#to think that the president is the most powerful and the most in control of choices is…deeply uneducated

[lifeofpriya]

ethics of first introductions - Jack Draper

[gif credit goes to @pyotrkochetkov]

a/n: let's see if i still remember how to do this, y'all 😉 the reader is feminine fyi

summary: the journey of you and Jack going from being academic rivals to lovers...

You meet Jack Draper at a planning meeting you absolutely didn’t want to attend.

It’s a Thursday evening, mid-Hilary term, and the air in the Christ Church seminar room is thick with the kind of overachiever energy that makes your teeth itch. You’re here because you’re the Deputy Chair of the Oxford Business Society, and the powers that be thought it’d be good optics to co-host a “multi-disciplinary symposium” with The Grey Society—a justice-focused academic group known for its moody event posters, borderline cultish membership, and one extremely photogenic president.

You’re here for logistics. For running orders and keynote placement. What you’re not here for is the tall, brooding criminology major who shows up fifteen minutes late with a decaf cappuccino, damp curls, and exactly zero apologies.

“Sorry,” he says, voice low, accent clipped and soft around the edges. “Tutorial ran long.”

He doesn’t look sorry.

You glance up from your laptop just long enough to clock him—tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a grey quarter-zip that fits entirely too well. He drops into the seat across from you like it’s the only one that could hold him, unzips his backpack, and pulls out a battered leather notebook instead of a laptop.

Of course he uses a notebook. Of course he’s that guy.

You clear your throat. “We’ve already gone over the proposed agenda.”

He looks up at you then—hazel eyes, lashes criminally full, the fringe of his damp hair falling into one of them. There’s a faint lazy drift in his left eye. Almost imperceptible. Like he’s listening with one part of himself and thinking about something else entirely with the other.

“Can you catch me up?” he asks.

You blink. “It’s literally projected on the screen.”

Someone coughs. Possibly laughs. He doesn’t flinch. Just blinks slowly, like he’s waiting for you to concede, and dammit—you kind of do.

You walk him through it, brisk and clinical, eyes darting between your bullet points and the infuriating calm on his face. He listens like he’s reading you, not the slide—head tilted, one thumb brushing the rim of his coffee cup, expression unreadable.

When you finish, he nods once. Then: “I’d suggest we rework the second panel. Two of your speakers are industry, not academic.”

“They’re alumni. From Saïd Business School,” you counter, already bristling.

“They’re still industry,” he says evenly. “The panel’s titled ‘Justice and Power in Policy Design.’ Unless we’re letting VPs define carceral ethics now?”

Your jaw tightens. You don’t look at the chair. You don’t look at anyone. You look at him.

“They’ve both worked on cross-sector justice initiatives,” you say coolly. “And one of them is funding the event. So unless The Grey Society’s running on moral superiority and air, I’d rethink your tone.”

That gets a reaction. Just a flicker—a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile. More like interest.

You hate him immediately.

You hate the way he sits, like he’s already won the debate. You hate the calm in his voice. You hate how good his forearms look when he crosses them. And most of all? You hate that you know, in your gut, you’re going to see him again.

Because of course you are.

This is Oxford.

And boys like Jack Draper? They always show up when you least expect it—and just when you start thinking you’ve got everything under control.

You try not to think about him after that first meeting.

---

You file him under Pretentious Academic Men You’ll Tolerate for the Sake of the Event, sandwiched neatly between the philosophy bro who once quoted Nietzsche at brunch and the PPE guy who only emails in bullet points and vibes. Jack Draper? He’s just another bullet. Another scheduling problem. Another mildly attractive obstacle with an Oxford ego and a veiny forearm problem.

And yet.

You see him again four days later—in the cloisters, of all places. You’re on your way to a one-on-one with your business ethics tutor, already drafting talking points in your head, when you catch a flash of movement in your peripheral vision. Hoodie up, joggers slung low on those unfairly sculpted hips, headphones in. Jack. Draper.

He’s standing alone, back against the stone archway, flipping through the same leather notebook from the meeting. No laptop. No coffee. Just him and the echo of silence that clings to old buildings and overthinkers.

You slow for a beat. Watch him underline something. Then pause. Then stare into the distance like he’s trying to argue with a thought before it fully forms.

He doesn’t see you. Not at first.

But the second you start walking again, your heels clicking against centuries-old stone, his head lifts.

One second. That’s all it takes.

One slow upward glance. One flick of his fringe. One soft, knowing raise of his eyebrow that says, You again.

You don’t stop. But you nod.

It’s barely perceptible—more instinct than greeting. A motion that means I’m not impressed, but I see you. He nods back, jaw tightening like he’s holding in something too complicated to say in passing.

You keep walking.

But the air feels different now.

Later that week, your inbox pings with a revision to the event program. A Google Doc edit suggestion—anonymous, but you know it’s him. The phrasing is too specific. The notes too meticulous. He’s rewritten your transition paragraph with the kind of precision that reads like a challenge.

You accept the edit. Then leave a comment:

“Not bad. For a criminologist.”

The reply comes ten minutes later.

“Didn’t realize business students had a sense of humor.”

You don’t smile. Not outwardly, anyway.

---

The email says 8 p.m., but Jack shows up at 7:47.

You’re already in the study room at Christ Church—half out of your blazer, shoes kicked off, surrounded by sticky notes, an open laptop, and a greasy brown paper bag that definitely doesn’t count as a proper dinner. The room smells like curry and cold air. Your fourth cup of tea has gone lukewarm.

When the door creaks open, you don’t look up right away. You’re bracing for one of the other society members, maybe your painfully chipper co-chair who insists on saying “synergy” with a straight face.

Instead, it’s him.

Hoodie. Joggers. A copy of The Ethics of Policing in the Modern State tucked under one arm. And in his other hand?

Takeaway. Two bags. One visibly leaking.

He says nothing, just kicks the door shut with the side of his foot and drops everything onto the table like it’s not a whole statement.

You blink. “What’s that?”

“Didn’t think you’d eaten,” he says, matter-of-fact, pulling out napkins like it’s not the most quietly thoughtful thing a man has ever done in the middle of an academic turf war.

“I did,” you lie.

“You didn’t.” He unwraps a container and slides it toward you. “Eat before you turn feral.”

You narrow your eyes. “You bring all your enemies dinner?”

He doesn’t flinch. “Only the ones who fight fair.”

It’s too warm in the room all of a sudden. Or maybe it’s just you.

You pick at the rice. He cracks open a bottle of sparkling water and starts editing the run-of-show with a red pen like he’s marking up a crime scene. You watch the way he presses the cap to his lower lip between thoughts. The way his fringe falls forward when he leans over your laptop to scroll.

There’s a tension in him—not the sharp kind from the meeting, but something heavier. Slower. Like he’s holding something back, not out of arrogance, but out of habit.

You steal a glance at his notebook, open beside him.

The margins are full of phrases. Not notes. Not bullet points. Sentences. Thoughts. Most of them crossed out. One isn’t.

"Not everything broken needs to be punished."

You don’t comment. But your eyes linger long enough that he notices.

“Draft title,” he says quietly. “Essay I haven’t started.”

You nod. Then softer: “It’s good.”

He shrugs one shoulder. Stares at the page. Doesn’t look at you when he says, “It’s not done.”

Neither are you.

Neither is this.

And when you both leave the study room that night—him holding the door, you pretending not to notice how close his hand comes to the small of your back—you already know:

You’re going to see him again. Not because you have to.

Because you want to.

And that, somehow, is the most dangerous part of all.

---

It happens by accident.

You weren’t supposed to be on the second floor of the library that late, and he sure as hell wasn’t supposed to be in your corner—the half-forgotten alcove near the theology stacks, the one you claimed in first year and never gave up. But when you round the corner with a thick text on behavioral finance pressed to your chest, there he is.

Jack Draper.

Cross-legged on the carpet like he’s forgotten chairs exist, back against the cold stone wall, one knee bouncing under a grey hoodie with the Christ Church crest half-faded. There’s no laptop. No tennis bag. Just a paperback—creased spine, battered corners—balanced in one hand.

And in the other?

His phone, screen still glowing with a message he hasn’t quite put down. His thumb hovers over it. His face is too still.

You don’t mean to stare. But something about the way he’s sitting—shoulders curved in, head tipped back against the stone like it’s holding him up—stops you.

“You okay?” you ask, voice quieter than you meant it to be.

He startles slightly. Then exhales. “Didn’t think anyone came up here this late.”

“I do.”

He doesn’t answer.

You sit down next to him.

Not close. Not touching. Just enough that he knows you’re there.

For a while, the only sound is the hum of the library lights and the muted shuffle of pages somewhere two floors down. Jack doesn’t move. He’s not tense, not exactly. Just… stuck. Like a system mid-reboot.

You glance down at the book. The Body Keeps the Score.

And suddenly you know.

You nod toward the phone still lit in his hand. “Want to talk about it?”

He doesn’t. But he does.

He shifts slightly, setting the phone down face-down. Rubs the heel of his palm against his jaw like it’s habit. Then finally, softly:

“My mum sent me a voice note.”

You wait.

“She was asking if I’d had dinner. Said she was making chicken pie. Offered to drop some off if I came home this weekend.”

His voice isn’t breaking. It’s not even cracking. It’s too quiet for that. But there’s something brittle underneath, like glass with one line too many.

“She does that,” he adds. “Still.”

You nod, unsure if he wants silence or solidarity.

“She was the one who stayed,” he continues, thumb tracing the seam of his hoodie sleeve. “When things went to shit. When my dad…” His jaw flexes. “It was messy. Loud. And she just… held the rest together. Like always.”

You think of the way he carries himself. The stillness. The order. The control he clings to like a second skin.

“She’s the reason I don’t flinch when things get bad,” he says. “But also the reason I feel like I have to keep everything together all the time. Like if I don’t, I’m letting her down.”

Your throat aches.

You want to tell him that’s not how it works. That she’d be proud even if he unraveled. That she probably knows he’s trying.

Instead, you reach over and rest your fingers on his knee. Light. Barely there.

He doesn’t move. But he lets you.

A beat.

Then he speaks again—barely above a whisper.

“I don’t talk about my dad much.”

You say nothing.

“I used to try to be like him,” he says. “Sharp. Strategic. Untouchable.”

Another pause.

“I hated it.”

The words hang there, raw and unpolished, and for once Jack Draper doesn’t try to clean them up.

He just breathes.

And you sit with him in the quiet, not trying to fix it. Just there.

His knee stops bouncing.

His thumb goes still.

And when he finally turns his head to look at you, something in his expression has softened—like maybe, just maybe, he’s starting to believe he doesn’t have to do this alone.

You don’t say anything when he stands.

You just gather your things quietly, slinging your bag over your shoulder and watching as he presses the book closed without marking the page. He doesn’t need a bookmark, you realize. He remembers the exact spot. Of course he does.

The walk back to college is slow. It’s cold out—crisp, as the BBC weather app calls it—but he doesn’t zip his hoodie. Just lets it hang open, sleeves pushed up like always, forearms catching the light from the occasional lamp post.

You don’t talk much. The silence between you isn’t awkward anymore. It’s something steadier. Something earned.

You reach Christ Church’s outer gate, where your paths usually split.

Jack hesitates.

Then, without looking at you: “Can I walk you all the way in?”

You nod, heart thudding like you’ve just sprinted a court.

He follows a step behind, hand brushing yours once. Twice. The third time, you don’t move it. Neither does he. His pinky grazes yours on purpose now—soft, tentative, like he’s asking in a language only skin understands.

At your door, you unlock it slowly.

He doesn’t move to go. Doesn’t step forward either.

You turn, hand still on the knob. “Thanks for walking me.”

He nods once. Swallows. “Thanks for… earlier.”

And just before you step inside—barely louder than the breeze—he says your name.

You look up.

His eyes are soft. Vulnerable. That lazy left-eye drift more noticeable in the dark. He’s not hiding anymore.

“Night,” he says, like it means more than just sleep.

It does.

You don’t plan it. Not really.

---

It’s three days later, and he’s just finished a brutal match against Cambridge—won it in straight sets but looked emotionally frayed the whole way through. You watched from the stands, perched on the edge of the back row, heart in your throat every time he clenched his jaw or shook out his wrist like he was trying to shake off something heavier than pain.

You know better now. You know what that weight looks like.

So later, when you show up outside his flat just off High Street, it’s not with flowers or a pep talk.

It’s with a still-warm pie in a paper carrier bag, a small Tupperware of mashed potatoes, and a sticky note that just says:

“Because your mum would’ve brought you one. And you deserve that.”

You knock once.

The door creaks open slower than usual.

He’s in a hoodie and sweats, damp curls flattened from a post-match shower, his brow furrowed like he’s bracing for bad news.

Then he sees the bag.

Then the note.

And then you.

And something in his face just… drops.

Not in a bad way.

Not like he’s breaking.

But like something heavy inside him is finally loosening its grip.

He takes the bag with both hands, like it’s sacred.

Like it might fall apart if he’s not careful.

His voice is quieter than you’ve ever heard it when he says, “She used to write me notes like that.”

You smile. “I figured.”

He stands there for a second too long.

Then sets the bag down on the hall table and—without thinking, without checking—wraps his arms around you. Full, solid, silent. Just pulls you in and holds you like it’s the only way to stay standing.

He smells like clean soap and steam and quiet exhaustion. His heart beats steady against your cheek.

And when you finally pull back, his eyes are glassy, but clear.

“You’re not her,” he says softly.

You nod. “I know.”

“But you… remind me of the best parts.”

You lean up and press a kiss to the side of his neck, right where it creases when he bends over a serve, right where warmth lives when he thinks no one’s watching.

He breathes in like it anchors him.

And when he whispers, “Thank you,” it’s not just for the pie.

It’s for the space you gave him to be this version of himself—tender, tired, trying.

And loved anyway.

---

The Grey Society Gala is always held at the end of Hilary term.

The kind of event that drips with Oxford pretension—black-tie only, formal speeches, strings of fairy lights woven through the vaulted hall like an attempt to make ancient stone feel romantic instead of cold. There’s a string quartet tuning in the corner, glasses clinking softly as trays of wine float past on white-gloved hands.

You arrive precisely ten minutes late, which is exactly on time in Oxford social code. Your heels click steadily over the flagstone floor, your dress hugging in all the right places, and your hair swept up just enough to say: Yes, I’m accomplished. And yes, I can kill you with a single glance.

Jack sees you before you see him.

He’s standing near the dais, one hand wrapped loosely around a water glass, the other tucked into his trouser pocket like he doesn’t know what else to do with it. He’s in a perfectly tailored tux—black bow tie, crisp white shirt, Grey Society pin glittering subtly on his lapel.

But the second you walk in, he stops pretending to care about any of it.

You don’t see the shift, but the room does.

The way his posture stills. The way his jaw goes a little slack. The way his eyes track you like gravity just made a personal request.

You don’t look at him until you’re halfway across the room, laughing at something your flatmate says, fingers brushing a champagne flute as you accept it without thinking.

Then—then—you feel it.

That thing.

That magnetic pull across the air between you.

You glance up.

And there he is.

Standing still, shoulders tense, staring at you like you’ve just rewritten the terms of his existence.

There are dozens of people around. Music. Conversation. Formalwear and floral centerpieces and polished Oxford confidence in every corner.

But he’s only looking at you.

Not in a wow, you clean up nice way. Not even in a you look beautiful way.

He looks at you like you’re the final answer to a question he’s been trying not to ask all term.

Like if he says anything now, it might ruin him.

You hold his gaze for three full seconds.

Then tilt your head.

Smile, just a little.

And walk away.

Later, after the speeches and the toasts and the poorly executed attempt at a group photo, you find yourself outside under the archway, heels dangling from your fingers and the cool night air brushing your skin like a sigh.

Jack finds you there.

You don’t hear him approach, but you feel it—his presence, his pause, the way he always seems to need one extra moment before deciding it’s okay to be seen.

“Wasn’t sure you’d come,” he says finally, voice low and a little hoarse.

You glance sideways. “Why wouldn’t I?”

He shrugs, looking out across the quad. “It’s not really your crowd.”

“No,” you agree, watching him out of the corner of your eye. “But you are.”

That stops him cold.

He turns, slowly, and looks at you like he doesn’t know what to do with that much truth in one sentence.

You don’t touch him. You don’t have to.

Because the way he’s looking at you now?

You’ve already got him.

And he knows it.

You’re not a dancer.

You’ve said it. Repeatedly. Loudly. In writing. And still—here you are, standing under the stained glass of the Christ Church hall as the quartet eases into something achingly slow, and Jack Draper is holding out his hand like it’s a question with only one right answer.

He doesn’t say a word.

Just looks at you like please and don’t make me beg are interchangeable.

You take his hand.

The room softens around you. Just enough space between bodies for quiet things to happen unnoticed.

Jack isn’t showy. His hand fits against your waist like he’s been practicing. His other holds yours a little too gently, like he’s afraid he might break the spell.

You dance in half-steps and slow glances, turning so slowly it feels like floating. His palm is warm against your spine. His breath hits your cheek when he exhales through his nose.

No one says anything.

No one needs to.

Because in this moment—this still, golden sliver of borrowed time—it feels like all your fights and tension and arguments were just elaborate foreplay for this one truth:

You were always going to end up here.

With him.

In his arms.

Letting go.

Later, much later, you’re in his room.

The tux jacket is draped over the back of a chair. His bowtie is untied, hanging loose around his neck. His sleeves are rolled up to the elbows, and his curls are a little too soft from running his hands through them on the walk home.

You’re sitting on the edge of his bed, feet bare, dress unzipped halfway, your heels long forgotten by the door.

He sits beside you, close but not touching, that familiar Jack Draper silence wrapping around the two of you like a secret.

Then slowly—so slowly—he lifts your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles.

Not performative. Not flirty.

Just… reverent.

His lips linger longer than necessary, like he’s memorizing the shape of your bones.

Then he shifts—leans in—presses a kiss to your temple. One hand cupping your jaw. His thumb brushing just beneath your cheekbone.

Still nothing on the lips.

Still so much more than nothing.

His voice is soft when he says, “You’re the only thing this term that hasn’t felt like pressure.”

You breathe in. You don’t breathe out.

And then his mouth finds your shoulder.

The bare skin there.

The place where your dress has slipped slightly lower than it should’ve.

It’s not a kiss.

It’s a confession.

One that lands so gently it breaks you anyway.

It’s late now. The window is cracked. His room smells like rain and aftershave and melted candle wax.

He’s changed into a hoodie and joggers. You’re wearing one of his old tennis tees and a pair of sweats that are too big but somehow feel like armor.

You’re lying on your sides, facing each other. There’s a six-inch gap between you and not enough air in the whole city.

“I don’t want term to end,” he says suddenly, voice wrecked from disuse.

You blink. “What?”

“I mean it.” His fingers twitch against the sheet. “Everyone’s going home. Internships. Family plans. Term ends and things… change.”

You study him.

His mouth is tight. His eyes are tired. His hand is fisting the blanket like it’s holding him here.

“I don’t want to go back to being the guy who doesn’t know how to let people in,” he says.

Your breath catches.

“I don’t want to go back to being someone who doesn’t have this.”

Your voice, when it comes, is a whisper. “What is this, Jack?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Then finally: “It’s the first thing in a long time that feels like mine.”

You don’t hesitate.

You close the space. Not with a kiss.

But with your forehead against his. Your hands curled around his wrist. Your voice, soft against his lips:

“Then don’t let it go.”

And for the first time in his whole overachieving, overthinking, overwound life—

He doesn’t.

You wake up first.

The curtains are half-open, letting in the slow, honeyed light of a Sunday morning. It pools across the bed like spilled tea, warm and gentle. Jack’s arm is thrown across your waist, his fingers curled loosely at your side like he fell asleep mid-reach and forgot to let go.

His breath is steady. His curls are a riot against the pillow. There’s a smudge of sleep still beneath one eye.

You don’t move.

You just lie there and watch the way the early light softens him. The angles of his jaw. The quiet curve of his mouth. The fact that even in sleep, he’s holding on.

His hand twitches slightly. You feel it before you hear the tiny, instinctive murmur from his chest.

He shifts.

And then his voice—raspy, low, barely awake:

“You staring at me?”

You smile into his hoodie sleeve. “No.”

“Liar.”

He cracks one eye open, sees you smiling, and sighs like he’s already done for.

“You drool a little,” you whisper.

“I’m choosing not to hear that.”

“You’re the little spoon now,” you add.

“Shut up.”

He buries his face in your shoulder.

You let him.

---

The problem isn’t that you’re seated across from him in a shared discussion.

The problem is that Jack Draper is looking at you like he remembers.

Like he’s replaying the way you curled into his chest last night. Like he can still feel your laugh pressed into his throat. Like his fingers are itching to reach back across the seminar table and tug your sleeve just to make sure you’re real.

You try to stay focused.

You try to care about incentive structures in economic theory.

But your pen slips mid-note when he shifts in his seat and stretches—biceps flexing, jaw ticking slightly as he cracks his neck.

You don’t mean to glance at him.

But you do.

And he knows.

His mouth twitches—just the barest, smug little smile.

You write “YOU’RE DISTRACTING.” in block capitals on your notepad and angle it toward him.

He glances down.

Then leans over slightly and slides your pen from your fingers just to underline it.

Twice.

You kick him under the table.

He grins.

The tutor pauses mid-sentence, glances between the two of you, and sighs like they’re trying to decide whether to separate you or get a dissertation out of the tension.

---

It’s the week before Easter break when he asks.

Not dramatically. Not nervously. Just—quietly.

“You want to come to Surrey with me?”

You blink. “What, like… meet your mum?”

He nods. “Yeah.”

A beat.

“You don’t have to,” he adds. “But I want you to.”

You go.

And it’s nothing like you expected.

Nicky Draper opens the door in an apron, flour on her cheek and a smile in her eyes that reminds you instantly of Jack—just warmer. Softer. The kind of smile that says I know who you are already, and I’m glad you’re here.

She hugs you before you’ve even made it inside.

Jack looks mildly scandalized.

You sit at the kitchen table while she bakes. She talks about books. About gardening. About Jack as a toddler, wild curls and no patience. She tells you he used to cry when people raised their voices—not out of fear, but because he didn’t like the sound of anger.

Your chest aches.

She asks about you—gently, curiously, like she actually wants to know. Like you’re someone she’s been waiting to meet.

At one point, she pulls out a photo album.

Jack groans audibly. “Mum.”

You don’t stop her.

He disappears to “help with the dog” halfway through. You find him twenty minutes later, sitting in the garden, knees pulled up, elbows resting there.

He doesn’t look up right away.

When he does, his eyes are softer than the sky behind him.

“She likes you,” he says.

You sit beside him on the grass. “Yeah?”

“She doesn’t like many people.”

You nudge his knee. “Must run in the family.”

He laughs under his breath.

And when he kisses you this time—slow, unhurried, a little like relief—it feels like more than just a kiss.

It feels like belonging.

Like this is what it means to be known.

To be kept.

To be loved in the quietest, most devastating way.

---

It’s the Trinity term ball, and the theme is A Midsummer Night’s Dream—which means soft fairy lights, fog machines no one asked for, and just enough garden chaos that your heels are already sinking into the lawn before you’ve even made it to the drinks tent.

Your dress is navy and slinky and devastating.

Jack told you so. Repeatedly. With his mouth, mostly. All over your neck when you got ready in his room and insisted on doing your own eyeliner because he’s “too distracting.”

You were right.

But now, standing under the canopy of wisteria and champagne flutes, you realize he’s the one who should’ve issued a warning.

Because Jack Draper in a tailored midnight suit, white shirt unbuttoned just enough to show collarbone and intent? He’s lethal.

To everyone else, he looks the same—calm, aloof, maybe a little bored. The tennis player who doesn’t party much. The criminology major who’s always watching.

But you know the difference now.

You know when he’s really watching.

And tonight?

He’s watching you.

From across the dance floor.

Because someone else has you laughing.

He doesn’t even know the guy’s name—just another third-year from Somerville, tie slightly askew, leaning in too close as he tells you some story that’s clearly meant to impress.

You’re not flirting. You’re not doing anything wrong.

But Jack’s jaw ticks anyway.

Because you’re laughing in a way that makes your shoulders shake. Because the guy reaches out—hand brushing your arm like it’s casual. Like he has the right.

Jack doesn’t move right away.

Just sips his drink. Sets it down. Rolls his shoulders back like he’s shaking off something tighter than tension.

And then he crosses the floor.

Not fast. Not confrontational.

Just… decisive.

You catch him from the corner of your eye—his silhouette cutting through the haze like heat in human form.

You know that walk. That look.

Your heart skips.

“Hey,” the other guy is saying, “you want to—”

“She’s with me,” Jack says.

Not loud. Not rude.

Just final.

You turn. Your breath catches.

Because he’s looking at you—not possessively. Not arrogantly.

But like he’s already lost you in his head and can’t bear the thought of it.

You step toward him before you can stop yourself.

He meets you halfway.

“You good?” you ask, voice quiet.

He nods. Doesn’t let go of your hand. His thumb strokes across your knuckles once, twice, like he’s grounding himself.

Then, softer than you expect: “You looked happy.”

Your breath stutters. “I was laughing at a bad pun.”

“I know,” he says.

Pause.

Then he leans in, lips brushing your temple.

“You can talk to whoever you want,” he murmurs, “but don’t smile at anyone like that unless it’s me.”

You glance up. “Jealousy looks weird on you.”

“I hate it,” he admits.

You smile.

He kisses you.

Right there on the edge of the dance floor, with the fog curling around your ankles and music swelling behind you and every pair of eyes pretending not to look.

He kisses you like a promise.

Like a warning to the universe.

Like he’s done pretending you don’t own him.

---

It doesn’t happen during a kiss.

It doesn’t happen at some glamorous event or under a string of fairy lights or even in bed.

It happens in Jack’s room, two weeks before finals.

You’re both exhausted. He’s pacing.

There are papers everywhere—notes scattered across the floor, half-empty mugs, one of your hoodies crumpled on the edge of his desk chair. Jack’s wearing a grey tee and navy joggers, hair pushed back from his face in frustrated sweeps. You’re sitting cross-legged on his bed with your laptop open, trying to revise but watching him unravel.

He’s muttering to himself—something about his dissertation conclusion not “flowing.” Which you’ve already told him is a lie, because you’ve read it, and it’s brilliant. But he doesn’t believe you. Not really. Not when it comes to himself.

You call his name.

He doesn’t hear it.

You call it again.

Still pacing.

So you get up, cross the room, and gently catch his wrist mid-step.

“Jack.”

That gets him.

His eyes snap to yours, and you feel it—all of it. The weight. The pressure. The fear that somehow, despite everything, he still won’t be enough.

“Come here,” you whisper.

You pull him to the bed, make him sit, fold his long legs in beside yours. You take his hands in yours, steady and soft, anchoring him.

And that’s when it happens.

He exhales—slow, shaky. His shoulders slump. He’s quiet for a moment.

Then he looks up at you like he’s been holding it in for days. Weeks. Maybe all term.

And he just says it.

“I love you.”

No warning. No buildup. No poetic preamble.

Just Jack Draper, cracking wide open with three words that sound like surrender.

Your breath catches.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t look away.

“I didn’t mean to say it like that,” he adds, voice breaking slightly. “Not while I’m spiraling. Not when I’ve got coffee breath and—”

You cut him off with a hand to his cheek.

Your thumb brushes along his jaw, and you feel the tension bleed out under your touch.

“Say it again,” you whisper.

He swallows.

“I love you.”

Quieter this time. But stronger.

Like he means it even more now that it’s out.

You smile. And then you say it back.

Not because you feel like you have to.

But because you’ve known it for weeks. Maybe since that first study session. Maybe since the chicken pie. Maybe since the second he let you in.

“I love you, Jack.”

His eyes close.

And when he kisses you—slow, reverent, nothing hurried about it—it’s not about claiming or proving or winning.

It’s about knowing.

Knowing you’re safe. Knowing he’s safe. Knowing this—you—isn’t just something good.

---

It doesn’t happen the night he says I love you.

It happens days later.

After the adrenaline has worn off and the words have sunk in and been said again, and again, and again—quietly, like a new language you’re both still learning.

It’s late.

There’s music playing low from your laptop, some lo-fi playlist that’s been looping for hours while you both pretended to study.

You’re curled up in his bed. He’s reading something over your shoulder—technically an article, but you can’t focus. Not when he’s tracing lazy shapes along your spine like it’s reflex. Like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it.

You roll over to face him.

He sets the article aside.

Neither of you speaks.

The air is thick with something that’s not tension—just weight. History. Want.

You kiss him.

And this time, you don’t stop.

Clothes come off slowly. Reverently. Like you’re unwrapping something sacred. You laugh when he gets tangled in your straps. He exhales shakily when you run your fingers down his chest. Your hands tremble a little.

So do his.

It’s not perfect.

It’s soft and quiet and real.

There’s eye contact. Whispered reassurances. Laughter when the duvet gets kicked off. A low groan when you tug him closer and he finally stops holding back.

And afterward?

He tucks you under his arm like you’re part of him.

No one says anything for a while.

Then he kisses your shoulder, already drifting.

And murmurs, “You still distract me more than any case study.”

You smack his chest.

He grins into your hair.

---

You live in each other’s rooms for a week straight.

There’s no formal announcement—just the slow, inevitable migration of textbooks, sweaters, and instant noodles until both your bags are tangled under the same desk.

Jack makes coffee before you can even ask. You quiz him on legal philosophy while he braids your hair absentmindedly. He reads your notes aloud like they’re bedtime stories, his voice low and calm and the only thing keeping your anxiety from devouring you whole.

You snap at him once when your flashcards fall off the bed.

He just hands them back and says, “Take a breath.”

You do. Because he said it.

The night before your last exam, you wake up at 2 a.m. in a panic, convinced you’ve forgotten everything.

Jack doesn’t tell you to calm down.

He just sits up, flips on the lamp, and reads your own summary notes back to you until you fall asleep again, face smushed into his chest.

---

It sneaks up on you.

The packing. The farewells. The inbox full of lease agreements and job offers and travel plans.

You’re sitting on Jack’s windowsill, knees pulled up to your chest, watching him fold a shirt with more focus than necessary.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he says.

But you do.

“I don’t want this to end.”

He pauses. Looks at you.

“This doesn’t end,” he says, crossing the room. “Oxford ends. Essays end. But this—” He takes your hand. Lifts it to his lips. “This is mine. And I’m keeping it.”

You blink fast.

He smiles, soft. “Come home with me?”

You raise a brow. “I’ve already met your mum.”

“No,” he says. “I mean—for the summer. For… longer.”

You say yes.

Not because it’s easy.

But because it’s him.

It’s raining on graduation day.

Not dramatically—just a soft, stubborn drizzle that clings to your robe and frizzes your hair and makes everything smell like damp parchment.

You’re both in sub-fusc. You’re both too proud to cry. You’re both holding hands so tight it leaves marks.

After the ceremony, under a tent with terrible canapés and lukewarm champagne, Jack pulls you aside.

He doesn’t drop to one knee. Doesn’t make a speech.

He just pulls a small silver ring from his pocket—simple, elegant, engraved with the date you met.

He holds it out.

“I’m not proposing,” he says. “Not yet.”

You stare at it. At him.

“But I want to be the person you come home to. Always.”

You blink.

“Is this your way of asking me to move in with you?”

“It’s my way of telling you I’ve already cleared out a drawer.”

You laugh.

Then you throw your arms around him and kiss him so hard the rain forgets what it’s doing.

And he whispers I love you again.

Not because he’s afraid.

But because he knows it now.

This isn’t the end.

It’s just the first chapter you get to write together.

---

The letter arrives in May.

An offer. Postgrad business program in New York. Top-tier. Fully funded. Starts in August.

You read it three times before looking up from your laptop.

Jack’s sitting across from you, shirt inside out, a pencil tucked behind his ear, scribbling notes into the margins of a criminal justice textbook he technically doesn’t need to read anymore.

You say nothing.

Just sit there, the offer glowing on your screen like a door.

Like a threat.

That night, you don’t tell him.

You pretend things are normal. Eat leftover curry. Watch an episode of some slow-burn drama with subtitles you barely follow. He massages your calf absently while your feet rest in his lap, and when he yawns into your shoulder, you pretend you’re not spiraling.

But he knows.

Of course he does.

He always knows.

The next night, when he comes home and finds you sitting in his desk chair, turning the ring he gave you over and over in your fingers, he finally asks.

“What’s going on?”

You blink up at him.

Then quietly: “I got in.”

He doesn’t react right away.

Just nods.

“How long did you know?”

“Since yesterday.”

A long pause.

Then, “And you weren’t going to tell me?”

“I didn’t know how.”

He nods again, jaw tight.

You stand. “Jack—”

“Are you going?”

That’s the question. Isn’t it?

Are you going to leave the boy who learned how to open up for you? Who held your panic attacks and kissed your forehead after every tutorial and traced poetry into your thigh while you studied in his bed?

Are you going to leave home?

You exhale. “I don’t know.”

He steps closer. Quiet. Measured.

“I won’t ask you to stay.”

You blink, surprised.

“I want to,” he says. “God, I want to. But I won’t. Because if you stay for me, you’ll resent me. And if you leave without talking to me, I’ll resent you. And I don’t want us to ruin this by pretending we’re not terrified.”

Your throat tightens.

He lifts a hand to your face, brushes your hair back. “So here’s the deal.”

You meet his eyes.

“I want you to go. If that’s where your heart is. I’ll visit. We’ll call. We’ll figure it out. But if you stay—”

He falters. Then steadies.

“If you stay, I want it to be because you want to. Not because I made it harder to leave.”

You stare at him.

He smiles—soft, wrecked. “I love you more than I love the version of us that’s easy.”

You close the distance. Hands on his chest. Forehead to his. You breathe him in like it might be the last time.

And then you whisper:

“I don’t want to go. Not really. I just… didn’t know if I was allowed to stay.”

His voice cracks.

“You’ve always been allowed to stay.”

But, you go.

Not forever. Not even for that long, really. Just long enough.

A one-year intensive in New York. Career-defining. Nearly impossible to say no to.

Jack doesn’t ask you to.

He drives you to Heathrow in silence, one hand gripping the steering wheel, the other clutching your fingers like a lifeline.

At the gate, he kisses you like it might break him.

You laugh to stop from crying. “It’s not the end.”

“I know,” he says, but it sounds like don’t make me say goodbye.

You leave anyway.

Because some things are worth risking the ache for.

You figure it out.

Kinda.

He sends voice notes in the morning. You send blurry subway selfies at night. Sometimes the time difference feels manageable. Sometimes it feels like a wall.

You miss each other at least once a week—calls gone unanswered, messages delayed, a missed FaceTime where he falls asleep waiting and you wake up wrecked with guilt.

Your first fight happens because of nothing.

Literally nothing.

He says, “You didn’t reply for six hours.”

You say, “It was 2 a.m. when you texted me, Jack.”

Then there’s silence.

And when he finally calls back, his voice is quiet. Tired. “I just miss you.”

You crumble.

“I miss you.”

And you say it again, and again, and again, until it feels like an apology and a prayer in one.

It comes on a Tuesday.

An envelope with your name on it in his handwriting, sent across the sea like it matters.

Inside, a note on lined notebook paper.

“I know you could’ve stayed. And you didn’t. And I still love you for it.”

“You’re building your life. I’m just proud to still be in it.”

“I don’t sleep well when I can’t hear your breathing.”

“I kissed your hoodie last night. Didn’t even realize I was doing it.”

“This is hard. But loving you isn’t.”

You read it three times. Then cry into your pillow until the ink smudges from your fingertips.

It’s December.

You’ve got finals, you’re exhausted, your flat smells like instant noodles and recycled ambition.

And then there’s a knock at your door.

You drag yourself up, open it, fully expecting your neighbor or a UPS guy.

But it’s Jack.

Hair messy. Hoodie too thin for New York winter. Eyes full of something unsteady and so sure.

You just stand there.

He lifts a takeaway bag and shrugs. “Figured we could eat curry and fall asleep watching Netflix like we used to.”

You fling yourself into his arms so fast, he nearly drops the food.

He doesn’t care.

He buries his face in your neck and exhales like he’s finally breathing properly.

Neither of you says “I love you.”

Not out loud.

You don’t have to.

You finish the program.

You pack your books, your dreams, your heartbreak.

And you come back.

Not because you failed. Not because you couldn’t hack it.

But because you’re ready.

Jack meets you at the airport, holding the same stupid hoodie you left in his flat. He’s pacing until he sees you—then still.

Then gone.

He doesn’t speak. Just drops everything to wrap his arms around you like he’s trying to fold the past year into his chest and keep it there.

Later, curled up in bed, he whispers, “Was it worth it?”

You look at him, thumb brushing his jaw.

And say, “Yeah. But this is better.”

---

It starts in the kitchen.

Because of course it does.

The same kitchen Jack grew up in—walls a little yellowed, mugs older than his career, the radio warbling some soft Sunday tune between Brenda Lee and BBC weather blurbs.

Brenda is sitting at the table, wrapped in a pastel cardigan, her hands curled loosely around a mug she’s barely sipped. Chris hovers nearby, ever watchful, his hand resting gently over hers like he can anchor her to now with just a touch.

Ozzy’s snoozing under the table.

Ben’s pretending to be helpful, sneaking bites of crumble from the baking dish.

And you?

You’re sitting beside Jack on the bench seat, his knee warm against yours, the kind of closeness that feels permanent now. Like furniture. Like gravity.

The chatter is soft. Familiar. His mum is wiping her hands on a tea towel. Chris is telling a story you’ve heard before but love anyway. Brenda is nodding, not always on beat, but with that same elegant posture that makes Jack still sit up straighter when she’s in the room.

Then Jack stands.

No warning.

No speech queued.

Just… stands.

Everyone turns.

You look up, startled.

He clears his throat, like it’s stuck. Like this moment is caught somewhere between his ribs and his resolve.

“I—um.” He laughs, short. Nervous.

You tilt your head, brow furrowed. “You alright?”

He nods. But doesn’t sit.

Then he reaches into his hoodie pocket.

Pulls out a ring box. Simple. No velvet. No frills. Just Jack.

And drops to one knee.

You freeze.

Ben nearly chokes on crumble.

Nicky gasps—hands flying to her mouth.

Chris straightens, eyes wide but steady.

And Brenda?

She looks up. Just for a second. Just long enough for her gaze to find Jack—her boy, her legacy—and hold.

He sees it.

He swallows hard.

Then turns back to you, still kneeling on the kitchen tile.

“Look,” he says softly, voice cracking. “I know this isn’t candlelit or choreographed. I didn’t rehearse anything. I didn’t even plan to do it today.”

You can barely breathe.

“But I woke up this morning,” he continues, “and you were in my hoodie and there was toothpaste on your cheek, and you were humming while feeding Ozzy leftover toast—and I just…”

He shakes his head.

“I didn’t want another day to go by where I hadn’t asked you to be mine forever.”

Silence.

Heavy. Holy.

“I want the mundane with you,” he says. “The grocery lists and lost keys and rainy Sundays. I want to do life—not just the shiny bits. All of it. With you.”

You’re crying.

Of course you are.

Everyone is, except maybe Ozzy, who just shifts a little closer to your ankle like he knows something’s important.

Jack opens the box.

The ring is understated. Beautiful. A thin band with a small diamond and a subtle engraving you won’t notice until hours later:

“Still, always.”

“Will you marry me?” he asks. “Please?”

You nod before you can speak. Before air even returns to your lungs.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Yes, yes, yes.”

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath since freshman year.

Slides the ring onto your finger. It fits perfectly.

You pull him up. Kiss him full. Everyone claps. Even Ben’s teary, pretending not to be.

And behind it all—quiet and flickering like candlelight—Brenda smiles.

It’s faint. Fleeting.

But it’s there.

She reaches out. Touches Jack’s hand.

And for a moment—one shimmering, impossible moment—it feels like time gave you something back.

---

It’s not in a church.

It’s in a garden.

A walled one—old bricks and ivy, tucked behind a manor on the Surrey countryside, the kind of place that smells like lavender and loam and the kind of quiet Jack hasn’t known since he was fourteen.

There’s no grand guest list. No press. No player entourage.

Just family. Close friends. People who know him. People who matter.

Brenda isn’t well enough to walk, but she’s there. Wrapped in a wool shawl, settled under a canopy of white wisteria, Chris by her side with his hand in hers and a blanket tucked around both their laps.

Ozzy is the unofficial ring bearer. He has a bow tie and no manners, and when he trots down the aisle to deliver the ring box to Jack, the crowd laughs. Jack beams.

Because that? That’s what he wanted.

Nothing polished. Nothing perfect.

Just joy.

The music starts.

Not a string quartet. Not classical.

It’s Wonderwall. The acoustic version—the one Jack played for you the night he said “I love you” and you kissed his shoulder in response because your throat was too tight to speak.

Your dress makes you look like a secret. A promise. Something only he gets to keep.

And Jack?

Jack looks like a man who has never been more certain of anything in his life.

He’s in a tailored navy suit. No tie. Open collar. His curls are a little unruly, like always, and his hands shake just enough as you walk toward him.

When he sees you?

He doesn’t cry.

He breaks.

Eyes brimming. Jaw tight. Lips parted in some silent word you don’t catch—but you know it’s your name. Always your name.

You reach him.

He takes your hands like he’s never going to let go again.

The vows are handwritten.

You both agreed on that.

Jack goes first.

He doesn’t speak loudly. Doesn’t project for the crowd.

He just looks at you.

“I didn’t believe in fate,” he says. “Not really. Not until you. You weren’t what I expected. You were better. Harder. Smarter. Louder in the right ways. You called me out when I needed it. You pulled me back when I got stuck in my own head. You didn’t fix me. You just stayed.”

You’re crying. Obviously.

“I’ve had a lot of titles,” he says. “But my favorite is yours.”

And then, softly, almost shy:

“I promise to be your home. Your teammate. Your tea maker when you’re tired. I promise to show up—especially on the days I don’t know how.”

He smiles.

“I love you. Still. Always.”

You don’t remember your own vows, not really. You just remember the way he looked at you the entire time—like the rest of the world had faded out.

Afterward, there’s no formal reception.

Just long wooden tables under fairy lights. String lights woven through hedges. Homemade food from Nicky’s recipe book. A playlist built by Jack, full of deep cuts and soft instrumentals and one track—only one—that makes everyone get up and dance.

There are speeches. Ben’s is ridiculous. Paul Jubb tells a story about Jack that almost gets censored.

Chris raises a toast that makes everyone go quiet.

And Brenda—God, Brenda—smiles.

When Jack and you slow dance, she watches. And her lips move. Just the tiniest bit.

Later, Chris will swear she said, “My boy.”

Jack won’t correct him.

You leave late.

Hand in hand. Quietly.

No big send-off. No sparklers. Just stars and the sound of gravel underfoot as Jack opens the car door for you and kisses your knuckles before you get in.

You look over at him, smiling like a secret.

“You okay?” you ask.

He nods. “Better than.”

Then, under his breath, almost reverently:

“You’re my wife.”

Like it’s a prayer.

Like it’s a miracle.

Like it’s everything.

---

It’s been four years since the wedding.

You live in London now. A quiet street tucked behind a busier one, the kind of neighborhood with corner florists, three cafes within walking distance, and a postman who knows your dog’s name.

Jack’s up early most days—earlier than you, even. He still jogs before breakfast, hoodie pulled tight over his curls, headphones in as he runs past the bakery and down toward the river, his mind half in his body, half on the unsolved case he’s been thinking about all week.

Detective Draper. It still makes you grin.

He works in major crimes now—soft-spoken but sharp as hell. Colleagues trust him. Victims feel safe with him. He keeps his notebooks in a drawer you’re technically not allowed to open but totally have. He doesn’t get mad. Just raises an eyebrow and calls you “curious” with that smile that still short-circuits your lungs.

You?

You’ve built your own empire.

You launched your business consultancy two years ago—quietly, without fanfare. Now you’re fielding offers weekly. Startups. NGOs. One time, a Premier League club. You have a team. An office. A barista who knows your order.

But home?

Home is Jack.

Always Jack.

It’s a Friday night when it happens.

Jack gets home late. He’s tired, muddy from a crime scene that involved more fields than sense, and carrying two grocery bags like a man who knows better than to forget your pasta cravings.

“Love?” he calls, toeing his boots off. “I brought those crisps you like—”

He stops dead in the kitchen doorway.

You’re standing at the stove. Wearing his hoodie. Stirring a pot of tomato sauce. There’s a glass of wine on the counter. Two place settings. And… a tiny envelope propped up against his water glass.

Jack frowns. Picks it up.

Inside?

A single sheet of paper.

One black-and-white image.

And three words.

“Hi, Daddy. Coming soon.”

He stares.

Then looks up at you.

You don’t speak.

You just nod. A little watery-eyed. A little trembling.

Jack doesn’t move at first.

Then he sets the card down, crosses the room, and drops to his knees in front of you like he’s been knocked breathless.

“Are you—?”

You nod again.

And he presses his face to your belly, laughing and crying at the same time.

“Bloody hell,” he whispers. “You’re really—?”

“Ten weeks.”

He exhales like it’s the first time he’s breathed in days.

His arms wrap around your waist. “You’re okay? Baby’s okay?”

“So far, yeah.”

He nods, still on the floor, still holding you like you might float away.

Then, into your jumper, he whispers, “They’ll have your stubbornness and my caffeine dependency. God help us all.”

Later that night, he can’t stop touching you. Your back. Your hair. The curve of your stomach that hasn’t changed yet, but might tomorrow. His hand stays there while you sleep, tucked under the hem of your hoodie like a vow.

Before he drifts off, he murmurs it:

“I’m gonna be someone’s dad.”

And then, even softer:

“They’re gonna be so loved.”

---

It’s just past midnight.

Rain tapping against the hospital window like it knows this is the moment it all changes.

You’ve been in labor for hours—gripping Jack’s hand, half cursing him, half clinging to him while he whispered every encouragement he could think of. You’ve never seen him so pale. Or so calm. Or so completely wrecked by your pain.

Now, you’re both holding your breath.

And then—

A cry.

Not loud. Not long. But real. Sharp. Shaky. Hers.

Jack goes completely still.

Like time has stopped. Like every muscle in his body is suddenly tuned to that sound.

The midwife lifts her up—red-faced, scrunched, miraculous—and Jack’s hand flies to his mouth.

“Is she—?”

“She’s perfect,” the nurse says, already placing her onto your chest.

You’re crying.

But Jack? Jack’s sobbing.

Not like the movies. Not dramatic. Just… silent, stunned tears. Like something in him is cracking open and pouring out.

He leans over you, one hand pressed to your shoulder, the other brushing her damp curls.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he whispers. “You’re here. You’re really here.”

She lets out another wail, and he laughs—choked and breathless.

“That’s my girl,” he says. “Go on then. Let the whole world know.”

The room is quiet now.

She’s sleeping on your chest, bundled in a swaddle three sizes too big. Jack is sitting beside the bed, still in scrubs, still shellshocked. But glowing. Absolutely glowing.

“She looks like you,” you say softly.

He shakes his head. “She looks like us. But mostly me. Poor thing.”

You chuckle.

He leans forward, strokes a finger down her cheek. His wedding band catches the light.

“You still want to go with the name?” he asks.

You nod.

He swallows.

Then looks down at her with eyes that can barely take it in.

“Welcome to the world, Nicky Brenda Draper.”

Named for the women who taught him strength, who held him steady, who gave him love before he knew what to do with it.

Jack Draper may have known a lot of titles—student, athlete, detective, husband.

But this?

This is the one that undoes him.

“Daddy,” he whispers. “Yeah, that’s me. Didn’t think I’d ever get to be that.”

You watch him, his eyes full of wonder as he takes in the tiny life you’ve made together. “You’re going to be amazing at it,” you murmur, your voice thick with sleep and joy.

Jack looks up at you, his thumb brushing the corner of his eye. “You think so?”

You nod. “I know so. You’re going to be a wonderful dad.”

Jack’s eyes shine as he looks at his daughter. “I hope so,” he murmurs. “I’ve got a lot to learn.”

You smile. “We both do.”

[leyenra8]

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

We are truly blessed to have met you. 

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

We appreciate your recognition.

Meeting you has been a blessing in disguise.

Can You Handle The Truth And Face The Facts?

Liberal Fascism – The Secret History Of The American Left

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

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

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

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

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

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

Agenda: Grinding America Down

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

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

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

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

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

Sharing Is Caring

Please Keep Reblogging

Agenda 2: Masters Of Deceit

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

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

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

[murdertrashbabyrat]

Here’s my very genuine question:

[mckitterick]

When Noem testified before the Senate Appropriations Subcommittee on Homeland Security, ranking member Senator Chris Murphy gave such powerful, informative, and important opening remarks I have to share:

transcript:

"I say this with seriousness and respect, but your department is out of control.

"You’re spending like you don’t have a budget. You are running out of money for this fiscal year. You are illegally refusing to spend funds that have been authorized by this Congress and appropriated by this committee. You are ignoring the immigration laws of this nation, implementing a brand new immigration system that you have invented that has little relation to the statutes that you are required to follow as spelled out in your oath of office. You are routinely violating the rights of immigrants who may not be citizens, but whether you like it or not, they have constitutional and statutory rights when they reside in the United States.

"Your agency acts as if laws don’t matter, as if the election gave you some mandate to violate the Constitution and the laws passed by this Congress. It did not give you that mandate. You act as if your disagreement with the law, or even the public’s disagreement with the law, is relevant and gives you the ability to create your own law. It does not give you that ability.

"Let’s start with your spending. You are on track to trigger the Anti-Deficiency act. That means you are on track to spend more money than you have been allocated by Congress. This is a rare occurrence and it is wildly illegal.

"Your agency will be broke by July, over two months before the end of the fiscal year. You may not think that Congress has allotted enough money to ICE, but the Constitution and the federal law does not allow you to spend more money than you have been given or to invent money.

"This obsession with spending at the border has left the country unprotected elsewhere. The security threats to national security are higher, not lower, since Trump came to office. To fund the border you have illegally gutted spending to cybersecurity.

"As we speak, Russian and Chinese hackers are having a field day attacking our nation. You have withdrawn funds for disaster prevention. Storms are going to kill more people because of your illegal withholding of these funds. Your myopia about the border fueled by President Trump’s prejudice against people who speak a different language have shattered most of this country’s most important defenses.

"Now let’s talk about the impoundments. When Congress appropriates funds for a specific purpose the administration has no discretion whether or not to spend that money unless you go through a specific process with this committee.

"Let me give you two of many instances of this illegal impoundment. The first is a shelter and services program. Senator Britt may want to zero that account out, but that account is funded in a bipartisan way. You may not like the program. Your policy is to treat migrants badly. I think that’s abhorrent, but it doesn’t matter that you don’t like the program. You cannot cancel spending in this program, and you cannot use the funds, as you have, to fund other things, like ICE.

"You have also cancelled citizenship and integration grants, which help lawful permanent residents become citizens, helping them take the citizenship test. I know your goal is to try to make life as hard as possible for immigrants, but that goal is not broadly shared by the American public. That’s why Congress, in a bipartisan way, for decades has funded this program to help immigrants become citizens.

"Now let’s talk about why encounters at the southern border are down so much. This is clearly going to be your primary talking point today. You will tell us that it represents as success. But the prime reason why encounters are down is because you are brazenly violating the law every hour of every day.

"You are refusing to allow people showing up at the southern border to apply for asylum. I acknowledge that you don’t believe that people should be allowed to apply for asylum, but the White House doesn’t get to choose that. The law requires you to process people who are showing up at the border to apply for asylum.

"Why? Because our asylum law is a bipartisan commitment, an effort to correct for our nation’s unconscionable decision to deny entry to Jews to this country who were being hunted and killed by the Nazis. Our nation, Republicans and Democrats, decided, wrote it into law, that we would not repeat that horror ever again, and thus we would allow for people who were fleeing terror and torture to come here, arrive at the border, and make a case for asylum.

"Finally let’s talk about these disappearances. In an autocratic society, people who the regime does not like or who are protesting the regime are often picked up off the street, and spirited away, often to open-ended detention. Sometimes they’re never seen again.

"What you are doing, both to individuals who have legal rights to stay here, like Kilmar Abrego Garcia, or students who are just protesting Trump’s policies, is immoral and, to follow the theme, it is illegal. You have no right to deport a student visa holder with no due process simply because they have spoken in a way that offends the President. You can’t remove migrants whom a court has given humanitarian protection from removal.

"Now, reports suggest that you are planning to remove immigrants with no due process and send them to prisons in Libya. Libya is in the middle of a civil war. It is subject to a level 4 travel advisory, meaning we tell American citizens never to travel to Libya. We don’t have an embassy there because it is not safe for our diplomats. Sending migrants with pending asylum claims into a war zone, just because it’s cruel, is so deeply disturbing.

"Listen, I understand that my Republican colleagues on this committee don’t view the policy as I do, don’t share my level of concern for the way the government treats immigrants, but what I don’t understand is why we don’t have consensus in the Senate and on this committee on the decision by this administration to impound the spending that we have decided together to allocate in defense of this nation.

"We as an appropriations committee worked interminable hours to write and pass this budget, and so we make ourselves irrelevant when we allow the administration to ignore what we have decided. And then when we look the other way when the administration rounds up immigrants who are here illegally and have committed no offenses worthy of detainment, we also do potential irreversible damage to the Constitution.

"These should not be partisan concerns—destroying the power of Congress, eroding individuals’ Constitutional rights. This should matter to both parties."

_

I never knew that our asylum laws arose from when we didn’t take Jews escaping from the Nazis. Both parties said never again. Yet here we are.

Everything this "administration" is doing is impeachable, and this Congress has a responsibility to get these criminals out of office and keep them out.

Contact your representatives and demand that they hold Homeland Security to account if they want to keep holding their offices - if they in fact want those offices to still be a thing in the future.

[flwrkid14]

Tim Drake Accidentally Takes Over the World (and Didn’t Think to Mention It)

So, Janet somehow spent decades climbing her way into every government worth a damn, ruling the entire world from behind the scenes. And then, because the universe is apparently wild, she left it all to Tim.

Cut to Tim Drake, the brand-new, completely reluctant secret ruler of the entire planet. And he just… never really thought it was worth mentioning?

The Batfam finds out when Bruce stumbles across an encrypted memo traced to a mysterious Gotham office with Tim’s name on it.

Bruce, holding up the memo: “Tim. Want to explain why this document about, oh, international finance reforms is signed with your encryption key?”

Tim, not even looking up from his laptop: “Oh, yeah. That. Janet left me her ‘global influence portfolio’ or whatever. Mostly paperwork.”

The Batfam stares in total shock.

Dick sputters nearly dropping his coffee: "Wait—you’ve been managing world policies?!”

Tim, shrugging, barely paying attention as he emails the president of Germany: “Well, yeah. I figured someone had to keep things running. It's not that big a deal. I mostly just redirect some policies. You know, keep things running smoothly.”

Jason, absolutely cackling: “Are you telling me that little Replacement here is the reason for half the ‘global cooperation’ headlines?”

Tim, scrolling through emails: “They send me reports; I send suggestions. And honestly, they make it way more dramatic than it is. It's not that hard."

Barbara stares at him, half horrified, half impressed. “How did we not notice this?”

Tim blinks. “I mean, it’s not like I was actively hiding it. I assumed you guys knew I was… kind of managing these things?”

Cue utter disbelief.

Stephanie, laughing too hard to breathe: “Tim, do you have world leaders on speed dial?”

Tim, completely unfazed: “Only the important ones. They text, mostly. Oh—by the way, I might’ve influenced a minor arms control thing last week. Don’t worry; it’s all sorted.”

Bruce, looking like he’s two seconds from fainting: “Sorted? Tim, we're talking about you having global authority here. People notice these things."

Tim shrugs again as his phone buzzes with notifications. “Sure, but it’s not like they’re going to do anything too crazy. I just suggest stuff, and they listen. Honestly, it’s like herding really powerful, really overdramatic cats.”

Damian, scandalized: “You mean to tell me, Drake, that you’re manipulating world politics like it’s a game of checkers?”

Tim, still casual: “Manipulating’s a strong word. Like I said, it’s more just nudging things along.” His phone buzzes again. “Oh, hang on. France is panicking about their energy policy again.”

The Batfam tries to process the fact that Tim—Tim, who routinely forgets what day it is—is now, somehow, running the world.

And then his phone buzzes with a message from the UN Security Council.

Tim sighs, glancing down. “Oh, great. Looks like they’re debating nuclear arms again. Be right back.”

Meanwhile, the Batfam is left absolutely speechless, processing the fact that their Tim—scrawny, coffee-fueled Tim—is apparently one of the most powerful people on the planet. And to him its just another tuesday.

[potofsoup]

Happy July 4th, everyone, and good luck to the UK voters out there!

Wow it's Year 11 of doing these!! Here's the AO3 link to the past 10 years, and here's the tumblr link.

Reminder that this is a long game -- some of the judges making decisions were appointed back in the 80s. Many of the cases that were decided this round were from Trump's term. So it's going to take long-term, consistent voting over a decade to start tipping things in the other direction. (Which I talked about in 2018 re: Trump shenanigans and 2022 re: Dobbs).

A lot has been done by the Biden administration (I'm assuming most folks have seen this post by boreal-sea with their very helpful sources), and much of that will be overturned by Trump, especially if he gets the Senate, and especially now that he would have a blank check for anything "official". So let's make sure that doesn't happen.

And even if Trump does get elected, your decisions down-ballot might effect control of the House or Senate, or might make it easier to vote next time, plus the whole plethora of state and local issues. It's Republican state attorney generals who are challenging climate regulations, for example.

Plus, when you really get down to it, only one of the candidates plans on pardoning himself and all his friends if he wins, and attacking the government if he loses. Maybe that guy shouldn't be the President.

If you're new to voting, remember to check voter registration deadlines! I'm a permanent vote-by-mail voter and it's so nice. :)

Transcript under the readmore

Page 1: Sam and Bucky meet up with Steve for a picnic. Steve: Thought you guys were still in Sudan? Bucky: I’m forcing Sam to take a break.

Sam collapses onto the picnic blanket. Sam: Oof, it just never stops, does it? Steve: Nope.

Bucky hands Sam an orange popsicle. Bucky: Eat and relax for a bit, Sam. Sam: Thanks.

Page 2: Bucky asks Steve: How are things state-side? Steve responds: HORRIBLE. Bucky: I thought you’ve been tentatively hopeful about what Biden has been able to achieve? Steve: I was! Student loans, child care, climate regulations, infrastructure, labor, trans rights … he’s quietly done a lot through regulatory improvements and congress bills. But now all people will talk about is how he’s OLD. And then there’s the Supreme Court’s decisions … Chevron and immunity… Steve puts his head in his hands, while Sam and Bucky look on with some concern.

Page 3: Bucky hands Steve a blue/raspberry popsicle: Steve, take a deep breath, and a popsicle. Sam: Sounds like we missed a lot. What’s going on? How bad is it? Steve: Pretty bad. The Supreme Court has made some decisions that give the Court and the President A LOT of discretionary power. Sam: Yikes, that doesn’t sound good. Steve: Well, the Chevron thing means that judges with life-term appointments can override policies made by government agencies. And now it’ll be harder to hold a President accountable because he will have immunity for any “official” actions.

Page 4: Sam: So if the President tries to, say, overturn a democratic election result, he’ll be allowed to as long as it’s in his job description? Steve: I don’t think threatening state electors is “official” business, but that will be decided by federal judges. Who get their jobs by approval from both the President and the Senate. Bucky: Yeesh. No wonder you’re stressed. Any good news? Steve: Well, thanks the Biden and the razor-thin Senate majority, the newer bills don’t rely on the Chevron deference. Still not great but not catastrophic. Sam, squirting ketchup on his hot dog: So what I’m hearing is that it’s now more important than ever to have a President and a Senate who you can trust to appoint fair judges, pass bills, and not commit crimes.

Page 5: Steve: Plus all of the state level offices, now that more and more deciding power has been thrown back to the states — abortion, LGBTQ rights, voting access… Bucky: Hey, at least this is a big election year so we can actually do something! Steve, with his arms crossed, looking surly: Except that all people want to talk about is how Biden is “too old” and “not doing enough,” as if that is on par with Trump’s desire to dismantle basic rights! As if the candidate who doesn’t embody ALL their ideals is not worth voting for! Bucky interrupts with a smart and a loud “PFFT.”

Page 6: Bucky: Um, Steve. YOU were like that in 1940. Sam, nudging Bucky: “Oh, this I gotta hear. Spill, Barnes.” In sepia, Steve is pacing around their apartment while Bucky is sitting and reading a newspaper. Steve: I can’t believe he’s running for a 3rd term! we need a fresh candidate to vote for! This is hardly a choice at all! AND he refuses to engage in Europe! All of Europe under fascist control and we’re just twiddling our thumbs? He’s letting millions die through his inaction! Bucky: Most people don’t want another war, Steve. If he came out for it, he would lose. Steve, indignant: But Buck, it’s your Polish relative who are in danger! Bucky, closing his newspaper and looking at Steve: Yeah, and between FDR and Willkes, I trust FDR to help if he could.

Page 7: Steve, in sepia, looking away: Should he be encouraged to do more? Maybe I should vote for Browder. The Communists have historically be Anti-Fascist.

Sam interrupts off-screen: Waitaminute! STEVE was going to PROTEST-VOTE? Steve: We were in a Blue State, Sam! Sam: But what about the down ballot races?! Steve: RELAX, I did my due diligence down-ballot. I wanted a senate that’s more progressive than the President.Voted LaGuardia for Mayor, too. Steve hesitates: Then, when I got to the President… I realized that the Best case scenario would be that my vote did nothing, versus if it actually spoiled the election. And when I asked myself who I could trust to work with my Senator… well, FDR had a good record with Labor. (sepia shot of young Steve voting) Bucky interrupts: Hold on, Steve.

Page 8: Bucky, eating a cookie, arching an eyebrow: You didn’t vote for Browder? Why didn’t you tell me? Steve: And have you say “I told you so” for the next century? Bucky: Heh.

Steve, with hand on his chin: What’s weird was that, despite everything, I still felt HORRIBLE when I ticked that box. Sam: Sounds like you built up the meaning of that vote far too much in your head. Logically, we know that a single box can’t represent all of the complexity of a whole system, but the desperately WANT it to. Just look at how people have built up so much around the term “Zionis” that it’s made productive conversations difficult.

Page 9: Sam and Steve speak in the background while Bucky reaches into the cooler and pulls out a box. Steve: Sigh. And that’s something that goes beyond the election. Sam: Which is why we need to vote, AND do other things. Bucky, looking at Steve and Sam: Like how Steve works to push organizations on the local level? Or like all the work you do as Captain America? Sam: Exactly. Vote AND.

Sam looks at Bucky fondly: Like how you vote AND make me and Steve take breaks. Bucky, looking stern because he can’t handle compliments: Shush, Sam.

Bucky holds up a cake that has the number “107” on it: It’s time for cake. Happy Birthday, Steve.

[wilwheaton]

Donald Trump threatens the entire existence of the American republic. He is able to do this because the Supreme Court he created is assisting him in doing so. It is a corrupt Court – on which more later. It overturned a central right for half of our population. It routinely mixes and matches rationales, jurisprudences, logics to arrive at the end point of transforming America into their extremist vision. We’ve heard that yesterday’s decision was a terrible decision, an extremist decision, that it changes the American experiment fundamentally. No disagreement with any of those points. Most importantly, in my mind, it’s a fake decision. Yes, it will now be controlling within the federal courts. But it doesn’t change the constitution any more than a foreign army occupying New England would make Massachusetts no longer part of the United States. That may seem like a jarring analogy. But it’s the only kind that allows us to properly view and react to this Supreme Court.

The rationale for the decision yesterday has literally no basis whatsoever in the US constitution.

Josh Marshall is correct, but I don’t think it matters. This corrupt, activist, fascist SCOTUS does not care. The majority has decided that the Constitution, 250 years of precedent, popular opinion, and the foundational ideas that have made America what it is since 1787 are what they say they are.

I live in a country of three hundred and forty million people.

In this country, six unelected christian nationalists, five of whom were placed on the court by presidents who lost the popular vote, who are opposed by SEVENTY PERCENT of the population, are making up laws out of whole cloth because their power is unchecked. A country that allows this to impose their regressive authoritarianism on that entire population is not a free country. It is not a Democracy.

America has not been attacked like this since 9/11. Six unelected people forcing their christian nationalist agenda on a population of three hundred and forty million is not a Democracy. It is tyranny.

Everyone is missing the central message of yesterday’s ruling: SCOTUS is going to install Trump as dictator for life, by any means necessary. Somehow, after he loses the popular vote again, and after he’s even lost the Electoral College again, these six Fascists will invent a reason to overturn the will of the electorate, again. Every single one of their rulings this term have been part of their coup. Now, just line them all up and connect the dots.

We are four months away from the likely end of what passes for freedom in America, and once it’s gone, it’s not coming back in my lifetime.

[chansaw]

i read donald sutherland’s letter to gary ross pleading for the role of president snow and was so struck by his eloquence, wit, and humor. i’m posting it in full below. what a loss </3

Dear Gary Ross:

Power. That's what this is about? Yes? Power and the forces that are manipulated by the powerful men and bureaucracies trying to maintain control and possession of that power?

Power perpetrates war and oppression to maintain itself until it finally topples over with the bureaucratic weight of itself and sinks into the pages of history (except in Texas), leaving lessons that need to be learned unlearned.

Power corrupts, and, in many cases, absolute power makes you really horny. Clinton, Chirac, Mao, Mitterrand.

Not so, I think, with Coriolanus Snow. His obsession, his passion, is his rose garden. There's a rose named Sterling Silver that's lilac in colour with the most extraordinarily powerful fragrance — incredibly beautiful — I loved it in the seventies when it first appeared. They've made a lot of offshoots of it since then.

I didn't want to write to you until I'd read the trilogy and now I have so: roses are of great importance. And Coriolanus's eyes. And his smile. Those three elements are vibrant and vital in Snow. Everything else is, by and large, perfectly still and ruthlessly contained. What delight she [Katniss] gives him. He knows her so perfectly. Nothing, absolutely nothing, surprises him. He sees and understands everything. He was, quite probably, a brilliant man who's succumbed to the siren song of power.

How will you dramatize the interior narrative running in Katniss's head that describes and consistently updates her relationship with the President who is ubiquitous in her mind? With omniscient calm he knows her perfectly. She knows he does and she knows that he will go to any necessary end to maintain his power because she knows that he believes that she's a real threat to his fragile hold on his control of that power. She's more dangerous than Joan of Arc.

Her interior dialogue/monologue defines Snow. It's that old theatrical turnip: you can't 'play' a king, you need everybody else on stage saying to each other, and therefore to the audience, stuff like "There goes the King, isn't he a piece of work, how evil, how lovely, how benevolent, how cruel, how brilliant he is!" The idea of him, the definition of him, the audience's perception of him, is primarily instilled by the observations of others and once that idea is set, the audience's view of the character is pretty much unyielding. And in Snow's case, that definition, of course, comes from Katniss.

Evil looks like our understanding of the history of the men we're looking at. It's not what we see: it's what we've been led to believe. Simple as that. Look at the face of Ted Bundy before you knew what he did and after you knew.

Snow doesn't look evil to the people in Panem's Capitol. Bundy didn't look evil to those girls. My wife and I were driving through Colorado when he escaped from jail there. The car radio's warning was constant. 'Don't pick up any young men. The escapee looks like the nicest young man imaginable'. Snow's evil shows up in the form of the complacently confident threat that's ever-present in his eyes. His resolute stillness. Have you seen a film I did years ago? 'The Eye of the Needle'. That fellow had some of what I'm looking for.

The woman who lived up the street from us in Brentwood came over to ask my wife a question when my wife was dropping the kids off at school. This woman and her husband had seen that movie the night before and what she wanted to know was how my wife could live with anyone who could play such an evil man. It made for an amusing dinner or two but part of my wife's still wondering.

I'd love to speak with you whenever you have a chance so I can be on the same page with you.

They all end up the same way. Welcome to Florida, have a nice day!

sourced from this article

[siriuslyobsessedwithfiction]

Friendly reminder this is the "found family" Nyx will grow up with.

Feyre: His mother who made "the found family" hate his aunt Nesta for "always sneering" and "letting her hunt", even though she tried to hunt and wasn't good at it, did all the housework, suffered years of physical abuse so she wouldn't have to. All the while excusing his other aunt Elain sitting on her ass because she was polite about it. His mother Feyre who threw hysterics because his aunt Nesta hung out in slums. His mother who didn't care there were slums in Valaris, poverty in Hewn City and Illyria while she built her fifth mansion, opened an art studio and occasionally spared some charity. His mother who locked his aunt Nesta away with a creepy man she repeatedly tried to get away from, who berated her, verbally and physically assaulted her, had sex with her at the time she felt completely unloved and used sex as a coping mechanism.

Rhysand: His father who is President Snow from Hunger Games to Illyria, Hewn City and probably every other Court. His father who claims to be the most powerful high lord in one sentence and whines how change takes time and he can't do anything about it in the next. His father who enforces segregation between Hewn City and Valaris, doesn't enforce the law to stop femicide, mutilation and rape of female Illyrians, lets children live in poverty and war camps. His father Rhysand who repeatedly threatened to kill his aunt Nesta over everything. His father who drugged and assaulted his mother. His father who took his mother's bodily autonomy, hid from his mother that pregnancy would kill her and didn't take the risk to allow her to shift into Illyrian form to save her life. His father who made a stupid pact to die with his mother. His father who orphaned him.

Cassian: His uncle who saw that Azriel was romantically interested in Mor, felt jealous over it, and agreed to have sex with her knowing it would hurt Azriel. His uncle Cassian who gifted his one night stand lingerie in front of everybody, including his mate. His uncle Cassian who didn't respect his mate's boundaries, threw a tantrum when she refused his present after he gifted his one night stand lingerie and nobody gifted her anything during the celebration. His uncle Cassian who always made it about himself at the time when his mate was at her lowest and told her that he hated being shackled to her, told her he didn't understand why her sisters loved her, controlled her diet, had sex with her at the time she used sex as a coping mechanism, took her on hikes until she collapsed at the time she was suicidal, laughed at her when she fell down the stairs and had to crawl back up injured, never defended her when his brother threatened to kill her, always hypersexualized her, never told her he loved her. And never apologized for any of this shit.

Mor: Who didn't emphasize with his aunt Nesta even though she was also going through trauma of being physically and sexually abused. Mor who wanted to throw his aunt Nesta to the same people who abused her. Mor who doesn't try to make Hewn City and Valaris a better place and unite them. Mor who hid from his mother Feyre that the pregnancy would kill her.

Amren: Who was bitchy to his aunt Nesta for no valid reason and advised Cassian to break her and then offer a helping hand. Which he did. Amren who is always dismissive of his aunt Nesta and commands her around even though she has done more than she has. Amren who also hid from Feyre that the pregnancy would kill her.

Every time I remember this is Nyx's family, Meet the Grahams starts playing in my head.

Edit: Since it went over some people's head, I'll clarify that I fear Nyx will grow up to be a hypocritical arsehole like the rest of them while they groom him to be Rhysand Number 2. I sincerely hope the kid will somehow break free from their influence and learn to think for himself.

[fictionadventurer]

I have to talk about Chester Arthur. His story makes me go crazy. A mediocre president from the 1880s who's completely forgotten today has one of the best redemption stories I've ever heard and I need to make people understand just how cool his story is.

So, like, he starts out as this idealist, okay? He's the son of an abolitionist minister and becomes famous as a New York lawyer who defends the North's version of Rosa Parks whose story desegregates New York City's trolley system.

Then he starts getting pulled into politics and becomes one of the grimiest pieces of the political machine. He wants money, power, prestige, and he gets it. He becomes the right-hand man of Roscoe Conkling, the most feared political boss in the nation, a guy who will throw his weight around and do the most ruthless things imaginable to keep his friends in power and destroy his enemies.

Because Arthur's this guy's top lackey, he gets to be Controller of the Port of New York--the best-paying political appointment in the country, because that port brings in, like, 70% of the federal government's funds in tariffs. He gets a huge salary plus a percentage of all the fines they levy on lawbreakers, and because he's not afraid to make up infractions to fine people over, he is absolutely raking in the dough. Making the rough equivalent of $1.3 million a year--absolutely insane amounts of money for a government position. He's spending ridiculous sums on clothes, buying huge amounts of alcohol and cigars to share with people as part of his job recruiting supporters to the party, going out nearly every night to wine and dine people as part of his work in the political machine. He's living the high life. Even when President Hayes pulls him from his position on suspicions of fraud, he's still living a great life of wealth, power, and prestige.

Then in 1880, his beloved wife dies. While he's out of town working for a political campaign. And he can't get back in time to say goodbye before she dies. Because he's a guy who has big emotions, it absolutely tears him up inside, especially because Nell resented how much his political work kept him away from home. He has huge regrets, but he just moves in with Roscoe Conkling and keeps working for the political machine.

And then he gets a chance to be vice president. The Republican Party has nominated James Garfield, a dark horse candidate who wants to reform the spoils system that has given Conking his power and gave Arthur his position as Port Controller. Conkling is pissed, and he controls New York, and since the party's not going to win the election without New York, they think that appointing Conkling's top lackey as vice-president will pacify him.

They're wrong--Conkling orders Arthur to refuse--but Arthur thinks this sounds like a great opportunity. The only political position he's ever held is Port Controller--a job he wasn't elected to and that he was pulled from in disgrace. Vice President is way more than he could ever have hoped for. It's a position with a lot of political pull and zero actual responsibilities. He'll get to spend four years living in up in Washington high society. It's the perfect job! Of course he accepts, and Conkling comes around when he figures out that he can use this to his advantage.

When Garfield becomes president, Arthur does everything he can to undermine him. He uses every dirty political trick he can think of to block everything that Garfield wants to do. He refuses to let the Senate elect a president pro tempore so he can stay there and influence every bill that comes through. He all but openly boasts of buying votes in the election. He's so much Conkling's lackey that he may as well be the henchman of a cartoon supervillain. On Conkling's orders, he drags one of Garfield's Cabinet members out of bed in the middle of the night--while the guy is ill--to drag him to Conkling's house so he can be forced to resign. He's just absolutely a thorn in the president's side, a henchman doing everything he can to maintain the corrupt spoils system.

Then in July 1881, when Arthur's in New York helping Conkling's campaign, the president gets shot. By a guy who shouts, "Now Arthur will be president!" just after he fires the gun. Arthur has just spent the past four months fighting the president tooth and nail. Everyone thinks he's behind the assassination. There are lynch mobs looking to take out him and Conkling. The papers are tearing him apart.

Arthur is absolutely distraught. He rushes to Washington to speak with the president and assure him of his innocence, but the doctors won't let him in the room. He gets choked up when talking to the First Lady. Reporters find him weeping in his house in Washington. Once again, death has torn his world apart and he's not getting a chance to make amends.

Arthur goes to New York while the president is getting medical treatment, and he refuses to come to Washington and take charge because he doesn't dare to give the impression that he's looking to take over. No one wants Arthur to be president and he doesn't want to be president, and the possibility that this corrupt political lackey is about to ascend to the highest office in the land is absolutely terrifying to everyone.

Then in August, when it's becoming clear that the president is unlikely to recover, he gets a letter. From a 31-year-old invalid from New York named Julia Sand. A woman from a very politically-minded family who has been following Arthur's career for years. And she writes him this astounding letter that takes him to task for his corrupt, conniving ways, and the obsession with worldly power and prestige that has brought him wealth and fame at the cost of his own soul--and she tells him that he can do better. In the midst of a nationwide press that's tearing him apart, this one woman writes to tell him that she believes he has the capacity to be a good president and a good man if he changes his ways.

And then he does. After Garfield dies, people come to Arthur's house and find servants who tell them that Arthur is in his room weeping like a child (I told you he had big emotions), but he takes the oath of office and ascends to the presidency. And he becomes a completely different man. His first speech as president mentions that one of his top priorities is reforming the spoils system so that people will be appointed based on merit rather than getting appointed as political favors with each change in the administration. Even though this system made him president. When Conkling comes to Arthur's office telling him to appoint his people to important government positions, Arthur calls his demands outrageous, throws him out, and keeps Garfield's appointees in the positions. "He's not Chet Arthur anymore," one of his former political friends laments. "He's the president."

He loses all his former political friends. He's never trusted by the other side. Yet he sticks to his guns and continues to support spoils system reform. He prosecutes a postal service corruption case that everyone thought he would drop. He's the one who signs into law the first civil service reform bill, even though presidents have been trying to do this for more than ten years, and he's the person who's gained all his power through the spoils system. He immediately takes action to enforce this bill when he could have just dropped it. He becomes a champion of this issue even though it's the last thing anyone would have expected of him.

He oversees naval reform. He oversees a renovation of the White House. He still prefers the social duties of the presidency, but he's respectable in a way that no one expected. Possibly because Julia Sand keeps sending him letters of encouragement and advice over the next two years. But also because he's dying.

Not long after ascending to the presidency, he learns he's suffering from a terminal kidney disease. And he tells no one. He keeps going about his daily life, fulfilling his duties as president, and keeps his health problems hidden. Once again, death is upending his life, and this time it's his own death. He's lived a life he's ashamed of, and he doesn't have much time left to change. He enters the presidency as an example of the absolute worst of the political system, and leaves it as a respectable man.

He makes a token effort to seek re-election, but because of his health problems, he doesn't mind at all when someone else gets the nomination. He dies a couple of years after leaving office. The day before his death, he orders most of his papers burned, because he's ashamed of his old life--but among the things that are saved are the letters from Julia Sand, the woman who encouraged him to change his ways.

This is an astounding story full of so many twists and turns and dramatic moments. A man who falls from idealism into the worst kind of corruption and then claws his way back up to decency because of a series of devastating personal losses and unexpected opportunities to do more than he could have ever hoped to do. I just go crazy thinking about it and I need you all to understand just how amazing this story is.

[souporsaladnatural]

Transcription of Misha's answer from That Part of his and Jensen's panel because once again, I am unwell

Misha Collins: Uh… I would say that Jensen professionally, as an actor, is able to turn in a passible performance [crowd laughs] consistently. [crowd laughs again] Uh I’ll- I’ll… I will spare you all me telling you that Jensen is an excellent actor and that I think he’ll probably wind up being–”

Jensen Ackles: “It’s okay they can hear it.”

Misha: “--No, they don’t wanna hear it– that he’ll probably wind up an A-list movie star at some point.

[Crowd cheers]

Misha: “I have told him that in private and I- I don’t want to make that a public statement because I saw even privately how big it made his head, [crowd laughs] and I don’t think that’s good for him. Uhm, but I will- I’ll- I’ll share something that is a little bit more insider baseball about Jensen professionally which is that he took control of the set, and established a tone of professionalism, and courtesy, and kindness to one another on the set that is very rare in our business for some reason. 

Typically when people are given the keys to power in Hollywood on set they turn into- uh- self-serving primadonnas, and Jensen, you consistently set a tone of being respectful, and professional, and inclusive, and made guest stars as well as crew members feel welcome and relevant and heard, and… there’s a reason the- the president of our network every year would host a dinner in Vancouver and would bring the cast of Supernatural to dinner, and then bring casts of other new shows to the dinner as well, and basically told the new casts ‘Be like these guys.’ And I was a- I was late to the party. I was the new kid on the show, when I got there that tone had already been established and- and Jensen you for sure carried the torch of that tone, so, professionally that was um… That- That- That probably for me is the thing that I would carry forward in my career the most, um, having learned from you. Uhm- [clears throat]”

[Applause]

Jensen: “I’m sweating. [...] Thank you”

Misha: “Um, and personally, like, literally no one I know gives a better hot oil massage.”

[Crowd laughs]

Jensen: “[Pointing at someone onstage clapping] He was my teacher.”

[Video] [Jensen's Answer]

[mariacallous]

A short note here on what I’m covering and why. The political changes we’re seeing across the world are underpinned by technological ones that are now accelerating. For more than a decade, I’ve been trying to investigate and expose these forces. Since 2016 that’s included following a thread that led from Brexit to Trump via a shady data company called Cambridge Analytica and the revelation of a profound threat exploit at the heart of our democracies. But what’s happening now in the US is a paradigm shift: this is Broligarchy, a concept I coined last summer when I warned that what we were seeing was the proposed merger of Silicon Valley with state power. That has now happened. Writing about this from the UK, it’s clear we have a choice: we help lead the fight back against it. Or it comes for us next. Please share this with family and friends if you feel it’s of value. Thank you, as ever, Carole

Let me say this more clearly: what is happening right now, in America, in real time, is a coup.

This is an information war and this is what a coup now looks like.

Musk didn’t need a tank, guns, soldiers. He had a small crack cyber unit that he sent into the Treasury department last weekend. He now has unknown quantities of the entire US nation’s most sensitive data and potential backdoors into the system going forward. Treasury officials denied that he had access but it then turned out that he did. If it ended there, it would be catastrophic. But that unit - whose personnel include a 19-year-old called “Big Balls” - is now raiding and scorching the federal government, department by department, scraping its digital assets, stealing its data, taking control of the code and blowing up its administrative apparatus as it goes.

This is what an unlawful attack on democracy in the digital age looks like. It didn’t take armed men, just Musk’s taskforce of boy-men who may be dweebs and nerds but all the better to plunder the country’s digital resources. This was an organised, systematic, jailbreak on one of the United States’ most precious and sensitive resources: the private data of its citizens.

In 2019, I appeared in a Netflix documentary, The Great Hack. That’s a good place to start to understand what is going on now, but it wasn’t the great hack. It was among the first wave of major tech exploits of global elections. It was an exemplar of what was possible: the theft and weaponization of 87 million people’s personal data. But this now is the Great Hack. This week is when the operating system of the US was wrenched open and is now controlled by a private citizen under the protection of the President.

If you think I’ve completely lost it, please be advised that I’m far from alone in saying this. The small pools of light in the darkness of this week has been stumbling across individual commentators saying this for the last week. Just because these words are not on the front page in banner headlines of any newspaper doesn’t mean this isn’t not happening. It is.

In fact, there has been relentless, assiduous, detailed reporting in all outlets across America. There are journalists who aren’t eating or sleeping and doing amazing work tracking what’s happening. There is fact after fact after fact about Musk’s illegal pillaging of the federal government. But news organisation leaders are either falling for the distraction story - the most obviously insane one this week being rebuilding Gaza as a luxury resort, a story that dominated headlines and political oxygen for days. Or…what? Being unable to actually believe that this is what an authoritarian takeover looks like? Being unsure of whether you put the headline about the illegal coup d’etat next to a spring season fashion report? Above or below the round-up of best rice cookers? The fact is the front pages look like it’s business as normal when it’s anything but.

This was Ruth Ben-Ghiat on Tuesday. She’s a historian of fascism and authoritarianism at New York University and she said this even before some of this week’s most extreme events had taken place. (A transcript of the rest of her words here.)

“It’s very unusual. In my study of authoritarian states, it's only really after a coup that you see such a speed, such obsessive haste to purge bureaucracy so quickly. Or when somebody is defending themselves, like Erdogan after the coup attempt against him, massive purge immediately. So that's unusual. I don't have another reference point for a private individual coming in, infiltrating, trying to turn government to the benefit of his businesses and locking out and federal employees. It is a coup. I'm a historian of coups, and I would also use that word. So we're in a real emergency situation for our democracy.”

A day later, this was Tim Snyder, Yale, a Yale professor and another great historian of authoritarianism, here: “Of course it’s a coup.”

History was made this week and while reporters are doing incredible work, to understand it our guides are historians, those who’ve lived in authoritarian states and Silicon Valley watchers. They are saying it. What I’ve learned from investigating and reporting on Silicon Valley’s system-level hack of our democracy for eight long years and seeing up close the breathtaking impunity and entitlement of the men who control these companies is that they break laws and they get away with it. And then lie about it afterwards. That’s the model here.

Everything that I’ve ever warned about is happening now. This is it. It’s just happening faster than anyone could have imagined.

It’s not that what’s happening is simply unlawful. This is what David Super, an administrative law professor at Georgetown Law School told the Washington Post.

“So many of these things are so wildly illegal that I think they’re playing a quantity game and assuming the system can’t react to all this illegality at once.”

And he’s right. The system can’t and isn’t. Legal challenges are being made and even upheld but there’s no guarantee or even sign that Musk is going to honour them. That’s one of the most chilling points my friend, Mark Bergman, made to me over the weekend.

Last week, I included a voice note from my friend, tech investor turned tech campaigner, Roger McNamee, so you could hear direct from an expert about the latest developments in AI. This week I’ve asked Mark to do the honours.

He’s a lawyer, Washington political insider, and since last summer, he’s been participating in ‘War Game’ exercises with Defense Department officials, three-star generals, former Cabinet Secretaries and governors. In five exercises involving 175 people, they situation-tested possible scenarios of a Trump win. But they didn’t see this. It’s even worse than they feared.

“Those challenges have been in respect of shutting down agencies, firing federal employees and engaging in the most egregious hack of government. It all at the hand hands of DOGE, Musk and his band of tech engineers. DC right now is shell-shocked. It is a government town, USA, ID, the FBI, the Department of Justice, Department of Homeland Security, CIA, no federal agency will be spared the revenge and retribution tours in full swing, and huge numbers have been put on administrative leave, reassigned or fired, and the private sector is as much at risk, particularly NGOs and civil society organizations. The more high-profile violate the law, which is why the courts have been quick to enjoin actions. “So yes, we've experienced a coup, not the old fashioned kind, no tanks or mobs, but an undemocratic and hostile takeover of government. It is cruel, it is petty. It can be brutal. It is at once chaotic and surgical. We said the institutions held in 2020 but behind institutions or people, and the extent to which all manner of power structures have preemptively obeyed is hugely worrying. There are legions ready to carry out the Trump agenda. The question is, will the rule of law hold?”

Last Tuesday, Musk tried to lay off the entire CIA. That’s the government body with the slogan ‘We are the nation’s first line of defense’. Every single employee has been offered an unlawful ‘buyout’ - what we call redundancy in the UK - or what 200 former employees - spies - have said is blatant attempt to rebuild it as a political enforcement unit. Over the weekend, the Washington Post reports that new appointees are being presented with “loyalty tests”.

Musk’s troops - because that’s what they are, mercenaries - are acting in criminal, unlawful, unconstitutional ways. Organisations are acting quickly, taking lawsuits, and for now the courts are holding. But the key essential question is whether their rulings can be enforced with a political weaponized Department of Justice and FBI. What Mark Bergman told me (and is in the extended note below) is that they’ve known since the summer that there would be almost no way of pushing back against Trump. This politicisation of all branches of law enforcement creates a vacuum at the heart of the state. As he says in that note, the ramifications of this are little understood outside the people inside Washington who study this for a living.

And at least some of what DOGE is doing can never be undone. Musk, a private citizen, now has vast clouds of citizens’ data, their personal information and it seems likely, classified material. When data is out there, it’s out there. That genie can never be put back into the bottle.

Itt’s what it’s possible to do with that data, that the real nightmare begins. What machine learning algorithms and highly personalised targeting can do. It’s a digital coup. An information coup. And we have to understand what that means. Our fleshy bodies still inhabit earthly spaces but we are all, also, digital beings too. We live in a hybrid reality. And for more than a decade we have been targets of hybrid warfare, waged by hostile nation states whose methodology has been aped and used against us by political parties in a series of disrupted elections marked by illegal behaviour and a lack of any enforcement. But this now takes it to the next level.

It facilitates a concentration of wealth and power - because data is power - of a kind the world has never seen before.

Facebook’s actual corporate motto until 2014 taken from words Mark Zuckerberg spoke was “Move fast and break things”. That phrase has passed into commonplace: we know it, we quote it, we also fail to understand what that means. It means: act illegally and get away with it.

And that is the history of Silicon Valley. Its development and cancerous growth is marked by series of larcenous acts each more grotesque than the last. And Musk’s career is an exemplar of that, a career that has involved rampant criminality, gross invasions of privacy, stock market manipulation. And lies. The Securities and Exchange Commission is currently suing Musk for failing to disclose his ownership stock before he bought Twitter. The biggest mistake right now is to believe anything he says.

Every time, these companies have broken the law, they have simply gotten away with it. I know I’m repeating this, but it’s central to understanding both the mindset and what’s happening on the ground. And no-one exemplifies that more than Musk. The worst that has happened to him is a fine. A slap on the wrist. An insignificant line on a balance sheet. The “cost of doing business”.

On Friday, Robert Reich, the former United States Secretary of Labor, who’s been an essential voice this week, told the readers of his Substack to act now and call their representatives.

“Friends, we are in a national emergency. This is a coup d’etat. Elon Musk was never authorized by Congress to do anything that he’s doing, he was never even confirmed by Congress, his so-called Department of Government Efficiency was never authorized by Congress. Your representatives, your senators and Congressmen have never given him authority to do what he is doing, to take over government departments, to take over entire government agencies, to take over government payments system itself to determine for himself what is an appropriate payment. To arrogate to himself the authority to have your social security number, your private information? Please. Listen, call Congress now.”

It’s a coup

I found myself completely poleaxed on Wednesday. I read this piece on the New York Times website first thing in the morning, a thorough and alarming analysis of headlined “Trump Brazenly Defies Laws in Escalating Executive Power Grab”. It quoted Peter M. Shane, who is a legal scholar in residence at New York University, “programmatic sabotage and rampant lawlessness.” It was displayed prominently on the front page of the New York Times but it was also just one piece among many, a small weak signal amid the overpowering noise.

There’s another word for an “Executive Power Grab”, it’s a coup. And newspapers need to actually write that in big black letters on their front pages and tell their tired, busy, overwhelmed, distracted, scared readers what is happening. That none of this is “business as usual.”

Over on the Guardian’s UK website on Wednesday, there was not a single mention on the front page of what was happening. Trump’s Gaza spectacular diversion strategy drowned out its quotient of American news. We just weren’t seeing what’s happening in the seat of government of our closest ally. As a private citizen mounted a takeover of the cornerstone superpower of the international rules-based order, our crucial NATO ally, our biggest single trading partner, the UK government didn’t even apparently notice.

The downstream potential international consequences of what is happening in America are profound and terrifying. That our government and much of the media is asleep at the wheel is a reason to be more not less terrified. Musk has made his intentions towards our democracy and national security quite clear. What he hasn’t yet had is the backing of the US state. That is shortly going to change. One of the first major stand-offs will be UK and EU tech regulation. I hope I’m wrong but it seems pretty obvious that’s what Musk’s Starmer-aimed tweets are all about. There seems no world in which the EU and the UK aren’t headed for the mother of all trade wars.

And that’s before we even consider the national security ramifications. The prime minister should be convening Cobra now. The Five Eyes - the intelligence sharing network of the US, UK, New Zealand, Australia and Canada - is already likely breached. Trump is going to do individual deals with all major trading partners that’s going to involve preposterous but real threats, including likely dangling the US’s membership of NATO over our heads all while Russia watches, waits and knows that we’ve done almost nothing to prepare. Plans to increase our defence spending have been made but not yet implemented. Our intelligence agencies do understand the precipice we’re on but there’s no indication the government is paying any attention to them. The risks are profound. The international order as we know it is collapsing in real time.

It’s a coup

We all know that the the first thing that happens when a dictator seizes power is that he (it’s always a he) takes control of the radio station. Musk did that months ago. It wasn’t that Elon Musk buying Twitter pre-ordained what is now happening but it made it possible. And it was the moment, minutes after Trump was shot and he went full-in on his campaign that signalled the first shot fired in his digital takeover.

It’s both a mass propaganda machine and also the equivalent of an information drone with a deadly payload. It’s a weapon that’s already been turned on journalists and news organisations this week. There’s much more to come.

On Friday, Musk started following Wikileaks on Twitter. Hours later, twisted, weaponized leaks from USAID began.

This is going to get so much worse. Musk and MAGA will see this as the opening of the Stasi archive. It’s not. It’s rocketfuel for a witchhunt. It’s hybrid warfare against the enemies of the state. It’s going to be ugly and cruel and its targets are going to need help and support. Hands across the water to my friends at OCCRP, the Overseas Crime and Corruption Reporting Project, an investigative journalism organisation that uncovers transnational crime, that’s been in Musk’s sights this weekend, one of hundreds of media organisations around the world whose funding has been slashed overnight.

It’s a coup

By now you may feel scared and helpless. It’s how I felt this week. I had the same sick feeling I had watching UK political coverage before the pandemic. The government was just going to ignore the wave of deaths rippling from China to Italy and pretend it wasn’t happening? Really? That’s the plan?

This is another pandemic. Or a Chernobyl. It’s a bomb at the heart of the international order whose toxic fallout is going to inevitably drift our way.

My internal alarm bell, a sense of urgency and anxiety goes even further back. To early 2017, when I uncovered information about Cambridge Analytica’s illegal hack of data from Facebook while the company’s VP, Steve Bannon, was then on the National Security Council. That concept of highly personalised data in the control of a ruthless and political operator was what tripped my emergency wires. That is a reality now.

The point is that the shock and awe is meant to make us feel helpless. So I’m telling a bit of my own personal story here. Because part of what temporarily paralyzed me last week was that this is all happening while my own small corner of the mainstream media is collapsing in on itself too. The event that I’ve spent the last eight years warning about has come to pass and in a month, 100+ of my colleagues at the Guardian will be out of the door and my employment will be terminated. I will no longer have the platform of the news organisation where I’ve done my entire body of work to date and was able to communicate to a global audience.

But then, it’s all connected. We are living through an information crisis. It’s what underpins everything. In some ways, this happening now is not surprising at all. Moreover, many of the people who I see as essential voices during this crisis (including those above) are doing that effectively and independently from Substack as I will try to continue to do.

And, the key thing that the last eight years has given me is information. The lawsuit I fought for four years as a result of doing this work very almost floored me. But it didn’t. And I’ve learned essential skills during those years. It was part of what powered me to fight for the rights of Guardian journalists during our strike this December.

The next fightback against Musk and the Broligarchy has to draw from the long, long fight for workers rights which in turn influenced the fight for civil rights that must now power us on as we face the great unknown. What comes next has to be a fight for our data rights, our human rights.

This was former Guardian journalist Gary Younge on our picket line and I’ve thought about these words a lot. You have to fight even if you won’t necessarily win. Power is almost never given up freely.

If you value any of this and want me to be able to continue, I’d be really grateful if you signed up, free, or even better, paid subscription. And I’d also urge you to sign up also for the Citizen Dispatch, that’s the newsletter from the non-profit I founded that campaigns around these issues. There is much more it can and needs to do.

[venusfe-art]

Okay so I have a THEORY, I have already talked a bit about it in the discord but Tumblr needs to know too.

Silverborn spoilers ahead!!

At the end of Hollowpox we find out there’s someone, or something, more dangerous than Squall. I feel it’s very hinted at/obvious this thing is either President Maud Wintersea or just the Wintersea Party and Republic in general. I’m leaning more towards the party BECAUSE what if the other Wundersmiths aren’t dead, but kept captive?

There has been multiple fake deaths in the entire series to this point, from Jupiter faking Morrigan’s death with Mesmerism dust or whatever he calls it, to Bertram Crow basically doing the exact same thing as Morrigan, running off with/being kidnapped by some Wundrous Society dude to join the entrance trials and live in Nevermoor. We also don’t know if Mildmay is dead or not, although Squall’s “I took care of him” absolutely makes it sound like he murdered him.

There is still SO much we don’t know about the Courage Square Massacre. Why it happened, how it happened (the buildup), and what happened after. Squall does not talk about it despite Morrigan’s constant reminders that he’s a murderer, but she has never actually asked for his side of the story. Squall has never actually gotten to explain himself, and we know he doesn’t tell Morrigan more than he deems necessary. There are no records of the Massacre in history books because it has all been abridged, removed, forgotten, and Morrigan isn’t allowed by Jupiter to return to the Gobleian Library to check out the other Wundrous Art volumes (although, if she really wanted to go she would. She had her mind elsewhere during Silverborn, poor thing).

We know some things about Wundersmiths and specifically how Squall views *being* a Wundersmith though. We know there are supposed to be nine, and when one dies, within everywhere from a few days to a few years the power will transfer and a new Wundersmith will be born. The fact that no new Wundersmiths have been born for a hundred years is WEIRD if you ask me. Maybe Wunder was shocked, tapped out, in mourning over its lost Smiths, Wunder’s interperator for the citizens of the world. Maybe it didn’t want to risk the same happening again. Wunder has an amazing memory, Jupiter says.

We also know about Squall’s frustration with being a servant to the public. “Wundersmiths take none of the credit and all of the blame”, talking about how Wundersmiths are made to do rich people’s bidding just because they have the power. I think he wanted to regain control over his own abilities and Wundrous Acts, so when the Wintersea Party offered him exactly that, control, he took the opportunity. But! Just killing all of the other Wundersmiths would be a stupid idea, because then they would all just be reincarnated and, even though they wouldn’t have any teachers to teach them the Wundrous Arts, cause trouble for Squall if he wasn’t able to track them down. He kills all Cursed children, but we know that most of the Cursed children, if not all of them except Morrigan, are not Wundersmiths. I think he, or his collaborators, made up the rumour about Cursed children to have someone to blame when things didn’t go their way. Humans love to have someone else to blame instead of putting the shame on themselves, it’s just manipulation.

It would also just generally be weird that 1. ALL Wundersmiths are born on eveningtide when it’s said to be random (it’s not specified all Wundersmiths are Eveningtide children, at least), and 2. that NO Wundersmiths are born in the Free State. It doesn’t add up, which means that Morrigan has to be the first Wundersmith after the Massacre.

But why was Morrigan born? What triggered it? Why did she become a Wundersmith, and how is she the first in 100 years?

Because a different Wundersmith died.

What if the reason for why Squall is so terrified of Maud Wintersea is because she or the Wintersea Party was the one to order the kidnapping of the eight other Wundersmiths of Squall’s generation?

I keep saying Maud specifically because I find it very possible she is either some kind of long-living species of human or she has a knack related to it, or, more likely, she gets Squall to use Tempus to stretch out her lifespan. We know very little about her, other than she’s sketchy as fuuuck.

Kidnapping the other Wundersmiths, maybe putting them in some kind of stasis, paralyzed, unable to do anything-state, would give Squall total control over Wunder. What he didn’t anticipate was falling into an even deeper trap by joining Wintersea.

I just generally find it so weird with how he acts in the Ghostly Hours, and Morrigan also points it out herself, his relationship with his friends seemed so “normal”. No maliciousness, no deep-rooted hidden hate, just a normal kid with friends at school. There was no hint to him turning on his friends and murdering them, so in my mind there HAS to be someone who influenced him or commanded him to do it. To me he almost seems regretful when snapping and ranting about Wundersmiths being servants and used by the elite. He didn’t want to hurt his friends.

[dykemind]

I've been reading about the male takeover of human society circa 10,000 years ago- the loss of egalitarian, cooperative woman-led societies to the kind of horrific, gloating warmongering and obsession with control we associate with all male domination. It began in Europe and swept outward across the entire world, reorganizing goddess-worshiping societies in the image of men and beginning an ongoing age of conquest and female suffering. I've been thinking about the social dynamics of conflict vs cooperation- how easy it is to take advantage of a cooperative situation, dissolving the trust required into antagonistic individualism. Cooperation is the more advanced social structure- it requires a majority of participants to hold. It requires communication and resolution. Cooperation benefits all parties, while conflict disadvantages all parties, but is pursued anyway in order not to be the most disadvantaged. Conflict creates hierarchy, cooperation creates equality. It is difficult, in a competitive situation, to create cooperation. It requires risking betrayal. Two people in a very large competitive group attempting to create cooperation are constantly pressured to betray each other- cooperation without a majority is vulnerable. It must be highly valued. Polls and pundits say part of our new president's appeal is his appearance as a strong leader. This only matters in a world of constant domination where each country is threatening to terrorize, exterminate and exploit the others. In a warmongering world, no one can let their guard down. We need a chief who will make sure we're the biggest kid on the playground. Braggadocio, chauvinism- a gleeful willingness to step on the weak is what guarantees survival. The most destructive personalities take power because they pose the biggest threat. Cooperation dissolves and becomes even more impossible. Everyone loses. But I don't think conflict as a social strategy is inevitable. Nothing is possible without cooperation- it is constantly being developed. Cooperation can be created and held against the occasional person who takes advantage of it. It is women who create it, and men who destroy it.

[bones4thecats]

TFOne request: Megatronus x Fem!Reader who was an unofficial 14th Prime that presided over Cybertron's music.

┗ Song of the Spark; TF1! Megatronus ┛

Characters: Megatronus (Transformers One) A/N: This is my second TF One piece, so there may be a couple OOC things happening with some characters. Just warning you there. But, I do hope you like this, @sassycandypoetry! ⇘ Summary: When you find out you were carrying, you wanted to make sure in case anything happened, your sparkling had someone to watch after your offspring. But, when you tell someone, you three neglect to notice the blue and yellow figure behind you, listening angrily.

┍━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━┑

┕━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━┙

🎭 Steps of large weight alerted the surrounding Cybertronians. They all looked up and smiled. Walking inside of the room was two of the most beloved Cybertronian leaders, the powerful and gigantic warrior, Megatronus, and his dearest sparkmate, the creator of music for their planet, Y/N.

🎭 You hummed along with your steps. Like your lover, your mask covered your face, but, instead of having one pair of optics, you had four. Two were placed below your normal ones, and while it would unnerve many, the way they glowed a beautiful blue like his own, he couldn't help but be entranced at the sight of them.

🎭 Megatronus adored you a lot. You were strong and obviously built very well for a fighter, but you were also very kind of loving of your people. Despite the time the war of Cybertronians and Quintessons, you always found a way to connect everybody. Even the other Primes had to admit, you were close to becoming an honorary one.

🎭 The soldiers stood and bowed to you both. You blinked and nodded at them, telling them they were dismissed for the day and could return to their homes to see their families.

"Starscream. May we speak with you?" You called to a singular seeker.

🎭 Starscream turned around and looked at you, nodding and stepping to you both. He took a knee and stared at the ground. You just chuckled and grabbed his servo, pulling him to stand up as Megatronus watched silently.

"Starscream. You have been leading the High Guard for very long, and you have been doing a spectacular job."

"Why- thank you, sir."

"For eons I've been looking for someone to hold onto my dream of uniting Cybertron though not only our words, but through our hymns. Every song I have written and have sung to be passed on are ones I hope bring us closer and motivate our people to be their best selves. But, I believe there are certain ones that are planning something darker."

"If you don't mind my prying, who are you speaking of?"

"Nobody who shall be named." Megatronus spoke. "It is a mere hunch as of the present."

"Understood, sir."

🎭 You smiled and lightly gripped Starscream's shoulder, making him look into your optics. He cocked an optical ridge and watched as you raised your wrist, tapping the button on the back of your servo.

🎭 After you tapped it, a glowing blue holograph appeared. He looked at it carefully as you scanned through it all. You went through many bots before landing on one. Himself.

🎭 You hit his face and dragged a designation to his title, renaming it to General Starscream of the Cybertronian High Guard. His optics widened as you submitted it, successfully changing it permanently.

"With your new title of having near complete control over the High Guard, I entrust this dream to you. But, you mustn't tell anyone else about it, is that clear?"

"Yes, it is clear."

🎭 Megatronus laid his servo on your shoulder as you pulled up one more holograph. This time, it was the moving images of a small, glowing dot in darkness. A small hum came from the ball of light as it's glow brightened and dimmed almost every second.

"Is that what I think it is?"

"A growing sparkling, yes."

"C-congratulations, Megatronus and Y/N! I'm very happy for you both. But, what does this have to do with your dream?"

"Inside of this spakrling's growing spark is a blessing. One made by myself and my sparkmate. If anything happens to either of us, we would like you to raise them with this single goal in mind."

"Ruling Cybertron by yourself is beyond difficult. Having others there to help you is something they must understand as they age. Allies and loyal followers much like you are the reason we Primes stay in power and keep you all safe. I want our sparkling to be the same as us and their relatives are." You began. "Please, Starscream. Keep them safe just in case we cannot."

🎭 Starscream nodded and saluted you both before bowing and glancing back at the holograph. You dismissed him, but before he left, you reminded him to tall nobody of this talk.

🎭 He agreed and flew off to his two fellow seekers, Thundercracker and Skyquake. They waved to you both and flew home. A smile overtook Megatronus' face behind his battle mask as he held your servo and laid his helm on top of your's.

"They'll be safe no matter what, my voice."

"I know that now, my muse."

🎭 As you both walked off, you were unaware of the figure behind the pillar. A sparkling was something that could pose a huge issue in his mission to succeed the Primes. And the fact that you asked Starscream of all Cybertronians to care for the thing? That just put him in his way!

"Looks like I need to put my plan into effect sooner than intended..."

[trickster-archangel]

Look, I'm not done yet. Not by a mile.

Apart from the Sam slander which was totally uncalled for, totally gratuitous, totally malicious, and which could've been totally avoided by making Sam appear in that pcs with the TB saluting their captain and awaiting for orders…as his new recruits for HIS New Avengers….instead of willingly making him appear like a dumb evil angered black man who's shitting on their precious white boyz team….without a serious motivation for neither of the two parts’ actions’....

(but of course this couldn't be allowed right? God forbid a black man gets the respect and the recognition he deserves and is totally due, as EVEN FICTIONAL PEOPLE IN HIS UNIVERSE CAN DO, because next what will be?? A black woman for President, huh??? O TEMPORA, O MORES! Without even considering all the white cishet women who drools so badly to be in the white boy's pants and can't allow a black man to get to his ass first….).

It'll be a long post plus spoilers, so the rest under the cut. Please bear with me because I'm DISGUSTED. 

There's another thing that's nagging at me, more specifical, and which makes Bucky’s actions even more OOC and indefensible and unwarranted. And it’s the presence, in that ragtag team, of Alexei and John. And not only because they are assholes pieces of shit. But because they're supersoldiers. Follow me, please.

We know specifically from Bucky’s words in CABNW, and also from Steve’s whole attitude towards Sam, that Sam Wilson has been chosen as Captain America because of his moral and ethical qualities, because of his heart, because of his mind. Having or not having the serum, as pointed out multiple times also in TFATWS, is irrelevant. The serum doesn't make the hero, if the hero isn't already there. Captain America doesn't need to be superpowered to do what he does, because sure, he must fight, but mostly he needs to make the right calls, take the right decisions, the hard decisions nobody can make because they aren't super partes, talk to people instead of fighting, and never killing, not even when justified. 

Even more, Captain America has his own code and doesn't answer to any governments beck and call, but only to justice and compassion. As proved many times by Steve Rogers, White Boy Extraordinaire, when going rogue and even when abandoning the Captain America name for the Nomad identity. Right? And that's exactly why Steve chose Sam Wilson. Sam is brave, is strong, is compassionate, is fair, is human, but most of all, he's intelligent, he's brilliant, he's charismatic, he's a strategist and a tactician. He has the brawn but most of all, he has the brain.

And this is dangerous. To every government, to every established power, to every organization, people who can think and decide on their own, especially if these people are adored and worshipped by folks and masses, ARE DANGEROUS. They can't be controlled. They can't be lured. They can't be coaxed. They can't be threatened. They can't be bought. They can't be manipulated. They are a threat to any government because they don't answer to the Government's rules, which have all to do with law and nothing to justice.

Dike VS Themis. It's an ooooold debate.

Sam Wilson doesn't have the serum, so he must be super smart and super intelligent to compensate for his disadvantage in battle, and we see it multiple times during the Celestial Island battle and the Red Hulk fight (thank you @staying-elive !). The amount of synapses needed to coordinate body, wings, weapons, shield, Redwing, and to fight to disarm and defuse instead of blowing up and killing, is insane.

This alone makes him a threat. They know they can ask Captain America to cooperate and help, but he'll never bend his neck and he'll never wear a sanctioned collar, and he'll never act against justice only because The American Government, God Save The President, says so. They all know it.

Back to the AvengerZ (sorry but that's the only appropriate name to this bad copy). I only really thought about it recently, I couldn't quite pinpoint it, until I read @imomnba-x07 and @thevibraniumveterans posts. There are two lines of thought that really scare me, here, and that's because I've worked as a government's little cog my whole life and I notice the clues.

Even leaving the whole Valentina’s issue aside, even ignoring the (dangerous) fact that her stunt saved her ass and brought a part of the government on her side, even ignoring the fact that the TB could've easily exposed her and handed her to justice but they chose not to (wow….that's a lot to ignore!), let's stick to the fact that the Government now has its own “Superhero Department” with people on payroll they can send around to do its dirty, dangerous job, per its request, every time someone or something is deemed a threat to Earth's safety, no questions asked, no doubts raised, no objections made.

I'm choosing to leave the Bucky issue aside because we agree he's so OOC and his actions and choices are so indefensible (unless he's working undercover for Sam, but even like this, he should've acted differently in that last scene, even if he's very bad at lying), that it doesn't make sense that he might yearn for freedom then chain himself to a Government's beck and call, and that he worked months to expose Valentina (HE SPECIFICALLY, not Yelena nor the other mercenaries), and right when he had his chance….he went puff….

The problem here is the presence of Alexei and John. 

First. An ethical reason.

Antonia was introduced only to kill her senslessly right at the beginning. Shock value and cruelty, sure. Bad, cheap writing, indeed. But! By choosing to keep John, White Male Extraordinaire, and killing Antonia, they made another choice: they killed a victim, a trauma survivor, an abused woman, who surely had superpowers but which powers she never could choose to have, never asked to have, and were forced onto her by harming her. She has made bad calls in life, but just as Bucky, as Yelena, as Ava, she didn't have much of a choice or a saying in the matter. Abused, manipulated, traumatized. I bet her mind rooms wouldn't have been very nice. 

She died, though, and John survived. This is extremely worrying and dangerous, as a concept, because John ISN'T A VICTIM. Let me phrase it better. 

JOHN WALKER HAS NEVER BEEN A VICTIM, HAS NEVER BEEN A TRAUMA SURVIVOR, HAS NEVER BEEN ABUSED, HAS NEVER BEEN EXPERIMENTED UPON, HE WILLINGLY CHOSE TO TAKE THE SERUM BECAUSE HE WANTED TO BE MORE.

In fact, and this is horrifying in a movie which claims to be about mental illness and depression and how to magically heal by the powers of hugs and friendship, we only see one mind room about John. Oh yes. What is his trauma? Thank you for the question.

JOHN FUCKING WALKER'S SO-CALLED TRAUMA is that he's been an abusive asshole to his family because he was so obsessed about the fame and glory and respect he had lost (because, you know, he murdered a surrendering man in broad daylight because he couldn't control himself), that he couldn't even rein his emotions in and care about what should've really mattered to him. A selfish, self centered, violent, abusive piece of shit, who apparently considers himself a victim because his wife didn't wait to be beaten to death during one of his rage fits and run away to save herself and her baby.

You see why this is dangerous? A true victim gets killed, an abuser gets saved and praised and rewarded. And the audience should empathize with him and feel sorry because that stupid woman left his sorry ass and made him a sad little meow meow?! Rewriting history is always a danger. You know what I'm talking about. Victims being depicted as culprits, and abusers being portrayed as victims. 

Another thing is dangerous. And this is reconnecting to Sam Wilson. Alexei and John are supersoldiers, even more, they've always and only been Government employed supersoldiers. The other TB? Not so much. They have been rogue and mercenaries, Yelena surely has worked for her government too, but mainly they are wild cards. Not these two.

These are enhanced individuals (the same ones we still see a part of the government is still wary about, right during the process against Valentina) who have always worked as some sort of elite forces for their Government's black ops. They don't need finesse. They don't need strategy. They don't need intelligence. They don't need tactics. They don't need synapses. Why should they, when they can simply hammer down and shoot and maim until no opponent stands? Why should they plan things ahead and control damage, when they can simply shoot first and ask questions later?

THEY DON'T NEED TO BE INTELLIGENT AND ABLE TO THINK AND MAKE AUTONOMOUS DECISIONS BECAUSE THAT'S NOT PART OF THEIR CONTRACT.

Never has been. The orders arrive. They obey. They kill. The government doesn’t need to worry they'll object and go rogue. You know that thing so many TB apologists say about “oh but they didn't choose to form the team, they didn't know about each other, they just found themselves together and were forced to collaborate to save their asses and in the end they were put into a team!”

Yes. That's what I'm saying. They cannot think. They cannot decide. They cannot collaborate as a single unit if not to survive. Fuck!! The only time they had one fucking chance to act intelligently and take their own decisions, THEY DID NOTHING! They could've fucked Valentina sideways IN FRONT OF ALL WORLD but they didn't. Because they can only obey orders, not plan in advance, not take the right decisions on their own. They are servants, not heroes. And Bucky chose to be a servant, too.

You see why this team, Valentina’s team, and not Sam’s, is convenient to a Government? Do you think a Navy SEAL would restrain himself from killing a bunch of unharmed sheep herders in Afghanistan, if he thought they could be a potential threat? Read some books (I did), and learn about what the US Government really asks of their elite forces.

Sam Wilson would never comply.

But Alexei and John?! Fuck. That's all they've done for their whole adult life. Hell! Alexei would trade his daughters for a minute under the spotlights! That's why we couldn't see any mind room for him, he hadn't any! He too, like Walker, is the abuser, not the victim. The manipulator, not the victim. He, too, only seeks public cheering at any cost, a picture onto cereal boxes (HAVE WE EVER SEEN STEVE ROGER'S OR TONY STARK’S FACES ON CEREAL BOXES?! SINCE WE WANT TO TALK ABOUT WHITE BOYS), and would obey any order if it means he can get his reward. Like Walker sacrificed his family, too.

Do the trick, get the treat. You know, the way I trained my dog out of bad habits like shitting inside. 

Last thing. There's A HUGE DIFFERENCE between the way the TB save people in New York and then accept to become Valentina’s tools instead of exposing her, out of necessity and/or because they want to be praised, and the way Sam Wilson saves people because it's the only way he knows how to live.

For my aesthetics exam, more than twenty years ago, I had to study a bunch of Freud texts. Sure, the man had issues. But one thing I remember, albeit not in full details: it's a metaphor of sorts. He makes the example of two different men reacting to the same situation: a child falls into a river and is in drowning danger. Both men throw themselves in the cold waters and drag the child to safety, but then die in their place. Apparently, the situations are identical, except for the intent and the motivation: one man did it selflessly, instinctively, because he valued life, every life, worth the risk of losing his own. Even if nobody ever knew his name, ever saw him, ever remembered him, he would've done it anyway, because only the child mattered. The other man, though, did it because he hoped to be seen, to be noticed, to be remembered, to be talked in high praise, so that the child's life mattered nothing to him because his own life didn't, in face of potential glory even after his death. The difference is, Freud said, that the second man wouldn't even have hesitated to throw the child into the water himself, if it made it possible for him to pull his glorious act.

You spot the difference between Alexei saving the girl on the street, and Sam talking down Ross, right?

That's all. Sorry for the verbosity. But I'm horrified by the implications, and what they might mean for Doomsday, but mostly, about the social, sociological, and ethical implications of choosing Walker over Antonia, and choosing Walker and Alexei (specifically) over Sam.