#he seems to think that death is preferable to living even as it doesn’t tangibly fix anything

[tomatograter]

Do you think Dirk saying that he doesn't like to label himself as gay means he has internalized homophobia? Or does he really just don't like to put labels on himself? I've seen ppl saying it's homophobia but there's ppl in real life that don't feel comfortable with labels so I'm a bit confused honestly, cus we are talking about Dirk and he's... Dirk after all

Easy answer: Dirk is Gay.

Prolonged answer: I think it's kinda weird how some fandom discussion around "Dirk dodging the label in One pesterlog" has largely spiraled way outside of its original context to be talked about in a vacuum, especially when that context is crucial to understanding what is actually being said, AKA — it belongs to a deeply awkward conversation between Dirk and Roxy. One of Many they are implied to have had about the subject of Roxy's sustained, unwelcome, and oft drunken advances towards Dirk (& his splinters).

I'm going to reproduce it plus another bit of text down below, for the sake of comparison.

(To prevent the trickster text from looking like absolute shit, I have altered the background. Read the original here, if you're nasty: https://www.homestuck.com/story/5754 )

Now that we've been reacquainted with how and where that sentiment is expressed, let's try to break down what Dirk is doing here.

He is not receptive to Roxy's early advances, and spends most of the 'intro' for this conversation (not pictured) ignoring when Roxy flirts with him, until she gets upset at how 'boring' he is being right now.

Dirk is the one compelled to apologize.

He proceeds to shut the scenario down as an unwanted probability, eliciting further guilt-babbling from Roxy over how Dirk never wants to play along with the perfect traditional family fantasy, until she finally blows up and says it's because he's gay.

"I mean, yeah, that's what I thought."

Dirk, rather than saying I Am Not Gay, since he looooooves changing a conversational subject, claims that "Gay" is not entirely historically appropriate for this situation, given the non-negligible passage of time and the wildly dystopic circumstances* they find themselves in.

Dirk reassures Roxy he does still care about her.

Dirk is absolutely terrified of a similarly inclined (and intoxicated) Roxy up close. This is the most exclamations he's ever used.

Now, *These circumstances? The loss of 99% of the human race, including their society, customs, culture, and prejudices. (ALLEGEDLY.) It's important to remember that from Dirk and Roxy's side of the timetable, troll culture has been pushed as "the norm" for actual fucking centuries. HIC tried to recreate the caste system by artificially coloring human blood, leading to the death of billions. Faygo came out of the water tap, not water. Troll slang was incorporated into the English language. Humans ceased to organically reproduce. They were actively Discouraged from reproducing, since that's not something HIC could have total genetic control over; rendering traditional marriage and the concept of the nuclear family pointless.

You could also argue that same-gender relationships are not uncommon in Alternia, making "gay" altogether unnecessary by proxy, and that's true! But my point is this one: any union (or at least our society's holy concept of it) between straightie humans would be by definition undesirable under HIC's rule, too. She is the church, the president and the governing body. The population is only as good as they are assets for her to do whatever she wants with, including mass murder.

But wait! While that tracks… Roxy clearly still holds onto very 'conservative' definitions of romance for most of Homestuck. We see this multiple times. Dirk, as proved in conversations with Jake, uses 'gay' as an ironic pejorative. Suddenly it's not Historically Inaccurate anymore, Jake's interests are just gay.

Does this mean the context above is basically worthless, since they don't seem to have internalized it? No.

What must be kept in mind is this: Dirk and Roxy's only "active" link to de facto humanity is our society as it was in the early 2010's. Those glimpses they get by talking with jane and jake. They have all that dystopic context, yes, but the reality that seems the most "unfucked" to them for a grand majority of their lives are the halcyon years before the Condesce's rise to power: back when weed was illegal, BlogSpot was popular, movies sucked, MTV was still a hip channel, and gay generally meant something real bad. The wave of homophobia as a punchline or fear mongering tactic was at THE HEIGHTS. Marriage equality was a hot debate topic. Those were the dayz.

Dirk is keenly aware of the taboo implication the word "Gay" as a self-denomination carries. He's no dummy. But he's rarely direct with his intentions either. He's slippery as a bar of soap. (He's never "straight about his feelings", if you prefer.) And for a guy that cares so much about his reputation and maintaining a curated sense of utter coolness, he wants to avoid outing himself as any sort of weirdo no matter the cost.

But that's not all. I think the gravity of just how much Dirk believes he *owes* Roxy simply for existing as the last human in the same timeframe as her is a severely underplayed aspect of Dirk's core character, together with how much he tries to avoid her sexual advances only to end up feeling like absolute shit over it, because — if they truly are the last people on god's blighted earth, isn't he being "selfish" and "irrational" about not feeling shit for Roxy, in the grand scale of things? Is Roxy not his only friend in tangible reality, even if he avoids the mere suggestion of visiting her? Even if she gets black-out drunk and tries to push him into indulging her, regardless of how many times he's already said no?

(Spend enough time here and you realize how it directly mirrors the jane/jake experience.)

Dirk cares a lot about each and every one of his friends.

He pointedly adapts his speech based on whichever one of them he's talking to in an effort to express that investment. May it be reassuring Jane, fooling around with Jake, or trying to prevent Roxy from falling into a total catatonic doom-spiral; he avoids telling them anything that would be too crushing to hear. That's not what he's trying to do here. Not to say that he isn't bitchy sometimes, but that’s far from the central thing he does. The Epilogues have retroactively led people to believe that Dirk abhors and despises every single person he's ever been close to before (god forbid) LIKING them, and I think buying too much into that assumption ignores the foundations of his canon text, as well as the central motivation behind 99% of his actions in the story. This is the guy that grew up on Friendship Is Magic, has a picture of rainbow dash shamefully glued to one wall and a rainbow poster of Jake's symbol stapled to another, and everything he does is a little cringe attempt to demonstrate his worth by showing how much he cares about people, even when he's punching his actual feelings down instead of up and saying them.

Which brings us back to the load-bearing part of this question: Admitting to Roxy that there is absolutely no fucking way he will ever agree to having her babbys because he is gay is precisely the opposite of what Dirk wants to say, if his intention isn't pulverizing her. So he doesn't. And his worry on this regard is such that it prevents Dirk from even telling Roxy that he does love her, in the platonic sense, as a friend and hell-earth survivor, because he knows that specificity is what that would disappoint her greatly. (He only ever confesses this to Jane, on the death slabs.)

But also I think this is a really funny visual of Dirk's relationship with the word gay, to put statements into perspective:

[ddarker-dreams]

Icy Wind. Yan Alucard x Reader

Warnings: Isolation and typical yandere elements. Word count: 1.3k. Note: this is my secret santa gift for @monstrouslyobsessed​!! i was excited to see that you liked hellsing ultimate... your taste is immaculate... anyways, i really hope that you enjoy your gift! <333333

You long for a fulfilling night of sleep.

To be able and close your eyes when the moon shines above, uninhibited by troubles, no longer plagued by all-consuming anxiety. It is but a simple request, you believe. There were days where for hours on end you’d bargain for more than that. Freedom used to be the primary objective, what you believed to be your only salvation, a possibility never within reach. No longer do you aim for the stars and beyond. You’ve had to settle for what’s in front of you, a realistic goal such as a good night’s rest, and even then you’re denied it. 

Blades of grass brush against your bare feet, a winter chill reducing your body to a shivering mess. Teeth chattering and body bunched over, your arms wrap around your torso in a pitiful attempt to preserve heat. It makes logical sense to return inside the manor. At least then you could sit by the fireplace to ward off the cold. Whether it’s foolishness or out of malice towards him, you’ve elected to stay out here, holding nothing but contempt for the mansion walls that serve as your prison.

Another gust of wind whistles by, biting your flushed cheeks. Barren tree branches, overgrown thickets, and dry leaves rustle underneath the wind’s intensity. Maybe it would be best to go back inside, you consider. Still, the thought of proving Alucard right is too strong a blow to your pride to concede yet. It’s a childish thing you’re doing -- even you can acknowledge that -- but what else do you have, other than to spite your captor? 

He had instigated this. Tempting you by temporarily removing the locks in the rickety mansion that you’ve been forced to occupy. What had started as a late-night walk to fend off your insomnia escalated into you confronting him, belittling his possessive nature, and demanding a real opportunity at freedom. Much to your surprise and his amusement, he had relented. Or at least on a surface level. Alucard himself had swung the doors wide open, presenting you with an opportunity for time outside. 

Which leads to your current predicament. 

Traversing the surrounding woods at night would be a nightmare, so you’ve been passing this time outside by sitting on a moss-covered bench. The initial high from being outdoors has worn off, replaced with frigid temperatures cutting deep into your bones. You wonder if Alucard would allow you to freeze to death. Or would he intervene at the least possible second, the curse of being his lover never coming to an end. Damn him. 

“So you intend to keep up this stubborn act,” a deep voice drawls, the hairs on the back of your neck standing. “Should I be impressed or insulted?” 

When a person out of sight is speaking, it’s a natural response to search for where they stand. You’ve learned that this rarely works with Alucard. His voice reverberates from every conceivable location, engulfing and drowning you, a testament to his inorganic disposition. 

“Do with it what you will.” Your response doesn’t sound as malicious as you wanted, weakened by your deteriorating state. It looks like your earlier guess of Alucard interfering only when your life is in danger turned out to be true. Even now, when facing an icy demise, you refuse to beg for help. He can go to hell for all I care, you think. If even hell would muster the courage to try and chain him down.

Alucard’s voice hums, a deep, guttural sound. “Was it something I said?” 

Clutching your knees to your chest, you huddle together even tighter for warmth. To narrow Alucard’s grievances against you down to a single statement is impossible. He’s always had a penchant for working you up, now is no different. The wintery weather seems to have gotten worse. Every time you manage to exhale, a white cloud appears in front of your face, a further testament to the extreme temperature. 

“Let’s go with that.” You rub your shaking hands together and blow air onto them.

“Strange, I thought I was doing you a favor,” Alucard’s voice swirls around you like the wind. “You did say that you wanted to go out if memory serves.” 

Really? He’s out here to poke fun at you? It shouldn’t come as a surprise, but the audacity he displays is never short of amazing. Even working up an emotional response like frustration is too much at this point. Your entire body is working overtime to hold onto life. Ah, that’s strange, you think. The way your ears are ringing, an eerie, high pitched noise. Black dots appear and disappear, obscuring your vision. It’s light. Everything feels so, terribly light. 

You’re not sure what happens next. 

When you wake, the setting is vastly different from where you had just been. There’s warmth, that’s the first thing you notice, coming from different sources. Blankets on top of your person and a roaring fireplace. So he brought you back to your room. Groaning, you wince at how your head pounds violently, not having the necessary strength to even lift your head.

“Next time, I’d prefer it if you let me die.” 

There’s no tangible evidence that Alucard is nearby, but you still say the words, uncaring if he hears them or not. 

“It’d be a pitiful death,” comes his response. “Why not ask for a more memorable one?” 

You sigh, knowing that answering the question will lead to more provocative remarks, but still do it anyway. “Are you telling me you’d grant it?” 

“I never said that.” 

“Figures.” 

Exhaustion weighs heavy on your weary soul. Maybe now you’ll be granted the mercy of a good night’s rest, though you try not to get your hopes up. You see Alucard beginning to materialize into a physical form, the sight nothing new, yet you’ve never been able to get used to it. Glimmers of midnight black and deep crimson create a shadow reminiscent of a human man. Flesh forms, filling out over bone, pallid in its coloration. His typical attire of blood-colored fabrics flows into creation around his person before he finally towers over you by your bedside. Inhuman eyes pierce through your weakened form, holding no flickers of humanity. 

A monster. 

“And here I thought you might thank your savior for saving you from an early death,” Alucard’s voice is amused, despite the dark context. “Instead, I find you glaring at me.” 

“For good reason.” You bring the blanket over your head, not wanting to see him any longer, irritation growing. Why can’t he just leave you alone? It’s a question that, when asked, serves only to perturb you further. Alucard claims each time that your little interactions are of great importance to him. Whatever that means, you think. 

“You’re the only human I’ve seen fit to have pity on,” he reminds, making you frown. “Thousands have begged for what you so easily dismiss.” 

Indignant, you pull the blanket down, blood boiling at his inflaming comments. “Like any of that is my fault. What did you expect me to do? Praise you to the high heavens for keeping me far away from any other living being?” 

He’s smiling at your outburst as if it were an entertaining show. It’s too late, but you realize this is exactly what he wanted, to see you getting all worked up over his purposefully upsetting words. Sighing in defeat, you lay back down on the mattress and squeeze your eyes shut, fully intending to ignore anything else he sees fit to say. If he wants to play dirty, then so be it. 

Alucard reaches his gloved hand out to your face, brushing his knuckles against your cheek, displaying a gentleness you thought impossible from a demon like him. It’s a featherlight touch that leaves goosebumps in its wake. Almost as if your body was attempting to reject it, aware of the heinous crimes those very hands have committed. 

“Rest well, my sweet little [First].” 

[awrestlinggirlwholoves80sbands]

Laid out cold, now we're both alone (part 3)

A/N: Hello, this fic is very important to me because I tried my best to give justice to such a cool idea and I hope I did a good job. Plus I don't do multichapter ofter, so this was a challenge.

I wanna thank the lovely @livdonna​ for proofreading my work, you're literally the best <3.

P.S. If you want to get tagged in the next chapters, let me know.

Summary: Nikki needs to ask a favor to Vince Neil, in order to keep someone safe.

Warnings: Major Character Death,Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Drug Use, Angst, Overdose.

Pairing: Nikki Sixx x Tommy Lee

Chapter 1, Chapter 2

Taglist: @slashscowboyboots @witchytombstonesmile @arnold-layne @emometalhead​ @i-dont-like-rice​ @nikki-sexx​ @smokeandmirrorz​

Bittersweet. That was the best way to describe Nikki’s emotional state as he got teleported in front of Vince’s house. They weren’t the biggest fans of each other.  He was always so annoyed by his singer, whom he considered more of a diva prince than a front man.

Sometimes Vince Neil was a stupid spoiled fucker, in his opinion, yet he needed him. What made his blood boil the most was that he had to put his pride to the side, because this wasn’t about him but about Tommy, and there was no way in hell he would have disappointed him again, even if that meant having to deal with the blonde’s bullshit.

He decided to get in the blonde’s house but without showing himself at first.  He wasn’t being avoidant ( absolutely not) but just he wanted more time to think, that’s all. The first thing he noticed was how different Vince’s mansion looked from Mick’s : outside there was a big pool, in which the clear water was shining thanks to the sunny day, meanwhile the inside was mostly white and gave the whole house a very elegant and snobby atmosphere; however it was very messy too, which was a huge disappointment.

It reminded him of the singer: face of an angel but inside he had his demons. Who didn’t to be honest? Unfortunately Nikki wasn’t so lucky to get an angel face to hide his dirty soul, he felt like everyone could tell how fucked up he was.

Lost in his thoughts he almost didn’t notice Vince passing right through him, talking on the phone in an exasperated tone.

“I know Doc, you repeated that hundreds of times! Yeah , I’ll call Mick and Tommy and we will do this fucking conference!”

There was a small pause.  Doc was probably answering back, and Vince looked like he was about to smash the phone on the ground.

“What’s holding us? We fucking lost our bassist, our friend and brother. Jesus, I fucking get it that you want our money but show some fucking mercy, bastard! Fuck you!” He violently put the phone down, only to fall ungracefully on the couch.

The whole conversation made the bassist laugh out of anger.  He knew Doc was all about money, especially because they made his life a living hell, but Vince appearing concerned about his death was honestly so fake.

What? Were you saying that Vince Neil was mourning him? The guy who kept fucking up the band over and over again was sad for him?

“Fucking Nikki, real dick move you pulled there!”

Nikki didn’t wait one second before sitting on the couch and making himself visible to the blonde.

“Oh Vinnie, that’s so rude to say.”

“WHAT THE FUCK?!” Vince screamed,  trying to back away but just managing to fall off the couch.

The other man couldn’t help but let out a laugh.

“Nikki, is that you? What kind of joke is this?!”

“Yeah. Look it might sound nuts but I’m a ghost. I’m dead and couldn’t pass through because I have unfinished business to solve.”

If looks could kill, well Nikki would have died again judging by how Vince was staring at him. He saw his face turning into an angry snarl before he started to yell.

“What the fuck, Sixx?! You die, leave us all alone and then you even have the courage to stay a fucking ghost! You fucking selfish prick!”

The bassist felt his blood boiling, well not literally but he got the same feeling as if he still had blood pumping in his body. How did Vince dare to say such things? He was the selfish prick, he was the one never caring and always causing trouble.  He was destroying the band!

“I’m a selfish prick?! I didn’t decide to fucking die! I put my heart and soul in the band and you kept destroying it. Now you want to accuse me? Fuck you!”

“You didn’t want to die? Oh well, what did you think would happen if you kept injecting that shit in your veins. We are fucking screwed now, without a bassist and ready to split up!”

Oh that was funny! Vince wanted to shame him, as Nikki was the only one drinking and fucking up with drugs. Oh sure Mick, Tommy and him could do anything but Nikki dares to shoot up, oh he’s a junkie! However he knew it was different, it wasn’t a simple way to party for him... He needed it to be alive. He had tons of pages written in his diaries that could be used as a proof.

“Oh because you’re such a saint, aren’t you Vinnie? I’m the bad one, I’m the one out of control. Well guess what?  The only person I hurt was myself, meanwhile we can’t say the same thing for you!”

It was a low blow, a terrible one and Nikki knew that. Rage blinded him, but that didn’t mean he had to dredge up the past, especially on something as horrible as Razzle’s death.

Good job Sikki, great way to get your friend to do what you want.

Vince’s face turned red, his fists clenched and got up to Nikki’s nose. He looked like he was about to punch him, but he had to realize it wasn’t going to happen since the bassist was not tangible, so he kicked a small table.

“You’re the only one who you hurt? What about the band, the fans, all those people you lied to and made suffer. Most importantly, what about Tommy, Nikki? How is he? Because it doesn’t look like he wasn’t hurt when you left him all alone, when you preferred shooting up instead of caring for him.”

Tommy. If he knew Vince’s weak point, the singer knew his too. It fucking hurt so bad, now he was the one wishing to be able to slap him.

“You don’t know a fuck about me or Tommy. Shut the fuck up!”

“Oh, I know all the times I saw him scanning the room around hoping to find you, all the times he looked heartbroken when you disappeared in the bathroom during rehearsal. I saw him after you destroyed him, how he still loved you even if you threw him away like trash. His two worst nightmares came true: you left him and you died. So tell me again Nikki, how did you just hurt yourself?

He wasn’t about to cry, even if he felt like a thousand legs were kicking his chest, he wasn’t about to give that fucker the satisfaction to see him crying ( he probably couldn’t even do that). But after the pain came the realization : he was there for Tommy. He was angry to forget that this wasn’t about him but about the drummer, and he probably ruined everything.

Now the hard part came : swallowing his pride down and convincing Vince. Oh, he would probably torment the bassist as slowly as he could, but eventually he had to accept.  Fuck, the two of them knew each other since high school!

“How’s Tommy?” His voice was so low, he doubted the singer heard him, but somehow he did.

“Oh, so now you want to know how he is?!” His voice was still loud and angry, but he must have seen the desperation on Nikki’s face, because he decided to answer anyway. “ He’s a mess. I just talked with him very briefly, he wanted to know if it was real. Then Doc fucking occupied this phone like it was his bitch, so I haven’t called him again, yet.”

This wasn’t the answer he wanted to hear, it wasn’t fucking reassuring at all… Fuck, literally anything could have happened, Tommy could have hurt himself or left the country and this was all because of him. He just hoped his family was going to be close to him, he was loved, they would have never left him alone. That was supposed to be his job too, but he failed.

He failed his sweet Tommy.

“Sixx, what are you thinking about?”

It was the moment. Even if his heart wasn’t beating, he still felt the oppressive pressure of anxiety.  He wanted to run but he had to do it.

Swallow your pride. You fucking owe it to Tommy.

“Vince, promise me that you’ll protect Tommy, no matter what.”

“What?” The blonde was visibly confused and how to blame him!

“You were right, I broke Tommy and he’s going to have such a hard time. He fucking loved me, even if I didn’t deserve it, and now I’m terrified he’s going to destroy himself. You can’t let that happen!”

“Nikki…”

“I fucking love him Vince. I still love him so much.  He deserves a good life, I can’t ruin him even in death. He needs support.”

“Why me? It’s not like Tommy and I are best friends.”

“Because both you and him have known each other for a long time, and when the band will keep playing there’s going to be you, him and Mick left. He would never tell his stuff to Mick and he has something else to do, which means that you have to do it.”

A dry laugh escaped from Vince’s mouth.

“What if he doesn’t want to get helped?”

“You know how to get what you want. You’ll find a way, I’d do it but I’m a little dead… look I know you hate me but I’m only asking this. Like I said to Mick, this is my dead man’s wish.”

“Okay.” The voice was so low and Nikki barely had the time to react before Vince disappeared in the kitchen.

All his insecurities came back to eat him alive. What was even the point of being a ghost if he still had feelings? The truth was that he wasn’t sure on how much Vince could help, sure having someone close to Tommy was good, but he knew his boyfriend and fuck if he was a stubborn fucker.

His boyfriend.

It was a dagger through his chest, yet it still felt warm like the first time Tommy called him that. His face always lit up whenever he said it. The drummer always made loving him seem like the easiest thing in the world, as it was even possible to love someone like Nikki.

But Tommy did and what did he get in return? A junkie boyfriend and eternal heartache, because the love of his life was dead now.

Vince came back with a beer and softer expression on his face. Nikki didn’t move from the couch so he sat back to where he was.

“I will do it. I’ll keep an eye on Tommy.” His firm voice eased Nikki’s worries a bit.

Fuck, he never expected to see Vince Neil agreeing with him.

“Thanks dude, I know you hate me but Tommy didn’t do anything.”

“I don’t hate you.” His voice was shocked and the bassist had to suppress a laugh.

Yeah sure Vince Neil, not hating Nikki Sixx.

“Oh c’mon, don’t tell me you weren’t happy to hear I was gone.”

“Fuck no. Nikki we might have fought a lot and you were a fucking pain in the ass, but I’d never want your death. I cried, you were still my band mate and brother!”

He wasn’t sure why this whole conversation was hitting him so hard.  It was probably because he didn’t know how to react to the simple act of someone caring for him beside Tommy. Especially when this someone was his singer.

But did they really hate each other as they thought they did? If the roles were reversed, would he be happy about his death?

“I felt the same. Ya know, when we thought you were dead in the car crash.”

Vince gave him a small sad smile.

“Maybe we can bury the hatchet. You don’t follow me for eternity and I won’t talk shit about you in interviews. Deal?”

“Deal.” Nikki smirked.

It’s time to go, Nikki.

The same sense of helplessness he felt before with Mick, came back. Because he could pretend everything was somehow normal, until the voice reminded him that this wasn’t his place. Even if in this case it was for the best for him to go, considering how awkward it felt for both of them to be so friendly with one another.

“Vince, I have to go now.”

The singer made an expression between sad and relieved, but maybe for the first time ever, it was genuine.

“Don’t be a stranger. Send us some bottles of Jack or some strippers from hell, okay?”

Nikki let out a chuckle. Since when he was laughing with Vince Neil?

“I’ll try my best. Vince, keep the promise.”

“He loves you. You should visit him, he deserves to say goodbye to you one last time.”

He knew that, he fucking knew that already! It didn’t matter how hard he was trying to avoid that, he was going to go to him anyway, not only because Tommy deserved it but because he was selfish.

He wanted to see him one last time too.

“I know. I’m going to go to his house next.”

Vince seemed happy and gave him a small smile. Nikki took a deep breath and got out of Neil's mansion, feeling every type of emotion.

God, now it was show time.

[kuroopaisen]

imitheos. (oikawa tooru)

➵ oikawa barely recognises the god he used to be. 

wc: 3.8k

warnings: gn!reader, greek god au, melancholia? angst? is that something to warn people about?

a/n: so this got away from me, and ended up half a character study, but,,, @kacchand (sorry for tagging this one but i couldn’t tag @kacchand-archive aa) thank you so much for the warm, lovely things you’ve said to me ever since stumbling across my blog, and for complimenting my oikawa specifically. it’s those sorts of compliments that makes me feel all soft!

Oikawa Tooru. He’s still not sure of the name. He never chooses them himself; they come to him, quite naturally, each time he assumes a new form. Each time he knits himself a backstory, he wonders what this life will bring. If it will be better than the last.

He hasn’t always been Oikawa Tooru. He’s been many other forms littered throughout history, recycling the same ego. And before each of those, he was Apollo.  

Apollo had been a god amongst gods, deity of so much and so many. He could absolve men of guilt, gift mortals with the power of prophecy, balance their lives in his hands as he commanded the fate of their crops. Even the gods feared him, loved him, revered him.

But he is no longer Apollo. He is a whisper of him, a half-forgotten shadow.

His old name is everywhere. Rocket ships, theatres, philosophical concepts. He’s watched countless effigies to his old self shoot themselves into the sky, chasing a distance once thought unreachable. They always seem to take the light with them, blazing into the darkness.

But Apollo is just a name, now. Everything he used to symbolise seems to pass through him like white smoke.

It’s so hard to find the light in this endless winter.

Archery is just a niche hobby, now. Wars are won through other means.

Disease and the means to combat it are far past his sphere of influence now. Both continue to take on new and frightening forms that even he couldn’t conjure.

There is no space in this world for prophecy anymore. Such things are considered untruths, the trade of hackneyed swindlers masquerading as fortune tellers.

But poetry. Poetry refuses to die.

Sunday afternoon. The sky is already dark. Slam poetry night at a dingy little coffee shop. He’s sat in his usual spot, a dark corner that grants him a clear view of the makeshift stage at the back of the shop. It’s the best spot to melt away into, to become a true observer. 

He’s not sure why he’s come here. The coffee itself isn’t particularly good, nor is the atmosphere of the place much to his liking. It’s a little dingy, reliant on weak oil lamps for light. He knows that it’s supposed to give off a retro vibe, but he thinks it just makes it miserable. There’s the smell of musk too, permeated through both wood and cushion. 

 But something is drawing him to this place. Something, beating against the fabric of the universe, is telling him that this is where he’s supposed to be.

He still doesn’t know why.

You smile at him from across the room, giving him a small wave. You usually work Sunday afternoons, right until close. He isn’t sure of your name, and usually, he wouldn’t care.

But every Sunday, you seem to take it upon yourself to fulfil his orders. Once upon a time, he would’ve been sure that it was his charm that induced you to do so; mortals often found it hard to resist the gods, after all. But he’s not so sure he can still claim that allure.

“You’re becoming a bit of a regular,” you smile, setting his drink down in front of him. Something made with honey, but he’s not sure what. He never pays much attention when he orders.

Oikawa raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“You’re always here on Sundays,” you nod, daring to meet his gaze. “But you’ve never performed yourself.”

Oikawa smiles. One person, at the very least, has noticed his existence. That’s as powerful as a prayer these days.

“I take it you’re a fan,” you remark, eyes scanning his face.

Oikawa nods. “You could say that.”

You smile. It’s small, and he wonders if it’s merely a nicety. “Of slam poetry in particular, or…”

Ah. Yes.

He wants to say it’s because he’s tired of typical poetry. Tired of all its embellishments and platitudes. Slam poetry is newer, younger, angrier. There’s a rawness to it, a rage that speaks to something more visceral in him. Pretty words are not enough anymore.

It’s an offering of something else, of a yearning he still struggles to place. It’s a call for something better, for change, for vindication.

But he won’t bore you with that. You’re just a waiter, making small talk to be polite.

“My preferences change often,” he shrugs.

He appraises you for a moment, clad in a button-up shirt and dress trousers, a charmingly small apron wrapped around your waist. He’s not paid you much mind before; maybe because he’s been looking too hard.

He once thought that this café was drawing him towards a modern muse, an echo of Melpomene. Or perhaps Erato? But it hadn’t been that at all. It had been a call to draw him to you.

For what, he can’t say. But this small moment, this little recognition in the back of a dingy coffee shop on a dour Sunday afternoon in the midst of winter, is the closest he’s felt to worship in aeons.  

He fears, for a moment, that you might be Daphne. Or maybe Marpessa. He’s already lost another Hyacinth; not to death, but to the rhythm of life. The pull of a world to which Oikawa couldn’t follow. How long had it been since Hajime left?

Oikawa can’t say.

But he’s been so lonely. So faded.

Whoever you are, whoever you were, does not matter.

What matters is that you’re the first person in a very long time who can see him.

☉ ☉ ☉

“Back again,” you smile. Another drink with honey is placed in front of him. It’s the only thing he’s been ordering for the past few weeks.

He nods, looking up at you with a smile. He knows it’s dead behind the eyes, but he’s trying. He hopes, quietly, that the darkness will mask it. 

“You must really enjoy the poetry,” you remark, looking over your shoulder.

One girl has just finished, face flushed with both nervousness and pride. She is young, perhaps barely seventeen, but with the fury of someone who knows too much about the horrors of the world. She’d done quite well by Oikawa’s account. He hadn’t derived much joy from it, but she certainly has potential.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, taking a sip of his drink.

“Do you prefer more…” You pause, brow furrowed as you search for the words. “Traditional poetry?”

Oikawa shakes his head.

Perhaps his tastes would err more to the modern, if he knew more about it. But the fact of the matter is that he simply doesn’t have a clue. Too much time spent with volleyball preoccupying most of his thoughts, and very little time keeping up with the artistic scene of the last decade and a half.

He can’t speak as an expert. But he can speak as the god who invented poetry, who gave mortals the means with which to express their magnitudes. A gift, he’d said. To turn the human experience into something beautiful. But was it for them, or for him?

“The anger is sincere,” he muses, “And they all seem to have poured their soul into their poems.”

You nod, smiling at him. “I wish I was that creative, at their age.”

He looks at you. You look about the same age he should be; twenty-something, maybe? Young, perhaps still in university.

You’ve been spending your breaks with him for a few weeks now.

He doesn’t mind; in fact, he enjoys the company. And, you seem to care about what he has to say, which certainly fluffs his ego.  

Why you would care so much about an odd, discreet man sitting in a dark corner of a coffee shop is beyond him.

But he wants to know why. Know more about you. What you love. What you desire.

“What do you want to do with your life?”

The question is sudden, perhaps a bit invasive. It flies from his lips before he has time to reassess it, to craft it into something a bit less intense. He fears, for a moment, that it might scare you – that it might be a bit too much.

But you laugh, tilting your head at him. “That’s a bit of a big question, don’t you think?”

He smiles. “You must have some idea.”

You sigh, shrugging. “I’m not sure, to be honest. I need to survive university before I can start worrying about that sort of stuff.”  

He hums.

“What about you?” You ask, polite smile gracing your lips.

He bites the inside of his cheek, his brows creasing. “Not sure.”

He might have dreamed of greatness a while ago. He would’ve chased volleyball, brilliant and vibrant as he was.

Who would have thought that Apollo would find his heart in something so coarse as sport? For a moment, however brief, he’d felt like he might be able to shrug off this immortal shackle. To exist for himself, and not as a mere echo reliant on mortal belief. To maybe, finally, have a chance to live as he wanted to, dictated by his own desires.  

That last spark of vibrant humanity had spluttered out the day they lost that one fateful match.

He had wanted to chase his own dreams, the tangible passions he’d discovered as a mortal. He hadn’t wanted to be this, a pathetic half-god that was fading into the grey. But that was the trappings of his dying godhood – a life half-lived, a dream unfulfilled. Where would he be, if he had been able to take on the world as Oikawa Tooru?

Happier, he supposes. Though, he can’t be sure. Because maybe this early evening, grey and cold and bitter, almost tastes like happiness. Almost. And he knows why.

☉ ☉ ☉

There’s a glow to him. He doesn’t notice it; he’s been brighter in the past, blindingly radiant. He was once considered the most beautiful of the gods for a reason.

But to you, this distant, peculiar man is beautiful. There’s something of a fallen giant to him; is he the sort of person whose glory days has long since passed? Had he been a high school hero maybe?

There’s something else to him, too. Something strange. Something esoteric.

You don’t quite know how to explain it.

It’s like he’s asking – no, begging someone to acknowledge him. To breathe new life into him.

And for all his strange, aggressive indifference, there’s a little flame in him. One that seems like it’s been burning for centuries, too stubborn to flicker out.

You haven’t missed how it’s getting brighter.

He only comes in on Sundays, staying from three until eight. If his prolonged presence bothers your co-workers, they don’t mention it.

Perhaps it’s silly to be so fascinated by a complete stranger, especially one that simply sits in a corner and watches. Perhaps it is even sillier to spend your breaks with him. But it’s as if you can’t help yourself; something pulls you towards him, even if you don’t understand it.

“What about the Greeks?” You ask one evening, sitting next to him in his booth.

His smile is bemused at best. “What about them?”

“Well… they’re classics,” you muse, “Are you a fan, or…?”

“Homer can suck my dick,” Oikawa grumbles. He never quite forgave that man for the unflattering portrait of his godliness.

You laugh. There’s an echo of a lyre in it. He wonders, for a moment, what you might look like with a laurel woven through your hair, smiling on a Pierian coast in the height of a blistering summer.

He doesn’t let his mind wander too far.

“I’m not really one for poetry,” you murmur, looking down at your hands.

“Is that so?” Oikawa smiles, taking a sip of his coffee. It’s lukewarm after sitting on the table for so long, but he doesn’t mind.

You shake your head. “I find it difficult to wrap my head around. It makes me feel kind of stupid.”

He nods. He used to understand poetry so well – in the darkest of nights, it was often the only thing he understood. It used to be laced with his very being, threaded through his body like veins. But now, it just fills him with bitterness.

“I like the classics, though,” you smile softly, playing with your fingers. “There’s something about the simplicity and straightforwardness of the language that appeal to me. And, I don’t know…” You bite your lip. “Some emotions seem to transcend time and culture. And some of the classics are so… raw. So… human.”

‘Human.’ He gazes at you, that word in particular playing over in his mind. There’s some truth in the classics, he supposes. Something in them that echoes across the centuries. But he’s been around far too long to care for patterns and parallels.

“Sorry,” you blush, smoothing your apron. “I must be boring you.”

“Not at all.” Oikawa shakes his head, leaning towards you. He takes another sip of his coffee. It’s cold now. “So, you’re a history buff, then?”

Maybe you are Clio, after all.

You shrug. “Only ancient history, really. But I haven’t read as much about it as I should’ve.”

“Are you a fan of the myths?” He asks, a playful lilt to his voice. He knows you won’t get the joke, but he doesn’t mind.

“Some,” you nod. “Why?”

“Know any about Apollo?”

“Apollo?” You smile. His old name sounds like a melody on your lips. “As in the god?”

“Sure.” Who else could he mean?

You pause for a moment, pressing your lips together. It’s a beautiful silence.

“Have you read Plato’s Symposium, by any chance?” You ask, gaze meeting his.

He nods. He doesn’t mind Plato; the man had been grateful for the gift of music, after all.

“There’s a story in it I really like,” you murmur, eyes turning towards the roof. “Well, it’s more of a myth, but… it’s the one about soulmates.”

“Oh?”

“Do you know it?”

“Vaguely.” Of course he knows it. He just wants to hear it retold in your voice.

“Well, alright,” you clear your throat, sitting up a little straighter. “There were three kinds of humans, descended from the sun, the earth and the moon. All had four arms and four legs, two faces, et cetera. But, the gods felt they were too unruly and powerful. By Zeus’ count, this was unacceptable, and he wanted to humble them.”

Oikawa hopes his expression is neutral enough. How is Zeus? Is he still around?

“Instead of simply destroying them, he split them in two,” you continue. “And that made us miserable.”

Your use of the word ‘us’ intrigues him, but he wants to save his questions for later.

“But, Apollo took pity on us,” you smile. “He decided to patch us up, and shape us into, well… the form we have today. The story goes that our navel is where he sewed our broken skin together. But he turned our heads around to what had once been our back, so we’d have to look at that mark as a reminder of our punishment and how incomplete we are.”

It does not matter to him if there is any truth in this story. Regardless, it certainly sounds like the folly of the gods.

“Once we were split, the two halves were flung to the far ends of the earth. From then on, each of us yearns with both body and soul to be reunited with our other half.” Your voice is so lyrical, so comforting. It is, perhaps, the closest thing to music he’s heard in a while. “Those of us who are lucky enough to find them supposedly know no greater joy. We’ll never feel so understood, so complete. Most of us though, will never know that joy.”

Perhaps the gods didn’t deserve the reverence they got. Perhaps they really had been tyrants, all along. But then again, there was little love between gods and mortals; if anything, worship was simply a reflection of the fears the divine inspired.  

A new question itches at the back of his mind.

“Do you believe in life after death?” He asks.

You blink at him, eyes wide and round. “Well, I… I don’t know, really.”

He knows it’s a heavy question. He knows that he didn’t prepare you for it, and that it’s only tenuously connected to the conversation at hand. But, he always found that people were at their most honest when they were caught off guard.

 “I don’t like thinking about it,” you admit, looking down at your hands. “It makes me all existential.”

Oikawa nods. Most humans react like this.

The relationship between mortals and death has always fascinated him. Fear, loathing, regret. It’s all bundled together. Sometimes, there is comfort. Sometimes, there is a sense of calm. But it is never easy to face the unknown, after such a brief stint of being alive.

It’s something he cannot understand in this existence of his that stretches itself thin across the millenniums.

What is death to a god? He imagines it must be something like relief.

☉ ☉ ☉

“Do you write yourself?” It’s a little question, one he knows was coming.

He doesn’t know how to answer.

You sit next to him in the lamplight, eyes sparkling as they always do. If he was more human, maybe he would compare them to the stars. Or perhaps the ocean after a storm. But he is not human, much less a poet.

How does he say that he’s never needed to? That his patronage, his presence alone was enough to inspire those classics you so dearly love? That he himself has never put lyrics to the human experience?

He has always been a god. There is no beauty to his experience; only in those small pockets of human intimacy he’s been granted across the centuries. There is no beauty to the life of a god – only fire, and fury, and hubris. Even his body is unlike yours; he has no heart, and he bleeds ichor.

“Not really,” he shrugs. It’s all he can say.

“‘Not really’ implies that you write at least a little,” you smile, leaning towards him.

He shakes his head. “I didn’t really have time to do something like that.” He pauses for a moment. Should he tell you? Should he reveal more of himself than is maybe wise? “I played volleyball in high school.”

“Oh, really?” You ask, tilting your head at him.

“I was good, too,” he sighs, brow furrowing. “But my team never made it to nationals.”

“Oh.” You look genuinely sad. “I’m sorry.”

He shrugs. There’s little else to do.

“I wanted to go further,” he admits. The lamplight casts a long shadow on his face, each feature soft and delicate as marble.

Each form, each reiteration, wants more.

So much of what he’s done this time doesn’t echo the traditional Apollonian figure. There is no art, this time. No song.

There was drama in sport, but it was different. It had filled him with a passion he’d never felt before, beating in his chest just like a heart would. It provided that rush of adrenaline, the brutal awareness of the importance of just one moment. Eternity stretches on forever for a god, but a game must end. Perhaps, in some way, death is very much the same. 

He wants that closure. That passion for the now. 

Now, more than ever before, he wants to be mortal. To lose himself in the storm that is being human – he wants it all. He wants to let go of the god he no longer is.

Where does Apollo end? Where does Oikawa Tooru begin?

☉ ☉ ☉

Time is passing again. Each day is over before it’s even begun, slipping through his fingers like a lucid dream. A heartbeat that isn’t his own thrums in his ears, quick and loud and frantic.

And yet, he finds himself outside the coffee shop, standing on the curb. You’re next to him, hands dug deep in your pockets. He’s arrived earlier than usual, catching you right at the beginning of your shift.

There’s something he wants – no, needs to say. Something that can’t wait.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, looking up at the sky. It’s pale, a shade found in-between blue and grey. A perfect winter sky, one you might find on a postcard trying to capture the beauty of the season.

Something is pressing on his chest, heavy and immovable. It feels like a goodbye.

“What for?” You laugh. It really is a delightful sound.

Where to begin? You couldn’t possibly comprehend it. Nor would you believe him. If he speaks too frankly, you may not remember him fondly.

“For the coffee,” he says.

There’s more he wants to say. Something about how, maybe, in another life, there could have been something more between the two of you. Something quite beautiful.

But he knows it’s wiser not to speak that into being. If you feel even a modicum of these emotions, then silence would be an act of kindness.

“Are you… going somewhere?” You ask, all signs of levity gone from your face. He regrets speaking at all now.

“Something like that,” he murmurs. It’s the closest he can get to the truth.

A long silence ensues. Oikawa doesn’t know if he should try to fill it; perhaps he should just let it sit for a while? To enjoy this little moment with you, standing with you in front of a dingy coffee shop on a dour Sunday night in the midst of winter.

Because this moment cannot last. Because nothing can.

“Well,” you clear your throat, eyes lingering on his face, as if you’re committing each detail to memory.

He smiles at you. He’s not aware of it, but it’s almost blinding. It brings a warmth to his face that you’ve never seen before, a warmth that makes him so striking, so beautiful, that you know you won’t be able to find the words to praise it.  

“I hope I’ll see you again,” you murmur. It’s the best you can manage, keeping your feelings in your heart as best you can.

“Me too.”

He means it.

It’s time to go. Where, he’s not sure. But, with all the courage he could muster, he turns his back to you, making his way down the street.

There’s a space in his heart for fear. But it’s empty. Whatever’s coming, whatever’s about to change – he’s ready for it.

He welcomes it.

☉ ☉ ☉

He opens his eyes. He’s tangled in blankets; his own, or someone else’s?

One thought.

My name is Oikawa Tooru.

In the haze of a Sunday morning, he knows nothing else. His eyes flick to the blinds as they flutter with the wind that whispers through his window.

The light floods in.

It’s finally spring.��

[dandelion-person]

You know, I absolutely adore playing as a dwarf. I have a heartfelt connection to them. But aside from my personal preference, I find the character development to be wonderful. In Origins, when you play as a noble, my favorite part about the backstory in general is how warden develops. He/she starts as royalty, some wonderful person who very well may absolutely hate being rich. Hates the way they are looked at, but knows no other way. Someone who does their duty unquestioning and loyally. Who thinks of battle as something as simple as dusting the house. Perhaps they are even in a forbidden love with their second. These things: hiding relationships, knowing your death is tangible on any given day be it by darkspawn or relatives, never getting to be seen as a simply normal dwarf, are just a normal part of life. Until everything changes. And you’re thrown into this world that is ever so bright and scary. Something totally different. And you, young warden, are so practiced in the ways you have lived that people often mistake you for being callous. Monotone. Unfazed. They’re not wrong. At this point, it takes a lot to rattle you. But this is your life now. And you must learn.

I love thinking about the various situations Aeducan finds themselves in. Stumbling out of the deep roads barefoot into the wardens, who are visibly shocked, battering you with questions that should have been comforting, only to be so numb and hardened that the only thing you can muster is a very formal “it is good to see you again, Duncan.”

Then, meeting Alistair, watching the conversation with a mage and apparently something to do with these odd human religions and traditions with the most resting bitch face imaginable. As is your habit. You’ve grown accustomed to never showing emotion. Dwarves are accustomed to battle and honor and tradition, not emotion. And Alistair, thinking you’re offended or something and you simply replying with “You must be Alistair.” You didn’t mean to sound so scary, wow.

Then Duncan, briefing you on your joining tasks, and you, switching automatically into army general mode, asking the strategies and alternative solutions should problems arise. Duncan finds himself smiling internally. Your level head will surely balance Alistair’s emotional panic in the future.

On to Morrigan. These humans never cease to amaze you. She has nearly no clothing on. How can she survive a battle? None of this shows on your face of course. The never changing diplomatic hardened expression masks your internalized thoughts. It is at times a blessing, not allowing others to see your confusion and fear and curiousity as you learn this new world.

Battle at first is a bit distracting. You’re caught off guard by the fear and disgust the other recruits show. It’s as if they’ve never seen darkspawn...but wait. They haven’t. And you’re reminded again of your people (of whom will never speak of you again) who have faced these monsters for centuries. You find yourself wondering if these humans had experienced the hug of their mother. Harmless games with their fathers. Bonding with their siblings. You consider your own personal family life. You suppose in your own dwarven ways, your family had been very close. But you know if you were to ever try to explain that to these humans, that your version of bonding with your brothers had been training so harshly and brutally that you had sometimes had to spend days in the medicinal wing, they would think you a monster or a war machine. Perhaps...perhaps that’s what you are.

Then waking up in the hut. A pounding headache and intense body pain. You shift into automatic response. Is my duty completed? Are my men safe? What must be done to finish the assigned task. You walk outside to find Alistair. Who expresses some strange sort of gratitude, for what you don’t understand. You consider that humans take death very personally. Death is not something humans are ready and willing to face at any moment. How strange. You think your face must display some sort of confusion, because you swear you see Alistair give a small sad smile. Almost like he’s pitying you. The very look of it makes your stomach turn. Pity is for the weak.

Then there’s Leliana. The most odd creature you’ve found yourself encountering in this new strange land where the sky seems like it can swallow you. She speaks of some man in the sky. You presume a human. She has tried to explain it to you, but it makes no sense. Your body will one day return to the stone from which it came...but then you think further. Perhaps you won’t be returned to the stone. You’ve been exiled. There is no longer somewhere for you to go after you die. For the first time in your life, dying in battle doesn’t seem like a desirable choice.

Sten, oh Sten. Sten quickly becomes one of your most trusted companions. You and him understand each other. Sten is not blinded by emotion and vengeance. Sten exists. And you can appreciate that. Sten has a purpose. Long ago, you were a lot like Sten. Now, you have no idea of your purpose. This world confuses you. You take each day as it comes. Something you’re not used to and find quite annoying. You do not know what to expect. The one thing you can appreciate though, is duty. Duty you took upon yourself. You pride yourself in it really. For the first time, you are doing something that you chose to do. Something not assigned to you. Something you control. It is comforting, and when you look at the sky and grip your toes into the ground so it doesn’t swallow you, you think of this one piece of your culture that will always stay with you: your duty. Sten helps you realize this. And with Sten, you find yourself talking strategy. In some ways, Sten reminds you of Trian. In other ways, Gorim. You cherish Sten. He is a rock in this strange floating bright world.

Then comes Zevran. One of the first elves you’ve ever spoken to in depth actually. Among the first you’ve ever encountered. You find yourself considering him almost to be charming? The word sounds foul to you. He’s a piss poor rogue. Of this you know. At first you find him rather annoying? Almost angering? A piss poor rogue and an even poorer assassin, he turns his back on his duty immediately. You find his desire to avoid death deplorable. But for some reason, the idea of killing him (for the first time in your life mind you) strikes you as being morally wrong. Why? You weren’t sure. Perhaps it was your vacancy for tendencies of vengeance. You did not even seek to kill Bhelen after all. Bhelen had simply done what any dwarf would’ve, had they been smart enough. Bhelen’s act did not provoke hard feelings. You still loved him even. Your little brother had grown into an outstanding noble and you could not deny that. He had simply beaten you at a game. Once again, if you expressed this opinion to your human companions after they learned your story, they considered you to be insane. Apparently, vengeance is a common thing amongst humans. Humans, you feel, are incapable of accepting that which they do not enjoy. You find this odd. Relating back to Zevran, Zevran is not human. And though he acts nothing like the odd elves from the trees (the first trees you’d ever seen by the way), Zevran is refreshingly morally corrupt. The more you get to know him, the more he reminds you of your people. And this is comforting. He tells you of Antiva. Perhaps you even ask him if he will someday take you there. Maybe there would feel like home. It certainly sounds like the politics are the same. Zevran’s moral instability and cowardice are exactly what makes him so comforting. He makes you feel at home.

Sorry, I suppose those are just some ramblings/drabbles that go through my head when I play as a dwarf. Let me know if you’d like me to write any other background stories. I’ve played them all. The way my brain can spin their personalities and character development affects the way I build each character. I’d love to share more if anyone liked this!

PS: I have played all 3 games. The only backstory I haven’t played so far is the Qunari and it will have to wait because I just upgraded from 360 to One and now I have to buy another inquisition.

[transrevolutions]

it’s such a fucking stupid thing to be sad about, especially now. but there’s something so cold about it, unfinished, abandoned, last updated july 23 2013. there’s something missing.

it just stopped. maybe the authour got tired of it, maybe the authour forgot about it, maybe the authour moved to alaska and got a job in the wilderness as a salmon fisher with no internet, but this isn’t about the authour.

and of course it’s a fucking cliffhanger, of course, because there are two ways the plot could go and now we’re never going to know because it’s a schrodinger’s cat and either way seems right and wrong all at once.

and I can check it and read and reread it a million times and it will never change, never resolve, always still and silent and trapped in time

again, it’s a fucking stupid thing to be sad about.

because tomorrow more people will die and more people will cry and this is real, real, real, why am I almost-crying over a stupid fucking abandoned book in the middle of the fucking night, I have work to do and things to fix and fears to face, but it’s so fucking sad just sitting there lonely.

how it desperately needs someone to finish it, to cut the tension, to fill back in the gaps that were cut off, but nobody ever will because the authour’s not doing it and isn’t coming back

it craves and longs to be finished and fucking dammit if we aren’t all like that too. always-unfinished books written by an authour-god who if they gives a shit whether we live or die, they don’t show it. and the book isn’t finished until we die but not everyone gets a nice satisfactory resolution, sometimes the book gets fucking abandoned and left to fade away because somewhere the universe decided it wasn’t worth finishing.

who knows if the universe will think I’m worth finishing, or you’re worth finishing, or if any of it really matters but you know what I don’t give a shit what the universe thinks of me because it doesn’t fucking matter.

ever heard of death of the authour?

not literally of course, I’m not a murderer. I mean the literary term.

so guess fucking what, I’ve decided that the half-way finished book (it was about a ghost and his boyfriend, you know that, the sort of book that made you want to cry and laugh all at once) ends well. or at least it doesn’t end badly. he doesn’t come back to life- this isn’t a kid’s fairy tale and neither is the world- but he doesn’t fade away either and they make it work and they love each other and everything’s- not good, maybe, but okay.

and who knows what the authour wanted to do with it and maybe I’m full of shit and it’s still waiting alone and abandoned and unfinished, faintly smelling of maple syrup and pressed violets (or at least it would had it been a physical tangible thing) and maybe it wasn’t meant to end the way I chose it to end but maybe that doesn’t matter.

for now I’m okay with being unfinished. I prefer it, even, because no god or fate or universe gets to write in me.

damn, my dad’s telling me to go the fuck to sleep, and tomorrow’s gonna fucking suck, I can feel it, and this entire post reads like a dream all because of a fucking stupid unfinished fucking fanfiction that made me question my very fucking existence.

good night. stay unfinished.

[reylofanfictionanthology]

For one is love and both are one in love is now live!  

Authors will be revealed next week!  For now all fics are anonymous.  Treats can be posted through author reveals on 2/21.  We will post an updated masterpost at that time.

For one is love and both are one in love collection on AO3 |  Gift Fic Master Post Part Two | Treats Masterpost

Gifts Fic Master Post Part One:

ghosts on the shore for aaronBursar

“I meant what I said to you that day on the Death Star. I thought I could never go back. I still think it even now—that I don’t belong here, that I never will.” “But you did come back,” she said, squeezing his hand. “You’re here now. With me. You chose it. Despite everything, we made it, both of us.” They sat in silence for awhile, hands clasped while they watched the camp clear as people finally turned in for the night. Then, suddenly, Ben was struck with an idea. “What if we took a trip?”

Sugar High for abbytheatre08

When Maz Kanata hosts five weeks of a Battle of the Bands competition, Rey Johnson and Kylo Ren find themselves both pitted against one another, and drawn together as the weeks go on.

Delayed For A While for aionimica

Death cannot stop love. All it can do is delay it awhile.

I am ready to follow you even though I don't know where for AlwaysEverlark

Her closest friends want Rey to move on from what happened on Exegol, but she refuses to accept that Ben Solo, her soulmate in the Force, is dead. Instead, she undertakes a rescue mission to bring Ben home--no matter the risk.

A More Perfect Union for america_oreosandkitkats

Rey, new to DC, tags along to a stuffy networking event with her friend -- they're both poor and, hell, there's free booze. Ben, a recruiter for the lobbyist firm he works for, finds the intern with the soft voice and angry eyes a fun challenge -- especially when he finds out she works for his estranged mother Senator Leia Organa.

In the Den of the Darkwolf for Amy326

Rey awakened in the darkwolf’s den.

happy cockus day for andabatae

She prefers the nip of New Hampshire winters, heavy winds blowing in her hair, being bundled up in three layers with pens whose ink freeze fast and thaw slow. She loves warm buildings, and Christmas breaks, and slurping down huge bowls of ramen in the evenings, but being on the ground, a clipboard in her hand, boots on a voter’s doorstep? That’s where she knows she belongs. So there are a lot of things going against Rey Johnson’s introduction to Ben Solo, his moody personality probably the least of her worries, since he’s the reason she’s not outside, making some sort of tangible effort to get his mother elected as president.

Hope Lives for aNerdObsessed

This AU story takes place right after the Battle of Exegol, Rey and Ben have just defeated Palpatine and they are both seriously injured but not mortally wounded. When all hope is lost for them as there is no one coming to get them, old friends of the past come to their aid.

Two Bits (or The Haircut) for Ann3onymous

Three days into their marriage of convenience, Ben and Rey are maybe starting to realize that there’s more to this arrangement than a green card or a cooperative board of directors.

We've Got a Good Thing Here for Anysia

Rey & Ben Solo navigate their feelings in the aftermath of the end of the war. With Ben a "functionally dead" force ghost, Rey has to come to terms with how she will balance restoring liberty to the galaxy and making her relationship with Ben work in a... physical sense. It's a difficult enough task to begin with, and it doesn't help that every time they're alone someone seems to require Rey for something.

Event Horizon for Apisa_B

Rey runs into Kylo Ren on a mission for the Resistance, and they have to work together against their wishes. This would be simple... if working together didn't involve pretending to be married, sharing a hotel room, and a lot of unresolved feelings.

still caught in yesterday's wake for Apricot

Her heart is heavy with fear—fear that one day she will no longer be able to recall the shape of Ben’s face, or the timbre of his voice, or the exact color of his eyes; that her memory of him will fade until she is left with nothing but the pain of his absence, like some phantom limb that aches and aches and aches, relentlessly.

A Dark Day Dream for ArdeaJestin

Ben's come home, but Rey can't face him. Not because of anything he's done, at least not in real life. But in her fantasies? oh yes.

Become Who You Were Meant to Be for Aurae

Kylo is a fighter both by training and by preference. Tactics, not strategy. Action, not discussion. Every instinct in him wants to solve his problems by grabbing his sword and shedding some blood. But those easy days are behind him now. He has a galaxy to run. It would be easier if only he could stop thinking about her.

The Spaces Inbetween for Ayrith (freijya)

It wasn’t the first time. Not the first since Crait and she saw him kneeling and their eyes met with anger and ache and want and everything else they didn’t have to say. No. Not the first, nor the second, nor even the third. This was a well trodden path that they all walked over and over. As if the Force was taking their hands and despite both of them tearing it away, still trying to bring them together. --- Rey and Kylo have been dealing with the Force bond for some time, but it finally reaches a tipping point.

The Least Of What I Could Do for benperor-ren (winterelf86)

"I refuse to play opposite someone who has never had a part in their entire life," sneers Ben. "Either Rey goes or I do."

Niima's for bensolosredemption

Though Niima's is a questionable establishment, it's always been Ben's favorite bar. It's not just because he's inexplicably attracted to the new bartender, either - though he has to admit she might have something to do with it.

Devil Spawn for Biekewieke

After a hot anonymous encounter at The Annual Organa Halloween Ball, Rey realizes she slept with the horrible guy who is her new boss. But he doesn't recognize her! And he asks her to track down his mystery hookup, which she totally agrees to do (wink wink, haha, she's lying). But then she finds out she's pregnant! GASP! What's a scared, pregnant single girl to do? (Other than take a nap because she's exhausted.)

Belonging for bitterbones

Friends-with-benefits except whoops I'm in love with you now and hate seeing you flirt with other people because we're technically not together.

Paradise for bittersnake

For two people whose souls are inseparably united, the question of sex shouldn't be that complicated. Given Ben and Rey's individual histories, however, it really comes as no surprise. But that's all right. They’ll have their whole lives together to figure it out, if Rey and Ben and possibly several hundred generations’ worth of Jedi ghosts have anything to say about the matter. Which they do.

Miss Johnson & the Professor for blackheretic (redlondons)

Her heart wants to erupt through her throat, and she audibly gulps, trying to keep her gaze from the only place it wants to go. Thank fuck his eyes are so hypnotic; she can get lost in them as she stammers for English syllables. “Y-Yes, Dr. Solo?” “Seriously, Rey.” Is he blushing? Surely not. “I’ve known you all year, call me Ben.” “Ben,” she mumbles. It tastes like delicious sacrilege. “I actually think you’re in my bed.” “Huh?” “The couch. I was going to sleep there. Remember?” Rey clutches the blanket to her collarbone, hoping the light fabric is tented loosely enough to cover her breasts. Fuck, why does he have to be so distractingly hot? “No, it’s all right. I don’t mind, Professor.” “Ben," he insists firmly. “And I won’t be able to sleep at all knowing I’m comfy in a bed while you’re sleeping on that thing.”

Owner Malfunction. for Bombastique

One year after surviving Execgol, Rey and Ben Solo find themselves in each other's company after they are both captured while trying to take back the Falcon from Kanjiklub remnants. (AKA - The Force, the Falcon, love, and droids.)

Stealing the Light for bratanimus

Redemption isn’t given. It’s earned. Or: As the galaxy rebuilds from war, the man formerly known as Kylo Ren tries to make peace with the person he was, and the person he’s becoming.

Rey Niima and the American (Hot Piece of) Ass that She Just Wants to Tap, while also Not Dying in the Triwizard Tournament or Becoming Otherwise Inconvenienced or Maimed for Cairdiuil_Paiste

Completed for the prompt: Hogwarts AU! Triwizard tournament time with seventh year Rey representing Hogwarts. She wants to impress the MACUSA representative to strengthen her chances of joining their graduate programme. Too bad American diplomat Ben Solo doesn't seem to like her…

a forest of stars for caisha

Rey works hard at the diner to save up for her long dreamed-of vacation to Finland. She's lonely, but that's not new. What is new is Kylo Ren, the CEO of Orpheus Corp and new boss of her best friend Finn. When Finn and Kylo Ren stop by the diner for lunch, Rey feels as though she's finally met someone who understands her. But who is Kylo Ren, and what's his secret? A Modern Fae AU

I am a Soul Longing for Ceallaigh

Rey has spent the last two years searching the galaxy for clues about how to bring Ben back. Now, finally, it seems she has a solid lead. The planet Xolutel is said to be a vergence in the Force, and myth has it there's a hidden temple where worshipers of the Force were granted their deepest desires. No matter how slim the possibility, Rey owes it to Ben and herself to check it out. She's not known to give up easily.

The World Has Been Sad Since Tuesday for ceciliasheplin

The creature on his bed defied explanation, but Kylo Ren had a distinct feeling that there was nothing to worry about, nothing to fear. At least, not in this room. Demons lay in wait outside, but not here. Best not to let anyone know about this.

Be With Me for Chthonia

A force connection between Kylo (Ben), and Rey. It takes place while she is on Ach-To, and he is on the Death Star.

between the shadow and the soul for ClockworkCrow (icemink)

“You and Skywalker have been keeping it a secret,” she said, her eyes searching his face to catch him when he lies. “But I know the truth. I learned it, the day after we fought on Mustafar. That Lord Vader was his father, and your grandfather.” He struggled against her stasis but she pushed back harder, her power swirling around them both. “Rey—” “Don’t you see, Ben?” There was a ghost of a smile on her lips. “The darkness is inside of you, too. You don’t have to keep fighting it. You were meant to be mine.” Mine. . or: Jedi Knight Ben Solo should really stop doing smuggling runs with his father. Kira Ren should really stop trying to turn him to the dark side.

The Rescue for cohava

“What is it?” Ben asked, watching the worry lines form on Rey’s forehead as she checked the message that had just pinged through her datapad. “Poe’s leading the relief efforts on Faratula. There’s a boy there, Force sensitive. Orphaned. Poe says it’s a pretty bad situation.” “Let’s go get him, then,” he said without pausing.

how easy you are to need for Crimson_Alchemistress

The war is finished, yet Rey still carries wounds. They come in the form of nightmares, but Ben is there to comfort her.

stuck on how it feels here next to you for crossingwinter

Around four months ago, Ben and Rey married out of convenience. It had started that way and one of the key reasons why they had agreed to this in the first place was the condition that neither had romantic feelings for the other. This is their life, both head of heels for the other while not really knowing what to do about it.

Blue Sand for Crysania

The pale crimson sun rises above the horizon across the fields. A slight wind gently brushed Rey’s face. She left the ship and coverded herself with a blue scarf from a desert heat. She stepped forward, carefully observing the small city before her. Hot sand was burning her feets despite thick soles of boots. “This is going to be disaster,” she told herself with a crooked smile.

covert mission: baby acquisition for crystanagahori

In which Rey decides she's ready to start a family of her own and Ben Solo, her boss and dear friend, would make the perfect sperm donor. * It was a stupid, girlish crush. One that likely wasn’t reciprocated, and could land her in a world of trouble with HR if she acted brashly. But still, she wanted him. He could waive his parental rights for all she cared. They could enter into some sort of contract, if such things existed. But he was the perfect candidate, the ideal sperm donor. Ben Solo.

hands that hurt, hands that heal for cuddlesome

Rey climbs on top of Ben and makes out with his sopping self after Force healing his stab wound.

It was not Death, for I stood Up for CwenPhy

Emperor Palpatine lied on Exegol; Rey is not his granddaughter. Rey sets off on a journey, led by Obi-Wan Kenobi, to bring Ben Solo back from the World Between Worlds.

Good Boy for dankobah

Rey takes her dog to a nearby veterinary clinic for an emergency and doesn't expect to meet Ben (or anyone) while there.

The Unbreakable Bond for DarkSideOfMe

After Crait, Rey thought she had severed their Force Bond, or at least closed it, but some weeks ago she started feeling it, a presence in the back of her mind. Then she could hear him saying her name or other random words or feelings: concern, anxiety, loneliness, longing..to be fair, she didn’t know who those feelings belonged to, if there were Kylo’s or hers. And that was the other reason to put an end to this; she wasn’t ready to deal with anything different to her anger and disappointment. She had to focus on her training, on the Resistance, in their fight against “his” First Order. She was scared, scared of something she couldn’t put a name to, and last night had just showed her how important it was to break their connection. It was time to read the Jedi texts she’s been putting off for too long.

NiimaRide for datswatutink

Journey urge her not to stop believin' but provide no further clarification before she's strapped in the back seat and they're pulling away from the only real break she's had in twenty-four years.

To Hold and Give Light for dearly

After Exegol, Rey takes an injured Ben back to the Resistance.

a conundrum of lightsabers for devon380black (kryptonian17)

In the aftermath of Crait, Rey is left with two halves of a broken lightsaber she has no idea how to fix. As her force bond conversations with Ben continue, she comes to understand he's the only one who can help her with her problem. Maybe if they can repair one thing, they can repair something else too.

What Happens in Hotel Chandrila for DrPearlGatsby

Accompanying her best friends to a Galaxy Wars convention in Chandrila sounded like a good idea at first. But third-wheeling sucks, and that's how Rey finds herself daydrinking alone at the hotel bar. And then she gets a free drink from a tall, brooding, handsome stranger…

Until the Wild Feelings Leave You for dustoftheancients

Rehabilitating from a battle injury leaves Rey an irritable mess. The way Ben hovers over her does nothing to help.

Kintsugi for ElegyGoldsmith

In the darkest moments, the galaxy is still filled with light.

give me shapes and letters, if it’s not forever for ElleRen31

She holds out her hand, “I don’t think we’ve met, I’m Rey.  I work at the flower shop next door.” He must be new, or she’s just a shut-in during work because she would’ve remembered seeing him after a year of being here. “I’m Kylo, I own the tattoo shop.”  He points to his building and her eyebrows raise as he shakes her hand.  Owner? So he’s the head honcho? She hums to herself and then keeps the smile plastered on her face. Then she sets her sights on the dogs, “What are their names?”

Where the ocean goes for Elywyngirlie

Sometimes getting out alive is the victory. Sometimes the rest takes a little time.

it shall not be death for englishable

Rey of the Jedi Knights is sent with her sword and Holy Fire, to destroy a palace of thorns. It doesn't quite go as planned.

The Reckoning for Erin410

Because of Rey, Ben has grown rather good at waiting. But she’s waiting, too, for something that hasn’t dawned on him yet. [Post-TROS mildly angsty marriage proposal fluff, hope you enjoy!]

Trading Places for Fairleigh

Kylo… Kylo awoke to the sound of her whimpering his name. He sat bolt upright in Rey’s extremely uncomfortable cot. Anxious for her safety, he reached out for her with his mind. Rey? He heard her moan and heat instantly pooled between his legs. Curious. The sensation was different but not unwelcome. Then he saw Rey, or rather he saw himself, naked and writhing on his bed. His mouth fell open. Rey was... masturbating. He watched in awe as she pumped his shaft up and down, slowly but forcefully. Kylo… She called his name again.

You'll Turn for FangirlintheForest

A retelling of the Last Jedi's elevator and throne room scenes with a role reversal twist. Can Smuggler Ben turn Dark Rey?

Building Something Together for fantastic_fanatics

When Ben confronts his new upstairs neighbor who keeps making all manner of odd noises at all manner of hours, he didn't expect what she's doing up there. He also didn't expect her to be so pretty.

Little Starfighter for Fic_me_senseless

Convinced he ruins everything he touches, isolated and lonely Ben Solo successfully pushes everyone away, except for the girl who sees something in him she recognizes.

Benvenuto nella nostra famiglia for gennalannisters

"Well, I have sensitive information here. Dinner is just actually a ploy. It’s actually an interrogation to make sure you didn't read the documents." She turned and smirked at him as they headed down the stairs, "If that's the case, I'm happy to be interrogated through wining and dining.” Love is in the air at Harvard Square.

Binary Suns for gigi_marlee

Young Ben Solo meets a young Rey. The two form an intense and instant attachment to the confusion of Ben's parents and his Uncle, Jedi Master Luke Skywalker. What is a dyad and what will it mean for two children who have found belonging in each other?

more everything for HalfwayThrough

"I'm the boss, I've earned the right to show up whenever the fuck I want." He was arrogant, condescending, and an asshole. And he didn't have a mark on his wrist.

One Stick of Unsalted Butter for HopeRebel

Rey's neighbor is the rudest, least considerate person she had to interact with. However, when she runs out of butter in the middle of night trying to bake cookies for Rose's birthday, there is only person she knows is awake and he is her only hope. Of course, things don't go according to plan.

come home, ben for hxllosweetie33

He looked at their hands, watched as Rey intertwined their fingers together, and fought the back the shutter from the contact. “ Rey…” He whispered. She brought her hand to his face – calloused tips brushing against his scar – observing his face, every detail of it, the bags and dark circles under his eyes, the paleness of his skin, his dry lips, the lack of light behind his eyes.

Ashes of Life for iamladyloki

Dark Rey becomes a reality and Ben has to remind her who she is

Negotiated Settlement for ilum

General Leia Organa has brought a small team with her to Kaytuu 5, expecting to negotiate a ceasefire between the First Order-controlled planetary government and local Resistance fighters. Unfortunately, Supreme Leader Armitage Hux has other plans. Rey will need the assistance of a Certain Someone who no longer calls himself Kylo Ren if she and her friends are to save the day.

Coming Home for incognitajones

After the Battle of Exegol, Rey and an injured Ben are trapped together on an uninhabited planet.

The Stray for itsinthestars

Rey moves in across the hall from Ben; a former foster kid alone in the city, aspiring to be an actress. Ben is a ladder-climbing white collar businessman with a horrible boss and zero social life. Which is just the way he likes it. So why in the world has this insufferable creature made it her life's work to adopt him? From sharing her dinner to doing his laundry, she seems determined to make a connection. In the end, it's easier for Ben to just let her. But opening up means letting your heart be vulnerable.

Peace and Purpose for itsnotillegal

Across the stars, Rey and Ben yearn for each other, neither able to move on, both facing the unending nights alone. But the Force longs for balance as surely as they long for each other.

Christmas Blues for karlamartinova

The first snow had fallen, covering the ground like a white blanket. The emergence of winter weather always marked the increase of Christmas moods. The season when people fervently decorated their houses and you couldn’t walk through the mall or downtown area without hearing a Christmas jingle. The neighborhood already sparkled with multicolored lights and inflated or authentic snow-made snowmen. Rey Johnson’s festive mood rose with each house she drove by, her fingers tapping on the wheel as “Rocking Around the Christmas Tree”faded and transitioned into another song.

prince and the sea for kuresoto

Prince Ben Chewbacca Solo Organa, descendant of the house of Naberrie and the line of Skywalker, heir to the Starbird pirate fleet, has followed in the family tradition of slaying monsters and ruling the high seas. Which in no way is an attempt at ignoring his soulmate bond.

what stranger miracles for La_Catrina

Ben can’t even manage to die right, apparently. 

the universe resting in my arms for Lightningpelt

Rey sees Ben, quietly tooling around the Skywalker homestead, his hands wet with mechanic's grease, and the image is so perfect that she holds her breath, not wanting to mar it with a loud breath.

counting my steps, reaching out to you for Lizardbeth

All her life, Rey has felt snatches of someone else's emotions, seen visions of other places, other people she's certain she's never seen before. In a world where everything had been taken away from her, this connection was hers alone. She is wholly unprepared for the day she finds out that the person at the other end of the connection is a Jedi fighting as part of the Resistance against her delusional Master.

Soulmates for LostInQueue

After Ben Solo disappears in front of her eyes, she finds a way to bring him back, where love began…

Heal for LRRH17

A few weeks after the Battle of Crait, the Force connects Rey and Ben again on several occasions.

Softly, Softly  for lucymonster

When the Resistance start to pick up distress calls from defecting Stormtroopers, they move to save as many as they can. It doesn't occur to them that the First Order might be after the same renegades until they're right on top of them.

First Impressions and Unexpected Connections for LueurdeLaube

War has ravaged the galaxy, but finally, there is a chance at peace. Her grandfather arranges for Princess Rey Palpatine to wed the Supreme Leader Kylo Ren, broadcast across the galaxy to usher in the new era. They've never met before, but he's sent her letters.

All These Things That I've Done for MahoganyDoodles

Someone dropped down to Rey's level and reached for the empty plastic shell of her case. She stilled for a moment, afraid that she was about to get smacked with it, afraid to look up. “Sorry about him,” she heard over the sound of her heart beating through her ears. Not Hux? This voice was deeper. Rey looked up and saw Ben Solo in front of her, holding out the case for her, a sympathetic look in his dark brown eyes.

For Now for maq_moon

There are plenty of things he could say, but he doesn’t. Buying you muffins makes me excited to get out of bed in the morning. I wish I could go back in time and be the kind of person you could like. I don’t remember my life before you. ---------- When Kylo finds his soulmate, she doesn't know, and he doesn't tell her.

[poptod]

Baisemain

Description: Your dead body is dressed up in ancient Mesopotamian clothing, and hidden in the Museum of Natural History. What your murderer doesn’t know is that you’re about to come to life, every night, for as long as your skeleton exists.

Notes: So this is just a quick blurb (and basically a shitpost) about this idea of a murder victim’s body being held in the Museum of Natural History. It’s not specifically Ahk x Reader but there’s a bit at the end that’s pretty flirty. I suppose I could write more, but I don’t know if I really wanna do that. I promise I’ll come up with something new and actually good soon!

Word Count: 1.9k

What comes in death is… nothing. There is no you, no consciousness going by your name, and there is no reality where you exist. Not anymore. You hold no anger towards the cause of your death, but only because you simply can’t, not when there’s no mind to store it in. If you were still alive, still holding a consciousness, you’d probably be rather annoyed - you’re not a cynical person but you’re not a saint, either.

So, there is a time on earth in which you are not a thought, not a tangible thing, and all sense of who you are is subject to the tide of the wind - the idea of you exists, in abstract form, only the image of what you are in other peoples minds. It’s rather blissful, nonexistence; quiet, but not lonely, and peaceful in every way existence cannot be. For one point in time it is blissfully quiet, blissfully dark and nothing, till a bright light sparks, and your consciousness comes back to being.

There’s a light shining in your face, fluorescent and painfully bright as your eyes barely open. Squinting, you try to see through the brightness, taking a minute or so to adjust. Around you is darkness - the only light in the room is the one directly above you, and you’re lying on top of a table that is suspiciously cold. With a groan you sit up, fully taking in where you are, and what in the hell could be happening.

A thousand different solutions, none of them right, ran through your head. Perhaps this is a hospital, you thought, incorrectly, followed by, no, this is too empty. Perhaps I am in a morgue of sorts, which was also wrong. There’s a distinct smell, not especially rancid but certainly not a nice smell, and the room is filled with it. Without word or grunt you slip off the table, and the clacking on your feet is odd - not right for being shoeless and not right for the sneakers you usually wear.

It’s only then that you notice you’re not wearing your normal clothes, or anything that could be considered normal. Long cloth drapes from your shoulders and hips, colorful and softer than anything you own - nothing that belongs to you, no wallet or keys or I.D. are in your pockets, which are sizable. A sort of shawl covers your chest, while a long skirt tied somewhere around your shoulders or waist (it’s all so tight and confusing) covers you from waist to ankle. If you had to guess, you’d place the origin of the style and cloth somewhere in the Middle East, which would be the one thought so far that was right.

The only appropriate course of action, you decide, is to explore, and try to piece together what exactly was happening. So, trying to keep your clothing up (which is an easier task than you think it is, it’s very well made and knotted), you leave the cold examination table, and wander through empty halls.

A good amount of time passes before you hear faint music coming from above you. Someone’s playing ABBA, you recognize that in the least, and you climb up several flights of stairs in hopes of finding some hint of life. As you get slowly closer, the thumping of hundreds of feet begins, then the shouts, and you realize that there’s not just one person playing ABBA, it’s an entire party.

Maybe someone’s having an office party, you think to yourself, back on the course of thinking wrong things. When you reach the final door, you’re only aware it’s the final door by the impossibly loud music, and the vibrating of the door handle when you grasp it. Anxiously you turn, your nerves flooding your hand till it tingled with excitement - well, that or fear, and you preferred to be excited. Though, if you knew exactly what you were getting excited for, you might’ve not been so excited in the first place.

In the center of the room is a very familiar globe, spinning and still glowing even though it’s clearly nighttime outside. Every exhibit you ever remember seeing is dancing, playing games, or talking with one another, and you can feel your breath leave your body - perhaps you weren’t really alive again, but you can still feel your heartbeat. In fact, your heartbeat is about the only thing you can still feel, and when a soccer ball comes hurtling towards your head you can almost feel yourself faint. Instead you duck, and the ball bounces off the wall and back to - Attila the hun, who is definitely not a wax statue anymore.

You’ve been here before, you know this place, and the fact that you’re here is terrifying you more than you ever thought it could. The Museum of Natural History in New York, which is funny, because you don’t live in New York.

Pretending as if everything you’re seeing is normal, you try to look for a night guard; you know they have one, and maybe they’ll know whats happening. At the top of the steps you find him, dressed in the usual dark blue garb, flashlight in hand. He’s talking to someone who’s definitely Egyptian, Ancient Egyptian, and if the crown meant anything, very likely royalty.

“Hi, uh, I’m sorry,” you say, tapping the night guard on the shoulder. “I… what’s happening here?”

He turns to you, and a smile of recognition crosses his face. Patting you on the shoulder, he says, “Oh! Yeah, you must be the, uh, new exhibit. From Mesopotamic or something?”

“Mesopotamia,” the Egyptian corrects him, with a surprisingly strong British accent. You look to him, then back at the night guard, still confused.

“What? No, I’m - I’m not from Mesopotamia, I’m from Colorado. What’s going on here?”

The two men look at each other, communicating in silent looks before turning back to you.

“Um… well, you’re in a museum. A magical tablet brings you to life every night, belongs to this guy,” the night guard says, pointing a finger back at the Egyptian behind him.

“I was dead. Like, really dead, did anyone solve - I was dead! Someone murdered me with a - a knife or something, and now I’m here?!” The reality of your situation begins to set in with you, and it’s not a pretty sight - your eyes go wide and you grip at your hair, wondering how in the hell this situation is in any way possible.

“Hey, hey, calm down. Are you sure you’re not from Mesopotamian?”

“Mesopotamia,” both you and the Egyptian say at the same time, glancing at each other before both turning back to the night guard.

“Right, whatever. You’re from Colorado?”

“Yeah, well… at least that’s where I was living. Wasn’t born there.”

“Makes sense,” the Egyptian says. “Most Mesopotamians don’t speak English.”

“Most Ancient Egyptians don’t speak English either,” the night guard points out. “You’re going to have to prove it to me.”

Internally you groan, ready to recite the events of the current age.

“It’s 1999, and -“

“Wrong. 2005,” the night guard interrupts helpfully.

“In that case, I must’ve been murdered a good long while ago.” An anger courses through you, and you begin to spit facts like you hate them, when you couldn’t feel less apathetic about it. “There’s fifty states in America, which was founded in 1776 by George Washington, John Adams, some guy named Richard I think, and the rest of the founding fathers. Umm… Nelson Mandela recently stepped down from his presidency, and the Sixth Sense came out, which I haven’t ever watched so don’t ask me about it.”

“Okay,” he says after a moment of contemplation. “That’s fair.”

“So you believe me?” You ask excitedly, smiling for probably the first time that night.

“Sure. But I don’t think I’ll be able to convince the other exhibits, they hardly speak English some of them… it’d probably be best just to say you’re Mespotamic.”

You and the Egyptian look at each other, too tired to correct him, and you both silently agree that he’s never going to get it right. At long last the two introduce themselves; the night guard’s name is Larry, and the Egyptian’s name is Ahkmenrah, and your previous deduction had been correct - he was royal, a king to be exact. Larry offers to look your murder up on the internet, but it’s safely assumed beforehand that it isn’t solved, considering your dead body is dressed up in Mesopotamian garb in a museum. No, someone is just a very smart killer.

“Like hiding a dead body in a graveyard,” Larry comments, to which you agree. After that fun excursion in which you are deeply unsettled by your Missing Persons poster, he decides to introduce you to the wide variety of characters inhabiting the museum.

By the fifth person you meet you’re a little numb to meeting famous historical people, and to the fact that everyone keeps calling you Mesopotamian. You don’t look the part, either in skin or facial features, and everyone’s immediate assumption is more than tiresome after the seventh person you meet. The only thing that jostles you by the time midnight strikes is the massive T-Rex, which, defying all logic of the tablet, does not have meat on its’ bones. You point this out to Ahkmenrah, who seems to be the leading expert on the tablet, and he just shrugs.

“Some things just happen some ways,” he says, leaving you more confused than you were before.

Your heart skips a beat when you notice a small child on top of the dinosaur, and begins to beat faster yet when Larry runs after him, leaving you alone with Ahkmenrah. He turns to you with a polite smile, a little too real to be only cursory.

“I never got to officially introduce myself,” he says, and you recall that it was, in fact, Larry who told you the King’s name. “I am Ahkmenrah, fourth king of the fourth king, and very pleased to meet you.” You hadn’t noticed he held your hand till it comes to his lips, a gentle, admiring kiss upon the back of it. Stuttering, you try to get a grasp on your words, blushing furiously from this single show of affection.

“I - I, uh… I’m (Y/N). I hold no title,” you finally get out, wondering if you should add your job in, before ultimately deciding that saying you’re a writer isn’t a great way to earn respect. “But it’s nice to meet you as well.”

He takes you on a tour of the different rooms just as Larry toured you around the people, telling you who each room belonged to, and a little history of the exhibit. He directs you by holding your hand, sending flutters into your heart every time he squeezes your hand when pulling you along to another room. You don’t have the heart to tell him you’ve actually visited the museum before, and whenever he smiles at you, you find you don’t want to tell him anyway - if only to get him to keep holding your hand.

To your quiet delight he keeps holding your hand throughout the night, tracing your veins as he explains exactly what to do when the night comes to a close.

Ultimately, it takes a good long while to adjust to what life is - it’s explain to you that you can’t leave the museum, and it takes you a much longer time to adjust to the fact that no one will ever solve your murder. As close as your friendship gets with the Pharaoh, it doesn’t fully fill the hole in your heart left by the fact that none of your friends or family know what happened to you. But, there are ups and downs to every story, and this story is pretty far-fetched anyway.

[beesandbooks1]

Discussion: The Surprising Sexuality of Bella Swan

To read this post on my blog instead, click here!

Blanket warning: This post will be discussing sex and sexual activity. Bella Swan is a minor in the beginning of the Twilight Saga, and thus this discussion concerns the sexuality of teenagers.

Bella Swan and her sexual awakening

When we first meet Bella in Twilight, she can be described as a pretty sexless and anti-romantic person. We find out through her experiences in the Twilight Saga that she’s never gone on dates, never had anyone express explicit attraction to her, and that Edward Cullen is her first real crush and love interest. She seems pretty analytical, all things considered, discussing her mother’s relationships with her father and stepfather pretty distantly. While she can almost understand attraction–pointing out that when her parents were young and more attractive she can almost understand why they rushed into marriage–she doesn’t openly acknowledge attraction as a motivation for anything until dealing with Edward.

Bella Swan has a very clear sexual awakening in Twilight. The first time she kisses Edward, she describes herself as burning up and suddenly losing control. In fact, throughout the rest of the series this is a common theme. Edward is constantly having to keep their kissing as chaste as possible to protect Bella from his dangerous venom (and his bloodlust) while Bella regularly describes herself as latching onto him, pushing him to go further. Bella experiences tangible sexual desire for Edward and continually tries to act on it, despite Edward’s fears and trepidation. We like to make memes and joke about how dedicated Bella was to having sex with him in Breaking Dawn, but that was just the culmination of a lot of encounters in which Bella’s desire and lust drive their physical interactions.

Bella’s autonomy versus Edward’s

This was an interesting and occasionally disconcerting aspect of the treatment of sex in the Saga. Edward asserts repeatedly that it’s too dangerous to do more than kiss and that he won’t risk it with Bella. He also later on asserts his desire to wait for marriage, placing his sexual autonomy in the way of Bella’s desires. This is actually surprising in a lot of ways. First and most obvious is the subversion of expectations. A lot of YA and New Adult fiction places women in the shoes of the autonomy debate, putting their desire to wait for marriage, love, or another important milestone before having sex for the first time (or just the first time with their partner) out as the obstacle that the man they are seeing must respect. While I don’t think it was Meyer’s intention to comment on the particularly distasteful way society ignores male sexual autonomy and the right of men to say no to sex, it’s still an unusual subversion of societal expectation.

The next reason I find Bella’s sexual desire and lack of care for marriage interesting is because of Meyer’s background. Stephenie Meyer is a Mormon, and the Mormon culture generally encourages waiting until marriage for women and has strict rules regulating sexuality for all young people in general. We see in other parts of Meyer’s writing where the Mormon values come into play, so it’s ultimately very surprising that the main POV character, Bella, who is largely portrayed as mature and wiser than her peers should be pushing for premarital sex against a man’s wishes. She ends up only agreeing to marry Edward because she wants to sleep with him, and a little bit because she wants to be with him forever. She figures their relationship will continue regardless of marriage but his conditions for sex are what finally convince her to marry at all. This is again a subversion of the usual expectations.

I also find Edward’s sexual autonomy interesting in the face of the almost sex positive Bella. Edward Cullen is a man that repeatedly says ‘no’ to sex with a willing partner because of his own values, regardless of which of those values are more powerfully motivating. He has no reason to fear being overpowered when Bella is a human, so he can and frequently does exercise his right to say “no” without fear of repercussions. After all, the biggest reason people will consent to a sexual encounter they don’t want is to avoid the potential consequences of saying otherwise. Edward resists Bella’s attempts to coerce or seduce him in part because he knows she cannot overpower him, as he is a vampire and can absolutely physically stop her if need be. Bella dances dangerously close to interfering with his autonomy by pushing him towards physical encounters he expresses discomfort with. And from Bella’s perspective, she doesn’t seem to be aware that she’s coming close to violating his consent. Again, I don’t think it was Meyer’s intention to point out that women are just as capable of violating sexual trust as men, but an interesting point nonetheless.

Sexuality in the rest of the cast

Sex is absolutely alluded to and explicitly discussed on occasion with regards to the rest of the cast–usually to reaffirm relationships. In particular, Rosalie and Emmett’s relationship is associated with implied sex and Jacob’s perspective in Breaking Dawn references implied sex as well. Unsurprisingly, outside of Bella and Edward’s direct discussions and engagements in sexual activity, sex is discussed without actually being discussed–probably due to the age of the intended audience and Meyer’s thoughts on premarital sex.

Rosalie and Emmett have a tempestuous and loving relationship, which Edward describes as having destroyed houses through sex. Rosalie and Emmett are the most conventionally attractive of the Cullens, and often come across as a heartbreakingly perfect couple. They love one another very much and go on elaborate honeymoon trips, frequently living separate from the rest of the Cullens as a married couple. Additionally, Rosalie’s story involves her assault leading to her death and her desire to have a family, specifically her wish for children. In many ways, Rosalie’s story is more grown up than the rest of the series in is tragedy and in her metaphorical struggle with infertility. It’s not wholly surprising for her character that she and her husband are the most clearly sexual of the characters, but it does stick out as unusually mature against the rest of the series.

Jacob’s perspective also reveals some implied discussions of sex. The first example comes when he himself goes to a park to deliberately attempt to find someone he can get over Bella with. The implication is pretty obvious: he intends to have a one nigh stand. That he doesn’t succeed can’t erase what seems pretty obvious. Thus we have a character without the hangups on premarital sex that Edward–the only other male character that expresses any degree of sexuality–has. Also, since much of the exposition relating to Imprinting is given by Jacob, Jacob does have to discuss sex to a certain degree.

Contradictory messages?

I’d say that as a YA author, having your eighteen-year-old protagonist marry straight out of high school and avoid premarital sex is making a pretty firm moral statement. I don’t know for certain if Meyer set out from the beginning to build a relationship with Bella and Edward that she hoped young girls would aspire to, or if she just couldn’t bring herself to put something she didn’t believe in into her books. From the commentary on the movie, I do know she was at least a little uncomfortable with Bella being sexualized as she was one of the people protesting how “sexy” Kristen Stewart looked during the scene where Edward kisses Bella in her bedroom. Despite this, Meyer wrote a pretty convincing sexual awakening for Bella’s character.

Up until Forks, Bella’s character motivation doesn’t include sex or relationships. She is pretty single-minded about taking care of her mother, and then a little bit about being a good kid. The implication is that before remarrying, Renee wasn’t very good about consistently paying bills and providing food, so Bella honestly had far more important things to worry about than boys (or girls). Her sexual awakening with Edward is actually a pretty interesting idea, then, because in Forks is the first time Bella has time to think about boys, relationships, and sex. And then Bella is repeatedly shut down in these urges by her partner, seemingly in an attempt to protect her. There are plenty of issues with Edward as a partner, we all know this (and I haven’t even read Midnight Sun yet), but I found his desire to save himself until marriage the least problematic thing about him.

How interesting is it that for three books we have the narrative of “Edward desires Bella but is scared of hurting her” before finally having “Edward’s personal choice for his sexuality is to save himself until marriage?” I would have much preferred if that had been out in the open, since without the discussion that takes place at the end of Eclipse, Bella seems to be the victim of being teased by Edward’s allure without ever being granted the payoff of more than a kiss–whatever vampiric danger reasons there are for not going further. Instead, we get the fact that Edward has been struggling with his preference for having sex after marriage without sharing this with Bella, who clearly was willing to respect that as she marries him for this reason. If Meyer was trying to portray premarital sex as a bad thing, she never really got around to it. Bella isn’t even considering sex until Eclipse, despite her growing sexuality, and the discussions she and Edward do have about it isn’t very respectful to the thoughts of either side of the issue.

Final thoughts

I know that it seems awfully pointless to discuss a niche topic in the context of a book series people aren’t enamored with, especially when it’s pretty clear the mos interesting parts of this were not the author’s intentions. I don’t think Stephenie Meyer intended for the Twilight craze to happen at all, especially when you look at the backlash that happened. While there are legitimate issues in the series–capitalizing on the Quileute tribe’s existence while also doing some pretty problematic things with the Quileute characters comes to mind–one thing that cannot be attributed to the series is the hatred of teenage girls that drove the hatred for the series. The vast majority of criticisms for this series came from people whose deep seated hatred of teenage girls led them to find every fault possible (except for the majority of the series’ actual faults). Needles to say, this backlash affected me in a number of ways as I was a teenage girl who initially liked Twilight.

This was not a conscious thought I had upon first reading, but I want us to consider being a teenage girl in a confusing world where half of popular media says relationships and making out and even sex are important and cool parts of being a teenager, while another half of popular media condemns teenage girls for exploring their sexuality however they may be comfortable. As a teenage girl, saving yourself is worthy of mockery and having sex regardless of the context is worthy of slut-shaming. To have a romance series endorsed by mothers as well as teenagers in which the teenage girl explores feeling sexual desire is pretty interesting. She’s not shamed for desiring Edward, it’s only natural after all. And the questions of consent and autonomy are danced around with his desire to save himself for marriage–an unintentional reminder that women are capable of sexual assault as well and that everyone deserves the safety to say “no.”

Do I think it’s revolutionary for Twilight to have included some of Bella’s sexual awakening? No. In fact, I think it’s one of the things that could have been improved if Meyer was a better writer or better re-writer to make a more impressive series. But I do think that Twilight is more notable for the deep hatred it inspired than its writing. I think it’s important to continue to discuss Twilight in the context of what it gave teenage girls and who opposed teenage girls having it. Edward wasn’t a great love interest, but one thing we can say for him is he never forced sex on Bella. He never pressured her, he wanted to wait for marriage. As a result, Bella’s sexual awakening is slower and paced out with her own growing desires and wants. She never has to rush through things because she isn’t having sex. And I think it’s good for teenage girls to have a character whose desires awaken in the first book but isn’t having sex until later, has sex with someone she stays together with and gets to grow with, and is never pressured into the sex.

[autoclavesarchived]

something akin to | the magnus archives (ao3)

summary: four conversations about love and death, and one that never happened. beginning scene inspired by @tatumsdrawing‘s comic!

“Would you kill me, Elias? If the Beholding demanded it of you?”

It’s asked placidly, curiously, without any particular inflection. There is a palpable dispassion to Peter’s tone that Elias does not think can be simulated. But perhaps he is just playing into what Peter wants him to think.

In any case, his answer is immediate and cruel. “Yes,” he says. “I would kill you. But I would make it quick. And lonely.”

“I suppose you would call that love,” Peter muses. He doesn’t seem alarmed at all by this response; he seems as if he’d expected it. It’s almost disconcerting how quickly Peter knows things, knows him, despite being the diametric opposite of whatever principles the Eye stands for.

It’s part of why Elias has kept him for so long.

Soon, though, this arrangement will have to come to an end. Peter Lukas must die, that is a certainty. But his death will be Elias’s, that is also a certainty. There is too much history between them for it to happen any other way. Making Peter Lukas’s unavoidable death painless and economical and Lonely is Elias’s burden; his duty of care. The knowledge of it pulsates inside his chest, shuddering like a fearful foreign object.

“I don’t love you.” Rebuttal makes his words harsh. They are a direct betrayal of what he’d been thinking just now.

Peter laughs unkindly. “Of course you do.”

“You don’t need me, Peter, far from it, and yet you keep crawling back. If anything, it’s the opposite.” Elias wraps his fingers around a frigid hand and drags it forward with a jolt. Peter’s arm jerks, a marionette on a string following the snap of his wrist. Once again reaching for Elias like an inexorable thing. In the moonlight, his wedding ring glints out an accusation.

“What does it say about you, then, that you keep taking me back without question?”

Peter wrenches his hand back, and this time, it is Elias’s own ring that is visible in the low light, a betrayal and a testimony both.

Elias kisses him then, a wretched filthy thing, mostly so Peter will not demand an answer from him. Not that Peter is particularly confrontational in these matters—his preferred method of petty conflict is that of the Lonely, which is to say, he takes a perverse delight in leaving, and knowing that Elias feels the acute ache of missing—but there is perhaps something to be said about how Elias himself does not want to linger on the matter.

He does not know what his actions say about him. He doubts it is anything good.

—

Elias feels loneliest when Peter is in his bed, even lonelier than when he inevitably wakes alone.

Even when Peter is there, it is as if he is not. That is what it means to be a servant of the Forsaken, he has grown to understand. To have an absence more meaningful than a presence.

“Do you love me?” Elias wonders, voice heavy with compulsion. It’s not the unerring exactitude he normally favors, but right now he has Peter sprawled naked on the bed underneath him. Now is not the time for precision tools—this particular compulsion feels like a blow to the head, and he has no scruples about the fact.

Peter only bites down on his lower lip, keeping his mouth stubbornly shut. The compulsion has dug in its hooks, but his resistance means it’s taking far too long, and Elias arches an eyebrow in displeasure. Another method, then. He snaps his hips downwards languidly; Peter lets out a groan like it’s being wrenched out of him, and his answer slinks out with the noise.

“Sometimes I hate you, instead.”

He’s always been too good at evasion. Another particular quirk of the Forsaken. They know how to slip past unnoticed.

“That’s not an answer.”

“Mmhm.” Peter runs his gaze up Elias’ chest, hands at his waist forcing him to settle into a cruelly slow rhythm.

“I could force it out of you, the real answer. I could set your mind on fire.”

“Of course you could.” It’s an empty threat and they both know it. They’ve been through every iteration that exists of this song and dance.

“No, your death will be less crude. I know exactly how you like it,” he continues. He bites into Peter’s mouth, the words only half-laced with innuendo.

Peter outright laughs at that. His hands come to rest on Elias’s hipbones and clamp down. There’ll be bruises later at this rate. “You once told me that I don’t need you. That’s not true, Elias,” Peter says, and his breaths come faster now. Elias redoubles his efforts. “I do need you.” The confession is ragged, gutted out of him faster than any compulsion can manage.

Elias snarls. His hand does something particularly punishing. “You do, do you?”

“Can’t live with you, can’t live without,” Peter spits. He’s arching so beautifully, so violently, under Elias’s touch. “And the only reason I say this is because you’re the same way. You need me.”

Elias slaps him then, quick and wicked, but Peter only starts grinning. The curve of it is an uncanny animal thing that eats at him, gnaws on his ribs like it’s trying to get to his heart. It says, I know you. I Know you.  

“Does your beloved Eye tell you this?” His breath hitches one final time, and then he’s coming, but it doesn’t stop him from saying it again in that low, dreadful voice now punctuated with a choking cry—“You need me, Elias.”

That night, Elias feels particularly lonely. Peter has long since fallen asleep, so he simply stares at the small patterns on the ceiling and feels the emptiness spread through him like hunger pangs. He couldn’t quit the sensation if he tried.

—

Peter cradles his knife against Elias’s neck, a gesture loving in its tenderness. The sharpened blade just barely rests on the swell of his throat. A thin cold line and all that remains of their affection now. Or at least, during this part of the cycle. It’s a familiar routine, after all.

“Give me one reason I shouldn’t kill you right now.” Peter’s teeth are bared and he says the words so roughly it almost jars him. Elias draws inwards in fits of real anger; Peter explodes out. Another contradiction, another betrayal to their respective patrons.

“You love me,” Elias murmurs. Peter’s rage is loud enough for the both of them.

“I don’t love. Or have you forgotten what my patron does to men?”

“Love and absence. Hatred and absence. They’re the same thing for us,” he says sharply. “Don’t be uninteresting.”

“A reason, Elias.” The point of the blade slides sideways to caress his jugular before it dips back to its original position, hovering. Cold metal on his throat. Cold metal on his left hand. Two different promises, or maybe the same one.

“I love you.”

Peter scoffs. He doesn’t even bother to respond to the remark.

Elias leans forward so that the knife digs into skin. The tiniest bit more pressure, and it would draw blood; a lesser man would call this a gesture of surrender. It’s like that that he deals the final blow.

“I would kill you, Peter,” he says very softly. It works just as well as an answer to Peter’s demand for a reason as it does an exposition to Elias’s earlier admission. “Who else would be left to do that if you killed me now?”

—

“Do you love him? Your Archivist?”

Elias has to think before responding. He draws out the silence like a poison, or a fine wine. “I wouldn’t kill him. I couldn’t bear to.” He can be evasive, too, given the right motivation. Even the truth is capable of being wrapped in pretty circumventions.

He can tell that had been the right answer by the way Peter hums and shifts on the bed. He Knows what’s coming.

As surely as predicted, like clockwork: “You should marry me again,” Peter says lazily. Triumphantly, now that he’d gotten Elias to admit his attachment to Jon, and more importantly, to admit that it was lesser than his attachment to Peter.

“Which number are we on now, seven?”

“Eight. If we’re counting the incident with the—”

“Yes, that. I don’t particularly care for a repeat.”

Elias thinks disdainfully back to their second marriage. That had been an unmitigated disaster; back before they’d really grasped the terms of this arrangement and learned to live with them. Afterwards, Peter had gone away for so long that he was nearly insubstantial when he came back. Just a mist-torn phantom haunting the doorways. Elias had proposed the next time, mostly to make him stay.

“Is that a yes, Elias?” A calloused palm runs over his wrist, without a fumble despite the lack of light in the room. Something cold and metal is placed into his hand—his ring, a solidly-made band only conspicuous in its absence. Peter doesn’t wait for his answer to slide it on. He supposes that they both already know what it’s going to be.

“Yes. God knows why.”

“Even vicious cycles have their moments.”

A pause. Elias feels their history unwind, spool its messy layers around them. It’s coming to an end, all of it. It must. For the briefest flash of a second, he thinks that if he could have loved Peter, he would.

“Until death do us part, then.”

They only ever have this conversation in the dark. Some things can only be said by the blind and the blinded.

—

The tide comes in roiling and colorless here.

This is not so much sea as much as it is marshland, as much as it is some hellish combination of the two. Elias knows better than to assign any human quality to an Entity, but for a moment he indulges himself in the thought that the Lonely is grieving. It certainly feels more feeble. Less tangible, even for a presence that thrives on the insubstantial. Perhaps the Archivist had dealt it a greater blow than previously expected—and that is certainly an interesting development, but it is not what Elias has come here for.

He walks steadily inwards. The Lonely calls out to him in desperation, begs to shroud his Eyes with fog. Elias brushes it off easily enough despite the howling emptiness it burdens him with upon retreating; he is used to loss, and even more so now.

When he finally reaches the place, there is nothing left of Peter Lukas to be found save some darker shreds of mist, Lonely and discontent. There is not even a scattering of bones bleached sea-dry by the tidewater. Not even a silvered wedding ring.

That is to be expected, of course.

Elias turns his back on the clearing, sharply. He’s seen the place. With his own physical eyes, even. He’s done what he’d come for, and he’s risking everything just by being here now.

He tells himself that he is only sorry he hadn’t been the one to finally end it. Peter’s death was meant to be Elias’s, because such devotion was the closest thing he could offer in the place of love. As he leaves, the lapping mist pulls at his sleeves as if tugging him back.

[threadsketchier]

Whumptober #31 - Embrace

oH mY bEAnS I can’t believe I actually did this whole frickle frackle month

Yet another future draft scene from LTE, after Luke and Leia have spent time with the Naberries and eventually take a trip to the mountain village where Padmé was born.  Notes to follow.

Luke drew up the hood of his cloak and gathered it around himself against the chill of the mountain’s night air.  The only clouds to be seen were the mists of his own breath, letting the arm of the galaxy sprawled across the sky be resplendent in its full glory, even with the light of two moons.

He let his eyes adjust to the soft darkness before carefully picking his way through the rockier terrain past the village’s outskirts.  He could let the Force guide his steps, but he still preferred to challenge himself daily with keeping his own balance and coordination.  That didn’t mean he was trying to risk a trip and fall if he could help it, though.

Glimmering star and moonlight showed him he’d reached the stream’s edge.  Luke sat near its bank, adopting a cross-legged meditation pose.  Apart from the cold, this was an ideal place to submit to the Force - placid and natural, scarcely touched by sentience, suffused with organic beauty.  More significantly, these were the places Padmé had enjoyed in her childhood; her purest joy had dwelt here.

I have no memory of my mother.  I never knew her.  The latter statement could no longer be true in a loose sense, but all Luke had were the memories and records of others.  He’d seen her face now many times, but not while she lived.  All he had was impressions, little more than what Leia had managed to salvage from infancy.

Luke knew even less of the mysteries of life beyond.  As his skill and connection to the Force had grown, Obi-Wan had become more and more tangible to him, until he seemed nearly as real as any other living being.  But was that his own perception or another secret of the Force he had yet to uncover?

His only conviction was that death was truly not the end.  Perhaps all he would accomplish here tonight was a dashing of his hopes, but nothing could be discovered without a first attempt.

Luke breathed in deep, slow waves, focusing on the gentle burble of water and letting himself sink into the Force as though he was slipping into the stream itself.  His physical self dissipated like froth and his substance communed with the life surrounding him until he was as much a part of it as another blade of grass, another small insect, a humble bacteria traversing the soil.

But he went deeper, seeking the Force’s own eternal currents transcendent of the ephemeral world, recalling and visualizing every aspect of his mother that he had received and absorbed.  If she had once lived, then she was not gone, not entirely.

The Force was pure light, a radiance so profound it was like looking into the core of a star, but it did not burn him.  At first the light was featureless - not nothing, not an absence or white void, its collective existence was too vast and abundant to be empty, the sum of all life that ever was and is and will be, escaping and returning in its eternal cycle - and then somehow he perceived a surface rippling and parting like that of a lake.

From the Force’s depths she emerged, its light coalescing into her form.  At first Padmé gazed at him, taking in the sight of him, then broke into the broadest smile, taking his face in her hands.

“Luke.”  There was so much bound in that single syllable, a lifetime not shared, a heartbreak endured, and a hope realized.  As one they fell into each other’s arms and clung tightly; she was warm and solid and real, everything Luke could have wished for.

He didn’t know what to say.  Too many things, and he knew he couldn’t linger here.  He was afraid to let go, thinking she would vanish the moment he did.

“Luke,” she whispered in his ear, into his soul, “don’t be so eager to join us.”

He faltered - of all the things she could have possibly said, he hadn’t been expecting that.  He pulled away slightly, studying her face and the beatific love etched there, and he was mute in bewilderment.  She brought his head down gently to kiss his brow, then began to retreat, melting back into the ocean of the Force.

Luke kept hold of her hands until they slipped away.

Coming back to himself felt like falling through the entire universe.  His eyes snapped open and he gasped as if he’d been holding his breath, his heart skipping a couple of beats before resuming a slightly uneven pounding, and he started to shake.  A sudden grip around his shoulders nearly made him jump.

“It’s all right, Luke, it’s me,” Leia said.  When he registered her face, he saw concern in her eyes.  “Are you okay?”

“I...yeah,” he croaked, “I’m okay.”  He took another breath to steady himself, and he felt the familiar tingle of the scrambler mitigating the triggering of his damaged nerves.  “I was just meditating.”

“I gathered that.  I’d never seen you look like you weren’t breathing before, though.  I almost couldn’t feel your pulse, it was so slow.”

He stared at her, taken aback.  Had he literally drawn himself so close to the edge of death in order to accomplish what he’d just experienced?  That certainly hadn’t been his intention.  Did that have anything to do with what Padmé had told him?

“Leia...I saw her.  I saw our mother.”

She accepted that information cautiously, hesitant but not wanting to dismiss him outright.  “How?” she asked, not in dispute but seeking an explanation or description.

“I thought...being here, where she grew up, if I could reach through the Force, I might be able to find her…”  His throat tightened.

“Oh, Luke.”  Leia put her arms around him, and a sob escaped him as it freshly brought to mind the sensation of Padmé embracing him.

“And I did,” he said into her shoulder.  “I did find her.  Or maybe she found me.”

A/N: I have...Opinions™ about non-Force-sensitive spirits, because as much as I want everyone to have their happily ever after, I also prefer the universe to have rules along the lines of what’s already established for the Force.  For my purposes, the souls of beings who were not Force-sensitive do “disappear” into the Force completely; they can’t retain their individual consciousness.  However, a Jedi or a Force-sensitive who knew them has the ability - whether through training or sheer instinct - to summon them out of the collective Force and give them a sort of individual existence again, temporarily.  That experience is tied solely to the person calling upon them, hence why Padmé doesn’t make mention of Leia or anyone else.  These spirits are unable to observe or know anything about what transpires after their deaths, but they’re able to communicate and take in new information if they interact with a “summoner.”  Because they once lived, they can’t be entirely erased from existence, but they can only become whole and tangible again in these specific circumstances.

When a Jedi/Force-sensitive who manages to retain their consciousness after death joins the Force, they will be able to find their loved ones in the Force again in the same manner if they so choose.

[didanawisgi]

CAN WE PULL BACK FROM THE BRINK?

Sam Harris, June 18, 2020

In this episode of the podcast, Sam discusses the recent social protests and civil unrest, in light of what we know about racism and police violence in America.

This is a transcript of a recorded podcast.

“OK…. Well, I’ve been trying to gather my thoughts for this podcast for more than a week—and have been unsure about whether to record it at all, frankly.

Conversation is the only tool we have for making progress, I firmly believe that. But many of the things we most need to talk about, seem impossible to talk about.

I think social media is a huge part of the problem. I’ve been saying for a few years now that, with social media, we’ve all been enrolled in a psychological experiment for which no one gave consent, and it’s not at all clear how it will turn out. And it’s still not clear how it will turn out, but it’s not looking good. It’s fairly disorienting out there. All information is becoming weaponized. All communication is becoming performative. And on the most important topics, it now seems to be fury and sanctimony and bad faith almost all the time.

We appear to be driving ourselves crazy. Actually, crazy. As in, incapable of coming into contact with reality, unable to distinguish fact from fiction—and then becoming totally destabilized by our own powers of imagination, and confirmation bias, and then lashing out at one other on that basis.

So I’d like to talk about the current moment and the current social unrest, and its possible political implications, and other cultural developments, and suggest what it might take to pull back from the brink here. I’m going to circle in on the topics of police violence and the problem of racism, because that really is at the center of this. There is so much to talk about here, and it’s so difficult to talk about. And there is so much we don’t know. And yet, most people are behaving as though every important question was answered a long time ago.

I’ve been watching our country seem to tear itself apart for weeks now, and perhaps lay the ground for much worse to come. And I’ve been resisting the temptation to say anything of substance—not because I don’t have anything to say, but because of my perception of the danger, frankly. And if that’s the way I feel, given the pains that I’ve taken to insulate myself from those concerns, I know that almost everyone with a public platform is terrified. Journalists, and editors, and executives, and celebrities are terrified that they might take one wrong step here, and never recover.

And this is really unhealthy—not just for individuals, but for society. Because, again, all we have between us and the total breakdown of civilization is a series of successful conversations. If we can’t reason with one another, there is no path forward, other than violence. Conversation or violence.

So, I’d like to talk about some of the things that concern me about the current state of our communication. Unfortunately, many things are compounding our problems at the moment. We have a global pandemic which is still very much with us. And it remains to be seen how much our half-hearted lockdown, and our ineptitude in testing, and our uncoordinated reopening, and now our plunge into social protest and civil unrest will cause the Covid-19 caseload to spike. We will definitely see. As many have pointed out, the virus doesn’t care about economics or politics. It only cares that we keep breathing down each other’s necks. And we’ve certainly been doing enough of that.

Of course, almost no one can think about Covid-19 right now. But I’d just like to point out that many of the costs of this pandemic and the knock-on effects in the economy, and now this protest movement, many of these costs are hidden from us. In addition to killing more than 100,000 people in the US, the pandemic has been a massive opportunity cost. The ongoing implosion of the economy is imposing tangible costs, yes, but it is also a massive opportunity cost. And now this civil unrest is compounding those problems—whatever the merits of these protests may be or will be, the opportunity costs of this moment are staggering. In addition to all the tangible effects of what’s happening—the injury and death, the lost businesses, the burned buildings, the neighborhoods that won’t recover for years in many cities, the educations put on hold, and the breakdown in public trust of almost every institution—just think about all the good and important things we cannot do—cannot even think of doing now—and perhaps won’t contemplate doing for many years to come, because we’ll be struggling to get back to that distant paradise we once called “normal life.”

Of course, normal life for many millions of Americans was nothing like a paradise. The disparities in wealth and health and opportunity that we have gotten used to in this country, and that so much of our politics and ways of doing business seem to take for granted, are just unconscionable. There is no excuse for this kind of inequality in the richest country on earth. What we’re seeing now is a response to that. But it’s a confused and confusing response. Worse, it’s a response that is systematically silencing honest conversation. And this makes it dangerous.

This isn’t just politics and human suffering on display. It’s philosophy. It’s ideas about truth—about what it means to say that something is “true.” What we’re witnessing in our streets and online and in the impossible conversations we’re attempting to have in our private lives is a breakdown in epistemology. How does anyone figure out what’s going on in the world? What is real? If we can’t agree about what is real, or likely to be real, we will never agree about how we should live together. And the problem is, we’re stuck with one other.

So, what’s happening here?

Well, again, it’s hard to say. What is happening when a police officer or a mayor takes a knee in front of a crowd of young people who have been berating him for being a cog in the machinery of systemic racism? Is this a profound moment of human bonding that transcends politics, or is it the precursor to the breakdown of society? Or is it both? It’s not entirely clear.

In the most concrete terms, we are experiencing widespread social unrest in response to what is widely believed to be an epidemic of lethal police violence directed at the black community by racist cops and racist policies. And this unrest has drawn a counter-response from law enforcement—much of which, ironically, is guaranteed to exacerbate the problem of police violence, both real and perceived. And many of the videos we’ve seen of the police cracking down on peaceful protesters are hideous. Some of this footage has been unbelievable. And this is one of many vicious circles that we must find some way to interrupt.

Again, there is so much to be confused about here. We’ve now seen endless video of police inflicting senseless violence on truly peaceful protesters, and yet we have also seen video of the police standing idly by while looters completely destroy businesses. What explains this? Is there a policy that led to this bizarre inversion of priorities? Are the police angry at the protesters for vilifying them, and simultaneously trying to teach society a lesson by letting crime and mayhem spread elsewhere in the city? Or is it just less risky to collide with peaceful protesters? Or is the whole spectacle itself a lie? How representative are these videos of what’s actually going on? Is there much less chaos actually occurring than is being advertised to us?

Again, it’s very hard to know.

What’s easy to know is that civil discourse has broken down. It seems to me that we’ve long been in a situation where the craziest voices on both ends of the political spectrum have been amplifying one another and threatening to produce something truly dangerous. And now I think they have. The amount of misinformation in the air—the degree to which even serious people seem to be ruled by false assumptions and non sequiturs—is just astonishing.

And it’s important to keep in mind that, with the presidential election coming in November, the stakes are really high. As most of you know, I consider four more years of Trump to be an existential threat to our democracy. And I believe that the last two weeks have been very good for him, politically, even when everything else seemed to go very badly for him. I know the polls don’t say this. A large majority of people disapprove of his handling this crisis so far. But I think we all know now to take polls with a grain of salt. There is the very real problem of preference falsification—especially in an environment of intense social pressure. People will often say what they think is socially acceptable, and then think, or say, or do something very different in private—like when they’re alone in a voting booth.

Trump has presided over the complete dismantling of American influence in the world and the destruction of our economy. I know the stock market has looked good, but the stock market has become totally uncoupled from the economy. According to the stock market, the future is just as bright now as it was in January of this year, before most of us had even heard of a novel coronavirus. That doesn’t make a lot of sense. And a lot can happen in the next few months. The last two weeks feel like a decade. And my concern is that if Trump now gets to be the law-and-order President, that may be his path to re-election, if such a path exists. Of course, this crisis has revealed, yet again, how unfit he is to be President. The man couldn’t strike a credible note of reconciliation if the fate of the country depended on it—and the fate of the country has depended on it. I also think it’s possible that these protests wouldn’t be happening, but for the fact that Trump is President. Whether or not the problem of racism has gotten worse in our society, having Trump as President surely makes it seem like it has. It has been such a repudiation of the Obama presidency that, for many people, it has made it seem that white supremacy is now ascendant. So, all the more reason to get rid of Trump in November.

But before this social unrest, our focus was on how incompetent Trump was in the face of the Covid-19 pandemic. And now he has been given a very different battle to fight. A battle against leftwing orthodoxy, which is growing more stifling by the minute, and civil unrest. If our social order frays sufficiently, restoring it will be the only thing that most people care about in November. Just think of what an act of domestic terrorism would do politically now. Things can change very, very quickly. And to all a concern for basic law and order “racist”, isn’t going to wash.

Trust in institutions has totally broken down. We’ve been under a very precarious quarantine for more than 3 months, which almost the entire medical profession has insisted is necessary. Doctors and public health officials have castigated people on the political Right for protesting this lockdown. People have been unable to be with their loved ones in their last hours of life. They’ve been unable to hold funerals for them. But now we have doctors and public officials by the thousands, signing open letters, making public statements, saying it’s fine to stand shoulder to shoulder with others in the largest protests our nation has ever seen. The degree to which this has undermined confidence in public health messaging is hard to exaggerate. Whatever your politics, this has been just a mortifying piece of hypocrisy. Especially so, because the pandemic has been hitting the African American community hardest of all. How many people will die because of these protests? It’s a totally rational question to ask, but the question itself is taboo now.

So, it seems to me that almost everything appears upside down at the moment.

Before I get into details on police violence, first let me try to close the door to a few misunderstandings.

Let’s start with the proximate cause of all this: The killing of George Floyd by the Minneapolis police. I’ll have more to say about this in a minute, but nothing I say should detract from the following observation: That video was absolutely sickening, and it revealed a degree of police negligence and incompetence and callousness that everyone was right to be horrified by. In particular, the actions of Derek Chauvin, the cop who kept his knee on Floyd’s neck for nearly 9 minutes, his actions were so reckless and so likely to cause harm that there’s no question he should be prosecuted. And he is being prosecuted. He’s been indicted for 2nd degree murder and manslaughter, and I suspect he will spend many, many years in prison. And, this is not to say “the system is working.” It certainly seems likely that without the cell phone video, and the public outrage, Chauvin might have gotten away with it—to say nothing of the other cops with him, who are also now being prosecuted. If this is true, we clearly need a better mechanism with which to police the police.

So, as I said, I’ll return to this topic, because I think most people are drawing the wrong conclusions from this video, and from videos like it, but let me just echo everyone’s outrage over what happened. This is precisely the kind of police behavior that everyone should find abhorrent.

On the general topic of racism in America, I want to make a few similarly clear, preemptive statements:

Racism is still a problem in American society. No question. And slavery—which was racism’s most evil expression—was this country’s founding sin. We should also add the near-total eradication of the Native Americans to that ledger of evil. Any morally sane person who learns the details of these historical injustices finds them shocking, whatever their race. And the legacy of these crimes—crimes that were perpetrated for centuries—remains a cause for serious moral concern today. I have no doubt about this. And nothing I’m about to say, should suggest otherwise.

And I don’t think it’s an accident that the two groups I just mentioned, African Americans and Native Americans, suffer the worst from inequality in America today. How could the history of racial discrimination in this country not have had lasting effects, given the nature of that history? And if anything good comes out of the current crisis, it will be that we manage to find a new commitment to reducing inequality in all its dimensions. The real debate to have is about how to do this, economically and politically. But the status quo that many of us take for granted to is a betrayal of our values, whether we realize it or not. If it’s not a betrayal or your values now, it will be a betrayal of your values when you become a better person. And if you don’t manage that, it will be a betrayal of your kid’s values when they’re old enough to understand the world they are living in. The difference between being very lucky in our society, and very unlucky, should not be as enormous as it is.

However, the question that interests me, given what has been true of the past and is now true of the present, is what should we do next? What should we do to build a healthier society?

What should we do next?  Tomorrow… next week…. Obviously, I don’t have the answers. But I am very worried that many of the things we’re doing now, and seem poised to do, will only make our problems worse. And I’m especially worried that it has become so difficult to talk about this. I’m just trying to have conversations. I’m just trying to figure these things out in real time, with other people. And there is no question that conversation itself has become dangerous.

Think about the politics of this. Endless imagery of people burning and looting independent businesses that were struggling to survive, and seeing the owners of these businesses beaten by mobs, cannot be good for the cause of social justice. Looting and burning businesses, and assaulting their owners, isn’t social justice, or even social protest. It’s crime. And having imagery of these crimes that highlight black involvement circulate endlessly on Fox News and on social media cannot be good for the black community. But it might yet be good for Trump.

And it could well kick open the door to a level of authoritarianism that many of us who have been very worried about Trump barely considered possible. It’s always seemed somewhat paranoid to me to wonder whether we’re living in Weimar Germany. I’ve had many conversations about this. I had Timothy Snyder on the podcast, who’s been worrying about the prospect of tyranny in the US for several years now. I’ve known, in the abstract, that democracies can destroy themselves. But the idea that it could happen here still seemed totally outlandish to me. It doesn’t anymore.

Of course, what we’ve been seeing in the streets isn’t just one thing. Some people are protesting for reasons that I fully defend. They’re outraged by specific instances of police violence, like the killing of George Floyd, and they’re worried about creeping authoritarianism—which we really should be worried about now. And they’re convinced that our politics is broken, because it is broken, and they are deeply concerned that our response to the pandemic and the implosion of our economy will do nothing to address the widening inequality in our society. And they recognize that we have a President who is an incompetent, divisive, conman and a crackpot at a time when we actually need wise leadership.

All of that is hard to put on a sign, but it’s all worth protesting.

However, it seems to me that most protesters are seeing this moment exclusively through the lens of identity politics—and racial politics in particular. And some of them are even celebrating the breakdown of law and order, or at least remaining nonjudgmental about it. And you could see, in the early days of this protest, news anchors take that line, on CNN, for instance. Talking about the history of social protest, “Sometimes it has to be violent, right? What, do you think all of these protests need to be nonviolent?” Those words came out of Chris Cuomo’s mouth, and Don Lemon’s mouth. Many people have been circulating a half quote from Martin Luther King Jr. about riots being “the language of the unheard.” They’re leaving out the part where he made it clear that he believed riots harmed the cause of the black community and helped the cause of racists.

There are now calls to defund and even to abolish the police. This may be psychologically understandable when you’ve spent half your day on Twitter watching videos of cops beating peaceful protesters. Those videos are infuriating. And I’ll have a lot more to say about police violence in a minute. But if you think a society without cops is a society you would want to live in, you have lost your mind. Giving a monopoly on violence to the state is just about the best thing we have ever done as a species. It ranks right up there with keeping our shit out of our food. Having a police force that can deter crime, and solve crimes when they occur, and deliver violent criminals to a functioning justice system, is the necessary precondition for almost anything else of value in society.

We need police reform, of course. There are serious questions to ask about the culture of policing—its hiring practices, training, the militarization of so many police forces, outside oversight, how police departments deal with corruption, the way the police unions keep bad cops on the job, and yes, the problem of racist cops. But the idea that any serious person thinks we can do without the police—or that less trained and less vetted cops will magically be better than more trained and more vetted ones—this just reveals that our conversation on these topics has run completely off the rails. Yes, we should give more resources to community services. We should have psychologists or social workers make first contact with the homeless or the mentally ill. Perhaps we’re giving cops jobs they shouldn’t be doing. All of that makes sense to rethink. But the idea that what we’re witnessing now is a matter of the cops being over-resourced—that we’ve given them too much training, that we’ve made the job too attractive—so that the people we’re recruiting are of too high a quality. That doesn’t make any sense.

What’s been alarming here is that we’re seeing prominent people—in government, in media, in Hollywood, in sports—speak and act as though the breakdown of civil society, and of society itself, is a form of progress and any desire for law enforcement is itself a form of racist oppression. At one point the woman who’s running the City Council in Minneapolis, which just decided to abolish the police force, was asked by a journalist, I believe on CNN, “What do I do if someone’s breaking into my house in the middle of the night? Who do I call?” And her first response to that question was, “You need to recognize what a statement of privilege that question is.” She’s since had to walk that back, because it’s one of the most galling and embarrassing things a public official has ever said, but this is how close the Democratic Party is to sounding completely insane. You cannot say that if someone is breaking into your house, and you’re terrified, and you want a police force that can respond, that fear is a symptom of “white privilege.” This is where Democratic politics goes to die.

Again, what is alarming about this is that this woke analysis of the breakdown of law and order will only encourage an increasingly authoritarian response, as well as the acceptance of that response by many millions of Americans.

If you step back, you will notice that there is a kind of ecstasy of ideological conformity in the air. And it’s destroying institutions. It’s destroying the very institutions we rely on to get our information—universities, the press. The New York Times in recent days, seems to be preparing for a self-immolation in recent days. No one wants to say or even think anything that makes anyone uncomfortable—certainly not anyone who has more wokeness points than they do. It’s just become too dangerous. There are people being fired for tweeting “All Lives Matter.” #AllLivesMatter, in the current environment, is being read as a naked declaration of white supremacy. That is how weird this moment is. A soccer player on the LA Galaxy was fired for something his wife tweeted…

Of course, there are real problems of inequality and despair at the bottom of these protests. People who have never found a secure or satisfying place in the world—or young people who fear they never will—people who have seen their economic prospects simply vanish, and people who have had painful encounters with racism and racist cops—people by the millions are now surrendering themselves to a kind of religious awakening. But like most religious awakenings, this movement is not showing itself eager to make honest contact with reality.

On top of that, we find extraordinarily privileged people, whatever the color of their skin—people who have been living wonderful lives in their gated communities or 5th avenue apartments—and who feel damn guilty about it—they are supporting this movement uncritically, for many reasons. Of course, they care about other people—I’m sure most of them have the same concerns about inequality that I do—but they are also supporting this movement because it promises a perfect expiation of their sins. If you have millions of dollars, and shoot botox into your face, and vacation on St. Bart’s, and you’re liberal—the easiest way to sleep at night is to be as woke as AOC and like every one of her tweets.

The problem isn’t just with the looting, and the arson, and the violence. There are problems with these peaceful protests themselves.

Of course, I’m not questioning anyone’s right to protest. Even our deranged president can pay lip service to that right—which he did as the DC police were violently dispersing a peaceful protest so that he could get his picture taken in front of that church, awkwardly holding a bible, as though he had never held a book in life.

The problem with the protests is that they are animated, to a remarkable degree, by confusion and misinformation. And I’ll explain why I think that’s the case. And, of course, this will be controversial. Needless to say, many people will consider the color of my skin to be disqualifying here. I could have invited any number of great, black intellectuals onto the podcast to make these points for me. But that struck me as a form of cowardice. Glenn Loury, John McWhorter, Thomas Chatterton Williams, Coleman Hughes, Kmele Foster, these guys might not agree with everything I’m about to say, but any one of them could walk the tightrope I’m now stepping out on far more credibly than I can.

But, you see, that’s part of the problem. The perception that the color of a person’s skin, or even his life experience, matters for this discussion is a pernicious illusion. For the discussion we really need to have, the color of a person’s skin, and even his life experience, simply does not matter. It cannot matter. We have to break this spell that the politics of identity has cast over everything.

Ok…

As I’ve already acknowledged, there is a legacy of racism in the United States that we’re still struggling to outgrow. That is obvious. There are real racists out there. And there are ways in which racism became institutionalized long ago. Many of you will remember that during the crack epidemic the penalties for crack and powder cocaine were quite different. And this led black drug offenders to be locked up for much longer than white ones. Now, whether the motivation for that policy was consciously racist or not, I don’t know, but it was effectively racist. Nothing I’m about to say entails a denial of these sorts of facts. There just seems to be no question that boys who grow up with their fathers in prison start life with a significant strike against them. So criminal justice reform is absolutely essential.

And I’m not denying that many black people, perhaps most, have interactions with cops, and others in positions of power, or even random strangers, that seem unambiguously racist. Sometimes this is because they are actually in the presence of racism, and perhaps sometimes it only seems that way. I’ve had unpleasant encounters with cops, and customs officers, and TSA screeners, and bureaucrats of every kind, and even with people working in stores or restaurants. People aren’t always nice or ethical. But being white, and living in a majority white society, I’ve never had to worry about whether any of these collisions were the result of racism. And I can well imagine that in some of these situations, had I been black, I would have come away feeling that I had encountered yet another racist in the wild. So I consider myself very lucky to have gone through life not having to think about any of that. Surely that’s one form of white privilege.

So, nothing I’m going to say denies that we should condemn racism—whether interpersonal or institutional—and we should condemn it wherever we find it. But as a society, we simply can’t afford to find and condemn racism where it doesn’t exist. And we should be increasingly aware of the costs of doing that. The more progress we make on issues of race, the less racism there will be to find, and the more likely we’ll find ourselves chasing after its ghost.

The truth is, we have made considerable progress on the problem of racism in America. This isn’t 1920, and it isn’t 1960. We had a two-term black president. We have black congressmen and women. We have black mayors and black chiefs of police. There are major cities, like Detroit and Atlanta, going on their fifth or sixth consecutive black mayor. Having more and more black people in positions of real power, in what is still a majority white society, is progress on the problem of racism. And the truth is, it might not even solve the problem we’re talking about. When Freddy Gray was killed in Baltimore, virtually everyone who could have been held accountable for his death was black. The problem of police misconduct and reform is complicated, as we’re about to see. But obviously, there is more work to do on the problem of racism. And, more important, there is much more work to do to remedy the inequalities in our society that are so correlated with race, and will still be correlated with race, even after the last racist has been driven from our shores.

The question of how much of today’s inequality is due to existing racism—whether racist people or racist policies—is a genuinely difficult question to answer. And to answer it, we need to distinguish the past from the present.

Take wealth inequality, for example: The median white family has a net worth of around $170,000—these data are a couple of years old, but they’re probably pretty close to what’s true now. The median black family has a net worth of around $17,000. So we have a tenfold difference in median wealth. (That’s the median, not the mean: Half of white families are below 170,000 and half above; half of black families are below 17,000 and half above. And we’re talking about wealth here, not income.)

This disparity in wealth persists even for people whose incomes are in the top 10 percent of the income distribution. For whites in the top 10 percent for income, the median net worth is $1.8 million; for blacks it’s around $350,000. There are probably many things that account for this disparity in wealth. It seems that black families that make it to the top of the income distribution fall out of it more easily than white families do. But it’s also undeniable that black families have less intergenerational wealth accumulated through inheritance.

How much of this is inequality due to the legacy of slavery? And how much of it is due to an ensuing century of racist policies? I’m prepared to believe quite a lot. And it strikes me as totally legitimate to think about paying reparations as a possible remedy here. Of course, one will then need to talk about reparations for the Native Americans. And then one wonders where this all ends. And what about blacks who aren’t descended from slaves, but who still suffered the consequences of racism in the US? In listening to people like John McWhorter and Coleman Hughes discuss this topic, I’m inclined to think that reparations is probably unworkable as a policy. But the truth is that I’m genuinely unsure about this.

Whatever we decide about the specific burdens of the past, we have to ask, how much of current wealth inequality is due to existing racism and to existing policies that make it harder for black families to build wealth? And the only way to get answers to those questions is to have a dispassionate discussion about facts.

The problem with the social activism we are now seeing—what John McWhorter has called “the new religion of anti-Racism”—is that it finds racism nearly everywhere, even where it manifestly does not exist. And this is incredibly damaging to the cause of achieving real equality in our society. It’s almost impossible to exaggerate the evil and injustice of slavery and its aftermath. But it is possible to exaggerate how much racism currently exists at an Ivy League university, or in Silicon Valley, or at the Oscars. And those exaggerations are toxic—and, perversely, they may produce more real racism. It seems to me that false claims of victimhood can diminish the social stature of any group, even a group that has a long history of real victimization.

The imprecision here—the bad-faith arguments, the double standards, the goal-post shifting, the idiotic opinion pieces in the New York Times, the defenestrations on social media, the general hysteria that the cult of wokeness has produced—I think this is all extremely harmful to civil society, and to effective liberal politics, and to the welfare of African Americans.

So, with that as preamble, let’s return to the tragic death of George Floyd.

As I said, I believe that any sane person who watches that video will feel that they have witnessed a totally unjustified killing. So, people of any race, are right to be horrified by what happened there. But now I want to ask a few questions, and I want us to try to consider them dispassionately. And I really want you to watch your mind while you do this. There are very likely to be few tripwires installed there, and I’m about to hit them. So just do your best to remain calm.

Does the killing of George Floyd prove that we have a problem of racism in the United States?

Does it even suggest that we have a problem of racism in the United States?

In other words, do we have reason to believe that, had Floyd been white, he wouldn’t have died in a similar way?

Do the dozen or so other videos that have emerged in recent years, of black men being killed by cops, do they prove, or even suggest, that there is an epidemic of lethal police violence directed especially at black men and that this violence is motivated by racism?

Most people seem to think that the answers to these questions are so obvious that to even pose them as I just did is obscene. The answer is YES, and it’s a yes that now needs to be shouted in the streets.

The problem, however, is that if you take even 5 minutes to look at the data on crime and police violence, the answer appears to be “no,” in every case, albeit with one important caveat. I’m not talking about how the police behaved in 1970 or even 1990. But in the last 25 years, violent crime has come down significantly in the US, and so has the police use of deadly force. And as you’re about to see, the police used more deadly force against white people—both in absolute numbers, and in terms of their contribution to crime and violence in our society. But the public perception is, of course, completely different.

In a city like Los Angeles, 2019 was a 30-year low for police shootings. Think about that…. Do the people who were protesting in Los Angeles, peacefully and violently, do the people who were ransacking and burning businesses by the hundreds—in many cases, businesses that will not return to their neighborhoods—do the people who caused so much damage to the city, that certain neighborhoods, ironically the neighborhoods that are disproportionately black, will take years, probably decades to recover, do the celebrities who supported them, and even bailed them out of jail—do any of these people know that 2019 was the 30-year low for police shootings in Los Angeles?

Before I step out further over the abyss here, let me reiterate: Many of you are going to feel a visceral negative reaction to what I’m about to say. You’re not going to like the way it sounds. You’re especially not going to like the way it sounds coming from a white guy. This feeling of not liking, this feeling of outrage, this feeling of disgust—this feeling of “Sam, what the fuck is wrong with you, why are you even touching this topic?”—this feeling isn’t an argument. It isn’t, or shouldn’t be, the basis for your believing anything to be true or false about the world.

Your capacity to be offended isn’t something that I or anyone else needs to respect. Your capacity to be offended isn’t something that you should respect. In fact, it is something that you should be on your guard for. Perhaps more than any other property of your mind, this feeling can mislead you.

If you care about justice—and you absolutely should—you should care about facts and the ability to discuss them openly. Justice requires contact with reality. It simply isn’t the case—it cannot be the case—that the most pressing claims on our sense of justice need come from those who claim to be the most offended by conversation itself.

So, I’m going to speak the language of facts right now, in so far as we know them, all the while knowing that these facts run very much counter to most people’s assumptions. Many of the things you think you know about crime and violence in our society are almost certainly wrong. And that should matter to you.

So just take a moment and think this through with me.

How many people are killed each year in America by cops? If you don’t know, guess. See if you have any intuitions for these numbers. Because your intuitions are determining how you interpret horrific videos of the sort we saw coming out of Minneapolis.

The answer for many years running is about 1000. One thousand people are killed by cops in America each year. There are about 50 to 60 million encounters between civilians and cops each year, and about 10 million arrests. That’s down from a high of over 14 million arrests annually throughout the 1990’s. So, of the 10 million occasions where a person attracts the attention of the police, and the police decide to make an arrest, about 1000 of those people die as a result. (I’m sure a few people get killed even when no arrest was attempted, but that has to be a truly tiny number.) So, without knowing anything else about the situation, if the cops decide to arrest you, it would be reasonable to think that your chance of dying is around 1/10,000. Of course, in the United States, it’s higher than it is in other countries. So I’m not saying that this number is acceptable. But it is what it is for a reason, as we’re about to see.

Now, there are a few generic things I’d like to point here before we get further into the data. They should be uncontroversial.

First, it’s almost certainly the case that of these 1000 officer-caused deaths each year, some are entirely justified—it may even be true that most are entirely justified—and some are entirely unjustified, and some are much harder to judge. And that will be true next year. And the year after that.

Of the unjustified killings, there are vast differences between them. Many have nothing in common but for the fact that a cop killed someone unnecessarily. It might have been a terrible misunderstanding, or incompetence, or just bad luck, and in certain cases it could be a cop who decides to murder someone because he’s become enraged, or he’s just a psychopath. And it is certainly possible that racial bias accounts for some number of these unjustified killings.

Another point that should be uncontroversial—but may sound a little tone-deaf in the current environment, where we’ve inundated with videos of police violence in response to these protests. But this has to be acknowledged whenever we’re discussing this topic: Cops have a very hard job. In fact, in the current environment, they have an almost impossible job.

If you’re making 10 million arrests every year, some number of people will decide not to cooperate. There can be many reasons for this. A person could be mentally ill, or drunk, or on drugs. Of course, rather often the person is an actual criminal who doesn’t want to be arrested.

Among innocent people, and perhaps this getting more common these days, a person might feel that resisting arrest is the right thing to do, ethically or politically or as a matter of affirming his identity. After all, put yourself in his shoes, he did nothing wrong. Why are the cops arresting him? I don’t know if we have data on the numbers of people who resist arrest by race. But I can well imagine that if it’s common for African Americans to believe that the only reason they have been singled out for arrest is due to racism on the part of the police, that could lead to greater levels of non-compliance. Which seems very likely to lead to more unnecessary injury and death. This is certainly one reason why it is wise to have the racial composition of a police force mirror that of the community it’s policing. Unfortunately, there’s no evidence that this will reduce lethal violence from the side of the police. In fact, the evidence we have suggests that black and Hispanic cops are more likely to shoot black and Hispanic suspects than white cops are. But it would surely change the perception of the community that racism is a likely explanation for police behavior, which itself might reduce conflict.

When a cop goes hands on a person in an attempt to control his movements or make an arrest, that person’s resistance poses a problem that most people don’t understand. If you haven’t studied this topic. If you don’t know what it physically takes to restrain and immobilize a non-compliant person who may be bigger and stronger than you are, and if you haven’t thought through the implications of having a gun on your belt while attempting to do that—a gun that can be grabbed and used against you, or against a member of the public—then your intuitions about what makes sense here, tactically and ethically, are very likely to be bad.

If you haven’t trained with firearms under stress. If you don’t know how suddenly situations can change. If you haven’t experienced how quickly another person can close the distance on you, and how little time you have to decide to draw your weapon. If you don’t know how hard it is to shoot a moving target, or even a stationary one, when your heart is beating out of your chest. You very likely have totally unreasonable ideas about what we can expect from cops in situations like these. [VIDEO, VIDEO, VIDEO]

And there is another fact that looms over all this like the angel of Death, literally: Most cops do not get the training they need. They don’t get the hand-to-hand training they need—they don’t have good skills to subdue people without harming them. All you need to do is watch YouTube videos of botched arrests to see this. The martial arts community stands in perpetual astonishment at the kinds of things cops do and fail to do once they start fighting with suspects. Cops also don’t get the firearms training they need. Of course, there are elite units in many police departments, but most cops do not have the training they need to do the job they’re being asked to do.

It is also true, no doubt, that some cops are racist bullies. And there are corrupt police departments that cover for these guys, and cover up police misconduct generally, whether it was borne of racism or not.

But the truth is that even if we got rid of all bad cops, which we absolutely should do, and there were only good people left, and we got all these good people the best possible training, and we gave them the best culture in which to think about their role in society, and we gave them the best methods for de-escalating potentially violent situations—which we absolutely must do—and we scrubbed all the dumb laws from our books, so that when cops were required to enforce the law, they were only risking their lives and the lives of civilians for reasons that we deem necessary and just—so the war on drugs is obviously over—even under these conditions of perfect progress, we are still guaranteed to have some number of cases each year where a cop kills a civilian in a way that is totally unjustified, and therefore tragic. Every year, there will be some number of families who will be able to say that the cops killed their son or daughter, or father or mother, or brother or sister. And videos of these killings will occasionally surface, and they will be horrific. This seems guaranteed to happen.

So, while we need to make all these improvements, we still need to understand that there are very likely always to going to be videos of cops doing something inexplicable, or inexplicably stupid, that results in an innocent person’s death, or a not-so-innocent person’s death. And sometimes the cop will be white and the victim will be black. We have 10 million arrests each year. And we now live in a panopticon where practically everything is videotaped.

I’m about to get further into the details of what we know about police violence, but I want to just put it to you now: If we’re going to let the health of race relations in this country, or the relationship between the community and the police, depend on whether we ever see a terrible video of police misconduct again, the project of healing these wounds in our society is doomed.

About a week into these protests I heard Van Jones on CNN say, “If we see one more video of a cop brutalizing a black man, this country could go over the edge.” He said this, not as indication of how dangerously inflamed people have become. He seemed to be saying it as an ultimatum to the police. With 10 million arrests a year, arrests that have to take place in the most highly armed society in the developed world, I hope you understand how unreasonable that ultimatum is.

We have to put these videos into context. And we have to acknowledge how different they are from one another. Some of them are easy to interpret. But some are quite obviously being interpreted incorrectly by most people—especially by activists. And there are a range of cases—some have video associated with them and some don’t—that are now part of a litany of anti-racist outrage, and the names of the dead are intoned as though they were all evidence of the same injustice. And yet, they are not.

Walter Scott was stopped for a broken taillight and got out of his car and tried to flee. There might have been a brief struggle over the officer’s taser, that part of the video isn’t clear. But what is clear is that he was shot in the back multiple times as he was running away. That was insane. There was zero reason for the officer to feel that his life was under threat at the point he opened fire. And for that unjustified shooting, he was sentenced to 20 years in prison. I’m not sure that’s long enough. That seemed like straight-up murder.

The George Floyd video, while even more disturbing to watch, is harder to interpret. I don’t know anything about Derek Chauvin, the cop who knelt on his neck. It’s quite possible that he’s a terrible person who should have never been a cop. He seems to have a significant number of complaints against him—though, as far as I know, the details of those complaints haven’t been released. And he might be a racist on top of being a bad cop. Or he might be a guy who was totally in over his head and thought you could restrain someone indefinitely by keeping a knee on their neck indefinitely. I don’t know. I’m sure more facts will come out. But whoever he is, I find it very unlikely that he was intending to kill George Floyd. Think about it. He was surrounded by irate witnesses and being filmed. Unless he was aspiring to become the most notorious murderer in human history, it seems very unlikely that he was intending to commit murder in that moment. It’s possible, of course. But it doesn’t seem the likeliest explanation for his behavior.

What I believe we saw on that video was the result of a tragic level of negligence and poor training on the part of those cops. Or terrible recruitment—it’s possible that none of these guys should have ever been cops. I think for one of them, it was only his fourth day on the job. Just imagine that. Just imagine all things you don’t know as a new cop.  It could also be a function of bad luck in terms of Floyd’s underlying health. It’s been reported that he was complaining of being unable to breath before Chauvin pinned him with his knee. The knee on his neck might not have been the only thing that caused his death. It could have also been the weight of the other officer pinning him down.

This is almost certainly what happened in the cast of Eric Garner. Half the people on earth believe they witnessed a cop choke Eric Garner to death in that video. That does not appear to be what happened. When Eric Garner is saying “I can’t breathe” he’s not being choked. He’s being held down on the pavement by several officers. Being forced down on your stomach under the weight of several people can kill a person, especially someone with lung or heart disease. In the case of Eric Garner, it is absolutely clear that the cop who briefly attempted to choke him was no longer choking him. If you doubt that, watch the video again.

And if you are recoiling now from my interpretation of these videos, you really should watch the killing of Tony Timpa. It’s also terribly disturbing, but it removes the variable of race and it removes any implication of intent to harm on the part of the cops about as clearly as you could ask. It really is worth watching as a corrective to our natural interpretation of these other videos.

Tony Timpa was a white man in Dallas, who was suffering some mental health emergency and cocaine intoxication. And he actually called 911 himself. What we see is the bodycam footage from the police, which shows that he was already in handcuffs when they arrived—a security guard had cuffed him. And then the cops take over, and they restrain Timpa on the ground, by rolling him onto a stomach and putting their weight on him, very much like in the case of Eric Garner. And they keep their weight on him—one cop has a knee on his upper back, which is definitely much less aggressive than a knee on the neck—but they crush the life out of him all the same, over the course of 13 minutes. He’s not being choked. The cops are not being rough. There’s no animus between them and Timpa. It was not a hostile arrest. They clearly believe that they’re responding to a mental health emergency. But they keep him down on his belly, under their weight, and they’re cracking jokes as he loses consciousness. Now, your knowledge that he’s going to be dead by the end of this video, make their jokes seem pretty callous. But this was about as benign an imposition of force by cops as you’re going to see. The crucial insight you will have watching this video, is that the officers not only had no intent to kill Tony Timpa, they don’t take his pleading seriously because they have no doubt that what they’re doing is perfectly safe—perfectly within protocol. They’ve probably done this hundreds of times before.

If you watch that video—and, again, fair warning, it is disturbing—but imagine how disturbing it would have been to our society if Tony Timpa had been black. If the only thing you changed about the video was the color of Timpa’s skin, then that video would have detonated like a nuclear bomb in our society, exactly as the George Floyd video did. In fact, in one way it is worse, or would have been perceived to be worse. I mean, just imagine white cops telling jokes as they crushed the life out of a black Tony Timpa… Given the nature of our conversation about violence, given the way we perceive videos of this kind, there is no way that people would have seen that as anything other than a lynching. And yet, it would not have been a lynching.

Now, I obviously have no idea what was in the minds of cops in Minneapolis. And perhaps we’ll learn at trial. Perhaps a tape of Chauvin using the N-word in another context will surface, bringing in a credible allegation of racism. It seems to me that Chauvin is going to have a very hard time making sense of his actions. But most people who saw that video believe they have seen, with their own eyes, beyond any possibility of doubt, a racist cop intentionally murder an innocent man. That’s not what the video necessarily shows.

As I said, these videos can be hard to interpret, even while seeming very easy to interpret. And these cases, whether we have associated video or not, are very different. Michael Brown is reported to have punched a cop in the face and attempted to get his gun. As far as I know, there’s no video of that encounter. But, if true, that is an entirely different situation. If you’re attacking a cop, trying to get his gun, that is a life and death struggle that almost by definition for the cop, and it most cases justifies the use of lethal force. And honestly, it seems that no one within a thousand miles of Black Lives Matter is willing to make these distinctions. An attitude of anti-racist moral outrage is not the best lens through which to interpret evidence of police misconduct.

I’ve seen many videos of people getting arrested. And I’ve seen the outraged public reaction to what appears to be inappropriate use of force by the cops. One overwhelming fact that comes through is that people, whatever the color of their skin, don’t understand how to behave around cops so as to keep themselves safe. People have to stop resisting arrest. This may seem obvious, but judging from most of these videos, and from the public reaction to them, this must be a totally arcane piece of information. When a cop wants to take you into custody, you don’t get to decide whether or not you should be arrested. When a cop wants to take you into custody, for whatever reason, it’s not a negotiation. And if you turn it into a wrestling match, you’re very likely to get injured or killed.

This is a point I once belabored in a podcast with Glenn Loury, and it became essentially a public service announcement. And I’ve gone back and listened to those comments, and I want to repeat them here. This is something that everyone really needs to understand. And it’s something that Black Lives Matter should be teaching explicitly: If you put your hands on a cop—if you start wrestling with a cop, or grabbing him because he’s arresting your friend, or pushing him, or striking him, or using your hands in way that can possibly be interpreted as your reaching for a gun—you are likely to get shot in the United States, whatever the color of your skin.

As I said, when you’re with a cop, there is always a gun out in the open. And any physical struggle has to be perceived by him as a fight for the gun. A cop doesn’t know what you’re going to do if you overpower him, so he has to assume the worst. Most cops are not confident in their ability to physically control a person without shooting him—for good reason, because they’re not well trained to do that, and they’re continually confronting people who are bigger, or younger, or more athletic, or more aggressive than they are. Cops are not superheroes. They’re ordinary people with insufficient training, and once things turn physical they cannot afford to give a person who is now assaulting a police officer the benefit of the doubt.

This is something that most people seem totally confused about. If they see a video of somebody trying to punch a cop in the face and the person’s unarmed, many people think the cop should just punch back, and any use of deadly force would be totally disproportionate. But that’s not how violence works. It’s not the cop’s job to be the best bare-knuckled boxer on Earth so he doesn’t have to use his gun. A cop can’t risk getting repeatedly hit in the face and knocked out, because there’s always a gun in play. This is the cop’s perception of the world, and it’s a justifiable one, given the dynamics of human violence.

You might think cops shouldn’t carry guns. Why can’t we just be like England? That’s a point that can be debated. But it requires considerable thought in a country where there are over 300 million guns on the street. The United States is not England.

Again, really focus on what is happening when a cop is attempting to arrest a person. It’s not up to you to decide whether or not you should be arrested. Does it matter that you know you didn’t do anything wrong? No. And how could that fact be effectively communicated in the moment by your not following police commands? I’m going to ask that again: How could the fact that you’re innocent, that you’re not a threat to cop, that you’re not about to suddenly attack him or produce a weapon of your own, how could those things be effectively communicated at the moment he’s attempting to arrest you by your resisting arrest?

Unless you called the cops yourself, you never know what situation you’re in. If I’m walking down the street, I don’t know if the cop who is approaching me didn’t get a call that some guy who looks like Ben Stiller just committed an armed robbery. I know I didn’t do anything, but I don’t know what’s in the cop’s head. The time to find out what’s going on—the time to complain about racist cops, the time to yell at them and tell them they’re all going to get fired for their stupidity and misconduct—is after cooperating, at the police station, in the presence of a lawyer, preferably. But to not comply in the heat of the moment, when a guy with the gun is issuing commands—this raises your risk astronomically, and it’s something that most people, it seems, just do not intuitively understand, even when they’re not in the heat of the moment themselves, but just watching video of other people getting arrested.

Ok. End of public-service announcement.

The main problem with using individual cases, where black men and women have been killed by cops, to conclude that there is an epidemic of racist police violence in our society, is that you can find nearly identical cases of white suspects being killed by cops, and there are actually more of them.

In 2016, John McWhorter wrote a piece in Time Magazine about this.

Here’s a snippet of what he wrote:

“The heart of the indignation over these murders is a conviction that racist bias plays a decisive part in these encounters. That has seemed plausible to me, and I have recently challenged those who disagree to present a list of white people killed within the past few years under circumstances similar to those that so enrage us in cases such as what happened to Tamir Rice, John Crawford, Walter Scott, Sam Debose, and others.”

So, McWhorter issued that challenge, as he said, and he was presented with the cases [VIDEO, VIDEO, VIDEO]. But there’s no song about these people, admonishing us to say their names. And the list of white names is longer, and I don’t know any of them, other than Tony Timpa. I know the black names. In addition to the ones I just read from McWhorter’s article, I know the names of Eric Garner, and Michael Brown, and Alton Sterling, and Philando Castile, and now, of course, I know the name of George Floyd. And I’m aware of many of the details of these cases where black men and women have been killed by cops. I know the name of Breonna Taylor. I can’t name a single white person killed by cops in circumstances like these—other than Timpa—and I just read McWhorter’s article where he lists many of them.

So, this is also a distortion in the media. The media is not showing us videos of white people being killed by cops; activists are not demanding that they do this. I’m sure white supremacists talk about this stuff a lot, who knows? But in terms of the story we’re telling ourselves in the mainstream, we are not actually talking about the data on lethal police violence.

So back to the data: Again, cops kill around 1000 people every year in the United States. About 25 percent are black. About 50 percent are white. The data on police homicide are all over the place. The federal government does not have a single repository for data of this kind. But they have been pretty carefully tracked by outside sources, like the Washington Post, for the last 5 years. These ratios appear stable over time. Again, many of these killings are justifiable, we’re talking about career criminals who are often armed and, in many cases, trying to kill the cops. Those aren’t the cases we’re worried about. We’re worried about the unjustifiable homicides.

Now, some people will think that these numbers still represent an outrageous injustice. Afterall, African Americans are only 13 percent of the population. So, at most, they should be 13 percent of the victims of police violence, not 25 percent. Any departure from the baseline population must be due to racism.

Ok. Well, that sounds plausible, but consider a few more facts:

Blacks are 13 percent of the population, but they commit at least 50 percent of the murders and other violent crimes.

If you have 13 percent of the population responsible for 50 percent of the murders—and in some cities committing 2/3rds of all violent crime—what percent of police attention should it attract? I don’t know. But I’m pretty sure it’s not just 13 percent. Given that the overwhelming majority of their victims are black, I’m pretty sure that most black people wouldn’t set the dial at 13 percent either.

And here we arrive at the core of the problem. The story of crime in America is overwhelmingly the story of black-on-black crime. It is also, in part, a story of black-on-white crime. For more than a generation, crime in America really hasn’t been a story of much white-on-black crime. [Some listeners mistook my meaning here. I’m not denying that most violent crime is intraracial. So, it’s true that most white homicide victims are killed by white offenders. Per capita, however, the white crime rate is much lower than the black crime rate. And there is more black-on-white crime than white-on-black crime.—SH]

The murder rate has come down steadily since the early 1990’s, with only minor upticks. But, nationwide, blacks are still 6 times more likely to get murdered than whites, and in some cities their risk is double that. And around 95 percent of the murders are committed by members of the African American community. [While reported in 2015, these data were more than a decade old. Looking at more recent data from the FBI’s Uniform Crime Report, the number appears to be closer to 90 percent.—SH]

The weekend these protests and riots were kicking off nationwide—when our entire country seemed to be tearing itself apart over a perceived epidemic of racist police violence against the black community, 92 people were shot, and 27 killed, in Chicago alone—one city. This is almost entirely a story of black men killing members of their own community. And this is far more representative of the kind of violence that the black community needs to worry about. And, ironically, it’s clear that one remedy for this violence is, or would be, effective policing.

These are simply the facts of crime in our society as we best understand them. And the police have to figure out how to respond to these facts, professionally and ethically. The question is, are they doing that? And, obviously, there’s considerable doubt that they’re doing that, professionally and ethically.

Roland Fryer, the Harvard economist who’s work I discussed on the podcast with Glenn Loury, studied police encounters involving black and white suspects and the use of force.

His paper is titled, this from 2016, “An Empirical Analysis of Racial Differences in Police Use of Force.”

Fryer is black, and he went into this research with the expectation that the data would confirm that there’s an epidemic of lethal police violence directed at black men. But he didn’t find that. However, he did find support for the suspicion that black people suffer more nonlethal violence at the hands of cops than whites do.

So let’s look at this.

The study examined data from 10 major police departments, in Texas, Florida and California. Generally, Fryer found that there is 25 percent greater likelihood that the police would go hands on black suspects than white ones—cuffing them, or forcing them to ground, or using other non-lethal force.

Specifically, in New York City, in encounters where white and black citizens were matched for other characteristics, they found that:

Cops were…

17 percent more likely to go hands on black suspects

18 percent more likely to push them into a wall

16 percent more likely to put them in handcuffs (in a situation in which they aren’t arrested)

18 percent more likely to push them to the ground

25 percent more likely to use pepper spray or a baton

19 percent more likely to draw their guns

24 percent more likely to point a gun at them.

This is more or less the full continuum of violence short of using lethal force. And it seems, from the data we have, that blacks receive more of it than whites. What accounts for this disparity? Racism? Maybe. However, as I said, it’s inconvenient to note that other data suggest that black cops and Hispanic cops are more likely to shoot black and Hispanic suspects than white cops are. I’m not sure how an ambient level of racism explains that.

Are there other explanations? Well, again, could it be that blacks are less cooperative with the police. If so, that’s worth understanding. A culture of resisting arrest would be a very bad thing to cultivate, given that the only response to such resistance is for the police to increase their use of force.

Whatever is true here is something we should want to understand. And it’s all too easy to see how an increased number of encounters with cops, due to their policing in the highest crime neighborhoods, which are disproportionately black, and an increased number of traffic stops in those neighborhoods, and an increased propensity for cops to go hands-on these suspects, with or without an arrest, for whatever reason—it’s easy to see how all of this could be the basis for a perception of racism, whether or not racism is the underlying motivation.

It is totally humiliating to be arrested or manhandled by a cop. And, given the level of crime in the black community, a disproportionate number of innocent black men seem guaranteed to have this experience. It’s totally understandable that this would make them bitter and mistrustful of the police. This is another vicious circle that we must find some way to interrupt.

But Fryer also found that black suspects are around 25 percent less likely to be shot than white suspects are. And in the most egregious situations, where officers were not first attacked, but nevertheless fired their weapons at a suspect, they were more likely to do this when the suspect was white.

Again, the data are incomplete. This doesn’t not cover every city in the country. And a larger study tomorrow might paint a different picture. But, as far as I know, the best data we have suggest that for, whatever reason, whites are more likely to be killed by cops once an arrest is attempted. And a more recent study in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences  by David Johnson and colleagues found similar results. And it is simply undeniable that more whites are killed by cops each year, both in absolute numbers and in proportion to their contributions to crime and violence in our society.

Can you hear how these facts should be grinding in that well-oiled machine of woke outrage? Our society is in serious trouble now. We are being crushed under the weight of a global pandemic and our response to it has been totally inept. On top of that, we’re being squeezed by the growing pressure of what might become a full-on economic depression. And the streets are now filled with people who imagine, on the basis of seeing some horrific videos, that there is an epidemic of racist cops murdering African Americans. Look at what this belief is doing to our politics. And these videos will keep coming. And the truth is they could probably be matched 2 for 1 with videos of white people being killed by cops. What percentage of people protesting understand that the disparity runs this way? In light of the belief that the disparity must run the other way, people are now quite happy to risk getting beaten and arrested by cops themselves, and to even loot and burn businesses. And most people and institutions are supporting this civil unrest from the sidelines, because they too imagine that cops are killing black people in extraordinary numbers. And all of this is calling forth an authoritarian response from Trump—and leading to more examples of police violence caught on video.

As I hope I’ve made clear, we need police reform—there’s no question about this. And some of the recent footage of the police attacking peaceful protests is outrageous. Nothing I just said should signify that I’m unaware of that. From what I’ve seen—and by the time I release this podcast, the character of all this might have changed—but, from what I’ve seen, the police were dangerously passive in the face of looting and real crime, at least in the beginning. In many cities, they just stood and watched society unravel. And then they were far too aggressive in the face of genuinely peaceful protests. This is a terrible combination. It is the worst combination. There’s no better way to increase cynicism and anger and fear, on all sides.

But racializing how we speak about the problem of police violence, where race isn’t actually the relevant variable—again, think of Tony Timpa— this has highly negative effects. First, it keeps us from talking about the real problems with police tactics. For instance, we had the recent case of Breonna Taylor who was killed in a so-called “no knock” raid of her home. As occasionally happens, in this carnival of moral error we call “the war on drugs,” the police had the wrong address, and they kicked in the wrong door. And they wound up killing a totally innocent woman. But this had nothing to do with race. The problem is not, as some commentators have alleged, that it’s not safe to be “sleeping while black.” The problem is that these no-knock raids are an obscenely dangerous way of enforcing despicably stupid laws. White people die under precisely these same circumstances, and very likely in greater numbers (I don’t have data specifically on no-knock raids, but we can assume that the ratio is probably conserved here).

Think about how crazy this policy is in a nation where gun ownership is so widespread. If someone kicks in your door in the middle of the night, and you’re a gun owner, of course you’re going to reach for your gun. That’s why you have a gun in the first place. The fact that people bearing down on you and your family out of the darkness might have yelled “police” (or might have not yelled “police”; it’s alleged in some of these cases that they don’t yell anything)—the fact that someone yells “police” isn’t necessarily convincing. Anyone can yell “police.” And, again, think of the psychology of this: If the police have the wrong house, and you know there is no reason on earth that real cops would take an interest in you, especially in the middle of the night, because you haven’t done anything (you’re not the guy running a meth lab)—and now you’re reaching for your gun in the dark—of course, someone is likely to get killed. This is not a racial issue. It’s a terrible policy.

Unfortunately, the process of police reform isn’t straightforward—and it is made massively more complicated by what’s happening now. Yes, we will be urging police reform in a very big way now, that much seems clear. But Roland Fryer has also shown that investigations of the cops, in a climate where viral videos and racial politics are operating, have dramatic effects, many of which are negative.

He studied the aftermath of the investigations into police misconduct that followed the killings Freddie Gray, Michael Brown, and Lequan McDonald, and found that, for reasons that seem pretty easy to intuit, proactive police contact with civilians decreases drastically, sometimes by as much 100 percent, once these investigations get started. This is now called “The Ferguson Effect.” The police still answer 911 calls, but they don’t investigate suspicious activity in the same way. They don’t want to wind up on YouTube. And when they alter their behavior like this, homicides go up. Fryer estimates that the effects of these few investigations translated into 1000 extra homicides, and almost 40,000 more felonies, over the next 24 months in the US. And, of course, most of the victims of those crimes were black. One shudders to imagine the size of the Ferguson effect we’re about to see nationwide… I’m sure the morale among cops has never been lower. I think it’s almost guaranteed that cops by the thousands will be leaving the force. And it will be much more difficult to recruit good people.

Who is going to want to be a cop now? Who could be idealist about occupying that role in society? It seems to me that the population of people who will become cops now will be more or less indistinguishable from the population of people who become prison guards. I’m pretty sure there’s a difference there, and I think we’re likely to see that difference expressed in the future. It’s a grim picture, unless we do something very creative here.

So there’s a real question about how we can reform police departments, and get rid of bad cops, without negatively impacting the performance of good cops? That’s a riddle we have to solve—or at least we have to understand what the trade-offs are here.

Why is all of this happening now? Police killings of civilians have gone way down. And they are rare events. They are 1/10,000 level events, if measured by arrests. 1/50-60,000 level events if measured by police encounters. And the number of unarmed people who are killed is smaller still. Around 50 last year, again, more were white than black. And not all unarmed victims are innocent. Some get killed in the act of attacking the cops.  [EXAMPLE, EXAMPLE, EXAMPLE]

Again, the data don’t tell a clean story, or the whole story. I see no reason to doubt that blacks get more attention from the cops—though, honestly, given the distribution of crime in our society, I don’t know what the alternative to that would be. And once the cops get involved, blacks are more likely to get roughed up, which is bad. But, again, it simply isn’t clear that racism is the cause. And contrary to everyone’s expectations, whites seem more likely to get killed by cops. Actually, one factor seems to be that whites are 7 times more likely to commit “suicide by cop” (and 3 times more likely to commit suicide generally). What’s going on there? Who knows?

There’s a lot we don’t understand about these data. But ask yourself, would our society seem less racist if the disparity ran the other way? Is less physical contact, but a greater likelihood of getting shot and killed a form of white privilege? Is a higher level of suicide by cop, and suicide generally, a form of white privilege? We have a problem here that, read either way, you can tell a starkly racist narrative.

We need ethical, professional policing, of course. But the places with the highest crime in our society need the most of it. Is there any doubt about that? In a city like Milwaukee, blacks are 12 times more likely to get murdered than whites [Not sure where I came by this number, probably a lecture or podcast. It appears the rate is closer to 20 times more likely and 22 times more likely in Wisconsin as a whole—SH], again, they are being killed by other African Americans, nearly 100 percent of the time. I think the lowest figure I’ve seen is 93 percent of the time. [As noted above, more recent data suggest that it’s closer to 90 percent]. What should the police do about this? And what are they likely to do now that our entire country has been convulsed over one horrific case of police misconduct?

We need to lower the temperature on this conversation, and many other conversations, and understand what is actually happening in our society.

But instead of doing this, we now have a whole generation of social activists who seem eager to play a game of chicken with the forces of chaos. Everything I said about the problem of inequality and the need for reform stands. But I think that what we are witnessing in our streets, and on social media, and even in the mainstream press, is a version of mass hysteria. And the next horrific video of a black person being killed by cops won’t be evidence to the contrary. And there will be another video. There are 10 million arrests every year. There will always be another video.

And the media has turned these videos into a form of political pornography. And this has deranged us. We’re now unable to speak or even think about facts. The media has been poisoned by bad incentives, in this regard, and social media doubly so.

In the mainstream of this protest movement, it’s very common to hear that the only problem with what is happening in our streets, apart from what the cops are doing, is that some criminal behavior at the margins—a little bit of looting, a little bit of violence—has distracted us from an otherwise necessary and inspiring response to an epidemic of racism. Most people in the media have taken exactly this line. People like Anderson Cooper on CNN or the editorial page of the New York Times or public figures like President Obama or Vice President Biden. The most prominent liberal voices believe that the protests themselves make perfect moral and political sense, and that movements like Black Lives Matter are guaranteed to be on the right side of history. How could anyone who is concerned about inequality and injustice in our society see things any other way? How could anyone who isn’t himself racist not support Black Lives Matter?

But, of course, there’s a difference between slogans and reality. There’s a difference between the branding of a movement and its actual aims. And this can be genuinely confusing. That’s why propaganda works. For instance, many people assume there’s nothing wrong with ANTIFA, because this group of total maniacs has branded itself as “anti-fascist.” What could be wrong with being anti-fascist? Are you pro fascism?

There’s a similar problem with Black Lives Matter—though, happily, unlike ANTIFA, Black Lives Matter actually seems committed to peaceful protest, which is hugely important. So the problem I’m discussing is more ideological, and it’s much bigger than Black Lives Matter—though BLM is its most visible symbol of this movement. The wider issue is that we are in the midst of a public hysteria and moral panic. And it has been made possible by a near total unwillingness, particularly on the Left, among people who value their careers and their livelihoods and their reputations, and fear being hounded into oblivion online—this is nearly everyone left-of-center politically. People are simply refusing to speak honestly about the problem of race and racism in America.

We are making ourselves sick. We are damaging our society. And by protesting the wrong thing, even the slightly wrong thing, and unleashing an explosion of cynical criminality in the process—looting that doesn’t even have the pretense of protest—the Left is empowering Trump, whatever the polls currently show. And if we are worried about Trump’s authoritarian ambitions, as I think we really should be, this is important to understand. He recently had what looked like paramilitary troops guarding the White House. I don’t know if we found out who those guys actually were, but that was genuinely alarming. But how are Democrats calls to “abolish the police” going to play to half the country that just watched so many cities get looted? We have to vote Trump out of office and restore the integrity of our institutions. And we have to make the political case for major reforms to deal with the problem of inequality—a problem which affects the black community most of all.

We need police reform; we need criminal justice reform; we need tax reform; we need health care reform; we need environmental reform—we need all of these things and more. And to be just, these policies will need to reduce the inequality in our society. If we did this, African Americans would benefit, perhaps more than any other group. But it’s not at all clear that progress along these dimensions primarily entails us finding and eradicating more racism in our society.

Just ask yourself, what would real progress on the problem of racism look like? What would utter progress look like?

Here’s what I think it would look like: More and more people (and ultimately all people) would care less and less (and ultimately not at all) about race. As I’ve said before in various places, skin color would become like hair color in its political and moral significance—which is to say that it would have none.

Now, maybe you don’t agree with that aspiration. Maybe you think that tribalism based on skin color can’t be outgrown or shouldn’t be outgrown. Well, if you think that, I’m afraid I don’t know what to say to you. It’s not that there’s nothing to say, it’s just there is so much we disagree about, morally and politically, that I don’t know where to begin. So that debate, if it can even be had, will have to be left for another time.

For the purposes of this conversation, I have to assume that you agree with me about the goal here, which is to say that you share the hope that there will come a time where the color of a person’s skin really doesn’t matter. What would that be like?

Well, how many blondes got into Harvard this year? Does anyone know? What percentage of the police in San Diego are brunette? Do we have enough red heads in senior management in our Fortune 500 companies? No one is asking these questions, and there is a reason for that. No one cares. And we are right not to care.

Imagine a world in which people cared about hair color to the degree that we currently care—or seem to care, or imagine that others care, or allege that they secretly care—about skin color. Imagine a world in which discrimination by hair color was a thing, and it took centuries to overcome, and it remains a persistent source of private pain and public grievance throughout society, even where it no longer exists. What an insane misuse of human energy that would be. What an absolute catastrophe.

The analogy isn’t perfect, for a variety of reasons, but it’s good enough for us to understand what life would be like if the spell of racism and anti-racism were truly broken. The future we want is not one in which we have all become passionate anti-racists. It’s not a future in which we are forever on our guard against the slightest insult—the bad joke, the awkward compliment, the tweet that didn’t age well. We want to get to a world in which skin color and other superficial characteristics of a person become morally and politically irrelevant. And if you don’t agree with that, what did you think Martin Luther King Jr was talking about?

And, finally, if you’re on the Left and don’t agree with this vision of a post-racial future, please observe that the people who agree with you, the people who believe that there is no overcoming race, and that racial identity is indissoluble, and that skin color really matters and will always matter—these people are white supremacists and neo-Nazis and other total assholes. And these are also people I can’t figure out how to talk to, much less persuade.

So the question for the rest of us—those of us who want to build a world populated by human beings, merely—the question is, how do we get there? How does racial difference become uninteresting? Can it become uninteresting by more and more people taking a greater interest in it? Can it become uninteresting by becoming a permanent political identity? Can it become uninteresting by our having thousands of institutions whose funding (and, therefore, very survival) depends on it remaining interesting until the end of the world?

Can it become less significant by being granted more and more significance? By becoming a fetish, a sacred object, ringed on all sides by taboos? Can race become less significant if you can lose your reputation and even your livelihood, at any moment, by saying one wrong word about it?

I think these questions answer themselves. To outgrow our obsession with racial difference, we have outgrow our obsession with race. And you don’t do that by maintaining your obsession with it.

Now, you might agree with me about the goal and about how a post-racial society would seem, but you might disagree about the path to get there—the question of what to do next. In fact, one podcast listener wrote to me recently to say that while he accepted my notion of a post-racial future, he thinks it’s just far too soon to talk about putting racial politics behind us. He asked me to imagine just how absurd it would have been to tell Martin Luther King Jr, at the dawn of the civil rights movement, that the path beyond racism requires that he become less and less obsessed with race.

That seems like a fair point, but Coleman Hughes has drawn my attention to a string of MLK quotes that seem to be just as transcendent of racial identity politics as I’m hoping to be here. You can see these quotations on his Twitter feed. None of those statements by King would make sense coming out of Black Lives Matter at the moment.

In any case, as I said, I think we are living in a very different time than Martin Luther King was. And what I see all around me is evidence of the fact that we were paying an intolerable price for confusion about racism, and social justice generally—and the importance of identity, generally—and this is happening in an environment where the path to success and power for historically disadvantaged groups isn’t generally barred by white racists who won’t vote for them, or hire them, or celebrate their achievements, or buy their products, and it isn’t generally barred by laws and policies and norms that are unfair. There is surely still some of that. But there must be less of it now than there ever was.

The real burden on the black community is the continued legacy of inequality—with respect to wealth, and education, and health, and social order—levels of crime, in particular, and resulting levels of incarceration, and single-parent families—and it seems very unlikely that these disparities, whatever their origin in the past, can be solved by focusing on problem of lingering racism, especially where it doesn’t exist. And the current problem of police violence seems a perfect case in point.

And yet now we’re inundated with messages from every well-intentioned company and organization singing from the same book of hymns. Black Lives Matter is everywhere. Of course, black lives matter. But the messaging of this movement about the reality of police violence is wrong, and it’s creating a public hysteria.

I just got a message from the American Association for the Advancement of Science talking about fear of the other. The quote from the email: “Left unchecked, racism, sexism, homophobia, and fear of the other can enter any organization or community – and destroy the foundations upon which we must build our future.” Ok, fine. But is that really the concern in the scientific community right now, “unchecked racism, sexism, and homophobia.” Is that really what ails science in the year 2020? I don’t think so.

I’ll tell you the fear of the other that does seem warranted, everywhere, right now. It’s the other who has rendered him or herself incapable of dialogue. It’s the other who will not listen to reason, who has no interest in facts, who can’t join a conversation that converges on the truth, because he knows in advance what the truth must be. We should fear the other who thinks that dogmatism and cognitive bias aren’t something to be corrected for, because they’re the very foundations of his epistemology.  We should fear the other who can’t distinguish activism from journalism or politics from science. Or worse, can make these distinctions, but refuses to. And we’re all capable of becoming this person. If only for minutes or hours at a time. And this is a bug in our operating system, not a feature. We have to continually correct for it.

One of the most shocking things that many of us learned when the Covid-19 pandemic was first landing on our shores, and we were weighing the pros and cons of closing the schools, was that for tens of millions of American kids, going to school represents the only guarantee of a decent meal on any given day. I’m pretty confident that most of the kids we’re talking about here aren’t white. And whatever you think about the opportunities in this country and whatever individual success stories you can call to mind, there is no question that some of us start on third base, or second base. Everyone has a lot to deal with, of course. Life is hard. But not everyone is a single mom, or single grandparent, struggling to raise kids in the inner city, all the while trying to keep them from getting murdered. The disparities in our society are absolutely heartbreaking and unacceptable. And we need to have a rational discussion about their actual causes and solutions.

We have to pull back from the brink here. And all we have with which to do that is conversation. And the only thing that makes conversation possible is an openness to evidence and arguments—a willingness to update one’s view of the world when better reasons are given. And that is an ongoing process, not a place we ever finally arrive.

Ok… Well, perhaps that was more of an exhortation than I intended, but it certainly felt like I needed to say it. I hope it was useful. And the conversations will continue on this podcast.

Stay safe, everyone.”

[paramounticebound]

Send me a symbol for five times… ||  ☁  five times my muse has thought about yours, and the one time they do something about it. || @fasciinating​ || accepting.

i.     He thinks that he might die between the pages of an ancient tome, covered in dust mites that eat away at him until he is nothing left but bones and faded conquest. This time, the secrets of fallen deities whisper to him, lead him further astray, though his physical form is rooted graciously in the quiet library. Yes, he’ll prefer to die here instead of in ruins. That seems more graceful, if not melancholic and entirely unrealistic. This is a gift, he knows, a privilege in the infinite rule of the digital era. A one-time opportunity. He wonders, briefly, what Spock would think of him, wasting away in a tomb of paper and ink instead of preparing for the upcoming rescue mission. Not logical, he answers his own question with the slight upturn of his lips– it’s gone as soon as he realizes it. Strange days, and strange thoughts, for a strange mission.

ii.     Loneliness is frigid.

How mistaken he was, as a boy, to believe it nothing beyond a sense of emptiness and lacking. That is untrue: to be alone is to be frozen twice, drowning in a Russian winter; at the mercy of the self, and at the mercy of the world. Banshees, these are, that scream when it’s silent and there’s nothing left to guard the sense of self. Khan realizes his foolishness as often as it arises: just enough to sting.

It’s when he stares out of small viewport, watching the stars pass by like snow, languidly splayed on his uncomfortable cot, that he defeats selfishness.

Is it comparable to his first officer? How the other man steers away from contact, from warmth; is it loneliness? Or is Spock simply better adept to the cold jaunt between worlds? Is it within the captain’s rights to lament his own trembling fingers and the pressure that wells?

Maybe it’s best not to think about it at all.

iii.     The piano is an escape, and one that he will never admit to. Here in the privacy of his room– such a loose term, it disgusts him– is where he deigns to forget and pretend and sacrifice self-destructive tendencies in favour of classical composition. Or rather it’s the love of expression, for even Khan believes in more than building empires and exacting revenge. Wagner’s Sonata in A Flat lazily floats through the room, clings to the ceiling, crawls up his spine until it’s not quite so rigid. He wonders, briefly and perhaps three minutes, fifteen seconds in, if someone might find his devotion to the key impressive.

Perish the thought. It’s irrelevant.

iv.     His fingers grasp at one of Khan’s fists until he opens it, the warmth of his body and the warmth of his blood uniting with the other’s. Something slithers down his spine, something that gnaws on each vertebrae until the captain is certain the jagged bones might break through his skin.

The warmth is like electricity, flowing from Spock’s touch to the pit of his stomach, lower, lower. Recalling this need, this after-battle release is toxic, it’s heavy. The weight threatens to sink him into the ground, where he might fall to his knees just to have it, just to taste–

A fire licks at him, teases until he suppresses it. This is the fourth time that he nearly loses control, and it always coincides with the stardate, and it’s because he’s damaged.

Khan is sure that his pupils are reptilian, animalistic, when his mouth refuses to betray him. Another bodily betrayal is all that he does not need right now– not even for his first officer.

His throat is a desert while he pulls his hand from Spock’s, conscious to disconnect the wires that shape his savage, primal nature. The captain, he can’t, not right now, not knowing that this is a gesture of comfort when he mourns and he can wash away the tarnish that he brings. He can’t and it makes him ache.

Khan leaves first, with something like a thank you on his lips, he’s too quick to vanish, leaving Spock confused– curious.. Only when he is in the safe haven of his quarters, out of sight from the curious gaze of his crew, does he remember to breathe. In the darkness of his room, haunting and empty, does he allow himself to burn.

v.     It’s sometime between the death of Rand and the way that McCoy looks at him, like he’ll flay him apart, as if his madness is tangible. Perhaps it is and everyone can see it. Pulling apart at the seams that still hold him together., fraying, splintering. Khan is burning, slowly, feels his flesh singe after every agonizing second, each day, each week that passes and they are doomed to survive near this catastrophe of a ship.

He’s trying to eat. It isn’t because he’s hungry, his body hasn’t been signalling to his brain correctly in days, but he knows that three– five?– days is too long. It’s not much, just a small portion of the dwindling rations, and it sticks to his throat, refusing to sink to his stomach. Nausea is the first thing he feels in a long while, something aside from sadness and the longing for the dead; it bests him.

Fingers interlocked in hair, pulling, tugging, anything to feel something else, eyes pressed shut so tightly that he can see the explosion of veins, stars against the darkness. There’s a tapping near him, knuckles against glass, and he knows better than to look. Even Spock, with his infinite restraint, hasn’t been able to hide the concern. Failing, falling apart; a failure. Loss is as infinite as the darkness between the stars. The captain is a cacophony of the things that don’t let him sleep, or eat, or think. For the first time in his life, his stone heart is weighing more than Khan down; he longs for the cold logic in interlocked fingers. His atoms yearn for it.

There’s a handprint on the glass, and he knows it’s not on the inside. His food has gone cold.

vi.     He’ll be a tidal wave, crashing into everything until everything is as ravaged as he is, an ugly thunder, the ash of a volcano invading lungs. Sometimes his darkness is not confined to the solitary hell within him, sometimes the fire that lives in the marrow of his bones cannot be contained. Sometimes Khan Noonien Singh is weak. At the mercy of his own vices, only enough liquor to paint his lips– he knows what he’s doing. He isn’t any braver for it, only more likely to shed his skin just enough for his secrets to seep out, into his eyes, onto his tongue.

The captain pores over his own misgivings first over the cold steel of his desk. Duties are proving difficult, paperwork forgotten (and who is there to chide him in the depths of space?) – like an itch, near his skin, just over it. He feels hot. It’s a stark contrast to the constant threat of chill over his bones.

Maybe– no one will notice. It’s too late, and no one else is adverse to sleep.

As Khan strides through the corridor, the work on his desk forgotten for now and likely for a long while, he drags the tips of his fingers along the wall. The uneven surface reminds him to rejoice over jagged sensations, the cut of glass, shrapnel six clicks away from what should have been home. He’s haunted, and likewise a phantom, but the whiskey should have cured that.

Sometimes alternate cures are better than hypos, sometimes he knows what he’s thinking. It’s the fury in the pit of his belly, at the base of his spine. Knocking on Spock’s door impatiently, the dim light of his quarters just enough to reveal a mildly perplexed raise of the eyebrow.

Captain–

The word sinks between them as the captain captures the other man’s mouth with his, pushing him back into his room, fingers interlocking. He practically hisses his need against a jawline, against the hollow of a throat. Teeth and tongue and a wayward hand pushing up the fabric of a shirt. He doesn’t listen to the door close behind them.

Sometimes, Khan is not in control of the situation.

[atopearth]

Pub Encounter Part 2 - Ryunosuke Yuze Route

HAHAHA omg, Ryunosuke seems like such a shy guy, he blushed when Shiori approached him and started talking to him hahaha. Omgg wow, I didn’t expect Hideaki to be 46!! He looks pretty young compared to the others lol! I guess he’s young at heart? Lolll. Shiori is so slow and silly, lmao when Ryunosuke helped her carry her shopping bags (since she nearly fell, lucky he catched her lol) and she was like, they’re my bags..Hahahaha, of course they’re yours, he’s just helping you carry it loll🤣🤣 It’s kinda cute that they just spontaneously enjoyed their day off together after that. Omgggg, Ryunosuke is the CEO for a lingerie chain?? How unexpected! Lmaooo when he ran away in his car when Shiori found out haahaha, why is he so cute lmao. I’m glad he was very upfront about his apology for how he acted, but I also think it was really nice how he made it clear to her his thoughts towards women and how he can’t find it within himself to trust them and view them positively. Although, I guess, like he said, it is kinda ironic when his job is entwined with women. However, he seems genuinely perplexed about women, I wonder what his past will be like? It’s nice to see Shiori understand that regardless of the fact that she’s a woman, they’re strangers after all, so him not trusting her is fine, so now they just need to be friends and learn to understand and trust each other! I think that’s a nice and positive attitude, I like that~

I feel like the creepy presence that threw a rock at Shiori when they walked home together is probably some jealous woman but yeah~ glad that incident kinda pushed forward their sharing of phone numbers haha. I feel like I’m learning so many surprising things about Ryunosuke, like dang, Ryunosuke at the arcade winning stuffed animals? I would love to see that! Lmao at Shiori begging him to get her one from a series she likes, and he gets her the whole thing lol. I gotta say, Ryunosuke liking cakes and sweet alcoholic drinks is so different from his image, now all I can think about is him happily eating cakes hahaha. Omggg, drunk Shiori attacked our innocent Ryunosuke that was just trying to take her back home!! I feel sorry for the her next day that had to live with those memories that she licked his lips or whatever because she liked the sweet scent from the drink he had loll. And she even started kissing him, and he reciprocated! Like danggg. I’m really liking their chemistry though. They’re obviously interested in each other, but they want to know more about each other and be friends first, and I think it’s great! He consults her on opinions of things he thinks about such as why people seek for eternity, and she had a common answer but I still liked how it was worded. People do want to leave a piece of themselves behind, and I think the idea of putting something intangible into something physical was a really neat way of saying it. We may not “exist” after our deaths, but we can still exist in other ways~!

It was leading to it so it was obvious, but dang, Ryunosuke got stalked by his old secretary… That’s tough… Especially when she only exhibited that behaviour after he became CEO, kinda crazy that it ended up involving the police and trial to get her to stay away from him though. That would be pretty traumatising huh? Really gotta admire Shiori for being undeterred and saying she’ll protect Ryunosuke haha, it’s really sweet, but at the same time I’m so scared of their safety. As usual, I love how upfront they are with their thoughts towards their relationship, and I’m glad they both admitted their feelings, but want to resolve this secretary stalker problem first before they progress further, which is understandable. Ryunosuke kissing her forehead was cute~~

Them sharing their homemade lunches on a bench was so adorable! So cute of them complimenting each other’s cooking hahaha. Honestly though, I feel like with how crazy Itodani was, it’s kinda anticlimactic and a bit unbelievable that she would just let go of it all after Ryunosuke confronted her and told her to back off and find someone she can truly love. Really can’t see how that opened her eyes, especially since she had been harassing him for a long time, and had even harassed his previous secretary too! So yeah, unbelievable but whatever lol. I really like how Ryunosuke likes to do things properly, especially when he gave her flowers and asked her to be his girlfriend. These things don’t necessarily need to be said all the time, but I think saying it really makes things more official and laid out properly to the other person, I think it’s really nice to communicate your intentions thoroughly. Unlike Yorihisa in the previous route, she really doesn’t need to guess how Ryunosuke is feeling because they’ve both been very upfront about it and I think that’s what I love about their relationship. 

Considering how polite of a guy Ryunosuke is to everyone, and it was only when Mamoru told him to be more casual with him did he change, really puts into perspective how sweet it is for him to tell Shiori himself that she should talk to him more casually since they’re not strangers anymore. With how much he consults her opinion on his work, she might as well just become his secretary loll. Lmao that he’s been unconsciously checking out her body all the time because he wants her to be the new poster girl of Torenia since the current one has no passion or love towards Torenia’s lingerie etc. LOL when he so boldly said he wanted to see her in her underwear hahahaha, like I know it’s for work but the way he so bluntly said it was funny hahaha. I also liked how when she was a bit embarrassed to wear it after eating, he said that “a love that couldn’t withstand something silly like that would be no love at all”, I honestly thought that was really sweet, especially since he said it like a matter of fact. Honestly, now that I’m on Ryunosuke’s route, I’m starting to really see how bad Yorihisa was, I just realised that for all the crappy things he did, Yorihisa never ever apologised! Whereas, for Ryunosuke, when he knew that his recent busy schedule affected their relationship, he told her that she should be honest with her feelings about it, and when she told him she got scared that they were growing apart, he very conclusively told her that their relationship isn’t that shallow, but he also apologised for making her feel like that with his absence. And I think that’s what is so great about a Ryunosuke tbh. He believes in their relationship and their feelings, but he also makes sure to apologise for making her feel insecure just because he wanted to surprise her with the new brand he was working on.

I knew Ryunosuke was dedicating the new brand to her, but aside from the fact I never thought he would actually call it Shiori, I find it so much more touching that he did it because he remembered that conversation they previously had about leaving something tangible behind as a piece of themselves. I thought that was really cool and thoughtful, it really shows how much Ryunosuke cares about what they talk about. As expected, after her complaints about her job etc, Ryunosuke finally made the move to propose to her and ask her to be his secretary so he could always see her at work and at home, which is so cute hahaha. I have to admit that it was so silly yet cute that Ryunosuke was adamant about living separately after marriage until they could properly move into their newly built home. He’s so formal about it all, but I think that’s a nice serious side of him. Although I prefer how sweet the best ending was, the good ending was really good too! Loved how proactive and bold Shiori was, and she even teased Ryunosuke just to see him blush since she thinks it’s so cute, and it’s also because of his blush that she kinda fell for him haha.

Overall, I really liked Ryunosuke’s route, I feel like it’s going to be my favourite tbh hahaha. Mainly because I feel like they were both very mature in their approach towards the relationship by always being honest, upfront and communicative. Sometimes she needs the push from him to be more honest about her feelings but I think that just speaks more towards his experience with handling people and relationships, so I think even if she can be a little less mature at times, it just kinda shows how she needs his support in that area to grow as a person, whereas he’s older so he knows how to better deal with things? Anyway, doesn’t matter because he’s a gentleman and she’s forward so they match well, and it’s a much more balanced relationship than with Yorihisa haha! I also think it’s rather refreshing that usually when it’s the CEO stereotype, the stories usually kinda flaunt how rich they are with the maids, big houses etc to show how capable they are, but Ryunosuke really seems like a normal person that is very hardworking and capable. He does everything by himself, such as moving houses with Shiori and cooking etc, he knows how to take care of himself and others, and is very considerate, but at the same time it never really retracts from his image, it only boosts it to show that even if he’s very busy, he is perfectly able to take care of himself, so him wanting Shiori in his life is because he really likes spending time with her, and I guess it was refreshing to see Ryunosuke not be that typical CEO type. The only thing I didn’t like was how the stalker thing was resolved, but I really liked how Ryunosuke very slowly but naturally warmed up to Shiori, they had such a realistic relationship, I couldn’t help but swoon the whole time over how cute and natural it was.

[planetsam]

“Alex: I think I’m going to pass out.” Malex angst with a happy ending please.

Michael watches as Isobel and Max retreat.

He doesn’t blame them for staying. Truly. He has that same feeling of bittersweet relief. They have a home, they have a place here. He hopes to God that the control panel might one day let him see them again. But if they live their lives out long and happy here, he can be okay with that. He hits the final controls. Pink light emits from the control panel. Soft and warm and tangible. He pushes aside the feeling of worry that creeps through him and focuses wholeheartedly on it as it climbs up his body.

“Guerin!” He ignores the shout of his name. He’s going home. Max will stop whatever is going on outside, “Guerin—Michael! Michael no!”

He’s pink light and warm glow and he really wishes that alien technology didn’t load with the speed of a dial up connection. Because he’s becoming transcendent right up until Alex races into the room, that same look of stupid desperation on his face that fills Michael with hope. Hope he shouldn’t have when it comes to Alex. Alex didn’t even show up to say goodbye. In his hand Michael catches a flash of paper before it’s obliterated. The light hits him full force and for a single moment he feels the raw panic of thinking that Alex is going to be obliterated too. He freezes, that’s for sure. And that look of desperation morphs into something horrified. But before Michael can ask he turns pink and transcendent and vanishes. The last thing he thinks he hears is Alex giving a pained shout.

Michael’s molecules rearrange on a different planet.

He has no time to think about whether or not everything’s in the right place. He’s got to figure out a way to make sure Alex is okay. Which is easier said than done when you’re standing on a planet with no return way. As sure as he’s standing there, Michael knows he can’t just wonder if Alex is alright for the next however long he lives. He can’t spend every second thinking about why he shouted in pain. What if it was actual pain and not just surprise that Michael was actually leaving? Michael drags his hands through his hair. A lifetime spent trying to get off the planet and if he doesn’t find a way to make sure Alex is alright in the next five seconds he’s going to insane. They’ve never parted on good terms but this? This is a level of hell he never could have imagined.

“Shit, shit—“ he looks around, “sh—“

Alex crashes onto him before he can properly swear.

Michael barely manages to keep them both upright. Alex is pale and slack jawed and wheezing like he can’t fathom what’s just happened. His fingers are balled in Michael’s shirt as Michael stares at him. Alex is here. Alex is here and alive. All that Michael knows about first aide goes flying out the window as he grabs Alex and hugs him as tightly as he can. Alex grabs him back like he’s the only real thing in the world and Michael dimly realizes that he very well might be.

“Why?” He gets out almost desperately.

Alex just makes a noise and buries his face in Michael’s shoulder. Belatedly Michael remembers they are on Antar. And Alex, who is very human, has been flung across the entire goddamn universe. Are humans even compatible here. Though Alex is clinging to him, he has to make sure he’s alive. Carefully he pulls back and holds him there. Trying to inspect him but it’s fucking hard. Alex is clearly more or less in shock, but he does seem to be breathing. He’s not collapsed or choking. Michael thanks whatever God is listening that Alex being human doesn’t mean instant death when he’s here. He grabs Alex’s arm and slings it over his shoulder. He at least has to get them off the cliff they’ve crash landed on. Maybe he belongs here, Alex sure as hell doesn’t.

“I think—“ Alex dry heaves, “I think I’m going to pass out.”

“What? No—shit!” He turns and grabs him full as Alex collapses against him, “Alex! Hey, Alex!” He hauls him up against him and tries tapping his face, but Alex’s head lolls and Michael feels like he might be sick as well at how limp he is. He’s got a pulse though. And he’s breathing. Michael keeps that in mind as he gets a hand under Alex’s legs and hauls him up into his arms. There’s no help but there’s a cave and Michael will take what he can get, “hang on,” he says, carrying him into the shelter and laying him down, “Alex,” he says his name firmly, “Alex!”

Alex’s eyes open and he looks at Michael for a moment.

Then he passes out again.

Michael swears.

This was not how it was supposed to go.

He doesn’t even know if Alex can survive long term on this planet. Or if the machine didn’t know what to do with human insides. It’s not like any of his foster parents really cared about his physical health. Plenty of doctors were willing to do the bare bare minimum and sign off. Michael isn’t even sure if he has human insides. Alex passing out though, that’s bad. Even he knows that. He sits back on his heels and then immediately moves forward, tapping Alex’s infuriatingly high cheekbones.

“Alex, come on,” he says, “open your eyes,” he gets no response, “Alex! Come on!” He clenches his jaw, “you have to open your eyes for me,” Alex groans, “come on, that’s it, look at me,” Alex blearily opens his eyes, “look at me,” Michael repeats, “can you breathe?” Alex just stares at him, “Alex!” He injects more force into his voice, “can you breathe?!”

“Yes,” Alex whispers. Michael sits back, relieved, “I—“ Alex tips over and Michael grabs him, holding him upright, “something’s wrong.”

“Of course something’s wrong,” Michael says, trying desperately to figure out what the hell that could be, “you teleported across the galaxy. Why’d you do that?” He says, pressing a hand to Alex’s ribcage like that will stop him.

“I was trying to stop you,” Alex says faintly, struggling to keep his eyes open.

“Regret not saying goodbye?” He asks, attempting to smile, “I told you you would.”

Alex frowns and tries to look around but stops.

“I had a list,” he says.

“Yeah?” Michael says, “tell me about it,” Alex nods, “Alex, what was on the list?”

“That you should stay,” he says, reaching up and grasping Michael’s hand where it grips his shirt, “but you went early.”

Michael can’t respond. He wanted to leave the planet but leaving the people? That was hard. It wasn’t a decision he came to lightly. He’s not too proud to admit that Alex not being there helped. Logic and Alex have never gone together with him. And Alex, Alex had been keeping his distance so Michael had taken the opportunity. It reeked slightly less of cowardice when Alex wasn’t slumped in front of him on a cave in a distant planet.

“Says the king of being late,” Michael says, but there’s nothing angry about the words. Alex lets out a dry, raspy laugh, “You gotta hold on,” he says, “I gotta get you back.”

Alex shakes his head.

“No,” he refuses, “I can’t.”

“What? Of course you can. You’re Alex fucking Manes, you can do anything,” Michael argues. Alex looks up at him. The pain in his eyes makes Michael’s stomach bottom out. It’s like they’re kids again and Alex is that boy who wears his heart on his sleeve with such earnestness that it hurts to see. Michael had already learned by then to ignore his heart. “Please, Alex, you gotta go back. You have everyone on earth. I’m not—“

“Worth it?” Alex tips his head back, “of course you are. You always were.”

Michael’s throat tightens. This isn’t what he wants. Alex dying on some far away planet just to say shit Michael already knows he feels. How Alex feels has never been the problem. And some undercurrent of fear has always been in him that one day Alex will do exactly this. Make some big, dumb romantic gesture. Wind up hurt or worse. This is worse. This is the worst possible thing. Michael can live with them being a universe apart. He thinks. But Alex being gone? That’s not something he can stomach. Especially not because of him.

“No death bed confessions,” he says sternly, “I’m getting you home.”

“I’m not going,” Alex says, just as stubborn as ever when his mind’s made up.

“Yeah you are,” he says.

“No,” Alex snaps, “I’m not living on a different planet than you.”

“You’re not living on this one. You can barely stay conscious. This planet isn’t meant for humans.”

“It’s not meant for you either.”

Michael stares at him. That fucking hurts. Michael shoves himself up and back. Alex stays upright because he uses his powers to keep him there, but he can’t just sit there. Standing on the planet of his birth a million lightyears from everything important, he knows Alex is right. But fuck if he doesn’t want to believe there’s a place out there that’ll accept him without demanding his soul in return. That won’t have baggage or take until it finally decides to give. He wants a place of his own. But stupid, stubborn, brilliant Alex has him locked in.

“That isn’t fair,” he says. Alex chuckles, properly this time, “screw you! You can’t say shit like that and die to get out of the follow up conversation,” he continues, “this is supposed to be my new start.”

“You don’t need a new start,” Alex argues, “can’t you see that?”

Michael hates him and loves him more and more as the seconds tick by. He knows he should be getting help but the only help he has is back on earth. He has to trust that Liz can figure it out. And fast. Before Alex’s raspy breathing becomes worse. Or stops.

“So what?” He demands, “I’m supposed to come back for you? You’re just going to leave again.”

Alex looks at him steadily.

“We’re on a different planet,” he points out slowly.

“Yeah because I was leaving,” Michael says, “not because you were.”

“So pick a place,” Alex says, “Preferably one with a breathable atmosphere.”

Michael swears and runs back over. Because, shit, Alex is dying. Theoretically he could wait and then just keep going but the thought is purely theoretically. His chest feels like it’s cracking with every inhale that Alex takes. he wants to be on this planet but not at the expense of the people he’s left behind. He doesn’t feel at home here. He feels small. Rejected. In an entirely different but no less unpleasant way.

“What if I don’t believe you?” He challenges, “you always leave.”

“I do,” Alex agrees, “I’m sorry,” Michael feels winded at the lack of objection.

“It’s too late for us,” Michael argues, “you know it’s too late.”

“Liar,” he breathes out, his eyes struggling to stay open.

“No, no no no,” Michael fumbles, “Alex. Alex!”

Michael tries to remember CPR as Alex nods and then jerks back. But if the atmosphere is poisoned, he doesn’t know what putting more of it into Alex will do. He hasn’t taken them far but when the pink light flashes, he knows they don’t have long. Using everything he has, he hauls Alex into a fireman carry and races them over to the light. He could throw him in. It would be so easy. But somewhere across the infinite expanse of time and space, he hears Max and Isobel shouting at each other. And he hears Liz ordering things around. He grabs his phone and takes as many hasty pictures as he can. Then he shoves it back into his jeans and steps into the pink light as Alex stops breathing against his back.

He steps out of the pink light and drags Alex over to Max, ignoring everyone’s obvious surprise at him being there as well. Max is already helping him lay Alex down, which is great because Michael’s head feels like it’s about to explode. Isobel is there instantly to prop him up but doesn’t move him so he can’t see Max work. Max presses his hands under Alex’s ribs and concentrates. Several things happen in rapid succession. All the lights vanish. He hears the pods crack. And best of all, in the dark, he hears Alex take a ragged, deep breath. The pounding in his head increases tenfold but he just focuses on Alex’s breathing and lets everything go dark.

When he opens his eyes, he’s in the holding cell. He recognizes the bench digging into his back and the clang of the station, even if they’ve given him a pillow this time.

“No,” he groans and presses his hand to his eyes, “this isn’t happening.”

“Sorry,” his pillow says from somewhere above his head. Michael opens his eyes slowly and looks up to see Alex staring down at him, “it is.”

Michael presses his hand to his forehead. He’d got a pounding headache. But given that Alex was dead, he has a feeling he knows why that’s not healed. Alex cards his fingers through his curls and Michael swallows against the lump in his throat. His chance at a new start is gone and he can’t escape the disappointment that clogs his throat. Alex is alive and here though. All the emotions feel jumbled together and to his great embarrassment the breath that escapes him is shaky at best.

“I’m sorry,” Alex repeats, fingers moving to Michael’s face, “it’s okay.”

“You just died,” he says, moving to sit up and stopping when a hand goes to his chest.

“And you just sacrificed your planet for me,” he says.

“Yeah, well,” Michael sniffs back his tears, “I know how stubborn you can be.”

“Good,” Alex says, easily shouldering the blame, “you knew I was bringing you home one way or another.”

“This isn’t home,” Michael objects. Another planet away and he feels the same thing, “damn it. This isn’t—“ he refuses to cry. He sits up, “this isn’t home.”

“Yes it is,” Alex replies. He touches Michael’s cheek and Michael knows his emotions are written all over his face, “it’s home, Michael. You’re home.”

He fights for another moment, chewing hard on his lip before he folds against Alex’s shoulder. They’re in public, or as public as any jail cell can be, and Alex stiffens momentarily before he wraps his arms around his shoulders. Alex holding him somehow makes him more emotional than him flinging himself across space and time for him. Which is something that he has all the time in the world to puzzle over.

“I’m gonna thank you one day,” he tells Alex finally.

“I hope so,” Alex says, “but i get it if you hate me right now.”

Michael leans back against the cell wall.

“What’d you think?” He asks after a moment, “of Antar?”

“It looked amazing,” Alex says and Michael finds himself pleased at that.

“I took pictures,” he offers, letting his head drop onto Alex’s shoulder. Maybe if he just focuses on Alex’s breathing everything will be okay, “if you want to see them.”

“I’d love to see them.”

[hopevalley]

Your last post was great food for thought. How would you have written Jack off the show? Personally I think they got the when wrong. Should have got them married end of s3, then written him off going to the Northern Territory and not coming back...

Thanks, Anon!

I’m a bit on the fence about Jack to begin with. On one hand, I agree with you completely: they should have been married before the end of S3, and then Jack’s decision to fight in S4 (after the death of his old pal Doug) would have been huge. They built up this “oooh, he could diiiieee~” narrative, after all. Seeing it come to its (arguably natural) conclusion would be acceptable.

On the other hand, there was something kind of nice about Jack dying when it wasn’t expected. If nothing else drove home that life as a Mountie was not this picturesque landscape of loveliness, that did. Oh, you mean he could die...while just training some men? Doing something in a position that multiple people said he should be honored to be considered for? Oh my!

It was still too contrived for my taste, though. It’s one thing to kill him off in a time of relative peace when he’s just minding his own business, but it’s something else to kill him off-screen and...after making him talk about how safe the job was (which it clearly wouldn’t be, as mentioned before in this series*). Talk about tonal shifts! AJ went to prison, and then there was this weird birthday thing that most of the viewers didn’t care about (where we pretended like Bill’s life wasn’t in mortal danger just days or weeks earlier), and right at the party gets into full swing this just haaaappens to be the moment a Mountie comes into town to tell Elizabeth that her husband died. And of course she’s standing conveniently Right There. Oh, and also, he definitely died a hero, not like a regular guy. How could she live with herself if he died like a regular guy? (/sarcasm, if you couldn’t tell.)

*I might actually be thinking of the When Calls the Heart movie where Edward talks about nearly dying during his own training.

A more convincing and arguably terrible (with positive connotations) way to write Jack’s death off-screen would be to place Bill outside or in the jailhouse when the Mountie comes riding in. He’s still recovering from literally almost dying (a pretty big deal, considering his age) and now he’s just found out Jack has died in some contrived bullshit manner...and it’s his duty to go with this guy and tell Elizabeth, because Bill isn’t the sort of character to shirk duty (neither career nor personal). Elizabeth is family now, after all.

It would at least do something to cement relationships and connections in this show before the actual funeral/grieving episode. Also, seeing Bill’s initial immediate reaction before he clams up and follows protocol he’s been taught from a young adult onward—that’d be delicious character stuff when he has his discussion with Abigail later.

Ideally, though, I’d probably do something more along the lines you’ve suggested (earlier marriage, more expected death). It’s just, by the time they’d decided to actually go through with killing Jack, I feel like it was too late to Take It Slow. If I were in that position, stuck in S5 and having to kill Jack off by the end (10 measly episodes, by the way), I’d do the following:

Jack gets reassigned entirely to train new recruits and there is some kind of set time frame for this. One year, two years: something like that.

Elizabeth and Jack have a rushed wedding that’s not visually impressive but sweet in other ways that have a big impact on the characters. Forgive my language here, but fuck the modern traditions the audience thinks they want (that weren’t even around during this time frame in many cases)! I’d have given them a truly romantic wedding in the church with recognizable faces in the pews and maybe a potluck picnic lunch afterward.

Logically this only happens if the characters worry that it isn’t something they can do later, right? It’s not that he worries he’ll die, but it’s the reality they live in that something could happen to him, and it’s better to be safe than sorry.

Also, Elizabeth won’t want to wait another year (if we say his placement is for at least that long), so it’s not hard to imagine her insisting on doing it immediately.

One final aside, I think this also gives Elizabeth the excuse to remain a schoolteacher in Hope Valley with the idea being that she can spend her summer with Jack (when she’s not teaching)—something she can’t do if they’re not married. At least, not without scandal.

Their ‘honeymoon’ is something they put on hold but probably a place they both wanted to go that’s not completely out of left field (get my joke?) and meaningful to both of them. (This is set-up for Elizabeth eventually going there alone for a letting-go type of scene when it would feel good/appropriate to see.)

They spend the week or two before he has to leave together, and during this time they discuss their future more seriously. Make it mostly the kinds of things that will feel bad when looked back upon after knowing of Jack’s death, but which still ring of some kind of ‘hope for the future’ at the time. S5 had a lot of bullshit in it, not all of which was bad, but the ‘dreams’ were too focused on tangible sorts of things and not the dreams of a couple madly in love who want to be together forever. 

The house is kind of silly scope-wise. If they’re dreaming about it, a line from Elizabeth to Abigail (or Clara, or anyone) that Jack wants to do it but she knows it’s not feasible on his income would make it seem like sweet dreaming.

This would be a good time for them to discuss where they want to honeymoon when Jack gets some time off and they can manage it financially, too.

While Jack is gone, Elizabeth reads some of his letters to Abigail. Maybe there could be some cute/saucy bits where she says “I’ll skip the next few paragraphs” or whatever, but the idea here is that Jack has arrived to his destination, is doing well, and Elizabeth is not particularly worried about him.

IF POSSIBLE, scenes of Jack bonding with these green bean boys. Young, largely untrained, idealistic... Man, we know Bill did a lot of teaching and stuff like that at one point in his career, too, so this could be a nice segue into Jack starting down a similar path! 

Also it cements his relationship with these men and shows not only that he DOES care about them, but WHY.

If this is NOT possible, at least allude to it in his letters. Mention specific names so that the audience feels a connection, however small.

Also if possible, show Jack’s death, or at least show him making the decision to risk his life for these young men he cares about.

If this isn’t possible: show a scene in the cafe where a patron is reading a newspaper with the date of Jack’s death on it (preferably not a character who had any issues with Jack personally), and Elizabeth is reading Jack’s latest letter to Abigail. It’s not quite as good but I think it would get the point across.

Because Hope Valley isn’t really modern enough for addresses, Bill gets the news first. He goes with the Mountie to speak to Elizabeth. This doesn’t give us tonal whiplash from hell, but maybe occurs during a quieter/less busy time.

Also, there is NO Abigail in this scene. She’ll get her time and I feel like her being a leech on Elizabeth’s character was a huge mistake. Let Elizabeth bond with other people!!!!

We could also really use the insight into Bill’s character and how he reacts “in the moment”—particularly compared to how he acts later. Him keeping his cool (for the most part) and then breaking down in the quiet of his own home/at his desk in the jail (or keeping it together until his conversation with Abigail) would do wonders for his character.

The funeral isn’t shown at length. No speeches. (I’m sorry, I don’t care for those and I don’t think Elizabeth would remember them anyway. They’d just be this massive blur.) She reflects on a hazy view of the casket from her own perspective, and maybe I’d add an iconic scene of the horse walking into the mist with the boots in the saddle facing the wrong way.

You know, the kind of scene that isn’t lovely or anything, but it still feels haunting. Especially if that horse is Definitely Sergeant. 

Elizabeth revisiting the grave (as she did in the final episode) is quiet. No music. Just her in the silence walking over to the grave and kneeling in front of it because that’s what it’s like and I feel as if that sort of deeply personal scene would resonate with a lot of viewers. 

I don’t deny that the original scene was lovely but that’s the issue: it shouldn’t be #aesthetic-based because that’s completely unrelatable. Most of us look mediocre at best when we visit a gravesite.

I also think there should be parallel Elizabeth-visiting-Jack’s-grave scenes in later seasons/episodes to show progress, and rather than going on the anniversary of his death maybe she goes on his birthday (and/or other special days) instead to celebrate his life. These scenes are always quiet and always gentle, and if there is music at all it’s just barely there.

I could also really go for her running into someone else there who is visiting a grave if there was time for it, just for a conversation.

I’m also REALLY uncertain about the gravesite they put him in in the actual show, just because I’m not sure Jack’s wife couldn’t pick where he was buried. I feel like for these characters, if Jack wanted to be buried anywhere, it would be near his father or in Hope Valley’s own cemetery (which isn’t shown after S1, but we know is there).

I’d go with Hope Valley for the #aesthetic if nothing else. Then Elizabeth can visit whenever she wants and we could watch her visits drop off over the course of a season or two.

Also then her running into someone else should be her running into Florence visiting Paul’s grave. She doesn’t get much in the way of sweet dialogue so this would be wonderful.

I chose Florence specifically because she doesn’t seem ready to move on and it’s been a long time, and maybe I’d even appreciate a comment along those lines by her: that she doesn’t feel the need to remarry/etc etc. Having Abigail (who did move on) and Florence then to give us both sides of the spectrum...feels good.

Then in later seasons/episodes, Elizabeth could run into people at the grave/around the cemetery who are there specifically to see Jack.

Bill leaving flowers/just standing there quietly.

Abigail coming to talk to him and keep him updated about all the really little things (but never the big things because those are for Elizabeth to tell). Maybe more of a stop-off after visiting the graves of Noah and Peter.

I don’t feel Nathan needs any sort of connection to Jack, but I think just the idea of Jack’s death would be enough to make someone like Nathan think twice. What kind of man was he? What did he die for? How well did he love this town? Will I ever fill the shoes he left? I could see him going and just thinking about those things.

It’s not a masterpiece and perhaps not even possible due to timing (the episode limit really messes with good plotline ideas), but I like the ideas in concept.