bring Lila in for a game sooner or later. You'd enjoyed watching Marns while he was with the Knights, and you're definitely looking forward to rooting for him on the Leafs - and Freddie, too.

But he doesn't look at you. Freddie, that is. 

 Not during warmups and definitely not during the games, you don't think he sees anything but the puck and there's something almost magical about that degree of hyper-focus. 

It's the night before opening night when he seems to remember that you exist - and it's Marns texting you, not Freddie, and at first you ignore it because Marns has taken to texting you memes you can barely understand, though the girls at your school giggle when you pass it on to them. You won't let him contact any of the girls directly - it would be unprofessional for you to give away any of your students' numbers, and none of them ask you for his - but he seems proud of being the girls' favourite coach. 

 (The girls still practice at the Mastercard Centre, and you're the one chaperoning them more often than not, but with the season coming underway the boys are no longer obligated to show up - the school's hired their own skating and puck-handling coaches, and even a goalie coach though Melanie's the only one interested in getting between the posts, and she far prefers when Freddie's the one to help her.) 

When you finally reach for your phone, deciding that a social media break's allowed after three straight hours of grading physics papers, you're surprised to see a closeup shot of Freddie in his goalie mask - eyes narrowed and staring at you through the grill and phone, like he sees exactly what you're doing and he doesn't approve. It's a little intimidating, more than a little hot. 

You wonder what Marns has done to piss him off - and why Marns decided to send it to you - but the text that pops up after you reply with a simple "???" just says - "he's wondering why u haven't brought lila yet." 

 Which, weird. Also, flattering. Also, weird. You hadn't even been aware that he's noticed that you're there at all.

 "so he can eat her?" you shoot back, grinning a little down at your phone, and marns replies in the next instant with 

"maybe" 

then: 

"rude tho"

then: 

"y don't u ask him urself"

You shoot back a "he didn't ask ME himself", even though it feels at this point like you're two kids passing notes in class, and you're judging yourself for it hard when your phone dings thrice with more text messages. 

From Marns:

"can u imagine freddie taking a selfie"

and then:

several barf emojis, and you don't know why, because Freddie has a pretty decent face 

and 

from an unknown number: 

"Why haven't you brought Lila to any games?"

When your phone dings again, a few seconds later, you see several frowning emojis from the same number, and you hate how you can picture exactly, in your mind's eye, the way Freddie could be frowning at you right then. 

 You save his number under "F.And, L", knowing how hockey players - at least the ones you know - value their privacy, and you wouldn't want his number to get leaked if you somehow lose your phone. Marns is just saved under a frog emoji, and he seemed inordinately pleased about that when you'd told him. 

"Too loud for her," you send back to Freddie, and before you could think twice about it, you send Marns several sweat droplets emojis. You are a teacher - if anyone asks, you could say that you had no idea what they meant, you just know that that's what the kids are texting nowadays.

"Marns is going to be disappointed," Freddie replies, and you're disappointed - despite yourself - because he didn't say that he would be disappointed. 

Another two dings, another two texts, and it's Freddie saying "We'll have to get her in for a practice," while Marns just fills your whole screen with more barfing emojis. 

You shoot them both the okay emoji, and then tell them that you need to get back to work. 

 When you check your phone again before bed, there's two text messages, both of them from Freddie. 

The first: "Good luck with your work, and sweet dreams" 

And then a picture of him, light spilling over him from a bedside lamp, duvet halfway up his bare chest. He looks a little tired, a little shy, but he's smiling up at the camera. 

 A selfie. You wonder what else Marner has told him. 

 And you save the picture.

 *****

 The boys win the first home game of the season, and you couldn't make it because Lila's down with a cold but you send Marns a selfie of you and Lila in Leafs jerseys in front of the TV - you wearing Sundin's number and grinning wide, Lila in Marner's and opening her mouth to show him a mouthful of chewed-up mashed potatoes. You figure it's not too different from a picture of unchewed mashed potatoes, and besides, you're just happy that she's eating. 

 Marns sends back a shot of him flashing a peace sign, flushed with good spirits and (you're pretty damned sure) alcohol he's barely old enough to be drinking, and the way he angles the camera makes you think he's trying to hide the fact that he's in a bar. 

 Which, dumb, but you pass along the congratulations the girls text you to send to him, and there's almost thirty of them, and by the time you're done Freddie's message to you has been waiting for several minutes, unopened. 

 "Thanks for the congratulations," it says, even though you didn't send him one, and you giggle as you lean back to reply. 

 "sorry! had to pass on messages from mitchy's fans first, and there's a lot of them." 

 Freddie: "Yeah? And who were you rooting for?" 

 "david pastrnak," you reply, grinning to yourself as you did it. 

and then before he has time to get into a sulk: "guy has to be a superhero to have gotten one past you" 

 He doesn't reply anyway, not for a good half hour, and you switch the tv to a golf tournament with the volume on low, because of course that's what Lila falls asleep to best. 

And then, from Freddie: "Guess that makes me your kyptonite." 

 Which, okay, he isn't wrong. 

 You're not sure how to reply - you guess this means that he's at least a little bit into you, and he knows you're at least a little bit into him, and - you're not sure how to reply. 

 "you're not wrong," you text him. And then, like a coward, but at least an honest one: "i need to go and tuck lila in. make sure you drink lots of water before bed x" 

 And he sends you a goodnight text, tells you to tell him if Lila's not feeling better in the morning, as though there's anything he can do about it anyway. 

When you wake up the next morning, there's a text from Marns sent at around three am that says, "YOOOOOO WAS TAT SMOOTH OR WHAT" 

Which, okay, he's not wrong. 

 *****

 The boys go through a losing streak like it's nobody's business. Which, is disappointing, but it's the Leafs, and Toronto's a city that's grown accustomed to it. After a home win against Florida that they barely managed by the skin of their teeth (which, it's Florida) Freddie's on your doorstep instead of celebrating at some bar or another, or maybe sleeping the adrenaline off. 

You raise your eyebrows at him, don't move aside to let him in even though you'd known he was the guy at the door when you'd looked through the peephole, and you'd gone and opened the door anyway. He looked rumpled, exhausted, hair a mess but not covered in product - like he'd gone for a shower after the game and then left, not even bothering to swing by his place to change out of his game day suit. 

 And you're in your Leafs jersey still, it's practically a dress on you so you didn't bother slipping any pants on, and the TV's still quietly going over game recaps.

You know this, the look on him, even though you've never seen him this way. He racks up a loss, takes it all on his own shoulders, won't let anyone take some of his burden or even see any of his pain. You've lived this, just not with him, and you're not in the mood for dealing with a moody hockey player. 

It's Lila's birthday tomorrow, and Marns' already said he would come, and he's asked if he could bring some of the boys with him, too. He hadn't mentioned Freddie, and neither had you - Freddie's been on radio silence since the loss against the Hawks, third in a streak that didn't seem like it was going to end. That had been five days ago, which

You're a big girl, you can take it. 

 But you don't particularly want to expose Lila to it. 

 "Look, I know I've been stupid," he starts, the creases in his brow deepening when he sees you're not going to start shit, but he falls silent when you shake you head. 

"Don't make a martyr of yourself, Freddie." It comes out sounding short, impatient, you're a little tired yourself and it's late. 

 And it hurts, just a little, him showing up here and now like you're some kind of fair weather-only friend. You're not even a fair weather fan, or you sure as shit wouldn't still have your Leafs jersey. 

He looks confused, though, raising one hand to rest against the frame of the door, and leans in, like proximity would help. That, or he's too tired to stand straight, which. Idiot. 

 "You lost, and you went and licked your wounds in private. It's fine." You pause, consider that, and decide to go for something a little more honest. "Or it's not fine, I missed you, but if that's what you need to do to get your head on right for your next game then I can live with it." 

 You're a big girl, you've survived worse things. 

 "I'm sorry," he says, and you smile, because - that's one you've never heard before. And you didn't think he'd understand, either, how you needed an apology and not a self-lashing from him, because the latter's designed to make you feel sorry for him more than anything else. 

 Which, you already do. Idiot. 

 You open the door wider, but instead of letting him in you step forward to wrap your arms around him, feeling him do the same to you - one across the back of your shoulders and one around your waist, warm, solid weights holding you in place for a long moment. 

 "I know you were worried about me, I shouldn't have put you through that, all I needed to do was pick up the phone." He pulls back, then, to look you in the eye, and your right hand slips higher to settle on the nape of his neck, to keep him there. 

 "Idiot," you tell him, but you're grinning, and in a moment he's grinning back. "You can come on in. I'm almost done getting things ready for Lila's birthday party tomorrow." 

"Can I help?" he asks, but you brush the offer aside, leading him through the hallway and into the living room, where you give him another push until he's settled on the couch. 

 "Beer's in the fridge, if you want, and Lila's already in bed. We have a spare room if you'd like to use it." He looks a little concerned at that - and, yeah, maybe you are being a little too forward - but you flash him another grin. 

 "What, you're making it up to me, right?" You ask him, voice teasing. "So you're going to do all the barbecuing for the party tomorrow."

He smiles back at you, but then the smile slowly fades, and he says again, sounding like he has to, "I'm sorry. I needed time to myself, but we're - friends, and- " 

 "You shouldn't have gone full radio silence?' You shake your head, amused, but Freddie's still looking at you like you might throw a temper tantrum, so you move to sit on the couch beside him, stretching out your legs so that your feet rested in his lap. 

Physical contact helps. Open communication helps. The slow massage he was giving your left foot definitely helps. After a few minutes: "I was upset, but it's just five days, Freddie. I've gone into radio silence for longer just because I had an assignment due." You give him a nudge with your other foot and he takes the hint, switching feet. "We're still friends," you tell him, the emphasis on the last word unmistakable, and you watch him colour up a little. 

 "Are you free next weekend?" He blurts out, like you figured he would, and you shake your head, biting back a smile. 

 "Nope, I'm chaperoning a school dance." 

 "Can I chaperon with you?" 

And there's no biting back the laugh you have to let out at that, hand covering your mouth so it doesn't wake Lila, and Freddie's looking halfway between amused and embarrassed.

 "The school isn't usually okay with having strangers attend our private school functions. Why don't you come out for coffee with me instead? Say, after your game on Tuesday, even if you lose?"

 The smile he gives you is something like watching the sun coming out, or maybe you're just feeling warm, but either way you'd have liked to be closer to him. 

 And then - voice teasing - "last time I asked you out for coffee you tried to snap my neck." 

 Which, fair, and you shrug a little even as you shift closer, so that you're sitting on the seat beside his on the couch, your bare thighs across his lap. His arm slips down from where it had rested along the back of your couch to around your waist, which. Feels nice. "Nah. Last time it was this kinda arrogant Ducks trade who'd asked me, and I wasn't even sure if he's any good between the posts." 

 A misstep, maybe, because his brows are creased again, and you have an urge to smooth it out with your thumb so you do just that. "So you want to go out with a good goalie," he says, something so uncertain in his voice, something sad in the way he looks down as you as though braced for the worst. Idiot. 

 You kiss his cheek, because you can't help it, then the corner of his lips - pulling back before he could kiss you properly, grinning a little as you drop one last kiss on the tip of his nose. "Yeah, but I'm hoping that's not all you're good at." 

[plantfeed]

ROOM #O3 — lockdown.

location: escalus house, room three. characters: valentine, christian, theresa, cal. time: just after the lockdown. tensions: high.

               ok so this didn’t develop as much as we wanted it to bcos it was hard to find a time when everyone was able to be on and responding at once. but here’s what we have of our lockdown discord thread for room three ( theresa, valentine, christian & cal ).

THERESA.

03.02. still in her ballgown, theresa's pacing the floor. in one hand is a half-drunk bottle of wine. in the other is her phone, into which she's ringing  ( to no avail ) every other minute. "my god. you think someone would fucking answer." though the state of the others is hardly of the deepest concern. they've got their own troubles here to be worrying about. every so often her eyes scan to valentine and it feels like swallowing glass. how could christian be so stupid? after everything she'd done. and yet.... and yet. lo, the course of love never did run smooth. but this isn't love. this is something far uglier. "i don't like this situation any more than the three of you. but somehow we've got to fucking deal with it so let's at least try to be civil."

VALENTINE.

03.03. she sits on the couch in the living room in her pajamas, forever grateful that she started leaving a pair in christian's room for emergencies. it would have been even more uncomfortable for everyone involved if she had been forced to wear something that was obviously christian's. in this moment, she feels bad for theresa, not because they're all in this situation, but because she's the only one who doesn't have the full story as to what's going on here. there's another layer in all of this, and the reminder of the secret the three of them are holding makes her swallow the spit that's collecting in her mouth. "i promise, i won't be a hassle, i can just sit in christian's room until this is all over and then i'll go back to my place the moment it's done."

CHRISTIAN.

03.03. christian can't stop shaking his leg. he's on the couch next to valentine, arm around her shoulders and the rest of him almost vibrating with nervous energy. his unoccupied hand is keeping his phone open, texting and hoping for some update that will give clarity to the situation. a lockdown? here, with valentine, her ex, and tess, aka the reason the rest of them can't speak freely. not that christian thinks they really would-- come to think of it, they've never all talked outright about what happened. or about what's still happening. "don't be silly, we can all be out here together," he tries to assure valentine, keeping his voice as casual as he can, but it takes on a bitter edge when his gaze lands on cal. "i've got no problem being civil. as long as everyone else is."

CAL.

03.04. cal’s eyes remain trained on his phone, hoping for a text from georgina or any news about the attacker. but more importantly, trying to avoid having to look in either valentine’s or christian’s direction. this lockdown situation seeming to be his own personal hell. their odd love-triangle was one thing, but the secret that bound them all together was another. he figured it’d be easier to just retreat back to his room, but there was something oddly comforting and enjoyable about the tension in the room, which was so thick you could cut it with a knife. he smirks as he hears christian’s words, clearly pointed at him. “don’t look at me. someone’s been attacked, and as far as i’m concerned, the last thing i’m worried about is starting a fight over the obvious elephant in the room.”

THERESA.

03.05. despite her nature, despite everything she's ever tried to be, tess can't play the peacemaker when christian's actions have put them in such jeopardy. "he's right," she starts, a hand lifting to clamp against cal's shoulder  ; a united front against the adulterous oppressors. or perhaps a lack of love has made her cynical. "the three of us live here. your actions affect everyone. and we will discuss this tomorrow." her eyes scan towards valentine, and they're neither unfriendly nor warm. this is a woman who makes both cal and christian happy. this is a woman for whom boys would move the earth. and it stings that christian thinks he's found a love worth fighting for when all he's found is a well-dressed pretender versed in the art of stage. "but there are wider issues at play than this." in the back of her head she's aching to ring kit, for if it is lysander, then kit will be the first to know. her mouth tastes acidic as she dances between the two opposing camps. "and a house divided cannot stand."

VALENTINE.

03.06 she smiles politely at theresa’s words (however odd they may be), trying her hardest to ignore the implications of the girl’s gaze. it wasn’t her fault that she was in this position, it really wasn’t, but she had no way of explaining that to her. it was cal’s fault for losing his temper, christian’s fault for trying to take things into his own hands. she wouldn’t have involved christian if it hadn’t been necessary, and then none of them would be in this situation. but alas, life had to be difficult, and now she was stuck in an apartment with one person who didn’t like her, and two people who loved her and she wasn’t sure which was worse. “i reached out to kit,” she says, trying to change the subject. “i’ll let you all know if he replies.”

THERESA.

03.07. when her eyes meet valentine's there's the sting of something sharp beneath her skin — a mosquito bite. where has the girl who was raised by interseztional feminists gone, a girl who grew up vowing never to pit herself against another woman — to take a woman's side in every fight, no matter what. but this feels different. christian feels different. he's the one constant she's had who's never strayed from her side when the others thought her unhinged, and every time valentine's left him — spleen and liver on the asphalt — tess is the one who piece by grizzly pieces has had to tack and stitch him back together. so forgive her if there isn't any warmth when she meets valentine's eyes. "kit's fine, for now" tess responds defensively, for his name in val's mouth sounds wrong. she wants to reach in between her teeth and drag that name out, keep it safe in her own throat — but of course he's not her to shelter. and perhaps neither is christian. "he walked me back so i know he's at home. but if lysander follows him..." she thinks of the room across the hall and the three of them — kit, lysander and roman — locked in a duel that only blood will satisfy. "if lysander follows him we'll know before he does. we'll hear him on the stairs."

CHRISTIAN.

3.08 christian's eyes narrow slightly at tess, not just her words but the way she looks at valentine as though she's some kind of unwelcome parasite in their home. but then, tess hasn't been quiet about her thoughts on his relationship with valentine, ever since the very beginning. he knows it comes from a place of protectiveness, but right now, combined with cal's obnoxious energy, it's just setting him further on edge. but they're right about one thing: it's not what's really important right now. "has anyone heard from lysander at all? maybe he's still in police custody-- you know, from what happened earlier. with roman." christian's stomach twinges. now is not the time for his pity toward lysander to rear its head.

VALENTINE.

3.09 none of them would have heard from lysander, because he has no cell phone. valentine has his cell phone. it's locked in a box under her bed, in her apartment, where belinda is all alone with nothing stopping her from entering valentine's bedroom. fuck, this lockdown needed to be over quickly, or else she was done for. "i haven't heard anything," she says, pushing some hair out of her face. "i hate not knowing what's happening. what are we supposed to do? just....sit here and wait?"

CHRISTIAN.

3.10 christian sighs, looking back and forth between his various companions and wondering nervously how long they're all likely to be stuck here together. pointedly looking away from cal (reminding himself of cal's existence tends to be a surefire way of making sure christian is not relaxed, and right now, he really needs to be), he rises from his position on the couch and crosses into the kitchen area, opening a cupboard. from within it, he draws two bottles of deep red merlot, and a half-finished one of tequila imported straight from mexico. "i don't know about the rest of you, but if i'm staying here for god knows how long, i'd really like to be fucking drunk. anyone with me?"

THERESA.

3.44.  with the curtains shut, it's hard to keep track of the sun. it could have been hours... it could have been days. wine is ever the temptress, and tonight is no different. only this night she's drinking with christian, with cal, and with valentine — the cards, perchance, could have picked an easier fate — and somewhere in a tangle of limbs ( she can't remember whose ) tessa's dropped her phone and the only means of communication with anyone outside of these four walls. "i know, christian, but please can you look again," exasperated, she continues to pull up the sofa cushions to no avail.  two glasses later, she's forgot about the phone at all, bare feet trailing over cal's knee as she stretches catlike and swills her wine around her glass. "doesn't this feel like come dine with me?" she asks, rolling to her feet, her hands patting down the pockets of her dressing gown as she cracks the window. "you won, jane." her smile is muted, the kind that doesn't reach her eyes, something lighter about her, but at the same time more erratic. her movements are less controlled.(edited)

VALENTINE.

3.45. in hindsight, drinking with this group of people was probably not the best idea any of them had ever had, but when the question became whether she'd rather be in this situation drunk or sober, the answer was clear and apparent, and became even more apparent the more she drank. for a moment, she can forget about the murder and the cheating and the lying and can just exist. she's sitting on the couch, keeping a semi-respectful distance from christian ( meaning that instead of lying her head down in his lap like she wants to do, she's sitting next to him, shoulders and knees touching and her gaze on him ) when she's brought back to the reality of the situation with tessa's words. "thank you for that stunning commentary," she muses, not a hint of sarcasm in her tone.

[evanora-coven]

An Unwanted Marriage

I'm walking down the aisle, the dress they gave me is at least two sizes too big. It keeps slipping down the front of me exposing to much cleavage. One wrong placed step and I am going to take it off of me completely. Which might  just be the final action to make them take me back to the stake. An hour ago, I was tied with my arms chained above my head and a muzzle over my mouth so I was not able to curse my attackers. I had been accused, tried, and convicted of witchcraft in less than 24 hours. A crime that I still had not admitted too or even given any proof of evidence.  

The entire court process had taken less than thirty minutes. I was captured in front of a large crowd in a city that I did not know. Something I should have considered when I started to run. A major city, who could possibly spot the one amongst thousands on the list of suspected witches. Once they had caught me I was tied and put with in the back of van with other various criminals. A large rosary was placed around my wrists, so if I was a witch I would not be able to cast a spell. Any witch that was worth damn knew that their hand jesters would cast a more powerful spell. The muzzle clearly just supported the idea that the people who were running the show really didn't know that clear words for a spell weren’t always necessary. Sure a spoken word did make a difference, but there were plenty that could be accomplished by a simple flick of the wrist.  Why did they think there were so many rude hand jesters? It was very clearly witches that were casting simple spells  around on people who pissed them off.  

So there I was freshly set to death, with gas dripping off of me. I'm grateful now that they had muzzled me, I would have screamed all kinds of thing like I was going to curse them and it would be sealed in my death. Of course, it was all going to be bullshit but in the end it would have left every one there wondering if they were going to fall in misfortune. I had said my peace to any deity out there who might have been willing to listen to me, but none the less I shook waiting for the flames to begin to lick my flesh off of my bones. The sun was glaring down with an insane heat that was all over my face and it seemed like a cruel joke of the universe that I was burning before they even lit a match.  

Then all at once, I heard someone say, “On three.” I closed my eyes I would not let see the tears that were wailing up and trying to get me to let them spill.  

On two, I could hear the matches lighting near the trail they had laid down for me. I was as prepared for this as I was ever going to be. With my eyes shut I turned my face to the sky. A shout broke through the air, it broke my concentration on not crying and once the tears and sob started, they had no intention of ever stopping.  

“Don’t, Don’t,” someone was screaming. I opened my eyes to see a man that I had spotted briefly when I was running through trash filled alley ways. He had motioned for me to follow him earlier,but I ignored him. I had a price on my head and the people that were chasing me knew and I’m sure he did too. My thoughts went back and forth with whether or not I had made the right decision earlier, but once again he was here. I wanted to believe that he was a true savior and was there only to help me, but in the end of it all I nearly knew that was impossible, he was just trying to find a way to get the money for himself.  

“I’ve read over all of this woman’s paper work,” he cried, and he was carrying a large stack maybe this was the evidence there was against me.  

“And?” asked one in the crowd. Her eyebrows were raised. She was clearly ready to drop her match.  

“She is only accused of witchcraft!” the man said loudly, grabbing the attention of everyone around him. Despite his raised tones there was not any anger in his voice.

It really was an unnecessary statement, everyone knew what was going, it’s not like they had just grabbed someone off the street and taken them in to kill them. Which someone else seemed to agree with, because they said, “We know.”

“Unless there is an actual proof, she doesn’t have to burn she could be married off to a Christian man. A man that could cleanse her soul,” he said. Holding the one paper that was apparently could get me off this stake. There was a lot of grumbling from the crowd, they were ready to see me burn.

So after a good deal of arguing back and forth the man finally managed to pull me from the stake with him being the only one who was an eligible suitor from someone covered in gas and just about to be murdered.  I think the witchcraft probably factored in there somewhere.  He  pulled the muzzle off of me and I throw up everywhere. It wasn’t like that cute girly throw up, the vomit just gushed out of me, at one point I found myself choking on it only to feel the feeble attempts of someone patting my back.  I assumed that it was the man and looked to see that I was in fact right about my assumption.  

The next thing that happened was I was dragged off into a cold shower and given no soap to wash off the gas. It just wouldn’t leave me, no matter how much I scrubbed and rinse my hair the gas smell stayed. The two women that came with me pulled me out, well one pulled while other just stared at the floor. I was given a towel something that must have been used for baptisms. I tried to use the hand drier to dry my hair, but it burnt my scalp.

“You’re in luck, we’ve been having a rummage collection and there was this dress,” said the girl that had not been willing to pull me from the shower. “Every bride should be able to wear a dress on her wedding day.”

She seemed so sincere I wanted to thank her, but before I could the older woman poked her in the ribs, reminding the girl that I was a vermin that was not meant to be her friend.  I pulled on the dress and tried to straighten the best that I could. I would have been beautiful if it was in the right time era, but it was at least 30 years old and had been thrown in a closet and probably long forgotten.  

Reaching the end of the aisle and standing here in front of the man that I was about to marry quickly brought me from the past into the present. He was tall, with short brown curlyhair and an eye color brown eyes that seemed to have a tint of red to them. I started sobbing again all over when he smiled down at me. It was only a few years ago that I was at the alter for the first time. It was such a change between to the two. I had loved the first with my entire heart and the one tear that I had cried that day was a tear of joy. Brody had been my everything and I was his, it was a short two years that we were together and he passed away. This time I had never met the groom and had no clue what type of a man he was.  I tried hard to remember his name. Luckily the Preacher offered it to me.  

“Andrew Davis, you still have time to back out this, even a good Christian man cannot be expected to completely tame a witch,” said the Preacher.

“She is only accused of witch craft, I can always divorce her if it does not work out,” said Andrew.  I hiccupped to cover up a laugh, a divorce was suddenly an extremely comforting idea in this whole thing.

“Then let's continue,” said the preacher.  

A few of the people that had been across the street in the court house yard left in an angry hurry, but the majority of them stayed. I could feel hate radiating in every direction except from Andrew who took my hands in his very cool ones. I should have felt cold to the touch after I was just thrown into the cold shower, but with all the crying and heavy breathing I had worked myself into a very heavy sweat and was instead the one that felt hot. Andrew rubbed his thumb across the back of my hand trying to sooth me. At least I assumed he was trying to sooth me.

I vaguely listened to what the preacher was saying, Andrew was copying him. It must be the vows. I had taken very few vows when I married Brody, I promised that I would love him, in front a few family members. I did love him and I still do.  

It was now my turn, I barely paid attention to what I was saying. Until I heard the preacher say, “to honor and obey.”

I bit my lip and closed my eyes, “To honor and obey.”

“With your eyes open,” said the preacher.  

I opened my eyes, looked at the preacher to Andrew. I was far from obedient to anyone. Andrew squeezed my hand tightly, and moved his eyes to the preacher and then to the people who were waiting. His message was clear, make it through this ceremony or go with back to the stake. Neither seemed ideal but there was no chance for a better tomorrow, if I burned.  

“To honor and obey,” I said, looking Andrew in the eyes.  I didn’t mean it at all and I felt like he knew that, I decided I had to trust him for now as he was the only person that did not want me dead.  

He smiled at me, showing his beautiful teeth and the fact that he had more smile lines on his face than he anger lines. This is when for the first time I was aware of how handsome he actually was. He was wearing a black button up shirt that was way too warm for this time of year. And he stood very proud causing me to straighten my back and take pride in myself.  

“Kiss the bride,” said some one in the audience.  

“Yes, kiss the bride,” said the preacher. It really seemed like they just wanted to see if Andrew would go through with it.  

He took my face in both his hands, pulling me up so I was looking up at him. I searched his eyes looking for any trace of emotion but there was none. But the warmth I found in them caused me to relax some. He was waiting for some signal that it was okay for him to kiss me.  

“Okay,” I breathed, I wasn’t sure that anyone else had heard me.  

He swiped the tears off of my face before he knelt down to kiss me. I wanted to pull away as soon as our lips met, but he held me there for a moment longer, whispering, “Believable.” Maybe he wasn’t so bad.  We signed the paper the certificate and rushed out of the church. I had no idea where we were going, but any where was better than here.

[theonlygardener]

I told my counselor yesterday about how angry I am at you sometimes. How angry I am that you just... get away with everything. How angry I am that when I finally stood up for myself and told you to get out and wanted you just gone finally, you refused. Despite that you have the ability, the opportunity, the money, the support. Despite that I’m disabled and literally unable to go anywhere. Angry about the fact that you had the nerve to tell me to leave under those conditions. 

Angry about what you probably tell yourself and others so that you can sleep at night, that you probably leave out the drug use, you probably leave out the fact that you already had one foot into another relationship before even working up the balls to tell me you didn’t want to be with me. That in fact you never worked up the balls, you tried to keep me strung along as far as you could, and you made me make the hard choices you were too willfully weak to make, You probably leave out the fact that you hit me square enough and hard enough to give me a concussion and make me spin around and hit the ground. That you hit me hard enough that my ears were still ringing and I was still getting headaches for a week and a half afterward, if not longer, because it turns out I could have had MS the whole time you were making me feel like shit for being chronically ill, and who knows what damage is where. You probably leave out the fact that it took three people thirty minutes to find my glasses after you hit me. So that you can sleep at night. And so that you feel valid in targeting that new girl you started on before you even gave me a chance to catch my breath and wake the fuck up from the nightmare of loving you. 

I told her how angry it makes me sometimes. That the people who raised you and that you ran to and that now surround you reinforce this worldview. And that the whole time they were abusing you, and me by association whenever I chose to be around them, finally got into your head and convinced you that I was an enemy. Not christian enough. Not straight enough. Not abled enough. Not monoamorous enough. Because now it serves you to believe them, now it gives you the advantage of getting away with all of it. It makes me angry that 6 years of loving you full stop still wasn’t enough to even make you think for like half of a second that maybe turning into your worst influences in life wasn’t good for either of us, but especially you. 

Because when I told her how angry I get sometimes, she pointed out a thing which I often remind myself of - that you’re not gonna live a happy life. And she’s right. You hate yourself so much for your own disability that it stained me. It stained me with blood and near starvation. You have a miserable conservative abusive wanna be white trash family. You have a miserable boring useless capitalistic $14 an hr job that introduced you to drugs. And you’re going to get into miserable relationships where neither you nor your partners can be themselves, targeting them at work like you targeted me, because being forced to be around someone for eight hours is somehow relationship material, and you’ll hate each other for it. Because that’s not who I was and you “couldn’t handle it”. What you can handle, is a pis poor miserable excuse for life. And I told my counselor I know this logically, but I still feel angry sometimes. And she said that was valid. 

I had a dream last night, dreamlike in it’s silliness. But we were in the same home again, idk if we were together though I hope not because that’s not what I want. And we were doing the same activities separately, and I passed by you unexpectedly and you said “wait why don’t you come do that with me? Together?”. And the conversation we had was much like the ones we had shortly before you told me about the girl you’re targeting now, it was much like “well I don’t trust you and it takes time to build that trust”, because, as much as I laugh to keep from crying now, even right up until the end I forced myself to try to trust you by any measure, when you asked. I would literally shake uncontrollably, and cry, and feel like screaming and disappearing and not feeling anything anymore, anytime I got into the car with you. I haven’t felt that since the last time I was severely abused. I don’t even experience that anymore with my mom, my first abuser. You hurt me a lot and I let it keep coming, and I let you convince me to think I just needed to let you in again and again, by degrees, repeatedly. And everytime, you let me down. And in this dream I told you that you just hurt me too much and I didn’t trust you. I let it all go and I said I did everything I possibly could and tried my hardest to be what we needed to keep our relationship, I did everything you didn’t do. And you said “I’m sorry, I just didn’t think I could handle it”.

I woke up. I know the implication. You didn’t think you could handle my being disabled and queer. 

And I felt.... sad but release. Because buddy, it’s not just a matter of me not trusting you, I don’t love you anymore. There’s nothing lost on my end if there’s nothing to be gained. Because there’s no rebuilding of anything. That’s something you lost, lost lost, that is gone forever and there’s no recuperating it at all ever. You don’t get anymore chances. I don’t ever want to know you or be close to you again. You’re disease, no one wants that, when they find out who you really are. You’re the bubonic plague and aids of trauma rolled into one life altering package.  

And the fact that you think you couldn’t handle me, couldn’t handle my disability or queerness. That’s..... sad. Unfortunate and pathetic. And it’s your problem of a misconception. Not mine. Not anymore. Because if you can’t handle the human and honest and fragile sides of me then you can’t handle your own. I mean. That’s no surprise to me, I was with you for 6 years. I’ve seen the fact that you can’t handle yourself with my own eyes. I watched your parents drill into you again and again a lack of awareness and compassion. But you still don’t and probably never will see that how you treated me was such a mirror. The fact that you just think that’s how it is and that you just weren’t capable - like it’s the reason you abused me rather than an excuse, like you just weren’t capable of anything but abuse. Pathetic. 

And it doesn’t deviate from your pattern either, because you loved to blame your autism and trained me to parrot you and blame your autism too. When the fact is that I’m autistic too, so are many of my friends, and I’ve always been apparently more “capable” of the care that your “weren’t”. Even when you told me that the only thing stopping you from approaching your new target was autism (ouch), the first thing I did was tell you that that’s not a good enough reason because if someone turns you down for that then you deserve better anyways. The second thing I did was to realize that you just didn’t love me anymore and were replacing me, and lying about it. Finally, realizing that, still came second to supporting you. And you just are not good enough for me, put simply, to not be as caring as I am. And my friends have been very supportive, and given me the time of day and let me find strength in them the way you did maybe three times throughout 6 years. We’re not that different in disability than you. But we’re very different in how we love. And you’re not. good. enough. for. me. And not because you’re autistic, though I’m sure you love to blame that and probably even straight faced lie and tell people that’s why we’re not together anymore, because not loving you for something like that would be immense self-hate. But, oh, wait, that’s what you do. So you should know that.

You said as much when I finally left, you said you became resentful, hurtful (abusive), and replaced me because I “needed too much” (am disabled). You made that conclusion yourself because you were so intent on being innocent. But your disability excuses your abuse according to you, according to you none of the support I gave you was worth shit. You ended up treating me the way your abusers treated both of us, and that’s who you are and who you’ve always been and probably who you’ll always be. It just took one too many marks against me for you to finally show it openly. Pathetic. 

I’m not christian, not at all, and not enough for you. But I pray for your drug addiction and the self-hate that will make your life the same hell you made mine. I’m just not praying to your god, or possibly a god at all. And only once. Because the rest of my energy from now on is going to me. Just enough to rub salt in the wound of the karma you’re making for yourself, and to continue to be the better person you parade as with your weekly church attendance, but aren’t really.

You’ve never been worthy of my love. You’re not worth my time. I’m starting to think you’re not worth my anger. 

[weopenviews]

William B. Plowman/NBC/NBC NewsWire via GettyErick Erickson really doesn’t like that presidential primary candidate Mayor Pete Buttigieg is gay, and refuses to “repent” for his sin of having gay sex.Erickson has much to say about it, an exhausting amount. For all that they profess their disgust about it, isn’t it strange, the amount of time anti-gay folks like to spend obsessing about the sex gay people have?The conservative blogger, radio host, and former CNN commentator was back on his anti-gay, anti-Buttigieg crusade again Wednesday in a column on his blog Resurgent, where he also made the startling claim that Buttigieg has less humility than that well-known trepidatious wallflower President Trump.Why Does Anyone Take Erick Erickson Seriously?Noting that Trump “has said more than once he has never felt the need to repent for anything,” and why this should lead evangelicals to question their cheering “everything he does,” Erickson added: “Pete Buttigieg is a practicing homosexual who willfully refuses to recognize Holy Scripture identifies that as a sin.”On Friday, Erickson will be joined by Vice President Mike Pence on stage at the Resurgent Gathering in Atlanta, for a conversation “about the Trump administration’s policies and plans for a second term.” Whether Buttigieg and LGBT-related matters will be raised remains to be seen.According to my colleague Adam Rawnsley, Erickson has written at least 19 tweets referencing Buttigieg since April—it’s hard to tell how many precisely because he has deleted his recent Twitter history. On Resurgent Erickson has written six times about Buttigieg since April, with five columns written on April 8 and April 9, and the sixth this week. (He has written about Joe Biden seven times.)The tweets, columns, and condemnation suggest Erickson is truly vexed not just by Buttigieg and his sexuality, but also furious that he invokes his own faith when challenging Trump and his supporters.Buttigieg’s resonant faith message is to remind fellow Christians what the meaning of that faith is in terms of their duty to treat fellow humans decently. What really rankles Erickson, and others like him, is that it is a gay man doing the truth-telling. When it comes to homosexuality, evangelical Christians like Erickson hate gay sex (which they seem bizarrely focused on), and like the sinner to know their place. Buttigieg is a total mind-scramble for them: out, proud, partnered, married, and using his own Christian faith to call out faith-based prejudice, and to question evangelicals’ support of Trump.This week, Erickson said Trump was different from Buttigieg in that he “does not lecture Christians about their faith and Buttigieg has made it a central part of his campaign.”Erickson also tweeted about it, in case we hadn’t heard: “Trump has said he has never felt the need to repent. Buttigieg doesn’t feel the need to repent of his sexual sins. Between them, only Trump possesses the humility to not lecture Christians about their faith given his unrepentant state.”Erickson also linked to a clip from the first Democratic debate this week, where Buttigieg said: “The minimum wage is just too low. And so-called conservative Christian senators right now in the Senate are blocking a bill to raise the minimum wage when scripture says that ‘Whoever oppresses the poor taunts their maker.’”Cue more Erickson pique: “Hey Mayor Pete, you know what else scripture says?” he tweeted. If this wasn’t yet another tired yowl about sinful gay sex, maybe Erickson could enlighten us otherwise.The April flurry of homophobic spite came after Buttigieg had spoken about the anti-LGBT Pence: “If me being gay was a choice, it was a choice that was made far, far above my pay grade. And that’s the thing I wish the Mike Pences of the world would understand: that if you got a problem with who I am, your problem is not with me—your quarrel, sir, is with my creator.”Buttigieg had also queried evangelicals’ support of the president. “It’s something that really frustrates me because the hypocrisy is unbelievable,” he told NBC’s Meet the Press on April 7. “Here you have somebody who not only acts in a way that is not consistent with anything that I hear in scripture in church.”On April 8, all this seems to have made Erickson’s head start spinning wildly. He accused Buttigieg of hypocrisy, because apparently as a gay man, he had no business lecturing anyone else about Christian anything. Or as Erickson put it: “Buttigieg wants to use the social obligations as Christians against the President, but wants to avoid any implication on the personal obligations of Christians in terms of clear Biblical sexual ethics.” On the same day, under the drily disingenuous headline,“I Actually Wasn’t Going To Say This Because I’ve Offended Enough People Today, But…”, Erickson opined: “No sin is immutable. Buttigieg has decided his sin is and, in trying to reconcile his faith to his sexuality, has departed from orthodoxy in determining his sin is therefore not sin despite the very plain and clear teachings of scripture.” And then, in a third column in one day, he puzzlingly accused Buttigieg of “trying to have it both ways” around abortion, and refugees, and the poor.On the same day—April 8 seems to have been a really big bad gay day in Erickson-ville, our embattled protagonist buffeted by rainbow flags—in a now-deleted tweet, Erickson began defending poor defenseless Pence. “Mike Pence has said nothing about Buttigieg. Pence lives rent free in the man’s head. His willingness to use Pence as the basis for his unprovoked attacks on orthodox Christianity suggests Buttigieg is not really the Christian he claims to be.”Mike Pence’s animus towards LGBT people is well-documented. Buttigieg wasn’t attacking his faith; he was questioning Pence’s use of that faith to rationalize prejudice and enact harmful laws against LGBT people. In his anti-LGBT prejudice, Pence, Buttigieg said, was also challenging God.Erickson wasn’t done that day. “I mean if Buttigieg thinks evangelicals should be supporting him instead of Trump, he fundamentally does not understand the roots of Christianity. But then he is an Episcopalian, so he might not actually understand Christianity more than superficially.”For Erickson, being Episcopalian seems to count as Christianity lite, and as such is another useful weapon to attack Buttigieg with.When Buttigieg said, “The Vice President is entitled to his religious beliefs. My problem is when those religious beliefs are used as an excuse to harm other people,” Erickson responded via Twitter: “Declining to bake a cake for a wedding isn’t harming anyone, particularly when the business will bake the same person anything else.” On that basis, presumably, Erickson would be fine about cake shops, hotels, whoever, refusing service to straight people, just because they feel like it. So, any business that wants to refuse service to Erick Erickson, go ahead—he supports your right to do so, and he’s happy to buy whatever it is he needs someplace else.On April 9, Erickson wrote a column, his fourth in two days about Buttigieg, accusing him of being intolerant about Mike Pence’s “faithful” Christianity. “Buttigieg is just another in a long line of Democrats who are willing to punish Christians for living out their faith,” Erickson concluded.No, people who object to “religious liberty” being used as a battering ram against LGBT people are doing so because it is precisely that: It uses faith to blanket-justify discrimination. It uses faith to exclude and demean people. “Religious liberty” is an abuse of good faith.On the same day, in his fifth column in two days about Buttigieg, Erickson wrote in response to a religion-based inquiry from my colleague Scott Bixby (who went on to write this piece): “Buttigieg attacks the President for not governing as a moral person on one hand and on the other claims we cannot govern morally when it comes to abortion. He has married another man, which runs contrary to scripture, and he not only thinks it is not sin, but thinks God made him that way, all of which is contrary to Christian orthodoxy.”Again, all that Erickson has are mythical Bible passages—there are none about marriage equality—and poisonous, personal insults about Buttigieg’s sexuality and beliefs. Cheap, ungodly insults at that.“Opposition to Buttigieg should not be about his religion or his sexuality,” Erickson wrote (how kind and reasonable—even though that is what he had been relentlessly invoking himself!), “but should be because he masks his far left positions behind a smile.”Another spurious insult. Of all the candidates, Buttigieg, whether you agree with him or not, states his views with sober clarity.On July 27, Erickson tweeted a video clip and article from The Hill, in which Buttigieg opined, utterly calmly: “My generation saw this country elect its first black president and then turn around and elect a racist to the White House and we ought to call that what it is.”Erickson’s tweet read: “Notice how Butter Judge is getting more heated in his rhetoric as he starts getting left behind in the polls.” There is nothing “heated” about Buttigieg’s delivery in the clip; quite the opposite.For many years, and now in the Trump administration with Pence at their vanguard, evangelical Christians have sought to influence anti-LGBT law-making. The Trump administration has, as The Daily Beast has reported, been very receptive to them—President Trump wants the evangelical vote, and for him LGBT people and rights are necessary casualties in securing it.Trump and Pence are fully signed up to the “religious liberty” agenda, which seeks to deny LGBT rights and equality via the weird notion that by according LGBT people equal access in the buying of wedding cakes and other goods and services, this somehow counts as persecution against anti-LGBT Christians who should have every right—by dint of their faith—to discriminate against LGBT people.What seems to upset Erickson and his ilk is that a gay man of faith is calling them out on these hypocritical perversions of faith. And Buttigieg is using his own faith and his beliefs to call them out. Rarely are religious bigots challenged so squarely on their own turf by someone they’re usually so comfortable in condemning. If they bothered listening to Buttigieg, they would realize that he—with an impressive amount of patience and open-heartedness, given the bigotry he has faced from the likes of Erickson—was reminding them what the true meaning of faith and Christianity is.Possibly, this is the first salvo in a wider Republican Party return to the old dirty playbook of using someone’s sexuality against them. But sadly for Erickson and Co., Buttigieg is open not just about who he is but also who he loves. Indeed this openness has been questioned by some LGBT people, who have wondered if Buttigieg is “gay enough.” Perhaps those critics of Buttigieg, when they read the words of authors like Erickson, will realize that now is not the time to fight over slices of liberal-piety cake. The more immediate bogeyman is, sadly, an old and all-too-familiar one: pure and simple prejudice. Pete Buttigieg is the target of those who seek to hurt people, to diminish them, to encourage people not to vote for them, because they are gay. That’s it. This hoary, dusty relic is one apparently we must confront again. You may not want to vote for Buttigieg, you may disagree with him about his policies, you may wish he was “gayer” on and off the debate stage. But he is also a gay man in public life having to put up with crude, homophobic attacks. Hopefully that is “gay enough” to count as a reason to speak up for him—alongside common decency.Read more at The Daily Beast.Got a tip? Send it to The Daily Beast hereGet our top stories in your inbox every day. Sign up now!Daily Beast Membership: Beast Inside goes deeper on the stories that matter to you. Learn more.

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[worldnews-blog]

William B. Plowman/NBC/NBC NewsWire via GettyErick Erickson really doesn’t like that presidential primary candidate Mayor Pete Buttigieg is gay, and refuses to “repent” for his sin of having gay sex.Erickson has much to say about it, an exhausting amount. For all that they profess their disgust about it, isn’t it strange, the amount of time anti-gay folks like to spend obsessing about the sex gay people have?The conservative blogger, radio host, and former CNN commentator was back on his anti-gay, anti-Buttigieg crusade again Wednesday in a column on his blog Resurgent, where he also made the startling claim that Buttigieg has less humility than that well-known trepidatious wallflower President Trump.Why Does Anyone Take Erick Erickson Seriously?Noting that Trump “has said more than once he has never felt the need to repent for anything,” and why this should lead evangelicals to question their cheering “everything he does,” Erickson added: “Pete Buttigieg is a practicing homosexual who willfully refuses to recognize Holy Scripture identifies that as a sin.”On Friday, Erickson will be joined by Vice President Mike Pence on stage at the Resurgent Gathering in Atlanta, for a conversation “about the Trump administration’s policies and plans for a second term.” Whether Buttigieg and LGBT-related matters will be raised remains to be seen.According to my colleague Adam Rawnsley, Erickson has written at least 19 tweets referencing Buttigieg since April—it’s hard to tell how many precisely because he has deleted his recent Twitter history. On Resurgent Erickson has written six times about Buttigieg since April, with five columns written on April 8 and April 9, and the sixth this week. (He has written about Joe Biden seven times.)The tweets, columns, and condemnation suggest Erickson is truly vexed not just by Buttigieg and his sexuality, but also furious that he invokes his own faith when challenging Trump and his supporters.Buttigieg’s resonant faith message is to remind fellow Christians what the meaning of that faith is in terms of their duty to treat fellow humans decently. What really rankles Erickson, and others like him, is that it is a gay man doing the truth-telling. When it comes to homosexuality, evangelical Christians like Erickson hate gay sex (which they seem bizarrely focused on), and like the sinner to know their place. Buttigieg is a total mind-scramble for them: out, proud, partnered, married, and using his own Christian faith to call out faith-based prejudice, and to question evangelicals’ support of Trump.This week, Erickson said Trump was different from Buttigieg in that he “does not lecture Christians about their faith and Buttigieg has made it a central part of his campaign.”Erickson also tweeted about it, in case we hadn’t heard: “Trump has said he has never felt the need to repent. Buttigieg doesn’t feel the need to repent of his sexual sins. Between them, only Trump possesses the humility to not lecture Christians about their faith given his unrepentant state.”Erickson also linked to a clip from the first Democratic debate this week, where Buttigieg said: “The minimum wage is just too low. And so-called conservative Christian senators right now in the Senate are blocking a bill to raise the minimum wage when scripture says that ‘Whoever oppresses the poor taunts their maker.’”Cue more Erickson pique: “Hey Mayor Pete, you know what else scripture says?” he tweeted. If this wasn’t yet another tired yowl about sinful gay sex, maybe Erickson could enlighten us otherwise.The April flurry of homophobic spite came after Buttigieg had spoken about the anti-LGBT Pence: “If me being gay was a choice, it was a choice that was made far, far above my pay grade. And that’s the thing I wish the Mike Pences of the world would understand: that if you got a problem with who I am, your problem is not with me—your quarrel, sir, is with my creator.”Buttigieg had also queried evangelicals’ support of the president. “It’s something that really frustrates me because the hypocrisy is unbelievable,” he told NBC’s Meet the Press on April 7. “Here you have somebody who not only acts in a way that is not consistent with anything that I hear in scripture in church.”On April 8, all this seems to have made Erickson’s head start spinning wildly. He accused Buttigieg of hypocrisy, because apparently as a gay man, he had no business lecturing anyone else about Christian anything. Or as Erickson put it: “Buttigieg wants to use the social obligations as Christians against the President, but wants to avoid any implication on the personal obligations of Christians in terms of clear Biblical sexual ethics.” On the same day, under the drily disingenuous headline,“I Actually Wasn’t Going To Say This Because I’ve Offended Enough People Today, But…”, Erickson opined: “No sin is immutable. Buttigieg has decided his sin is and, in trying to reconcile his faith to his sexuality, has departed from orthodoxy in determining his sin is therefore not sin despite the very plain and clear teachings of scripture.” And then, in a third column in one day, he puzzlingly accused Buttigieg of “trying to have it both ways” around abortion, and refugees, and the poor.On the same day—April 8 seems to have been a really big bad gay day in Erickson-ville, our embattled protagonist buffeted by rainbow flags—in a now-deleted tweet, Erickson began defending poor defenseless Pence. “Mike Pence has said nothing about Buttigieg. Pence lives rent free in the man’s head. His willingness to use Pence as the basis for his unprovoked attacks on orthodox Christianity suggests Buttigieg is not really the Christian he claims to be.”Mike Pence’s animus towards LGBT people is well-documented. Buttigieg wasn’t attacking his faith; he was questioning Pence’s use of that faith to rationalize prejudice and enact harmful laws against LGBT people. In his anti-LGBT prejudice, Pence, Buttigieg said, was also challenging God.Erickson wasn’t done that day. “I mean if Buttigieg thinks evangelicals should be supporting him instead of Trump, he fundamentally does not understand the roots of Christianity. But then he is an Episcopalian, so he might not actually understand Christianity more than superficially.”For Erickson, being Episcopalian seems to count as Christianity lite, and as such is another useful weapon to attack Buttigieg with.When Buttigieg said, “The Vice President is entitled to his religious beliefs. My problem is when those religious beliefs are used as an excuse to harm other people,” Erickson responded via Twitter: “Declining to bake a cake for a wedding isn’t harming anyone, particularly when the business will bake the same person anything else.” On that basis, presumably, Erickson would be fine about cake shops, hotels, whoever, refusing service to straight people, just because they feel like it. So, any business that wants to refuse service to Erick Erickson, go ahead—he supports your right to do so, and he’s happy to buy whatever it is he needs someplace else.On April 9, Erickson wrote a column, his fourth in two days about Buttigieg, accusing him of being intolerant about Mike Pence’s “faithful” Christianity. “Buttigieg is just another in a long line of Democrats who are willing to punish Christians for living out their faith,” Erickson concluded.No, people who object to “religious liberty” being used as a battering ram against LGBT people are doing so because it is precisely that: It uses faith to blanket-justify discrimination. It uses faith to exclude and demean people. “Religious liberty” is an abuse of good faith.On the same day, in his fifth column in two days about Buttigieg, Erickson wrote in response to a religion-based inquiry from my colleague Scott Bixby (who went on to write this piece): “Buttigieg attacks the President for not governing as a moral person on one hand and on the other claims we cannot govern morally when it comes to abortion. He has married another man, which runs contrary to scripture, and he not only thinks it is not sin, but thinks God made him that way, all of which is contrary to Christian orthodoxy.”Again, all that Erickson has are mythical Bible passages—there are none about marriage equality—and poisonous, personal insults about Buttigieg’s sexuality and beliefs. Cheap, ungodly insults at that.“Opposition to Buttigieg should not be about his religion or his sexuality,” Erickson wrote (how kind and reasonable—even though that is what he had been relentlessly invoking himself!), “but should be because he masks his far left positions behind a smile.”Another spurious insult. Of all the candidates, Buttigieg, whether you agree with him or not, states his views with sober clarity.On July 27, Erickson tweeted a video clip and article from The Hill, in which Buttigieg opined, utterly calmly: “My generation saw this country elect its first black president and then turn around and elect a racist to the White House and we ought to call that what it is.”Erickson’s tweet read: “Notice how Butter Judge is getting more heated in his rhetoric as he starts getting left behind in the polls.” There is nothing “heated” about Buttigieg’s delivery in the clip; quite the opposite.For many years, and now in the Trump administration with Pence at their vanguard, evangelical Christians have sought to influence anti-LGBT law-making. The Trump administration has, as The Daily Beast has reported, been very receptive to them—President Trump wants the evangelical vote, and for him LGBT people and rights are necessary casualties in securing it.Trump and Pence are fully signed up to the “religious liberty” agenda, which seeks to deny LGBT rights and equality via the weird notion that by according LGBT people equal access in the buying of wedding cakes and other goods and services, this somehow counts as persecution against anti-LGBT Christians who should have every right—by dint of their faith—to discriminate against LGBT people.What seems to upset Erickson and his ilk is that a gay man of faith is calling them out on these hypocritical perversions of faith. And Buttigieg is using his own faith and his beliefs to call them out. Rarely are religious bigots challenged so squarely on their own turf by someone they’re usually so comfortable in condemning. If they bothered listening to Buttigieg, they would realize that he—with an impressive amount of patience and open-heartedness, given the bigotry he has faced from the likes of Erickson—was reminding them what the true meaning of faith and Christianity is.Possibly, this is the first salvo in a wider Republican Party return to the old dirty playbook of using someone’s sexuality against them. But sadly for Erickson and Co., Buttigieg is open not just about who he is but also who he loves. Indeed this openness has been questioned by some LGBT people, who have wondered if Buttigieg is “gay enough.” Perhaps those critics of Buttigieg, when they read the words of authors like Erickson, will realize that now is not the time to fight over slices of liberal-piety cake. The more immediate bogeyman is, sadly, an old and all-too-familiar one: pure and simple prejudice. Pete Buttigieg is the target of those who seek to hurt people, to diminish them, to encourage people not to vote for them, because they are gay. That’s it. This hoary, dusty relic is one apparently we must confront again. You may not want to vote for Buttigieg, you may disagree with him about his policies, you may wish he was “gayer” on and off the debate stage. But he is also a gay man in public life having to put up with crude, homophobic attacks. Hopefully that is “gay enough” to count as a reason to speak up for him—alongside common decency.Read more at The Daily Beast.Got a tip? Send it to The Daily Beast hereGet our top stories in your inbox every day. Sign up now!Daily Beast Membership: Beast Inside goes deeper on the stories that matter to you. Learn more.

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[orendrasingh]

William B. Plowman/NBC/NBC NewsWire via GettyErick Erickson really doesn’t like that presidential primary candidate Mayor Pete Buttigieg is gay, and refuses to “repent” for his sin of having gay sex.Erickson has much to say about it, an exhausting amount. For all that they profess their disgust about it, isn’t it strange, the amount of time anti-gay folks like to spend obsessing about the sex gay people have?The conservative blogger, radio host, and former CNN commentator was back on his anti-gay, anti-Buttigieg crusade again Wednesday in a column on his blog Resurgent, where he also made the startling claim that Buttigieg has less humility than that well-known trepidatious wallflower President Trump.Why Does Anyone Take Erick Erickson Seriously?Noting that Trump “has said more than once he has never felt the need to repent for anything,” and why this should lead evangelicals to question their cheering “everything he does,” Erickson added: “Pete Buttigieg is a practicing homosexual who willfully refuses to recognize Holy Scripture identifies that as a sin.”On Friday, Erickson will be joined by Vice President Mike Pence on stage at the Resurgent Gathering in Atlanta, for a conversation “about the Trump administration’s policies and plans for a second term.” Whether Buttigieg and LGBT-related matters will be raised remains to be seen.According to my colleague Adam Rawnsley, Erickson has written at least 19 tweets referencing Buttigieg since April—it’s hard to tell how many precisely because he has deleted his recent Twitter history. On Resurgent Erickson has written six times about Buttigieg since April, with five columns written on April 8 and April 9, and the sixth this week. (He has written about Joe Biden seven times.)The tweets, columns, and condemnation suggest Erickson is truly vexed not just by Buttigieg and his sexuality, but also furious that he invokes his own faith when challenging Trump and his supporters.Buttigieg’s resonant faith message is to remind fellow Christians what the meaning of that faith is in terms of their duty to treat fellow humans decently. What really rankles Erickson, and others like him, is that it is a gay man doing the truth-telling. When it comes to homosexuality, evangelical Christians like Erickson hate gay sex (which they seem bizarrely focused on), and like the sinner to know their place. Buttigieg is a total mind-scramble for them: out, proud, partnered, married, and using his own Christian faith to call out faith-based prejudice, and to question evangelicals’ support of Trump.This week, Erickson said Trump was different from Buttigieg in that he “does not lecture Christians about their faith and Buttigieg has made it a central part of his campaign.”Erickson also tweeted about it, in case we hadn’t heard: “Trump has said he has never felt the need to repent. Buttigieg doesn’t feel the need to repent of his sexual sins. Between them, only Trump possesses the humility to not lecture Christians about their faith given his unrepentant state.”Erickson also linked to a clip from the first Democratic debate this week, where Buttigieg said: “The minimum wage is just too low. And so-called conservative Christian senators right now in the Senate are blocking a bill to raise the minimum wage when scripture says that ‘Whoever oppresses the poor taunts their maker.’”Cue more Erickson pique: “Hey Mayor Pete, you know what else scripture says?” he tweeted. If this wasn’t yet another tired yowl about sinful gay sex, maybe Erickson could enlighten us otherwise.The April flurry of homophobic spite came after Buttigieg had spoken about the anti-LGBT Pence: “If me being gay was a choice, it was a choice that was made far, far above my pay grade. And that’s the thing I wish the Mike Pences of the world would understand: that if you got a problem with who I am, your problem is not with me—your quarrel, sir, is with my creator.”Buttigieg had also queried evangelicals’ support of the president. “It’s something that really frustrates me because the hypocrisy is unbelievable,” he told NBC’s Meet the Press on April 7. “Here you have somebody who not only acts in a way that is not consistent with anything that I hear in scripture in church.”On April 8, all this seems to have made Erickson’s head start spinning wildly. He accused Buttigieg of hypocrisy, because apparently as a gay man, he had no business lecturing anyone else about Christian anything. Or as Erickson put it: “Buttigieg wants to use the social obligations as Christians against the President, but wants to avoid any implication on the personal obligations of Christians in terms of clear Biblical sexual ethics.” On the same day, under the drily disingenuous headline,“I Actually Wasn’t Going To Say This Because I’ve Offended Enough People Today, But…”, Erickson opined: “No sin is immutable. Buttigieg has decided his sin is and, in trying to reconcile his faith to his sexuality, has departed from orthodoxy in determining his sin is therefore not sin despite the very plain and clear teachings of scripture.” And then, in a third column in one day, he puzzlingly accused Buttigieg of “trying to have it both ways” around abortion, and refugees, and the poor.On the same day—April 8 seems to have been a really big bad gay day in Erickson-ville, our embattled protagonist buffeted by rainbow flags—in a now-deleted tweet, Erickson began defending poor defenseless Pence. “Mike Pence has said nothing about Buttigieg. Pence lives rent free in the man’s head. His willingness to use Pence as the basis for his unprovoked attacks on orthodox Christianity suggests Buttigieg is not really the Christian he claims to be.”Mike Pence’s animus towards LGBT people is well-documented. Buttigieg wasn’t attacking his faith; he was questioning Pence’s use of that faith to rationalize prejudice and enact harmful laws against LGBT people. In his anti-LGBT prejudice, Pence, Buttigieg said, was also challenging God.Erickson wasn’t done that day. “I mean if Buttigieg thinks evangelicals should be supporting him instead of Trump, he fundamentally does not understand the roots of Christianity. But then he is an Episcopalian, so he might not actually understand Christianity more than superficially.”For Erickson, being Episcopalian seems to count as Christianity lite, and as such is another useful weapon to attack Buttigieg with.When Buttigieg said, “The Vice President is entitled to his religious beliefs. My problem is when those religious beliefs are used as an excuse to harm other people,” Erickson responded via Twitter: “Declining to bake a cake for a wedding isn’t harming anyone, particularly when the business will bake the same person anything else.” On that basis, presumably, Erickson would be fine about cake shops, hotels, whoever, refusing service to straight people, just because they feel like it. So, any business that wants to refuse service to Erick Erickson, go ahead—he supports your right to do so, and he’s happy to buy whatever it is he needs someplace else.On April 9, Erickson wrote a column, his fourth in two days about Buttigieg, accusing him of being intolerant about Mike Pence’s “faithful” Christianity. “Buttigieg is just another in a long line of Democrats who are willing to punish Christians for living out their faith,” Erickson concluded.No, people who object to “religious liberty” being used as a battering ram against LGBT people are doing so because it is precisely that: It uses faith to blanket-justify discrimination. It uses faith to exclude and demean people. “Religious liberty” is an abuse of good faith.On the same day, in his fifth column in two days about Buttigieg, Erickson wrote in response to a religion-based inquiry from my colleague Scott Bixby (who went on to write this piece): “Buttigieg attacks the President for not governing as a moral person on one hand and on the other claims we cannot govern morally when it comes to abortion. He has married another man, which runs contrary to scripture, and he not only thinks it is not sin, but thinks God made him that way, all of which is contrary to Christian orthodoxy.”Again, all that Erickson has are mythical Bible passages—there are none about marriage equality—and poisonous, personal insults about Buttigieg’s sexuality and beliefs. Cheap, ungodly insults at that.“Opposition to Buttigieg should not be about his religion or his sexuality,” Erickson wrote (how kind and reasonable—even though that is what he had been relentlessly invoking himself!), “but should be because he masks his far left positions behind a smile.”Another spurious insult. Of all the candidates, Buttigieg, whether you agree with him or not, states his views with sober clarity.On July 27, Erickson tweeted a video clip and article from The Hill, in which Buttigieg opined, utterly calmly: “My generation saw this country elect its first black president and then turn around and elect a racist to the White House and we ought to call that what it is.”Erickson’s tweet read: “Notice how Butter Judge is getting more heated in his rhetoric as he starts getting left behind in the polls.” There is nothing “heated” about Buttigieg’s delivery in the clip; quite the opposite.For many years, and now in the Trump administration with Pence at their vanguard, evangelical Christians have sought to influence anti-LGBT law-making. The Trump administration has, as The Daily Beast has reported, been very receptive to them—President Trump wants the evangelical vote, and for him LGBT people and rights are necessary casualties in securing it.Trump and Pence are fully signed up to the “religious liberty” agenda, which seeks to deny LGBT rights and equality via the weird notion that by according LGBT people equal access in the buying of wedding cakes and other goods and services, this somehow counts as persecution against anti-LGBT Christians who should have every right—by dint of their faith—to discriminate against LGBT people.What seems to upset Erickson and his ilk is that a gay man of faith is calling them out on these hypocritical perversions of faith. And Buttigieg is using his own faith and his beliefs to call them out. Rarely are religious bigots challenged so squarely on their own turf by someone they’re usually so comfortable in condemning. If they bothered listening to Buttigieg, they would realize that he—with an impressive amount of patience and open-heartedness, given the bigotry he has faced from the likes of Erickson—was reminding them what the true meaning of faith and Christianity is.Possibly, this is the first salvo in a wider Republican Party return to the old dirty playbook of using someone’s sexuality against them. But sadly for Erickson and Co., Buttigieg is open not just about who he is but also who he loves. Indeed this openness has been questioned by some LGBT people, who have wondered if Buttigieg is “gay enough.” Perhaps those critics of Buttigieg, when they read the words of authors like Erickson, will realize that now is not the time to fight over slices of liberal-piety cake. The more immediate bogeyman is, sadly, an old and all-too-familiar one: pure and simple prejudice. Pete Buttigieg is the target of those who seek to hurt people, to diminish them, to encourage people not to vote for them, because they are gay. That’s it. This hoary, dusty relic is one apparently we must confront again. You may not want to vote for Buttigieg, you may disagree with him about his policies, you may wish he was “gayer” on and off the debate stage. But he is also a gay man in public life having to put up with crude, homophobic attacks. Hopefully that is “gay enough” to count as a reason to speak up for him—alongside common decency.Read more at The Daily Beast.Got a tip? Send it to The Daily Beast hereGet our top stories in your inbox every day. Sign up now!Daily Beast Membership: Beast Inside goes deeper on the stories that matter to you. Learn more.

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