#I was going to make this a prayer request post but then it turned venting but if you could pray that would be so wonderful

[recentlyheardcom]

Smiths Station Mayor F.L. ‘Bubba’ CopelandAn Alabama community is in shock after the tragic death of a local leader following their involuntary outing as a transgender woman when a local conservative news blog posted photos of them embracing their secret gender identity.Smiths Station Mayor F.L. “Bubba” Copeland, who also served as the pastor of First Baptist Church in Phenix City, was found dead Friday evening, Lee County Sheriff Jay Jones confirmed to Columbus, Ga., CBS affiliate WRBL.“I can confirm he took his own life,” Jones said.Besides his political and religious affiliations, Copeland was known locally for owning a small grocery store in the Alabama backwaters. Recent scrutiny emerged when Alabama news blog 1819 News reported Wednesday that Copeland had been engaging in explicit online activities, allegedly posting pornography, memes, and photos of themself in women’s clothing online under the pseudonym “Brittini Blaire Summerlin.”The report shared screenshots from Copeland’s now-deleted Instagram and Reddit accounts, where the mayor openly explored their transgender identity. Copeland also reportedly shared transgender-specific fiction and erotica that they authored, according to published reports. Copeland discussed hormone replacement therapy in some of their online posts.The Advocate honors people’s chosen names and pronouns. Because Copeland did not publicly come out before their death, The Advocate is referring to them as the person they presented publicly.The revelation quickly spiraled into a community-wide controversy, eliciting many empathetic and derogatory reactions. One of Copeland’s friends, former Phenix City School Superintendent Larry DiChiara, expressed his anguish and support for Copeland on social media after the mayor’s death.In a Facebook post, DiChiara wrote, “Please bare with me while I vent. I am so angry right now and heartbroken. I witnessed a good man be publicly ridiculed and crucified over the last few days…to the point that he just took his own life today.” He revealed that he had reached out to Copeland offering “support and encouragement,” and Copeland had acknowledged going through some “dark days.”In a pointed message to those who ridiculed Copeland, DiChiara asked, “Are you happy now? What crime did he commit? Some of you people make me sick. I hope you are really proud.”He ended his post with a prayer for Copeland: “For our brother, F.L. Bubba Copeland, May God bless your soul and forgive those who took pleasure in your suffering. They should all be ashamed!”The Lee County Sheriff’s Office and the Lee County District Attorney’s Office are currently investigating the death.The situation took a tragic turn when deputies responded to a request for a welfare check on Copeland, spotting them driving their truck on a county road near their grocery store. Upon attempting to pull Copeland over, they stopped, exited their truck, and fatally shot themself, Jones told WRBL.Former U.S. Senator from Alabama, Doug Jones, a Democrat, wrote honestly about Copeland, whom he knew.“I am so saddened at the death of my friend Mayor Bubba Copeland. He was a good man and a great mayor who led the small town of Smith Station through the tough times of a devastating tornado a few years ago. I toured the destruction with him, helped him navigate the FEMA recovery efforts and made sure that he was able to plead his case directly to President Trump,” the former senator wrote on X, previously known as Twitter. He continued, “”It is sad and disgusting how he was treated by the @1819News for personal decisions however misguided they might have been. We live in a mean, bitter world where the self righteous tend to throw the largest stones and the @1819News is the perfect example.”The distressing details surrounding Copeland’s demise highlight the stark reality of the societal pressures and the often harsh judgments individuals may face when their private lives, particularly concerning their sexual orientation or gender

identity, are involuntarily thrust into the public domain, especially in conservative communities.If you are having thoughts of suicide or are concerned that someone you know may be, resources are available to help. The 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline at 988 is for people of all ages and identities. Trans Lifeline, designed for transgender or gender-nonconforming people, can be reached at (877) 565-8860. The lifeline also provides resources to help with other crises, such as domestic violence situations. The Trevor Project Lifeline, for LGBTQ+ youth (ages 24 and younger), can be reached at (866) 488-7386. Users can also access chat services at TheTrevorProject.org/Help or text START to 678678.Editor’s note: This story was updated to reflect comments from Sen. Doug Jones

[swinging-stars-from-satellites]

I know you like to think big, so I'd love a fic from you set post-"Our Town". Thanks, Lu! Hope you like the prompt. <3

@today-in-fic <3

just thought I could hold myself together

Mulder keeps looking at her, like he's checking that she's real, when she's hovering by his side as he talks to the deputy sheriff, and when he steadies her and guides her to the car. She can see his hands shaking on the steering wheel when he starts it and sits, staring out the windshield with his jaw clenched and knuckles white, for a long moment. She's staring too, eyes wide and vacant. She's stopped shaking, though.

He whispers a sharp, sudden curse, bending over and pressing his forehead against the wheel for a moment. "God..." it sounds like a prayer. He'd worn her cross while she was missing.

"Mulder," she breathes, and shivers suddenly. It's probably shock — it's definitely shock, and maybe a mild concussion. Her head is pounding. She can still see the fire burning out her window, closes her eyes so she won't have to. There's flecks of blood on her nice brown wool coat.

His eyes meet hers, flashing very dark brown in this light. "Turn the heat up as high as you need it, okay?" He reaches across the console, squeezes her knee with a hand that has finally stopped shaking, and puts the car into gear.

Scully knows, on a clinical level, that she is in shock. She turns the heat up, angles the vent so that the warm air hits her face. She stares blankly out the window and wonders how many more times this will happen to her. Three out of four times, Mulder has come for her.

He'd been thinking of Skyland Mountain the same way she was, she could see it in his eyes when he pulled the tape off her mouth, carefully, gently brushed away the hair plastered to the scrapes on her face. She'd been on the phone with him then, too.

He drives for nearly an hour, far out of town, and finally pulls into a hotel far nicer than what they usually stay at. One room, at her request, because she thinks maybe they both need the proximity. He pays out of pocket, not on the FBI's dime, so she can justify the break in regulations just this once. His eyes are lighter in here, soft hazel the way she knows them best, and some of the tension has faded from his posture.

She stands in front of the porcelain sink and scrubs at the dark red-brown specks in her coat with piping hot water and liquid hand soap. Her suitcase is back at the little motel in Dudley, so Mulder offers a soft, worn t-shirt and a pair of sweats that she has to roll five times at the ankle and still drag on the floor anyway. The shirt smells like him, which isn't something she'd ever thought she could pinpoint, but it's leagues better than the remnants of smoke in her clothes.

The room has two beds, but when she exits the bathroom, her hair damp and coat hung to dry as best as she can rig it, she goes to the one Mulder is already on. He's laid out flat on his back, staring vacantly at the ceiling, and only looks up when she sits down on the other side of the mattress.

"You okay?" He asks quietly. His voice seems loud in the quiet, but maybe it's just that she hasn't said a word aside from his name since he untied her and asked if she was alright the first time. He props himself up on an elbow to better look at her, his gaze tracing the now cleaned, less visible scrapes on her face.

She nods. "Yeah," she replies. "I'll be alright." That, more than her first reply, is the truth.

She can see that he understands that, too, because he visibly relaxes. "We'll have to go back tomorrow," he reminds her, and she grits her teeth, which makes her head hurt a little bit.

"I know." She meets his eyes, pulling back the comforter. "But for now, can we just go to sleep?"

Mulder forces a small smile. "Yeah. You want me to-"

"Same bed," she answers, before he even asks. He looks taken aback, hesitant. "If that's okay," she adds, too tired, too worn to feel embarrassed but not so much that she isn't at least a little uncertain.

Mulder nods. "Of course." The look on his face, quiet intensity, says he means it. He's just as shaken as she is; wants to be close just as much if not more.

She switches the lights off and the only light in the room is the reflections of their eyes, facing each other across the gap between them in the bed.

"Scully," he whispers with the same intensity he'd hissed curses into his hands in the car, "Scully."

"Mulder," she says back, barely able to make out the shape of his face in the dark.

"I thought I wasn't going to get there in time," he breathes, voice ragged.

Scully shudders, a flash of the absolute terror she'd felt strapped down, helpless, to that contraption beside the bonfire. Her head throbs a little bit right now, but she still has it and she nearly hadn't. She had thought she was going to die, too. She's so tired of it, and she's just plain tired, as well.

"But you did," she whispers back, moving closer. "You got there in time." She isn't sure which of them she's reassuring more; she still feels the grip of terror around her ribs if she thinks about it too much. "You're here now." She presses her forehead against his collarbone, closes her eyes and listens to his breathing and tells herself this is real.

Mulder is here, solid and real and with her, and she's wearing his clothes. She is alive. If she holds very still, she can feel his heartbeat along with her own.

His hand comes up, just for a moment, and rests along her jaw before he wraps his arm around her back. "So are you," he says, and she knows they are both reminding themselves of the same things.

[nyctolovian]

A/N: Alright! It’s out!!! It’s my first long-ish fic and I have a lot planned! I really hope this works out well... Also, this became a prompt fill for the Free Space of @voltronbingo cos what a waste it’d be if I didn’t take smth that’s free? I guess???

And it’s Klance again cos i have no self control.

Shout out to @oorubixoo, lunaslovelies and @goodandhorrid for helping me to beta-read this chapter!! Also, thanks to those who have liked and reblogged my beta request post :")

Summary: Lance stumbles into the Galran druids’ laboratory and uncovers their experiments and monsters. He barely makes it out with his life - and, unknowingly, with another tangled with it. Now, he has to learn to live with a new permanent resident.

Warning: Graphic depictions of violence 

Lance glanced behind as he ran. The druids approached, sweeping through the corridor like dark ghosts.

His legs burned, and his lungs felt like they were going to collapse. He could hear his blood rush and his heart pound. "How much more can I run?"  Lance thought as he skidded round a bend.

“Oh, nonono!”

A solid-looking door loomed at the end of the hallway. It was a dead end.

Lance just had to drop his quiznak-ing bayard, didn’t he? How the hell was he going to defend himself now?

Maybe he could break the door down.

This had better work.

He squeezed his eyes shut in prayer. With all his might, he slammed into the door. It refused to budge. He let out a groan and shoved at it again.

Panic blurred his vision.

Lance punched the buttons at random with shaky hands. “Come on. Come on,” he whimpered through clenched teeth.

He flinched when the alarms blared, and flashing lights bathed the corridor in red.

He jammed his finger at the buttons again. The alarm rang through the corridors a second time. He let out a frustrated yell and kicked the door.

Lance glimpsed over his shoulder to see a druid hand reach over. A blast hit his shoulder, and he crumpled to the floor with a yell.

Strengthless, Lance lay on his side as the druids approached. His vision went dark as he slowly lost consciousness.

But his hearing was the last to fade.

“Voltron cannot be formed anymore, but surely Haggar wouldn’t mind having a new test subject for Project Kuron.”

Just a few hours ago, the team had been gathered at the bridge to go over the plan to infiltrate a small Galra base. This mission could reveal major routes used by the Galra Empire while harvesting quintessence and possibly other important information. It was a relatively simple mission, hopefully with no fights involved, but it was going to be rather long.

Lance had originally been excited for the mission. Now, it sounded like a chore. It was definitely a form of torture to squish yourself in one tiny spot for almost an hour, wait for a signal from Pidge, and press a single stupid button — even if Shiro had insisted that he could spend it “finding inner peace in the silence”. Lance wondered if the Shiro, whom they had picked up from the space pod, had swapped souls with Oogway during the months he was MIA or something.

He slumped in his seat as he listened to the instructions that were handed out to everyone else. At some point, he nearly slid off the chair, earning himself a glare from Allura, so he straightened up a little more.

By the time the meeting was ending, he had realised many small things. Like how Pidge alternated between shaking her left and her right leg, and how Hunk had a small smudge of green on his shirt (food goo?), and how the mice seemed to be playing hide and seek, and how Keith had way too much white hair for a guy his age (must be stressful being the new black paladin), and how–

Beep! Beep!

Everyone straightened up at the sound. It was an unknown signal. The team exchanged uneasy looks.

“Pidge,” Shiro said, “could you go check what the signal is?”

“I’m on it.” Pidge hopped into her seat and went straight to work.

Frowning, Keith crossed his arms. “This better not be a distress signal.”

Hunk raised a finger. “Based on all our previous experiences, I can say that whenever there’s something important, there’ll always be something else coming along to complicate the situation for us.”

“It’s a distress signal!” Pidge announced the moment she decrypted the code.

Keith groaned and Hunk sighed.

“Look what you’ve done now, Keith. You totally jinxed it,” Lance said. That earned him a narrow-eyed stare.

“This is terrible timing.” Allura frowned. “Where is it coming from?” she asked.

“It’s… from this planet,” Pidge mumbled as she pointed at a dot on her screen.

Allura and Coran walked over and peered at the screen. Curious, Lance craned his neck to see where Pidge was pointing to, but Keith shoved his head out of the way.

Keith smirked back, teasing mischief behind his purple eyes.

That bastard!

Lance suppressed his smile with a feigned huff of irritation. However, when he was about to shove back, Shiro clicked his tongue from behind, so Lance slowly lowered his arm. Not without giving Keith a playful elbow though.

Keith scowled at him so Lance stuck his tongue out at him.

“Why, isn’t that Regeunde?” Coran said, stopping their roughhousing. “It’s home to Regeunders, small, mild-mannered, cat-like people.”

“I think it is!” Allura cried. With a wave of her hand, the bridge grew dark and a projected map burst from the centre of the room. The princess effortlessly called out the lights with an elegant sweep of her arm. “There it is!” she said, pointing at one of the larger spheres on the map.

Coran leaned forward. “Ah,” he said. “It is from the opposite direction of the course we’re taking. We can’t go back there and make it to the Galra base on time for the next trading cycle.”

“But we need to help them,” Hunk said, his voice strained. “We can’t leave a planet out there helpless.”

Shiro placed a hand on Hunk’s shoulder. “We’re not going to.”

“What will we do though?” Pidge asked. “We’re only going to arrive at the base just in time for our plan to work. The particle barriers around the base aren't going to be deactivated anytime soon after that. We really can’t spare any time.”

“We will split up,” Allura replied. “We can send two lions to scout the planet and investigate.”

“I don’t have a good feeling about this,” Keith muttered. “I don’t think we should split up.”

“Are you saying it’s a trap?” Lance asked.

He did that awkward shrug, with his eyes big and his lips in a small pout. “It could be.”

“It could be a trap,” Pidge agreed. “But it could be a real distress signal. I don’t think we should ignore it.”

Keith pursed his lips and crossed his arms. “Yeah, I know.”

Shiro said, “If anything happens, those checking on Regeunde must immediately call for backup.”

Coran nodded. “As for the infiltration plan, it should still proceed smoothly with three lions. This mission is fairly simple even though it may be rather slow. In case anything goes wrong, you can always count on the good ol’ Castle of Lions for backup.”

“Pidge, we need your stealth for the infiltration mission so you should stay on our current mission,” said Shiro, to whom Pidge gave a firm nod.

“If no one minds, can I go scout the planet?” Hunk asked.

“If Hunk’s going, can I go too?” Lance said. “Meeting cat people sounds way better than collecting data from some rusty old port.”

Shiro thought for a while before replying, “Why not?”

With a satisfied grin, Lance threw an arm over Hunk’s shoulder. Hunk lifted a fist, which Lance bumped with his own.

“Be careful though, the two of you,” Coran warned. “We have not contacted Regeunde since the rise of the Galra Empire. A lot may have changed.”

Lance woke up with a severe headache. He opened his eyes. The room was grey and empty, and it smelled like cement but with a more metal-like quality to it. There was only a single metal door and a small air vent the size of his palm at the top of the ceiling. There weren’t even any windows.

On his back, hands bound in front of him, Lance felt panic rise to his throat. Clumsily, he pushed himself upright. He winced. There was a dull ache in his shoulder. Was that from running into the huge door just now? Or was it the druid’s attack?

“Hunk?” he yelled when he was upright. “Hunk, buddy? You out there?”

In the silence, Lance could hear his own raspy breathing. He held his breath as he strained his ears to hear any sound, anything that could help him figure out anything at all.

Nervously, he gulped. It was quiet, save for an unnerving bubbling sound some distance away. He released his breath.

Judging from how dry his lips and mouth were, he was out for a pretty long time. Anxiously, he ran his tongue over his lips but they provided little moisture.

After wriggling about for a while, he cleared his throat. “Hunk?” he called again.

He remembered that they were chatting while heading towards the planet, which was just in sight. Mid-conversation, Lance’s vision turned purple and he was sucked backwards. He had glanced back and there it was – a Galran ship. Panicking, he had called for Hunk, but before Hunk could reach him, Lance and Red had been swallowed up by the ship.

Was Hunk alright? The pit of his stomach sank.

Hopefully, the lack of response meant that Hunk wasn’t in the ship. At least he’d be safe and then he could return to the others and call for backup quickly.

What had the druids said? Stop Voltron from forming? What plans did the Galra have?

And recreate what project? Whatever that was, Lance was the new subject of that project. And that didn’t sound in the least bit like good news.

His stomach was twisting and turning. “I can’t take this!” he grumbled.

Pursing his lips, Lance bounced on the balls of his feet, as though that would get rid of the nervousness in his belly. He began to pace around instead. Maybe there was a way out.

Clinging to that hope, he went to a wall and began inspecting it. The walls weren’t even cracked. He kicked it and yelped in pain. He hopped on his other foot as he glared at the wall. It didn’t seem likely that there’d be any secret passage or secret puzzle he could solve to get out. It was nothing like any of the movies Lance had watched, and neither was it anything like the escape rooms he used to play.

But sometimes, escape rooms had secrets that couldn’t be seen at first. Lance steeled himself. He’d always made it out of escape rooms without calling the helpline. Surely he could do it now.

With a huff of determination, Lance set to work. He began with the door and knocked on it a few times. The sound it produced was low. The door was thick and probably sturdy.

He kicked it several times. Yep. Solid. He sighed, crouched down and looked through the gap under the door. Purple light streamed in and there was no movement outside. Was no one guarding this place?

The druids were awfully confident. This cell must be really secure.

He straightened up and dug his fingernails into the edges of the door. He tried pulling it open. However, after his fingers slipped several times, he relented. He didn’t really think it’d budge anyway.

Lance shuffled over to a corner and squinted at it. It was absolutely clean of dust. He pursed his lips in frustration. Finding the cell completely rid of everything, even of dirt, frustrated Lance.

How was he supposed to escape if there were no possible clues or help in this room? How could this place even be this clean? Did the Galra obsessively clean their ships? He huffed in annoyance as he straightened back up.

He moved onto the next wall. The wall stared back at him condescendingly. Frowning, he pressed his unhurt shoulder against it and shoved as hard as he could. All he did was slide his shoes over the smooth, squeaky clean floor.

“Argh!” he yelled and kicked the wall. “An escape room helpline would be real useful right now!”

He flopped to the floor. It didn’t feel like there was a way out. Nothing was giving way! There wasn’t even anything for Lance to work with!

Lance took deep controlled breaths. “Where there’s a will, there’s a way,” he assured himself. Just like what Mama always said.

He got back on his feet. Maybe the floors had clues. Lance began to inspect the floor. Occasionally, he’d knock on the ground. In hopes the floor would give way, he jumped and landed as heavily as he could on several spots.

“Ok,” he mumbled. “Maybe not the floor then.”

Just as he was about to investigate the third wall, he heard some noises from outside. His eyes widened as he straightened up.

Footsteps. Getting closer and closer. Who are they? Were they here for him?

His breath hitched as his mind raced through every possibility. The most logical one being that they were druids, here to collect their new test subject.

“What is the Kuron Project anyway?” he thought. “What will they do to me?” Lance sure as heck wasn't sticking around to find out.

He pressed his back against the wall next to the door. If there was any way out, launching a surprise attack on his captors and making a run for it might be his best option. He pursed his lips and gulped, forcing himself to breathe evenly, waiting.

The door opened.

“Alright, paladin– Wait, whe–”

Whipping around, Lance set his jaw, and slammed his bound fists into the druid’s abdomen.

When the druid doubled over, Lance charged through the door. As expected, there were more of them.

He dodged a magically-charged blast from one of them. Squaring his shoulders, he body-slammed one of them and broke past the ring of druids. Before they could react, Lance was already bounding down the corridor.

There was a pair of swinging doors at the end of the hallway. He rushed through them and found himself in a black stinky room with rows and rows of bottles. Immediately, the bubbling noise was roaring in his ears. So this was where it came from.

With his arms and body, Lance knocked as many glass bottles down as he could while he tried to escape, shattering everything. He had to awkwardly twist his body so his bound arms could reach the shelves. Eventually, he gave up using his arms and kicked the cupboards down, sending the the bottles crashing into a million pieces. He could only hope this would distract the druids.

Smashing more of them, Lance ran round a corner.

Then, he saw it. A large vessel that looked like a healing pod. This was the source of the loud bubbling noise. But it was what was inside that made his stomach drop.

A creature that was about three metres tall floated in the clear purple fluid of the vessel with breathing tubes inserted in its nostrils. It was alive but not awake, if its moving chest and closed eyes were anything to go by.

Despite its unconscious state, he still couldn’t suppress the shudder that coursed through his body.

Dark green scales coated its skin, but beneath its tough-looking exterior was a large mass of muscle. Its jaws were powerful, made for crushing bones and shredding meat. Lance could imagine its large hands snapping his neck with ease and the razor-sharp teeth, which peeked out behind its thick black lips, ripping apart his flesh. Completing its Godzilla appearance was a tail, long, muscular, and armed with spikes at its end.

This monster was built to slaughter.

He backed away from the vessel, quivering and panting in fear.

His feet slid over something slippery and he looked down at the mess he had created — soft sludge of moist flesh scattered amongst shards of glass. He froze.

That’s when he realised what all those bottles were – hundreds of vessels. All in different sizes for various specimens trapped within.

His guts clenched, and he leapt back. He pressed his back against the wall.

Organs of every shape imaginable and different shades of every colour lay on the floor — a testament to the variety of species in the universe that the druids have experimented on. Glass cut into some, and fluids oozed out, mixing into the liquid preservatives.

It reeked of rotting torturous death. Most were unmoving, dead. But Lance could see movements beneath the sludge of flesh.

Spasming, squirming, writhing.

Alive.

Bile bubbled up his throat and Lance swallowed to keep it down. His gaze travelled to something of a startling blue that rolled to the side of his foot.

An eye.

Lance gagged. His hands flew to his mouth as his empty stomach lurched, unable to expel anything. Spit dribbled into his palm as he leaned away from the mess.

The door burst open. The druids started at the scene before them. Despite their masked faces, Lance saw the exact moment they erupted with fury.

They surged forward.

Dang it. He was shaking like a newborn fawn. And he felt just as defenseless. Stumbling back, he grabbed the closest thing, some rod, and waved it before himself.

One of the druids fired a white blast at him and Lance ducked.

As he did that, another druid rushed forth and he swung the rod at his attacker. When they dodged, Lance’s rod smashed into more bottles at the side. His stomach twisted again at the sight of its contents spilling out.

That moment of weakness was his doom.

A magic blow ripped the rod from his hands. Another hit his stomach while Lance was stumbling to catch the rod with his tied hands.

He fell onto the mess of broken glass and butchered specimens.

Were it not for the cushioning flesh, he might have been knocked out. But the stench slammed into him like sledgehammer.

He jerked to his side. Eyes closed and watering, he gagged drily.

The druids’ footsteps grew closer.

“Pull yourself together!” he said inwardly as he sat up.

Lance felt faint, but he forced himself to look directly at the druids. Head throbbing and stomach churning, he struggled to pull himself up, his still bound hands fumbling for a hold. Something gave way beneath his finger.

The bubbling noise ceased abruptly. Lance whipped his head and stared at the large pod.

Then, it whirred back to life. Lance’s eyes widened, and even the druids froze. The fluid in the vessel started to drain away as the light above it flashed purple.

Instantly, the druids withdrew from the vessel. That couldn’t be good.

Lance stumbled to his feet, panting. He couldn’t straighten his back. In fact, glass shards were lodged painfully in his back.

The fluid in the vessel was almost fully emptied. That creature was going to be released soon. All the druids were no longer in sight.

There was no way Lance could run like them now. His head was throbbing. His back was searing as though he had just lain on hot tar. His limbs were weak from his numerous failed attempts to puke.

So he did the next best thing. Lance crawled beneath the laboratory table. His limbs could barely even carry him into hiding before he collapsed onto his side. At least, he wasn’t out in the open. But it was still just a last ditch effort.

Alarms blared as the vessel’s door slid open. Dull, wet thumps hit the floor. A low reverberating roar shook the floor and Lance squeezed his eyes shut, shaking. He could feel tears prickling the back of his eyes.

His consciousness slowly slipped away as his worn out body deflated like a balloon. This might be it. And Lance’s body was too wrung out for him to witness the end.

Damn. He was going to die, wasn’t he?

No.

A sudden sharp pain burst through his back. He let out a wail. His eyes were squeezed shut as tears streamed down his face.

The shout from before morphed into a soundless scream as he braced his head, writhing.

His lungs were set aflame. His skin was ripped through from beneath. His skull expanded from the inside out. Every bone was cracking and snapping, and his muscles were pulled apart.

What felt like an electric shock pulsed through him and Lance convulsed violently. His eyes were pulled open by an unknown force.

And they met angry red ones. He felt hot breath against his face.

It found him.

His world crashed to darkness.

[indeedbeagod]

date night

for the lovely @guccimetti for @dpsficexchange!!! i tried to work in charlie/meeks and anderperry, and i’m not sure if this is quite what you had in mind, but i hope you like it and i hope you don’t mind if i’m a little late on posting this!! college is hard and time draining

but basically charlie, steven, neil and todd sneak out to go on a double date at a diner. shamelessly self-indulgent cute first date anderperry with a little cheeks on the side. the original prompt was “anderperry or charlie/steven ditching welton for the weekend to go on a date in canon time frame” so here’s hoping i did that justice.

Charlie is the one who suggests the double date. Which is funny, because as far as Neil knows, Charlie isn't dating anyone. Neil isn't even dating anyone. But apparently one night of talking about Todd was enough to convince Charlie that a date was necessary, and that Charlie had to be there if only to "keep you from fainting or something, jesus christ". (To be fair, Neil had spent nearly forty-five minutes on just the topic of Todd's smile, and about four hours talking about the rest of him. And yes, maybe he would possibly lose consciousness if Todd laughed at too many of his jokes. But that was a slim chance at best, really, and anyways, what license was a few hours of venting for scheduling a date?) It's a rather one-sided conversation- Neil can't get a word in to protest or even to ask who Charlie plans on taking- and by the time he's alone again in his room, he's got plans to not only go out, but sneak out. And true to Charlie Dalton fashion, there had been no specifics, only a request (a demand, really) to meet by the clock tower at 10:30. Neil wanted to chase him down the hall and grill him for details (was he supposed to ask Todd? Where were they going? How in the hell did he plan to not get caught sneaking out on a Friday night? What was even open that late around Welton on a Friday night?), but by the time he'd managed to get through the door, the other was nowhere to be found. Todd follows the same pattern. Neil doesn't see him once for the entire day, not even in Keating's class, not even during evening common room study. In fact, he's not even there when Neil goes back to their room that night, and something between confusion and worry worms its way into his stomach at the sight of the empty bed. But he believes in Charlie's haphazard planning (for what reason, he doesn't know), and at 10:25, he slips out his window and heads towards the tower. The three shadows backlit by the clock (one, Neil notes with relief, is Todd-shaped and seems fully intact) come into focus as he approaches, but it's not until he's three feet away until he can make out faces. Charlie's there, grinning like he's pulled off some extraordinary bank heist, and Todd has a scarf piled around his shoulders covering his face to the nose. The third figure, he realizes, is Meeks, and he has to cover his mouth to stifle the surprised noise that escapes him. "What- why- since when is this-" "I told you I was coming, didn't I?" Charlie's shit-eating grin is ever-present, and he slings an arm around Steven's waist as he speaks. The latter rolls his eyes, even as he leans into the grip. "I wasn't about to be the sad lonely one in this situation, who do you think I am?" Neil can't help at laugh at that, if only because it's the most Charlie response he could've received. Todd smiles too, and Neil's heart jumps a little into his throat. It's nothing, it's nothing. Half an hour later, they're trudging along the path off campus, chilled night air occasionally blowing upwards what fall leaves don't crunch beneath their feet. Neil and Todd trail behind Steven and Charlie, the latter leading the way towards whatever destination he's got planned. Steven's tried his hardest to wheedle it out of him- constant complaining questions of "where the hell are we even going, oh my God, why did I agree to this"- but as far as Neil can tell, there hasn't been any response past gentle refusals and the occasional "breathe, you nervous wreck, you'll see soon". He can't help but be jealous of how comfortable they seem to be; they haven't separated more than a couple inches, and the way they touch is so comfortable, so /easy/. He doesn't know how nobody's noticed them, because it's clear they've been doing this for awhile now. He looks over at Todd, like he has about a million times since they set off, and when he gets a small smile in response he ventures his hand out to lace their fingers together. He hopes he's not imagining the gentle squeeze Todd gives him. "So where've you been all day, huh?" Neil asks, quiet even though they're far enough from Welton that there's no need to be. "Just dropped off the face of the earth." That elicits a chuckle from Todd, muffled behind the scarf. He pulls the fabric down to speak, though, and Neil can't help but notice that his cheeks are wind-flushed pink. It's almost painful how much he wants to kiss them. "Charlie helped me. Said something about, uh, keeping me from flaking out? I think he thought I'd get too nervous if I had to- had to see you all day. I've been in his room instead." Todd's voice is just shaky enough for Neil to hear the falter, and it makes his chest warm in a way he almost feels guilty for. It feels good to know that the nerves are mutual. "So were you going to?" Neil asks after a moment. "What?" "Flake out. Were you going to?" The flush in Todd's cheeks goes darker. "No," he answers quietly. His eyes are trained diligently on the ground below, but the grip on Neil's hand tightens a bit. "No, I wanted to see you." It takes Neil a minute to remember how to operate his mouth. "Well in that case," he manages, "I'm sorry Charlie kept you hostage all that time." When Todd laughs again, Neil makes a mental note to thank every deity he can think of for this night. He also sends out a general prayer that he doesn't mess this up too badly.

It turns out that the only place open at this time of night is a 24-hour diner a short ways away. Charlie and Meeks must come here often, because they both address the ancient woman behind the counter by name ("Joanie! Babe!" "Hey Joan- I'm trying to get him to stop that, I promise"). Joan, on her part, seems to have been in on the whole...thing they're doing, because the table in the back corner of the building is decorated with a couple candles and a pretty, if worn, red-checked tablecloth. Neil is in the middle of gauging how many times the other two have come to this place when Todd squeezes his hand lightly. "You wanna sit?" he asks, nodding to the table. Somehow Meeks and Charlie have sat down already, and from the way Todd is looking at him (somewhere between confusion and worry) Neil realizes he's been thinking longer than he thought, so he nods and lets Todd lead him forward. The meal goes about as well as any plan of Charlie's can be expected to go; in fact, it goes better than most of Charlie's plans can be hoped to. Neil chalks a good amount of that up to Meeks, who, as usual, seems to have been the mediating factor in this whole event even without knowing exactly where they were going. The pie Joan brings out towards the end also looks suspiciously similar to the ones that appear in Neil and Todd's room during finals week, so Steven's either been stress baking or he just wanted to make this special. From the way he keeps glancing at Todd and him, Neil would guess it was the latter. For his part, the blond boy stays relatively quiet, but the smile on his face doesn't leave for more than a few seconds at a time. It must be some blessing, Neil knows, and for once there's no overstatement in his thought.

It's not until on they're safely back in their rooms (two close calls with professors on night rounds and about twelve snarky comments from Charlie later) that Todd manages to speak past a few words. "Thank you," he says, his initiative almost as uncharacteristic as the way he sits beside Neil on his bed to say the words. "For tonight. I, uh- I didn't know if you'd like it, y'know? Like, the whole dinner thing. Charlie said you would, but- I mean, I couldn't be sure till it actually happened, and I'm terrible at planning so I had no idea what I was doing, thank god Charlie and Meeks helped me-" Neil cuts him off the moment his brain makes the connection. "Helped you?" he asked. "This wasn't Charlie's idea?" His mind is working a mile a minute, simultaneously trying to process the fact that he didn't catch this earlier and that, more importantly, Todd Anderson had had the organic desire to go on a date with him. The chaos in his head is only compounded by the way the other's face goes red at the question; it's not a distraction he needs right now. "No." The word is said through a nervous laugh, and Todd's toying with his hands as he speaks. Neil has to suppress the impulse to grab them. "I mean, um, the restaurant and the timing and stuff was the other two's planning, I wouldn't have known the first thing about where to go, but-" He takes a deep breath like he's trying to steady himself. "-I told Charlie about wanting to ask you to dinner and he helped me from there. I think I might've spent half an hour stumbling if I tried to ask you myself." The shaky smile Todd manages is enough to make Neil want to kiss him then and there. As it is, he reaches over, taking his hand like he'd wanted to and shifting close enough to lean into the other's side. "Well you know what this means," he replies after a moment, thumb tracing over skin lightly. "I'm gonna have to repay you for all this. But do you mind if we don't sneak out next time? I think worrying that much took a year off my life." Todd's laughter is a yes before he even says the word.

[anastpaul]

Saint of the Day – 11 September – St John Gabriel Perboyre C.M. (1802-1840) – Martyr, Priest, Missionary, Teacher (6 January 1802 at Le Puech, near Mongesty, Cahors diocese, southern France – lashed to a cross on a hill named the “red mountain”, then strangled with a rope on 11 September 1840 at Ou-Tchang-Fou, China).   He was Beatified on 10 November 1889 by Pope Leo XIII and Canonised on 2 June 1996 by St Pope John Paul II.  His Major Shrine is at the Vincentian Motherhouse, Rue du Bac, Paris, France.

The formation years: The Church of France had at that time just emerged from the throes of the French Revolution with the red-colored garments of martyrdom for some and with the pain of the apostasy of many.  The panorama at the beginning of the 1800’s was desolate: buildings destroyed, convents sacked, people without pastors.   Thus, it was no accident that the ideal of the priesthood appeared to the young man not as a feeble arrangement for life but as the destiny of heroes.

His parents, surprised, accepted the choice of their son and accompanied him with their encouragement.   Not by chance, his paternal uncle Jacques was a missionary of St.Vincent.   This explains why in 1818 the missionary ideal matured in the young John Gabriel.   At that time, the missions meant principally China.   But China was a faraway mirage.   To leave meant never to find again the home milieu, taste its flavours, enjoy its affections.   It was natural for him to choose the Congregation of the Mission founded by St Vincent de Paul in 1625 for the evangelisation of the poor, the formation of the clergy but above all to push those very missionaries toward holiness.   The mission is not propaganda.   The Church has always demanded that the proclaimers of the Word be spiritual persons, mortified, full of God and charity.   In order to illuminate the darkness in people, a lamp is not sufficient if there is no oil.

John Gabriel did not think in half-measures.   If he was a martyr it is because he was a saint. From 1818 to 1835 he was a missionary in his own country.   First, in his formation period, he was a model novice and student.   After his priestly ordination (1826), he was charged with the formation of seminarians.

The missionary attraction:

A new factor, certainly not haphazard, modified John Gabriel’s life.   The protagonist was once again his brother Louis.   He also had entered the Congregation of the Mission and had asked to be sent to China where the sons of St Vincent had had a new martyr in the person of Blessed Francis Regis Clet (18 February 1820).   During the voyage, however, the young Louis, only 24 years of age, was called to the mission in heaven.   All that the young man had hoped for and done would have been useless if John Gabriel had not made the request to replace his brother in the breach.

John Gabriel reached China in August of 1835.   At that time the Occident knew almost nothing about the Celestial Empire and the ignorance was reciprocal.   The two worlds felt a mutual attraction but dialogue was difficult.   In the countries of Europe one did not speak of a Chinese civilization, but only of superstitions, of “ridiculous” ceremonies and customs.   The judgments were thus prejudices.   China’s appreciation of Europe and Christianity was not any better.   There was a dark gap between the two civilizations. Someone had to cross it in order to take on himself the evil of many and to consume it with the fires of charity.

After getting acclimated in Macau, John Gabriel began the long trip in a Chinese junk, on foot and on horseback, which brought him after eight months to Nanyang in Henan, where the obligation to learn the language imposed itself.   After five months, he was able to express himself, though with some trouble, in good Chinese and at once threw himself into the ministry, visiting the small Christian communities.   Then he was transferred to Hubei, which is part of the region of lakes formed by the Yangtze kiang (blue river).   Even though he maintained an intense apostolate, he suffered much in body and spirit.   In a letter he wrote: “No, I am no more of a wonder man here in China than I was in France … ask of Him first of all for my conversion and my sanctification and then the grace that I do not spoil His work too much…” (Letter 94).  For one who looks at things from the outside, it was inconceivable that such a missionary should find himself in a dark night of the soul.  But the Holy Spirit was preparing him in the emptiness of humility and the silence of God for the supreme testimony.

In chains for Christ: Unexpectedly in 1839 two events, apparently unrelated, clouded the horizon.   The first was the renewed outbreak of persecution which flowed from the decree of the Manchurian emperor, Quinlong (1736-1795), which had proscribed the Christian religion in 1794.

The second was the outbreak of the Chinese-British War, better known as the “Opium War” (1839-1842).   The closure of the Chinese frontier and the pretense of the Chinese government to require an act of dependence from the foreign ambassadors had created an explosive situation.   The spark came from the confiscation of loads of opium stowed in the port of Canton;  this action harmed the merchants, most of whom were English. The British flotilla intervened and the war began.

The missionaries, obviously interested only in the first event dealing with the persecution of Christians, were always on their guard.   As often happens, too many alarms diminished the vigilance.   And that is what happened on 15 September 1839 at Cha-yuen-ken, where Perboyre lived.   On that day he was with two other European missionaries, his confrere, Baldus, and a Franciscan, Rizzolati and a Chinese missionary, Fr Wang.   They were informed of the approach of a column of about one hundred soldiers.   The missionaries underestimated the information.   Perhaps the soldiers were going elsewhere.   Instead of being wary, the missionaries continued enjoying a fraternal conversation.   When there was no longer any doubt about the direction of the soldiers, it was late.  Baldus and Rizzolati decided to flee far away. Perboyre hid himself in the surroundings because the nearby mountains were rich with bamboo forests and hidden caves.   As Fr Baldus has attested for us, however, the soldiers used threats to force a catechumen to reveal the place where the missionary was hiding.   The catechumen was a weak person, but not a Judas.   Thus began the sad Calvary of John Gabriel.  The prisoner had no rights, he was not protected by laws but was at the mercy of the jailers and judges.   Given that he was arrested it was presumed that he was guilty and if guilty, he would be punished.

A series of trials began. The first was held at Kou-Ching-Hien.   The replies of the martyr were heroic: – Are you a Christian priest? – Yes, I am a priest and I preach this religion. – Do you wish to renounce your faith? – No, I will never renounce the faith of Christ.

They asked him to reveal his companions in the faith and the reasons for which he had transgressed the laws of China.   They wanted, in short, to make the victim the culprit. But a witness to Christ is not an informer.   Therefore, he remained silent.

The prisoner was then transferred to Siang-Yang.   The cross examinations were made close together.   He was held for a number of hours kneeling on rusty iron chains, was hung by his thumbs and hair from a rafter (the hangtze torture), was beaten several times with bamboo canes.   Greater than the physical violence, however, remained the wound of the fact that the values in which he believed were put to ridicule: the hope in eternal life, the sacraments, the faith.

The third trial was held in Wuchang.   He was brought before four different tribunals and subjected to 20 interrogations.   To the questioning were united tortures and the most cruel mockery.  They prosecuted the missionary and abused the man.   They obliged Christians to abjure and one of them even to spit on and strike the missionary who had brought him to the faith.  For not trampling on the crucifix, John Gabriel received 110 strokes of pantse.

Among the various accusations, the most terrible was the accusation that he had had immoral relations with a Chinese girl, Anna Kao, who had made a vow of virginity.   The martyr defended himself.   She was neither his lover nor his servant.   The woman is respected not scorned in Christianity, was the sense of John Gabriel’s reply.   But he remained upset because they made innocents suffer for him.

During one interrogation he was obliged to put on Mass vestments.  They wanted to accuse him of using the privilege of the priesthood for private interests.   But the missionary, clothed in the priestly garments, impressed the bystanders and two Christians drew near to him to ask for absolution. The cruelest judge was the Viceroy.   The missionary was by this time a shadow.   The rage of this unscrupulous magistrate was vented on a ghost of a man.   Blinded by his omnipotence the Viceroy wanted confessions, admissions and accusations against others. But if the body was weak, the soul was reinforced.   His hope by now rested in his meeting God, which he felt nearer each day.

When John Gabriel told him for the last time:  “I would sooner die than deny my faith!,” the judge pronounced his sentence.   John Gabriel Perboyre was to die by strangulation.

With Christ priest and victim: Then began a period of waiting for the imperial confirmation.   Perhaps John Gabriel could hope in the clemency of the sovereign.   But the war with the English erased any possible gesture of good-will.   Thus, on 11 September 1840, an imperial envoy arrived at full speed, bearing the decree confirming the condemnation.

With seven criminals the missionary was led up a height called the “Red Mountain.”   As the criminals were killed first, Perboyre reflected in prayer, to the wonderment of the bystanders.   When his turn came, the executioners stripped him of the purple tunic and tied him to a post in the form of a cross.   They passed a rope around his neck and strangled him.   It was the sixth hour.   Like Jesus, John Gabriel became like a grain of wheat.   He died, or better was born into heaven, in order to make fall on the earth the dew of God’s blessing.

Many circumstances surrounding his last year of life (the betrayal, the arrest, the death on a cross, its day and hour), are similar to the Passion of Christ.   In reality, all his life was that of a witness and a faithful disciple of Christ.   St. Ignatius of Antioch wrote: “I look for him who died for us; I yearn for him who rose for us. Behold, the moment is near in which I will be brought forth!   Have compassion on me, brothers!   Do not prevent me from being born to life!”

John Gabriel “was born to life” on 11 September 1840 because he always had sought “him who died for us.”   His body was brought back to France but his heart remained in his adopted homeland, the land of China.   There he gave his witness to the sons and daughters of St. Vincent who also wait to be born to heaven after a life spent for the gospel and for the poor.

After the then-obligatory waiting period of 50 years after death for seeking a person’s canonization had expired, a cause for him was introduced to the Holy See.   In the meantime, his remains were returned from China to France, where they were entombed for veneration in the chapel of the Vincentian Motherhouse in Paris (see images above).

(via AnaStpaul – Breathing Catholic)

[doneritchly]

Red, White and Bold: How I Dare Me to be Free

Hi frens!

In honor of Independence Day, this post is a reflection of my first time visiting New York City since working in Ecuador and how I am liberating myself through personal challenges. After a hard transitional year in rural Manabí, I finally decided to go home to spend time with my family; AND the Ecuadorians in the countryside lost their minds. My excitement to spend quality time with my loved ones quickly turned into a long-drawn-out brainstorming session of how I can graciously but seriously communicate to a bunch of poor people that I, too, am not rich!

I know that I look moneyed, and to be honest sometimes I feel affluent, especially when I look in the mirror and see how the equator-sun has turned my skin into natural gold. But, if I’m keeping it real, I am not balling out of control. For those of you who don’t know, I pay a family for a room and that is where I live. In the house, there are 9 people who legally live there with about another 9 people who spend enough time at the house for it to be their home too. I am not close with anyone at the house but I thought that out of good manners, I should communicate with 3 people (the three heads of the household) that I was going home for a month. The next day the whole community knew that I was going home, and the days leading up to my departure date were filled with request for $100 a piece purchases for everyone who lives in the house – yes, official and unofficial residents.

Girl: “I want Fenty, Kylie, and Sephora make-up!”

Me: “I don’t buy make up for myself, what makes you think I’ll buy for you?!”

Mother of girl: “I want these cosmetic skin care equipment ‘cause my skin is bad”

Me: “what you need to do is drink more water and have a seat over there!”

Aunty of girl: “I want sneakers and clothes for my son”

Me: “ya also need to ask yo baby daddy for these things, not me!”

I didn’t actually respond that way ‘cause I’m trying to live right and the bible says, “a wise man quietly holds back a vent” (Proverbs 29:11). But I surely thought those things. My real responses, for the most part, were blank stares followed by the suggestion that they should buy the things on Amazon then ship it to my mom’s house; from the house, I could bring the things from the US to Ecuador. That response disappointed a lot of people because it required them to spend the money instead of deferring the expenses to me. Their lack of interest with compromising challenged me to do 3 things that I do not do often

not stress anymore,

not buy or deliver anyone anything; and

focus on spending quality time with my family!

And just like that, I learned the art of saying no after a failed effort to compromise.

Alongside the difficult task of saying “no” to a bunch of people, I sat in a barber chair and got a pixie haircut. Oh, the courage it took! After 5 years of contemplating a pixie-cut, I finally did it with the influence of my aunt Earlyn and college friend Helena (S/O to these ladies for gently pushing me forward to live boldly!). The haircut served as a personal effort to mature in the words of scripture that says, “be strong and courageous”(Joshua 1:9). Surely, its “just” hair and it will grow again but in some cultures, hair is the essence of a woman’s beauty and I have taken the risk to cut mine. When I returned to Ecuador with no gifts in hand and a pixie-cut, I was told that I resemble a cancer victim, I look like a boy, and I look ugly. A few people laughed and ridicule me in public, with hopes that belittling me would help them magnify themselves. I realized that some of the negative comments were rooted in resentment that I returned to town without anything for anyone but in my defense, I pay the host family rent every month and did not owe anyone anything. I challenged myself each day to be strong and fight each battle with courage.

Somehow, I always mustered the strength to respond, “I like my short hair!” with my head held high in confidence as I walked away with grace. Similar to how I conquered the fear of getting in the barber chair and doing something that I had never done before, I conquered the fear of caring what other people thought of my outward appearance. I made it my goal to let my inner beauty shine forth and take control of my outer beauty. It is 3 months now since I have been back in Ecuador and believe it or not, people are starting to say positive things about my hair while it is still relatively short. Some say that it makes me look more mature and other say that it makes me look more elegant. At this point, none of the opinions matter because I am satisfied with the level of strength and courage that I exercised and displayed over the past few months. Additionally, I love that the short hair is easier to manage, helps me feel cooler in the tropical climate, and is financially friendly because I am saving money by using fewer hair products.

Overall, it was a well-deserved vacation. I thoroughly enjoyed hearing and speaking English after a year of overloading my brain with everything Spanish – language, culture, and the people. I also enjoyed celebrating four birthdays – my mother, my fiancé and my cousins. Though I am not currently in the US to celebrate Independence Day with most of you, I hope this reflective post about my most recent experiences in the US has inspired you to follow through with the things that make you nervous. My prayer is that you are able to liberate yourself through personal challenges such as “saying no,” “being strong and courageous,” or whatever makes you fearful.

If you enjoyed this post, let me know through a comment or message; or better yet, share it with someone else. Next week I will post about “The 5 Reasons Why I am Vegetarian.” If you have wondered why I am vegetarian, the full story will be available in the next post. I hope you are able to come through and catch up with me!

With love,

Donette