#abortion documentary

[walterdecourceys]

moderate conservative christian forced to correctly gender a trans person at work and thinks "wow i'm JUST like martin luther"

[thecurvycritic]

Zurawski V Texas Places Women's Healthcare with Courts

Whether you are pro-life or not, we can all agree that men making decisions of women's reproductive rights is not the answer we had hoped for #zurawskivtexas #documentary

Never in my wildest dreams did I think Margaret Atwood’s imagination spelled out in “The Handmaids Tale” would become a grim realty for millions of young girls and women in America when Roe v Wade was overturned.  I remember sobbing and collapsing into my mother’s arms burdened with the fear this was only the beginning of erasing healthcare options for women and that somehow we are taking history…

[byronamartin]

Thrilled that our feature documentary is now available for worldwide audiences.

www.unthinkabledoc.com

[itneverendshere]

LOVED YOU AT YOUR WORST - r.c series - SEVEN

pairings: ex!sweethearts; rafe x thornton!reader; rafe x sofia. chapter warnings: mentions of pregnancy, abortion, alcohol, drug consumption.

MASTERLIST

You never spent much time on The Cut, unless you were being dragged by duty, mostly charity events for the local populations, fundraisers for their schools usually.

You always showed up in something tasteful but subtly expensive—pearls, understated Louboutin heels, and a blazer that whispered wealth without screaming it. 

Your mother taught you that.

Now, you sat in Poguelandia, doing god knows what.

The name alone sounded like some bad beach-themed party game. But you kept the snark to yourself—mostly. Sarah swore to you this was her new "thing," her big redemption arc, and who were you to judge? It wasn’t where you pictured spending any afternoon, yet there you were.

Pregnant. On The Cut. Drinking—well, holding—a very flat ginger ale out of a plastic cup.

You smoothed your dress for the hundredth time, light linen in a neutral tone that looked effortless but cost more than most people’s rent, while pretending not to notice Pope and Cleo staring like you were a rare bird that had wandered into the wrong habitat. 

Were they always this... intense? Did people on this side of the island not know how to look away when someone made eye contact? Your mother’s voice echoed in your head. They’re not staring at you, dear; they’re staring at themselves in relation to you. 

Whatever that meant. 

To their credit, they weren’t mean about it. Just... curious, as if you’d wandered in from a wildlife documentary called Kooks in the Wild.

You moved your weight around in your seat, hyper-aware of every grain of sand sticking to your hérmes sandals. Every time you shifted, you felt the grains grinding between the straps and your skin.

Should’ve worn the espadrilles, you thought ruefully, but even then, this wasn’t the world’s most glamorous venue. Sarah had begged you to stop by, though, and you owed her. It was also good for you to leave the house instead of being cupped up inside all alone.

“Okay, seriously, what’s with the staring? Do I have something on my face? Is my makeup smudged? Be honest.”

Cleo snorted. “No, you’re fine, princess. We’re just surprised to see you.”

You were still holding your sad little plastic cup. “Just thought I’d participate in—whatever this is.” You gestured vaguely at the mismatched chairs and string lights that looked like they’d been stolen from someone’s backyard wedding. “Community service?”

It was supposed to come off as witty. You weren’t sure it did.

Pope choked on his drink—sweet tea? soda?—and Cleo chuckled outright. “You’re funny,” she said, and for a moment, you weren’t sure if she meant it.

“Thanks?” It came out like a question, and you wanted to die just a little bit inside.

Pope grinned, leaning forward with a chip in his hand. “You don’t seem like the kind of person who hangs out in The Cut, that’s all.”

You blinked, feigning shock. “You don’t think I spend my weekends in—what is this, a glorified surf shack? I’m crushed.”

Cleo laughed again, which—fine—made you feel a little better.

“Nah, it’s just... you’re different up close. Not like, scary kook different. Just human. Y’know?”

“Great. That’s exactly what I was going for today.”

Pope gestured to the bar. “You want a snack? Chips? Cookies? We have...three options.”

You straightened, eyes narrowing like a hawk zeroing in on prey.

Food. Your stomach growled loudly, as if it had been cued by a stage director. “What kind of cookies?”

He blinked, not expecting you to care. “Uh... chocolate chip? Maybe oatmeal raisin?”

“And the chips?” You pressed, leaning forward now.

“Salt and vinegar,” Cleo piped up, eyeing you curiously. “Barbecue too, I think. Why?”

“Okay, shit, great.” You clapped your hands together decisively. “I’ll have all of it. All the chips, both kinds of cookies. Do you have anything else? Pretzels? Popcorn? Random condiments? I’m not picky.”

Cleo stared at you, her mouth slightly open. “Everything?”

“Yes, everything. Is that a problem?”

She blinked, her eyes darting to Pope like he had an explanation. He shrugged helplessly.

“Woman” she muttered under her breath. “Did you not eat for a week, or...?”

The salt and vinegar chips were divine, borderline transcendent, as you shoved another handful into your mouth. The truth was, you weren’t just hungry—you were still terrified. Every bite, every easy conversation with other people that weren’t Sarah, was a game of jenga to you. One wrong move, one offhand comment, and your secret could be out in the open.

Six more days until this would all be... over. Until the secret growing inside you—the one you’d barely admitted to yourself most mornings—would be gone.

The past three days had been the best you’d felt in ages, cravings and all, thanks to Sarah. She’d slept over, stayed up late talking with you, making you laugh, distracting you from the endless pit what-ifs and why-mes.

It was the longest you’d gone without crying in three months. The longest you’d lived without feeling like you could suffocate at any given moment. With her help, it had been easier to forget—to pretend that things were still okay.

But Sarah wasn’t there, she’d left earlier with John B, something about helping him with a tour.

“You good, princess?” Cleo’s voice cut through your thoughts.

You blinked at her, realizing you’d been crushing the chip bag in your hands like a stress ball. “What? Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You look like you’re about to fight that bag of chips,” Pope said, grinning.

You forced a laugh, leaning back and tossing the bag onto the table. “No fighting. Just... intense snacking."

You reached for the chocolate chip cookies he had offered earlier, focusing on the sweetness, the comfort of food that tasted good for once. Sweet, crumbly, safe. If only the rest of you life felt like that.

Pope and Cleo knew something was up, they all did, probably.

Sarah had been glued to your side, and it wasn’t exactly subtle.

Her sudden move to “stay over” at your place had obviously raised eyebrows, especially since you two hadn’t had a proper conversation in months before all this. And there was the beach clean-up, Kie and JJ had been there when you felt ill, and while you’d been too disoriented to keep up with the cover story once Rafe drove you away, Sarah had stepped in later to handle it.

Heat exhaustion. Overworked. Totally fine.

Still, to your relief, neither Pope nor Cleo seemed inclined to pry, perhaps it was pity, or maybe they were just decent enough to let you keep the little shred of privacy you had left. Either way, you were grateful.

“So,” Pope said, leaning back on his elbows and flashing you an easy grin, “How are you finding our place? I mean, other than our fine selection of snacks.”

You swallowed a bite of cookie, forcing a smile. “It’s...charming. Rustic. A real je ne sais quoi vibe.” You waved your hand vaguely, trying to mimic the way your mother used to describe terrible restaurants we’d never go back to.

Cleo snorted. “Yeah, that’s one way to put it.”

“It’s cute,” You offered, looking around, “I can tell you guys put your heart into it.”

Pope smirked, lifting a brow. "That's nice of you to say."

You gave a small shrug, feigning nonchalance, but you meant it.

For all the mismatched chairs and questionable decoration, there was something undeniably warm about the place. You weren't used to that—spaces filled with love instead of decorators and florists, it wasn’t bad. Just different.

“I mean it,” you said, brushing crumbs from your lap. “It’s very authentic. ‘Pogue Chic’ or something.”

Cleo laughed, loud and genuine, her grin lighting up her face. “Pogue Chic?"

Pope chimed in, “Hey, don’t knock it. We’re trendsetters. Ahead of its time.”

You smiled, but your mind was already falling back to the sand clinging to your dress and the ginger ale that tasted like disappointment. You’d never say it out loud, but you admired them, that ability to make joy out of scraps. It was something you didn’t quite know how to do. Not yet, anyway.

Cleo leaned forward, her elbows resting on the makeshift table. “So, are we going to see you around more? Or is this just a one-time royal visit?”

You hesitated, twirling the rim of your cup between your fingers. “I don’t know. Maybe. If Sarah keeps dragging me here, I guess I don’t have a choice.”

“You always have a choice.”

You didn't know if it was the way he said it, the tone he used, or just your hormones fucking you up, but suddenly there were tears in your eye sockets. You blinked rapidly, tilting your head back slightly and praying that the tears stayed put.

These kids, all of them, sitting here like they hadn’t spent their lives scraping by, like they hadn’t been hurt or abandoned or let down a hundred times over by people they loved and trusted. Yet somehow, they were still full of hope, full of life.

You envied that.

You wished you could bottle it, whatever it was that kept them laughing and fighting and welcoming someone like you—a result of privilege and mistakes and heartbreak—into their home. It was humbling in a way that made your chest hurt.

“Does that mean I can choose to order better snacks next time? Maybe some sparkling water? Flat ginger ale is a crime against humanity.”

Cleo snorted, still not fooled by your deflection, but she let it slide.

“Good luck with that, princess. Our snack budget’s about three bucks and whatever we can steal from Kie’s pantry.”

Pope chuckled, tossing a chip in his mouth. “And you’re welcome to contribute if you’re so concerned about the menu.”

It surprised you, how easy it was to talk to them.

On paper, you had nothing in common. They were younger, grew up in a completely different world, and you were used to the polished conversations of country club luncheons and charity galas. 

Here, things were different.

They didn’t seem to care if you stumbled over your words, if your jokes were awkward or if you occasionally sounded like a walking trust fund catalog. They didn’t care about your last name, your family’s money, or any other things that had weighed you down for years.

That was disarming.

You’d spent your entire life around people who mirrored your upbringing—kids who summered in the Hamptons or Barbados, adults who measured their worth in stock portfolios and vacation homes. Now, you were here, in this cobbled-together haven with salt-stained cushions, sitting with people who’d grown up struggling for things you took for granted.

You thought it would feel more awkward or forced, but it didn’t.

It was easy.

Pope sat on the counter, gesturing with a half-eaten chip. “Serious question. How do you even survive on Figure Eight? Do they hand you iced lattes and designer handbags when you’re born, or do you have to work your way up to that?”

You raised a brow, smirking. “Oh, absolutely. The moment you’re born, they issue you a monogrammed diaper bag and a gold-plated pacifier. It’s very exclusive.”

Cleo nearly choked on her drink. “See, this is why we can’t take you seriously.”

Your phone buzzed on the table, lighting up with your cousins name, interrupting the fun. You sighed, rolling your eyes before picking it up. “Yes, Top?”

Topper’s slightly whiny tone spilled into your ear. “Can you believe Mom’s threatening to rent out the beach house for the summer? Actual strangers, staying there. What’s next? Turning it into a hostel?”

“Tragic,” you deadpanned, resting your chin in your hand. “Truly, a devastating blow for humanity.”

Pope fake-coughed, mumbling “white rich privilege problems,” while Cleo mouthed, “Hostel!” and shook her head, laughing silently.

“I know. Anyway, I’m coming over later.”

“Where’s your invitation?”

You heard him scoffing, “I’m family, I don’t need one.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, feeling the beginnings of a headache. “Top, you can’t just announce you’re coming over. I might have plans.”

“Yeah, and I’m your family, so those plans now include me,” Topper said, sounding entirely too pleased with himself. “Besides, I’ll bring food.”

Across from you, Pope was already gagging dramatically, holding his stomach as if the mere sound of Topper’s voice made him physically ill. 

“I don’t know if—”

“See you at noon,” he interrupted. “Later!”

The call ended before you could even argue, and you set your phone down with a resigned sigh. 

“Looks like I’m hosting a one-man Topper pity party,” you said, crossing your arms and slumping back in your chair.

Pope clutched his chest. “Will you survive?”

You only left once the sun dipped lower into the horizon, you gathered your things promising Sarah you’d drive safely and talk to her tomorrow.

Cleo, Pope and John B were mid-argument about the best way to fix something in the shack. You felt lighter than you had in weeks.

With a few more quips exchanged and goodbyes said, you walked back to your car. That night, the ache in your chest wasn’t completly unbearable. You weren’t okay, but you weren’t drowning, either.

You’d been terrified of this afternoon all day, worried you’d stick out like a sore thumb or say the wrong thing.

But the Pogues hadn’t cared about your awkwardness, your polished self, or even the giant invisible cloud you carried everywhere these days. They let you just be.

The drive home was quiet, but this time you even hummed along to a song on the radio, which was strange because you couldn’t remember the last time you cared about music or even turning on that thing. When you pulled into the driveway and stepped into your house, it didn’t feel as cold and empty as it did last week.

You set your bag down on the entryway table and kick off your sandals, the floors cool beneath your feet. Heading to the kitchen, you decided to see if there was anything decent for tonight’s impromptu early dinner with Topper. The fridge greeted you with a sad bag of lettuce, half a bottle of sparkling water, and a single container of leftover pasta you weren’t sure was still edible.

“Great,” you muttered, closing the door and moving to the pantry.

The situation there wasn’t much better. Sarah’s latest health-kick contributions—a bag of chia seeds and some organic trail mix—laughed at you from the top shelf. You frowned, pushing them aside to reveal a dusty box of crackers and a jar of Nutella.

“Guess we’re going shopping tomorrow,” you murmured, grabbing the crackers and Nutella to snack on now.

You placed them on the counter and glanced around. The sink held a few dishes from earlier —a couple of coffee mugs, a bowl, a plate.

You sighed, rolling up your sleeves, might as well get this out of the way.

Normally, you’d have had someone else to take care of this—stocking the pantry, cleaning the dishes, even deciding on the menu for your lunches. But lately, you’d been scaling back. You hadn’t let anyone go, of course. You could never do that; the staff had been with your family for years, and many of them felt more like extended family than employees. Still, you’d quietly rearranged their schedules, giving them more time off.

They didn’t question it—probably thought it was some new phase, another eccentricity of a bored, privileged young woman.

Truth was, you liked doing these things.

Focusing on something small, tangible, gave your brain a break from drilling itself into a million dark corners. Folding laundry, washing dishes, even the routine of chopping vegetables—it kept your hands busy and your thoughts manageable enough. It wasn’t that you’d suddenly become a domestic goddess or anything. Most of the time, you’d forget to pick up groceries or burn whatever you tried to cook.

It wasn’t about being good at it. It was about doing something.

You looked around the kitchen, noting the little imperfections you wouldn’t have noticed before. A small water stain on the counter from where your glass had sat too long, the scuff marks on the cabinets where your chair scraped when you leaned back. They weren’t problems to be fixed—they were just signs of life.

And right now at that very moment, life felt…okay.

The house didn’t seem as cold or empty when you were doing things for yourself, even if it was mundane work. You finish up wiping down the counters, glance at the time—definitely cutting it close—and head toward the dining room to tidy up a bit.

Topper was not the type to notice if the place is spotless, but you always liked things to look... presentable, yourself included.

You heard the doorbell ring in the distance, he was early as usual, probably checking his watch just to make sure he wasn't a second late.

"Of course he’s early," you muttered to yourself, a little smirk pulling at your lips.

You walked towards the front door, ready to greet him, but when you opened it, your eyes immediately locked onto the large takeout bag in his hand. It smelled... amazing.

Topper grinned at you, an exaggerated flourish as he held up the bag.

“Guess what I brought?”

“You brought... Korean chicken wings? Really?”

“Hell yeah, I did!” He stepped inside, completely ignoring any formalities and heading straight toward the kitchen, “They just opened.”

He placed the bag on the counter with the confidence of a man who knew he’s just won “Best Dinner Host” without even trying. You peeked inside, the crispy wings drenched in a glossy, sweet-spicy sauce that looked downright delicious.

Topper laughed and took a seat, pulling out the wings, not even bothering with plates. “You’re welcome.”

You rolled your eyes but sat next to him, picking up a wing, the heat of it still making your fingers tingle. The crispy exterior cracked open with a satisfying crunch as you bit into it. It was everything you'd hoped for—tangy, spicy, perfectly cooked. You nearly moaned in pleasure, not even caring that your cousin was watching you with that cocky grin on his face.

“You look like you’ve seen the light,” He teased, leaning back in his chair as he grabbed a wing of his own.

“I mean,” you said, savoring another bite, “this might make up for you barging in uninvited.”

“Barging?” He clutched his chest dramatically, mock offense radiating from every inch of him. “I'm saving you from a night of sad dinners, and this is the thanks I get?”

You gave him a pointed look, but the corner of your mouth tugged upward despite yourself.

“Fine. Thank you, Topper. You’re the hero of the day. Happy now?”

“Ecstatic,” he said, grinning as he reached for another wing. “What’s new? Still slumming it with my ex and the Pogues?”

“First of all,” you said, wiping your fingers on a napkin, “slumming it implies I’m suffering, which I’m not. And second, Sarah’s not a pogue. She’s pogue-adjacent.”

“Pogue-adjacent?” He snorted. “You’ve been spending too much time over there.”

“Like you’re one to talk,” you shot back. “You basically live at Kildare Brewing these days. That’s like, one pogue away from full assimilation.”

He opened his mouth to argue but then stopped, realizing you had a point. “Okay, fair. But only because they have good beer."

You hesitated for a moment, unsure if you should even bring it up, but curiosity got the better of you. You hadn’t heard about her in a while, and you knew by experience, that was never a good thing.

“So... Ruthie,” you started, watching him over the rim of your glass as you took a sip.

Topper paused mid-chew, looking up at you like he wasn’t sure he wanted to have this conversation. “What about her?”

“I mean, you two are still together, aren’t you?”

He wiped his hands on a napkin. “We’re… not talking right now.”

You tried not to look pleased, but a rush of vindication bloomed in your chest. You'd grown to hate her, plain and simple. Her recent proximity to your cousin had always baffled you. He wasn’t perfect, but surely, he could do better. 

“I’m surprised.”

“Yeah, well,” he muttered, reaching for another wing. But then he stopped, like whatever he was thinking was messing with his head.

“What happened?” You asked, trying to sound more curious, concerned, than nosy.

You weren’t sure if he’d tell you, but the look on his face made it clear something big had gone down.

He hesitated, debating whether to answer. Finally, he sighed. “She... started a rumor about you.”

Your head jerked back in surprise. “About me?”

“Yeah,” he grimaced like he’d swallowed something sour. “She said you passed out at the beach cleanup and decided to spread some bullshit about you doing drugs.”

You just stared at him. “She what?”

You weren’t sure why you were so surprised.

You knew what she was capable better than anyone, especially when she was bored out of her mind.

“I didn’t believe it,” he added quickly, his tone defensive, as if that made it better. “I told her to shut the fuck up about it, but you know how she is. She thought it was funny.”

“Funny?” Your voice was sharp now, “She thought it was funny to spread lies about me? About drugs? What the fuck?”

“Yeah, it’s so messed up. That’s why I’m not talking to her. I told her if she couldn’t act like a fucking decent human being, we were done.”

You blinked, stunned.

You weren’t sure what shocked you more—the fact that Ruthie had stooped so low or that Topper had finally stood up to her. You shook your head, biting back another nasty comment about how awful she was. You’d been saying it for months, and he hadn’t listened.

No point in beating a dead horse now.

“It’s about time you saw what she’s really like. She’s really bad fuckin’ news, Top. Always has been.”

He gave a low grunt, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the counter. “Yeah. Took me long enough, huh?”

You didn’t answer, just raised an eyebrow and sipped your water.

“She’s always been weird about Sarah,” Topper muttered, almost to himself. “Even when we were together, she’d find these ways to dig at her. Like that one time at Midsummers—”

“—When she ‘accidentally’ spilled her drink on Sarah’s dress,” you finished, rolling your eyes. “Yeah, I remember. She’s always had this thing about trying to one-up her. Honestly, it’s so pathetic. But you never listen to me, so.”

“Okay, ouch.” He threw a crumpled napkin at you, which you easily dodged. “I listen to you sometimes.”

“Do you, though?” You gave him a pointed look.

“Yeah, I do!” Topper protested, though the whine in his voice made him sound more like the teenager he used to be, back when he’d follow you around during family holidays like a puppy. “Just… selectively.”

“Selective listening isn’t listening, dumbass. You’re just proving my point.”

He narrowed his eyes at you but didn’t answer, reaching for another wing instead. He took a bite, chewing dramatically, as if the exaggerated crunch would somehow end the conversation.

“Look, I’ve been saying for months that Ruthie’s bad news. Since she showed up at last year’s Christmas party wearing a dress identical to Sarah’s, just in a different color. You thought that was a coincidence?”

Topper groaned, dropping the wing. “Okay, fine, you’re right. Are you happy now? Can you stop rubbing it in?”

You grinned, propping your chin on your hand.

“Oh, I could. But what kind of older cousin would I be if I didn’t remind you how often you’re wrong?”

“You’re not that much older than me.”

You shrugged. “Old enough to know better than to date someone that awful.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re a genius. I get it.” He looked over at you again, his gaze softer, this time, “But seriously, you’ve been off lately. If there’s something going on, you can tell me, y’know? We’re family, even if I don’t listen to you half the time,” he added with a small smile, though his eyes were searching, hoping you’d let him in.

It would be so easy to tell him the truth—that you were pregnant, scheduled for an abortion in six days, and drowning in uncertainty and dread.

But he was still Rafe’s best friend, and the risk of this ever reaching him was too high. Instead, you forced a lightness into your voice.

“Nothing I can’t handle. And right now, I desperately need the bathroom.”

He looked at you skeptically, not fooled for a second.

“You’re really okay?” he pressed, his voice dropping to a level that told you he wasn’t going to let this go easily, "I texted and called before, you didn't answer. Thought you were resting from the scare."

You’d been having such a calm, easy time with Sarah, you almost forgot about everything else. The thought of picking up the phone, letting all that anxiety and worry back in, just wasn’t appealing—so you’d ignored his calls, but not on purpose. You were doing him a favor.

You plastered on a smile and gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder as you passed. “I promise, I’m fine. Just felt a little light-headed and needed some peace."

His eyes narrowed slightly, unconvinced. “That’s all?”

You forced a giggle, hoping it would sound more genuine than it felt. “Yes, Dr. Thornton. Just needed to eat more or drink water or whatever the fuck it is you’re always telling me to do.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, crossing his arms, watching you closely. “Because you’ve never just fainted before.”

“I guess there’s a first time for everything. Besides, don’t you think I’d tell you if something serious was wrong?”

It took everything to maintain eye contact, your stomach twisting at the lie. He was family, and you wanted to trust him, to let him help you. But you couldn’t. He hadn’t even told you about Rafe and Sofia until you found out by yourself. 

Topper tilted his head, considering you, then sighed and gave a reluctant nod. “Alright, fine.”

“Okay, if you’re done being weird,” You pushed back from the counter, grabbing your glass. “I gotta pee,” you announced casually, as if this was the most normal interjection in the world. The wings were good, but running away was tempting. And also, the pregnancy had made your bladder a ticking time bomb, and you really didn’t want to risk any accidents. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

You offered him one last smile, hoping it was convincing enough. He whined some sarcastic comment about your water consumption as you hurried away, but you barely heard him.

All you thought about was the blessed relief that awaited on the other side of that door.

You didn’t usually spend this much time with Top nowadays—your own tendency to avoid “close” family drama—but tonight had been oddly… nice.

Even if you wanted to wrap your hands around his neck half the time. Even if you hated lying to him. If he’d just pushed a little harder, maybe you would’ve folded, let it all spill right there in the kitchen.

Every time you thought you’d come to a decision, another doubt would take over you, leaving you back at square one. You knew what you wanted, so why was this so hard? 

Topper had looked at you with such genuine concern back there. The “if you need me, I’m here” sentiment was the same one you’d grown up with, the kind of care only a cousin, practically a sibling, could have.

This was hard.

When you came back into the kitchen after taking your sweet time in the bathroom you immediately noticed something was off.

Topper was by the counter, staring at the half-eaten pile of wings by the table like they’d personally offended him. He looked paler, too—almost like he’d seen a ghost.

“Uh…” You stopped mid-step, furrowing your brow. “What’s with the stupid face? Did the wings betray you or something?”

He jolted slightly, as if he hadn’t even heard you come in. “What? No. No, the wings are fine. Great. Amazing, even.”

“Okay…” You gave him a skeptical look, setting your glass down and crossing your arms. 

Topper laughed, but it was this oddly nervous, stilted sound. He glanced at his phone, tapping the screen for no real reason, then shoved it into his pocket.

“You know what, though? I totally forgot—I have something planned. Like, super important. In about… ten minutes.”

You stared at him, unimpressed. “You forgot you had plans? Sounds fake, but okay.”

“So unlike me!” He got up from his chair with such sudden energy that it made you take a step back. “Anyway, I should really get going. Don’t want to be late. Uh, thanks for… hanging out. And for, uh, letting me use your wings as a form of therapy. Yeah. Later!”

And with that, he was sprinting for the door.

“Topper!” you called after him, confused and mildly annoyed. “What the hell is going on? You’re acting fuckin’ weird!”

“Nope, not weird! Just busy!” he shot back over his shoulder, not even looking at you as he opened the door.

You didn’t have time to yell at him before he disappeared out the door, the sound of his Jeep starting up echoing from the driveway a moment later. You stood there bewildered, staring at the now-empty doorway.

Something was definitely up. He was many things—dramatic, stubborn, occasionally insufferable—but shifty wasn’t usually one of them.

You went back to the kitchen, glancing at the counter, ready to brush off his weird exit as just another of his dramatics, when your eyes landed on a random envelope— the one you’d been using to scribble down everything lately. 

Extra small grocery lists, reminders, and, unfortunately, the number for the abortion clinic.

Rafe’s fingers curled loosely around the tumbler of bourbon, eyes set on nothing in particular. The lunch rush was winding down, country club regulars filing out.

He’d been there for over an hour—first, the meeting, listening to those finance guys ramble on about numbers, projections, all that bullshit he usually liked to hear. 

He’d faked his interest well enough, but his mind had been miles away. Mostly thinking about you. And the company, of course, because that was his priority right now. Or, it should be.

The whole thing with you, three days ago, it was a slow-mind-burning headache he couldn’t ignore, even if he wanted to. And he had wanted to, tried to, in fact.

He took another slow sip, hardly tasting the bourbon. Across the room, Sofia was working between tables, balancing trays and forcing her best country club smile.

All he saw when he looked at her was you, it only made him force down another swallow, running his thumb over the rim of the glass, mind somewhere between the company projections and the mess he’d made of things with you. 

It was ridiculous that you were still in his head. He should be thinking about that deal, about locking down his place in the Cameron empire. 

Rafe pushed the glass aside, signaling for the check when something caught his ear—a conversation from a nearby table.

“Yeah, she actually passed out the other day. Pathetic.” The voice was loud, sneering.

A dude’s voice followed, fake sympathy dripping from his tone. “I heard she was a fuckin’ mess after the whole breakup.”

“Oh, totally.” A different girl laughed, high-pitched and cruel. “She’s probably on something. Can you blame her? I’d be desperate too if he dumped me.”

It didn’t take a fucking genius to know who they were talking about. Small town and all, of course, things got around, mostly turning into half-truths and petty rumors.

He stopped all his movements, jaw clenching. His fingers tightened around the edge of the table, the only thing keeping him from breaking something, preferably bones.

They were talking about you. 

About some made-up version of you, the fact that these spoiled, airheaded brats thought they could shit talk about you like that, rip you apart for fun just because you weren’t there to defend yourself made him sick.

He pushed his chair back and stood, crossing the room with long strides. He didn’t care about the eyes following him as he walked up to their table, the laughter stopping the moment they looked up and saw the look on his face.

“What did you just say?”

The girl who’d been laughing, a petite brunette with too much makeup and a self-satisfied smirk, blinked up at him, her smile faltering.

“Oh, Rafe! We didn’t see you there. We were just…joking around,” she stammered, trying to backpedal.

“Joking?” He laughed, the sound making them flinch. “That what you call it? Spreading some bullshit rumor because it’s all your pathetic little lives have to offer?”

The brunette’s face went red. “I mean, we all heard about it. I’m just saying what everyone’s already thinking—”

His fists clenched and his patience, already thin, snapped the second he heard the guy—one of those trust fund preps with an overdone tan and a too-tight polo—chime in.

“Oh, come on, dude,” the guy smirked, leaning back in his chair, feigning nonchalance. “It’s not like she’s worth all that trouble, is she?”

His entire body went rigid, and before he registered it, he was leaning down, letting them feel the weight of his glare.

“Say that shit again,” Rafe taunted him, something almost amused twisting at the edge of his mouth, daring him to keep talking. “I’d love to hear you repeat yourself.”

“Relax, man—”

He didn’t even let him finish, eyes narrowed, his voice dropping to a near whisper, more dangerous than shouting ever could be.

“You think it’s funny? Talking about someone who’s not even here to defend herself?”

The guy’s face paled, and Rafe swore he was seconds away from landing a punch, from wiping that smug grin off his face. Just as he prepared his fist, ready to make good on his threat, he felt a hand on his arm, a small, insistent tug. 

“Rafe,” a soft voice hissed. Sofia. He barely glanced at her, shrugging off her grip.

“Don’t,” he snapped, his voice sharp, dismissive.

He kept his eyes on the guy, who looked more uncomfortable by the second, squirming in his seat.

Sofia’s hand still hovering near his arm, cautious now. “Rafe, come on, this isn’t worth it. You’re better than this.”

She looked scared. Scared of him, scared of the situation. He wasn’t better than this.

He’d never been, and he’d been good enough at lying and pretending for her even to think that.

You would’ve known better.

Fuck, you wouldn’t have wasted time talking.

You would’ve yanked him back by his collar, shoved yourself between him and the guy, shot him that warning glare, daring him to keep pushing you so you’d have to drag him out by force. You always knew when he’d get like this, that edge in his voice, that look in his eye that told you he was seconds away from snapping. You knew better than anyone how to pull him back when he hit that switch.

But you’d never bothered with gentle.

Sofia’s eyes darted around the room, clearly embarrassed, maybe even afraid of drawing attention. He knew this wasn’t fair to her, that she hadn’t signed up for this part of him—the anger, the unpredictability. It wasn’t in his nature to stay silent, to ignore things and walk away. 

He could almost see it—feel it, like a familiar bruise under his skin. You’d shove him hard enough that he’d stumble back, half-pissed and half-shocked. You’d get in his face, not even close to scared, cutting through his spiral. “What the hell is wrong with you, Rafe? You wanna end up in jail over some loser? Grow up.”

If you’d been here, you wouldn’t have given him a choice. You’d have grabbed his arm and dragged him away, kept a grip on him until he’d snapped out of whatever dark place he’d dropped into. You’d push him until he finally let go, forced him to come down from that blinding fury and face the mess he’d just caused. It was the only way he’d ever been able to listen—when you pushed him to wake up, forced him to look at himself and see just how reckless, just how stupid he was about to be.

But Sofia? She had no idea. 

She thought saying “you’re better than this” was going to do anything, that with a light touch and some empty words, he’d suddenly be calm, reasonable, soft. 

But he’d never been that way, never with you, never with anyone.

She hadn’t done anything wrong; she’d just seen the version of him he’d wanted her to see. The version he’d put together, patched up and polished, all so he could convince himself he was something he wasn’t.

With her, it was easy to pretend. He could smooth his sharp edges, show her just enough of himself to keep her interested without letting her close enough to see the mess underneath.

He’d let her believe he was the kind of guy who could just calm down, let things slide. The kind of guy who’d listen. He’d wanted her to believe he was controlled, calm. Sofia’s softness had appealed to him, but now, it only highlighted the differences between them.

With you, he’d never had the luxury of pretending.

You’d seen through him from the start, never let him get away with putting on some act.

You hadn’t let him pretend to be better than he was, hadn’t let him off easy when he’d tried to brush things off or shut down. You knew every side of him, even the ones he’d rather ignore. You’d always known exactly who he was, who he wasn’t, and you’d never been afraid to remind him.

He didn’t want to let it go, didn’t want to give the guy an inch of leeway to think he’d won this. Rafe sighed and released his grip, his hand falling from the table as he finally stepped back. Sofia relaxed, giving him a relieved smile, but it only made him feel emptier. 

“You talk about her again and I’ll fucking kill you, you hear me?” 

The guy sputtered, looking down, embarrassed and shaken. He muttered something under his breath that sounded like an apology, but Rafe didn’t care enough to hear it.

Sofia’s hand was still on his tail when he left, and as soon as he walked out of earshot of the table, she followed him, crossing her arms. Her eyes narrowed with an expression he’d never seen from her —disbelief. 

“What was that?”

Everything.

Rafe didn’t speak. He was staring past her, back at the group, mind far from the confrontation and miles away with thoughts of you. She seemed to notice, her lips pressing together.

“I can’t believe you did that. You threatened to kill him, Rafe. Over what, a stupid rumor?”

A stupid rumor? She was making him feel like he was out of control, irrational—even though he couldn’t explain why this mattered so much.

“You wouldn’t get it. It’s not your problem.”

She flinched a little, her face falling, but to her credit, she didn’t look away. “You’re right. I don’t get it. Tell me.”

He wanted to believe that it could work with Sofia.

Nice girl, pretty too. She laughed at his jokes, and she didn’t call him out on his bullshit, because she didn’t even know that side of him existed. On paper, she was perfect. But she wasn't you.

He looked back at her, her worried eyes scanning his face.

It was frustrating—seeing the fear, feeling her judgment when she didn’t even know what she was judging.

To her, this was just some meaningless outburst, something he could turn on and off at will. This wasn’t her fault. He knew that. He hated how this wasn’t something he couldn't put into words, not in any way that would make sense to her.

“Forget it, alright?” his tone was harsher than he meant.

Sofia shook her head, clearly not willing to let it drop this time.

“Why would you get so worked up over something like this?"

To her, that’s all this was—just noise, harmless, inconsequential. 

She looked up at him expectantly, her brows furrowed in confusion, waiting for some reasonable answer.

And it pissed him off, how she kept waiting, expecting him to offer some calm, measured response when he didn’t even understand it himself.

Sofia’s eyes softened, but it only irritated him further.

“She’s nice,” Her words drifted out casually like she didn’t know she’d just cracked him open. “She defended me, last week, when I was serving brunch.”

He couldn’t stop the self-loathing.

You had always been that way—ready to defend anyone, even when you were the one hurting. Rafe winced, hating himself for it, hating that you could still be so good even after everything. He swallowed hard, keeping his expression blank.

“Did she?” he muttered, trying to sound indifferent.

“Yeah,” Sofia replied, watching his reaction with mild curiosity. “Guess I wouldn’t have expected that.”

Rafe’s jaw clenched, that familiar hurt in his chest.

His mind was already conjuring all the times you’d jumped in, backed people up, and called out anyone who crossed a line. Even when it came to people you barely knew.

It made him feel like the worst person in the world, knowing that you’d been there for Sofia of all people, that you’d shown her that same loyalty. It made him hate himself even more.

His phone buzzed, saving him from the inevitable conversation, his hand brushed the side of his face as he glanced down at the unknown number flashing across the screen. He didn’t hesitate, before swiping the answer button.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Cameron, this is Dr. Harris from the hospital,” the voice on the other end said. “We’ve been trying to reach Miss Thornton about the blood work results from her visit three days ago. Unfortunately, there’s been an issue with our system and a few patient’s data has been deleted, except for the emergency contact information.”

Rafe’s stomach dropped.

He was still your emergency contact, not by choice probably. The hospital was calling about your blood work.

Was something wrong?

His blood ran cold. “Is she okay? Did something happen?” The urgency in his tone made Sofia’s eyes widen again, her confusion growing.

“We’re concerned about a possible infection. We need to run more tests to rule it out, but the symptoms suggest it could be more complicated. We must check thoroughly to be sure.”

“An infection?”

“Yes, but it could be nothing serious. We just need her to come in as soon as possible for a follow-up,” Dr. Harris explained.

There was a pause as if he expected Rafe to say something reassuring or offer to pass on the message. 

Sofia’s brows knitted together as she watched him. “Rafe?” 

“I’ll tell her,” he said, the words cracked in his throat. The doctor thanked him and hung up.

He stared at the phone waiting for it to ring again with more news, a reassurance that this wasn’t as serious as it sounded. 

You probably hadn’t changed your emergency contact because it slipped your mind.

He couldn’t stand the idea that something could be wrong, and he was not the one you called when you needed someone. All he’d ever done was mess things up between you.

“What’s going on?”

How the fuck was he going to tell you when you'd blocked him everywhere?

He couldn’t call, couldn’t text, couldn’t even show up unannounced without risking the usual argument that would end with you screaming at him to get out, or worse, you looking at him with that unforgiving stare.

He knew you’d locked every door, bolted every window to keep him out, and he deserved it. 

“It’s nothing,” he said, the lie slipping out automatically. He could feel her studying him, waiting for another explanation he also didn’t have the patience to give.

Maybe Topper could help.

The irony wasn’t lost on him—he’d given your cousin the mission of checking in on you, playing the careful messenger while Rafe kept his distance. That was supposed to be him.

But the reality was you hated him now, hated him enough that Topper was a safer option and yet, the private information still landed on his lap. As if he still had the right to be in your orbit, let alone the person trusted with this kind of news.

It felt wrong.

He knew you were going to hate him even more for still having access to your private details. It wasn’t really his fault—the hospital called him. He should have hung up the moment the hospital mentioned your name, told them they had the wrong guy. But he didn’t. He listened. 

“If you need to go—” she started, trailing off when he didn’t answer. Her voice softened, tentative. “It’s about her, isn’t it?”

Rafe’s jaw ticked, and he looked away, out at the horizon where the sun was setting.  “Yeah,” he muttered, not bothering to lie this time.

His thumbs hovered over the keyboard. He typed something out, then deleted it, then typed again.

Finally, he just went with the simplest thing he could think of and hit send.

Can we meet up? Tannyhill in 30. I think I know what’s wrong.

He half-expected some lame excuse or joke from Topper. Instead, the text he got made the deep lines across his forehead make an appearance.

Shit, you do???

Did the fucker already know?

Did he suspect? Or was this just the kind of baited question someone asked when they thought they were the last to know something big?

He frowned, gripping the phone tighter.

If Topper did know, why hadn’t he said anything?

TAGLIST: @maybankslover @october-baby25 @haruvalentine4321 @hopelesslydevoted2paige

@rafebb @rafesbby @whytheylosttheirminds

@zyafics @astarlights @bruher @nosebeers @carrerascameron

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@stoned-writer @justafangirls-blog-deactivated2

@starkeygirlposts @enjoymyloves @ijustwanttoreadlols @icaqttt

[nevermind-i-forgot-whats-that]

Sometimes, as much as I love internet communities and spaces, I really think a lot of people have spent so much time in sanitized, morally pure echo chambers that they lose sight of realism and life outside the internet.

I live in Alabama. My fiancée and I cannot hold hands down the street without fear of homophobic assholes. We have an abortion ban with no exceptions for rape or incest. We are one of the poorest states in the US with some of the lowest scores on metrics related to quality of life, including maternal mortality, healthcare, education, and violence. It’s not a coincidence that we are also one of the most red, one of the most Republican states in the Union. In 2017 the UN said the conditions in Alabama are similar to those in a third-world country.

Trump gave a voice to the most violently racist, sexist, xenophobic groups of people who, unfortunately for most of us in the Southern U.S., run our states and have only grown more powerful since his rise to power. The Deep South powers MAGA, and we all suffer for it.

We have no protections if they don’t come from the federal government.

I know people are suffering internationally and my heart is with them. However, this election is not just about foreign policy - we have millions of Americans right here at home living in danger, living in areas where they have been completely abandoned by their local leaders. We need this win.

No candidate is perfect, but for the first time in my voting lifetime I’m excited to vote. I’m excited for the Kamala Harris/Tim Walz ticket because they are addressing the issues close to home. They’re advocating for education as the ticket to a better life, but without the crippling student debt. They’re advocating for the right to love who you love without fear and with pride. Kamala has always been pro-LGBT+ and so has Tim. Again, if you’re queer in the South, we don’t have support unless it comes from the federal government, and we absolutely will not have support if the Republicans regain the White House.

Kamala speaks in length about re-entry programs to reduce recidivism and help people who have been arrested and imprisoned regain their lives. Tim Walz supported restoring voting rights to felons. In the South, you know who comprise the majority of felons? Members of minorities. It’s one of the major tools of systemic racism and mass disenfranchisement, and arguably the modern face of slavery (there are some fantastic documentaries and books that explain the connection between the post-Reconstruction South and the disproportionate rates of imprisonment for BIPOC). Having candidates who recognize this and want to restore the freedom and rights to people who have come into contact with the criminal justice system? And keep them from having to go to prison in the first place? That’s refreshing. That’s exciting.

I would *love* to live in a country where women’s rights are respected, where LGBT+ rights and protections are a given, where we treat former criminals and individuals experiencing mental health crises with respect and dignity. I would *love* to live in a country where education is free of religious interference and each and every citizen is entitled to a fair start and equal opportunities.

But I don’t live in that country. Millions and millions of Americans find their rights and freedoms up for debate and on the ballot.

Project 2025 poses the largest threat to the future of our democracy as we know it. We are being called to fight for the future of our country.

We have to put on our oxygen masks first before we can help others.

You don’t have moral purity when you wash your hands of the millions of us who are still fighting for own freedoms right here.

The reality is that a presidential candidate is a best fit, and not a perfect fit. But comparatively speaking? Kamala is pretty damn close.

[crookedfandomquill]

This is very situational, and sadly may not be realistic for everyone, but I need y’all to understand that a very important part of political activism is fucking talking to your conservative or moderate friends and family.

My dad voted for Trump in 2016. He’s a middle class white evangelical from Arkansas. He raised me with conservative Christian values, just like his parents raised him. When he voted Trump, he was holding his nose, but he didn’t feel too bad about it, and went on to vote red down the ticket in the 2018 midterms, as well.

But I started college in 2017. Higher education and independence changed everything for me, and I went home over holidays and summers with fire in my belly and a thousand arguments ready at the drop of a hat, to my father’s dismay.

I remember crying in my room after emotional, intense arguments with him. I told him over and over that I felt betrayed by his choice to vote for a man who admitted to sexually assaulting women, who built his platform on dehumanizing immigrants and the disabled, who spread overtly-racist rhetoric, who flouted the values of kindness and self-discipline that I’d been raised on. And my dad always had some justification about the “greater good”: fighting against abortion, bolstering the economy, getting other Christian politicians into office.

But over time, as we grew further apart and I lost my will to discuss anything with him at all, he softened. He started asking me why I thought the way I did about the things we disagreed about. He would listen to my answers without interruption, and mull them over afterward instead of expressing his own opinion. And all the while, he watched the Trump presidency become cruel and absurd and devastating.

The first time he openly expressed regret to me, I had come home for a weekend after Kavanaugh was confirmed to SCOTUS. My dad realized he had helped elect a man who preyed on women… and that man had opened the door to more predators. I can’t tell you what it felt like for him to admit that he’d made a mistake, not just in voting for Trump but in defending him for so long. We kept arguing, but it was more debating than fighting. I knew he was capable of seeing my side of things, even if it took a while, and he knew I wasn’t just a sensitive college student with shallow new ideas about the world.

And then 2020 hit. Specifically, George Floyd was murdered, and the events that followed played out on the national stage. My dad was incredibly shaken by it. He asked me if I had any books from college about racial issues. I loaned him The New Jim Crow, one of the required readings for my Race and the Law class. Then I gave him Just Mercy. Then he watched the documentary 13th. Then he joined a racial harmony group he learned about through one of the few Black families at our church and insisted our whole family come. He held up signs at a protest against Confederate monuments in our conservative southern town. In three years, he went from defending Trump’s comments about “Black-on-Black crime” to publicly advocating for racial justice and opposing the death penalty.

We went together to vote in the 2020 primaries. I couldn’t help asking who he’d voted for; I didn’t even know if he’d asked for the Republican or Democratic ticket. He admitted he’d voted for Bernie. fucking. Sanders, then made me promise not to tell my grandma he’d voted liberal. When the election rolled around in November, he voted Biden. I’m sure he held his nose to do it, just like he held his nose voting in 2016. But I know he doesn’t regret it.

I am, of course, unbelievably lucky to have a parent who loved me enough, and was empathetic enough, to choose his relationship with me over his strongly-held opinions. He kept searching for truth because, as much as he’ll deny it, he’s a very smart and curious person. No degree of intelligence or curiosity makes you immune to propaganda, especially if you were raised not to question the party line. It’s easy to dismiss our conservative, conspiracy-pilled loved ones as stupid, hypocritical, and cruel. Sometimes they are. But sometimes they aren’t. Sometimes they will bend to keep their relationships from breaking. Sometimes, if they can be made to understand that their beliefs and actions are harming someone they love, they will make concessions. And sometimes they just need one person in their life to put a foot down, to be vulnerable and assertive and argumentative, to bring the impact of their politics close to home.

As the most important election of our lifetimes approaches, do not put peace over progress. If you have someone like my dad, someone who is good-willed and smart and loves you more than their own opinions, tell them how you feel. Tell them what their choices will mean for you, for your friends, for your community. Tell them what they could lose: your trust, your affection, your respect. Don’t avoid conflict if it could be productive. Because my conflict with my dad didn’t just win him over–it won over my moderate mom and one of my conservative brothers. And it put us in community with other like-minded people and led my parents to a healthier and kinder faith.

All of this to say, there is hope in conflict. There is hope in our relationships with people who think differently from us. There is hope in exposing your fear and anger and pain to people you love. And hope is a form of activism.

[starr-angelofnarnia]

I'm starting to wean off my hyperfixation on this topic, but I wanted to write one last [essay?] on my final thoughts.

So after finishing the 5 part series on HBO, I started watching all the other documentaries HBO had on the topic as well as documentaries I found on YouTube and reaction videos. While many praise how the content was presented, there were two main criticisms: the reactions were exaggerated to an realistic level and the series tried to place all the blame on one individual.

I understand the critique (well, only the first), but I disagree. Was the disaster exaggerated? Um... maybe? But that's the thing. It doesn't really matter for a couple of reasons. A) the average viewer has the knowledge of nuclear energy equivalent to Homer Simpson. Okay, maybe not. It's complex science to most of us. Like the metaphor, it's not rocket science? Replace rocket science with nuclear science and you have the same thing. Exaggerations of the numbers are going to go over most people's heads. The important part of the messages where these over exaggerations are found is, "we have a problem, it's too big hide, this is going to get exponentially dangerous if we don't do something now." And that message came across loud and clear. B) The reactions portrayed in the film may seem exaggerated by our standards TODAY, but in the late 80s, it wasn't. The USRR took extreme measures after the incident, out of precaution or to control, I can't say. But they did do a lot of things shown in the series. Some scenes in the series mimic actual footage almost perfectly.

The second criticism, that the series pins all the blame on one person, just doesn't make sense to me at all. Did we watch the same show? From my perspective that was the ENTIRE point of the final episode. The conflict of the final episode was that Legovsy had to make a choice between protecting his best interest and blaming the three on trial or revealing the truth. And he did explain what happened during the accident from morning before and up to the time immediately after. He DID conclude that the three on the stand made a dumb mistake for stupid reasons. BUT, he also pointed out that there was no way for those three to know the danger of their actions because the government had concealed a known flaw. He said this in the trial scene. When he does, it causes a ruckus. He gets thrown into a jail cell. The head of the KGB tells him that rather than killing him over this, they're stripping him of all his accolades, to make him suffer. Because he outed the supposedly infallible government. Yes, the three employees F'd up but they did so because the government hid crucial information from them.

Anyway, those are my thoughts on the criticisms.

The only other thing I wanted to point out that shook me was the response to pregnancy. While the US is increasingly pushing to ban abortion, I'm watching these documentaries where abortion was mandated for pregnant women. Pregnant women were being held prisoner in hospitals, arrested out in the streets, because the fetus might be contaminated with radioactivity. It's control.

I watched the HBO Chernobyl docudrama with my husband. And I don't think I'm ever going to emotionally recover.

I did have to watch with an episode summary because violence and gore is a trigger for me, so I needed to have an idea of what would happen before it happened. But just. It's horrifying. Especially knowing how little of the series was fictionalized. The consequences of it.

But what's horrifying is that the behaviors that caused the disaster still happen. Disregarding safety protocol. Putting people in charge who have no knowledge of what they are in charge of. Cutting costs at the expense of safety. Treating everything as a need to know basis.

Secrecy, lies, profits over people, government corruption are all dangerous.

The only thing that was weird to me was Ulana Khomyuk. She was a fictional character, meant to represent all the scientists who helped get the disaster under control. Which is fine, I get the point. But making the composite character a woman to add sexual tension to the film (between her and a real life person with a tragic end), was a little tasteless. But I don't think the entertainment industry knows how to tell a story, real or fiction, without having some sort of romantic twist.

But I also keep thinking if Trump is reelected, this is the type of government we could be headed for. Sorry for making it political, but like. If Russia is still the way it was in 86 as USRR, who's to say the US couldn't become that.

[omgthatdress]

In the immense social upheaval following World War I, Berlin emerged as the global hub for gay life and gay art. In 1921, Berlin was home to 40 documented meeting places for gay people. By 1925, that number had jumped to 80.

Cheif among these hotspots was the cabaret Eldorado, whose drag pageants and performances were immortalized by the likes of artists such as Otto Dix. In 2023, Netflix released a documentary about the club, Eldorado: Everything the Nazis Hate.

At the center of the movement for gay rights was Dr. Magnus Hirschfeld and his Institut für Sexualwissenschaft.

Ins 1896 Hirschfeld was operating as a regular physician, when he received a note from a soldier who was engaged to be married. The soldier was suicidally depressed because he could not get over his attraction to men, and was desperate to be cured of it. Being gay himself, Hirschfeld related tremendously to the soldier, and was spurred begin studying homosexuality in a scientific manner.

He was led to the conclusion that homosexuality was a natural occurrence that happened the world over. More importantly, he argued that homosexuality was not immoral and that homosexuals should be free to live and love as they pleased.

Hirschfeld was also the first scientist to recognize and study what we'd call transgenderism today, and was the person who coined the term "transvestite."

(Dr. Magnus Hirschfeld, 2nd from right)

Das Institut acted as both a medical clinic and a center of education. Members of the public could come and be informed on the mechanics of how sex worked as well as receiving non-judgemental medical care for STIs and other sexual conditions. Women could receive information about safe abortion. It was also one of the first places where trans people could come and receive hormone treatment and information about gender-reassignment surgery.

Then, in 1933, with the appointment of Adolf Hitler as chancellor, everything changed.

Queer lives were officially deemed not worth living, and public queer places became the chief target of Nazi persecution. The voluminous libraries of Das Institut were raided and then burned, destroying so much early queer history and science that was irreplaceable.

Dr. Hirschfeld managed to escape Germany and died in France in 1935. Queer people who were not lucky enough to leave to the country were arrested and sent to die in concentration camps.

The lessons of Weimar Berlin are painfully pertinent today. Progress can be destroyed faster than it gets made. Rights are not guaranteed and must always be fought for. The past cannot be allowed to happen again.

By which I mean, for the love of all that is holy, if you want to continue to have any rights at all, pleasepleaseplease vote for Joe Biden on November 5th. Don't not vote in protest. Don't vote 3rd party. If Donald Trump is re-elected this WILL happen again. Just imagine your favorite local queer hang-out being shut down with "Make America Great Again" signs in the window, and vote to stop it.

[untilmynextstory]

sugar on the rim | stripper!honey summary: pope didn't really want to go to a strip club for his birthday, but maybe it's not so bad when he receives a private dance by the headliner, Honey.

CLOSER chapter summary: Pope meets the woman who raised Honey. warnings: mentioned drug abuse, teen pregnancy, child abandonment, mention of abortion

companion piece: t-shirt

In the two months Honey and Pope have been together, Honey wonders if they are moving fast. After their first night together, Pope's things had already begun migrating to her place. 

He had his own toothbrush and body wash, and the kitchen stocked his favorite drinks and snacks. There was also space for his clothes and shoes. 

He was at her place more often than not. They shared meals, he would handle household maintenance, and she even found out he went and paid her landlord the rest of her rent for the year. He always took her to work and picked her up. If he couldn't, it was because of a job, and he constantly texted her to ensure she got home safe. 

It is rare for Honey to sleep alone these days. And it seems her body couldn't rest without Pope, who had texted her that he would be late tonight.

She resents those texts because they mean she will probably not see him the following evening, and worse, he will probably not sleep tonight. 

Honey is all too familiar with her boyfriend's nocturnal habits, which include cleaning or watching nature and animal documentaries. She joked that he should invest in starting his own cleaning business, as there are days she is even scared to walk on her floors. 

His insomnia has decreased slightly, but she worries about him as he has complained about his stomach hurting, and his appetite has decreased.

So on nights like this, with his side of the bed empty, sleep evades her, and instead she contemplates her relationship.  The nature documentary is forgotten as she cradles a pillow on the couch. Things with the Pope feel intense. He is an intense man whom she fully doesn't understand. Some days, he seems so confident and untouchable, and other nights, he looks as if he could crumble at any given second.

She knows Pope is different from her exes. From his look, age, and demeanor. Yet, the sadness that trails after him still keeps him guarded from her. 

And Honey knows it's from the part of his life they haven't breached yet. The reason he is currently out at parts unknown. 

She clutches one of the throw pillows and ponders what he is doing. After all, he is on parole. She recalls his parole officer's look when Pope had to inform him that he was staying at her place. Pope came with baggage—a record. She knows people whisper about her and him if they are out in public together. Even the girls at work comment offhand about why she is with him out of all the brothers. 

Honey doesn't remember falling asleep while pondering her worries. Yet she feels the sensation of falling when she is startled awake as Pope lays her down in bed. 

“It's just me,” he whispers. 

She frowns, eyes blurry from sleep. “What time is it?”

“3.” He removes his shirt and pants quickly, with his boxers as well. Her frown deepens as she falls back against the pillows. 

“I told you you didn't have to wait for me.” He lightly scolds. She finds Pope can worry about her, but he feels uncomfortable that she does the same for him. 

She pouts. 

“You want your shirt off?” He asks her. 

She sits up and raises her arms, and Pope pulls up her shirt, leaving her only in her panties. Pope places their clothes in the hamper before he joins her in bed.

“I can't sleep without you,” she utters, wrapping around him. She kisses his chest and can feel him running her fingers through her hair before she drifts back to sleep.

Honey is in the middle of making an egg scramble with sausage and vegetables when Pope strolls his way out of the bedroom. 

“Morning,” she greets with a tired smile. 

He doesn’t reply, but he does press a kiss to her shoulder. He doesn't move for a bit as he grabs her waist, his fingers gripping her tight as if he needed to ground himself. 

“I have coffee in the pot for you.”

He grunts before moving to the coffee pot, where she has a cup waiting for him to use. 

As she finishes cooking, he sets the table for them. She fills their plates with the egg scramble, toast, strawberries, and orange slices. 

Yet, midway through eating, she notices he isn't eating much. 

“Your stomach still hurting?” 

He sighs and nods his head. “Yeah, I don't know what it is.”

She frowns and runs her fingers through his hair before cupping his cheek. “Did you eat yesterday?” 

“Yeah, at Smurf’s.”

Smurf. He rarely talks about his mother. He tells her bits about his brothers and sister, but Smurf is someone he doesn't venture to. Honey doesn't push. 

“Are you busy today?” She asks, hoping his family won’t pull him away today. 

He shakes his head. 

“Can you do something with me?”

He looks at her curiously. “And what do you have planned?”

“It's a surprise,” she teases. He looks skeptical, but doesn't voice any objections as he grabs some fruit to nibble on. 

The one thing Honey loves about Pope is that he isn't ashamed to dote on her. After breakfast, the two shared a lovely shower under the guise of conserving water. She found that Pope loves washing her hair, and she always saves her wash days for him. 

Changing into a jean skirt and a cropped tube top, she finds herself in the passenger seat of Pope's massive truck. She may be too close to him as she leans her head on his shoulder. His free hand grips her thigh. 

She had offered to drive, but he threw her a look, and her reply was a sheepish smile. She told him where they were going, and she couldn't help but feel nervous. 

“So you going to tell me where we're going?” Pope asks her, pointedly. 

She grabs the hand on her thigh. She didn't plan this today, but Ms. Pearl had called yesterday, and one could never hide anything from her. 

She told Pope a little about Ms. Pearl, how she had been the one to raise her after her mom disappeared, and her dad had signed over custody as he was always in and out of jail. Her father didn't want her in the foster system. 

Ms. Pearl had always been her one constant adult in her life when her mom would disappear for days. 

“Ms. Pearl wants to meet you,” she tells him, hiding her face in his shoulder. 

He is silent for a moment before he responds. “Okay.”

He squeezes her hand for reassurance before clearing his throat. “You told her about me?”

Honey snorts. “Of course. I did. You're important to me.”

She watches as his ears turn red. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she assures. She leans up on her knees and presses a kiss to his cheek. Pope smiles, and she leans forward and gives him multiple pecks, which causes him to give her one of those rare smiles that show his teeth. She nibbles on his bottom lip. 

Pope’s arm comes up around her, and he turns his head, still trying to pay attention to the road. However, her eyes flutter shut as his hand cradles her head, and he deepens the kiss. 

She sighs in contentment as she inches closer, feeling his warmth and muscles against her. However, the kiss is abruptly interrupted by the blaring of a car horn as Pope runs a stop sign. 

Honey laughs before she moves to the passenger seat. 

She wonders how she feels, as if she has fallen in love with this man in only two months. 

Ms. Pearl lives in a townhouse she bought when she was 25. Despite the changes in Oceanside, Ms. Pearl's is the one relic that remains unchanged. The house has orange siding, a teal front and back porch, the trimming on the house is a navy blue and lime green. No one can miss her house.  Ms. Pearl always said there is a lot of history in that house and Honey was now apart of that history. Honey remembers being 10 years old and being shown a room the size of a hotel room that was all hers. A bed was just for her with her clothes and new toys. 

She had a room that she didn’t need to share with her mother or random strangers. 

Honey's favorite place outside a dance studio is Ms. Pearl's garden in her backyard. It was green and luscious filled with sunflowers, dehlias, zinnias, marigolds, along with lemon trees, raspberries, and a strawberries, and she hopes to have one of her own when she buys her first home. 

She watches as Pope follows Ms. Pearl in the narrow hallways as she explains every picture and trinket. Unlike previous boyfriends, she knows Pope is soaking in every word and remembering. 

Of course, the picture he latches onto the most is her as a little 8-year-old dressed up as Clara from the Nutcracker. She will not be surprised if he somehow takes the photo, frame and all.  

Now they sit outside eating a nice spread of BBQ ribs, macaroni salad, and watermelon. 

She thinks this is the most she has heard Pope talk to anybody, as Ms. Pearl pulls him to tell stories about himself and his interests. 

However, Pope perks up when Ms. Pearl tells the story of the few times Honey got in trouble at school. 

“Wait, that was you, who popped Craig in the nose?” He inquires. 

Honey nods as she takes a sip of her lemonade. She remembers that day clearly when she socked the middle brother. Craig, as much as he is carefree, he is cocky and she knows that due to his family name believes he is untouchable. He had been messing around with one of her friends, and during one of their many spats, she felt he had been taking it too far as his voice got raised, and the next thing she knew, she had popped him in the nose. Unfortunately, it would be another 6 months before her friend would dump him, but he had been wary of her since.  “Why do you think he never asks for a dance at the strip club?”

“He told me that he couldn't afford it?” Pope tells her honestly. 

Honey laughs. “He is probably scared I'll stab him with my stilettos.”

“Honestly, I'm surprised Smurf isn't causing a ruckus. We had a war of words that day.” Ms. Pearl reveals that, after that incident, Ms. Pearl and Smurf had an encounter in the grocery store's parking lot. 

Pope goes quiet at the mention of his mother. Honey notices and grabs his hand in comfort. 

“How is your mother?” 

Pope takes a sip of his beer. “Still Smurf.”

Honey rubs Pope's knuckles. Pope clears his throat, “Is Honey the only kid you took in?”

“Officially, yes,” Ms. Pearl replies with a sad smile. “When I was young and dumb, I got pregnant at 16. I never wanted to be a mother, and by the time I found out I was pregnant, it was too late to terminate. Parents were ultra conservative, and in those days, you got sent away. Gave the boy up. I moved on with my life. I came to Oceanside and opened the rec center. Honey's mother was a kid who used to hang out until she fell into a bad crowd.”

Pope looks at Honey and wraps his arm around her shoulder. Ms. Pearl smiles. 

“Honey's mother…I don't know why I got attached as I did. Honey was just a precious, happy baby. At first, I let both of them stay, but living with addicts…When I gave Honey's mother the ultimatum of leaving Honey with me or getting clean…she took Honey, and I found out they had been sleeping outside and in parks.”

Honey shivers as she remembers those nights when her mom disappeared, leaving her to sleep underneath the rock climber or at the top of a slide for shelter from the rain. 

“It's been weeks, and then one day I get a knock on the door from a young man holding Honey. Then I laughed and cried…Honey's father was the son I gave up for adoption. He didn't want his daughter in the foster system.”

Honey still remembers that day clearly when her father came out of nowhere, taking her from her mother, who had found shelter for them in a crack den. That was the last time she saw her mother. 

“I felt so much guilt, but I can't say I regret my choice if it led me to raising Honey.”

Ms. Pearl changes the conversation to the new plants she wants to add to her garden. She burrows more into Pope, and his arms tighten around her even more. 

Honey convinced Pope to relax as she helped Ms. Pearl clean up. She distracted him enough with a kiss to suggest he start a small fire. 

Honey watches from the kitchen window as Pope sets up the fire pit.

“He isn't your usual type,” Ms. Pearl comments from where she is wiping down the counters. 

“I know.” She says, and she feels a lecture coming on. Honey’s exes always seemed to be from the more affluent areas and promoted the image of a nuclear family. The only thing Pope did have in common with her exes was their age differences, but even then, Pope was the oldest man she had ever dated. Ms. Pearl, bless her soul, never outright said she didn’t like the boys Honey messed around with, but she could tell she was barely impressed with most of them.

“I just want you to be careful with that family.” Ms. Pearl warns. “Pope…I like him, but you don't have to be blind to know that boy has some ghosts with that mother of theirs.”

And Honey knows this deep down. She isn't ignorant that Pope can be awkward, confusing, and unreadable. His quirks and mannerisms sometimes surprise her or give her pause. She can see that the affection she freely gives him isn't something he is used to. He looks at her as if she will slip through his fingers. 

“He hasn't told me much about her.” Honey admits. Everyone in Oceanside knows of Smurf. She has never spoken with Smurf,  but everyone knows the Cody name. Yet, seeing how Pope can be, she truly wonders about the woman and mother Smurf is. 

“Mmm.”

“I know when he comes back from there... he is different, he can't sleep…”

She recalls the first night he left her place and went to Smurf’s. He came home stiff and silent. She had been coming out of the bathroom from the shower when she found him sitting on the bed, staring at the wall. 

She had jumped and commented that he scared her. He didn't respond to her, and that frightened her. Water dripped on the floor, and she called his name but received no response. It wasn't until she stood before him that he seemed to register her presence. Whatever daze he was in seemed to have been broken. He gripped her hips and rested his forehead against her abdomen. She was confused and wrapped her arms around him, her hands massaging his scalp. 

It felt like hours that she stood there caressing him before she felt the tug of her towel, before he had moved her to her back. 

He had left her dozing before she woke up to find him watching a documentary on lions in the living room. She had been unable to coax him back to bed, and not wanting to sleep alone, she had grabbed a blanket and, despite his protest, made herself comfortable next to him on his side before she fell asleep from the soothing motion of his chest expanding with each breath. 

She woke up back in bed, and he was cleaning the kitchen. 

They never really talked about that night, but she knows it is because of his family when he gets like that. 

“Pope is the oldest of those boys. He knows how his mother is. I'm sure there is a good reason he has yet to introduce the two of you.”

Honey agrees. “But he can't keep me from them forever.”

“No, but allow him this bit of peace before then.” 

Honey finishes the dishes and carries another beer for Pope, who waits for her at the fire pit. Ms. Pearl had decided to retire for the night with the promise of a weekly dinner with all of them. She smiles, recalling the wide-eyed look Pope gave Ms. Pearl, who banned him from driving after all the beers he drank.

 The night is chilly, and she settles on Pope's lap for warmth and comfort. 

“She likes you,” Honey tells him after pressing a kiss to his temple. 

“Does she?”

“Yeah, you would know if she didn't.”

“Why don't you call her Grandma?”

Honey shrugs. “There is a lot more to her reasoning, but…I think it's guilt and her views on motherhood. My dad never called her mom or considered her one. And she's always been Ms. Pearl.”

Pope doesn’t say anything as they stare into the fire. She sighs as she feels him rubbing her back. His hand ends up trailing underneath her top, not suggestive, but just for his comfort. 

“I'm not hiding you from them.”

Honey knows who he is talking about. She leans up and back to look him in the eyes while he speaks. 

“I…I like having us…I like being with you and only you.” He pauses as he searches her eyes for something. “I never really had something that was my own. I always shared with Julia…and nothing is really yours when you have brothers. I finally have something good…and want to keep it to myself.”  He admits to her. 

“I'm going to have to meet her one day,” she replies softly. 

He sighs, almost defeated by the thought. “I know.”

She presses a kiss to his lips before she lies back down. Her head nestled underneath his chin. 

She closes her eyes, listening to the sound of his heartbeat. 

[tmasc-confessions]

i just watched an entire 2 hour deepdive on queer history and oppression and i just feel so upset.

its a good documentary of sorts. it has good messaging and good historical roots. good research.

it erases trans men entirely. the words 'trans man/men' or 'transmasc' were not said fucking once.

not a single transmasc referenced to. not a single transmasc activist mentioned. we werent even referenced to as a group, even briefly, whilst every other trans group was talked about.

not even on the deep focus of stonewall, of early queer rights activists, as a section of the queer community, not while abortion rights were talked about, fucking nothing. we might as well have not been anywhere near the riots. we might as well not have died for our liberation.

we dont even fucking exist to the people who are supposed to be advocating for us and speaking about our history. instead, they erase us, just like everyone else.

im so fucking tired.

-☆

.

[rogersandclarke]

mutual 1: see the thing about obi wan is that even if he could get pregnant he would do a force-abortion on himself because he believes that strongly in adoption

mutual 2: do you think matt damon was seething and coping when j-lo dropped "dear ben" or do you think matt and ben were still hooking up at this time? essentially if the album dropped in 2002, the bennifer engagement is nov 2002-january 2004, and matt gets married in 2005,

mutual 3: my ebay bidding war for paul reubens's spit in a jar is going really well due to the psychic attacks i've been sending to the other bidder

mutual 4: local authorities wont let me into this abandoned hoarder house in rural wyoming. dies horribly. #i love drunk driving

mutual 5: listen ive studied rpf for years you dont understand. the homoerotic undercurrent of britpop is a different breed than what george and bob had going on. theres a playful aura facilitated by the early 90s

mutual 6: i am going to pound philip seymour hoffman into the ground so lovingly

mutual 7: im doing crazy things to davy jones pussy over here

mutual 8: thinking of writing my thesis on the evolution of rpf #no don't look at my lb diary yes i watched 10 martin & lewis movies this week

mutual 9: you see robbie and bob were having on and off trysts ever since robbie stopped him from killing himself in 1966 but it took martin scorseses tender devotion to show robbie how unhealthy that was

mutual 10: thankfully neil young started estrogen in early 1970. otherwise she never couldve made harvest

mutual 11: how minutes of semi-truck sound effects do you guys think i can play on my radio show before people start tuning away

mutual 12: put this post underwater sorry. but i just feel so angry when people post about their mutuals like they're people they never talk to. i've moved to different countries three times for my mutuals.

mutual 13: [picture of orson welles and anthony perkins laughing on the set of the trial] do you think they ever fucked #hot! #who said that

mutual 14: i think i could fix norman bates if we got married and adopted the eraserhead baby together.

mutual 15: [picture of a computer fucking itself]

mutual 16: m sooooo girl drink drunk daveeeeee

mutual 17: eroticism of the machine? uhhh yeah only if the machine is a sexy car #STOP PUTTING THOSE COMPUTER PICTURES ON MY DASH

mutual 18: my warriors in maine are one step closer to slipping cocaine back into stephen kings food so he can be a good writer again

mutual 19: you don't understand. walton goggins isn't just gay in the show. he also walks gay in real life. you have to understand this.

mutual 20: im going to kidnap mike stoklasa and only release him when he makes a post coming out as bisexual

EDIT: ETHAN LET ME POST THIS: mutual 21: do you think lana del rey and joan baez are hooking up. why is lana with her everywhere and introducing her documentary and doing all these things. we KNOW joan is bisexual. do you think

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Liz Plank at Airplane Mode:

There was a moment, early in the Trump presidency, when many of us made a critical mistake. We looked at the cruelty on display, the kidnapping of legal residents, the abortion bans, the dismantling of environmental protections, and assumed we were witnessing competence. Not moral competence, of course, but a kind of ruthless, calculating efficiency. We treated the administration like a well-oiled fascist machine, analyzing every tweet and press conference as if they were chess moves in some grand authoritarian strategy. We were wrong. What we were actually witnessing was something far more dumber: the elevation of mediocrity as a governing principle. The Trump White House isn’t some sinister cabal of geniuses. It’s a jobs program for the profoundly unqualified, a four-year experiment in what happens when you hand the keys of government to men who peaked in high school. Their only real qualification? The ability to coddle the most insecure man in America. These aren’t masterminds. They’re the dumbest guys in the room, and that’s why they got promoted. Because their political project has never been about governing. It’s about preserving a system where men like them succeed not through talent, but through entitlement.

This is what patriarchy looks like in practice. It doesn’t just privilege men, it selects for the worst among them. The loudest, the angriest, the most insecure. It rewards obedience over insight, loyalty over leadership, ego over ethics. And while it absolutely hurts women, it also traps good men in a world where they are forced to answer to worse ones. A world where being thoughtful, decent, or competent makes you less likely, not more, to rise. That’s the paradox at the heart of patriarchy: it promises men power, but only if they agree to give up everything that makes power worth having: integrity, growth, connection, purpose. It’s not just bad for women. It’s bad for men. And it’s terrible for democracy. And no scandal reveals this better than signalgate, a blunder so humiliating it makes Veep look like a pbs documentary. Michael Waltz (the actual National Security Advisor) accidentally added Jeffrey Goldberg, the editor-in-chief of The Atlantic, to a signal group chat discussing bombing Yemen. Yes. A journalist. In a signal chat. About Yemen.

And when that incompetence inevitably implodes, the women who helped elevate these men are often the first to fall. Just look at Director of National Intelligence Tulsi Gabbard, who is having a really bad 48 hours after trying to cover for the boys’ fiasco by claiming that “no classified or intelligence equities were included.” But her statement was quickly contradicted by multiple sources, including a U.S. defense official who confirmed the information was “highly sensitive” and resembled material typically briefed to the president in secure settings. And then in the world’s greatest this you? The Atlantic published he texts showing “precise information about weapons packages, targets, and timing.” You can read their stupid texts for yourself here. And subscribe to The Atlantic while you’re at it. The MAGA movement isn’t a rebellion against elitism. It’s a tantrum against merit—a last-ditch effort by underqualified men to hold onto power by discrediting any system that might measure their actual abilities. They didn’t kill DEI because it was unfair. They killed it because it worked. And because they’re scared they’ll lose positions they were never qualified to have in the first place. Equity meant their résumés would finally be judged on merit. Inclusion meant they could be replaced by someone, god forbid a woman or person of color. Or at the very least, someone who doesn’t leave their venmo public, like our brilliant National Security Advisor just did.

The Trump Administration is home to a different kind of DEI: where White male mediocrity is rewarded and merit is gone.

[thecurvycritic]

Who Rules the World? Teenage Girls Set is Ablaze in Girls State

Did you know America is one of the few countries that has never had or entertained a woman POTUS? Maybe its time for that to change! https://wp.me/p2v8yf-6mx #girlsstate #appletvplus #documentaries

  In 2020, I screened Boys State, which centered around The American Legion Boys State and American Legion Auxiliary  sponsored summer leadership and citizenship programs for high school juniors focusing on exploring the mechanics of American government and politics.  It was fascinating until I witnessing the release of Girls State and what American democracy could actually look like in the…

[leyenra8]

Hi Leyenra. I've just been browsing your blog and I'm very impressed. I agree with all that you've posted but agreeing and taking action are two different things. I'm hoping that what President Trump is doing will eventually get our country back on track. It would be a boost to have him reelected for another term. I know the Biden administration left Trump with a disaster area. Kind of like the aftermath of 911. Anyway keep up the good work. I for one hope to see America recapture its past glory.

We are truly blessed to have met you. 

Thank you for taking the time to let us know that you appreciate our hard work.  

We appreciate your recognition.

Meeting you has been a blessing in disguise.

Can You Handle The Truth And Face The Facts?

Liberal Fascism – The Secret History Of The American Left

Jonah Goldberg reminds us that the original Fascists were really on the Left, and that Liberals from Woodrow Wilson to FDR to Hillary Clinton have advocated policies, and principles remarkably similar to those of Hitler’s National Socialism, and Mussolini's Fascism.

Contrary to what most people think, the Nazis were ardent Socialists (hence the term “National Socialism”). They believed in free health care, and guaranteed jobs. They confiscated inherited wealth, and spent vast sums on public education. They purged the church from public policy, promoted a new form of pagan spirituality, and inserted the authority of the state into every nook, and cranny of daily life. 

The Nazis declared war on smoking, supported abortion, euthanasia, and gun control. They loathed the free market, provided generous pensions for the elderly, and maintained a strict racial quota system in their universities – where campus speech codes were all the rage.

It is hard to deny that modern Progressivism, and classical Fascism shared the same intellectual roots. Many Fascist tenets were espoused by American Progressives like John Dewey, Woodrow Wilson, and FDR incorporated Fascist policies in the New Deal.

In Germany, Fascism appeared as Genocidal Racist Nationalism. In America, it took a “Friendlier”, more Liberal form. The modern heirs of this “Friendly Fascist” tradition include the New York Times, the Democratic Party, the Ivy League professoriate, and the Liberals of Hollywood.

In this angry, funny, smart, contentious book, Jonah Goldberg turns our preconceptions inside out, and shows us the true meaning of Liberal Fascism.

Agenda: Grinding America Down

The Fact-Based documentary detailing a COMMUNIST AGENDA for the last 70 years to corrupt American Institutions – from Education to Hollywood to Media – and sabotage America, and its values from within.

The main strategy is to Divide and Conquer – to turn Americans against each other.

After watching the documentary, at least you know why the DemonRATS Are COMMUNISTS.

The only way to DEFEAT the DemonRATS is to Call Them What They Are – DemonRATS Are COMMUNISTS.

Once the American people find out the Truth – DemonRATS Are COMMUNISTS, it could DESTROY the party forever.

Sharing Is Caring

Please Keep Reblogging

Agenda 2: Masters Of Deceit

This is the sequel to the Blockbuster Documentary, Agenda: Grinding America Down.

A Powerful Documentary that exposes how the DemonRATS are exploiting the issues of our time, and using them as weapons to destroy what is left of our collapsing country.

It received the Award for “Best Documentary” in 2016!

[yourlocalalpha]

Found your blog. Read through the entire thing. Throughout enjoyed it. Immediately followed. I notice that you take requests, so... Can I get a BSD characters as (platonic) soulmate in a Soulmate AU?

THIS MADE MY DAY

Thank youuu so much I love when people say things like this in requests this is the best thing to wake up to as a writer😭😭

BSD has many platonic relationships that would eat in a soulmate AU but somehow that’s exactly where i be struggling💔 I try my best tho

And by platonic soulmates I took it as soulmates with no sex so I hope this is what you asked for

I’m not really good at soulmate mark systems I usually just stick with the 'you feel each other's emotions in real time' trope. Hope that's okay with you too🙏🏼

BSD characters in a platonic soulmate AU

Ryunosuke Akutagawa

You've been feeling someone else's feelings recently and they are a lot...

You think “omg am I possessed”

It turns out no, your soulmate is just perpetually enraged at life

To the point you think your soulmate is in constant danger. Or just chronically pissed off. (Correct.)

The recognition moment when you both freeze mid fight you feel his confusion go up. Then this weird feeling of ”Wait, this is it?”

He literally says nothing, just stares and walks away.

You’re left standing there like “?????? okay?? soulmate bonding???”

He is deeply offended that his soulmate is some random civilian looking idiot.

Meanwhile, you’re offended that your soulmate has zero idea how to regulate his emotions like a normal human.

Akutagawa treats the whole soulmate thing like a curse. You catch every feeling of frustration and “get away from me”

after a day full of brutal missions, you text him something dumb “You mad at fate or just me?”

He doesn’t reply, but next time you meet, he doesn’t glare at you the entire time. Progress.

“Your sadness over a pigeon documentary derailed my assassination mission. Control yourself.” like??

Daily texts from Diablo:

“Are you sad or am I sad. Respond quickly.”

“Stop overthinking and being nervous. It’s distracting.”

“Your happiness today is irritating. What happened.”

He feels your panic every time someone mentions taxes.

He knows when you’re hangry. He doesn’t say anything just throws food at you like he’s feeding a neanderthal in a cave.

Once you ate six tacos and he was furious for hours.

“What is wrong with your stomach?”

“Joy, Akutagawa. It’s called joy.”

He once felt you cry during a sad anime and came to your apartment because he thought you were being attacked.

He’s never entered an apartment more awkwardly. “What… the hell is this?”

“...Episode 1 of Violet Evergarden.”

Now you cry together quietly. Like men.

But you’re what he needed. It's comforting for him knowing someone out there somewhere is just as emotionally messy as him.

Dazai Osamu

He had no idea he even had a soulmate. This man probably thought he was alone in a world full of soulmates.

Want to find your soulmate? Yeah abort the plan.

Finding out you’re Dazai’s soulmate is like waking up and discovering your brain got hacked by a suicidal guy

One moment you’re good the next you feel intrusive feelings.

You’re like, “who the hell feels like this all the time?”

And then you meet Dazai.

“Ahhh,” he says the first time he sees you. “So you’re the one who keeps crying at 2 AM while watching cat rescue videos.”

He may try to get rid of the bond.

You try to kill him. He escapes and then buys you lunch like that fixes everything.

You feel his mood swings like a rollercoaster: giddy, then numb, then too quiet to be safe.

You call him out constantly.

“Stop bottling your emotions like they’re limited edition tea.”

He abuses that bond of course.

You’re trying to focus on work and suddenly you feel mischief. The kind that precedes duct taping Kunikida’s notebook to the ceiling.

You text him: “DON’T.” too late.

He senses your heartbreak and goes quiet for hours, before texting you something dumb “can you write my report for me.”

You sense when he’s not joking. When the suicidal ideation is more than performance. And you call. You always call. You talk about dumb things until he goes to his usual sarcastic persona. And it works.

When you're spiraling he feels it too. Fast and deep.

When words don't make a difference he slaps you. Literally. Like hard enough to stop everything.

He knows it’s not the most gentle thing in the world. Dazai’s way of caring is messy and sometimes brutal but it's for good. Right?

Atsushi Nakajima

Whoever your soulmate is… they’ve suffered. You’ve felt their pain. Their shame. Their tiny bursts of hope that get crushed the moment they bloom.

You finally meet him after he joins the Armed Detective Agency.

The moment your eyes meet the bond clicks in.

Atsushi doesn’t know what to do with the bond. He’s never had a person who stayed, let alone someone tied to him by fate.

The emotional crossfire is horrendous.

You’re both so nervous you end up standing six feet apart, acting like confused NPCs, silently panicking while also feeling each other’s panic.

Over time he starts showing up more. Always hesitant. Always polite. But you can feel how much he wants to be around you and get to know you.

You start feeling random spikes of embarrassment at the worst times.

Like you’re brushing your teeth and suddenly full body anxiety

You’re like: “Did I offend my mirror???”

He definitely gets your sudden excitement over fictional characters.

“You look like you’ve just realized your soulmate is emotionally unhinged,” Dazai tells Atsushi. Not helping at all

“I think they’re just really passionate”

Whenever he is having breakdows, it hits you. That wave of tight, clawing dread. Like your lungs forgot how to do their job. That’s when you know.

He’s sitting curled into himself. You have to slap him to get him out of spiraling.

You sit with him till spiraling slows down. He will say sorry like a thousand times for making you feel this to. You have to stop him.

When it happens to you Atsushi feels it before you even say a word.

he does the weirdest things to calm you down He starts showing you a children's book. (He just doesn't know what to do in moments like this)

Says things like:

”Koyouka's plant is judging us from that corner.”

“I am 78% sure Ranpo is eating your art right now.”

He’s still awkward, still tries to hide his feelings, but you can tell he’s grateful to have you.

Chuuya Nakahara

When you first feel your soulmate’s emotions, you're like "Who tf is this drama queen??"

You think that your soulmate is probably a short, angry wine aunt who owns three leather jackets and a grudge against God. (You’re 80% right.)

You felt a full body wave of swag so strong you tripped walking past a mirror.

It clicks during a Port Mafia incident you weren’t supposed to be part of.

You’re trying to stay alive and not look suspicious, but then he turns to you like he just felt something.

Chuuya does not take the news well.

“Are you kidding me? Now?”

He feels your shock. You feel his rage.

“So you’re the one making my moods weirder than Dazai’s work ethic...”

You are freaking out because your soulmate is apparently a Port Mafia executive.

Chuuya wants nothing to do with it at first. He’s already got enough baggage. Soulmate? Emotion linked? He’s busy trying not to lose his mind.

You start getting his mood swings like weather alerts.

Chuuya's about to deck someone in a meeting. Seek shelter.

Chuuya starts to tolerate you. Reluctantly.

He feels a wave of secondhand embarrassment because you tripped in public and he felt it in his soul.

You feel a spike of joy? He shoots you a text: “Someone flirts with you again?”

“No, I got free food.”

“...Fair.”

“You ever wish it was someone else?” you ask.

“Every day,” Chuuya says. “But then I realize no one else could handle your crap like me.”

[goosemixtapes]

hi there, could i ask for recs for catholicism csa coverup? i saw you mention it in a tag

yes, absolutely! i took a class this semester on this exact thing, so most of these recs are directly from that syllabus:

books

Mortal Sins by Michael D'Antonio -- to my understanding this is kinda Thee book for an overview of the crisis; it goes over the broad strokes of the crisis becoming mainstream news + the major cases in the history of church coverups and d'antonio won a pulitzer for it

Split by Mary Dispenza -- a memoir; Dispenza is an ex-nun who is now (spoiler!) gay married and works with victim advocacy groups, so she's seen the whole system in all its ugliness from the inside-out and writes really well about the shame + guilt wrapped up in religious abuse and the length the church goes to to make victims shut up

Paper Cuts by Stephen Bernard -- this is also a memoir, but it focuses much less on the broader issue and more on Bernard's personal experience (in England, dealing with trauma as well as bipolar disorder later in his life); including it regardless because it's absolutely gorgeous

^ i have some of these as PDFs should anyone like them!

articles

Survivors of sex abuse by nuns suffer decades of delayed healing (abuse by nuns being sometimes distinct from, and less common than, abuse by priests, but still present)

Reproductive Abuse in the Context of Clergy Sexual Abuse in the Catholic Church (specifically when pregnancy + abortion come into the picture; a LOT of reproductive coercion happening)

Black Catholics, Racism, and the Sex Abuse Crisis: A Personal Reflection (written by a scholar of racism more than of the sex abuse crisis; cf. this AP article on one of the cases she discusses)

Colonialism and the Crisis Inside the Crisis of Catholic Sexual Abuse (on the intersection of colonialism and church CSA and the lack of visibility given to these cases)

Immigrant Communities Were The 'Geographic Solution' To Predator Priests (similar topic as the above, focused on Spanish-speaking communities in the United States)

Dozens of Catholic Priests Credibly Accused of Abuse Found Work Abroad, Some With the Church’s Blessing (they are genuinely offshoring pedophiles)

this report series is about evangelical/Baptist churches in USAmerica, not the Catholic church, but it offers a model of how coverups happen in non-Catholic churches on a less hierarchical and more decentralized level (which is to say, the coverups are still happening)

documentaries/videos

Deliver Us From Evil (2006) -- documentary interviews with the victims of one specific pedophile priest + with that priest himself; really highlights the systemic nature of the problem

this news report on nuns who were abused by priests

websites

SNAP (Survivors Network of those Abused by Priests) -- primarily resources for survivors, but they also collect news stories and have been lobbying the church to increase transparency for decades

BishopAccountability.Org -- archive of documents, news stories, legal cases, etc trying to create a public record of all accused and/or convicted priests + major legal landmarks. this website was started by one single dude and is run by volunteers which is crazy because it is extremely intensive