#she's been neither fighting it nor embracing it for 30 years and now she has an excuse to embrace it

[nellasbookplanet]

Okay but I'm going a bit insane about the growing disconnect of "maybe we're meant to harness it"/"maybe we're meant to fight it". They both thought they were on the same page when they said it, when actually they were on polar opposite ends of the same spectrum. Imogen meant "I never plan to give in to this power even if part of me wants to, I will continue fighting it, but it’s a comfort knowing there’s someone who understands the temptation and who I know won't judge and will still love me and understand if I ultimately fail and give in". Meanwhile to Laudna it meant "I've been in this struggle for longer than I can remember and I don’t know if I can do it much longer. I don’t know if I want to. I don’t know if I even should, or if giving in would be better for all of us because I'm a lost cause. You understand this about me and won't judge as I inevitably am doomed by the narrative, and you won't demand of me that I fight an inherent part of myself, even if it’s destroying me". And Imogen is finally catching on to this disconnect, is realizing that to Laudna their connection isn’t just understanding but an excuse, not too different from Lilliana. And, desperate of losing Laudna to power just like she did her mother, she says, 'if you let me go, I'm gone', meanwhile Laudna is going 'all I can do for you is die and let you go to lift you up' and both of them are going 'why are you so upset about this. i love you'.

[from-the-dark-past]

Interview with Anders Ohlin in The Black Metal Murders: English translation

Translator’s note: Black metal-morden (English: The Black Metal Murders) is a radio documentary from 2017 produced by Radio Sweden (download). It’s about Mayhem and the Norwegian black metal scene in the ‘90s and contains interviews with Jørn “Necrobutcher” Stubberud, Kjetil Manheim, Eirik “Messiah” Norheim and Anders Ohlin (Pelle Ohlin’s younger brother). 

Here, I’ve translated the parts where Anders Ohlin speaks into English (from Swedish). I’ve added time-stamps and short descriptions for the different sections of the interview. 

I am working on translating the interviews with Necrobutcher, Manheim and Messiah and will post them soon. 

1:51 - 6:35 [Talking about him and Pelle getting into extreme metal]

Anders: We’d started listening to hard rock and it was… We’d, like, worked through all of those… Judas Priest and Iron Maiden. 

Narrator: It’s the mid-1980s in Västerhaninge, a suburb of Stockholm. Pelle Ohlin lives here. He plays in the extreme metal band Morbid and his stage name is Dead. Pelle has introduced his five-years-younger brother to hard rock. Together, they’ve worked through all of the main bands. 

Anders: And you, like, hungered for this… This Other. 

Narrator: The ‘Other’ that younger brother Anders is talking about is extreme metal; music that is faster, darker and harder. A progression of hard rock. Music that isn’t easy to get your hands on at this time. Anders is in his early teens and has gotten his first girlfriend. 

Anders: It was my first relationship and it was super-exciting, and I was at her house, she lived in Jordbro, which is, like, the neighbouring suburb. 

Narrator: Anders’ girlfriend’s older sister has an LP that Anders simply must show his older brother Pelle. 

Anders: It was, like, you knew it was good music, and it was that Destruction record. 

Narrator: Anders sees the German death metal band Destruction’s cover and it’s enough for him to understand that this must be good music. [...] 

Anders: This. This here isn’t Judas Priest and it isn’t Iron Maiden; it’s something else. I’ve got show this fucking record to Pelle. 

Narrator: Anders nags [his girlfriend’s older sister] to borrow the LP. He’s allowed to, but only for the day, so he bikes home in the rain from Jordbro to Västerhaninge as quickly as he can. 

Anders: And it was like [excited noise], like a cartoon; the evil wolf, their eyes bulge out and we both ran -- because we hadn’t heard the LP, only seen the cover -- ran to the record player och then Mom walks up and is like: ‘Stop! You’re forbidden from using the gramophone.’ And it was like, fucking hell, is it going to die here and then we explained to Mom -- ‘This is an extreme record and we’ve borrowed it for the day and it’s going back tomorrow,’ -- and Mom was super-harsh and was like: ‘It doesn’t matter. [...]’ And then we started negotiating and agreed that we could record the LP onto cassette [because you don’t need volume for that]. So, it was on full-blast the entire night and we recorded it and stood bent over the record scratches and were like,‘Shit, this is good stuff’. 

Narrator: Pelles hard rock style stands out against the usual sweatpant-Bagheera-jacket [style], not least the music. 

Anders: The ideals that existed at that time were that you were supposed to look like Arnold Schwarzenegger, which neither he nor I did [laughs]. You were supposed to be handsome and cool and have some fucking helipad on your head. 

Translator’s note: Anders is talking about a flat-top haircut commonly referred to as a ‘helikopterplattafrisyr’ -- helipad haircut -- in Sweden. Think H.R. Haldeman. I’m not sure what the English term for this haircut is. 

Narrator: Anders and Pelle are apart of a small subculture; extreme metal, with subgenres such as trash metal, death metal and black metal, which provokes with its satanic and morbid symbols. Pelle’s band Morbid pushes the limits of what music can sound like. With his stage-name Dead, Pelle sings on the demo December Moon. The new subculture is not embraced by the adult world. 

Anders: Like, we faced this fucking cultural oppression as hardrockers. It was that time-period… And especially if you wanted to do something that was worse than hard rock; it was completely judged. 

14:52 - 15:53 [Talking about Pelle being bullied] 

Anders: He was beaten at school and to such an extent that he actually died for a while, or however you put it. 

Narrator: There’s an explanation to Pelle’s obsession with death. At 13, he was bullied at school and once, he was beaten so badly that his spleen burst. Pelle’s brother Anders Ohlin tells the story.

Anders: He was beaten to death and had some near-death experience as he was laying in the hospital and he kept coming back to that all the time, and I think you can see that as some sort of theme in his songs too. Like, it’s always about the fact that he was actually there and touched something that he doesn’t know what it is, and that was the engine in all that. He was definitely [at the bottom of the pecking order] at school, precisely because he was a bit… He had his special... his special style and was, like, uncompromising, and that was what singled him out, I’d say, markedly from other teenagers. 

18:07 - 18:30 [Talking about Pelle’s depression]

Anders: He would neglect to eat, just to get a cassette tape out or arrange a gig somewhere. 

Narrator: Anders Ohlin, Pelle’s brother. 

Anders: To be a bit harsh, I think that the others gave up at some point. And that’s my personal interpretation. That he suddenly turns around and notices that he hasn’t got the gang with him. And I think that destroyed him. 

21:50 - 22:30 [Talking about Pelle’s suicide] 

Anders: At first, I was actually really pissed at him… Or, like, angry, enraged. I thought that he’d abandoned us -- which he has. That it was so shitty of him; to just take off and leave this big fucking abscess to the rest of us that just kept growing and growing as the years passed. 

Narrator: Christmases become especially painful for the Ohlin family, because that was the time Pelle usually came home. 

Anders: No one felt good on Christmas Eve. It was like a fucking ghost all Christmas. Brutal. So, I remember that I couldn’t celebrate Christmas at all for a very long time. 

1:06:39 - 1:09:31 [Talking about how he and Pelle’s Swedish friends remember him and his life today]

Anders: All of his Swedish friends see him as this exuberantly happy guy that spews ideas and is funny and has a sense of humor and stuff. Then, it’s like a line is drawn when he goes to Norway and they see him as introverted and mysterious and, like, difficult. And that’s two opposite images. 

Narrator: The Pelle Myth is associated with a lot of darkness and death but that’s not how his brother Anders and Pelle’s Swedish friends remember him.  

Anders: I think that’s been the devastating part, but it, like, helped him build… strengthen that myth. It’s hard being that funny dude and saying that you’re, like, Satan. It’s hard, it becomes, like, silly. 

Narrator: Anders is often reminded of Pelle. Usually because of happy memories but also because of that image that he is fighting to remove; the image that Øystein took of Pelle’s corpse which spread because it became the album cover of a Mayhem bootleg, Dawn of the Black Hearts. The image lives its own life on the internet. 

Anders: It’s difficult. It’s very difficult. 

Narrator: Pelle’s fans often want to become Facebook friends with Anders; he receives 3-5 friend requests per day. Sometimes, the people sending the friend requests have themselves shared the image on their social channels. 

Anders: You say you want to be my friend yet you have an image of my brother from when he’s just killed himself and like… body parts all over the wall. Would you think it was okay if I had an image of your brother like that? ‘What,’ they excuse themselves. ‘Oh, fuck, I’d forgotten that I had that image, that’s… Of course, I’ll remove it and I’m ashamed.’ 

Narrator: When Anders asks people to remove the image, most do. 

Anders: I’m terrified for when my children will start to Google those images… Øystein’s parents inherited the rights after Øystein died and [Øystein’s dad] has destroyed the images and I’ve received the rights, gotten to take over the rights from Øystein’s dad, so if anyone uses them in any form is printed media, I can sue the shit out of them. 

Narrator: It’s a small comfort every time one of Pelle’s fans tells Anders how much Pelle means. 

Anders: Most often, they have some story. They tell me how they’ve had a tough period in life and how they’ve, like, really been at a crossroads or something and feel that they received guidance from Pelle’s music. That warms -- That makes you happy. That really warms your heart. 

Narrator: Pelle’s grave is well-visited and every now and then, there’s a handwritten letter or a box of snus by it. 

[ladyeliot]

I got you.

Request: Anonymous. Hello there, first of all I love your way of writing, the fics are great! Could I send you an request? Maybe the reader and Chris met again after the pandemic, they have an unfinished relationship and she realizes that she still loves him. Don't worry if you don't feel like it, thanks a lot! 

Pairing: Chris Evans x Fem!Reader

Warning: Mentions of anxiety and the pandemic. A little angst.

Word count: 2687

Notes: Sorry for taking so long! And for my spelling and grammatical mistakes, English is not my native language, I am learning.

There had been so many times when you had imagined yourself growing old with him in that house that you didn't know how to deal with the situation right now. You were in Massachusetts, inside your car, standing in front of his house, without any warning and without knowing how he would react when he saw you after so many months.

You and Chris had a history, a short but passionate history that lasted two and a half years as an established couple and one year with comings and goings. The reason for the break-up was not the end of the love, but the time. The time you spent apart was longer than the time you spent together, your work was not very compatible with his, and although you both did your best to overcome it, it was not enough. Even so, after the friendly break-up the relationship didn't end completely, let's say it never had a point and end, becoming friends with benefits, and it was something that didn't seem to matter to you. However, there was a conversation going on between you, and although neither of you named it, that conversation was present. Every time you coincided for a short period of days everything happened except that conversation, and without it neither of you could evolve, neither of you could have freedom. You felt that you were still bound, and you both knew it.

The global pandemic did not benefit your situation, while he stayed in Boston with his family, you flew home. At first everyone thought that the situation would be resolved in a couple of months at most, but as time went on the problem became bigger. The months passed, the pandemic became uncontrollable and everyone stopped their lives. Your contact with Chris was not lost, but it weakened, there were too many things to think about and the constant fear that something might happen to a loved one made you anxious, and your priorities were elsewhere.

As time went by you discovered to value the little things in life, perhaps because of the pandemic. You realized what really mattered, what made you happy and what you were willing to fight for in your day-to-day life. Chris was one of those things. Your life with him was not perfect, like nothing else in this life, but the positives outweighed the negatives. Confinement allowed you to meditate, to consider how you wanted your future to be and to discover that the important thing was to live in the moment, because you never know what is going to happen. It was clear that during the pandemic you couldn't fight for what you wanted, nor take a plane and fly to where he was, but things would slowly come back to normal, and it would be time to make an important decision.

As you had predicted, light began to appear at the end of the tunnel. Things were relaxing again, taking on a new normalcy and you had to start to take up your old life again. Conversations with Chris had increased over the last few months, you had too much to say but it was a bit difficult for both of you to put it on the screen, so in the end you always ended up talking nonsense and getting a laugh out of each other. Maybe that was what you liked best about him, that he managed to make you smile even in your worst moments. It was comforting to discover that he was well, that he had overcome, with his more and with his less, that period and that your feelings towards him had not changed.

It was obvious that you were back to your routine, and that meant that work would barely let you take a break. The New York company had not dealt with the COVID crisis very well and the situation was quite alarming. You barely had time to reconnect with your friends, as you set foot in New York City hundreds of business problems fell upon you. Stress was trapping you, preventing you from even sleeping at night, and all you needed was to escape from that environment because your head was going to explode. You were told that several trips were planned to discuss the impact the pandemic had had on various locations around the country, and you felt an immediate relief when you were told, unless you could get away from the centre of the bomb.

Your destination was even more comforting, as it was barely 30 kilometres from your previous residence with Chris. The plane left for Boston first thing in the morning, the sky had not yet awakened and you chose to rest your eyes for the 60 minutes that the journey took. You hadn't spoken to him for the last two weeks, basically since you arrived in New York, when he called you, you were in business meetings and always came home in the early hours of the morning, falling into bed. That was your life, quite complicated to complement with external factors.

The meeting with the Boston headquarters was not too negative, which got you to relax and send good news to your company. The most positive factor you brought out is that you had finished early enough to do what you had in mind since you discovered your trip to Boston. You borrowed a car from your company and set off for the house where you had lived for almost two years. You didn't know if he would be there when you arrived or if it would be completely empty, but you erased those thoughts from your mind and just drove.

You knew the route perfectly, you used to do it every morning. It was nice to rediscover the variety of colours that those little forests could have during the autumn. You lowered the window so that the wind would fill the interior of the car, producing extreme relief in you, relaxing every limb and freeing your mind from any stressful event. That's all you wanted during the long, final months of your life. It took you just over 30 minutes to reach your destination, and when you were there the world around you came to a standstill. It had been so long since you had been in front of each other that a little worry had formed inside you.

You assumed that naturalness was the best way to deal with such a situation, so you chose to get out of the car and face what might happen. You analysed the outside of the house, there was no car in the driveway, no sign of anyone inside, but a very familiar voice, along with some barking, guided you to the back of the garden. A wistful look on your face, and your smile widened when you discovered that Dodger, hearing the rustling of leaves under your feet, had noticed you. From the distance he headed towards you at great speed, causing Chris to fix his gaze on you. As usual, Dodger lunged at you, causing you to fall backwards into the wet grass, but you were used to that.

The next few minutes hundreds of emotions met in the air. The reunion with Chris was silent, but many things were said through the eyes. First came the nervous smiles, then the excited look and then the hugs.

"It's been so long since I've hugged you... that I've forgotten how it feels to be hugged by you," he whispered those words in your ear and made you tremble, wishing that the embrace would never end.

There were no questions between the two of you, no "What are you doing here" or "Why did you come here", you didn't need an answer to either of them, you wanted to focus on the moment. You went back into that house, for the first time in a long time, accompanied by a Dodger that was fully seeking your attention and that almost prevented you from walking.

"Let's go, buddy! Let Y/N in the house," he said trying to catch him. "Oh, he just ignores me. I'm sorry you'll have to manage on your own. He has chosen, very smart."

Chris' comment made you show a sweet smile as Dodger tried to lick your whole face as you crouched at his height.

"I've missed you too, sweetie," you said, standing up as you could.

You headed inside the house, where Chris was watching you with a tender expression on his face. As you entered, a warmth and that unmistakable aroma of Chris was in the air. It was a mixture between the smell of wood from the fireplace and his fragrance. That caused your senses to come together and create a familiarity in you. You looked around curiously, quickly analysing every corner, Chris waited while you checked.

"It's all the same," you said in a soft tone smiling at him.

"Yep," he replied in the same soft tone. "Will you stay for dinner with us?"

You showed him a smile as you slowly nodded. "That sounds great."

You knew you had one night before your plane back to New York left the next day. There was too much to do and too much to say for just one night, and neither of you were likely to start that conversation, you were experts at it.

Both of you got down to work in the kitchen, as if you were back in the past. Neither of you were experts in that field, but you used to let yourselves go. Dodger, calmer, took a seat in his basket and watched you with curiosity.

"Beer?" asked Chris, approaching you with a bottle.

"Thank you," you took it and took a little drink, imitating him.

The situation was common, two people cooking, but for you it was not at all common where you were. Chris was a person who did not hide his emotions, and you had seen this during the time you had spent together. In the relationship it was much harder for you to express what you were feeling, but at that moment it was perhaps not too much for you to be back in your old home, with the man you had loved, after a year of not seeing each other and having a relationship that was not quite closed.So you finally put down the knife you were cutting onions with and threw yourself away, knowing that everything could go wrong.

"Aren't you going to ask me why I'm here?" You frowned softly and looked at him.

Chris was caught off guard by the question, as he watched you and arched his eyebrows, while leaning against the refrigerator.

"Okay," he nodded across his arms. "Why are you here?

You remained pensive, you had gone into the lion's den, because even you did not know very well how to answer that question. Why were you there? You opened your lips to look for a coherent explanation, but nothing. Chris was waiting for the answer, but he realised that you didn't know what to say, so he approached you. "It's okay," he said, taking a lock of your hair and putting it behind his ear.

"No," you frowned. "It's not okay."

"What do you mean?" he asked curiously, returning to his previous position.

"To us," you pointed. "I don't know if it's right what we're doing to each other.”

"What are we doing to each other?" he asked gently, trying to get you to express what was on your mind.

"This," you raised your voice a little. "We didn't finish. We have no end..."

"That's why you came," he crossed his arms at a considerable distance. "To put an end to it?"

You asked yourself if you had come to that, and the answer was obvious, no, you had not come to that.

"No", you whispered looking into his eyes, then you put your hand to your face. "God, this is too complicated."

"Hey...", he came up to you again and took his hand away from your face. "If it wasn't complicated it wouldn't be us."

Those were the truest words he had ever said. You both had a magnet for complicated situations and were the first to try to deal with them.

"Try to tell me why you came here," he kindly insisted again. "I have a clear idea, but I need you to confirm it.

You remembered how you felt when you got there, when you drove there, when you discovered that the business trip was taking you to Boston, where he was. All your happiness in those days was for him. During the pandemic you told yourself that you needed a change in your life, that many things had been lost because of your previous priorities, and your mood had also changed.

"I have come... ", you sighed, emptying your lungs and taking in air again. "I'm here... During the pandemic, I realized what really makes me happy, how things can change from one day to the next and that you have to fight for what you want." You felt a little embarrassed. "God..."

Chris knew how complex everything was for you, that you only extracted your sentimental feelings and thoughts when you were angry and had an argument, so that was a big effort.

"Please Y/N, continue", he gave you a soft smile.

"In short..." you started.

"No, don't summarize", Chris cut you off with a little laugh, which relaxed you.

"Okay," you leaned against the kitchen island and took a breath of air. "It's simple, I've decided that I want to be happy, and you make me happy.”

When you released that sentence you felt an inner relief, you freed yourself from a great weight that had been with you for a long time, and now Chris had everything in his hands. The next ten seconds were the longest of your life, you waited to see Chris' reaction, who was just a few meters away looking at you with a little smile on his face, that you didn't know how to take it.

"Well?" you whispered expectantly. "Are you planning to say something?"

The smile on Chris' face widened and he slowly took a step towards you to shorten the distance, standing face to face, finding you between the kitchen island and his body. He didn't say anything, it was what he did that made you realize his opinion. He stretched out his arms to take your face in his hands and approached you very slowly to kiss your lips. Your heart gave a return when you felt him so close to you again, testing his taste on your lips again, rediscovering the touch of his beard. A bark from Dodger came in the moment, but you barely noticed the event, as you were too busy meeting again.

You split up by cutting off the kiss and frowning.

"Wait. You haven't said anything, what do you think?"

"Come on honey, isn't it obvious?"

You arched an eyebrow waiting, Chris rolled his eyes and caught you sitting on the kitchen counter, you being taller than him.

"You're going to make me say it," he said, looking at your smile. "If I tell you that I love you, so that I can kiss you again and then later develop the answer, will that help?”

Those were the things you loved about him.

"It depends on the kiss."

Chris soon had you in his hands again, more firmly than the previous time. You let yourselves go forgetting everything around you, as if you wanted to make up for all the lost time, all the time apart. Chris lifted you off the counter again and you wrapped your legs around his waist.

"I got you," he whispered against your lips.

"You've always got me."

Tag list: @imerdwarf @mycosmicparadise @lavendertales

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[dindyke]

Three Ways A Clan Is Torn Apart : 1301 words, din djarin/luke skywalker, canon compliant, major character death

The attack on Luke Skywalker's Jedi Academy by the newly formed Kylo Ren diverges at three points, three ways in which Din Djarin and Grogu lose and are reunited with the final member of their Clan of Three.

I.

Midnight finds the Mand'alor still in conference, with no clear end in sight. His advisors argue amongst themselves, and Din shifts in his seat, waiting for them to finish. His throat is coated with an acid he cannot seem to swallow down, and he can’t focus on the blabber.

When Grogu pushes the heavy doors open, guards flat on their asses behind his small body, the chatter is forgotten completely. Grogu speaks to them all through the Force.

Buir, we must leave. There is a disturbance on Yavin IV. I cannot sense the Children, he says.

He hears the end of a protest from Bo Katan and leaves the room in a hurry, hoping they will come to understand that if his family is in jeopardy, he must go. That is his Way.

“Your father? Can you sense him?” Din asks as they quickly make their way to their ship.

Faint. He is faint, is all Grogu says in return.

The trip to Yavin IV is silent, spare for their breathing. When they land, amongst the rubble and the smell of death, it suffocates them. Grogu places his small hands on every cold body, pushing energy through the Force until he sways and can no longer stand.

They didn’t find Luke. However, his X-Wing was missing, and neither his robes nor his corpse were anywhere to be found. Hope. That was their hope.

The two of them put out the fires and cleaned the dead as they waited for Leia and the families to arrive. To bury them here would be presumptuous. Many of the students had parents, siblings, who had come to visit frequently as Din had with Grogu in the earliest years.

When nothing was left to busy his hands with, Din sat at the edge of the smoldering temple, weeping into his knees. He couldn’t bear to think of what may have happened should Grogu not have traveled with him to Mandalore.

His exchange with Leia was brief, conveying what he’d seen, what he hadn’t. Her son was missing from the bodies as well… they could understand what this meant. She told him she’d felt it when he turned. She looked more devoid of joy than he had ever seen her.

As he and Grogu sped away to find her brother, he knew she gave a politician’s performance to the arriving families of the victims. Stoic and just warm enough to be inspiring, she could handle this in a way he never could, for his covert nor his citizens.

Tracking down a Jedi Master had been hard enough when Luke was a cocky young man, only barely caring to stay under the radar. A Jedi Master who didn’t want to be found would be even harder.

However, if Luke wanted to go missing, he had married the wrong man. Din was the Mand’alor, but he was a Bounty Hunter first, and he would never forget.

Determination in his heart, he set off, his son at his side, to regain their lost Clan Member.

“We’ll bring you home, cyar’ika.”

II.

Din Djarin wakes to an empty bed, the sheets cold although the air outside is scorching. He smells smoke. He dons his armor as quickly as he may have 30 years ago and rushes from his hut, finding Luke nowhere.

Children are screaming.

He runs through the stone and brick plaza, and when he sees the first body, he chokes on his breath. She’s already dead, a perfectly cauterized slice torn through her abdomen. She was one of their youngest.

He flings open each house, screaming for Luke and losing his hope with every child he sees slaughtered in their beds.

When he feels Grogu call to him through the Force, he nearly collapses. He’s at the temple. Din can’t run fast enough. More of the padawans lay motionless in the road, and he hopes to the Gods that someone better than him will protect them in the next world, as he has failed in this one.

The temple is aflame when he reaches it, two meek figures boldly lit in the dark night. Grogu, posed with his saber, and… and Ben.

It was Ben. Ben did this.

If he cares that Din is there, he doesn’t show it. He makes a move to approach Grogu (the kid must have got him good, he’s got a limp), but Din is there first.

He may no longer be Mand’alor, but Din has always been a fighter, a protector. And he’d damn himself a million times over before he lets a Sith touch his son.

As he had all his life, Din Djarin fights valiantly, with every tool in his arsenal and his family at the forefront of his mind.

When Luke wakes up, disoriented and bruised beneath the ruins of Ben’s hut, he finds everything he worked for gone. His students, his school, his legacy, and his order. In front of the ashes of the Jedi temple, lie his son and his husband. Even if he could have healed them from the brink of death, it was far too late.

III.

There were several points between Bo Katan finally mercy-challenging Din for the title of Mand’alor and the six years he had now spent with Luke in his self-inflicted exile where Din really believed he could change his husband’s mind.

He understands this shame. He’d failed to protect their students too. Some of those padawans had come from Mandalore. And they’d lost most of them. The few who survived were left in the hands of the Republic, now, or with their families.

Luke had called Leia and left immediately, with Din and Grogu hot on his trail. He hadn’t wanted them to come with him. He was undeserving, he was dangerous, he’d said. He had lost himself in his trauma and nearly destroyed one member of his family, what would stop him from destroying them? He’d holed himself away within a mountain, bringing down the cave opening to keep them out.

Din and Grogu sat outside, calling to him every once and a while. Grogu occasionally shifted a rock, but he didn’t open it. They both knew Luke needed to do that on his own. After a few days of punishing himself in the stale darkness, he came back out.

That first week on Ahch-To was hard. Luke didn’t talk much. He mostly paced, up and down the winding dirt pathways of the first Jedi temple. He talked to himself, cursed at the skies, and cried against the Seeing Stone.

By the second week, Luke allowed himself to sleep at his husband’s side. It was fitful and sparse, but it was familiar.

Din respected Luke’s wishes of anonymity. He sent brief messages to the others, keeping his location hidden but assuring them that he would bring Luke home soon.

A year passed, and those messages grew few and far between. By the third, they had stopped completely.

As he had learned from Luke and the ways of the Jedi how to embrace possibility, peace, the Force around all things, he had hoped that Luke learned some things from the Mandalorians too. How to get back up, even after you’ve been kicked. After you’ve failed. How to maintain your honor and your beliefs in spite of intense pain and loss.

Six years later, maybe that was a foolish thought. Luke was more than capable of pulling himself out of his pain, Din knew this. He’d seen him recover time and time again from his traumas and tribulations.

But six years later, Din finally understands that it was not a problem of ability, but a problem of will.

The only one punishing Luke was himself, and until he decides he no longer deserves to be guilty, no one was going to change his mind.

[taeminyourmind]

The 12-Year Promise x Taemin (M)

Genre: Mature - Smut (Soft)

Summary: Forced to move away, you and your best friend Taemin make a promise to meet again on your 25th birthday.

Pairing: Taemin x Reader

Word Count: 3.9k+

October 2006

A crisp autumn breeze commands the fallen leaves to dance along the uneven gravel road of your neighborhood. The street, once filled with children playing, is now silent as neighbors gather in front of your house to bid your family farewell.

You and Taemin hide behind a thick row of bushes behind your house, sitting side-by-side with faces of confusion and sadness. Every day, you wake up and pray that it was all a dream, but the brown boxes sitting on your desk with your name scribbled on the side in black sharpie mock you every morning. You could never forget the moment your mother brought the news down on you in a way only she could.

Rain hits against the window while you and your parents eat dinner in silence. The sound of utensils scraping against the ceramic plates makes you cringe, causing you to squirm in your seat.

“___,” your mother monotonously says, “We’re moving at the end of the month.”

Your eyes snap towards your mother who doesn’t bother making eye contact with neither you nor your father. You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. You look to your father, hoping he can read your mind, but all he offers is a gentle hand on the shoulder and a soft smile.

“Why?” You finally manage to say, though it comes out as a squeak. Your eyes leave your father and lands on your mother who wipes her mouth with the linen napkin, leaving her red lipstick stain on it. “Why?”

“How many times must I remind you?” Your mother firmly asks, tossing the napkin on her empty plate. “I am the parent, and you are the child. And if I say we are doing something, you say ‘Okay mother’ not question me. Understood?”

Your stomach does backflips as your mother’s eyebrow raises and lips pursed together. There is no need in fighting her, in arguing, because your words will fall on deaf ears. Instead, you shove your father’s hand off your shoulder and let your legs take you as far away from the house as possible.

Your legs burn at your speed and your lungs feel like they’re about to explode. Your vision becomes blurred with burning tears before they slide down your cheeks. Though it’s hard to see, you follow your heart and find yourself outside the house of your best friend, Taemin. Many believe you became instant friends because you shared the same birthday and others believe it was the working of your stars and paths crossing at an early age. A friend since you were in diapers, a friend who never leaves your side, and a friend that you promised to marry if you were both still single at 25. With him, you were never alone and invisible; with Taemin, you were free to be who you were and felt loved.

You throw pebbles against his window until you see his shadow move towards the window. Huge headphones are pressed against his ears when he opens his curtains and window. He opens his mouth to speak but closes it when he sees the look of defeat and distress painted on your face. He simply nods his head and you take off to Dollie’s, a place the two of you frequent, a place where you settle all your problems and plan your next adventure. Except for this time, you must tell your best friend that you’re moving far away, for good.

“I don’t want you to go,” Taemin pouts, his hand unconsciously pulling at the grass beside him.

“I don’t want to go either,” you whisper while blinking to hold back your tears. “I want to stay here with you.”

Silence falls over the two of you as faint farewells are being said in the distance.

“Let’s promise to always be friends!” He exclaims with a beaming smile. “When we’re older, let’s meet again!”

A wide smile spreads across your face at his exclamation. If you were darkness, Taemin was light, always lifting spirits and showing optimism wherever he goes. Your smile becomes contagious as Taemin smiles back at you before facing ahead. His eyebrows furrow the longer he stares in the distance as if he’s focusing on something or someone. Following his trance, you take in the beauty of autumn’s hues of red, orange, brown, and yellow, a sight you wouldn’t see anytime soon.

“25!” Taemin says, making you look towards him in confusion. He brings a hand out of his pocket and holds up a quarter that glistens in the sunlight. “We’ll meet again when we’re 25 at Dollie’s!”

“Aren’t we supposed to be married by then?” You ask and snatch the quarter from his fingers. “What if my husband doesn’t want me meeting you?”

He cocks his head to the side with a mischievous smile. “But I will be your husband.”

A moment goes by before the two of you burst into laughter. You grab your stomach from how much you were laughing and get into a playful wrestling match until the harsh sound of your name makes the both of you stop. Your mother’s voice makes you shiver. Taemin looks at you with glossy eyes, mouthing ‘don’t go’ as you begin to stand.

“I...have to go,” you barely manage to croak while stuffing the quarter in your pocket.

Putting your back to him, Taemin wraps his arms around you, squeezing you while his fingers latch onto the fabric of your jacket. You manage to free yourself enough to face him and bring him into an embrace. Tears freely fall down your cheeks as you choke on your sobs. You squeeze your eyes close and try to remember this moment; the light floral scent of his clothes, the warmth of his embrace, his comforting voice, his soft facial expressions, and the taste of the shortbread cookie he gave you earlier.

“___!” Your mother shouts again.

“Noon,” Taemin quickly says when he feels you begin to pull away, leaving the coldness to replace your warmth. “We’ll meet at noon at Dollie’s when we turn 25! Promise me!”

“I promise,” you say, wiping the tears from your face. “I promise.” Turning, you sprint away from Taemin, leaving him to sink to the ground and cry into his knees. The only thing keeping his head up is your promise, a promise he will replay in his mind as the days go on.

July 18, 2018 - 11:30 a.m.

Aromas of freshly ground coffee, baked goods, and flowers fill Dollie’s while light upbeat instrumental music plays overhead. Taemin taps along to the beat while nervously looking towards the door each time the door opens. Each chime makes him sit straighter and when he realizes none of the people that walked through the door were you, he slumps a little and glances at his watch.

The steam from Taemin’s mug of coffee places soft kisses on his nose as he stares into its rich color.

“She’ll be here,” he whispers repeatedly to himself. “She promised.”

July 18, 2018 - 12:15 p.m.

Taemin watches the seconds pass on his watch as noon passes. Around him, people are busy with pleasant conversations leaving Taemin to daydream about what it would be like to have you in front of him so he could hear your voice.

The last glimmer of hope he has in his heart slowly loses its flame as he pushes his empty mug away from him. Part of him feels foolish for thinking you would remember a promise made 12 years ago and another part of him wonders if someone is keeping you from him. He hides his face in his palms and squeezes his eyes shut, his shoulders falling in defeat.

“Hi Ms. Ha, is Taemin still here?” A voice desperately asks between breaths.

The sound of his name makes Taemin pop his head up and look towards the front counter. Ms. Ha’s face lights up as she points in his direction. When your glance follows her direction, Taemin feels his breath hitch in his throat. Neither of you could contain the wide smiles spreading on your faces as you rush to his table.

When you’re a few feet away, Taemin jumps from his seat and pulls you into a warm embrace; his palms gently pressing in the middle of your back until his quick heartbeat can be felt against your chest. A small chuckle hums against your lips as you hold him close, nestling your face in the crook of his neck and feeling tears well in your eyes at the nostalgic scent of floral lingering on his clothes.

An unknown amount of time passes before Taemin invites you to sit with him. There was so much you wanted to say to one another, so many stories to tell, and so many I miss yous to you wanted to say, but those words get lodged in your throats. Instead, you exchange a warm smile and nervous chuckles while you examine one another, your eyes finding what’s changed about each other.

Taemin finds himself lovingly staring into your eyes, admiring the girl he’s missed for the past 12 years. Aside from your appearance, nothing has changed about you; your eyes and smile are still warm and your nose scrunches and eyes squint when you’re concentrated on something or someone.

“And a birthday candle for my twins,” Ms. ha sings before placing a coffeecake with powdered sugar in the middle of the table.

“You shouldn’t have,” you gasp while eyeing the delectable cake with wide eyes.

“Eat and enjoy you two,” she says while swatting in your direction. Turning away, she gives Taemin a playful wink before hurrying to the front of the house.

“Happy birthday, ___,” Taemin smiles while handing you a fork.

“Happy birthday, Tae,” You smile before devouring your half of the cake.

The moist cake melts in your mouth, causing you to sink in your seat in delight. As fast as the cake appeared, the cake was gone as you and Taemin lean back in your seats with a full stomach.

“I missed you, Tae,” you softly say while reaching across the table to place your hand on his. “How have you been?”

Your warm hands cause Taemin to shiver slightly while he gets lost in your eyes once more. Your question makes him stop for a moment to think; how has he been? It’s been so long since he’s taken care of himself and even longer since someone asked how he was.

You can see the internal struggle in his eyes. His eyes fall away from you and to the empty plate, his eyebrows furrowing in contemplation. Every now and then, he opens his mouth to speak but hesitates and closes it again.

“Talk to me, Taemin,” you whisper while leaning forward, your hand shaking against his to grab his attention. “You’re in front of me, but your eyes are distant.”

“I’ve just been stressed lately,” he begins, squirming in his seat. “I’m studying for my master and I’m worried about failing.”

Concern falls on you while you watch your friend express his troubles. His words pour from his mouth and tears of frustration well in his eyes, though they don’t fall.

“You’ll make it,” you say reassuringly. “I know you’ll make it.” You pause for a moment and take in his tense posture. Deep in thought, you finally look back towards the boy and smile. “You’re coming over for dinner tonight. I’m going to cook something special.”

Taemin smiles and shakes his head. “Don’t you live a few hours away?”

“Correction. I now live 30 minutes from here.”

You and Taemin exchange an excited smile before he places his free hand on top of yours and gives it a gentle squeeze. His soft eyes make you blush before nodding his head.

“Okay, let’s go.”

The day gradually transforms to night as the infinite stars in the sky twinkle against the black canvas. With your legs placed over his, you and Taemin make yourselves comfortable on your couch with a glass of wine.

“How was it, moving away?” Taemin hesitantly asks, causing your face to fall for a moment.

“Hard. My parents got divorced not long after the move and my mother decided it was best I stay with her. But you know how she is, overbearing, a workaholic, and insensitive. I couldn’t take it anymore! I ran away to my father’s, but she never came after me. From that moment, I swore to myself three things, I would never turn into her, marry someone like her, and never become a mother like her. Since then, I’ve just been trying to find myself and my purpose in life, you know?”

Taemin soothingly rubs your leg while giving you a gentle smile. “I know.”

As the moon rises higher in the sky, your conversations with Taemin become more personal the more you allow yourselves to be vulnerable. Between his and your worries and fears about the life ahead of you, it’s a miracle neither of you has developed gray hair. 

Even in these moments, Taemin found himself falling for you, flaws and all. Everyone could see he had a crush on you when you were younger, and he’s held onto the thought of meeting you one day and how it would feel seeing you again after so long. It’s better than he imagined. While you poured your heart out, his eyes moved across your face, trying to burn your face in his mind. He wanted to remember you, the way you looked, and the way you make him feel.

“I’ve talked too much,” you apologetically say.

“I haven’t seen you in 12 years, I don’t mind.”

You hide your flustered smile by taking a sip from your glass. You find yourself looking over the rim and find yourself thinking of Taemin as more than a friend. What would your relationship look like if you stayed? Would you still be friends? Lovers? Married? Strangers? The past is over and only the present lingers while the future lies ahead. You have to get your mind off of Taemin.

“Look at the time,” you say, pointing to the clock that reads 1 a.m. “It’s too late for you to go back. You can sleep in my room -”

“Where are you going to sleep?” Taemin abruptly interrupts with slight disappointment in his voice.

You pat a spot on the couch. “On the couch.” Setting your glass down, you stand and help Taemin off the couch, leading him to your room. “I’ll put out extra blankets in case you get cold.”

Standing near your room’s doorway, Taemin watched you scurry about, pulling out numerous blankets and throwing the decorative pillows to the side. Though he sees your mouth move, he’s too focused on understanding his feelings for you to hear what you’re saying.

“Stay with me,” he blurts, causing you to stop in your tracks. “Just like the sleepovers we had when we were younger.”

Memories of blanket forts lined with pillows and flashlights flash before your eyes as you remember the two of you competing on who could tell the scariest story and talking about kid stuff like school, parents, and the latest episode of your favorite cartoons. With a blink, you’re transported back to your room with Taemin gazing at you with bright eyes. He opens his mouth to apologize but closes it when you nod.

“I’ll stay with you,” you sheepishly say with a soft smile. “Just like we used to.”

--

You and Taemin face each other under the warmth of your blanket, though it feels warmer because of how close your bodies were. The moonlight seeping through the gaps of your bedroom blinds, striping the room and giving little light. But even in the room’s dimness, Taemin’s eyes shine brightly as they gaze into yours.

There were things you wanted to say to each other, both friendly and amorous. Your complicated feelings create raging waves in your stomach, threatening to crash into you. But there were too many times in your life where you’ve held yourself back by listening to this uneasy feeling and not your own desires.

Being here with Taemin, his body so close to yours that his shallow breaths tickle your nose. Under his loving stare, you feel exposed while his eyes trace over your face. You inch yourself closer to his body and gently glide your thumbpad across his soft lips. His fingers gently wrap around your wrist, stilling it before kissing it. Your heart thumps harder under his touch. No matter how many times you try to deny yourself of feeling anything romantic towards him, they come back stronger.

“Marry me,” he whispers. His hand guides yours towards his chest, allowing you to feel his heartbeat.

The word ‘marry’ transports you back to the playground at school. Hidden behind a tree were you and Taemin, holding hands and promising to marry each other when you turned 25. And now, you’re lying beside your best friend after 12 years, feeling his heartbeat under his careful gaze, as he remembers one of his promises.

A smile slowly spreads across your face as you inch closer to his face until your forehead rests against his. “Okay.”

Leaning forward, Taemin’s lips press against yours, passionately moving across yours, inviting you to join in the dance. Your fingers latch to the front of his shirt while you deepen the kiss, your breath temporarily seizing when his tongue glides pass your lips. The taste of his cherry chapstick enters your mouth, teasing you to go deeper. He softly moans against your lips when your tongue dances around his while his fingers gently massage your lower back.

Gentle whispers of “I missed you” spill from your lips before Taemin slowly pulls away. His lips are slightly red and plump, slightly parted as he catches his breath. Over and over he says he really missed you and how much he loves you. His sweet words make your cheeks grow warm as you softly push his bangs out his face. The flame of his eyes flickers in affection as he hesitates to say the words he wants to say.

But you know what Taemin wants, and you want it as well. Leaning forward, you latch your lips to the side of his neck, placing tender wet kisses on the crook of his neck. His soft moans turn to groans when your hand slips down his sweatpants and begin to massage his member. He sharply gasps through clenched teeth when you firmly grip his member and pump him, ensuring every inch feels your touch.

“___,” Taemin breathlessly whines, his hips rocking in sync with your hand.

His eyes flutter shut and his lips slightly part when you teasingly make light circles on his tip. A mischievous smirk spreading on your face fades when Taemin’s hand slides down your pants. His fingers spread your lips while his middle finger glides from your entrance to your clit, spreading your wetness. Your movements pause at the feeling of his finger flicking your clit. You try to suppress your moans but fail when his deep voice whispers in your ear.

“You’re so wet.”

His middle and ring finger carefully push through your entrance, curling once they’re in. Your hand around his member grips tighter at the sensation, creating more friction as he thrust forward. It doesn’t take long until you feel a wetness coat your fingers. As if connected, you both removed your hand from each other’s bodies. Your wetness that coats Taemin’s fingers shines in the dim light before he pushes them in your mouth, his eyebrows furrowing while he moans at the feeling of your tongue sensually licking his fingers clean.

Slowly, Taemin removes yours and his pants, his eyes never leaving yours. Grabbing the back of your thigh, he lifts your leg over his waist while his other hand guides his erected maybe to your entrance. Your walls tighten at the feeling of his tip gliding back and forth between your lips. Slowly, he guides his member inside you, thrusting upward until he finds shelter in between your walls.

Taemin’s presence prompts you to let out a lengthy moan, closing your eyes to feel every inch of him. His hands anchor your hips in place as he begins to slowly thrust upwards, going deeper while he places lovebites on the top of your breasts. ‘Yes’ drips from your lips over and over as he thrusts one last time and grinds into you, ensuring every inch feels his length. Your walls tighten and toes curl while you hold him close to your chest, your moans turning into whines as you feel yourself edging closer to the edge. This powerful feeling makes you want to pull away, but the feeling of euphoria makes you stay, enduring the overwhelming pleasure.

Taemin knows you’re close, your walls squeezing around him, ready to milk his seed. He hisses when your nails break his skin, but he doesn’t mind. Pulling your tank top down, he admires your breasts and hardened nipples before latching his lips around them. His teeth softly graze your nipple before his tongue swirls around it, causing shivers to travel up your spine.

Cupping his face to bring it to yours, you place sloppy kisses against his lips before gaining enough strength to roll on top of him. As your lips move together in sync, you slowly bounce up and down. Moaning into the kiss, Taemin’s hands caress your breasts, his fingers teasingly pulling at your nipples.

His hands stay on your breasts when you sit up as you begin to slowly rock your hips back and forth. The hunger in his eyes makes the knot in your stomach tighten. Your eyes never leave his when you slide your fingers down and rub circles on your clit. Your chest quickly rises and falls because of the pleasure, causing you to lean your head back. Faster, you rub your clit as you feel yourself about to fall off the edge. Your eyes slightly roll back when you feel the knot break, Taemin’s name falling from your lips followed by deep breaths.

Reaching up, Taemin brings you down until your chest is against his, your skin sticking together. His arms lock you in place as he plants his heels in the bed and thrusts upward. He grunts in your ear, wanting to quicken his speed but controlling himself to take things slow to make this euphoric feeling last longer. His thrusts become shaky as his grip around you tightens. The sweet touch of your lips against his neck allows him to let loose as he thrusts up once more and spurts his seed inside you, your walls milking him for every drop.

His soft grunts subside as he tries to calm himself, slowly rocking his hips to come down from his high. When his grip around you loosens, you sit up enough to see his face - flushed and glistening with sweat. You exchange a tired smile before you remove yourself from his member that’s now coated in a mixture of yours and his orgasm.

Falling beside Taemin, his arms immediately embrace you, pulling you closer until your head rests against his chest. The morning’s bright light replaces the moonlight, painting the room in a warm hue. He presses a gentle kiss on the top of your head as he holds you tighter, afraid that this is just a dream.

“I guess there’s only one more question to ask,” Taemin says after a moment of silence. Your eyebrows furrow as you look up in curiosity to which he gives a sweet smile. “When’s the wedding?”

[mary-tudor]

~HENRY TUDOR: A SOCIOLOGICAL INTERPRETATION.~

Today, I'll be discussing a character who left his mark in History, fathering a dynasty whose most proeminent members were his (second) son Henry VIII and his granddaughter Elizabeth I. Often overshadowed by his descendants, Henry's own deeds as a king and as an individual of his own days have been neglected until recently, when efforts from British historians have been working hard to change that. 

The reason why I decided to bring him here was not only due to personal affections, though they certainly helped it, but because there are aspects overlapped in social structures that shaped him. In other words: what's Henry Tudor as a sociological individual? Can we point him out as a constant foreigner or someone whose socialization process were strongly marked by the addition of two different societies? 

Henry Tudor was born in Pembroke, located in Wales, in January 28th 1457. His mother was Margaret Beaufort, a proeminent lady whose grandfather John Beaufort was the son of John of Gaunt, son in turn of King Edward III of England. The duke of Lancaster fathered four ilegitimated children (who were legitimated in posterity) by his (third marriage to his then) lover Katheryn Swynford, amongst whom John Beaufort was the oldest. Therefore, Henry was  3x grandson. to the duke and, despite what some might argue when Henry IV became king, in great deal to inherite the throne. Well, it's not my intention to deepen the discussion as to Henry's legitimacy or the Beauforts. 

Though his father's ancestry, Henry's blood led him to the royal house of Valois. His paternal grandmother, Katherine de Valois, was the sister of Isabella, who had been the second wife of the ill-fated king Richard II. She was also descended of Louis IX and his spanish wife, Blanche de Castille. Henry was also a royal man from the Welsh lands, as Owain Tudor, his grandfather, was related to several princes of Wales. By all these I said, the first thing one might think (considering 15th century and it’s nobility) Henry would receive a proper education due to his status. However, this would not happen in the strict sense of the word. Let us not forget that England was collapsing by the time of Henry Tudor's birth and his childhood. Why am I using the word 'collapse' to qualify the civil war we know named as wars of the roses?

Émile Durkheim, a french sociologist, would write several centuries later, about how a society is formed: he compared it to the working of a human body. If the head, the brain of our body does not work well, what happens? The body will not work well, certainly. Neither would the head work well if other parts hurt somehow. Although if you did break a leg, you could still make use of your brain, but as a whole how limited wouldn't you be? He'd also say that when the human body, or as he called, the society was sick, it was because of the social structures which imposed the human being to the point where there would be no individuality, no matter of choice. 

Such created social facts that were completely external (althoug well internalized through means of a process we call socialization) but coercitive. If they are not working, what does this mean? That soon another social facts will be replacing the former one. But between one and another, we have a "very sickly" society. Taking this understanding back to England's 15th century, it is not difficult to see what Durkheim was talking about. 

The king was the head of the English body. If we have here two kings fighting over one crown, fighting over the rule of an entire body... Well, then? We have the collapse, a civil war that lasted for the next 30 years. Here, it's less about discussing who started what but why they did what they did, and the explanation for it. Power is power. It's crystal clear, and a statement that, however simple might it sound, points to the obvious. Factions that fought for power intended to dominate others, using the concept very well developed by sociologists as Pierre Bourdieu and Norbert Elias. This domination is a large field, a concept that embrace all sorts of it. Looking back to England's latter half of the century, domination was peril. The head was about to explode. The society was ill... and dominated by it.

What were the values? What was the racionalization proccess of social action led by individuals that were not only individuals but a group? How would all of this affect Henry Tudor? It was not about merely blaming the capitalism, because such coercitive system wasn't present yet. But Henry was, directly or not, linked to the royal house of Plantagenets, whose eagerness for dominating one another and by extension the rest of the country would include him in the game. 

"Game." For Durkheim, this would imply an agitation, like a wave of sea, from which no one could escape from. Let's not forget that Institutions created ideas, renewed them, shaped them to the practice whether to dominate the weaker or to defeat the stronger. Whatever the purpose, we here have the Church, not the religiosity, but the precursor of ideas would subdue individuals to share (or manipulate to their own goals anyways) values in order to keep determined mentality to it. But also, monarchy was too an institution which held control over the lives and deaths of thousands of people. A monarch, as we know, is never alone regardless of how "absolut" they could be in different times and contexts. They were not above the law, either. At least where the socialization process is concerned. For the monarch embodied the content which was the law back then. He was literally the law. 

Furthermore, Henry's education would foresee this fighting, which I'm not merely referring to custody going from his mother to another, before finally staying under his uncle's responsibilities, as well as the civil war itself. (Anyone remembers Warwick executing Herbert before the boy?) 

See, we all know and comprehend today what trauma are capable of doing to someone. Such experience is the main responsible for shaping ideas, values and even costumes. Now, a society which is very much sick by it's own values and moral costumes (a point here must be made: the public consciousness always preached for a warrior, strong king, but has no one thought how this "common sense", validated by a general expectation towards the head of society, was what led it to... well, for the lack of better word, suicide itself? 

For it's widely accepted that weak kings do not last long. But that is when we deal with a good deal of expectations that, when turned to frustrations, bring awful results. If England's society was ill in it's very extreme sense of the word, was because the values they created turned against themselves and that would leave it's mark in a boy as Henry. And until the age of 14, he was still absorbing these concepts, these morals, values, costumes from institutions (let's not forget that a monarch shares such with the nobility that surrounds him, as was the case of House Lancaster,f.e) before he was casted out to Bretagne and, in posteriority, to France. Now, I believe you all know what was done whether in England or with our king during these 14 years spent outside his own country before he became king upon the victory settled on the battle of Bosworth field.

I am not interested in discussing historical facts. At least not now, as we are finally dealing with Henry Tudor as a social actor

----/-HENRY TUDOR: A FOREIGNER? AN EXILED? OR AN OUTCAST?--

These questions mobilized me as I came to read a text written by 19th century sociologist named Georg Simmel. He wrote an essay (pardon by any mistakes in translations done from here on) entitled "The Foreigner", in which he brings a sociological question at why  foreigners are seen as strangers who are never entirely immersed in the society they attempt to be part in. 

Here's an excerpt translated by me in which he explains it:

"Fixed within a determined social space, where it's constancy cross-border could be considered similar to the space, their position [the foreigner's] in it is largely determined by the fact of not belonging entirely to it, and their qualities cannot originate from it or come from it, nor even going in it." (SIMMEL, 2005: 1.)    

Furthermore, he adds:

“The foreigner, however, is also an element of the group, no more different than the others and, at the same time, distincted from what we consider as the 'internal enemy'. They are an element in whose position imanent and of member comprehend, at the same time, one outsider and the other insider." (SIMMEL, 2005: 1).

Here's why Henry, as Earl of Richmond, was not well seen by the Britons and the French, in spite of being "accepted" by them. Never forget that he would still be seen as an outsider by his own fellows. As Richard III would call Henry a bastard, one could understand this accusation with sociological  implications. English back then detested these foreigners and by the concept brought here by me from Simmel we can understand why. But we could also see being called a bastard as a way to point out Henry's localization. Where can the Earl of Richmond & soon-to-be king be located?

I have pointed this far the structures which were raised and caused a collapsed society to live broken in many, many ways and how this affected Henry this far. Seeing how foreigner he was, nonetheless, he did not belong neither to England (at first) nor to the Continent.

On that sense of word, says Simmel (2005: 3): 

"A foreigner is seen and felt, then, from one side, as someone absolutely mobiled, a wanderer. As a subject who comes up every now and then through specific contacts and yet, singularly, does not find vinculated organically to  anything or anyone, nominally, in regards to the established family, locals and profissionals”

Even though we find a dominant group of foreigners in France, as we are talking about of nobles displeased with the Yorkist cause and supporters of the Lancastrian House, they were not majority. Where can we locate Henry, then? We don't, because he was not a French and however well he could speak the language, it was not his birth language. The French culture was not passed nor naturalized by him through the teachings of a family or the church by the institutions: monarchy, church, family, parliament, etc; he would have been defeated a long time. But that he did manage to, using this popular expression, put things together and become the first king to die peacefully since Henry V, it tells us a lot. Not rarely an immigrant is accepted by a society whose demands are forced upon him, most of the times in aggressive ways. But it's not often either that we see a king occupying such place in society. 

Indeed, one might say that kings as Henry II and the conquerors before him were too foreigners, but not in the sociological way I'm explaining. Because the social structures were different. Henry's government were settled in a more centralized ruling, far more just and peaceful, more economic and less concerned with waging wars than his antecessors. The need to migrate was not 'forced', neither 'imposed' and even back to the 11th and 12th centuries were motivated by different reasons. That's to accentuate how English society evolved throughout the centuries. And I used again and again Georg Simmel to prove my point about casting a sociological light towards Henry VII not as a historical character so distant of us and who remains an object of controversial discussions, but a man of his times who was forced to deal with expectations that placed him in social positions nearly opposed to one another to fulfill each role whether as king or as a man. For some reason, the broken society shaped Henry as an immigrant, but as history shows us, it was this immigrant who helped shape medieval society, directing it towards the age of Renaissance and in posteriority to Modern Age.

Finally, to close this thread I leave here another quote (translated to English by me) found in the text written by Simmel: 

"The foreigner, strange to the group [he is in], is considered and seen as a non-belonging being, even if this individual is an organic member of the group whose uniform life comprehends every particular conditioning of this social [mean]. (...) [the foreigner] earns in certain groups of masses a proximity and distance that distinguishes quantities in each relationship, even in smaller portions. Where each marked relationship nduced to a mutual tension in specific relationships, strenghtening more formal relations out of respect to what's considered 'foreigner' of which are resulted." (SIMMEL, p 7). 

Bibliography: 

AMIN, Nathen. https://henrytudorsociety.com/

DURKHEIM, Émile. "The Division of Labor in Society”.

KANTOROWICZ, Ernst H.”The King’s Two Bodies: A Study in Medieavel Political Theology.”

PENN, Thomas. Winter King: Henry VII and the Dawn of Tudor England.

SIMMEL, Georg. The Foreigner. In: Soziologie. Untersuchungen über die Formen der Vergesellschaftung. Berlin. 1908.

[hobierps]

The Lone Paradise Ranch Long have the residents of Arkney County known of the good times to be had at the Lone Paradise Ranch, where the liquor never stops flowing, nor does the parade of beautiful women. Founded nearly 20 years ago by Rafael Soler as a way to fatten his checkbook after seeing an opportunity to add a source of entertainment to the county, the Lone Paradise Ranch quickly built a name for itself among the who’s who of Arkney County and beyond, thanks in no small part to the annual Arkney Derby, an event that rivals the Kentucky Derby in scale.

While the Lone Paradise is largely known as a place to gamble away your fortune on the horse races, inside is where the real horseplay transpires. Managed by those who have fallen into Soler’s grasp, a prostitution ring is run out of the ranch—one driven by sweet words promising opportunity and the fear of what happens if you dare not believe them. Though all who fall into the spider’s web have their own cause for being there, whether it be drugs, loans with unscrupulous interest rates, or the chance at a better future, the more they struggle, the more tangled they become. Leaving seems the most obvious answer, but doing so is a nigh unattainable feat, as the Lone Paradise demands a hefty price for freedom.

The Lone Paradise promises to make your most intimate dreams come true, but who dares pay the price?

This ad is for some of the members of the local prostitution ring. The faces and some of the ages are flexible. This ad is open to original characters as well! (For all levels.)

Feel free to hit one of us up on discord at either contramundum#7735 hobie#4947 or mady#5462 if you have any questions! Full descriptions of the members of the Lone Paradise Ranch after the break~

Owner & Operator — Rafael ‘Raf’ Soler (53) FC: Benicio Del Toro || Played by Mira Owner and operator of the Lone Paradise Ranch, Rafael Soler has been at the center of Arkney County’s entertainment for nearly twenty-five years. By day, the ranch boasts family-friendly activities, but the real fun happens after the sun has fallen. The adult entertainment offered by the ranch has skyrocketed its appeal and made the Lone Paradise Ranch a name whispered among both the elite and those with more illicit cravings. He’s shown himself as an adept businessman who’s not afraid to sink to the level of his clientele, and recent years have found him more depraved than ever. In a long term business/personal relationship with Entertainment Manager, but Annie March has recently caught his eye.

Personal Assistant — Logan ‘Vick’ Vickers (34) FC: Scott Eastwood || Played by Hobie Rafael Soler’s second-in-command, Logan Vickers serves as an extension of the man’s will. He began working for the ranch after graduating high school when Raf used his wealth to protect Vick’s family’s cattle ranch from foreclosure. He is reckless and wild, a hot-headed cowboy who flies by the seat of his pants. Despite his rowdy streak, Vick oozes southern charm and rarely does he ruffle feathers without meaning to. In his youth, he was a local rodeo star, roping calves and clinging to the backs of bucking broncos. Today, he undertakes the more vicious duties for Raf, more often than not walking away with blood on his hands. He has seen the measure of Raf’s wickedness and embraced it, choosing to walk with the devil, rather than meet his wrath. Despite knowing the depths of Raf’s depravity, he has roped in his two longtime friends, the Horse Handler and the Head of Security, into his disturbing games.

Head of Security (mid 30s) — Reserved for Levi Suggested FC: Russell Tovey, Jai Courtney, Jon Kortajarena A transplant from the west coast, the Head of Security came to Arney County after his wealthy father decided to give up the good life in favor of getting back to his roots. A teenager when he arrived in Kansas, the Head of Security quickly fell in with Logan Vickers’ gang of hoodlums. Like the Horse Handler, the Head of Security was brought into Rafael Soler’s circle by Vick, yet unlike the Horse Handler, the Head of Security has no qualms about the unsavory things that go down at the ranch. Though, perhaps this is why the more abhorrent tasks are left to Vick. Instead, the Head of Security is charged with protecting the girls from overzealous patrons and the occasional disgruntled boyfriend. He and Vick are in an erratic off-the-books affair that neither man acknowledges.

Horse Handler (mid 30s) — Open Suggested FC: John Boyega, Michael B. Jordan, Dudley O'Shaughnessy Kansas born and bred, Lone Paradise’s resident Horse Handler has spent his lifetime in the flat grasslands of the Midwest. The son of a pair of horse breeders, the Horse Handler knows his way around those beautiful creatures. Like Logan Vickers, he participated in the local rodeos in his youth, solidifying their friendship—one that has lasted to this day, despite Vick’s unconscious attempts to derail it. An old soul with a bleeding heart, the Horse Handler is a misfit among the Paradise Ranch staff. He stands against everything that Rafael Soler believes, but found himself roped into the madness by Vick nearly a decade ago. Now he cares for the horses that the ranch keeps for races and fixes the odds in the house’s favor when Raf deems it necessary. A bit of a white knight, he’s been known to engage in relationships with the entertainment, believing he can save them from a life of servitude.

Legal Advisor (33-36) — Open Suggested FC: David Castañeda The legal advisor is Raf’s son, returning from a lackluster stint on the East Coast, but also the most presentable face of the operation, there in places where his father, Rafael Soler’s accent or aggressive bearing might be less welcome. Whether in dealings with local police, lawsuits, or other official functions, the legal advisor knows where all the bodies — perhaps literally — are buried, and is more than happy to grace the situation with a placid all-American smile. His exact feelings toward the ranch and/or his father are murky at best, and buried under carefully considered words; however, his eye has really been drawn to his father’s latest favorite, Annie March, much to his dismay.

Entertainment Manager (40s) — Open Suggested FC: Naomi Campbell, Kate Moss, Thandie Newton One of Raf’s long time favorite performers, the Entertainment Manager has done her fair share of favors to get to where she is today. Beginning as just one of the girls, the Entertainment Manager exercised her feminine wiles to charm Raf and win his favor. At one time, she might have thought he’d marry her, but she’s long since learned of her disillusion. A few years ago, Raf retired her from the floor and now she manages the talent with a firm, but fair, hand, taking it upon herself to protect the ones who do good work. She spits fire and fights for what she wants, but she knows to bite her tongue when it comes to Raf. Vick, however, is a different story. She knows they stand on equal footing and is more than willing to throw her weight around when necessary. She has been involved in a long term relationship with Rafael Soler that spans both the personal and professional, though his attention towards her has waned since Annie March caught his lustful gaze.

Escort One — Annie March (24) FC: Josephin Skriver || played by Mady/ She’ll convince anyone who asks that she’s doing just fine, but Annie is always a step away from disaster. After attempting to steal cash and a car from Raf, Annie has been working for him to pay off the debt. But that hasn’t stopped her from borrowing more and more money from him to fund her drug habit. Annie has her share of secrets, including that she’s trying to get a little freedom after being under Morphos’ watch for most of her childhood and can make people do just about whatever she wants them to. At the end of the day, Annie is a survivor and she’ll play whatever game she needs to in order to get by.

Escort Two (20s) — Open Suggested FC: Zendaya Too smart for her own good, Escort has her own operations going on behind Raf’s back. She has private clients she sees on the side and is carefully stealing from Raf in order to fund her escape from the ranch and Arkney. She might come off as the cold type but she has a soft spot for Jockey, even though she knows this is the last place to start caring about people. Particularly close to the Entertainment Manager and almost feels bad for lying to her face but doesn’t fully trust anyone here. Doesn’t realize how dangerous her moves are getting and that the Legal Advisor is starting to catch on.

Escort Three (early 20s) — Reserved for Sam Suggested FC: Karmay Ngai A girl from a nearby town nobody bothers to remember, she is the youngest and newest addition to Raf’s coterie. Seeing the success of former girls like the Entertainment Manager, she has an idea that the ranch is her way out. It should go without saying that not all is as it seems. From the icy indifference of the Entertainment Manager to the questionable warnings and/or advances from the Horse Handler, nothing is given and she learns she must find her footing within the complex politics of the ranch. But how long will it take for the glamor of the ranch and its clientele to wear off? Only time will tell.

Jockey (20s) — Open Suggested FC: Regé-Jean Page, Reece King, Avan Jogia First spotted by Raf at the derby, something about his headstrong, self-assured nature found him in the man’s good graces. One of the fastest racers, Raf soon after offered him a resident position at the ranch with an income that put a jockey’s to shame. Aside from serving as a conversation piece at the ranch for the guests (he’s a skilled storyteller to boot) and eyeing Escort 3, he also has been unwittingly drawn into some of the ranch’s shadier dealings by Vick and the Horse Handler. He’s beginning to realize that he can’t see the bottom of the pool he’s entered.

[fancat-not-fangirl]

It’s Not You Pt.17

a/n: Sorry for the delay!! I hope you guys like it!!! Thank you so much to those that read and review! I love you guys so so much <3

<><><>

The remainder of the day had been spent with the LEGOs. After hugging it out over their presents, the boys had put on Christmas music and cleared some space in the living room. Dean had dragged aside the coffee table, and had helped Cas shift the couch away from the center of the room. 

Spilling the pieces out onto the floor and opening the instruction manual, Cas and Dean then began the painstaking process of assembling the Death Star.

Dean couldn’t have been happier. He finally, finally, had a LEGO set of his own. Those meager bricks that he and Sam had found under the motel bed were nothing compared to the immense amount of them spread out before him now. And this time, what he’d build with them would actually resemble something, instead of the crude shapes he and his brother had put together in the backseat of the Impala all those years back. 

But what hadn’t changed from the last time he had played with LEGOs was that both times he was doing it with the people he loved most.

Cas seemed to be enjoying Dean’s childish excitement as the older of the two enthusiastically immersed himself in constructing the Death Star. His eyes twinkled with amusement every time Dean finished building a specific part of the set and let out a triumphant cry. He made teasing remarks about Dean’s little victory dances and immature squeals of happiness. Dean didn’t mind, though. Not at all.

The time flew. They had only managed to build about half of the Death Star and were in the middle of having a sword fight using the tiny lightsabers that came with the LEGO set when Cas had yawned, prompting him to get ‘stabbed’ by Dean’s lightsaber and ‘lose’ the fight. Getting up from off the floor and checking the time, Dean was surprised when the numbers on his phone read 9:30.

“Are you kidding me, Cas? It’s only nine thirty and you’re already tired?”

“Well, it’s not like I can say that I slept last night.”

That shut Dean up pretty quickly. If he was being honest, the previous night didn’t do him any favors, either. He couldn’t help but send a guilty look towards Cas, who accepted Dean’s outstretched hand as the older boy hauled the freshman off the floor and into his arms.

“Well I’m here now, and something tells me that tonight will be different.”

And it was. But not in the way that some perverts might think.

Even if it took them a while to actually get comfortable.

“Cas, stop elbowing me in the freaking ribs,” Dean whispered furiously as Cas shifted his position on the bed. Both boys had decided to sleep on Cas’s bed instead of the one in Dean’s temporary room. It was the bigger and more comfortable of the two, but even then it didn’t give them much space to move around. The blanket was also better in Cas’s room, but it, too, wasn’t as large as they would have hoped for. 

“Then you stop stealing all the blanket,” Cas hissed back at him, yanking on the edge of the blanket that Dean had curled around himself, leaving none for Cas. Dean harrumphed and didn’t budge. “Dean, I’m freezing my ass off here.”

At that, Dean rolled over and splayed on top of Cas, wrapping his arms around him and snuggling into Cas’s chest. “Better?”

Letting out a breath of air, Cas starting trying to shove Dean off. “No, you idiot. Get off of me!” But Cas’s attempts to remove Dean from on top of him failed miserably as the older boy simply locked his arms in a viselike grip around Cas and refused to budge. “Jesus Dean, how many elephants did you eat today?”

“None, as a matter of fact. You’re just weak.”

Cas huffed. “Just shut up and give me back my blanket.”

And after a while of outraged hissing and whispering back and forth, Dean relented and rolled back off of Cas, who immediately took possession of his half of the blanket and gave Dean one last glare before turning over to face away from him. Dean smiled and wrapped an arm around Cas’s waist, pulling him back against him. Chest to back. Cas was tense for a few moments more before letting out a sigh and relaxing against Dean, who squeezed him tighter and rested his head in the nape of Cas’s neck, inhaling the scent that had now become so familiar to him.

The previous night’s tears and pain slowly went away, and all that was left was the sounds of them breathing in sync, wrapped in Cas’s warm blanket.

<><><>

“Dean, I’m hungry.”

It was near noon but until this point, neither Dean nor Cas had made any move to get out of bed. They had been content to just lay side by side and cuddle, not having a care in the world.

That is, until Cas’s stomach started complaining.

“Dean, I’m hungry,” Cas repeated again, poking Dean in the side. They were in a position where Dean’s arms were around Cas’s waist and Cas was facing Dean. At first that had meant kissing, but now it meant that Cas had access to Dean’s ticklish sides. 

Dean didn’t appreciate that at all. He rolled Cas over and pinned Cas’s arms to his sides so that they wouldn’t be able to reach him. “No, this is comfy,” he murmured into Cas’s ear.

“I’m not saying that it’s not comfortable, I’m saying that I’m hungry and that we should go eat something.”

Dean shook his head. “No. I don’t want to get out of bed.”

Cas let out an exasperated sigh and tried to twist around but Dean held fast. There was no way he was letting Cas tickle him into getting out of bed. He was Dean Fricking Winchester. He was not going to be defeated by some meager-

“Aha!” Cas exclaimed triumphantly as he swivelled back around and started tickling Dean, and the older boy couldn’t hold back the howl of laughter that escaped his mouth as he writhed under Cas’s hands. He let go of Cas and his arms flew from Cas’s waist back to his own as he tried to get rid of the fingers attacking his sides.

“Ok! Ok, I surrender! I surrender!” Dean laughed out, letting out a breath of relief when Cas retreated his hands as the freshman rolled out of bed and stood up. Grinning, Dean followed suit, slapping Cas’s ass as the freshman brushed past him, out into the hallway and then into the bathroom. Cas had playfully stuck his tongue out at Dean, and as Dean strode into his own room to change into a sweater and jeans. He smiled to himself at the thought of Cas’s sleep ruffled hair. At his bright blue eyes. At his cute little nose, and perfect lips, and adorable smile, and Dean thought he could go on forever.

Dean slipped on a dark sweater and pulled on faded jeans, then as an afterthought he put on the new fuzzy socks that Cas had gotten him for Christmas. Walking out into the hallway, Dean felt how slippery the floor was under his socked feet. Smiling, he tried running down the hall and stopping suddenly, which sent him sliding along the floor. It was not unlike ice skating, and was just as fun. He did it again just as Cas was walking out of the bathroom. Cas danced out of the way when Dean tried to slap his ass this time and smacked Dean lightly on the arm before going into his own room to change.

Dean made his way downstairs and into the kitchen, running and sliding past the living room along the way. He had to admit, he was fairly proud at the amount of progress he and Cas had made with the LEGOs. If he had been doing it himself, it would have surely taken him at least a week, but yesterday with Cas helping him it had only taken them a few hours to get through almost half of the Death Star. That meant that if they had the time, they’d be able to finish it today.

On that optimistic note, Dean opened the fridge. Oh.

He heard Cas’s footsteps on the stairs and closed the fridge, calling up, “We don’t have any food.”

Seconds later there were arms slipping around his waist and a chin resting on his shoulder as Cas asked, “What, no food at all?”

“Well, we have leftovers. From a few days ago.”

Cas scrunched up his nose and Dean’s heart fluttered. He looked adorable when he did that. Instead of mentioning it though, Dean nodded. “Yeah, that’s how I feel about leftovers too.”

“Any Eggs?”

“Nope.”

“Toast?”

“Nope.”

“Waffles?”

“Also no.”

“Well that sucks.”

“Yep.”

There was a moment of silence before Dean untangled himself from Cas’s embrace and spun around. “Lets go to IHOP!”

Cas didn't hesitate before nodding in agreement, and they both made their way to the door, shrugging on their coats and pulling on their boots. Dean snatched the keys to the Impala from the counter and they left the house. 

There were a good few inches of snow piled on the roof of the car, and Dean tenderly brushed it off, murmuring something about how she must have been cold during the night. He saw Cas smile and roll his eyes before climbing into the car and waiting for Dean to finish getting rid of the snow. 

Once he was sure that his Baby was clear, Dean slid in beside Cas and started the engine, all the while whispering soft apologies to the car about how he had left her out all alone in the freezing cold.

Cas snorted. “Sometimes, it seems as if the car gets more love than I do.”

Dean grinned and pulled out of the driveway, bringing his right hand off the wheel and to Cas’s, intertwining their fingers. “Nah, that’s not possible.”

Cas beamed.

They drove in silence, marvelling at the white blankets of snow that covered all the trees and houses and glittered in the sun. Dean had always liked the winter. Everything was always so beautiful when it was shrouded in the gleaming white powder. It all flickered in the sun, and although it hurt his eyes at times, the beauty of it was worth it.

“IHOP. There,” Cas pointed at the sign by the road.

“No, I hop.”

Cas’s head swiveled towards him and he furrowed his brow. “What?”

Dean grinned. “You don’t hop. I hop.”

“I don’t-” Cas then realized what Dean was doing, and fixed him with a bitchface that might even have rivalled the ones that Sam made. “Oh, ha ha. You’re so funny.”

Pulling into the parking lot, Dean leaned in and kissed Cas on the cheek. “You bet I am.”

They both ordered pancakes. It had been a while since Dean had had any of those, and he savored each bite. Despite that, though, Dean couldn’t find room in his stomach for the entire set of pancakes, bacon, eggs, and coffee he had ordered and had insisted on taking the leftover home so that he could finish them later. Cas didn’t have the space to finish his whole meal, either, and had decided to take it home as well.

They left IHOP with full stomachs and high spirits.

Entering the house, they took their coats off and Dean watched as a smiling Cas hummed under his breath as he unwound the scarf from around his neck. Cas noticed Dean’s stare and made a face, then grabbed Dean’s hand and led him into the living room, where he dropped down next to their partially built Death Star and turned on some music.

 At first there was an array of Christmas songs that came on, and Dean and Cas sang along to all of them. But then Cas got tired of those and switched off the radio, instead turning on a playlist on his phone. More specifically, his Bruno Mars one.

It was then that it hit Dean; the realization that he had never played for Cas on the guitar. Cas had always known that he had a guitar, and had known that he played it, but Dean had never once played for his soulmate. And now, Dean decided, would be a perfect time to fix that.

“I’ll be right back,” he told a confused Cas and heaved himself up from off the ground, sliding down the hallway in his fuzzy socks and then sprinting up the stairs. The last Christmas song that they had heard was stuck in Dean’s head, and he belted out the lyrics to ‘Let it Snow!’ as he burst into his room and grabbed Baby 2.0 from off his bed. 

The guest room he was staying in was at the very end of the hall, which gave him plenty of space to slide down to the stairs. Breaking out in a run, Dean was now almost hollering the chorus to the song as he stopped and let the socks bring him the rest of the way down the hall. 

“The lights are turned way down low! Let it snow, let it snow, let it- JESUS FUCKING CHRIST, SHIT!”

He had realized too late that he was skidding too fast and too close to the small console table near the stairs, and his eyes widened at the sight of the glass vase on top of it mere seconds before he collided with it, and his singing turned into loud cursing as he threw his arm down, barely catching the vase before it could shatter on the floor.

“Is everything ok up there?” Dean heard Cas’s voice carry from the living room. Letting out a relieved breath and putting the vase back into its place, Dean firmly decided that he should probably keep his sliding to a minimum around breakable objects and carefully edged down the stairs.

“Yeah, it’s all good,” Dean said as he swung into the room, brandishing his guitar and dropping down onto the couch. He saw Cas’s eyes widen slightly at the sight of Baby 2.0. 

Dean smirked. “Keep your drool to yourself, please and thank you. She doesn’t like getting looked at like that by anyone but me.”

Cas stuck out his tongue and reached across to his phone, turning the music off. No sooner did he do that than Dean grabbed his hand and hauled him onto the couch, drawing him closer and pulling Cas down into him so that they were sitting chest to back. Dean’s mind quickly flashed to the previous night, where they had been in almost exactly the same position. 

In fact, Dean realized that he had slept better yesterday than he had in days. At least, certainly better than the sleep he had gotten the night of the fight, if he could even call it that. It had mostly been hours of curling in on himself on his bed and trying not to let his tears go. He couldn’t say that it had worked.

And no matter how much he had wanted to hate and blame Claire for the death of his mother, Dean found that he couldn’t. He just couldn’t. Not when he had lived with her, eaten her food, laughed with her, built snowmen on her lawn. Not when he had fallen in love with her son.

He simply couldn’t find it in himself to hate her. 

And, Dean decided, that maybe that was for the best.

Because everything that he could have ever wanted was right here.

Dean placed the guitar in Cas’s lap and moved Cas’s arms and hands so that they were placed in the correct places on the guitar. All of Cas’s protests of “but I don’t know how to play” were shushed, and Dean maneuvered the fingers of Cas’s left hand so that they were pressing the right strings.

“Now this is an original composition of mine. It’s called ‘Just the Way You Are’ and it definitely wasn’t written by Bruno Mars.”

Cas rolled his eyes, but all pretenses for annoyance swiftly vanished as Dean started moving, muscles flexing under Cas. He went slow, shifting his fingers and Cas’s on the guitar neck. Cas’s right hand, though, got the gist pretty quickly, and soon was strumming the strings without the help of Dean’s hand, which strayed and wrapped itself around Cas’s waist.

Dean started singing.

Oh, your eyes, your eyes, make the stars look like they’re not shining.

Your hair, your hair, falls perfectly without you trying.

You’re so beautiful and I tell you every day.

Dean felt Cas’s breath hitch in his throat, but he kept singing.

When I see your face,

There's not a thing that I would change, 'cause you're amazing

Just the way you are.

And when you smile,

The whole world stops and stares for a while.

'Cause Cas you're amazing

Just the way you are

Cas’s left fingers were getting used to the chords now, and Dean carefully took his own hand away, letting Cas play by himself. He reached across Cas’s waist so that he had both arms wrapped around it and held Cas to him as Cas played. Dean rested his chin on Cas’s shoulder and sang, slowly and quietly.

But he meant every word.

Before they knew it the song was over, and Cas eased the guitar to the floor and twisted around, wrapping his arms around Dean and burying his face into Dean’s shoulder. Dean felt Cas’s shoulders shake slightly.

“Aww, did I make you cry?” Dean joked.

The muffled “No” didn’t sound reassuring at all, and Dean tightened his arms around Cas, pressing him to his chest. Without thinking, Dean’s hand immediately went to Cas’s head, and he absentmindedly started running his finger through Cas’s hair, feeling Cas melt into him.

Even with the comforting silence that surrounded them, Dean still almost didn’t hear it; the whisper of “I love you” that Cas breathed into his shoulder.

Feeling his heart grow almost three times bigger, Dean smiled against Cas’s hair. “I love you, too.”

The moment seemed to stretch forever and ever, but was cut off abruptly by a sound from outside.

A car’s engine.

Cas pulled back from Dean and Dean saw that his soulmate's eyes held too many emotions to make sense of. Love. Guilt. Sympathy. And fear.

They turned their heads towards the sound of keys in a lock, and Dean wasn’t sure how he felt about the words that came out of Cas’s mouth.

“Mom’s home.”

<><><>

End a/n: I’m so so so so so so so SO SO SO sorry that this took me so long! But school is over, so maybe, hopefully, I might be able to update more. No promises tho.

Idk why, but this chapter just gave me a lot of problems. I couldn’t seem to get into the flow of it and had some severe writer's block. Basically, I just had a tough time with it. If I’m being really, truly honest, I wouldn’t say that this was one of my best works. Personally, I don’t really like this chapter and I’m sorry if it wasn’t everything u guys hoped for.

Small disclaimer: I don’t know anything about the guitar, so for any of you guitar players out there, if anything seems wrong to you plz lmk so I can fix it. Thnx

[quilfish-swan]

honey tea (naruto fanfic)

what’s up guys, ya’ll know i can’t shut up about itachi lately. i’m still a lil self-conscious about writing but i wrote this short fic for the naruto fandom inspired by this akatsuki fanfic by @ oceans-grey (please check it out). i’m happy with this. here it is.

Fandom: Naruto

Friendship: Konan & Itachi (platonic)

Rating: G

Tags: Akatsuki, 30-year-old Konan, 15-year-old Itachi, motherhood, bonding, Itachi’s illness, I literally just wanted someone to give Itachi a hug

Word count: 1614

Read it on Ao3 here :)

...

Honey Tea

It’s about three in the morning, she guesses, though with the moon obscured behind rain clouds, she can’t be sure.

It isn’t rare that Konan can’t sleep. On such lonely nights, she goes to the balcony to look out at the city. She enjoys the quiet, the gentle sound of rain on pavement and metal, the feel of it on her skin (a comfort of home). It’s always a welcome break from rowdy men and dangerous missions and bad dreams, and the cool air never fails to cleanse her lungs and mind.

Tonight, however, as she sets for her lookout spot, someone is already there.

Raspy, rattling coughs echo on steel walls, metallic and distorted.

She recognizes his chakra immediately from afar. But the way he’s kneeling, hunched over and gripping the railing and trembling so violently... She almost doesn’t believe it’s him until his slender frame and long black hair are right in front of her.

"Itachi? What are you doing out here?"

He finishes his bout of coughs and says, voice hoarse, "I didn't want—to wake anybody up."

Concern and compassion both flood her at the statement, and she kneels next to him. (Is this really the same boy who slaughtered his entire clan?) In the two years she’s known him, Itachi has always been strangely attentive to the wellbeing of the other members; it surprises her less now than it used to.

Long wet hair sticking to his skin obscures his face, but she sees clearly that the hand he’s using to cover his mouth is shiny with blood.

"Oh—Itachi." She places a hand on his back, which convulses with each additional cough. (Touch between most of the Akatsuki members isn’t common, certainly not between the two of them; her hand on his back was more of an instinct, she realizes, but she doesn’t remove it.) "What's happening to you?"

Between labored breaths he chokes, "I don't know—’s only happened—a few other times.”

After several more rounds, his breathing finally steadies, but he's still shaking. She bends to get a better look at him, and sees blood around the corners of his mouth, raindrops pulling red down his chin. He dabs at his own lips and grimaces.

"Come on," she says, rising to her feet. “Let’s go back inside.”

She gently lifts him, and he doesn’t protest. (His arms are thinner than she thought.) He leans on her, and as they walk back indoors, he asks, “Did I… wake you up?”

“Oh, no,” she assures him, “I couldn’t sleep.” He nods in understanding. "Let's clean you up,” she says and guides him towards the bathroom. “Wash your hands and face and sit in the bath for a little bit, you'll feel better.” She turns on the water and waits until it runs hot. “I’ll go make you some tea.”

"Thank you, Konan," he says as she leaves.

She doesn’t start on the tea right away; heating the water with her chakra will only take two minutes at most, and she wants to give Itachi enough time to calm down. His shirt had been soaked, so she retrieves some of Yahiko’s old clothes from her room that she still hasn’t been able to part with and leaves them outside the bathroom door.

She knocks once, lets him know they’re there for him, and retreats to the kitchen.

She isn't sure why she suddenly feels the need to help him. She knows he's capable, perhaps the most so in their group, despite his age; at just fifteen, his deadly skill and quiet maturity suggest complete independence. Still, she’s spent enough time in proximity to him to know that however serious and emotionless he may seem, he’s human, just like the rest of them. In fact, during his time with the Akatsuki, he’s revealed some admittedly cute and childish quirks, her personal favorite being his affinity for sweets.

Yes, Itachi Uchiha is human, and catching him in such a fragile moment was a much graver reminder.

As she brews the tea for them both, choosing herbs and roots known to help with sleep, she’s at a loss for what could be causing the boy to cough up blood. She gets the honey he likes from the cupboard. (She only hesitates for a moment, wondering if he should be having so much sugar in the middle of the night, but she eventually justifies it by telling herself it will soothe his throat.)

Whether he’d caught some disease on the road, or some other illness is starting to manifest symptoms, she has no idea.

She doesn’t add anything extra to her own cup.

Maybe fifteen minutes later she hears the bath water draining. She waits another minute or so before knocking on the door, the sweeter cup of tea in one hand. (Yahiko’s clothes are gone.)

"Itachi?"

"Just a minute."

Itachi opens the door, fresh clothes that haven’t been worn in over a decade now sticking to him. The shirt is too big for him. With his wet hair now out of his face, his round cheeks are exposed, and he appears even younger than he usually does. His black eyelashes are stuck together with water, and his gaze falls on a patch of tile.

He looks so tired.

"Here," she says, handing him the cup. "It has honey. For your throat," she adds with a wink, and he smiles.

“Thank you.”

(She's surprised at how readily he’s accepted her help tonight, as well as how good it feels to be there for someone.)

At the kitchen table, they drink in silence.

When both their cups are empty, Itachi speaks.

"Konan, would you mind not telling anyone about… my condition?"

Condition. An unusual word, but not an unusual request. Itachi has always been private about his personal life, and she wouldn’t be surprised if he knows more about his symptoms than he’d previously let on.

"I won't," she confirms. Her only close friend and confidant is Nagato, but if Itachi wants to keep this a secret, then she won’t even tell the one she trusts most.

"Kisame knows, but no one else." He adds hastily, “I’m fairly certain it’s not contagious. So no one else should be at risk.”

"I see." She considers asking for more details, but decides it would feel too much like prying. She settles on, “If you ever need anything, please ask me. I’m happy to… help you.”

"Thank you, Konan," he says. "And thank you for the tea, and the clothes. I feel much better."

She smiles. “Of course.” She rises from the table to take both their cups to the sink.

He gets up as well but doesn’t immediately move to return to his bedroom like she thought he might. 

The two of them stand awkwardly for several seconds. She thinks she sees his arm twitch, and an odd thought crosses her mind. Does he…?

"Itachi,” she ventures, “would you like a hug?”

His head snaps up, eyes wide. When he looks away, she’s worried she overstepped, but to her surprise, he nods shyly. 

She opens her arms. He willingly and wordlessly folds into her embrace.

Something like pride swirls in her chest—a feeling not foreign to her, but one that she’d almost forgotten. His chin rests on her shoulder, and she realizes for the first time that he’s taller than her now. (When had that happened?)

"You smell like my mom."

He says it so softly, and she isn’t prepared for it. It’s a strange thing to say, Itachi’s past considered, but the way he clutches at the back of her shirt a little more tightly almost makes her forget that. She doesn’t expect the stinging in her eyes that follows, and she blinks it away before it can amount to anything.

She says nothing, not knowing if sympathy is even the proper response. She just holds him for a while, hand on the back of his head. She's startled when he hiccups against her.

"Sorry," he says quickly, and pulls away, rubbing his eyes.

She knows he’s not the perfect machine that the world takes him for, but even so, she's astounded at his softness. Not once has she seen Itachi cry.

He’s just a child, she thinks, and her heart clenches. She suddenly wants to pull him back into an even tighter hug and tell him meaningless things like don’t cry and everything will be okay. And why? Is it the fact that the prospect of motherhood was extinguished from her future long ago? That sometimes, in the darkest hours of the early morning, she still aches for it? There was a time when starting a family of her own seemed within her reach, with Yahiko, in the better world the two of them and Nagato would build together. She still hopes for that better world, but she knows that even if it ever comes to be, she'll be childless. The fact doesn’t sting like it once did, but with Itachi against her shoulder, that grief returned afresh.

Perhaps neither of their lives had turned out the way they’d planned, she thinks, as she watches Itachi smear more tears from his cheeks.

“I need to sleep,” he says, and smiles weakly.

“Yes,” she agrees gently, and sighs, still fighting the urge to comfort him. “Me, too.”

He’s fully turned away from her now. “Goodnight, Konan. Thank you, again.”

“Goodnight, Itachi.”

-

In the morning, she finds Yahiko's clothes folded neatly outside her door.

Neither she nor Itachi mentions the events of the night before, but when she sees him at breakfast and their eyes meet, she notices the barest hint of a smile.

...

thank you for reading!!! on ao3 you can see which specific details were inspired by the other work.

love ya’ll

[brian-wellson]

Approximately 30 years ago —

“Come here, baby,” says the women, her Sunday dress and petticoat caked with mud and soot and blood. “Come to Mama...”

Outside, the shouts of men and orcs and strange trolls he had never before seen echo amidst the hissing of the forest spiders, the explosion of bombs — so many bombs — and the escalating crackle of buildings on fire. The little boy, a towhead, reaches for his mother’s outstretched hand, her charm bracelet tinkling against old wooden planks. He glances up at her face, her ice blue eyes are teary, and her long blond hair in a tight and thick fraying braid.

“Mama?” the boy asks, squeezing her hand. He feels her squeeze tighter. He crawls on his belly toward her.

“My baby...” she sobs. Her tears cut through the black soot accumulating on her face.

The boy is confused. He had heard canons before, but only at big, fancy affairs where people had a star affixed on their collar. Or when new ships were commissioned. He liked those events, they looked important. He felt important. But here, so close to his mother — with her guilt at not paying those Kul’Tiran smugglers to take both the boy and his sister, bereft her boy would not have the life she had as a child: peaceful — the boy could feel her veins pulsing. She was scared. The five-year-old knew that much.

“There we go,” she whispers in his ear. A shout outside was closer; it sounds like an order of a human officer. “This is it,” the woman whispers in the boy’s ear. “When we hear them close, get up, and run. Never, never let go of my hand.”

“Mama...” replies the boy. “...Mama, where’s Papa?”

The woman bit her cracked, split bottom lip. “Just say with me,” she says, quiet and sharp.

“But...”

“Sh!” shushes the woman. She drops below the window frame of their living room. The same pane she and the boy in which they were be framed when they would play or nap or cuddle. “Listen to me,” she whispers. “Don’t let go. Not once. Stay here, until we run.”

The boy nods. He does not understand why she had to act so strangely, but he knows his Mama is smart, so he does what she asks. He glances down toward the charm bracelet on her wrist: ‘Brian’; ‘Jocelyn’; ‘Jacques’; ‘Bernadette’ — himself, his sister, papa, Mama.

He hears the approach of heavy footsteps. There is a banging on the door. “Open,” says a heavy orcish voice. The mother pulls himself toward her. She lays on top of him. He starts to squirm, because it is hard to breathe.

“Still,” whispers the mother.

The boy stops squirming.

“Open,” says the orc, pounding on the door. “Open now, wench. Husband dead. You dead now, too.”

The boy starts to whimper. The woman covers his mouth. “Sh sh sh,” she whispers in his ear. She starts to hum a sea chanty. The door is kicked open. The women covers the boy’s mouth. He feels smothered with one hand, as the other grasps his so tight the boy thinks his fingers might fall off. She hums louder. The orc enters the room, footfalls heavy, dragging his primitive axe. He is bloodied from battle, and carrying a severed head. The woman gasps — her husband, Jacques — but she never stops humming. The orc lifts his axe.

“Last words now,” he commands.

She finishes humming, and sings the final line of the chanty, her voice loud and firm: “Beware ... beware ... of me.”

The orc yells. She screams at him, looking him dead in the eye. Their voices are deafening to the boy. He can feel his head being pushed against the floorboards. The axe is swung. It hits the woman’s body with a dull thud. The boy can feel the impact, and then the second, third, fourth. Her scream changes: from defiance, to pain, to loss. The boy feels his mother’s blood seeping into his clothing. Satiated, the orc stops swinging the axe, using his foot to press against his victim’s body for leverage. He draws the axe from her body. Blood drips on the floor. He drops the head on the floor; it lands with a wet splat. The orc turns it to the side. Now, the dead parents are staring at each other — empty, lifeless. The orc turns to leave. The twang of a bow string. The thud of an arrow hitting its mark. The orc drops to the floor. Footsteps. The boy watches the newcomer: strange boots, purply skin. Elf, he thinks. Friend. Still, the boy neither moves, nor speaks. Too risky.

“Clear,” yells the elf over his shoulder before leaving.

“Copy! Moving to the church!” someone replied.

At that the elf took but a cursory look around the common room: blood casts up the wall; a pool on the floor, spreading; spatters, everywhere. He shakes his head, sighing heavily. “Why,” he said outside, dashing out to receive his next order.

The boy lay there, still and quiet. The sun rose and fell, rose and fell, and rose once again. Mama had started to smell bad, and he could only hear distant fighting. He pushed the dead, hacked body off him, and took her charm bracelet. He stepped outside. There was no one left in Rustberg. He found a shovel and began to dig.

Days passed. He lost count. The cabinets were beginning to run low on food, and the boy — this five-year old boy — had yet to learn to hunt. The nights grew colder. The boy scavenged a peacoat fit for a gnome. He took refuge in the lighthouse, venturing out from time to time to check on Mama’s grave he had dug. He laid flowers atop the mound, late fall blooms that had always made him sneeze. He used to be bothered by the trivial matters, but those months, when he turned self-reliant, changed him. He was strong, smart, and could even outrun those forest spiders.

And yet, his survival did nothing to change the reality of the situation. Everyone was dead. The island smelled like a landfill of bodies. At night, the boy would cry. He missed his Mama, his Papa, and Jocelyn. Yet, he could not leave the island. He was alone. He was alone, and scared:

Invisible.

— — • — —

Wellson awoke with a start. He looked next to him; Quai, as distant as she had been, was sleeping at least there. He watched her breathe, memory flashing back to the moment he had tried to take her hand ... when she had pulled away. Was that the reason he has dreamt of his mother? Because of that touch? He took a deep shaky breath. He felt a tear slip down his cheek. He started sobbing. Quai woke. He reached for her. She embraced him. She could feel his shoulders quivering.

( @quai-mason ... tangentially relevant to @kat-hawke )

[canadianabroadvery]

Democracy and the Corrupt Seven (Eight)   19 Feb, 2019  UPDATE

 So now it is eight. If you want to understand that the UK truly is not a functioning democracy, consider this. Joan Ryan is all over the MSM this morning as being the eighth defector to the Independent Group. Yet astonishingly, while she is universally reported as citing anti-semitism as the reason she is leaving, it appears not one MSM journalist has asked her about her receipt of US$1 million from the Israeli Embassy for spreading Israeli influence. Not one. Nor has any mainstream media outlet cited the fact in its reporting today. Most, of course, never even mentioned it at the time.

ORIGINAL

I have heard it argued again and again on television this last 48 hours that it is deeply undemocratic for the electorate to be offered a choice that is any more complicated than between Red Tories and Blue Tories. It is apparently unthinkable and deeply wrong that Corbyn’s standard German style social democracy – which is routinely labeled “hard left” and “communist” – should be proffered to voters for them to support, or not.

The overwhelmingly Blairite MPs have put this case again and again to Labour Party members in repeated leadership elections, and have been roundly and repeatedly defeated. But now, according to no less a person than Tom Watson, Deputy Leader of the party, the losers’ policies must be embraced by the Party and adopted by its leadership, as to do otherwise is an affront to democracy. I confess I find this argument impossible to follow.

Corbyn has compromised already to a huge extent, even accepting that a Labour government will retain massive WMDs, in deference both to the imperialist pretensions of the Blairites and the personal greed of the demented Strangeloves who comprise the membership of the GMB Union. Labour’s pro-Trident stance will persist, until such time as enough Blairites join this forced march, or rather chauffeur driven drive, across their personal caviar and champagne strewn desert to their promised land of media contracts, massively remunerated charity executive jobs, and non-executive directorships.

Democracy is a strange thing. This episode has revealed that it is apparently a democratic necessity that we have another referendum on Brexit, while being a democratic necessity not to have another referendum on Scottish Independence, while the notion that the MPs, who now have abandoned the party and manifesto on which they stood, might face their electorates again, is so disregarded that none of the fawning MSM journalists are asking about it. In rejecting this option, the Corrupt Seven are managing the incredible feat of being less honorable than Tory MPs defecting to UKIP, who did have the basic decency to resign and fight again on their new prospectus.

Dick Taverne is a more directly relevant precedent, particularly as he was deselected as sitting Labour MP precisely because of his support for the EU. Taverne resigned, and fought and won his seat in a by-election in 1973, before losing it in the second 1974 election. There are also precedents for crossing the floor and not resigning and fighting under your new banner, but then there are also precedents for mugging old ladies. It is deeply dishonorable.

Luciana Berger is a one trick pony and it is worth noting that her complaints about anti-Semitism in the Labour Party date back to at least 2005, while Tony Blair was still Prime Minister. Berger had already by April 2005 spotted anti-Semitism in the National Union of Students, in the Labour Party and in her student union newspaper, those being merely the examples cited in this single Daily Telegraph article. I am extremely sorry and somewhat shocked to hear of the swamp of anti-semitism in which we were all already mired in 2005, but I do find it rather difficult to understand why the fault is therefore that of Jeremy Corbyn. And given that Tony Blair was at that time Prime Minister for eight years, I cannot understand why it is all Corbyn’s fault and responsibility now, but it was not Blair’s fault then.

On the contrary, the Telegraph puff piece states that Berger had met Blair several times and was Euan Blair’s girlfriend. This was of course before the privately educated Londoner was foisted on the unfortunate people of Liverpool Wavetree, doubtless completely unfacilitated by her relationship with Euan Blair.

The kind of abuse Berger has evidently been attracting since at least 2005 is of course a crime. Two people have quite rightly been convicted of it. Joshua Bonehill-Paine and John Nimmo sent a series of truly disgusting tweets and both were jailed. Both are committed long term neo-nazis. Yet I have repeatedly heard media references to the convictions squarely in the context of Labour Party anti-semitism. I have never heard on broadcast media it explained that neither had anything to do with the Labour Party. Like the left wing anti-semitism Berger has been reporting since at least 2005, this Nazi abuse too is all somehow Jeremy Corbyn’s fault.

It is further worth noting that in that 2005 article Berger claims a 47% increase in attacks on Jews, which is highly reminiscent of recent claims from community groups, such as the 44% increase claimed 2015 to 2017 or the 78% increase in violent crimes against Jews in the UK in 2017 alone claimed by the government of Israel.

One antisemitic attack is too many and all anti-semitism is to be deplored and rooted out. But if all these claims repeated again and again over decades of 30, 40, 50, 60 or 70% increases in attacks per year were true, then we would be now talking of at least 12,000 violent attacks on Jews per year, if we take Ms Berger’s 2005 claim as the baseline.

Yet we are not seeing that. The average number of convictions per year for violent, racially motivated attacks on Jewish people in the UK is less than one.

If we add in non-violent crimes, the number of people convicted per year for anti-semitic hate crime still remains under 20. And I am not aware of a single such conviction related in any way to the Labour Party.

Let me be perfectly plain. I want everybody convicted and imprisoned who is involved in anti-semitic hate crime. But the facts given above would cause any honest journalist to treat with more scepticism than they do, the repeated old chestnut claims of huge year on year increases in anti-semitic incidents.

There really are in logic only two choices; either anti-semitism is, contrary to all the hype, thankfully rare, or the entire British police, prosecutorial and judicial system must be systematically protecting the anti-semites. And I hardly see how they could blame Jeremy Corbyn for that.

None of this will stop the relentless promotion of the “Corbyn anti-semitism” theme, as the idea of a leader not completely behind the slow extirpation of the Palestinian people is unthinkable to the mainstream media class. The Corbyn anti-semitism meme is possibly the most remarkable example of evidence free journalism I have ever encountered.

Still more fascinating is the way the broadcasters are going to devote an astonishing amount of time to these political puppets. Of one thing I can assure you – these seven MPs will get more airtime than the 35 MPs of the SNP, with at least twice as many Question Time and Today programme appearances.

At some stage they will have to form a new party, in order to get airtime in elections. At what stage Blair declares for them is an interesting question. It is also a crucial test of just how horribly degraded the Lib Dems have now become. My old friend Charlie Kennedy will be spinning in his grave at an alliance with the Blairite warmonger faction, but the modern party appears bereft of any of the old Liberal values, cleared away by Clegg and his fellow orange Tories. If the party members do not revolt at association with Mike Gapes and Angela Smith, it really is time to wind the party up.

That the Corrupt Seven are some of the most unpleasant people in British politics is not entirely relevant, nor is the question of which interest groups are funding them. They are just an emission of pus, a symptom of the rottenness of the British body politic. They have nothing interesting to say and are feeble tools of the wealthy, thrown out as protection for a crumbling political system. The end of the UK is not pretty, and this is one of its uglier moments. It really is beyond time to crack on with Scottish Independence and the reunification of Ireland.

Unlike our adversaries including the Integrity Initiative, the 77th Brigade, Bellingcat, the Atlantic Council and hundreds of other warmongering propaganda operations, this blog has no source of state, corporate or institutional finance whatsoever. It runs entirely on voluntary subscriptions from its readers – many of whom do not necessarily agree with the articles, but welcome the alternative voice, insider information and debate.

Craig Murray is an author, broadcaster and human rights activist. He was British Ambassador to Uzbekistan from August 2002 to October 2004 and Rector of the University of Dundee from 2007 to 2010.

https://www.craigmurray.org.uk

[creativitymouth]

Up-Surge Pt.1

A/N - So there is a 50/50 chance I won’t be uploading this as often as I uploaded TWFBTWF because I have a lot of requests I am also working on at the moment but I will be continuing this if the response is well enough.

Summary: We can’t contain the unknown. AgedUp!EddieKaspbrakxFem!Reader

Trigger Warnings: Germs, Swearing.

Forever Tags: @mari-melancholy​ @hello-mynameisfinn​

Chapter 1: The Spread

Day 1:                                                                                                                    It was just a cough. A young woman passing by a child and forgetting to cover her mouth. She didn’t see the countless bacteria she’d spread, she hadn’t known she’d infected others. Her trip to Malaysia had been an innocent one, all she’d wanted to do was care for the innocent there. If only she knew what was inside of her meat.

Day 2:                                                                                                                    5 cases now, spreading across New York. Hands touching bus poles, bodies pushed together on crowded trains, money being passed to the waitress at the local diner. They don’t know. They think it’s just a common cold, it is so much more.

Day 3:                                                                                                                    The Center for Disease Control has been notified 18 cases, 6 dead. They have no idea what they’re working with. They’ve never seen anything like it. It’s a cross between Swine Flu and Bird Flu, with violent symptoms.

Day 5:                                                                                                                It’s spreading like wildfire. One uncovered sneeze in a movie theatre and the entire movie-goers are sick. A mother goes home to tuck her child to bed. She forgot to wash her hands before touching him. Not that it would have helped any. Her head spins violently, her mouth is dry, vision blurry. The Doctor has said it was just a cold. Just a cold.

Day 8:                                                                                                               They don’t want to alarm the masses. 48 cases in New York. 12 in Massachusetts. 10 in Washington. It is spreading like wildfire. And there is no cure. They can’t figure out who patient sub-zero was, they do not know of her travel to Malaysia. They do not know of the infected meat she ate. They do not know that she went home to kiss her mother on the forehead. She died 2 days after infection, without a trace to her there may be no hope.

Day 12:                                                                                                             They must tell the people. New York is suffering. Massachusetts is close behind. The larger the city is populated the easier infection spreads. No one thinks to wipe down subway seats before they sit, or to wear gloves when they touch things others have encountered. They had conditioned them to not be afraid. Now they should be.

Day 20:                                                                                                           Mass Hysteria. Doctors are fleeing their jobs. How can they work without a cure? It has spread past the East but, yet they haven’t shut down travelling. They consider quarantining New York, they don’t for now. People wear Masks outside, but it isn’t enough. Now is not a time to be brave. Stay in your homes and pray for the best.

Day 30, Hour 12:                                                                                              Eddie Kaspbrak sits in his Derry home watching the new reports of the fast spreading virus. His friends had always teased him about his obsessively clean and hygienic quirks. Now look where they were. A virus with no cure, airborne, and extremely deadly. All you had to do to contract it was touch what the infected came in contact with. Chance of survival from the illness was low at least until they could come up with a cure. But in 30 days New York State and Massachusetts had already been placed under quarantine, no one in or out. They’d thought it would prohibit the spread of the infection but they were wrong. Eddie knew Maine was 7 hours away from New York and 4 hours away from Massachusetts, but those numbers seemed so small. Already 1 person had fallen ill in Derry though rumors told it was just a chest cold. Isn’t that what all the infected had thought? Just a cold.

Day 30, Hour 14:                                                                                               Your father, ever the stubborn man, did not take heed of the virus warnings. He still traveled the days to work. It was not until Day 20 of the spread that anyone noticed his lethargic behavior. Your mother had locked him away in their room to try and contain the illness. She tried to tell your sister and yourself that it was nothing to worry about. 4 days later they were both dead, rotting away in their rooms as you held your younger sister to you while she cried. Your aunt had come to retrieve you and now you were being sterilized in the basement of her house in Derry, Maine. You understood why the precautions she took were necessary. She didn’t want to risk infecting her 3-month-old child and husband. She took you in out of courtesy, not because she wanted nor needed too. Your sister was just 10 years old, her child-like brain unable to understand what was going on. She didn’t see the dangers of contact and would whimper when denied hugs from her extended family. You too missed the embrace of another human beside her, but you had learned to accept what you were given.

“This can’t get much worse.” You spoke aloud, your sister was snoring soundly beside you. You didn’t know how wrong you were.

Day 45, Hour 17:                                                                                                The Infected now display signs of insanity. They run rampant in the streets, with a fervor you’d only seen in movies. They foamed at the mouth, clawed at their eyes, and attacked anyone in sight. This was the last stage of the illness, the only thing to follow was death. You listened on as your aunt cried softly.

“Even if you don’t believe in a God, I suggest you pray.” The spokesman said. “The illness has once again developed just out of reach in time for our doctors to find a cure.” His face was red and blotchy, and you wondered if he would be the next to fall ill. “The sick are now experiencing Walking Dead like symptoms. If you come into contact with one,” he paused taking in a large breath, “well may God help you. May God help us all.” He signed out then and the only sounds left in the house were the cries of your aunt.

“(Y/N)?” You looked down at your sister taking in her large eyes.

“Yes baby?”

“Am I going to die?” You didn’t respond because you didn’t know how too. “Are you?” You looked away from her to the TV, watching as the ill roamed the streets in anger. Some sat banging their heads on the concrete, others chased passerby. The world was in chaos. The sickness, still had failed to reach Derry but you knew peace didn’t last.

“No Sully.” You said with strength because you knew you meant those words. “Neither of us is going to die.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

Day 50, Hour 20:                                                                                            “Have you seen the hot new girl next door?” Richie was squinting through the blinds in Eddie’s room. Pretending as though he was oblivious to the chaos outside. He was 18, but in the heat of the everything he felt 100.

“No.” Eddie responded blandly. Unlike Richie he couldn’t ignore the death counts, and the ill roaming around like zombies. He hardly wanted Richie at his home and breathing the same air as him, there was no way to insure he didn’t carry the virus. “I’ve been busy studying.”

“For what? Schools been out for 3 weeks.”

“I still need an education Tozier.”

“What you need is to ease up and get some fresh air.”

“Yes, because I am so keen on getting ill and then attacking my mother in a frenzy of neurological madness.” Richie rolled his eyes, accustomed to his best friends tiring sarcastic commentary.

“She moved here like a little less than 3 weeks ago.” This caught Eddie’s attention. He put down his Trigonometry textbook and faced where Richie was playing peeping tom from the window.

“She has a little sister too.”

“Moved here?” Eddie mumbled under his breath. “From where?”

“Washington, D.C.” Richie turned away from the window and watched as the wheels of panic turned inside of Eddie’s head.

“How long ago?” He didn’t want to think too much about it, there was a chance he was just overreacting. There was also a chance he wasn’t.

“I said a little under 3 weeks ago.”

“What day was that?”

“Um, if I remember I saw the car pull up on the March 27th.” Richie was trying to play it off, but he knew that was the day you had moved in. Since the spread of the virus, and the shutdown of the school he’d had nothing to do but watch life pass him by. He had been doing just that when he saw your aunt’s car come back into town. “Why?”

“Washington was quarantined on the 1st of April. She came here from an infected zone. She’s going to get us all killed.” Eddie had begun to pace the room frantically. There had been a scare once before that Derry had contracted the illness but if someone was here from an infected zone that raised the stakes. “She’s going to run out of that house, come over here, and attack me. She’s going to be foaming at the mouth and crazy and going to completely fucking ruin my chances of survival.”

“Calm the fuck down.” Richie moved away from the window and over to the passing Eddie. He put his hands on his shoulders to try and slow his paced movements. “Think of the plus side in all of this.”

“What plus side?”

“The Losers Club can now become like Zombie fighting bad-asses.”

“What?”

“You know,” Rich took his hands-off Eddie’s shoulders to gesture into the air, “How in every T.V show there’s a group of kids who fights monsters or something. That could be us.”

“This isn’t a fucking T.V show, it’s real life.” Eddie was growing tired of Richie’s look at the Brightside attitude. To him there was no Brightside just infected people roaming the streets, and an illness that had no cure. “And they aren’t zombies.”

“They’re close enough.” Richie smiled at Eddie, he knew his best friend was nervous, but he didn’t see a reason to be. The likelihood of the illness reaching Derry was 0 to none.

Day 51, Hour 20:                                                                                                    They now had a name for the people infected who became mad. They called them Rabid and they were dangerous.

Day 52, Hour 4:                                                                                                   He had just managed to escape the quarantine in Florida, seconds before the barriers had come down he’d drove his car through. He’d heard the sirens following him but after about an hour of chase they’d given up. He wasn’t infected, so it didn’t matter if he left. That’s what he kept telling himself as he drove to what he considered a haven town. He had been raised in Derry, Maine and knew that the infection couldn’t have spread there so quickly. He could lie low here and not have to worry about becoming a Rabid or getting pulverized by one.

Day 54, Hour 14:                                                                                                  He was experiencing dry mouth and blurry vision. He told himself that it was just the nervousness of having escaped with his health. He handed money to the waitress bringing his food, she gave the money to the cashier, and the cashier put it inside of the register. The Cashier went home to hug his wife and kiss his 3-month-old baby on the forehead. He didn’t touch his wife’s nieces in fear that they were infected. He didn’t know that he now carried the virus, that he should be afraid of himself and not the young girls in the basement.

Day 57, Hour 12:                                                                                                  The man who traveled into town looking for haven died, after clawing his eyes out in a fit of rage. He had denied his symptoms for so long that he was capable of spreading the virus in the small town. All it took was a cough, a handshake, a hug, and someone else was infected.

The Waitress had died alone in her house where she had one day hoped to start a family. She hadn’t had much but she was content to build, now she would never have that chance.

Then there had been the Cashier:

“Sully,” You whispered as your aunt began to violently cough. “Come here right now. Cover your mouth.” The Cashier had been your Uncle and though he had shown the symptoms of the illness your aunt refused to believe he was sick.

“But auntie is making us a sandwich.” Your uncle had yet to come out of his room that morning, you’d figured he was dead. Maybe your aunt had killed him when she started to experience signs of madness.

“Sully,” you took a deep breath as you watched your aunt slowly slamming the knife onto the cutting board, “I said now.” Your sister saw the panic in your eyes and scrambled over to your side. “Walk to the front door and run to the neighbor’s house when I tell you to.” She was staring at your aunt as she cackled to herself the madness settling in her bones. Her head was tilting side to side threateningly, her eyes leaking blood as she coughed. “Don’t take your hand from your mouth no matter what.”

“(Y/N)?” Your sister whimpered as she started walking to the front door her eyes never leaving her aunt.

“You did this.” Her voice was hoarse and tired as she waves the knife in the air in front of her face. “You brought this illness here.” She turned to you smiling with her teeth blood stained. She coughed blood spewing from her mouth. You instinctively put your hand over your face inhaling short breaths.  “Come give auntie – “she struggled to speak the blood gurgling in her mouth, so instead of finishing she lunged towards you.

“Go, Sully! Now!” You listened as your sister’s footsteps took off from behind you. Your aunt had given up the ability to speak and was now just making wet sounds from her throat. You pulled your sleeves over your hands grabbing the nearest chair and throwing it at her. It hit her in the leg, but she wasn’t at all stunned as she took another lunge for you. You stepped away quick enough and grabbed the thing too your left. It was a set of forks and you weren’t very sure they would help but you’d flung them at her regardless. You were very aware of your bodies proximity to hers and became grateful for the fact that she’d been so paranoid that you or your sister carried the illness. Those plastic utensils suddenly seemed like a godsend. The forks hit her in her forehead and did absolutely nothing. She shook her head, reaching out for your foot. You screamed kicking out at her not wanting her to meet your skin.

“(Y/N)!” You didn’t have to turn your head to recognize the voice as your sisters. Your aunts head snapped in the direction of Sully.

“What the fuck Sully, I thought I told you to go!”

“I heard you scream!”

“And that caused you to come back?” You would have taken more time to scold her if your infested aunt hadn’t changed course. Her ears had begun to bleed, and you knew it was only moments before she depleted all her energy and dropped dead, but moments were too long. Since her attention was temporarily distracted from you, you took the opportunity to slip towards the butcher knife she had been making sandwiches with. You should have known something was wrong then, but you wanted to play house and ignore it. No one made turkey sandwiches with a butcher’s knife. Your sister was screaming as your aunt cackled and stared at her. It was if her brain was melting. Pulling down your sleeve over your hand you picked up the knife.

“(Y/N)!” You turned around with the weapon in your hand to see your aunt having cornered Sully. You took a deep breath - which you realized you shouldn’t have done and didn’t have time for – before walking quickly over to your aunt and stabbing her in the shoulder blade. She howled in pain reaching around for the knife in her back. You took her lapse of pain as a chance to escape.

“Go!” You yelled at your sister, “Go, go, go.” You wished you could push her, but you didn’t want to risk infecting her. She glanced once more at your animalistic aunt before turning and running out the door. You followed behind her and with your hands still covered by your sleeves you shut the door and locked. You know her cognition would be to messed up for her to turn the knob to begin with but you wanted to be safe. You stripped your shirt off - it had come into contact with a lot of things that carried the virus - and tossed it to the side. “Walk to the neighbors, don’t touch me.” You said sternly as you moved a couple of paces away from your sister. You were happy she’d come back because it had saved your life, but it had also risked her own. After the death of your mom and dad you weren’t ready to handle another. Sure, the passing of your aunt had been sad, but you’d never had a close relationship with them to begin with. When you reached the neighbors door you shooed your sister away, she took several large steps over.

“Who is it?” Your eyebrows quirked up, you hadn’t expected someone to answer so quickly. The

voice sounded strained and nervous, but it was obviously a boy around your age.

“We need help.” You tried to keep the desperate pleading from your voice. Eddie peaked out of the peep hole, and was mortified by your lack of clothing.

“I don’t sell clothes.”

“No, what the –“ You took a shuddering breath in. You were still overcome with nerves over your aunts Rabidism. When it had first started you weren’t given a chance to let it sink, but now standing here with your thoughts and a boy who wouldn’t open his front door you couldn’t shake the metallic taste of fear. “Please open the door. My little sister is only 10 and she’s afraid and so am I, we have nowhere else to go.” Eddie shifted his weight between his feet. He could see it in your eyes, something terrible had happened over in that house. He didn’t know if he wanted to risk bringing it to his own. “Please.” You tried again as the emotion clogged your throat.

“Oh, for fucks sake.” Eddie whispered to himself before swinging his door open. “Come in.”

“Thank you.” He didn’t look at you as you stepped inside of his living room, a shaking girl behind you. You stood in the center of the small house as your sister sat on a lounging chair and curled into herself. She at once started to cry, and you wished for nothing more than the ability to comfort her. Eddie tossed you a shirt from the bag of clothes he had by the door if he ever needed to make an escape. You caught it gratefully and shifted it over your head. Between your sister’s cries and the way, you stood stiffly, the tension inside of the living room was awkward.

“The illness,” you cleared your throat looking up at the lanky boy before you, “it’s in Derry.”

[theladyfangs]

Reflections Part 2/ The Other

Gabriel 1/ A Storm In The Ocean

Gabriel I

Mycelium works in mysterious ways. He’d learned that through observing Paul Stamets. He’d learned that this network, used as a weapon of destruction in his universe, could also give life elsewhere.

Gabriel chuckles low, dark. Unhappy.

He was so close. Close to having it all—his revenge, his victory, his empire, and her.

But she refused to come.

Georgiou had gotten to her once again, this time, turning her against him. Michael hadn’t even let him explain.

Now he’s trapped—neither living nor dead, but caught between.

A sword through the back. But the twist—came from her, as she’d stepped aside as he reached for her, letting him fall into the light.

He saw his own death approach in blinding brilliance, and when he woke up, he was here.

Wherever here, is.

“Serves you right, you rat bastard,” Hugh says, coming to stand next to him and crossing his arms as they both look down at the scenes below. “Everything you touch, you destroy.”

“I wasn’t the one who killed you,” he throws back tartly. “But believe me, if I could now…”

They both know the threat is empty.

“Is this what it’s like?” He asks, quieter now, the mask of bluster fading as he watches Michael pet her tribble.

It’s how he spends his time now. Simply watching her. Watching over her. Still trying, even in death, to protect her when he’s failed to do so twice now. The only comfort is that this time, it was his life that was taken, not hers. At least he managed that.

He watches her walk the corridors of Discovery quietly, the pet in her arms. And he watches her at work—on the bridge, engineering. He sees her when she’s asleep, but his heart hurts when she tosses, and he knows it’s not restful. He can see everyone and everything that goes on there—the entire crew of the Discovery, but it is Michael he focuses on the most. The place where his attention never wavers.

“Always,” Hugh says. Gabriel knows the doctor does the exact same thing. Only, he watches over Paul. Watches, as his husband walks into a room that housed two people, but is now home to only one. He watches as his lover stares at the bed but is unable to bring himself to lie in it. And he watches as Paul does as he’s had the past few weeks, and turns to the couch, sleeping curled up and alone.

The temperature around them falls, and Lorca looks up and around as the place they’re in darkens.

“What is that?” he asks.

Hugh turns. “A storm is coming.” He points.

Below them, the Discovery sails on, oblivious to the gathering of ionized particles beginning to spark and churn in the distance. Separate from them, Gabriel and Hugh are the left behind.

“Her absence is like the sky, spread over everything,” Gabriel says, to himself.

“I thought you hated poetry,” Hugh turns to look at him, surprised.

“C.S. Lewis,” Gabriel says absently.

 A Storm In the Ocean

The only option is escape. The storm is too strong for the old freighter to manage. Cracks in the painted-over rust begin to crawl up the ship’s walls, revealing the extent of the decay. They are all dying creatures here. He learned to embrace it a while ago, how to survive while teetering on the edge. Gabriel Lorca learned how to survive.

The alarms begin to sound as the ship starts to break up, the storm raging outside.

“Abandon ship,” he gives the order.

The crew scrambles, taking with them what they can—mostly intelligence files.

He watches from the bridge, holding the ‘Lisbeth, as steady as he can as the pods take off, each carrying a soul. The crew complement is dropping…

35…30…24…21…17…16…10…6…4….1…A flash of light streaks across the front viewer and the Lisbeth trembles violently, a loud, yawning sound that he knows, can’t be good…

“Captain, we’re at a safe distance, sir. Evacuate…evacuate…”

His XO’s voice comes through on the conn. But Lorca is tired. And he thinks now is as good a time to die as any.

“No can do, Xhian,” he says calmly. “Take care. Keep up the fight,”

Because he’s done with it.

Another bolt, this time, hitting its target. The electricity begins to course through the ship, snapping circuits, frying wires,

“It’s been a good ride, my lady,” Lorca pats the ship’s conn. Waiting.

He sees it as it comes, and as the light approaches, he stretches his arms wide, embracing it. .

.

“You’re awake.”

He opens his eyes and sits up quickly in the bio bed glaring at a man in white medical Starfleet-issue scrubs.

“Who the hell are you, and where am I?”

“I’m Hugh Culber, and as for the where, well that part’s complicated,” the man tells him, taking a step back.

“Trust me, at this stage of the game, I doubt anything would surprise me,” Lorca grouses, getting down from the bed.

“Yeah well…about that,” Culber says, right as the doors to sickbay open. Lorca’s eyes go to where Hugh’s are looking and he comes face-to-face with…himself.

Now he knows for sure that he’s dead

“You son-of-a-bitch,” he mutters crossing his arms. “How the hell did you get here?”

“I died,” Gabriel tells him.

“Took you long enough,” Lorca says, bitterly. “You know how much of your shit I had to deal with in your universe?”

“Yeah, well, yours ain’t much better, buddy.”

Hugh looks between the two of them and just shakes his head, moving back.

The two Gabriels glare at each other, angrily.

“Look—Captain Lorca, I get you’re angry. None of us volunteered to be here, but” Culber looks to Gabriel. “I think you two have some things to discuss. And for the record, sir,” he can’t help but call Lorca ‘sir,’ “unlike us, you are not dead. Just passing through.”

.

.

Gabriel rubs his temples, growing annoyed with himself. No, really. Lorca is an asshole. And his patience is getting thin. But when Lorca accuses him of murdering Michael, it’s the final straw.

“I didn’t kill her!” He yells, turning on himself. “How dare you judge me, you don’t know shit about me!”

“Oh, I know enough,” Lorca tells him. “You betray your emperor, you take her daughter, and you murder her, stage a coup and I get to spend the past year on the run for the crimes of a traitor.”

They argue over this. Back-and-forth, back-and-forth.

“So what about you?” Gabriel challenges. “What about Katrina?” After all, turnabout is fair play.

At the name, Lorca’s eyes get flinty. “What did you do to her?”

Gabriel smirks.  “Only what she wanted me to do.”

Lorca is first to swing, his fist finding Gabriel’s face. A face so much like his own. But it’s pointless. Really. They’re equally matched and trade body blows and kicks until they collapse, both breathing hard, exhausted and feeling like defeated men.

“I loved Katrina,” Lorca says defensively, feeling the burn behind his eyes at the mention of her name. “If you hurt her…”

“YOU hurt her,” Gabriel pants out. “Admit it. All those years you went—kept pushing it off, pushing it back…delaying it. If you wanted her, you should have said something decades ago.  THEN you get mad when she asks for five more years? You had 25! Don’t think I don’t know. You made it all so clear in your personal logs. So who is more wrong? I adored my Michael. I treated her like the queen she was MEANT to be, and you don’t know the cost…” at that, even Gabriel stops, not able to bring himself to say the other thing.

It gets quiet as they stare up into nothingness.

“What do I need to know before I go back,” Lorca says, voice low. Will I be arrested on-sight for some shit YOU did?”

“Depends,” Gabriel tells him, honestly. “You’re crew may not be too happy to see you.”

His crew. At that, Lorca turns his head. “You were on the Buran? What did you do to my crew?” He asks, with a sick feeling in his gut, knowing he won’t like the answer.

“You saw what happened to you when you got to my universe,” Gabriel says, voice flat. “I did what I had to do to survive in yours.”

There’s a fresh wave of anger-fueled adrenaline and at the words Lorca moves fast, jumping on Gabriel and wrapping his hands around his own neck, squeezing tight.

“You sick, son-of-a-bitch,” he growls, the grip tightening as the knuckles begin to show under the skin. He squeezes, watching as Gabriel’s face turns red, then gradually darker, the blood rushing to eyes so much like his own, tinting them red. His counterpart, gags, thrashing, hands gripping his own but the grip doesn’t break and he watches with icy calm as gradually, Gabriel’s body stops thrashing, the hands around his stop clawing, the breathing stops…and finally, the imposter goes limp and Lorca is left to stand, dazedly, his own heart in his throat, looking down on what remains of himself.

His crew. Dead. Murdered, and the last face they likely saw, he knows, was his.

The nausea hits immediately, sending him stumbling, reeling and he turns away from Gabriel’s body and begins heaving. Nothing but bile. After a moment of this, he slumps against a wall and slides down, wearier and heavier than he’s ever been before. Lorca closes his eyes. Maybe this really is death, he thinks. So be it.

Hugh comes in and looks on in disapproval at both Gabriel Lorcas lying on the floor, bloodied and beaten.

“Time’s up, Captain,” he says, breaking Lorca out of his despair.              

“Up for what?” Lorca asks.

At that, Gabriel’s eyes open and he gets to his feet, rubbing his neck. “Fuck, that hurt,” he rasps then, at the look of shock on Lorca’s face, starts to laugh. It turns into a hacking cough.

Hugh ignores him. “You should be going now,” he tells Lorca. “Just thank your lucky ion storms you won’t be stuck here, with him. Follow me.”

The doctor reaches a hand down and the captain takes it, allowing himself to be pulled up. The two men start walking to the door, past Gabriel who stands there with a strange look on his face. He’s not laughing anymore. Or coughing.

“Wait,” he calls to them striding over and stopping them before they can walk through the door, blocking it with his body. For this, he speaks directly to Lorca, his voice low, carrying with it urgency. The games are done. This, what he has to say now, is serious.

“You’ll see them both,” Gabriel warns himself.  “Your Katrina. My Michael. They’re both there.”

“I don’t give a damn about Michael,” Lorca snaps. “I need to fix whatever the fuck you did to Katrina.”

But Gabriel shakes his head.

“Look,” he sighs, knowing himself and trying to decide how to convince Lorca to give him this one thing. “I just need you to tell my Michael the truth. It’s all down there,” he gestures. “In my quarters. In my files. You know which ones,” he says…stopping short of saying the other word. Please. Lorca studies him a long moment, and they speak, not with words but with other things. Gabriel knows himself. Lorca does too. Please, he asks himself.  Hugh takes a step back, giving them space. It’s silent here, now as the mirrors of Lorca contemplate one another.

“Don’t make me…”Gabriel says quietly, reaching out to clasp Lorca’s wrist. “It’s important.” The grip tightens.

“I don’t owe you a damn thing.” Lorca nearly growls the words as h he snatches his hand away.

“PLEASE! There! I said it, are you satisfied now?” Because now, Gabriel isn’t so cocky. Now, he’s out of bluster and underneath that armor of arrogance is still a man. Reluctantly, Lorca nods. He will grant himself this because a part of him, grudgingly, understands. He knows what it has taken himself to even say the word “please.” He knows he had to humble himself. And that’s a tall order and in both universes, it seems, the word itself largely absent in both their vernaculars.

“Gabriel, Captain Lorca,” Hugh interjects. “We’re running out of time. The window is starting to close.”

“There are things there…not even you know,” Gabriel starts talking faster.  “Just tell my Michael the truth. All I ask.”

Lora just nods, lips tight. But he’ll honor the request. Gabriel nods back, stepping aside and allowing them to move past. Culber steps out in front, guiding the way. They walk just a short distance and the doctor stops and turns to the captain.

“Yes?”

“I…have a request as well, if you could,” Hugh says, once they’re alone.

“Sure.” Because he really has no problem with Hugh.

“Tell Lieutenant Stamets I’ll be waiting for him at the opera. He’ll know what it means.”

“Will do, doctor,” Lorca extends to him a hand. “And thanks --” There’s no completing the sentence. He sees the white flash coming toward him and before he can speak again, it engulfs him.

[crazy4tank]

Why I’m Fighting the Tech-to-Prison Pipeline

New Post has been published on https://fashiondesigne.com/2021/02/06/why-im-fighting-the-tech-to-prison-pipeline/

Why I’m Fighting the Tech-to-Prison Pipeline

Nijeer Recreational areas was bewildered when he or she was arrested and used into custody in Feb 2019. Apparently, he’d already been accused of shoplifting and trying to hit a police officer having a car at a Hampton Resort , as the New York Times reported. But Woodbridge, Nj-new jersey, where the crime had occurred, was 30 miles through his home, and Parks got neither a car nor the driver’s license at the time, according to NBC Information. Court papers indicated which he had no idea how he’d been implicated in a criminal offense he knew he did not commit — until this individual discovered that the case against your pet was based solely on the flawed facial-recognition match. Based on a December report with the Times , this was the third-known example of a wrongful arrest brought on by facial recognition in the Oughout. S. All three of these victims were Black guys.

Algorithms unsuccessful Parks twice: First, he or she was mistakenly identified as the particular suspect; then, he has been robbed of due procedure and jailed for week at the recommendation of a danger assessment tool used to aid pretrial release decisions. They have been adopted by legal courts across the country despite evidence of racial prejudice and a 2018 letter signed by organizations like the ACLU and NAACP cautioning against their make use of . At one stage, Parks told the Times , he or she even considered pleading accountable. The case was ultimately decreased, but he’s now your house the Woodbridge Police Division, the city of Woodbridge, as well as the prosecutors involved in his wrongful arrest.

They are the costs of algorithmic injustice. We’re approaching a new actuality, one in which machines are usually weaponized to undermine freedom and automate oppression using a pseudoscientific rubber stamp; by which opaque technology has the power in order to surveil, detain, and sentence , but no one seems to be kept accountable for its miscalculations.

Remain up-to-date with the Teenager Vogue politics group. Sign up for the Teenager Vogue Take !

U. S. law enforcement companies have embraced facial reputation as an investigative aid in revenge of a 2018 study through MIT that discovered software program error rates ranging from 0. 8% for light-skinned men in order to 34. 7% for dark-skinned women . In majority-Black Detroit, the police chief estimated a 96% error rate in his department’s software program last year (though the company at the rear of the software told Vice these people don’t keep statistics around the accuracy of its real-world use), but he still denies a ban.

Synthetic intelligence (AI) works by providing a computer program with traditional data so it can consider patterns and extrapolate through those patterns to make forecasts independently. But this usually makes a feedback loop of elegance . For example , so-called predictive policing tools are proposed to identify future crime hot-spots and optimize law enforcement useful resource allocation, but because instruction data can reflect racially disparate levels of police existence, they may merely flag Black communities irrespective of a true crime price . This is exactly what Minority Review cautioned us about.

Princeton University sociologist Ruha Benjamin has sounded the particular alarm about a “new Jim Program code, ” the reference to the Jim Crow laws that once unplaned segregation in the U. H. Others have alluded to some tech-to-prison pipeline, making it superior that mass incarceration is not going away — it’s simply being warped by an advanced, high-tech touch.

That’s not to say that AI can’t be a force permanently. It has revolutionized disease diagnosis , assisted forecast natural disasters , and uncovered fake news . But the misconception that methods are some sort of infallible magical bullet for all our issues — “ technochauvinism , ” because data journalist Meredith Broussard put it in her 2018 book — has brought all of us to a place where AI is making high-stakes choices that are better left in order to humans. And in the words associated with Silicon Valley congressman Ro Khanna (D-CA), the technical illiteracy of “most people of Congress” is “ embarrassing , ” precluding effective governance.

[keywestlou]

TRUMP NOMINATED FOR NOBEL PEACE PRIZE SECOND YEAR IN A ROW

There is still a humor in things Donald Trump.

He has been nominated for the second consecutive year for the Nobel Peace Prize.

Wonder of wonders!

I am not concerned about his winning. It would be both a surprise and shock.

Son in law Jared Kushner was nominated last week for the Award also.

Neither will win.

The nomination is no big deal. Each year 300-400 persons are nominated. Only 1 or 2 will win. Anyone of stature may do the nominating. A college professor or officer, a political leader, are examples.

This year Trump was nominated by an Estonian member of the European Parliament Jaak Madison. His reasons for the nomination were two fold. First, Trump is the first American President in 30 years who did not start a war. Second, Trump signed several peace agreements in the Middle East which helped provide stability in the region and peace.

I am 85 years old. Still waiting for my coronavirus vaccine shot. Different County locales have been opened for the purpose of providing the shots. The problem is there has never been enough shots.

It has been announced the College of Florida Keys will be providing vaccine shots beginning sunday. The College is going to work off the Health Department’s application list in determining in what order the shots will be given.

Sunday’s shots will be provided those 65 and older. I should qualify. I qualified when the age was 75 and could not get it.

Four hundred vaccines are available for sunday. It is expected that by the weekend, 300 additional shots will be received.

Each a pittance. Better than none, however.

Let’s hope all goes as planed. Let’s hope that all such as myself 20 years over the minimal age limit finally get the shot.

The Democratic Party concerns me. They have for years. Especially since Obama took office.

Democrats are good guys. They do not know how to fight dirty.

Republicans fight dirty. Democrats not. They continue to be legislative gentlemen in the tradition of old.

No way to fight.

It is tit for tat and a bit more. The Democrats have to learn to be like Republicans when it comes to fighting dirty. The Republicans need to be taught a lesson. Hit them first. If not, hit them harder when they hit first.

Otherwise, nothing is ever going to get done.

Trump’s impeachment trial before the Senate begins tuesday. The Trump defense is two fold. One is he is no longer President and therefore cannot be tried for impeachment. The other, and a new one, is that Trump continues to believe he is still President and has done nothing wrong. Therefore, he cannot be impeached.

Two inconsistencies meeting. A Catch-22 situation. The trial will be an interesting one.

The CDC announced friday all persons using public transportation in the U.S. must wear masks. The masks must be 2 layers which I assume means 2 layers of material. Additionally, the masks must be secured to the head.

Violation will result in arrest.

Oregon is a first in the nation. Oregon has decriminalized all illegal drugs. Such includes cocaine, heroin,and meth. Persons caught using drugs can be apprehended. However they can opt for rehabilitation rather than jail.

Today Santorini! A marvel! One of the most beautiful places in the world, if not the most. Hope you enjoy.

Day 8…..Greece the First Time

Posted on June 4, 2012 by Key WestLou

When I saw Key West for the first time twenty five years ago, I knew almost immediately it was a place I wanted to be. So too with Santorini.

You just know.

My day yesterday started with an early morning flight from Athens to Santorini. Olympic Airlines. A one half hour flight. On a big jet. Packed.

The plane took off. The pilot said we are heading to an elevation of 17,000 feet. Once we reached that point, the plane started its descent. You got it! The plane ride was an ascent to 17,000 feet and then an immediate descent into the Santorini airport.

Again young stewardesses. That is the word. Stewardesses. Thin. No more than size 4s. Hair swept back and up. For the little hats they perched on their heads when we landed.

Nikos met me at the airport. I never had met nor known Nikos before. Nikos and his wife Maria own some cave houses which they rent out. I was booked into one of those cave houses.

Nikos about 5′ 6″. Thin. Muscle bound. I would estimate around 60. Skin tough and weather beaten by the sun.

He embraced me like a long lost friend. A mutual acquaintance had arranged for me to stay at Nikos’ place. Nikos pointed out on the drive to his caves that he never picks anyone up at the airport. He was only doing so because a mutual friend had told him to take good care of me. I was grateful

The formal name of the caves is Filotera Cave Houses. I do not know what filotera means. I googled it and could only come up with a list of motels, hotels and other cave accommodations on Santorini. Everything is filotera here.

The ride from the airport was an experience. Uncomfortable.

Nikos’ place was an hour drive from the airport. Straight up a hill. Mountain may be a better description. A very narrow two lane road with a drop off on the upward side thousands of feet into the sea. I was up up and away.

Drivers speed here. They come at each other at horrendous speeds. The road was very curvy. At every turn I saw an accident in the making. Especially when a bus came at us!

The views were spectacular. The heights dramatic. I have never been closer to God. In more ways than one.

Maria met us. Her appearance as her husband’s, except Maria was shorter and on the heavy side. It was hugs and kisses all around. I met the whole family. Daughter and grandchildren.

It was Maria’s birthday. She sent a piece of her birthday cake to my cave.

These caves are another world.

Santorini was once one large island. About 1,500 years before Christ (everything is before Christ in this part of the world), there was a huge volcanic explosion. Reportedly the largest ever known to man before and since. Broke Santorini into several islands. Santorini the largest.

The very first volcano was a long time back. Six hundred fifty thousand years. ago. The most recent in 1950.

Natural tragedy appears common to the area. There was a violent earthquake in 1956 which destroyed many old structures on the island. Earthquakes and I are becoming common place on this trip.

One side of Santorini ended up being a very high and steep cliff running from the heavens thousands of feet into the ocean. Caves developed. Home for me is one of those caves. Fear not, the accommodations are wonderful. Do not let the term caves scare you. All modern amenities. Only negative, no windows. Not for the claustrophobic. I have my own small white terrace hewed out of the cliff in front. A place where one can sit and contemplate his navel.

I can see the four islands made by the volcanic eruption. The eruption actually split a big island down the middle into two islands as well as several small ones. Smoke and sulfur can still be seen coming from the volcano itself.

Tradition has many tales. It is claimed that Santorini is the place where Moses and his people made their exodus from Egypt. The plagues which afflicted the Pharaoh and Egyptians are the same as were experienced on Santorini at the time of the volcanic eruption. Also, the breaking up of the island is said to reflect the parting of the waters by Moses. Another historical claim  is that the Atlantis of old was a part of Santorini and now lies somewhere below the sea in the area.

The waters are extremely deep around Santorini. Especially in the area of the volcano. So the tale may have some truth.

Sunset is big here. As in Key West. I rarely go to a sunset anymore in Key West. Seen one, seen them all. Too many people.

I went to the sunset last night. When in Rome, etc. Never again.

The sunset was around a corner of the island. I had about a one mile walk to it. Uphill all the way. Sometimes at a 45 degree angle. Steps everywhere. No consistency between the distance or height of each. The paved area marble. Slippery.

I was exhausted when I arrived at the anointed place. Pleased I had not fallen. Crushed into and with a mass of people just as in Mallory Square.

My sunset hours the rest of this trip will be spent on my little terrace with a drink in hand.

Many outdoor cafes along the top of the cliff. I stopped at one and enjoyed a delicious dish of moussaka. Prices dramatically cheap.

Then back to my cave and sleep. The weather cool. I slept like a baby all night. The first time I have done so this trip.

This morning there was a knock on the cave door. Yes, there are doors. It was a boy with coffee and bread. Nikos had sent them to me for breakfast. The bread was hot. Just out of the oven. I broke off a chunk and enjoyed.

More tomorrow. Do not miss any of it. This is one exciting place!

Enjoy your day!

TRUMP NOMINATED FOR NOBEL PEACE PRIZE SECOND YEAR IN A ROW was originally published on Key West Lou

[pamphletstoinspire]

The State of the Catholic Church Today --Celibacy and the Married State

A CALL FOR RENEWED EMPHASIS ON THE CELIBATE VOCATION

Generally speaking, there are two principal vocations in the life of the Catholic Church: marriage on the one hand, and celibate priesthood and religious life on the other. Both are expressions of conjugal love. In the normal calling of marriage, an individual binds himself for life to another human being. In the exceptional calling of priesthood or religious life, an individual binds himself eternally to God.

The fruitful life of the Church has always depended upon a healthy interaction between these two states of life. In truly Catholic periods or cultures, an equilibrium has been established, whereby the family bears children, some of whom are called to religion, and religious life in turn justifies and sanctifies the family. In Willa Cather’s Shadows on the Rock, a novel about Catholic Quebec in the seventeenth century, a young domestic heroine’s love of order and cleanliness is such that she can’t sleep in a dirty bed. She is balanced in the world of the novel by a beautiful ascetic in a church in Montreal, walled up behind the Blessed Sacrament with a stone for a pillow. Like the French ships that convey to the Canadian colonies “everything to comfort the body and the soul,” the capacious hold of the Church enfolds both vocations. Neither Shaker nor Protestant, the Church affirms both women’s choices, just as the young heroine of the novel is enamored of her alter ego in Montreal, and the recluse, in her turn, prays for her brothers and sisters in the world, night and day.

Still, this mutual dependency and reciprocal respect notwithstanding, in the whole history of the Church the choice for celibacy has always been understood to be objectively higher than the choice for marriage, because the celibate anticipates in his flesh the world of the future resurrection. Rather than pass through the intermediate state of earthly marriage, the priest or religious steps outside the bounds of ordinary life and begins to live, in advance, the nuptial realities of heaven.

Contrary to popular impressions, the documents of Vatican II did not break with this traditional understanding. The same documents that resoundingly affirm marriage continue to assign to celibacy an “eminent” position, one “always . . . held in particular honor in the Church.” In the language of Lumen Gentium, the religious, by his profession, seeks “more abundant fruit” from the grace of his baptism, is “more intimately consecrated to divine service,” and “more fully manifests to all believers the presence of heavenly goods already possessed here below.” In St. John Chrysostom’s formulation, “It is something better than what is admitted to be good that is the most excellent good,” a conclusion echoed by John Paul II. “Virginity, or celibacy, by liberating the human heart in a unique way,” he writes in the apostolic exhortation Familiaris Consortio, “bears witness that the Kingdom of God . . . is that pearl of great price which is preferred to every other value no matter how great.”

Put another way, the Catholic view of human life and history is never circular but always teleological, always “straining forward,” in the words of St. Paul, “to what lies ahead” (Phil. 3:13). Catholic family life is not ordered to itself, but to what is future and ultimate: life with God and his saints in heaven. Catholic families do not bear children simply so that their children may bear children, and so on. They bear children for God. As Hans Urs von Balthasar explained, for people like St. Thérèse of Lisieux’s parents, Louis and Zélie Martin, all of whose living children ended their lives as religious, “It would be just as senseless and unchristian for a family to be shut in upon itself as for a believer in the Old Testament to reject its fulfillment in the New.”

Few families in the history of the Church have risen to the level of the Martins in this regard. But whether acted upon or not, whether explicit or implicit, there was a consensus in Christendom as to the direction and meaning of human life. When mortality was high and childbearing dangerous, when there was no Viagra or estrogen therapy, there were few illusions about the duration of either sexuality or marriage, and there was a general acknowledgment that, soon enough, everyone would be obedient, celibate, and poor. While the vast majority of people in those days chose marriage in the first place, if they outlived their spouse they were less likely than our contemporaries to choose marriage again. Even before death intervened, a small minority of spouses separated by mutual agreement and entered monasteries. Many more widows and widowers did the same. Marriage was not regarded as a treadmill to be endlessly resumed, but as a passing phase of life, even as everyone, married or not, was passing from earth to heaven, where “they neither marry nor are given in marriage” (Matt. 22:30).

In the view of St. Ignatius, marriage was so provisional a state that it was scarcely deserving of a vow, for “it must be remembered that a vow deals with matters that lead us closer to evangelical perfection. Hence, whatever tends to withdraw one from perfection may not be made the object of a vow, for example, a business career, the married state, and so forth.” If we bristle at this seemingly low view of marriage, we might remember that in Ignatius’s day most marriages lasted until death, suggesting that what holds a marriage together more effectively than a promise or vow is the larger faith tradition in which an individual marriage is embedded.

The great novel of this view of human life is ­Kristin Lavransdatter, a three-volume saga of medieval Norway by Sigrid Undset. Late in the novel, when the widowed heroine is settled in a monastery after many years in the world, she ponders the sisterhood she has finally joined:

When, after this hour of prayer, Kristin went back through the dormitory and saw the sisters sleeping two and two on sacks of straw in the beds, clad in the habits which they never put off, she thought how much unlike she must be to these women, who from their youth up had done naught but serve their Maker. The world was a master whom ’twas not easy to fly, when once one had yielded to its dominion. Ay, and in sooth she had not fled the world—she had been cast out, as a hard master drives a worn-out servant from his door—and now she had been taken in here, as a merciful lord takes in an old serving-maid and of his mercy gives her a little work, while he shelters and feeds the worn-out, friendless old creature.

Of course, in the view of the human community, intent on its own ­survival, it is one thing when an old ­person leaves the world for religion, and quite another when a young person, and someone’s heir, does the same. In the abstract or the case of someone else’s child, Christendom conceded the superiority of celibacy, but when the Franciscans or Dominicans came to town families famously locked up their sons. Humanity is ordered to fecundity, and Nature fights for her rights, “pleads her cause with prodigious eloquence, with a terrible power of seduction.” Like the ­Israelites in the Old Testament who insisted on a visible king (1 Sam. 8), Nature demands physical intercourse and blood heirs, and fiercely resists any prioritizing of God over human beings or future over earthly goods. Thus even the most saintly celibates, in their youth, met with scandalized resistance and hostility.

It is easy to forget, for example, now that St. Thérèse’s cult is secure, what the neighbors were thinking and saying as, one after another, the Martin girls left their widowed father for the convent. When Thérèse was finally canonized and her family’s dreams realized, Céline, Thérèse’s sister, recalled “the humiliations that had been our lot and that of our dear father: relatives distancing themselves from us, apologizing for being part of our family; friends and acquaintances who said among themselves: ‘What good was his piety?’”

It is easy to forget, too, that hostility to celibacy can also afflict the saint in an interior way. St. Francis was not only stoned in the street, but taunted by internal accusers. We think of him as having made one definitive act of renunciation when he stripped himself in the town square, but a close reading of his life suggests a long struggle, painfully waged. As he said sardonically toward the end of his life, “Don’t canonize me too quickly. I am perfectly capable of fathering a child.”

But once the struggle was over, and the miracles and answered prayers began to appear, the celibate in former times was reclaimed by the human family, because he had proven himself fertile after all. Resistance gave way to acceptance, and acceptance to passionate acclaim. Then everyone wanted a piece of the saint; everyone wanted access to his body and his prayers. Then the one once coldly spurned for choosing heavenly over earthly goods was joyfully embraced for bringing heavenly goods to earth.

In Shadows on the Rock, Cather traces this trajectory in the life of the recluse in Montreal. On the far side of her parents’ anguish, her fiancé’s grief, and her own suffering, the recluse emerges as a binding force in Catholic Canada, a treasure held in common. After angels repair her spinning wheel in her upper room in Montreal, the story travels across country:

By many a fireside the story of Jeanne Le Ber’s spinning-wheel was told and re-told with loving exaggeration during that severe winter. The word of her visit from the angels went abroad over snow-burdened Canada to the remote parishes. Wherever it went, it brought pleasure, as if the recluse herself had sent to all those families whom she did not know some living beauty.

If the vocation of the recluse is extraordinary, the vocation of the priest is ordinary. But one meaning of ordinary is quotidian, and whereas miracles of the recluse’s sort are rare, the priest works his miracles daily. Every day, in the confessional, he forgives sin. Every day, on the altar, he brings God to earth as food. In the character of Bishop Laval—in his height and his great age, his legendary charity and formidable endurance—Cather gives the reader an icon of the dogged, indispensable vocation of the priest. If the recluse in her atelier is literally raised above the common lot, the old bishop in his daily work is literally on the ground with his flock. But his vocation, too, is vertical in its orientation. His vocation, too, reaches to heaven. The recurring image in the novel of the old man at work is the image of him ringing the church bell before dawn, calling the working people to Mass:

Many good people who did not want to go to mass at all, when they heard that hoarse, frosty bell clanging out under the black sky . . . groaned and went to the church. Because they thought of the old Bishop at the end of the bell-rope, and because his will was stronger than theirs.

Both the recluse and the priest, by their sacrifices and prayers, knit together the human family. But it is on the renunciations of the priest, especially, that the spiritual life of the laity depends. In the Catholic view, the life of Christ has passed into his sacraments, and only the priest can effect the sacraments that fully bring Christ’s life to Christ’s body. The spiritual health of Catholic people depends in a fundamental way on certain individuals choosing the vertical orientation of celibate priesthood over the horizontal ­orientation of marriage. Married life in the Church is never equal to priesthood and religious life but always dependent on them, as the horizontal of the cross hangs on the vertical. Earthly marriage is never an absolute but always an intermediate vocation, ordered to the ­Wedding Feast of the Lamb as a means to an end. The recluse in her upper room, the old bishop hanging on the bell-rope that disappears over his head—these are examples of individuals who have vowed themselves to God above all, and who then hand down to those below what they receive from above.

We have been speaking of the traditional ordering of the Church’s life, her traditional understanding of the relationship between her lay and religious vocations. Today, has this understanding changed? From the outside, the Church seems as committed to celibacy as ever. Before a non-Catholic knows anything of the Church’s life, before he attends a Mass or sees the inside of a confessional, he is aware of this man or woman, this priest or that nun, whom he perhaps passes in the street, and who then becomes the face of the Church for him.

If he is like most outsiders, he will be wary of this face, or sign, that he connects, correctly, with celibacy. He may be uncomfortable or repelled by the sign, or he may be attracted to it or impressed by it, but in any case, for him the priest or nun will be decisively Catholic. Inside the Church, asked what is most important to Catholicism, the practicing Catholic will probably answer, the Eucharist. But the outsider, without having read a word of theology, is most keenly aware of the priest, who in fact makes the Eucharist possible.

Or our outsider may encounter the Church in so-called Catholic literature, where again the Church’s traditional views will be communicated to him. ­Either he will read about priests or nuns (The Diary of a Country Priest, In This House of Brede, Morte d’Urban, Mariette in Ecstasy), or he will read about a love between a man and a woman that gives way before a greater love (The End of the Affair, Brideshead Revisited, Kristin Lavransdatter). These latter ­novels—so different from the novels of Jane ­Austen!—might well have affixed to their frontispieces as a warning Paul Claudel’s axiom, “God promises by his creatures but only fulfills by himself,” or François Mauriac’s baleful observation, “Today, after so many centuries, [Christ] is still there . . . just as we know him in the Gospels, with his ­inordinate demands, ­separating man from woman and woman from man, destroying the human couple to the scandal of many.”

Protestant novels, primarily concerned as they are with familial and social arrangements and the individual’s place in them, ordinarily end with marriage. But the Catholic novel, whose proper subject matter is the relationship of the individual to God, can only be finally consummated outside the bounds of the novel and even of life itself, which explains both why so few Catholic novels are entirely successful, and why so many end with death. The emphasis in Catholic literature is never on social consolidation and earthly marriage. Rather, the true Catholic note is a note of rupture and transcendence, rupture and implied restoration on a higher level, goods for which religious life—real people making real sacrifices with an eye to eternity—stands surety.

Even in non-Catholic, equivocally Catholic, or anti-­Catholic literature or films, if the Catholic Church comes into the story, priests and religious represent her, reinforcing for our outsider the Church’s traditional ordering of her internal life. Always it is the exceptional calling of the priest or the nun, or the even more exceptional calling of the priest who is also an exorcist, that stands for the Church, in a kind of metonymy. The author’s attitude to Catholicism may be melodramatic and hostile (Henry James’s The American), sardonic and world-weary (Graham Greene’s The Power and the Glory), or conspiracy-minded and debunking of Catholic claims (anything by Dan Brown), but in every case the author’s fascination with Catholic priesthood and religious life is self-evident.

The media, too, turns out to be obsessed with priests and nuns, whether railing against them (Pope Benedict, abusive priests) or fawning over them (Pope Francis, liberal American nuns, Mother Teresa). Even the sexual abuse scandals in the Church, and the media’s preoccupation with them, evince the Church’s traditional claims, testifying as they do to the tremendous importance of the Catholic priesthood, for good or ill.

From all of this evidence, either consciously or unconsciously our outsider will conclude that celibate vocations are the key to the Catholic Church. It follows that if he decides to become a Catholic ­himself, it will be religious life that has attracted him; otherwise he would be content to become, or remain, a Protestant. Put another way, he desires something more than baptism and marriage, the only ­sacraments Christendom agrees can be effected without a priest. He may have ideas of becoming a priest or a religious himself. Or he may feel a need for the strengthening that confirmation promises or for the mysterious food of the Eucharist. Perhaps something weighs on his conscience that he has been unable privately to shake off; or he has had experience of evil, experience that has shaken and defiled him, and harbors a hope that a priest may be able to help him.

On the other hand, it may not be a specific sacrament but a whole way of life that attracts him, an attitude to life very different from what he has encountered elsewhere. On the deepest level, a person comes to the Catholic Church because he is disappointed with everything else. Work, family life, other religious communions have not sufficed. Our convert may have been abused in his natural family or betrayed in a marriage, but even if his relationships have been harmonious and his work in the world successful, he begins to feel that the horizon of his life is simply too low. Dimly, he begins to understand that natural affections not ordered to eternal realities are doomed. And so he finds himself attracted to the idealism and higher horizon of Catholic religious life. He hears the silence and the gales of laughter coming from behind convent walls, or he witnesses the serene, life-giving fatherhood of a holy priest, and he wants to be part of a church that has such vocations in its midst. If he is married, he begins to suspect that his marriage cannot stand on its own but needs the bracing vertical of celibate priesthood and religious life to keep it true. If he is single, for whatever reason, he hopes to discover his life’s true meaning in the Church, the Church that has never held up marriage between a man and a woman as the highest good.

In brief, whatever his situation, he wants his life ordered to what is greater. He wants a larger context for his private projects and relationships. And he wants peace, the peace that the world cannot give, and expects to find it in the Church that has always prioritized the contemplative over the active life.

So our outsider becomes a Catholic. And in the Church of the late twentieth and early twenty-­first century, what does he find? Certainly, the priest is still there, celebrating Mass, baptizing babies, presiding at marriages. If our convert needs to be baptized, a priest will baptize him. If he was previously baptized as a Protestant, a priest will hear his confession, a priest or bishop will confirm him, and he will receive the Eucharist consecrated by the same priest or bishop. And in the reception of the sacraments—in the sacrament of baptism most dramatically, but in the other sacraments as well—the convert will receive, together with an entirely new or reinvigorated life, an indelible impression of the generative power of the Catholic priest. From this point on, he will be able to attest to it from his own experience: The priest, at his ­ordination, receives potency of a supernatural kind, capable of generating and sustaining new men and women, who live by the power of Christ, who has redeemed them.

Still, however momentous the changes wrought by the sacraments of initiation, and however powerful the convert’s impression of the part played by the priest, soon enough, as he perseveres in his new life, he begins to understand that, in the Church at large, the center of gravity—or at least the perceived center of gravity—has shifted away from the minis­terial priesthood. What he previously may have understood in the abstract—that thousands of priests were ­laicized in the aftermath of Vatican II, seminaries emptied, and monasteries collapsed—he now begins to understand in the concrete, in the plain fact that in many parts of the country there simply aren’t enough priests. And even where there are enough priests, he notices that their sacramental importance has been de-emphasized, and distance introduced between them and their parishioners.

For example, after he consecrates the Eucharist, the priest in many parishes sits to one side while lay people distribute the sacrament to other lay people who, in turn, communicate themselves.

As for the sacrament of confession, in many parts of the country it has all but died out. One hour a week in most parishes is all the time allotted to confession, and even then, there is often nobody there. The consensus seems to be that the general confession in the Mass is sufficient; personal confession to a priest is no longer necessary.

Then, too, because the laity can distribute the Eucharist, they often carry it to the sick, where again, a traditional opportunity for confession—not to mention reception of the sacrament of the anointing of the sick—is lost. And as cremation becomes commonplace and even many Catholics scatter cremains, a growing number of Catholics now dispense with a Funeral Mass altogether, denying the priest even that last, traditional opportunity to exercise his ministry.

As for exorcism—a particular competency of a specially trained priest—many archdioceses no longer have an exorcist on staff. All of which leads one to wonder whether the priesthood is presently de-emphasized because there aren’t enough priests, or if there aren’t enough priests in part because their ministry is increasingly de-emphasized. It should be admitted, too, that there are priests who cooperate in their own marginalization: by refusing to visit the dying at night, for example, or to hear a confession outside the scheduled hour.

Meanwhile the laity, the state to which so many priests and religious reverted in the wake of the council, is everywhere in the ascendant. If the priest’s job description has shrunk, opportunities for the laity have expanded. The year 1987 was explicitly dedicated to the laity, but all the years since Vatican II could properly be called the Era of the Laity, when it has been widely announced that the laity have come into their own. They are the true Church of God, this line of reasoning goes; the ordained ministers are simply the supporting cast. It is the active apostolates that matter; contemplative life is disappearing because it has been outgrown.

Accordingly, the emphasis is no longer on the priesthood per se but on “the priesthood of all believers”; no longer on literal poverty but on “detachment”; no longer on virginity but on “chastity according to one’s station in life.” Marriage especially has been elevated in the Church’s preaching to a point where even well-formed Catholics now believe that it is equivalent to priesthood and religious life. Scriptures that challenge this view are either shrugged off (“Jesus didn’t mean that”) or reinterpreted and then applied in a spiritual or metaphorical sense to the laity.

At the same time, there has been a strong push to identify and canonize more lay and married saints, as if the small number of married saints relative to the number of canonized celibates were a function of prejudice rather than the fruit of an underlying truth. Among young intellectual Catholics, John Paul II’s Theology of the Body continues to be in vogue, at least those parts of it that line up with contemporary pieties. And as marriage and family life have been increasingly romanticized, the question is increasingly asked whether priests shouldn’t be allowed to marry, too, and the physical privileges of marriage universally enjoyed. Everywhere the emphasis in the Church is increasingly on natural rather than supernatural relationships, in a shift that amounts to a kind of supersessionism in reverse, as the natural or blood family, as in Judaism, comes to the fore.

It was in this Church, influenced both by Protestantism and the secular culture and ideologically primed for a final shrugging off of the priest, that the news of the clerical sexual abuse scandals surfaced. It was at this point, at the very end of the century Pope Leo XIII foresaw would be dire for the Church, that we learned that, devastating as was the vast exodus of priests and nuns after the council, the real problem wasn’t those who left but a small percentage of those who stayed, like Judas who stayed with Jesus even when many of Jesus’s other disciples fell away (John 6:60–71) in order to deliver the death blow from within.

In the chaos that followed, as waves of disbelief, fury, and grief swept through the Church, the surrounding culture, smelling blood, moved in for the kill. Now it could be openly expressed: hatred for the Catholic Church and her celibate hierarchy. Now the traditional script in which the celibate is belatedly vindicated by the holy fruits of his life could be torn up and replaced by a script that says that celibacy ends in depravity and asceticism doesn’t have to be affirmed at all.

In this script, celibacy isn’t an ideal but an abomination. It isn’t a harmless anachronism but an occasion and even a cause of sin. No one can be celibate, not even Jesus himself. The sexual fantasies that tempted Jesus in Martin Scorsese’s 1988 film The Last Temptation of Christ, Dan Brown’s 2003 novel The DaVinci Code treats as historical facts, suspensefully unearthed; and by 2013, in Mark Adamo’s opera The Gospel of Mary Magdalene, sex between Jesus and Mary Magdalene is simply a ho-hum given, with the Magdalene now Jesus’s teacher rather than the other way around (“Rabboni!”), as she initiates him into the mysteries of carnal love.

As for Jesus’s mother, the original celibate and contemplative in the Christian tradition—the one who, standing in the breach, delivered to the world the Christ she conceived from above—she, too, must be pulled down. If celibacy is the problem, Mary especially must be defamed and the Annunciation repudiated, because it was at the Annunciation, the hinge on which history turns, that a new principle of generation entered the world. In the past, when the Church was in disgrace, Mary was given a pass, but no longer. Now the blasphemies enumerated in the First Saturday Devotions from Fatima—Blasphemies against the Immaculate Conception, ­Blasphemies against [Mary’s] virginity, and so on—take on flesh.

If the blasphemers hesitate to attack Mary directly, indirect methods serve. If she isn’t credible as a villain, perhaps she may be credible as a victim. The Irish writer Colm Tóibín’s strategy, in his 2013 play and novel The Testament of Mary, is to have Mary desacralize herself. In her own words, in her “testimony,” she dismantles both her own reputation and Christianity’s. As she tells it, there was no Virgin Birth or Incarnation. There was no Resurrection. The disciples made it all up, for gain. They pressured and manipulated her, harassed and tormented her. Her contempt for these imaginary disciples is Tóibín’s own contempt for contemporary Irish priests, just as Thomas Cromwell’s attitude to English monks and nuns in Hilary ­Mantel’s novels Wolf Hall (2009) and Bring Up the Bodies (2012) is Mantel’s own attitude to Catholic celibacy, expressed through the character of Cromwell.

In these widespread contemporary attacks on the Church, vituperative outrage and blanket condemnations are the rule. In Peter Matthiessen’s 2014 novel In Paradise, it is taken for granted that Pius XII and the Vatican were responsible for the Holocaust. In the 2013 film Philomena, a lay person—Philomena herself, an unwed mother of a gay son—can be holy, but no priest or nun. Celibates by definition are monsters of hypocrisy and enemies of natural life.

Hilary Mantel, being a greater artist, plays a deeper game. In her acclaimed novels about ­Henry VIII’s England, Thomas More is her villain, as much for his hair shirt as his orthodoxy, and Thomas Cromwell her hero, the man who pulled down ­England’s monasteries. But outrage and self-righteous indignation are not Cromwell’s style. As Mantel conceives him, Cromwell is the future: the reasonable, practical, thoroughly secular man, the man in whom the religious impulse is finally dead. The passions of religion—the zeal of the reformers, the anguished scruples of More, even the ­attenuated orthodoxy of the king—leave him cold. Even contempt is too strong a word for his attitude to religion and those still deceived by it. As the revelations of clerical sin in our own day finally cease to shock, and anger and disbelief give way to disgust and contempt, ­Mantel, as Thomas Cromwell, proposes indifference as the last word, the final nail in the coffin of Catholic Christianity.

And the Church’s response to all of this? Because of the guilt of the few, she has been largely silent before her accusers. As the scandals have unfolded, she has scarcely attempted to defend celibacy. Instead, she has circled the wagons around marriage. Sometimes it seems as if all the idealism formerly attached to priesthood and religious life has now been transferred to marriage and the natural family. In my parish, the pews that emptied after the scandals have gradually filled up with large, homeschooling families. New rituals have appeared: a children’s offering at the offertory, a final blessing for children too young to receive Holy Communion. Mother’s Day and Father’s Day have become red-letter days in the Church, and not only weddings but even some proposals of marriage are undertaken with a pious solemnity formerly reserved for religious professions. And whereas St. Ignatius deemed marriage scarcely deserving of a vow, now, on a regular basis, married couples are invited to stand and renew their marriage vows en masse, in a ritual uncomfortably reminiscent of the mass weddings of Sun Myung Moon.

And still there is virtually no preaching on priesthood or religious life. There is talk of natural family planning more than of Jesus’s supernatural family, “born, not of blood nor of the will of the flesh nor of the will of man, but of God” (John 1:13). In the past, on Holy Thursday, the pastor washed the feet of other priests and lay brothers, witnessing to the truth that Jesus washed the feet of men who had left everything to follow him. Now, on Holy Thursday, he washes the feet of married men.

In the short run, it does no harm and possibly much good to try to strengthen monogamous, lifelong marriage. But to think that this is the answer to the Church’s problems is to think as man thinks rather than as God thinks. In the long run, if the vertical to which the horizontal relationship of marriage is ordered comes down, not only marriage but the Gospel itself will fall. When the Church stresses relationships between creatures more than the relationship of the individual to God—when she treats marriage as an end rather than as a seedbed for vocations—the Gospel message itself is compromised. The hard Paschal truths at the core of Christianity are suppressed: the truth that the natural family is never fully commensurate with Christ’s new family; the truth that a man’s enemies will be members of his own household (Matt. 10:36) and that in order to be Christ’s disciple he must hate not only father and mother, wife and children, but even his own life (Luke 14:26). And in the atmosphere of tribalism, human respect, and sentimentality that ensues, an illusion of human sufficiency creeps in, an illusion that, in our human strength, we can meet one another’s needs.

Recently I heard a sermon preached on the parable of the wise and foolish virgins. In Matthew’s parable, ten virgins go with their lamps to meet a bridegroom. The five wise virgins have oil for their lamps; the five foolish have none. When the bridegroom is near, the foolish ask the wise for oil, but the wise refuse them. Looking for oil elsewhere, the foolish are shut out from the feast. When they return and knock, the bridegroom says, “I do not know you” (Matt. 25:1–13).

The meaning of the parable is clear enough. It is about the vertical dimension of the Christian life: the primacy of the individual’s relationship to God and the limitations and final inadequacy of human relationships. The virgins who hold on to their oil are not condemned by Jesus; on the contrary, he calls them wise. The foolish show their foolishness both in their delinquency and in their attempt to get oil from the others. The “oil” that lights our human lamps—our fundamental fuel, if you will—comes from God. Like the oil of chrism in the sacrament of baptism, it signifies sanctifying grace, the gift of the Holy Spirit. This gift of grace we can receive only from God, either directly in prayer or sacramentally through his chosen ministers. We can neither give it to others, nor receive it from them. The high virtue of charity—“willing good to someone,” in ­Aquinas’s formulation—demands that we tell this truth. To ­attempt, instead, to do what the foolish demand of us—to try to be “nice,” in other words—or to make foolish demands ourselves, avails nothing. But the preacher, influenced, I dare say, by current trends in the Church, offered his own interpretation. “Here’s what I think,” he said. “They should have shared.”

For Catholics like myself, who at some point in our lives decamped to the Catholic Church from the lower horizon of Protestantism, these are discouraging times. It is disheartening, to say the least, to see the Church so infiltrated by the surrounding culture and so demoralized by the recent scandals that she is in danger of rejecting in her own life what is most decisively Catholic and selling for a mess of pottage her deepest mysteries and highest privileges.

Ideally, in the Church’s life, there is a ­continual interplay between marriage and celibacy, sensuality and asceticism, like the interplay in the creation ­between heat and cold, day and night, light and darkness, and so on, all of which rhythmic ­oppositions, in their alternating times and seasons, bless the Lord (Dan. 3:57–88). Even within marriage itself there were seasons of feasting and fasting, indulgence and abstinence, just as in the Church’s traditional attitude to marriage there was idealism but also a healthy skepticism, romance but also a bracing note of sardonic realism (“better to marry than burn”), that paradoxically served marriage well. In fact, it was by downplaying earthly marriage and ordering it to what was greater and eternal that the Church ensured marriage’s health, tamping down ­unrealistic expectations and not placing on marriage a weight greater than it was intended to bear.

In our relational lives there is only one absolute good, and that is our relationship to God, a good denied to no one, lay or religious, who seeks it, prioritizes it, sacrifices for it, holds fast to it. Relative goods, on the other hand—including health and success, marriage and children—man cannot demand. God dispenses relative goods as he sees fit, in order to help man find his way to the final good of eternal life with him.

But in our culture, and increasingly in the Church itself, marriage is not regarded as a means but an end. It is not considered a relative but an absolute good, and therefore a right. The usual solution or sequel to widowhood or divorce in our day isn’t a late religious vocation or a salubrious solitude, but more marriage, or more venery in Roger Angell’s phrase in a recent essay in the New Yorker: “More venery. More love; more closeness; more sex and romance. Bring it back, no matter what, no matter how old we are.” In a climate like this—a climate for which the Church bears a certain responsibility, given her abuse of the grace of celibacy and her disproportionate enthusiasm for marriage—what does the Church say to homosexual persons who wish to marry? What does she say, for that matter, to the invalidly remarried who want to receive the Eucharist and are dumbfounded by the suggestion that they forgo sexual relations in order to do so? Should we be surprised that in a culture that so privileges marriage over celibacy, many Catholics now assume that the Eucharist is ordered to marriage rather than the other way around—that the choice for marriage is primary, in other words, and the ­Eucharist simply a secondary enhancement?

Once marriage is understood to be an absolute good and a right, it becomes very difficult to explain why, in certain circumstances, the goods of marriage have to be set aside. When the Church herself doesn’t value celibacy at its true value, it is all but impossible to recommend celibacy to others. The less robust and exemplary the celibate example in the Church, the more the idea spreads that the choice for God costs nothing. The less celibacy is apprehended and lived as a grace, the more it begins to be thought of as a punishment.

In the long run, undervaluing celibacy is a suicidal path for the Church. But already certain individuals suffer grave harm from the depreciation. For the individual, nothing is more important than the choice of vocation. Nothing is more important than that he find his true path in life, the path that God has marked out for him. When a vocation is correctly discerned, even its most formidable challenges can be met; when mistaken, even its ordinary burdens may prove hard to bear. Accordingly, one of the most important responsibilities of the Church is to help people discern their vocations. But in a time like the present, when at best an equivalency is assumed between marriage and celibacy, and at worst celibacy is implicitly or even explicitly devalued, what happens to the individual who is actually called to celibate priesthood or religious life? How is his capacity to respond to God’s call—especially the call to sacrifice sexual goods—affected by a widespread insinuation that such a sacrifice is unnecessary, that there is no special benefit to celibacy, and as far as sanctity goes, as good a result can be had from marriage?

At this point, we have entered what von Balthasar calls “the zone of the ambivalent,” in which people offer to God things good in themselves, but not the things God has actually asked of them. Such evasions are perennial temptations for the Christian. Indeed, one could paint the whole history of Christianity as “the history of all the things [Christians] offer to God as substitutes in order to escape the act of real faith.” So the question must be asked, whether the Church in our day is enabling and even encouraging such evasions by not telling the whole truth about vocations.

In the past, in Christian cultures, a paradigmatic movement can be traced, in the collective psyche if not across actual terrain, from the world to the monastery. In our time, the paradigmatic movement has been from the monastery to the world. Following the general migration in the Church, various novels and memoirs have followed individuals from religion to lay life: Kathryn Hulme’s 1956 novel The Nun’s Story, for example; or Karen Armstrong’s 1981 memoir Through the Narrow Gate; or Colum McCann’s 2009 novel Let the Great World Spin, in which a male character who has taken religious vows is eventually brought to bed by a woman. On the face of it, these narratives reject the austerities of religion. But on a deeper level they turn out to be spiritual tragedies, their predominant note not one of triumphalism, but of sadness. Even in a culture like our own, in which the propaganda runs all one way, the ideals of religious life, like the virgin martyrs themselves, turn out to be hard to kill.

In the Catholic Church the whole truth abides. All truth has been entrusted to the Church, according to Jesus’s promise (John 16:13). Whether or not a given truth finds expression in a particular time or place is not finally important. What is important is that neglected truths remain in the Church’s treasury, like recessive genes, waiting for favorable conditions or an auspicious hour in which to express themselves.

The wait may be long. Blessed John Henry ­Newman, in an 1850 sermon on the occasion of the restoration of the Catholic hierarchy in England, described a wait of three hundred years. But when the three hundred years were over, “the Church came forth not changed in aspect or voice, as calm and keen, as vigorous and as well furnished as when [the prison doors] closed on her.”

In the Church’s treasury, along with other neg­lected truths, the truth of the preeminence of her celibate vocations is still there. It is there in the relevant Church documents, for anyone and everyone to read. It is there in Catholic literature and in the example and writings of the saints. It is there in the story of Jane de Chantal, who famously stepped over her own son on her way to founding the Visitation Order, or the example of Jacques and Raïssa Maritain, who, like many others in the Church’s history, took a vow of celibacy during their marriage. It is there in the sensus fidei, or “supernatural sense of faith” of the whole people of God, who in our day beatified by acclamation (“Santo subito!”) not lay or married people as the Congregation for the Causes of Saints might have preferred, but John Paul II and Mother Teresa of Calcutta, a celibate priest and a celibate nun.

Finally and most consistently, the truth about the evangelical counsels is there in certain passages of Scripture, proclaimed in their turn at Mass, as the cycles of readings require. Year after year, whether convenient or inconvenient, whether faithfully ­expounded or passed over in embarrassment, the relevant Scriptures are read—“Follow me, and let the dead bury their own dead” (Matt. 8:22); “It is well . . . to remain single” (1 Cor. 7:8); “You lack one thing; go, sell what you have and give to the poor” (Mark 10:21)—and men and women respond, in diminishing numbers for many years, but now again in greater strength.

Relative to the laity, priests and religious will always be few, even where vocations increase. It is inevitable that they be few, because the demands placed on the celibate are beyond the reach of most men. Yet it is on the example of the few that the rest of the Church depends: for the sacraments, in the case of the priest, but also for a visible witness to the contemplative foundation of every Christian existence. We live in a world where Freudian ideas still hold sway, including the idea that religion is a sublimation of sex. The celibate, by his example, proposes a truth exactly opposite: that every other love, every lesser love, is a sublimated form of the love of God.

In the greatest saints, these sublimated forms fade away into the mysterious, unmediated brightness of God himself. Padre Pio of Pietrelcina was not a philosopher like John Paul II or a lawyer like Thomas More; he was not a teacher like Elizabeth Ann Seton or a subtle theologian like Thérèse of Lisieux. He was a religious and a priest, an alter Christus even to the wounds in his hands, feet, and side. Coarse and unsophisticated as he was, in his person the vertical of the cross—the love of God above all created things—was manifest. Writing to a friend after a visit to San Giovanni Rotondo monastery, Don Giuseppe De Luca, an Italian historian of Christian spirituality, shared his impressions of the wounded friar:

Padre Pio, dear Papini, is a sickly, ignorant Capuchin, very much the crude southerner. And yet (bear in mind that besides making confession to him, I also dined with him and we spent a great deal of time together), and yet—God is with him, that fearful God that we glimpse in revery and which he has in his soul, unbearably hot, and in his flesh, which trembles constantly . . . as if battered by ever more powerful gales. I truly saw the holy there, holiness not of action but of passion, the holiness that God expresses. Although he is a man of very meager intelligence, he offered me two or three words that I have never found on the lips of other men, and not even (and this is harder to admit) in the books of the Church. . . . There is nothing of ordinary spirituality about him, nor is there anything extraordinarily miraculous, stunning, or showy; there is merely intelligentia spiritualis, a free gift from God. And there is a passion, even a human passion, for God, dear Papini, that is so beautiful, so ravishingly sweet that I can’t tell you. The love of woman and the love of ideas are nothing by comparison, they are things that do not go beyond a certain point, whether near or far. While the love of God, how, I do not know, burns, and the more it burns the more it finds to burn. I have the absolutely certain sensation that God and man have met in this person.

Article written by Patricia Snow