#XX century approaches

[stedefxckingbonnet]

Past Lives | Izzy Hands x Reader

Izzy Hands x Gn!Reader

Summary: Quite some time has passed since you joined the crew of The Revenge per being saved, and you've grown particularly close to the one who brought you aboard. One night in particular is breathtaking and you decide you cannot contain your feelings anymore, but you had never learned exactly how to express these sorts of feelings to another person, let alone Izzy Hands. So, you do so in the only way you know how.

Warnings: slight angst/tension, slight avoidant attachment style (w/resolution though), kissing, some strong language

Word count: 2264 (some longer ones coming your way in the near future, though!)

A/N: hi hi lovely people! This is honestly the first x reader I've written since I was probably 14-15, so please bear that in mind! My interpretation of Izzy I feel like, isn't always 100% representative of him in the show itself, but I feel like I tried to capture him at his core while exploring this more sensitive side of him that we are getting in season 2, perhaps more of a what he is on the pathway to being, and therefore already is, if that makes any sense. Just has to be unlocked in levels. Plus, Izzy deserves the world so I just wanted to write something sweet to dip my toe back into this sort of writing. Anyhow, I'd like to get back into the habit of writing these so please, do request! I hope you all enjoy this one, comments are much appreciated xx

The stars illuminated the sky in such a way that it almost looked like a painting—a bit too picturesque, like one of those artworks that only aristocrats could afford to have on the wall of their ornate mansions passed through the centuries, or even built and curated just for them. Nonetheless, it was breathtaking, and the fresh air coursed through your veins and senses so effortlessly and made you feel alive. Nights like these weren't meant to be spent hidden away in your quarters and you knew that. Once you were sure everyone had retired for the night, you quietly crept onto the main deck, ready for your moment of solace that you had been seeking for weeks now.

You approached one of the railings, scanning across the deck still to see if anyone had been lurking nearby. The coast was clear, and finally, you found somewhere to lean on as you stared out into the night sky, the wind blowing through even the hairs on your neck, making them stand. On occasion, you'd be sprayed by the sea but it was the most at peace you had felt in weeks.

"Rough night?" you heard someone quietly call from a short distance away. You almost jumped, but you quickly turned around only to see Izzy Hands. Relief washed over you, as did a nervous feeling that had only begun recently. You inhaled sharply as Izzy waltzed over, thanking the stars for not illuminating this spot too much, therefore being no way he saw you craving that much air in your lungs. He leaned beside you on the railing, awaiting your reply.

"Not at all," you admitted. "Quite the opposite. It's so beautiful out tonight."

Izzy only nodded. He joined you in looking out at the landscape presented before him. In all of his years of sailing, it was all he had ever known--the sky and the sea, yet, he had never thought it to be this ravishing before. He never noticed how lovely it could be. Being here with you, he saw it all in a new light. He discreetly glanced over at you once again. He had noticed the way your lips slightly parted when you saw something you liked, and the way your shoulders lowered when you were relaxed. He noticed that you'd twiddle your thumbs when you were truly happy—in fact, you happened to be doing it right now. Izzy allowed his lips to curl into a smile upon realizing this. Finally, he broke the silence.

"I've never seen anything like this," he admitted, almost out of breath whilst he was still looking over at you. You still hadn't noticed.

"Isn't it...divine?" you chuckled. "Beautiful seems too weak a word."

"I feel the opposite. I don't think I've ever described anything as beautiful before."

"Really? Not once?"

Izzy shook his head. "Saving it for something special, I guess."

Silence filled the space between the two of you once again, but for once in your life, it was a comfortable silence. You looked out at the sea, but this time, you could feel Izzy's eyes on you. You attempted to discreetly glance his way, and you couldn't help but smile when you locked eyes. You looked away as you practically felt your cheeks burning and your stomach turning, and you hoped to the sea gods that you weren't falling ill. But these forlorn feelings felt honestly incredible, for once. A wave of confusion crashed over you, and it was growing more and more difficult to ignore.

"You alright?" Izzy inquired with genuine concern. This entire time, his eyes have not left you.

"What? Me?"

Izzy chuckled. "Who else?"

"Fine. Just fine."

"Just fine?"

"Do you believe in past lives?" you suddenly heard yourself ask, and already you were cursing yourself for it.

"Past lives?" Izzy repeated pensively. You nodded, looking over at him intently. It took him a moment to think of a response, and even still, he seemed unsure. "This sure as hell feels like the first time I'm living. Otherwise I probably wouldn't have made a lot of the decisions and mistakes I've made, I suppose."

You felt your heart sink, and it almost felt like there was no way to retrieve it. "I see. Well, goodnight."

Without letting Izzy have another word, you scurried back to your quarters, tears streaming down your cheeks like waterfalls.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

You awoke the next morning with a sharp pain in your chest. You winced as you forced yourself out of bed, though as you dressed, the feeling began to dissipate. You almost teared up again upon reminiscing last night. What were you thinking, asking something like that of Israel Hands? Where did that even come from? Why did his answer hurt so terribly? A million thoughts swarmed around in your head like flies, and there wasn't much you could do to swat them away. You felt like holing yourself up in your room but you knew that with Stede as one of the captains, this wasn't much of an option. After hovering your hand above the doorknob for what seemed like ages, you finally twisted it, revealing yourself to the crew. Already, everyone seemed to be intertwined in their usual antics and fuckeries--it would have been fun and refreshing to see if not for the somber mood you were in. Lucius waved you over, and you seriously thought of walking right past him, but he was your dear friend, like a brother to you and you wouldn't have forgiven yourself if you dismissed him. You trudged over to him, and he immediately recognized your gloom.

"Well good morning, mopey," Lucius teased, nudging you in the shoulder.

"Not today, Luci," you mumbled. "Not today."

Lucius' smile dropped, though he raised a brow. "Talk to me. Who do I need to punch?"

"No one. I'm just having a bad day."

"You are such a bad liar."

"I just don't wanna talk about it," you grumbled. Lucius was at a loss for words, but thankfully you knew just what to say. "The sky was lovely last night. If only you'd been awake to sketch it. You're the only one who would have done it any justice."

"Maybe I'll have another chance tonight," Lucius said hopefully.

"Maybe you will," you breathed out as suddenly, none other than Izzy himself appeared onto the deck. You gulped and turned away from him immediately.

"Whoa, whoa. What's going on with you and Iz—“

"—I don't wanna talk about it," you almost seethed. Before you knew it, a finger tapped your shoulder. You swiveled around, fighting the tears in your eyes.

"Got a minute?"

"Not exactly."

"What better do you have to do?" Izzy demanded. Your jaw dropped, and you were waiting for your thoughts to catch up with your mouth but they never did. "That's what I thought. Come on, Y/N."

"Later, okay? Not right now. Tonight," you promised. "That's my best offer."

"I'll hold you to it."

You immediately realized the mistake you had made, and how difficult and miraculous it would be to get through this entire day before possibly knowing what Izzy wanted from you.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The shadow of the moon was present once again, and for once, you dreaded the wonders of nighttime. It felt perilous and peculiar now, like a friend you didn't quite recognize anymore. But, a promise was a promise, you'd be damned if you broke one, let alone this one. As frustrated and almost devastated as you were, you'd never allow yourself to break a promise to Izzy. You pulled your favorite capelet over your shoulders and started toward the deck to find Izzy already waiting in your usual spot. You hadn't realized it until now, but this really was your and Izzy's spot. It's where you wiped away his tears when he cried in front of you the first time, it's where he sat with you countless times when you couldn't sleep, it's where the two of you conversed until dawn frequently. Always this spot. It took everything in you to fight off a pang of joy upon experiencing such an epiphany. Izzy didn't notice that you had appeared beside him until you looked over at him finally.

"Are you alright? You seemed a bit...I don't know. Not yourself this morning, and last night."

"I'm fine," you shrugged, knowing Izzy would see right through you like you were a phantom.

"I don't buy that for a second," Izzy rolled his eyes. And with that, silence surrounded you both once again. It frustrated Izzy to no end that he couldn't figure out what was plaguing you. He always felt as if he was able to put a finger on whatever it was that bothered you, he prided himself on knowing you that well. The last thing he wanted was for you to become a stranger after all the two of you had endured together. The thought of losing you filled him with a sorrow he had never felt before.

"I'm sorry about what I asked you last night. About past lives and stuff," you suddenly said. Yet another moment where your mind and mouth weren't synced. You regretted saying this as soon as you began to speak, but you knew that once you did, there would be no stopping, no taking anything back.

"What was that all about, anyway?" Izzy implored. You almost scoffed at his tone but when you met eyes with him, you instantly realized that he genuinely wished to know. His eyes sort of twinkled when he was curious, and this was the first time you noticed such an endearing phenomenon.

"I just," you exhaled, pausing before you spoke again, this time choosing your words carefully. "Why'd you save me that day at Jackie's?"

Izzy was taken aback at such a question. "Isn't it obvious?"

"Not at all, actually," you laughed in annoyance, which was only a coping mechanism for the extreme anxiety you were undergoing in this moment.

"I honestly can't give you an answer you'd want," Izzy admitted. "I just felt...called to. I could tell it would be nice having you around here. I wanted to give you a place you could call home."

"So, wait, you care about me?" you inquired seriously, which only earned a chuckle of disbelief from him.

"Of course I do, dammit!"

"I don't know, Iz, I just...from the moment we met I felt this connection to you and I can't explain it. No matter how hard I could try, I won't be able to. I felt like I was meant to be around you."

"You think I didn't feel that way, too?"

"You did?" you asked, a glint of hope looming in your voice.

"Of course I did. And, I do. I can't explain it either. But I felt as if we were meant to be around each other, in each other's lives. I don't know," he rambled nervously. This was the first time you had seen Izzy like this. It was a side of him you weren't even sure he possessed until now.

"I guess I sort of caked that to the past life shit," you sighed. "And when you said you didn't believe in past lives, I freaked out and took that as you not caring about me and everything we've built just felt like a huge lie."

"Everything we've built," Izzy repeated.

"I'm so sorry," you laughed embarrassedly. "I don't know what I'm talking about."

"No," Izzy cut you off, putting his gloved finger to your lips. You could feel Izzy's breath on your face. "If I didn't care about you, I wouldn't have asked you to come with me. I had only known you for a few moments and I already knew you would be...important to me."

You were absolutely baffled. You opened your mouth to speak, and not a sound escaped it. Izzy took a step closer to you, slowly moving his hand to cup the right side of your face.

"And it helps that you are just...beautiful," he whispered as your foreheads touched. You could've sworn your heart was going a million miles a minute and that you would need some sort of village medic after this. As if it were instinct, your hand made its way into his carefully swept hair, and it felt like silk between your fingers. All of your worries suddenly melted away as you melted into one another, your lips brushing up against one another's. You nodded pleadingly, yes, you wanted this, followed by a nod from Izzy and finally, like puzzle pieces, your lips connected. It felt effortless and so, so right to share such closeness. Two becoming one, two souls merging to create a love bigger than either of you. A love that had been carefully crafted ever since the first day of meeting. A love that the both of you knew would inevitably take hold, because it always did in all the stories you devoured and then later went on to show to Izzy. A love that you had craved since you heard of the concept of it. A love that Izzy never thought he would attain in his lifetime.

You gasped happily for air, yet your foreheads still touched. Izzy gazed at you as if you were the only other person in the world and the most beautiful thing he had ever laid eyes upon.

"Perhaps I haven't had any past lives," Izzy breathed. "but I will have love for you in all my next."

[sitp-recs]

Hi :) Do you have Drarry recs that center around wedding planing? You know the whole, family butting in, cake delivery fail, couple stressing themself out and having to remember that this day is just for them <3 etc

Hi anon! Now I think about it I’ve seen more fics where they’re planning their kids’ wedding 😂 but here are some recs for you:

Thorny Business by playout and PrinnPrick (T, 2.3k)

With their wedding just around the corner and Draco running their vendors off with his ill temper and unreasonable demands, Harry sends his fiancé to warmer climes to prevent him from continuing to meddle. Unfortunately, the resourceful Slytherin still has access to owls...

stay awhile (stay here with me) by panicparade (T, 3k)

"Then when?" Harry tries again. He's not sure if he really wants to see the photo or if he just wants to keep talking to Malfoy. This Malfoy, who is so different from what he was expecting. In his Muggle jeans and smartly pressed sweater, with an air of vulnerability around him that Harry isn't used to seeing, Malfoy looks approachable in a way he never has before. Harry stops his fidgeting as Malfoy looks up to meet his eyes. Through the hum of the crowded pub, he has to strain a little to hear him. "Maybe," Malfoy starts, hesitating a little but never breaking eye contact, "one day?"

Archaic Enemies and Royal Weddings by @xx-thedarklord-xx (T, 6.5k)

It was the wedding of the century, talk of the town and the gossip in the papers. Only it was born out of revenge when Draco refused to marry any of Lucius’ suitors, and his father invokes an ancient and archaic law forcing him to marry his enemy. There’s nothing he can do to change it, but does he really want to try?

I'll Be Loving You (Always) by @phdmama (T, 10k)

“When are you going to make an honest man of Draco?” Harry chokes on his wine and hastily sets down the glass, making sure not to let it slosh over the rim. “I beg your pardon?” he asks once he gets his coughing under control, wiping his eyes with his napkin. Ron snickers and Harry glares at him.

My Big Fat Pureblood Wedding by QueenyMidas (E, 177k)

Chaos ensues after Harry proposes to Draco on their three-year anniversary. The two must plan a wedding around their fighting friends, warring families, and each other's stubbornness. EWE, post-war, disregarding Remus, Sirius, and Colin's deaths and the fact that gay marriage is not legal in the UK.

[c0wgurlz]

Trouble On My Left, Trouble On My Right

Chapter 1: Sweet Caroline

Kayce Dutton x Reader/OC - Friends to Lovers

He grabs ahold of the belt loops on either side of my hips. “I just-” he shakes me, “I’m tired of people treating me like some wounded animal or-or like some bomb just waiting to go off. You’re the one person who-,” he licks his lips, “you’re my person. Please don’t do that to me.”

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UPDATE: CHAPTER 2

I'm a long-time fic writer and an even longer reader, but this is my first attempt at writing for Yellowstone. If ya'll have any notes on characterization or just anything in general, I'd love to hear your thoughts. Thank you for reading xx.

As always: I do not own Yellowstone (2018) or any of its characters. This work is not monetized.

THIS FIC IS CROSSPOSTED TO AO3. It is not posted to any other site. I am lookingcold on AO3 and that is all. I do not give permission for my work to be posted by others to any other platform.

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I was no stranger to the Yellowstone Ranch, but bumping my way along its seemingly never-ending dirt drive, I still couldn’t help but feel out of my depth - like a little kid made to ride a bike with no training wheels. Its sprawling pastures surrounded by the towering mountains, standing at attention like century guards, intimidated me, and I had spent nearly every day of my childhood gallivanting around the property. I can only imagine how outsiders feel the first time they dare to mosey onto the ranch. Now, all this isn’t to say that I wasn’t looking forward to returning to Yellowstone, I undoubtedly was, but being there at the (somewhat) wisened age of twenty-seven felt significantly riskier than it had at the naive age of seventeen. The Yellowstone was trouble, and I had spent the last ten years of my life trying to stay out of it. Putting myself right back into its clutches went against every instinct I have.

Still, I was excited to see the people I had come to know as family. When my daddy died when I was only twelve, Mr. John treated me like one of his own, and when my momma remarried a man who was known for his fiery temper and love of the drink, he took me in as his own. My daddy and Mr. John had been best friends, so truly I think he felt as though it was his duty to care for me, but I like to believe he loved me all the same. And I loved him back. He taught me everything I could ever need to know - plus some. Helped put me through college. Even supported me when I wanted to take on the pageant circuit - although I don’t believe he minded the extra bit of shine my winning of Rodeo Queen added to his reputation. Hell, I even loved his ragtag group of kids, Jamie included if you can believe it. They were my family, and I wouldn’t have traded them for the world. Except I did, because Yellowstone was trouble, and I couldn’t let myself get caught up in that. And neither could Mr. John.

Sneaking up on Rip was somewhat of a talent I had cultivated over my long years spent on the ranch. I’m proud to say that I’m still the only son of a bitch who can do it. And that’s why I park my truck a good half mile down the road from the corrals. There’s a small hill in the dirt drive that obscures the shoulder of the road as you approach the house, one that Kayce and I used to hide away in, smoking or drinking, trying to stay out of trouble while getting into it. I park my truck on that hidden shoulder, closing my door as quietly as I can before approaching the road. As I walk, I stick as close to the fence line as possible, relying on the looming fence posts to provide me with cover. I know that if I can make it past the corrals unseen and circle around the back of the barn I’ll have Rip jumping a foot in the air before he can even catch a whiff of me. Lucky for me he’s locked in on what I can only describe as clownery, supervising some gangly kid as he works to stay on a bronco. Taking my golden opportunity, I creep through the barn, hushing whinnying mares as I go, before sidling right up to Rip’s left side.

“Now that kid has got balls of steel,” I comment, hands splayed across my hips, head nodding in appreciation.

I wish I had the words to appropriately describe Rip’s reaction. With a little hop and shout, Rip whirls on me, hand splayed across his chest, breath thundering in shock. “Jesus, what in the fuck do you think-” And that’s when he realizes who exactly he’s about to chew out. His eyes go wide and a grin starts to stretch across his weathered face. “Well as I live and breathe, if it isn’t sweet Caroline herself, gracing us with her beauty.” He takes a step towards me. “Come ere ya little menace!”

Before I know it I’m wrapped up in the warmest, most comforting bear hug on earth. If Mr. John had been like a father to me, then Rip had been like a big brother. My protector and confidant - and the target of my and Kayce’s many pranks.

“Where have ya been?” He jostles me around. “Haven’t heard from you in over a year, and haven’t seen you in well over that. Too busy for us old cowpokes?”

I hold onto his hands, squeezing them. “Well I haven’t been ignoring ya’ll on purpose, I’ve just been a bit busy. I -” And that’s when Mr. John comes ambling down the lodge steps, casual and collected as ever.

“She’s been in Oklahoma, working PR for the rodeo circuit. And based on what I hear, she’s pretty damn good at it.” Before I know it I’m embraced in a fierce hug, and if I didn’t know better I’d say I heard Mr. John sniffle. “It’s good to see you, honey. Welcome home.”

Rip looks between myself and Mr. John, confused. “You mean Caroline’s back working the ranch? We ain’t got any beds left in the bunkhouse.” At this, he turns to me, “Not that I’d expect you to sleep there but I know how stubborn you can be about doing what’s right.”

Mr. John cuts him off. “No.” He responds gruffly. “She’s not here as a ranch hand, she’s here as my PR specialist.” Casting Rip a pointed look, he murmurs, “Ya know with all the problems we’ve encountered lately I thought we should call in an expert to help with damage control, and who better than family.”

Rip nods gravely, a closed expression covering his face that I don’t particularly like the looks of. “Well if that’s what she’s here for then I’ll leave you two to talk privately. I’ve got wranglers to wrangle and supper to check on.” He turns to walk away, but pauses, angling his body towards me. “If you need me, Caroline, for anything, don’t hesitate to shout.”

He looks so serious, so grim, I feel the small, unsure age of eleven all over again. “Ok.” I nod, my voice coming out thin and reedy. “I will.”

“I mean it.” He’s firm. “Anything.”

“I know Rip.”

With that, he gives a final tip of his head to Mr. John and I, stalking off to holler at the gangly kid - Jimmy.

“What was that all about?” I turn to Mr. John, big-eyed and pale.

Looking resigned he says, “You know Rip, he’s just protective of you is all, and he knows I’m about to ask a lot of you, get you involved in stuff we normally would try to keep you out of.” He shakes his head, knocks one of his boots against the other. “But you’re my last resort honey, you have to know that. I wouldn’t drag you into trouble if I thought I could help it. Honest.” His voice is so sincere, soft in a way it rarely is. I would have believed him anyways, but now there’s no doubt in my mind. I have to do right by Yellowstone, by the Dutton family, by my family. I have to stay, wade through the trouble, and bring everyone out on the other side.

“Tell me everything I need to know.” It comes out harder than I expected, harder than I’ve ever heard my own voice. It makes Mr. John look up. His features turn steely, matching mine. We’re in this together now.

“Walk with me, let me show you where you’ll be lodging. I’ll fill you in.”

Ten years of keeping clear of trouble down the drain, but I owed Mr. John, owed Yellowstone, a debt, and I wasn’t about to not repay it.

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To say that what Mr. John had shared with me was shocking would be an understatement. Land and cattle disputes I had expected, helping Jamie and Beth campaign - sure, I figured (well maybe not Beth), but murder? Can’t say that was anywhere on my radar, or anywhere in my wheelhouse. If I’m being honest with God and myself, if it weren’t for my love for Mr. John and the Dutton family, I would’ve turned the job down. Any PR specialist with a brain would because what the Duttons needed was a criminal defense lawyer, not some cowgirl who’s good at turning nasty scandals into marketable flattery. But I do love the Duttons, and I love Yellowstone, so from the looks of it, if this ship goes down, I’m going with it.

Mr. John must think it wise to give me time to mull over the absolute bomb he’s just dropped on me, because after he breaks the news and confirms that I’m still willing to stick around, he goes silent, his face settling into a contemplative furrow, the same as mine. It isn’t until the foreman’s house comes into view that I break the silence, slightly bewildered.

“We making a pit stop or something?” I gesture to the house in the distance, halting my gait.

Mr. John breezes past me, only turning his head back to answer my seemingly stupid question. “No darling, I’m showing you to your lodging, like I said I would.” Darling is reserved for when I’m being a moron, honey as a term of endearment, and cowgirl for when I’m about to get what’s coming to me. I’ve not even been back an hour and I’ve managed to collect two of the three, and I’m not too keen on collecting the third.

I wait until he looks away before rolling my eyes. That would’ve earned me a ‘cowgirl’ for sure. “Well, who died and made me foreman because I sure as hell don’t have the beard or buckle to pull it off.” I hustle to catch back up with him, bumping his shoulder against my own, knowing I’m toeing the line between a chuckle and a swat. Thankfully I’m gifted with the chuckle.

“You know I keep waiting for your beard to come in, but I remain disappointed.” He shoots me a wink. “But no, I don’t want you as my foreman as much as you don’t want to be my foreman. No worries there.” He side-eyes me. “Kayce’s taken over from Rip, so this is his place now. I just thought you’d want to be out here with your partner in crime rather than cooped up in the lodge with an old fart like me.” I know he’s aiming for casual as he explains my living situation to me, but if my many years spent living at Yellowstone had taught me anything, it was how to read John Dutton. And right now, I can tell he’s up to no good - more so than usual.

“Right, because living in that big snazzy house would be so terrible. I think you’re just trying to keep me and Beth apart. Too scared to live under the same roof with us both. Can’t say I blame you.” And while I really wouldn’t blame him for not wanting to live with me and Beth - if she’s a terror alone, with me she’s a terror and a half - I have a sneaking suspicion Beth and I’s potential reign of terror isn’t the true cause of his decision. But I sure as hell can’t let him know I’m onto him.

He chuckles again, in an almost relieved sort of way. “You’ve got me there. I’d rather keep my sanity, thank you kindly. So no, I quite frankly don’t want to live with you and Beth at the same time. And truly, I just thought you’d be more comfortable out here.” He sighs. “You’ll be wrapped up in our mess during all your waking hours, I don’t want to take away the little bit of peace you’ll get during your sleeping ones too.”

I frown. “Mr. John, I-” I begin to protest.

“No, I don’t want to hear it. You’re in the foreman’s and that’s final.” Mr. John’s swinging the door open now, and the house is everything I thought it would be growing up.

High ceilings reveal exposed wood, and the humble home is lined with windows, letting in ample natural light. In a way I feel like I haven’t left the outdoors at all, the house is simply an extension of the forest that looms behind it. As kids, one of the few places Kayce and I weren’t allowed to wreak havoc was the foreman’s house. Mr. John always berated us whenever we’d beg to go inside, saying, “A hard-working man deserves some privacy, some peace and quiet. You better leave him and his home well enough alone or I’ll skin both of your hides.” For once we listened, neither of us too keen on getting our butts busted.

“Plus, I imagine Kayce will be mighty happy to learn he’s got his best friend back. It always was ya’ll’s dream to set up camp in here. Now you get to live it.” His statement breaks me out of my reverie.

“I’m sorry, you ‘imagine’ Kayce will be happy? He doesn’t know I’m here?” And so the other shoe drops. Mr. John always did hold out hope that Kayce and I would end up together. Said we’d be a power couple. Combine my business sense and charming small talk with Kayce’s grit and knowledge of the ranch and we’d be unstoppable. Let’s just say he was never too shy about his meddling. And while I did have a small crush on Kayce growing up, and I’d like to think he had one on me too, we were always both too awkward to entertain anything other than a close friendship. Naturally, we experimented the way kids do, having had a drunk kiss or two and having done our fair share of skinny dipping, but by the time we were in our late teens all romantic feelings had fizzled. That doesn’t mean we weren’t closer than we’d ever been though, thicker than thieves and troublemakers to boot. We practically lived in each others’ pockets. You wouldn’t find one of us without the other. I was crazy about Kayce and he adored me, but it was never anything other than platonic.

“Mr. John, I can’t live here if Kayce doesn’t know about it. You said so yourself, the foreman’s house is his getaway, a place for peace and quiet. I’m not taking that from him.” Hands planted firmly on my hips and lips pursed, I shake my head adamantly. “I’ll find myself a place in town or-”

“Caroline, no, you’re staying-”

“Or I’ll see if my cousin Amy has a spare room, we were always close and-”

“Caroline.” His voice is firm, if not a little irritated. “I said no. Kayce needs you here, you hear me? You’re staying here and that’s final.” This last part is spoken a bit softer, but firmly all the same.

Now Mr. John might not be my real daddy, but I’ve spent my whole life obeying him all the same, and this time is no different, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to plead my case. “Mr. John, I’ve missed Kayce too and I know he’s going through a lot right now, but he doesn’t need me.” I sigh. “And I couldn’t possibly put out his family. I mean, this place is small enough as it is. And Tate’s what, nearing eight now? He needs room to play and run around, I’ll only be taking up already limited space.” Giving a half-hearted shrug, I turn to head back toward the door, but Mr. John’s heavy sigh has me doubling back.

“Caroline honey, I wasn’t going to tell you this because I don’t feel like it’s my place, but when I say Kayce needs you I mean it. He and Monica split a few weeks ago, and with everything else going on he’s in real bad-”

Back turned to the door, I hear Kayce before I see him. “Dad, for the last time I’m not interested in meeting who you’ve got running for AG, so if you could kindly show her out I’d greatly-”

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I know I said Kayce and I had never been anything other than platonic, but you’d have to be blind not to see what a looker the boy is. God damn is he beautiful. I mean he always has been, but the years have been more than kind to him. Seeing him now damn near takes my breath away. The last time I laid eyes on Kayce he had just returned from the navy, eyes weary and hair cropped close. He had looked exhausted, almost dead in the eyes. Now though, he looks like a field set ablaze by the setting sun, all bright and aglow with something unnameable. Almost dangerous in his beauty. He must get over seeing me for the first time in five years before I get over seeing him because before it feels like I can even blink he’s across the room and I’m a foot off the ground, wrapped tight in his arms. I never knew I was missing part of myself until this very moment, with Kayce’s face pressed into the crook of my neck and my hand fisted in his hair. I swear I feel more settled in myself than I have in years, like I’m sinking into my bed after a long day, or eating a warm meal after I’ve spent all day working out in the cold.

“Caroline.” It’s a soft whisper in my ear. It almost sounds reverent, like a prayer.

“Kayce,” I murmur back, something private only he can hear.

I suppose he remembers we aren’t alone because before I know it my feet are planted firmly on the ground once more and I’m no longer wrapped in his embrace. Instead, he lets one gentle hand linger on the small of my back, almost hesitant and unnatural in its hovering. Grinning, he turns to Mr. John. “Dad what is-” his gaze shifts to find mine. “Caroline, what are you doing here?”

My lips part preparing to answer, but no sound comes out, just a whisper of an inhale followed by a beaming smile. I think it’s important to say once again that my feelings for Kayce are strictly platonic, but my God if a woman can’t get lost in his whiskey-brown eyes.

I’m broken out of my trance by an awkward cough. Both Kayce and I turn to face Mr. John, who looks a bit too pleased for my liking. Smiling wryly he drawls, “Well I think I’ll leave you two to catch up. Caroline, I’ll have one of the boys bring your truck up. No sense in you hauling yourself all around sundry.” Making his way outside, he pauses on the porch. “I expect to see both of ya’ll at supper. Don’t be late.” He saunters down the porch and down the path, not looking back when he hollers, “And Kayce, wash up! You smell like shit.”

-------------------------------------------------------------

“So, you’re here to clean up the fucking mess I made then.” Kayce looks the most dejected I’ve seen him in years. Like a puppy dog that’s been kicked and put out in the cold. “Dad dragged you back to this godforsaken place because of me.” His fists shake where they’re clenched atop his knees. He tosses his hat onto the coffee table and rakes his hands through his sweat-dampened hair. “You know, I was so relieved when you got out of here. I was so scared this place would ruin everything good about you, set you up in flames like it does everything else.” His calloused hand clasps mine. “Why would you come back here? After everything that happened, after-” He takes a moment to collect himself, teeth gritted together, shoulders tensed. “After what Caleb- after what he did-”

“Kayce don’t.” I know what he’s trying to get at, and I won’t have it talked about. Not on my first day back. When I said I loved Yellowstone, that I was happy to be back, I meant it. But there are memories that this place carries that I’d rather forget, and I’m not about to let my reunion with my best friend turn sinister over one of those memories - over the mention of some asshole cowboy that belongs to the past. I want that memory to die with him. Placing a comforting hand on his back, I try to console him. “I’m a big girl. Believe it or not, I’ve grown into my britches and I know what I can handle. Plus,” I give his back a hard pat, “you really think I would let this place ruin me? I’d like to see it try.”

“Caroline..” He shakes his head, eyes glassy. “You-”

I cut him off with a quick rap of my knuckles against the coffee table, rising off the couch with an air of finality. “As for why I came back, well that’s simple. I love you Kace.” I lick my chapped lips, find a spot on the wall to focus on. “And I’m- I’m never going to abandon you when you need me.” I extend my pinky in the form of a promise, a relic left over from our childhood. “Come hell or high water remember?”

He straightens up, gaze ungluing itself from the floor only to meet mine. Kayce was always taller than me, but I don’t remember having to crane my neck up to meet his eyes the way I do now. His pinky wrapping around mine is a distant sensation in the back of my mind. “Come hell or high water.” He steps back, scratching his temple awkwardly. From a man to a boy with one simple gesture. “Uh, there’s only one bathroom so we’ll have to take turns. I don’t know if you need to shower, but you can go first, everything you need is in there, but I mean- you probably brought your own stuff so never mind.” He mutters below his breath, “God Kace,” and picks invisible lint off his shirt.

I laugh, bright and airy. Growing up Kayce was known for his ruthless pranks, and when I wasn’t his accomplice I was his primary victim. So to miss such a golden and rare opportunity to make fun of him would be a crime, his emotional turmoil aside. “No need to take turns bud, I don’t need to shower. Just got to freshen up a bit, throw on some makeup, brush my hair.” I start a slow saunter down the hall, sporting a feline grin. Kayce follows close behind- my shadow. Turning to walk backward, I poke him sharp in the chest. “How about you, Manure Man, hop in the shower while I do my makeup. We can keep each other company, catch up on each other's lives.” My back hits what I assume to be the bathroom door. I sigh. “After all, we don’t want to keep your daddy waiting. I for one don’t want a smack upside the head and I reckon you don’t either.” Angling my body so it faces the door, I reach for the nob and look at Kayce imploringly, my eyebrows raised, daring him to chicken out.

He suppresses a grin, tongue poking at his cheek. “Now you know that’s not exactly proper and I know that you’re trying to embarrass me, so you can go ahead and drop the act Miss Caroline.” Calling me on my shit, he leans into the door frame, his arms boxing me in on both sides.

Of course he knows I’m trying to embarrass him, anybody with eyes could see that. What he hasn’t caught onto is that I’m appealing to his competitive nature. If I keep poking at him long enough, there’s no way he won’t cave. If I know Kayce, he’ll take being excruciatingly embarrassed over losing against me any day. “Not proper? Sweetheart, I’ve seen you in your birthday suit more times than I care to think about, I don’t think standing in the same room as you while you shower will be the thing that sends me to hell.” I duck under his arm, grab my makeup bag from where I’d left it in the living room, and duck back under, swinging the bathroom door open as I go. Throwing my hair into a ponytail, I lock eyes with him in the mirror. His skin is flushed pink all the way down to his chest and he gnaws at his lip. Like I said, from a man to a boy with one small gesture. “Unless you’re too much of a chicken.” I shrug. “Then I guess we can take turns.” I aim for nonchalant, fingers crossed that he’s not catching on to my instigating.

Kayce’s eyes immediately narrow. Good, he’s taken the bait. “I know you’re not calling me a chicken.” His arms drop and he closes the door behind him.

Snickering, I breathe, “I’d only call you a chicken if you were acting like one, so tell me Kayce - are you being a chicken?”

He turns the shower on in lieu of an answer, eyes never leaving mine in the mirror. “I wouldn’t even know what a chicken acts like Caroline, having never been one, so no I don’t reckon I am.” At this, he flings his shirt off, and I hear his belt buckle clink shortly after, and then a thud as his pants hit the floor. The only thing that remains are his underwear and I hold his gaze steady, daring him to lose our little game. I can’t hear his underwear hit the floor, but I see the hunch his shoulders form as he bends to take them off. When he stands back up straight, he must see the devious gleam in my eye because he drawls out a suspicious, “What?”

“Nothing.” I shake my head, pressing my lips together. I fiddle with the hem of my blouse. It’s a frilly white thing with thin straps and a gathered waist. One of my favorites truly. Too pretty to risk getting makeup on. I pull the shirt gingerly over my head, not worried about appearing sexy, knowing my plain bra isn’t much to look at. I begin to sort out my makeup, lining products up along the counter. “I was just thinking about how I don’t want to get makeup on my blouse. That’s all.”

The rustle of the shower curtain opening and closing is Kayce’s only reply. Check and mate Dutton.

---------------------------------------------------------------

Despite my reasoning for us sharing, Kayce and I don’t catch up with each other in the bathroom, in fact, he doesn’t speak a word to me until I’ve completed my makeup and he’s finished his shower.

Brushing my hair slowly and methodically, lost in my own thoughts, I almost miss the sound of the shower turning off and the rasp of the curtain as Kayce steps out. He’s wrapped in a comically large towel, but his hair still drips steadily onto the bathmat, saturated with water. The embarrassment has leached from his face and his downtrodden expression from earlier has returned. “So dad told you about me and Monica?” He perches on the closed toilet, sagging into himself, sniffs. “Old bastard.”

“What makes you think that?” Laying my hairbrush down, I turn to prop my hip against the counter and cross my arms, face as neutral as I can make it.

Kayce looks at me from under long, damp lashes, his jaw set. “Caroline, we’ve pushed a boundary or two in our decades of friendship, but I know that if you thought for one second that you’d be stepping on any toes or be disrespecting my marriage in any way, you wouldn’t have started whatever all of this,” he gestures around the bathroom, “little game was. So what did he tell you?” His hands are shaking again, but rather than clenched shut, this time they lay open, palms up, almost pleading.

“Kayce.” I kneel down, encasing one of his weathered hands with both of mine. “All he told me was that you and Monica had split not too long ago, nothing more. And he didn’t even really want to tell me that, I kind of forced his hand. I promise you.” I stand back up and ruffle his still-damp hair, trying to bring some levity back to the situation. “Although I really don’t understand all the secrecy bud, you had to hear all about my messy divorce- and over facetime of all ways. I’m not- I would never judge you Kace.”

Rising to his full height, Kayce fidgets with one of my belt loops. “I know you’d never judge me, Caroline, it’s not your judgment I’m worried about.”

“Then what are you worried about,” I murmur.

He grabs ahold of the belt loops on either side of my hips. “I just-” he shakes me, “I’m tired of people treating me like some wounded animal or-or like some bomb just waiting to go off. You’re the one person who-,” he licks his lips, “you’re my person. Please don’t do that to me.”

“Oh Kayce, you really think-,” I laugh, “I just gave you shit in the most ridiculous way, knowing well and good you’ve been put through the wringer, and you think I would treat you like some wounded thing.” I bend down to retrieve my shirt, toss it onto the counter behind me. “I realize I have a bad habit of babying you, and I don’t plan to stop any time soon, but if you think for one second that I won’t give you hell any and every time you need it, well then you’re mistaken sweetheart.” Propping his hands on his hips, Kayce looks down, kicks his bare foot against my booted one.

“Now, nobody said anything about me wanting you to stop babying me.” He grins shyly at me. “Every good cowboy needs a pretty lady to soften him up a bit, ya know.”

I feel my breath hitch as his fingers wrap loosely around mine, I’m suddenly hyper-aware of the damp towel that seems to slide lower down his hips by the second. Have I mentioned how beautiful this man is? Have time and space away from him turned my brain into scrambled eggs? Why in the hell do I feel a flush creeping down my neck? Dear God, and I have to live with this man.

I smack his chest, like any sane woman who suddenly finds herself attracted to her best friend would do, and try to hide my nerves behind a too-loud laugh. “Well as long as you don’t expect this pretty lady to harden you up too, I think I can manage that.” Slipping my hand out of his hold, I grab my blouse and make to leave, but not before I catch sight of the scarlet blush that paints his face and ears. One foot in the hallway, I call back, “Now hurry up and get dressed cowboy, wouldn’t want to keep daddy waiting.” Closing the door all I hear is a muttered, “Jesus,” in response.

---------------------------------------------------------------

I wait out on the porch while Kayce gets ready, slouched down on one of the steps, elbows resting on my knees. The absolute quiet that surrounds me, save for the chirp of a bird or the rustle of leaves as the breeze blows, feels like a balm on my soul. I’d forgotten what it was like to feel this way. Content, at peace, like the whole world could be falling down around me but I’d still be alright, because this place, this land, will cradle me, protect me, like a momma does for her baby. I spent so long, years of my young life, running from one thing or another. Running into the arms of the wrong people, the wrong places. Yellowstone wasn’t the only place I found trouble, and while I was able to make a name for myself, to come out on top, the years I spent fighting for myself, fighting myself, have taken a toll on me. Never really thought the ranch would be my respite, but fighting for the Duttons feels like a goddamn breath of fresh air compared to what I’ve had to claw my way through in the last decade. This is my home, trouble or not.

The door creaks open, then shut, and I crane my head back to greet Kayce. “Took ya long enough, beauty queen.”

Unphased Kayce shoves his hands into his pockets. “Your face looks goofy upside down. And I can see into your nose.” He swaggers past me, down the steps, and onto the path. “Might want to invest in a nose trimmer.. beauty queen.” Fantastic. We’re back in familiar territory. No more warm damp skin, or slouchy towels, and thank god no more tugging at my belt loops or crowding me against the counter.. abs on display, broad shoulders at eye level… Yeah no, childish insults are great! Much more comfortable, way less confusing. I’m more than happy to engage in some lighthearted bullying with my completely platonic, non-romantic, best friend.

I must take too long to respond because Kayce doubles back, coming to stand at the base of the stairs below my feet. Looking at me funny, eyebrows scrunched and lips upturned, he asks, “You good? Wasn’t even that good of a burn to be honest. You’ve taken worse.” Actual concern begins to creep into his features, so before he can get himself worked up into a spiral of guilt I hop up from the stairs, dust off my backside, and punch him square in the gut.

“Oh don’t you worry ‘bout me, I’m fine. I was actually just thinking that I probably should buy a trimmer, keep things ship shape. And you know,” I glance back at him deviously, “now that we’re living together, there’s bound to be quite a few spa nights in your future. I could use it on you as well, really get my money’s worth.” As he falls in step with me, I expect him to protest immediately. When we were kids, I asked to pretty him up practically every day, told him I did boy activities with him so it was only fair he did girly things with me. In all our years of friendship he only caved once, the night I got my first period, told me I shouldn’t have to become a woman alone. He let me put a full face of makeup on him, paint his nails, and even braid his hair. No complaints, no making fun, just supported me in the only way he knew how.

So he surprises me when he inquires, “What exactly would a spa night include? Like what are we talking here? Fancy robes, overpriced lotion, cucumbers on our eyes?” His face is entirely serious, sincere in its curiosity. Man, it's easy to forget how much growing up changes a person.. how much marriage changes a person.

I stutter. “I- I mean, it can really include whatever you want it to? I normally take a bubble bath, shave my whole body- not that you’d want to do that, and then I go ham with some lotion, put on a face mask and hair mask, maybe whiten my teeth or trim my nails. Just depends.” I shrug. Kayce and I have talked about everything under the sun, but I never thought in a million years we’d be discussing my self-care routine.

He looks at me, eyebrows furrowed, contemplating. He kicks at the dirt a bit, tips his head to either side and then with an unexpected air of finality says, “Okay. I think I’d like to try all of that. I’ve never done masks or whitened my teeth before.” He stops, looking suddenly reluctant. “Wait, none of this hurts right? Like it’s relaxing?”

I place my hand on his back, half to prompt him to keep walking, half to comfort him. An easy laugh escapes me. “No, none of it hurts. And it is very relaxing, especially when you have a good bottle of wine on hand.” I wink, trying still to reassure him.

Worries assuaged, he winks back. “Well if there’s good wine involved, I’m in. Do you have the stuff with you already? Could we do it tonight?”

This time I stop in my tracks. If I was shocked before, now I’m flabbergasted. “You really want to do all that tonight?” He starts to look self-conscious so I clarify myself. “I mean, I’m more than happy to host a spa night, don’t get me wrong, but I just figured you’d need to warm up to the idea.”

Kayce walks a half step in front of me, avoids making eye contact. “In all honesty, tomorrow’s going to be a rough day. I don’t know if dad told you, but we’ve got to negotiate with the rez, the governor, and the sheriff tomorrow. Try to find some way to sweep everything under the rug, not let my fuck-ups tarnish the ranch’s reputation.” He removes his hat, runs his hand haphazardly through his hair. I know he asked me not to treat him like some wounded thing, and I won’t, but boy does he look it. “So, yeah, I just need something to take my mind off of the impending shitstorm I’m about to deal with. And I know you’re dying to gussy me up.” He flashes me a smile. “And if you’re happy, I’m happy, so a spa night it is.”

I sigh, feeling out of my depth. In all our years of friendship, I so rarely had to be the strong one. That was always Kayce. And while I’ve certainly toughened up in the time we’ve spent apart, I still feel so unprepared to tackle all of this. I’m scared I’ll say the wrong thing, do the wrong thing, misstep in an unfixable way. More than anything, I’m scared I’ll let Kayce down. “Your uh- Mr. John did tell me all that actually, but I hadn’t thought about how emotionally draining it’ll be. A spa night sounds good Kace. And we can even put on a horror movie, even it out.” I shrug, still feeling out of my depth.

Kayce doesn’t reply, but he does show me the barest hint of a smile, just the slight upturn of the corners of his lips. His smile says, “we’ll make it through this, we have to.”

[mybeautifuldelirium]

Centuries Apart Part 2 || Aemond Targaryen x got!Reader

CHAPTER LIST (plz read or it might not make much sense)

A/N: here’s part 2 lovelies xx hope you enjoy how the story unfolds

Lmk if u want part 3

Summary: How are Y/N and Aemond going to react to their betrothal and will Y/N learn how to adapt and survive in this era of ambition and cruelty and can she learn to tolerate her husband to be?

Warnings: angst, forced marriage, idk if this would be considered incest tbh lol

“Perhaps becoming your wife and bearing your heirs will keep her faithful” Otto grinned, caressing Y/N’s silver locks.

These words, these damned words, they echoed through the throne room like a curse, all faces, once again staring in disbelief.

“Father, you don’t mean this” Alicent’s eyes widened as she walked in front of her younger son as if trying to protect him from a dangerous beast “You won’t sacrifice my son to this witch”

“Mother” Aemond whispered, gently placing his hand on Alicent’s shoulder “With all due respect, grandfather, don’t you believe there are more favorable options for a union that could actually bring forth valuable allies?” The prince scowled with disgust as he glanced at Y/N.

“The decision is final and I believe, his grace, king Aegon would agree to its benefits” Otto raised his voice, turning his head towards the young king with a stern look on his face.

“And what makes you believe I’d agree to this?” Y/N finally spoke up in disbelief, after the initial shock of the news had just washed away “I’m a Targaryen princess, the blood of the dragon, not a slave or a broodmare for sale. This was never part of my offer of alliance-”

“Silence woman” Aegon stood up from the throne, making his way towards the girl “We are being merciful enough to spare your life and put our trust in your guidance. You are to marry my brother and pledge your loyalty to the crown if you so value our house’s future, as you claim” he smirked, locking his gaze with Aemond’s displeased one “Right, dear brother?”

The one eyed prince scoffed at the king’s words, the very same king who moments ago was desperately begging him for help to flee the Crownlands, now playing the part of a ruler. But Aemond knew better than to disobey the crown, he nodded and gave an almost unnoticeable bow to Aegon before storming out of the hall, the same way he had entered.

“It is settled then, the wedding will take place in a fortnight” Otto smirked deviously “Lady Y/N we will be sure to provide you with a maid and a private chamber, that is until you are to share the one of your future husband”

The girl wanted to protest, she wanted to scream or run far away, she had seen what her sister had endured after being sold as a bride to Khal Drogo and now this same fate seemed to come upon her. This was not how things were supposed to go, none of this was according to her plan but she knew there was no way back she knew that this was her only chance to change the fate of House Targaryen.

-

Her chambers were modest in size yet still lavishly decorated with gold and expensive fabrics. Y/N was sitting on the small daybed, gazing through the window. Her whole life she had dreamed of living in this very castle, the home of her ancestors that was taken away from her family, but now this beautiful childhood dream had turned into a cruel curse.

“M-my lady” the timid voice of a young girl brought the princess back from her thoughts “I-I’m Lysa, I was appointed to serve as your maid”

She looked no older than five and ten, a scrawny thing with golden locks, tied into two simple braids.

“That won’t be necessary” Y/N mumbled, returning her attention towards the view from the window “I’m perfectly capable of handling myself”

“Please my lady, the hand will punish me if I defy his orders” Lysa fell to her knees, her eyes filled with desperation and dread “I promise to be loyal and serve you faithfully”

These words made Y/N stand up from her spot and approach the young girl, perhaps having someone loyal by her side, could prove beneficial in this realm of ambition and cruelty “Ok then, but you’re to serve only me, you’ll be my eyes and ears in this castle, I am to know everything that goes on and I will swear to protect you” she whispered, a slight smirk playing on her lips. If they wanted her to play a part of their game by their rules, she was sure to do so.

“Of course my lady, I promise, thank you” Lysa hastily nodded in relief.

-

A feast was to be held in honor of the new king, a deceitful attempt to bring forth alliances from the noble houses.

“Your dress for the feast, my lady” Lysa entered Y/N’s chambers, holding a simple emerald green gown with gold stitchings “Her grace, queen Alicent chose it for you”

“I want another dress, bring me the dressmaker” the princess furrowed her brows “Those are not the colors of my house”

“But, t-the queen”

“You serve me, Lysa. Don’t you forget our deal” Y/N whispered, a dark smile lingering on her lips.

-

An elegant black dress with striking red embroidery was the one she chose, her silver looks tied into intricate braids, mimicking the ones her sister Daenerys always used to wear. Many heads were turned as Y/N entered the great hall, all curious eyes, staring at the unknown Targaryen maiden.

She looked over at the table of the royal family, meeting the disapproving gaze of Alicent.

“Ah, glad to have you join us, lady Y/N” Aegon sneered “Why don’t you sit by your future husband”

The girl mumbled something under her breath as she took her seat besides Aemond who was yet to acknowledge her presence.

“I see you’ve worn a different dress” the queen flashed a fake smile “Was the one I sent, perhaps not to your likings?”

“It was a lovely garment, your grace, but I deem it more appropriate to represent the colors of my house as you do yours” Y/N grinned slyly, taking a sip of her wine.

“I think you look ravishing in it, my lady” Aegon smirked “Don’t you agree dear brother? Or perhaps you’d rather see your lovely betrothed without it?” he laughed, nudging at the younger prince’s arm.

Y/N cringed at the indecorous remark, briefly glancing at Aemond who seemed uninterested in the whole ordeal, yet she could have sworn that just moments ago, he had been eyeing her.

“Let’s have a toast to the betrothal of my beloved brother” Aegon stood up lifting his golden goblet “May you have a very progenitive marriage” he glanced at Y/N with a sly grin.

“Thank you, your grace, I would also like to toast to my future wife who is at last to become a true member of house Targaryen” Aemond smirked deviously, finally allowing his gaze to openly travel to Y/N’s face.

This crude insinuation ignited a fire of rage in the young princess as she abruptly got up, splashing her wine at Aemond’s smug face.

The entirety of the hall fell silent, Y/N could almost feel Alicent and Otto’s angry stares burning holes on her back while Aegon was sniggering like a child.

The realization of what she had done in front of all those noble houses suddenly hit her and before the prince was able to curse her out, she was kneeling before him with a small rag in her hand.

“Oh, forgive my clumsiness, my prince, here, allow me to help you” the girl innocently batted her eyelashes at the one eyed prince who was staring back at her in disbelief.

Promptly, the feast endured, people long forgotten about the incident. While Y/N was wiping away the wine off Aemond’s face, she carefully examined his features. His expression was blank but she could sense the anger and humiliation through his presence.

Her eyes fell on the deep scar, appearing from under his eyepatch, she had heard tales of how the infamous Targaryen prince had lost his eye and she knew of the precious sapphire that had taken its place, making her wonder if she’d ever see it.

As she gently slid the rag near the scar, unexpectedly, Aemond’s hand firmly grabbed hers.

“Be careful next time, my lady, this ‘clumsiness’ could cost you much one day” he smirked

“I’m not a mere lady, my prince, I’m a princess” Y/N hissed, abruptly pulling her hand from his grip.

-

The remainder of the feast was rather uneventful in comparison to the prior affairs. Y/N had decided to take a small stroll through the keep in hopes of clearing her mind, oh how she wished Dany could be there with her. The princess’s eyes welled up at the thought of her sister but something or rather someone lurking in the shadows brought her back to reality.

“Up so late, dear bride” the dreadfully familiar voice of Aemond echoed through the corridor as he revealed himself “Don’t you deem inappropriate for a betrothed lady to wander alone at this hour?” His taunting words sent shivers down her back.

“I don’t believe I shall need your permission, my prince”

“Oh but you do, am I not to be your lord husband?” He sneered, twisting a silver lock of her hair between his pale fingers “You got what you wanted, didn’t you? At least now your babes will be true Targaryens”

“Gaomagon daor tymagon lēda nyke, ñuha dārilaros. Kesā jiōragon zaltan” (do not toy with me, my prince; you will get burned) Y/N spat, taking a step towards him.

For a mere second, a look of disbelief washed over Aemond’s face, but he was quick to pull back his composure.

“Oh, sīr īlva riña gīmigon se Valyrīha ēngos?” (oh, so our lady knows the Valyrian tongue?) the prince inquired, the sly smirk returning on his lips.

“Dōrī nārhēdegon, ñuha dārilaros, eman se ānogar hen zaldrīzes isse nyke. Valyrio muño ēngos ñuhys issa” (never forget, my prince, I have the blood of the dragon. Valyrian is my mother tongue) she deviously grinned back at him before heading back towards her chambers. ‘Twas a game, she was prepared to play.

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[longlostzoldyck]

better together

✦megumi fushiguro x f!reader

✦910 words, mdni, all characters are aged up

✦warnings/tags: smut, dom!megumi, oral+fingering(f receiving), unprotected sex (don't do it, please protect your privates:), daddy kink, excessive use of petnames (angel, little girl, princess, etc)

✦summary: after months of not seeing each other, megumi and you finally get some much needed alone time

✦notes: im sorry for being so inactive, i was quite honestly really burnt out and couldn't get myself to finish any of the fics i started. instead i started something new and i hope to actually finish one of those fics sometime within the next century. hope you enjoy xx thea

m.list

"gumi!," your breathless moans were music to megumi's ears as he stuffed his tongue into your cunt.

his fingers dug into your thighs as gumi got more drunk on your essence. he had missed you and your taste and was desperate to feel you and love you live he had wanted to for months.

long distance is quite frankly a bitch. gumi was mostly gone on missions while you did another semester of university. hence it meant it had been a painful five months since you last saw each other.

every time you reunited it was explosive. all that pent up passion, adoration, and lust bubbled over from one moment to another and you were already half naked on top of each other. gumi's pretty face had always been your favorite seat.

one of megumi's hands trailed up your body to rest on one of your breasts. his slender fingers instantly had your shuddering as he played with your nipples, tugging and tweaking them until they came to a point.

despite the time apart gumi easily played your body like a fine instrument. he knew you were close bu your pretty little gasps and whines.

"pretty little girl...," he whispered drawing your attention back to him as he sloppily licked and sucked your swollen clit. "taste so fucking good."

his voice came out so low it was practically sinful. despite your best efforts your thighs squeezed around his head tighter, drawing a proud smile from your beloved megumi.

"angel, wanna give daddy your mess?"

you moaned out lout in response nodding your head quickly. the approaching orgasm already had you losing your words which was never good enough for dear megumi, ever the perfectionist. his lips abandoned your clit, instead biting down on your soft thighs.

"i know you can use your words, angel," he whispered slowly licking over his bites as you hopelessly tried to grind on his face.

"daddy please... need to give you my mess so bad," you barely even finished your plea before gumi's lips wrapped back around your clit.

"good girl," he moaned against your cunt. it was the last ounce of praise you needed to push you over the edge. "there she is... my good girl."

gumi's skilled little mouth left you seeing stars as your orgasm rocked your body. gumi continued to suck and lick his prize eagerly still holding your body up with his steady grip on your hips.

"daddy...," you giggled squirming against his face, pussy too sensitive after your orgasm.

"you know i can't help but always want more, princess," he replies, then pressing one more soft kiss on your pussy before pulling you close to him.

your lips finally met once again in a tender kiss. you moaned against megumi's lips when you tasted yourself on him, sliding your tongue into his mouth for more. without even realizing it you started rocking your body against his, already needing him again.

"princess," he groaned against your lips, completely drunk off his favorite little.

"daddy...," you said in a teasing tone.

gumi responded your cute little teasing by flipping you over and caging your body under his. a large smile covered your face as megumi pumped his cock in his hands, resting it just aside from your dripping pussy. you were both desperate to feel each other closer. hand in hand, fingers intertwined he finally slid his cock inside you, slowly pushing in every inch.

"fuck baby, feel so good," gumi whispered in your ear before pulling out his cock and slamming all the way back in.

gumi set a relentless pace, unable to hold back any more. your nails scratched down his back as he kept pounding into you at a mind numbing rate. all you could focus on was each other, nothing else in the world mattered. the bed could cave under you two and megumi wouldn't be able to stop needing to feel you both reach your high together.

gumi slid a hand down your body to play with your clit, only to find your little fingers already happily playing. he chuckles into your neck, licking up his bites and hickeys, his pace not faltering for a single moment.

"let daddy help, angel," he says softly as his fingers intertwined with yours as he guides you to play with your clit.

"daddy...," you whined so close to your orgasm you could cry.

"i know angel. i know," he punctuated every word with harsher thrusts drawing breathless little gasps from you. "just a little more angel. daddy's got you."

your pussy fluttered around his cock, as you dug your nails into his back. his eyes finally met yours and with a simple nod you knew he was close too and with a couple of more thrusts, you were coming undone together.

he clutched on to you as he filled your pussy up, jamming his cock even deeper inside of you as you shared in your bliss. his lips found yours in a soft but messy kiss, almost breathing life back into you after such an intense orgasm.

his soft touch and kisses slowly welcomed back to reality as you settled in his arms happily. for the first time in months you fell asleep in each other's arms, big smiles adorning your faces. you always slept well with megumi, but you slept even better with his cock still snug inside you, knowing you would wake up to even more fun.

[elbiotipo]

some stuff that inspires me when I write the Biopunks, in no particular order:

Argentine and Latin American memory: the weight of everything that came before us, all our victories and struggles, dictatorships, crises, revolutions and democracies. The characters are young, and yet they are defined by things that happened decades before they were born.

60s-70s counterculture: revolutionary students and hippies, the connection between ecology (bioengineering in this case) and spirituality, self expression in a repressive culture, the hope for a better world, for the world revolution... and how it all faded away and the legacy it left behind (papá cuentáme otra vez...)

Argentine Rock: A bit too wide since it covers everything from Te Hace Falta Vitaminas to Inconsciente Colectivo, but every chapter is titled after an Argentine rock song, it's intended to be the soundtrack.

Pirates of Silicon Valley: the movie yes, but more accurately the whole PC revolution, the dichotomy of open vs. closed source (in genomes this time), hacker (biohacker) culture, the rise of megacorporations vs academia vs subcultures... but this time it's genetics...

Neon Genesis Evangelion: for real, don't laugh. Exploring what they didn't talk about much: what is a world with billions dead? Ruined flooded cities contrasted with bright futuristic buildings, the UN taking over after a worldwide catastrophe with helicopters patrolling the skies, the contrast between high technological infrastructure and a mostly normal life.

Argentine fútbol: the canchita de barrio, even if it's a biotech club this time! Competition among institutes and among countries, the bioclub as a nexus for young people, pride on the camiseta, old glories, the joy of winning for your team... even if it's a bunch of nerds, it's really a story about a team on the C Nacional who wants to revive its old glories...

Art Nouveau: Not exactly the one from the early XX century, but the main art style everywhere. There were never real Art Nouveau skyscrapers and major buildings, now they are everywhere, and they are complemented and even made of biotechnology too, and how it contrasts with the sharper, more practical style of the post-Ecocide world.

Transhumanism: trascending the human form yes, but also all that's associated with it: the deep view of humanity's future, the potential of technology to change the nature of Homo sapiens and the biosphere itself, space colonization, inmortality, AIs and new sentient species, things that looked like fantastic dreams now are practical problems as technology advances...

Enviromental restoration: The world is not over, not if we have anything to say about it! A healing Earth and the scientific, technological, but also social, political and even spiritual debate on what shape should it take. Whole armies of people dedicated to regrowing forests, cleaning oceans and recovering wastelands, and what does it mean for a society which adopts an almost warlike approach to enviromental conservation and restoration.

Argentine Academia: of course, since I'm on it. The eternal stress of writing grant plans and struggling with your director, trying to make the best of your little funding, making your obsolete equipment to last as long as possible, and managing great things with it.

[sefarad-haami]

Modern Ladino Culture

🇪🇸 El libro "Modern Ladino Culture: Press, Belles Lettres, and Theater in the Late Ottoman Empire" de Olga Borovaya, finalista de los National Jewish Book Awards en 2011, es el primero en examinar como un fenómeno unificado tres géneros de la producción cultural ladina: la prensa, la literatura de ficción y el teatro. Borovaya identifica estos géneros como importaciones de Occidente que se arraigaron entre los sefardíes otomanos a principios del siglo XX y se desarrollaron dentro del contexto cultural local, centrándose en las comunidades de Salónica, Esmirna y Estambul. La autora considera crucial abordar la cultura impresa ladina como un fenómeno único para entender el movimiento cultural de la época y su importancia en la historia sefardí. Analiza la evolución de los tres géneros, comenzando con la prensa, seguida de la literatura de ficción, y finalmente el teatro, destacando el papel significativo de las escuelas de la Alianza en la expansión de la cultura ladina. Borovaya también explora el fenómeno de la "reescritura" de novelas europeas occidentales, que luego se serializaban en la prensa ladina. Con notas detalladas y un índice, Borovaya presenta un análisis exhaustivo y accesible de un conjunto de materiales raros, proporcionando una valiosa contribución al estudio de la cultura sefardí.

🇺🇸 The book "Modern Ladino Culture: Press, Belles Lettres, and Theater in the Late Ottoman Empire" by Olga Borovaya, a finalist for the National Jewish Book Awards in 2011, is the first to examine three genres of Ladino cultural production as a unified phenomenon: the press, fiction literature, and theater. Borovaya identifies these genres as imports from the West that took root among Ottoman Sephardim at the beginning of the 20th century and developed within the local cultural context, focusing on the communities of Salonica, Izmir, and Istanbul. The author considers it crucial to approach Ladino print culture as a single phenomenon to understand the cultural movement of the time and its importance in Sephardi history. She analyzes the evolution of the three genres, starting with the press, followed by fiction literature, and finally theater, highlighting the significant role of the Alliance schools in the expansion of Ladino culture. Borovaya also explores the phenomenon of "rewriting" Western European novels, which were then serialized in the Ladino press. With detailed notes and an index, Borovaya presents a comprehensive and accessible analysis of a rare collection of materials, providing a valuable contribution to the study of Sephardi culture.

[marzipanandminutiae]

I was never into the American Doll toys cus they weren't popular in my country, but I've always had the feeling that the XX century dolls all look like they are wearing adult's outfits. And tbh I don't think it's that bad cus some of the most iconic dresses of their respective eras weren't standard styles for children. I saw someone commenting that the styles on the 90's doll look like tv characters, and I think that's accurate for dolls from other decades as well, maybe it just irks us millenials cus that's an era we were closer to living so it doesn't feel natural.

It depends on the character, as far as I can tell! Going down the decades:

Samantha definitely looks like a little girl from 1904 (see: the dropped waists and short skirts on her dresses- adult ladies in that era wore gowns at their natural waists, with long skirts, and their hair pinned up).

Ditto Rebecca. Similar age rules to Samantha's era, all well-followed. No notes there.

Claudie...was made recently and therefore her collection is peak Mattel-tastic hot nonsense, painful as that is given how amazing her story could have been. Her Meet outfit isn't too bad? Like it's believable for a 1920s girl? But everything else looks awful, from a quick Google search. Not even Adult 1920s Fashion; just bad stereotypes.

Kit seems pretty on-brand for 1930s little girls' clothing, though we're getting further from my eras of expertise. The original collection, not the BeForever BS.

Molly is, again, getting way out of my wheelhouse, but she's definitely not wearing 1940s adult fashions. It's interesting to see the same era done with Nanea considerably later in the company's timeline, because it seems much more like their later "distilled" approach to the historical characters. Less researched, less detailed, less of the period and more Generic Vintage. Also, it's the 1940s and she has NO casual dresses? Really? I get that she lives in a tropical climate, but, again. 1940s. Little girls generally wore skirts most of the time, in any place where western fashion predominated.

(Class photo, Thomas Jefferson Elementary School, Waikiki. 1942.)

Maryellen is very...Intensely 1950s, but based on what I've seen, she's not Overly Mature in her attire per se. I feel like they're leaning too hard on the big fluffy skirts- didn't girls often wear a slimmer silhouette for school, out of practicality? -but it's not too old for her. I don't think. and of course, this is well post-Mattel takeover, as with Claudie's collection

I feel like they're trying really hard to differentiate Melody from Maryellen, but based on photos of my mother as a kid in the early 1960s, there was a lot more bleed-over between the two decades than people realize? this is another Mattel Made It Costume-y one for me, I think. it's not too mature exactly, but it's. Off, somehow

I kind of see Julie as the beginnng of the end, in terms of research quality in the company's history. It's not WRONG, but yeah, it's only one specific aspect of the era's clothing and it's more something popularized by adults. Kids did wear the hippie look in the 1970s, but it's definitely not what you think of when you consider a child's play-clothes or school-clothes back then.

Courtney is just. Okay, while she was considerably younger, my sister was an '80s kid, and she did not dress like Madonna or a Jazzercise dancer 24/7. Serious question- is AG allergic to jeans on historical character dolls from eras wherein jeans existed?

And now we have. Clueless and The Disney Channel Exploded, coming soon to an overpriced mall store near you!

This has been an unnecessarily long walkthrough of AG thoughts with Marzi! Thanks for giving me an excuse, and I'm so sorry.

[garrettwrites]

I don't care about how beautiful or ugly AI pictures are.

Before you read this, keep in mind that I have taken History and Culture of the Arts classes (from ancient history to the days of today), History of Drawing classes, as well as studying on my free time because this quite literally my area of expertise. I am also finalizing my license degree in the artes field.

Art in it's many forms is a form of communication. It doesn't matter if it's paintings, illustrations, video games, books, architecture, sculpting, pottery, you name it. It's how each artist/writer/musician views and shares the world, how each person has an unique approach reflecting their own life experiences and tastes.

It's how one writer drafts poetry upon the ocean, while another fears it, and a third one merely views it as a body of salty water. How one artist tenderly paints the hands of a portrait while another slaps a couple of brush strokes on it and calls it a day. How some do a lot of messy and sketchy charcoal lines, while others prefer a pretty and rendered piece. How some prefer the melody of the violin, while others the beat of the drums. It's how you draw backgrounds, what backgrounds, people, which people.

The details you choose to put in - a flower pressed into the background, with no importance to the picture or environment but still consciously put there, for a reason or another; the way a character shows their emotions, in ways we rarely think about but the author knows intimately; how a game developer hides little easter eggs in their game and delights in those who find them and get the reference...

How we still talk to Homero after he's been dead for millennia. How we see ruins from civilizations past, where people once had their first love, first tragedy, last breath. How now we use digital art to depict animals, the same way ancient humans used stone to carve them upon walls.

A machine has no thought. It copies without meaning. You cannot talk to it or marvel at the details it puts in, because they are mindless. The machine puts in a rose because the artists it references also put in roses. It draws a blue ocean when you write prompts for mermaids because mermaid = water = blue. It takes from the humans before it and doesn't adapt it or build upon it, for it cannot combine two completely different - and at first sight irrelevant - things on its own without it having been done before. This is not Detroit: Become Human. The AI is not alive or intelligent. It's a tool, the same way your phone or microwave are.

I love pretty art. In fact, as someone finishing my license in the arts field, I would consider myself quite elitist. I have a strong love for Pre-Raphaelite and Noveau art, and classical architecture. I would suck Alphonse Mucha and John William Waterhouse's dicks if they so commanded, if I could get a small napkin drawing from them afterwards. I don't like XX century art movements like cubism or dadaism. I find them ugly, and they go completely against my aesthetics.

But as much as I hate those, the artists who made them had a story to tell. They had hands and a brain. They put it forward in their own way, with their own language, based on their own likes and dislikes, happy and tragic memories.

A machine has none of the touch.

Art is not the same as working in the mines or in the sewers. It's a human connection. It has been here before we even called ourselves human, it has been here when there was more than one human species walking the planet (for the homo sapiens wasn't always alone). There ir no need to replace it.

Does AI artwork has it's uses? Well, I believe so. I believe there could be ways to make it work. A tool is a tool, after all. But I have yet to see it being used in a ""good"", innovative, useful way.

There is no TLDR. I cannot contain what I just wrote in few words. It would defeat the purpose.

[qqueenofhades]

hi there! ive always loved your history posts, and was wondering if you had any insights/directions you could point me in to learn more about a specific area of queer history?

im personally most well-read on the history of gay men in britain between the labouchere amendment and ww2, so a pretty specific area. i dont know very much at all about the history of queer women, though id think its harder to get primary sources for them as the legal records wouldnt exist in the same way?

anyway, my main question is actually about cross-gender solidarity. i notice that a lot of the men i read about operated in very gender segregated spaces, which was typical for the era anyway and ofc there are plenty of spaces today where gay men want to be with other gay men exclusively. i suppose im wondering if there's any way of investigating how much queer men in the past would have felt solidarity with queer women, and how to look at whether/how those sentiments changed over time?

i realise this is a bit more of a "how to do history" question than about history proper - any insight or thoughts you'd like to share about this would also be really appreciated! and in either case, hope you're having a great week xx

First, thanks! Glad to help.

Second, the difficulty of doing premodern queer history largely or exclusively from legal documents is that a) it gives us a distorted version of what degree of prejudice actually existed in society, on a practical and not just theoretical level, and b) it makes it even more difficult (if not impossible) to speculate on what people "really" felt, thought, or personally identified. (I currently have a book chapter about John/Eleanor Rykener in the peer-review process, which touches on some of this difficulty, since our only major source in that case is also a legal record.) We are very rarely granted direct access to the actual voices or perspectives of premodern queer people, and if it's filtered through a hostile framework that has an interest in minimizing that person's existence and/or social experience, it provides an even more excessively or solely negative picture than is probably at all the case.

However, I would gently challenge your idea that it's harder to get primary sources on queer women, since the assumption is that premodern queer men are only memorialized by their (presumably punitive) encounters with the legal system, and that society cared less about female homosexuality and thus did not attempt to police it in the same way. Both ideas have some degree of truth, but not entirely and certainly not categorically, and there are many ways to access premodern queer experience and memorialization. I don't know what particular time/region you're interested in, but since you said Britain, I will once more recommend checking out the website of gay British historian Rictor Norton. He has everything, and I mean everything, you could possibly want as a resource/starting point (his specialty is 18th-20th century British LGBT history):

He has a wildly extensive list of links to subject, region, and chronological-specific LGBT history:

He has an equally comprehensive list of links sorted by region, methodology, art/music history, thematic approaches, etc:

Now, obviously I haven't combed through all of these to see if there is something that specifically addresses the question of premodern mlm/wlw solidarity, but since queer spaces have often been a lot more gender-mixed than people tend to think, there are certainly more than enough resources to get you clicking and searching.

[greypetrel]

hiiiii for talk shop tuesday, i wanna hear about how you choose to outfit your characters in your art, it’s always so colorful and elaborate, do you use a reference or do you draw the character first and then go looking for some cool outfit for them??

Hi Rowan, thanks for asking!

Thank you first of all!

Then: It's the result of research holes, LOL. I search for a lot of references on historical clothes and silhouettes, and try to mix and match with what would fit the character.

For Dragon Age, since the game itself doesn't follow a clear aesthetic in terms of clothings (Orlais is 16th century France, more or less, with dropped waistlines as in the 1920s... The Inquisition uniforms are 18th century, just to name two things that come to mind), I took it as a free permission to do what I like. So each character has a wardrobe inspired by a certain silhouette.

Alyra Is Tudor England, I look at Holbein portraits when I draw her. Raina is male regency fashion. Aisling is what you'd see on art nouveau paintings, some early XX... But a touch of 1920s and 60s. For Radha I'm considering a more modern approach, with some Rajasthani/Bollywood inspired silhouettes and themes. I'd love to dip into Tamil fashion for her but I still haven't found good sources that I'm happy with.

As per fully historical stories... Madly search for photographs and fashion plate and think of what each character would wear. Search for resources, essays and book on fashion history. Bernadette Banner and Nicole Rudolph and Abby Cox are my beloved and I made massive use of their bibliographies.

For the palettes: I don't like pastels much, and I like to colour code my characters... Which kinda makes it easier to distinguish them and to make it appear bold and colourful. :P

Thank you!

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Janice Fiamengo

Published Jan 28, 2024

I was a diversity hire. My department hired diversity hires.  

DEI (diversity, equity, inclusion) was all the rage in university humanities and social sciences departments when I was a graduate student in the 1990s: everything was about gender, race, class, and empire; oppressor and oppressed; white privilege, the male gaze. Over time, the category of class was edged out as gender and sexual identity muscled in.    

On the job market in 1999, I was shortlisted at two universities, both shortlists of all-female candidates. Job advertisements “strongly encouraged” applications from women and visible minorities.

Over the next four years, the department that had hired me hired into four more positions, all heavily influenced by sex and skin color.

“Is it true that there are people in this department who are against equity?” one of the diversity hires asked, scandalized, at a small welcoming party. The clear implication was that anyone who believed in merit-based hiring must be a bigot.

This was already the unchallenged academic mindset.

Our department practiced what was then called equity hiring (a Canadian euphemism for affirmative action). I was told that equity hiring meant that whenever two or more job candidates were equally qualified, the candidate should be chosen whose hiring would make the department more diverse.

The idea is nonsense: no two candidates are ever truly equal.

Once the decision is made to prioritize diversity, that quickly becomes the only urgent criterion. White men’s applications—hundreds of them—simply went into the reject pile; most were barely even read.

Whether the diversity candidates were as good as the white men didn’t actually matter. No serious arguments were made about quality. It was always possible to defend a diversity applicant, to explain why a single article in a marginal journal was not only equivalent to but actually better than an award-winning book.

“It’s true that Candidate XY’s book on Shakespeare is notable,” a pro-diversity department member would say, “but I think our students will benefit more from Candidate XX’s cutting-edge work on woman travelers of the Elizabethan age. XX’s work is still in the preliminary stages [i.e. not published yet, perhaps not even written yet] but it will make a substantial contribution to our course offerings.”

Even glaring weaknesses, such as a paucity of demonstrated achievement, could be spun into a strength. “I like that Candidate XX is working in a non-traditional area, and I respect that she is not trying to publish too much too fast.”

Merit itself quickly became a loaded word, what would now be deemed a right-wing dog whistle. It meant you hadn’t critically interrogated systemic inequalities and didn’t care about correcting centuries of injustice.

Some of the diversity champions in my department were true-believers who bullied others through the force of their fanatical righteousness, believing that diversity was the only cause worth fighting for. Others were careerists using DEI as a route to power. Many were go-along-to-get-along types who didn’t care much either way. Almost no one publicly dissented (I did, to little effect).

Since that time 20 years ago, commitment to DEI has increased. By 2018, a colleague of mine could look around the table at a department meeting and shake his head: “Let’s face it. This department is too white.” There was not a single guffaw.

* * *

In the wake of Claudine Gay’s forced resignation from her position as President of Harvard University earlier this month, critics of DEI have expressed hope and even confidence that its end in the academy is approaching. Writing for the American Institute for Economic Research, Paul Schwennesen (“Is DEI Collapsing?”) described the climate of censorship, tension, outright discrimination, and thought control in his PhD program, and stated that “for the first time in recent memory, the hyper-politicized woke orthodoxy is being successfully challenged.” “Maybe,” he wrote, “the lunacy is coming to an end.”

Maybe, but almost certainly not.

Billionaire hedge fund manager and Harvard graduate Bill Ackman, in a long post on X following Gay’s ousting, alleged that “Today was an important step forward for the University,” and asserted that “Harvard must once again become a meritocratic institution which does not discriminate for or against faculty or students based on their skin color, and where diversity is understood in its broadest form.” (More on Ackman’s definition of diversity below.)

Substack author Bad Cattitude predicted that “the real fun is about to begin” (“Auditing Academia: What Have the Professors Been Professing?”) as the masses discover what’s been going on in academia. At last, he alleged, those “obscure journals and dissertations, previously read only by other like-minded members of the club who cared about nothing save ideological purity are going to be read widely,” with the result that “propensity for plagiarism will be the least of the revelations.” He provided a few examples of the manically anti-white and anti-male allegations that have passed as scholarship for decades.

But therein lies part of the problem. The attacks on whiteness and maleness have been a central part of academia for decades, at least since Peggy McIntosh’s 1988 “White Privilege: Unpacking the Invisible Knapsack,” which insisted that white people, and white men in particular, must acknowledge and make restitution for the allegedly “unearned” comforts of their white lives. The diversity mantra has been promoted in theory (intersectional feminism and critical race ideology) and in practice (DEI admissions, scholarships, hiring, promotion, and accolades). It is now making its troubling presence known in, for example, the military and the aviation industry. How it can be stopped or even fully understood is not at all apparent.

Who is going to expose the academic rot? Notoriously jargon-laden and abstruse, academic writings require serious time and effort (not to mention intestinal fortitude) that most normal people, with jobs and families and busy lives, don’t have to invest. These normal people will need to rely on the few academic dissidents willing and able to be informers. There have already been plenty of these, cogent and compelling, but unable to level anything near a knockout blow: one thinks immediately of the brilliant and funny Sokal hoax-style work of Peter Boghossian, James Lindsay, and Helen Pluckrose, as well as Pluckrose and Lindsay’s Cynical Theories: How Activist Scholarship Made Everything about Race, Gender, and Identity (2020).

And they were far from the first. As long ago as 1987 (in The Closing of the American Mind: How Higher Education Has Failed Democracy and Impoverished the Souls of Today’s Students), Allan Bloom told the sorry saga of how academic administrators and craven professors sold out liberal education to violent black students in the late 1960s in exchange for ease and status (for an explanation of events at Cornell during Bloom’s tenure, see Paul Rahe’s eye-opening essay in Public Discourse). According to Bloom, humanities academics were the first to lose faith in their disciplines, which came to seem far less important than social goals such as smashing the patriarchy or combating racism. The moment these social goals were embraced, commitment to intellectual excellence became, at best, a secondary consideration.

Bloom’s bracing analysis was confirmed and amplified tenfold over the ensuing decades in books such as Roger Kimball’s Tenured Radicals: How Politics Has Corrupted Our Higher Education (1990), David Horowitz’s The Professors: The 101 Most Dangerous Academics in America (2007), and Bruce Bawer’s The Victims’ Revolution: The Rise of Identity Studies and the Closing of the Liberal Mind (2013), all of which quoted copiously from radical professors to show how impartial, evidence-based scholarship had been openly abandoned in favor of ideological advocacy. There is now a mini-industry in books about universities as centers of higher indoctrination.

Hands were wrung, the corruption was investigated, but nothing was done. Bloom and many others were promptly dismissed as hidebound reactionaries, regressive and hateful, just as present-day critics of the academy are routinely dismissed (for a pungent example of asinine straw-manning, see Moira Donegan’s Guardian article, in which she claims that the Claudine Gay affair had nothing to do with Gay’s inadequacy, everything to do with “the right wing’s assault on education.”)

A few more raised voices, even with a lot of money behind them, do not a revolution make.

The difficulty of purging DEI can be traced to various causes, one of the most significant being DEI’s many warm and half-warm adherents, especially at the administrative level (all those diversity deans and HR personnel) but certainly not only there. For many academics, the diversity mission is the ground of their identity. At least two generations of academics have built their careers on diversity-focused research, which has fully permeated their teaching and scholarship. They are not going to give it up without a to-the-death fight.

They’re not even honest about what they’ve been doing over the last three or four decades of social engineering (for a definitive chronicling of how equity invaded every aspect of public life in Canada, see Martin Loney’s The Pursuit of Division: Race, Gender, and Preferential Hiring in Canada [1998]; for a more recent analysis of the American experience, see Heather Mac Donald’s The Diversity Delusion: How Race and Gender Pandering Corrupt the University and Undermine Our Culture [2018]). In a recent article by CBS News about Bill Ackman’s crusade, high-powered diversity advocate Jarvis Sam, former diversity head at Nike, claimed that diversity has never been intended to discriminate against anyone. All the special scholarships, the targeted hirings and promotions, the women’s only positions, the exclusionary language and ideological forcing have all been a misunderstanding, it seems. “The addition of diversity criteria is not meant to exclude or disadvantage non-minorities,” he reassured the public; it has merely sought to correct the conditions through which “talent from some backgrounds and experiences aren’t given a fair shake to apply and engage in the competitive process for opportunities.”

Yes, that was just the sort of thing my colleagues used to say as they went about turning away white male applicants en masse.

Is it possible to change academic culture? Academics have a deep-rooted disdain for non-academics, whom academics tend to see as less intelligent and, especially, less morally refined than they. Their contempt for Ackman, for Elon Musk, or for any perceived right-wingers is bottomless. They will certainly not take kindly to Ackman’s proposal that business people be brought into Harvard to help right the academic ship. And even if anti-DEI directives were to be issued by reformist university administrations or a bold Department of Education, it is likely that many academics would (quietly or loudly) flout them.

But the real problem may go even deeper. The anti-intellectual moral imperatives of the ‘60s are still with us, so deeply imbedded in our reflex egalitarianism as to make us quail at the task before us.

Such difficulties are glaringly evident in Bill Ackman’s own arguments, in which despite a take-no-prisoners salvo, he can’t help but frequently profess his pro-diversity bona fides, which lead him into various self-contradictions and ideological concessions that spell doom for his declared project. He states near the beginning of his jeremiad that “I have always believed that diversity is an import feature of a successful organization, but by diversity I mean diversity in its broadest form: diversity of viewpoints, politics, ethnicity, race, age, religion, experience, socioeconomic background, sexual identity, gender, one’s upbringing, and more.”

The statement is essentially indistinguishable from any by even the most strident DEI advocate; it gives the game away before the attack has properly begun (and it rather glaringly fails to explain the mathematical, scientific, medical, AI, and technological successes of non-diverse teams in China, Japan, Hong Kong, Taiwan, and South Korea—not to mention earlier iterations of American enterprise itself).  

Ackman’s confusion on this score is evident throughout his diatribe, in which he tells us, for example, that “I have always believed in giving disadvantaged groups a helping hand,” not seeming to realize, even at this point in the rollout of DEI, that thinking of people as group members is the fundamental problem of a pernicious framework. At another point, he announces that he was at first delighted to hear about Gay’s appointment (“When former President Gay was hired, I knew little about her, but I was instinctually happy for Harvard and the black community”)—because every decent-hearted person, it appears, must feel a great gush of pleasure at the thought of a black woman’s promotion (and not at the thought of a white man’s).

Later on, Ackman bolsters his argument about DEI’s discrimination against white men by (conveniently) summoning the specter of white men’s racism. “An ideology that portrays a bicameral world of oppressors and the oppressed based principally on race or sexual identity is a fundamentally racist ideology that will likely lead to more racism rather than less,” he quips, explaining that it “generates resentment and anger among the un-advantaged who will direct their anger at the favored groups.” Ackman is so thoroughly marinated in anti-white thinking that he must object to discrimination against white men by summoning a racist bogeyman. Pre-emptively libeling white men for justified resentment and anger is a great way to guarantee the continued life of DEI.

This is the true measure of DEI’s success, that even a man allegedly going scorched earth on a despicable ideology reveals his weddedness to the ideology. Ackman’s sense of himself as a good person is so deeply bound up with DEI as to disable him from anything more than tinkering around the edges of its policies. I suspect he, and most others, will not be able to stomach the disparities that will result if merit is ever allowed to regain its paramount place in academia.

And this is the only possible solution, at once simple and monumentally difficult, for all taxpayer-supported colleges. All disciplines must be radically de-politicized in word and deed. If sex is too dangerous for professors and students, then political indoctrination and ideological harassment are far worse. They are being forced on millions of students without their consent or even, at times, their full awareness, by those whose mission it is to help form their minds. Professors should profess their academic specializations, not berate classes and the world on the evils of Trump or of trans oppression. There is plenty of room elsewhere in the public square for polemics and advocacy. The academy and all employed in it should be a world apart.

A massive decontamination must be undertaken. Programs in the hard sciences, mathematics, medicine, and engineering must be preserved from the already-advancing rot of DEI. All other programs, already captured, must be reformed or abolished. Advocacy should be banned from higher education, both in the classroom and on campus generally. No more Israeli Apartheid Week, no more Masculinity Confession Booth, no more Anti-Abortion Campaigns. No more Take Back the Night, consent workshops, or anti-racism training sessions. The pursuit of knowledge, rigorous and dispassionate, detached from the passions and causes of the day, should be the university’s only goal.

What about free speech? What about healthy debate? That hasn’t been happening on college campuses for many decades, and is not about to start now. Campuses should be reserved for the pursuit of excellence, for the transmission of the western inheritance, and for the hard work of training students to become accomplished in writing, logic, and research. Naturally, political issues will and can’t help but be discussed, but they must be approached in a determinedly non-partisan manner. As Allan Bloom described the ideal, “Socrates thought it more important to discuss justice, to try to know what it is, than to engage himself in implementing whatever partial perspective on it happened to be exciting the passions of the day” (The Closing of the American Mind, p. 317). This spirit must be brought back to education.

But who would do this, how, and under what authority, I can’t formulate for the reasons mentioned above. There is no political will and no clear path to reform. Very few even understand how deep the problem goes. At best, we can hope for “small flares of intellectual light” (private colleges, online courses, gatherings of truth-seekers) amidst the barbarism.

DEI will eventually collapse under the weight of its tawdry, malevolent lies. But it is not likely to be the triumphant rout now predicted.  

==

If you think the perverse form of corruption that is DEI is new, you've got another think coming.

[ask-richard-jackdaw]

Hello Richard,

I hope you are doing well, I was wondering about your opinion on moaning myrtle as she is quite a peculiar and interesting person/ghost. Once you get to know her.

All the best

Hufflepuff-16

Xx

My dear Hufflepuff-16,

I am terribly sorry but this letter is loooOng overdue: the envelope must have fallen behind my writing desk years ago because the date today is November 12, 1955!

I know of Miss Warren of course. She hasn't been a ghost for too long and just as is the case with me she became one rather young. I find it hard approaching her, she automatically assumes that anyone entering her second-floor bathroom is there to bully her. Many of us tried early on to help and ease the pain that comes along with the transition but nobody can be of much assistance if the ghost themselves is not ready to move on.

Things haven't gotten any easier since the Ministry of Magic obligated her to stay at Hogwarts. I didn't even know you can restrain a ghost. Apparently, she crushed a wedding a few years ago? Nobody expected that of her (but if you ask me good old haunting can lift one's spirits)! Well, when getting back at bullies that is, I do not condemn haunting just for the sake of haunting!

In short, we do not talk much. Hopefully as more time passes by she'll open up a bit more. And when I say "time" I do mean it in ghost equivalents: just a few years and decades mean nothing, perhaps even a century would not be enough.

With great appreciation,

Richard Jackdaw

[neutralgray]

A Synthesized History: An Amateur Comparison of the Perspectives between the "Patriot's," the "People's," & The "True" History of the United States - Part 9

Full Essay Guide link: XX

(Patriot - Chapter 10-11 | People - Chapter 10-11 | True - Chapter 18-19)

Rent, Reconstruction, and Revisionism

In regards to U.S. history, the 19th century was the setting for many failed revolutions, peoples' movements, rising capitalist forces, and the end to the dominant socioeconomic system of racial slavery. The Civil War had exposed an ugliness underlying the supposed liberties offered by this empire of liberty, however it was not the sole struggle of this period. The late 19th century was influenced heavily by anti-rent movements, labor movements both in the industrial and rural sectors, attempts at political reconstruction, and the ongoing conflict with Native Americans in the west.

The anti-rent movement had started earlier in the century, in the year 1839. The purpose of the movement was to oppose the patroonship system, which allowed for a select few families to legally own significant portions of land and property. One such family was the Van Rensselaer family, who had a $41 million dollar fortune and controlled enough property to have over 80,000 dependent tenants. Many farmers either couldn't afford their own property or were gridlocked among so much purchased property that they had no choice but to rent from these affluent families. This "generosity" from the affluent did not just come with the price tag of rent, however. Laws imposed order that clearly favored landlords, such as giving landlords the right to any and all timber on farms run by their tenants.

Anti-renters initially pushed an anti-rent bill with over 25,000 signatures on it to Congress who then killed the bill. General discontent and civil unrest naturally followed. A deputy was later killed when he tried to sell the livestock of a tenant. Now that violence was being seen, it was only natural that the government would step in and pretend it couldn't have done so before. Troops were sent to quell the "rebellion," and one prominent leader, Smith Boughton, a country doctor, was sentenced to life in prison for the absurd charge of "high treason." Others followed suit, being found guilty of whatever crimes a court could stretch to fit. Anti-renters tried pushing proposals to break up huge estates but they were always defeated or ignored. It was, however, made illegal to sell tenant property for non-pay of rent. It was a small victory among many larger defeats. This would be a repeating theme for most similar grassroots movements that followed.

Some protests served to highlight the general absurdity of legality, making it clear that "order" was only order so long as the determined laws could be imposed by force. This was especially highlighted in the Dorr Rebellion (named after its leader: Thomas Wilson Dorr). The rebellion was an attempt to push proper democracy in Rhode Island, a state that was shockingly still using its original 1663 colonial charter as a basis for its state government nearly 200 later. Rhode Island only allowed land owners to vote, a requirement virtually all states had done away with. The members of this rebellion held its own unofficial convention, wrote its own constitution complete with voting reform, and held its own vote for governor-- an unofficial election in which over 14,000 people (5000 of which owned property) voted in. The rebellion was, of course, crushed by the state through use of federal troops and state militia. It was a bold form of rebellion, though, and its unique approach to "going through the motions" of government demonstrated that the only real difference between their stunt and the acting government was that the Rhode Island government had the means to forcefully impose their rule of law over the supposed laws drafted by Dorr's rebels. And should one still challenge the notion that the only difference is a means of force or imposition of order, let's not forget that that Constitution overrode the Articles of Confederation simply because a handful of powerful individuals decided that the agreed Articles were no longer their ideal draft for government.

Dorr's Rebellion did bring about some change, though. It caused enough of a shakeup that Rhode Island did rewrite its charter and expand voting rights. The 1850's would see similar small victories with the anti-rent movement as well. Laws would change some aspects of the manorial system, but would not inherently change the functional relationship between landlords and tenants. It was a predictable pattern: people would be upset over a grievance, protest would happen that may or not escalate to violence (sometimes pushed to violence by the state), the rebellion/riot/protest would be crushed by military might and the law, some meager revisions of law would be passed as a conciliatory measure, and most everyone would stay in the same class of wealth they were in at the start.

The two-party system thrived in situations like this. Resistance would rise up and then get crushed by political might. With violent revolution and/or disruptive demonstration protests, the people would be made to feel like their cause was hopeless. The people would then be encouraged to protest through the ballot box, letting their vote speak for them. The two parties held their platforms, with one generally offering slightly more "democratic" choices on a hot-button issue. The people would vote, and if their party won they would be offered whatever consolation the political party in control would be willing to offer. Revolution could always be choked out and replaced with a much "safer" reform. This political system of control may not have been mapped out and designed with this deliberate intent, but because the political ruling system changed as needs changed, it allowed for "stable" government ruling, if not a humane or compassionate one. The law could be made flexible through executive presidential action or judicial constitutional review. Simultaneously, the law could be made rigid through Congressional slog, lobbying, voting imbalances, and general political trickery. It demonstrates that the law was, and still is, as flexible or as rigid as the system needs it to be to maintain its current stability and power base.

The 1800's had seen a significant shift in urban development. In 1790, less than 1 million people lived in cities. By 1840, that number jumped to 11 million. By 1850, over 6 million of these potential laborers were working in factories. The 1850's saw company mergers becoming more common, with massive companies developing monopolies over whatever sector they represented. The workforce in those factories would also change as the decades continued.

Racial divides developed among the lower-class developed when companies used cheaper labor from select groups, which often led to struggling immigrants competing in that job market to lash out at other disadvantaged ethnic or racial groups. Another minority growing in the workforce at that time were women, many of whom found occupations in textile mills, domestics, education, and varying factories. Groups of women laborers often organized and went on strike. While some of these strikes were met with mixed success, many others failed which led to blacklisting and shunning select leaders in those communities.

Class consciousness never got the chance to develop as a social power base among the lower class in the United States because of the country's rapid and mixed history of restrictions and uneven extensions of labor law protections. Despite this lacking development compared to European powers, riots broke out in both the Union and Confederacy that opposed draft laws enforcing conscription on citizens while allowing the rich to pay their way out of it. This may be interpreted as growing resentment between the rich and poor.

Major strikes among railroad laborers spread to smaller businesses across the country. Railroad laborers had even more incentive to strike than most laborers. In 1889 the Interstate Commerce Commission reported that over 22,000 people were killed or injured working on rail lines. Railroad companies also helped create a system of financial control by linking to one another, linking to banks, and linking to insurance companies. With many heads able to move the money in a perpetual circle, it allowed for continued generation of profit for a few while avoiding an obvious "monopoly."

Laborer protection was undercut by the government, by their employers, and by the turning century's natural progress. Steam and electricity began to replace the need for human muscle-- phones, typewriters, and adding machines sped up the work of business. Manufactured ice allowed for long transports of produce and meat, which would give birth to the food and meatpacking industry. Steam power changed textile mill productivity and coal provided power to many growing machines of industry. These new sources of power fueled much greater production at a fraction of the cost. The world was changing.

The Farmer's Alliance was core of the Populist movement that dominated the 1890's, and partly came about because of the push for mechanization. Steel plows, reapers, and mowing machines were becoming the standard to keep up with demand. These machines and the large chunks of land needed to use them on cost money, of course. Farmers would take loans with the hope of paying it back with the profits generated from their produce. Unfortunately, farmers had little control over market prices and this would cause their debt to grow as they failed to pay it. The land would then be seized by the government and the farmers would become tenants on what was their land. In response, the Farmer's Alliance was established in 1877 and by 1887 it would have 200,000 members with 3000 sub-alliances. The alliance often affected elections and successfully elected sympathetic politicians simply by having the sheer volume of active voters to do so.

The Farmer's Alliance was not perfect, however. They had numbers but republican and democrat votes combined still outweighed them. The Alliance was also often shaken up by racial dividing points that weakened the ideological and cultural cohesion of the Alliance. Populist leaders often folded into the Democrat party due to political deals that further diluted and obscured the unique identity of the Alliance in misaligned messy politics. Perhaps the greatest failing of this rural farm movement, though, was a failure to meaningfully link with urban labor movements seen in manufacturing industries. Despite class struggles on both rural and urban fronts, the two causes remained separate and thus the potential for true class consciousness of lower class laborers was circumvented.

The Civil War paved the road for the Union to strip away certain labor protections and offer greater legal power for companies to generate profit. In 1886 alone, the Supreme Court struck down over 230 state laws that were passed to regulate corporations. Acts like the Sherman Act were supposed to prevent corporate monopolies but the Supreme Court demonstrated their uncanny ability to interpret any law in a way that made it completely useless. According the high court, monopolies in manufacturing "could not" be regulated in the same way as a monopoly of commerce. Companies were growing in power, the South had been branded a cultural shame that all but forced them to accept the new status quo, and the North accepted many of these decisions as necessary to help the recent war effort. The "empire of liberty" had been completely, internally battered.

To heal the drift across the nation, the project of "Reconstruction" began. The objective of Reconstruction was two-fold: justice for the freedmen and and reconciliation with the ex-Confederates. The contradiction lie in these ideas potentially being antithetical to one another. The Union wanted to re-establish political unity and control with the South as soon as possible while attempting to establish a framework for for ex-slaves to work as free men. The union did not however, immediately offer to make these freedmen citizens or compensate them for years of (now) unlawful bondage. The best way to achieve this goal was a natural debate across political lines.

Some radical republicans wanted the south to be severely punished with economic and legal sanctions. Many southerners were bitter and relied on Union charity while resenting the military occupation of their states. There were four major issues at the heart of this fractured political body:

What economic compensation, if any, would be given to freedmen?

What would the political status of freedmen be?

What extent would federal laws governing the South actually be enforced?

Who best determines the pace and priority of progress-- the president or Congress?

President Johnson pardoned multiple ex-Confederate officials and insisted Southern leadership largely remain unchanged. Few confederates were actually punished. There were no war crime trials ever issued, no charges of treason, no military tribunals, or executions. Jefferson Davis, president of the defunct Confederacy, only spent two years in prison. His vice president, Alexander Stephens, would later rejoin Congress and end his political career as governor of Georgia. This demonstrated a complete unwillingness to actually push for genuine ideological change in the Southern political structure. Schweikart and Allen suggest that political pressure from white voters who were more likely to cause trouble caused the Johnson administration to avoid acting, though this may offer Johnson too much of a passable excuse for his lack of federal assertiveness and authority.

One of the first federal acts to pass through Congress and launch Reconstruction efforts was the Civil Rights Act of 1866, which was vetoed by president Johnson. Congress overturned this veto, and this was the first bill to override a presidential veto. The 14th amendment of the Constitution was attached, which shifted citizenship from a state determination to a national policy. Agreement with the amendment was a requirement for acceptance back into the Union.

Special Field Order #15 was an order issued by William T Sherman, which granted coastal land previously owned by affluent ex-Confederates to freedmen. This was roughly 400,000 acres being divided to freedmen in 40 acre sections. President Johnson undid this action, of course. Denial of land ownership doomed freedmen to do the same grueling work they had already been doing just to afford to stay alive.

Hostile racist sentiment also permeated the general political culture. This was demonstrated by Southern political cartoons of the era which often lampooned efforts such as the ones made by the Freedman's Bureau. The Bureau was created by Congress to assist freedmen, but Southern political strips depicted the organization as nothing more than a haven for freeloaders and "lazy black men."

After Johnson, General Grant was elected president. Grant was a war hero and a general sympathizer of progressive causes, but his administration would be bogged down by contrived political scandals and negative associations. This did not mean, however, that Grant's administration did not have some success. When the Klu Klux Klan began to generate real political fear and pressure, Grant's administration pushed the Klu Klux Klan Act of 1871. This act greatly limited the Klan's power and severely discouraged its many inspired groups. Still, even with these successes, Northern voters were tired of paying taxes that went towards the federal occupation of the South.

As federal withdraw took place in the 1870's, a shifting cultural narrative began to take place in the South, illustrating the consequence of only half-finishing the project of reconstruction. Many speeches given by former Confederates in this decade called for an emphasis on reunion between the divided nation, focusing on healing the national body over the broken racial caste that had formed. In 1875 the governor of Virginia, an ex-confederate general, James L. Kemper, had a statue put up of General "Stonewall" Jackson, Lee's famous 2nd in command. Kemper dedicated the statue to "all" people as a memory of heroism. Southern Revisionist fantasies of the war had already begun. This revisionist history would become so culturally pervasive that it tinged the complete federal body of the United States. In point of fact, the first film to ever be screened in the White House was The Birth of a Nation, a 1915 film dedicated to portraying the Klu Klux Klan as heroes protecting the purity of white leadership and white people. Just a few short decades after fighting a war meant for unity and abolition, a film dedicated to a rebellion founded on racist exploitation of people for profit was showcased as a work of art in the symbolic "home" of the federal U.S. government. It was clear that the South may have lost the war, but they had won the peace.

During the height of the Reconstruction era, when Southern governments actually had Republican leadership, many key liberties were gained. These included public schools, more asylums, more hospitals, and more orphanages. In South Carolina funds were allocated for medical care of the poor. Alabama began to offer free legal counsel for poor defendants. These were all products of a grand yet unfinished political upheaval. Because the work with Reconstruction was not done by the time the Union lost interest in pushing and maintaining it, discriminatory "Jim Crow" laws began to become a new norm in the Southern states. This followed the Amnesty Act of 1872, which allowed for previous Confederates to run for office. This was an attempt to "heal" the gap between the two territories but what it really did was ensure that highly influential individuals who carried hostile sentiment over the Civil War would carry their ideological baggage into office and pervade the general well-being of the state. These rising ex-Confederate leaders had little stopping them from enacting their laws as well. Despite a moral victory with the Civil Rights Act of 1875, this act required federal troops to enforce it in the South. As the Southern states emptied of occupying Union soldiers, the noose tightened around many freedmen's necks. Laws defined by racial status limited the ability of black Americans to take on certain labor, vote in elections, and freely travel.

In this same era as rent protesting and failed sociopolitical projects, the ongoing conflict between the United States and Natives continued. By 1890 the west could no longer be considered a "frontier" as the population density had become too great. This of course meant that further conflicts with Native Americans was inevitable. Many of them had moved time and time again, but with the federal power of the United States spanning from east to west, there were very few places left for Natives to go. Most Native Americans east of the Mississippi were dead, forced away, or isolated by the time of the Civil War. Native Americans in the west now had to share the buffalo they survived on with white hunters who put a massive strain on buffalo herds, which doomed some tribes to struggle. Four major conflicts took place during this era:

1864-65: The Sand Creek Massacre of Cheyenne Natives, when American troops killed Natives after their chief, Black Kettle, had surrendered

1860's: On and off skirmishes with the Lakota Sioux in the 1860's, which included the death of one Lt. Colonel William J. Fetterman and his 80 men by Red Cloud and his forces

1875-76: Sioux and Cheyenne forces driven to conflict due to a sudden surge of people on their land due to the arrival of the Northern Pacific Railroad and a gold rush

1890: Conflicts with spiritualist "Ghost Dancers," which culminated in the slaughter of Sioux Natives at Wounded Knee

In 1887 a "benign" act was passed, the Dawes Severalty Act. Supported by president Grover Cleveland, this act allowed Native Americans to select land for reservations, with up to 160 acres of land being offered to family heads. It also allowed for the legal sale of any unclaimed land, ensuring the U.S. benefited even further. An entire generation of Native American people had little real choice but to accept this act of "generosity." After the American government had beaten them down time and time again, it was telling that this generation was also plagued by high infant mortality, alcoholism, and poverty.

While the Natives were being killed, further pushed, or otherwise morally battered, the United States continued its formal expansion. In 1867 the territory of Alaska was purchased from Russia. In 1890 an omnibus bill admitted Washington, Montana, North Dakota, and South Dakota as states at the same time. A year later, Idaho and Wyoming were admitted. In 1893, American settlers overthrew Queen Lili'uokalani in Hawaii and formed their own provisional government, which the U.S. would formally recognize. In 1896, Utah finally became a state following years of rejection due to practices of polygamy among its Mormon population.

By the end of the 1890's there was no frontier anymore. America was the west and the west was America.

Final Thoughts:

Despite the fact that no one really reads these and they're largely for my own educational benefit, I would be remiss if I didn't mention that this essay comes after a lengthy hiatus following the Civil War entry. This is a lot of information to go through and so I will periodically take breaks when I feel it necessary to space out the learning.

For this section in particular, I regret to say that a lot of information was trimmed down to what I felt were the core necessities. Obviously this essay series is an application of my own learning, and is not meant to replace the original texts to anyone who stumbles upon this. If you feel you need to know further details, I strongly encourage reading the books! That said, a lot of what I've covered here has been touched on in previous topics, minus the growing but fractured labor class movements across the United States.

Reconstruction and the immediate fallout was touched here but also in the final sections of my last essay, which should provide an overall picture of how republican ruling provided benefits but was then pushed out by racist lawmakers who had no interest in following federal laws they disagreed with. This was so prevalent that black congressmen and politicians were sometimes purged out of office by their more numerous white peers.

At this point in history not every inch of American territory on the continent was a formal state, but this would not be far in the future, with Arizona being the last stated admitted in the contiguous United States in 1912. The United States didn't merely touch from coast to coast now, it owned the entire coast line and everything between it. With this in mind, it's no surprise that Native Americans continued to suffer. Generations had been forced to move under threat of death and cultural destruction and now there was nowhere left to move to.

Even with the Patriot's History authors trying to set up plausible excuses for why certain moral actions couldn't be taken sooner, the story of the United States is an exhausting one. As a white person myself, I realize that while I can understand the conceptual basis and fear many minorities have in this country, I lack the empathetic experience because my life has never been codified that way by society around me. This education has been enlightening. I set out with the purpose of learning the context of modern American politics by revisiting the buildup to today-- the context of history which leads us to modern struggles. To see that racism and slaughter were there in the very beginnings of this "great melting pot" of culture while so many immigrants flocked to the "land of opportunity" is a contradiction I may never fully understand. I suppose it illustrates the complex and nuanced reality of actually living in a different time wherein multifaceted aspects of one's culture and personal struggles exist within a larger scope than the mere problems of a hypocritical country.

Jefferson did once say that history can only truly be understood by the ones living in that time. Still-- still, it's an exhausting repetition of the same evils, which are still relevant today.

[x--daughters-of-darkness--x]

LACUNA COIL Celebrates 20th Anniversary Of 'Comalies' At Special Hometown Concert

Italian heavy rockers LACUNA COIL celebrated the 20th anniversary of their third studio album, "Comalies", by performing it in its entirety at a one-night-only concert this past Saturday, October 15 at Fabrique in Milano. Fan-filmed video can be seen below.

On Sunday, LACUNA COIL singer Cristina Scabbia shared a few photos from the gig on her social media, and she included the following message: "My ears are still ringing, my heart feels fuller than ever and I have absolutely loved to see each one of you all in a packed home show… even from VERY up close… I've never felt more protected than when I stood in between my people in the crowd. Entwined, forever. On behalf of Maki, Andi, Dd, Richard and myself… THANK YOU, we mean it".

"Comalies XX", a "deconstructed" and "transported" version of "Comalies", was made available on October 14 via Century Media Records.

Back in 2002, LACUNA COIL released an album which is now undeniably an anthem-laden millennial classic that established them as a band with the stamina to go the distance. Now, 20 years later, the current lineup of LACUNA COIL decided to revisit the songs, but not to just re-record them as they were but deconstruct and transport them into 2022.

When asked in a new interview with Rock Sound how reworking "Comalies" for the LP's 20th anniversary influenced LACUNA COIL's plans for new music, Scabbia said: "I think that writing a record that is not new but it is new because the approach was new and most of the music is very new was a very cool step for LACUNA COIL to start working again on music. Because during the pandemic, I have to say that we felt uninspired. The fact that we had to stay in our homes didn't really nourish our inspiration because we were feeling very sad; we were feeling that we didn't know when everything would start again. So we didn't feel that we wanted to write a record that would bring all the negativity from the pandemic. So I think that 'Comalies XX', for us, is not only a celebration of a record that was born 20 years ago but it's also a celebration of the present and the future, because we are starting with a renewed energy and we know that from now on we're not gonna take anything for granted in life and in music, that it's always worth it to experiment and to try new ways, always, of course, being happy with yourself and your art."

"Comalies" was originally released on October 29, 2002 through Century Media Records. The LP, which featured the band's breakthrough single "Heaven's A Lie", has reportedly gone on to sell over 300,000 copies in the United States alone.

Regarding the "Comalies" title, Scabbia said: "[During the album's recording], we had a sort of creative explosion. We were working in a coma, sort of like in a different dimension. First of all we just wanted to use the word 'coma' but there was something missing so we played with the two words 'coma' and 'lies'."

The "Comalies" song "Swamped" is available as a downloadable track for the music video game series "Rock Band" and also appeared in the 2004 video game "Vampire: The Masquerade – Bloodlines".

[antaxzantax]

Reimagining Ashford Family Lore

I am inmerse in a little project on writing an Ashford fanfic right know; so, as before, I was thinking about how the Ashford background would look like from a more “realistic” approach; “realistic” in the sense of coherence and more reality-based, rather than to turn Resident Evil into a costumbrist picture of the *real* world.

Here a few notes regarding my impressions.

History Lesson. Resident Evil never intended to be a history lesson. The point is that settling the Ashfords in the *truly* historical context of the Victorian Era or the XX’s century doesn’t make any sense; due to the rules set for the Ashfords are incoherent with the historiography produce to envisionate these eras.

Examples:

A woman being the founder of a family by her own. As far as I documented, in Medieval times this was relative common among baronies and in certain circunstances. But in the über imperialist-racist-mysogynist Victorian Era, it lacks credibility.

A noble family that founds its wealth and prestige on Science. Until the 20th century, nobles were among the few that had the wealth and leisure to research and doing any kind of science, but I don’t recall about any *complete* noble family dedicated to the point of the Ashfords. It is funny to imaginate the Ashfords being called “the nerds” by their peers.

So, in relation to this point, let’s play in Resident Evil terms.

Alexander’s Decision. No complains. His decision about restoring the Ashford name inside the company his family stablished is demodé, as it has to be. In this regard, it would be necessary to dive deep into the relationship between Edward and Alexander, specially in behalf of the emotional part. A larger development of Edward Ashford as a character would have to be done as well.

The Cloning Thing. It’s clear that screenwriters got inspiration from all the cloning trend of Dolly the Sheep. Disgracefully, clonation of full functional humans has resulted more into a scam than a real possibility; apart from certain types of theoretical medical aplications and less ambitious uses. But, I think that the CODE: Veronica Project could still be remade remaining the main idea of bringing to life an “augmented” human. However, if we don´t count clonation, the resulting project would be more similar to the Wesker project than to the original setting. And even the Wesker project has several issues.

As many papers I have read, genetic make-up is important, but more important is to have access to all kind of educational resources (and money to spend in donations for top universities). With the combination of both, Alexia Ashford would have been more similar to William Birkin than to her original character; but because Birkin is a more “accurate” character in this aspect.

Not to mention that reducing “intelligence” (whatever is it) to a single gen is plain pseudoscience and anti-scientific (not blaming screenwriters); and the fact that Alfred and Alexia are identical twins also has no evidence since these cases are extremely rare and linked to severe genetic conditions.