#but you can't name ten countries in europe?

[mirrorbxlls]

next time i see a chronically online american complaining about how little they know about the world i'm going to throw up

[da-rulah]

Come Home to Me - Secondo x f!reader

Summary: No one ever thought to question why Papa Emeritus II was such a bitter man. People assumed it was a product of his upbringing, of the pressures being an Emeritus brought him. But they had no idea that years ago, he was a completely different man. A man that you so easily fell in love with... 

Rating: Explicit, 18+

Word Count: 10.3k (can I EVER write anything short?)

Warnings: MAJOR ANGST. jealous themes, themes of abandonment, poor childhood, mentions of alcohol addiction, domestic fights, anger, hurt, mild violence, bad break-up, description of panic attack, vaginal fingering, unprotected p in v sex 

ALSO AVAILABLE ON AO3

Secondo doesn't get anxious.  

At least, that's what people would think to look at him; the burly, scary, angry looking Papa who would practically glide through the hallways of the Ministry he headed. And to look at him now, today, people wouldn't suggest anxiety be the baseline emotion for him either. But it certainly was; masked by a particularly foul mood, but it was definitely anxiety.  

Because he'd just heard from his elder brother, that you were returning to the Ministry. 

It had been years since he'd seen you; he'd been a Cardinal then. He'd always been a hardened man, bitter from his childhood of neglect and abuse at the hands of his deadbeat father, but... you had been the softness to balance him out. Until he'd fucked that all up, as he was always destined to do. He always knew his fiery temper would fuck him over someday.  

And he'd been right.... 

8 Years Ago. 

"You can't go," he told you firmly, no hint at all that he was willing to compromise on this.  

"Secondo, please..." you tried to reason with him, "I have to! This is my job!"  

Secondo chewed on the inside of his cheek, shaking his head as he looked down at his gloved fingers picking wool bobbles from his cassock. He stood awkwardly across from you in his quarters, letting you hover near the door as if you weren't welcome in here. The atmosphere felt cold, frosty even.  

"You know, it's really rather telling that you would rather go swanning off on some tiny little tour of Europe with mio fratello than stay by my side," he rages, "This new little project of his is bound to fail, you know. It did for our father, it will for him."  

Frankly, you were dumbfounded by the idea he thought you'd prefer to spend time with Primo than him. Of course you didn't, but you had no choice. Your job at Primo's side was an important one and not exactly negotiable. Secondo had never mentioned any form of jealousy before now, so why on earth would he bring that up if not just out of sheer spite? 

"Ah, your silence says all. You know what? Go. Go ahead. But do not expect me to wait for you, Sorella."  

"W-what... what do you mean?" you asked, tears welling up in your eyes.  

"You want to disappear for months on end with Primo? Fine. But I have needs, and I cannot be expected to wait for your return. I will not become some idiota with blue balls because his girlfriend is too busy fucking his fratello in another country."  

"You really think... what the fuck is wrong with you?!" you shrieked. How dare he. "Secondo, if you loved me at all you wouldn't even think of doing such a thing. And you'd trust me enough to know I would never!"  

Secondo scoffed, turning in his place and heading towards the small liquor cabinet he kept in the corner of the living space. He wrenched open the door and pulled out a bottle of whiskey along with a tumbler, and poured himself a small drink.  

You stood and watched him, tears now silently trickling from your eyes. You couldn't understand why he was reacting like this. You'd been happily in a relationship for almost ten years, celebrated so much together. But ever since he became a Cardinal, he'd been overworked, stretched thin by the clergy and reminded consistently that he was only second best to his eldest brother. Secondo by name, Secondo by nature, he had confided in you numerous times. He had a bitter side to him, you knew that. It had been present his entire life, a product of a neglectful childhood.  

But he'd never, not once, projected that side onto you. Until becoming a Cardinal, slowly imploding on himself at the weight of the pressure put on him.  

"It's one way to establish yourself, I'll give you that. Quicker than sleeping with a mere Cardinal, eh?" he chuckled, devoid of humour and instead laced with venom. Had he... really just insinuated that?  

"You don't mean that." 

"Do I not?" he asked, arching an eyebrow with a vile smirk. He quickly necked the drink in his hand, hissing at the burn of it down his throat that he'd come to relish more and more lately. He was soon pouring himself another.  

"My job requires me on this tour. It's eight weeks, Secondo. That's all. Sister Imperator said-" 

You were interrupted by a sudden smash - Secondo had thrown his half full glass against the far wall of his living space. It splintered into shards, leaving a splatter against the fading wallpaper. You felt droplets of it hit your arm, a few splinters of glass reaching too without harm. You flinched naturally anyway, both at the sudden noise and the feeling on your skin.  

"I DON'T CARE WHAT IMPERATOR SAID! IF YOU LOVED ME AS YOU SAY YOU DO, YOU WOULD STAY WITH ME. BY MY SIDE. NOT HIS!" he screamed, storming towards you and grabbing your arms by your sides. You stiffened in fear - he'd never laid a hand on you before. "You say you love me, and yet, you abandon me."  

"N-no... I'm not-" you were shaking in his grasp, your eyes wide and words failing you.  

"If you go, I will never forgive you."  

You stared at him, your reddened eyes wide with fear and desperation. You were stuck... You had to go, you had no choice. Being fired from your job would mean the end of your residency at the Ministry and you would lose everything. But go, and you lose Secondo.  

He was overreacting, and you weren't sure why. Did he truly believe you were trying to sleep your way to a top seat within the clergy? Did he really think you'd run off with Primo, given the chance?  

"I... I love you..." you whimpered, voice shaking and quiet as your lip trembled. His piercing monochrome eyes searched yours, waiting for you to tell him you'd stay. But you couldn't. The Ghost Project needed you, and Primo needed you. You had no choice, but he couldn't see it that way.  

Without a word, he shoved you backwards, letting you stumble to keep your balance as he stepped back, picking up the open bottle of whiskey from where he'd left it.  

"Just go," he snarled, taking a drink from the bottle, before storming into his bedroom and slamming the door, your body jolting from the sound as you stood and broke down on the spot.  

Not going, you would lose everything. But going... you had lost him. 

Those eight weeks on the road were hell - and not the Hell you had been promised.  

Secondo hadn't spoken a word to you after you'd told him you were going. Your relationship was over the second he slammed that bedroom door. You spent any down time you had hiding from the world, crying into the last scrap of his clothing you had snuck from his things that still smelled like him.  

You would wonder constantly what had changed in him, why suddenly he couldn't see past his bitterness and had thought so little of you. He had ignored your phone calls, your letters... He had stewed in his anger and his growing alcohol dependency, buried his sorrows in anyone who would consent, and driven himself into the ground until his younger brother, Terzo, had decided enough was enough and harshly forced him to face his reality. 

But it was too late. 

As soon as you had come back from your first tour with The Ghost Project, you had put a request in for a transfer to an Abbey across the country. You had been hurt too badly, the thought of having to see Secondo in the halls, leading sermons, hosting seminars had burned in your chest. Primo had tried to talk you out of it, but your mind was made up and solidified only by the look of dismissal Secondo gave you when he'd seen your face for the first time during Mass.  

The grief you felt was not only for your relationship, but the man you once knew and loved so deeply. He wasn't him anymore; and you couldn't watch him live in indifference while you were so incredibly heartbroken.  

Within a week of your request, you were packed up and on a bus to a much smaller, more quaint Abbey in the midwest, where you would help to lead a congregation as a Sister of elevated importance.  

Over time, your wounds healed. You dated, albeit in brief stints. You devoted yourself to the church and rose in the ranks of your own volition - not because you had opened your legs to a Papa or higher ranking clergy member, as had been predicted by your former lover. 

You were doing well, focussed on you and your congregation.  

Secondo, however, had never been the same since you left. 

As if he wasn't already an angry and bitter man, he became insufferable in the years following your departure. Sure enough, Terzo's intervention had managed to quell the alcoholism, but it had done nothing for the anger that consistently simmered at surface level at his father, his brothers, his childhood... but mostly at himself.  

He'd never been able to forgive himself for the way he had treated you; the only good thing he had ever had in his life, and he managed to torture you slowly, like a child plucking the wings from a butterfly before delivering the final blow. Even when he'd seen you for the first time after the tour, he couldn't look you in the eye.  

Then he'd never seen you again.  

Now that Primo had told him you were coming back, your latest promotion to the highest ranking sibling beneath Sister Imperator herself bringing you back to the Ministry and the headquarters of the Satanic Church, he was petrified.  

He wanted to run. He wanted to hide. Given the option, he'd abdicate from his position with immediate effect and live out the remainder of his days in a cabin in the Italian Apennines. But that wasn't an option, and he had to face this.  

He had to face you.  

Sister Imperator had called a meeting of the higher Clergy to welcome you back, and to explain your place in the Ministry to those you'd be working closely with. That included Papa Secondo.  

Papa.  

When you'd first heard that news, you couldn't help the small smile that had tugged at your lips. He'd always wanted that title, always deserved it. You were happy for him, glad to see that he was where he rightfully should be.  

But when you saw him for the first time in that meeting room, sat in his chair at the head of the table, that happiness had dissipated. Fear and dread had filled you, a pain in your chest you thought you'd got over long ago. But the scowl on his face told you the feelings he had toward you were still just anger, spite, bitterness. And no matter how much time you'd had to heal, that scar still pulsated and burned in you.  

You remained professional, hardened much like Imperator. You had to be. If you showed him how weak he still made you feel, your authority might be brought into question. You'd worked too hard for that. 

As the meeting adjourned, the table got up to leave and you along with it, until you heard his deep and commanding voice from the end of the table.  

"Sorella _______, I ask you stay for a moment."  

You froze, too frightened too look back at him, too weak to tell him no. Primo and Terzo, who had both been sat on the opposite side of the table to you, shared a look that read as 'oh, shit...' before their glares fell on their brother. Secondo ignored them, shooing the rest of the clergy out of the doors.  

Nobody said a word, simply leaving quickly and quietly until you were alone with Papa. 

A moment of silence passed between you both; Secondo had so much he wished to say to you, so many apologies and regrets he'd practised so often in the last eight years but they all vanished when your eyes fell on his. He saw the fear in them; it reminded him of that night. 

"I... It's... You look well." 

That was it? That was all he could say to you?  

You drew in a deep breath, allowing yourself a second of composure before clasping your hands together in front of you and masking your disappointment and hurt with a business-like demeanour. 

"As do you." 

"How have you been?" he asks, although it's cold and merely to fill a silence.  

"Busy. Yourself?" you mimic his tone; you'd rather be anywhere but here right now. 

"Troppo (me too)." 

You nodded. "Congratulations. 'Papa'... what you always wanted," you forced a smile, gesturing at the robes and mitre he adorned.  

"Ah, sí, sí..." he kicked at the titles at his feet, shuffling as he stared down at them awkwardly. "Sorella, I-" 

"It was good to see you, Papa," his head snapped up at the use of his title, it sounding foreign and wrong coming from you. "Now if you'll excuse me..." you dismissed yourself, bowing your head to him slightly and gathering your notebook and pen before making your way out of the meeting room. Secondo stared after you, lost with his apology he'd finally found and mustered up the courage to deliver still dangling from the tip of his tongue.  

Re-familiarising yourself with the Ministry's halls was hardly needed as you traipsed through them late into the evening. But that had just been an excuse...  

In fact, what you were truly doing was torturing yourself with the ghosts of a past life. It was as if you could see them, plain as day; the ghostly figures of a young and fresh faced Sister of Sin with a smile that beamed so bright, and of a young Bishop, his face free of deep set wrinkles and the permanent scowl the world knew today.  

They run through the halls ahead of you, hand in hand. Her laughter bounces from the stone walls as he tries to shush her, stifling his own laughs and the grin across his face. You followed them, chasing the memory through the halls.  

Rounding the corner, they stop outside of a door. The young Bishop pulls the Sister close to him, tumbling back into the doorframe with a thud and another string of stifled giggles. His palm caresses her cheek, a look of pure adoration in his mismatched eyes before he leans in, pressing his lips to hers as she melts into his embrace against the door.  

He reaches behind him, turning the doorknob and the two spectres disappear through the wood, the door remaining closed and leaving you alone in the empty corridor.  

You kept staring after them, tears heavy and building in your waterline. Your hands trembled at your sides, a nauseous feeling settling in your stomach as you remembered so clearly the night those ghosts ran through the halls together, spending their first night alone and in each other's arms in secret.  

From what you knew, he still lived in the same suite. The door you stared at still belonged to him, and the likelihood was he was in there right now. 

A part of you ached to talk to him. You wanted to know what had changed him all those years ago, still craving answers to questions long since forgotten. But part of you knew it was a conversation not worth having; after all, what good would it do now? 

Footsteps echoed from the opposite end of the end hall, stomping on the stone as they drew closer. You ducked behind the corner, barely peeking from your hiding spot as Secondo drew closer to his quarters, that scowl still etched onto his face when he pulled his keys from a pocket beneath his robes. Before unlocking the door, he hesitated, pressing his forehead to the wood and shutting his eyes to take a deep breath. 

You allowed yourself a better view, peering out from the corner to take in the look of exhaustion, of sadness on his features as he leaned against his door. Pain seared through your chest, flashbacks of that exact expression from years ago flooding your memory, from times where the world would get on top of him and threaten to crush his shoulders with the weight they added.  

You were the only thing that could comfort him then. Nothing else would work – you wondered what he did these days to ease the ache. Little did you know, nothing could.  

He’d mask it well, yes, and attempt to bury it deep down beneath layers of a personality that wasn’t totally his, but the fact remained he was still just so sad beneath it all.  

Secondo straightened himself up with a deep breath, and pushed the key into the door turning to unlock it. You sighed quietly to yourself and turned to leave out of sight, but Secondo stiffened, his head whipping around to the corner where he caught the back of your head as you turned. He’d heard that sigh, known who it belonged to instantly.  

“________?” he asked, his voice softer than you’d have expected, like anything above a whisper would have you darting down the corridor never to be seen again.  

You froze in place, aware he can now see you but unable to move. You don’t want to face him. You don’t want to run from him.  

“Wait, don’t... don’t go,” he whispered; something he wishes he’d said to you the day you’d left the Ministry instead of hiding in a pit of his own self-loathing and self-pity. He thinks you’re going to run; but you can’t. You’re just... stuck. 

He doesn’t know what to do, just staring at the back of your head as his heart rate raises and his breath quickens. He’s panicking; he knows that. He’d learned what a panic attack was in the days after you’d left the Ministry; like a heart attack.  

You heard him behind you, the sound of his panic as words failed him. Your head whipped around to see him stood there, clutching his robes over his chest as he stared wide eyed at you. You’d never seen him like this, and it frightened you.  

“S-Secondo? Are you... are you alright?” you asked, rushing to his side on instinct, yet stopping yourself just a few feet away from him with your hands outstretched. You weren’t sure if you should touch him, if you should cross the boundary that not only he, but you had put up so long ago. 

“C-can’t... can’t breathe...” he panted, leaning against the stone doorway and squeezing his eyes shut.  

Get him inside, make him comfortable, your inner voice told you. You looked to the side, seeing his keys still dangling in the lock and turned them for him, pushing open the door to an empty and cold apartment that sent such a wave of nostalgia through you it could have knocked you clean onto your ass. But you shook it off, reaching for Secondo’s shoulder and gently guiding him through the door.  

“Sit down,” you instructed softly, reaching for the light switch behind you, your arm working on muscle memory alone. You didn’t have to think about it, no time in the current predicament. Secondo stumbled to the couch, sitting down with a thump and leaning back into the pillows while you shut the door and made your way over to the kitchen.  

Reaching for the cupboard you knew had glasses in – nothing had been changed since the day you’d left – you picked one out to fill with water, then coming down to his level and kneel at his feet to remove any feel of intimidation standing before him would have brought.  

“Secondo, hey...” you caught his attention, his white eye opening to look at you through his lashes. “Can you sit up for me?”  

He took in a deep lungful of breath and sat himself upright, his forearms coming to rest on his knees as he hunched over. His breathing was erratic – some deep and long, some short and staccato. He was trying desperately to regain control, to not come across as weak in front of you but he feared you being in front of him was truly the reason he was so breathless.  

He always did used to say you took his breath away... 

“Here, drink.” You held up the glass in front of him. He stared at it for a moment, his eyes still wide and panicked. “Papa, please...” 

“Don’t... D-don't call... me that...” he told you, but he didn’t sound angry. He sounded tired, mostly, between the panicked breaths. You chose not to argue for the time being.  

“I’m sorry... Still, drink. It'll help,” you promised, raising the glass again.  

He took it from you, gulping a third of the glass down and swallowing with a loud exhale. The irregular pattern calmed considerably, the cold of the water cooling the heat that had risen to his face and chest in his panic.  

“Good... See? It helps. Now just... breathe with me, okay? Copy what I do,” you told him, taking in a deep breath and counting to four in your head as you did so. He copied you, no questions asked, no arguments; just breathing in as you did. After four, you slowly began to exhale, counting to eight this time. He copied you again, his exhale a little shaky as if his lungs were clawing at his exhale, trying desperately to hold it in.  

You repeated the pattern a few times, holding eye contact the whole time. He seemed to be searching for something in your face, any hint of hatred, anger, resentment... but nothing. His panic eased when all he found was concern, and the same softness he remembered so fondly. Able to find no negativity in your expression, he could relax and give your breathing technique the room to work and calm him down.  

“Mi dispiace. I... I don’t know what came over me,” he says, embarrassment and sadness in his tone. He wanted to hide again, staring down at the glass in his hands instead of at you, sitting quietly and awkwardly on your knees in front of him.  

“No, it’s... fine. I’m just glad you’re alright,” you smile awkwardly, shuffling back and standing, dusting the non-existent dust from your knees. “I’ll see myself out,” you said, turning around to leave, “Just rest for the eveni-”  

You stopped dead in your tracks, your eyes focussed on the wall by the front door.  

The wallpaper had never been changed in all those years, the colour of the pattern worn and yet, there were small rips in the paper, tiny grooves carved into the wall and a very distinctive faded brown stain.  

Your eyes zeroed in on it immediately. It wasn’t particularly large, or even that dark against the wallpaper but you couldn’t help but notice, and your chest tightened. 

“Ah, I uh... have been meaning to redecorate,” Secondo chuckled from the couch behind you, with no humour at all. His tone was different to earlier that day in the meeting room; that cold indifference had vanished, as if the curtain had fallen and his mask had dropped. He was too weak to put up a front, too tired of playing the resentful scary Papa character. 

You turned to look at him, a slight look of pity mixed with something akin to longing that he tried to ignore for his own sanity. It would do him no good to delude himself into thinking you might have missed him as much as he had missed you in the last eight years. 

“But then... I suppose it served as a reminder,” he shrugs, averting your gaze and taking another sip of water where he sat.  

“Of what?” you asked, fragility to your voice. Secondo sighed, meeting your eyes again.  

“The biggest mistake I ever made.” 

An uncomfortable silence settled between you, his eyes watching you closely as you shuffled in your spot.  

“Do you... get panic attacks often?” you asked, trying to divert attention away from that conversation. You weren’t sure if you were ready to have that just yet, if ever. Why cut into a healed scar? 

“Not anymore, but... I used to. After you left,” he said matter-of-fact, no hint of accusation at all. “It used to start as shortness of breath like this,” he waved his hand in the air to illustrate his point, “but eventually, I suppose, I had to learn to breathe without you.” 

Tears welled in your waterline, and you had to look down at the toes of your boots to flush them away.  

“I’m truly, so incredibly sorry, amore mio...” he whispered, willing you to look at him, to hear him finally say what he’s wanted to for years.  

“W-we don’t have to... do this...” you stuttered, holding back a sob as a tear fell to the floor where you stared at your feet. Hearing him call you that again... If you weren’t careful, it would consume you. Secondo didn’t miss your tear, his chest tightening when it hit the floor. 

“No, per favore... Let me say this, I need to get this out,” he begs, standing to move towards you, his hands outstretched like he wanted to take yours in them, to hold onto you as he apologised. You whipped your hands from in front of you and took several steps back. 

“That’s not fair,” you scolded, “you need to get this out? What, to clear your conscience? So you can feel better?” you accused. Your anger wasn’t unwarranted, he knew that. But he could see how much what he’d done had affected you – still affected you. The guilt ate him alive. It would always eat him alive, no matter how many times he apologised. 

“No, I just... I didn’t want to hurt you, I want to make it right!” he pleaded. You shook your head with a smile at his audacity. 

“Make it right? Now? After eight years?” you scoffed. 

“Well okay if I can’t make it right, just... bearable. Per favore, amore mio!” The nickname slipped from his lips without thought; it still felt natural to him. You were still his ‘love’ after all – you never stopped being that. But hearing it again for the second time that evening was like the venomous sting of a scorpion’s tail to your heart.  

“Stop calling me that, you lost that right,” you cried, having to bite your tongue from unleashing all of your anger, all of your hurt on him.  

“I... I know. Mi scusi...” he quietened his voice, looking down at his hands in shame. His shift in demeanour stunned you into silence, your chest heaving with uneven breaths as you calmed yourself from the point of near-eruption. “You should be angry at me.” 

You scoffed at his audacity. “Thank you for your permission,” you spat.  

“Where do we go from here?” he asked, looking up to meet your eyes finally. His looked strained, tired. Even disguised by the paint, he seemed weary and frail. “Can I say anything at all?” 

You mulled it over in your mind, running in circles. Was there anything he could say? Would you listen to anything right now, or were you too riled up to care about his excuses? The younger you, the you who loved him so deeply all those years ago was dying to get the answers she craved. She reached out to you from your past life, desperate for closure, just to understand no matter what those answers were. 

“You can tell me why.” 

Secondo’s brow furrowed. “W-why?”  

He seemed scared, like he hadn’t expected this but how could he not? What was the point in him apologising if neither he nor you knew why he was apologising, what his 'sorry’ was for? 

“Yes. Tell me why. Tell me why you suddenly thought so little of me, that you genuinely believed I would try to sleep my way to the top. Tell me why you were so adamant I was choosing your brother over you. Tell me why you turned into a bitter and twisted shell of the cardinal I adored. Tell me why you chose the bottle over me when you came home at night. Tell me why you ever doubted how completely, soul-destroyingly in-fucking-love with you I was!” you screamed at him, getting louder and louder with each passing syllable and pointing an accusatory finger at him as tears of rage freely flowed down your cheeks.  

“Because it was easier!” he yelled back, meeting your gaze, “It was easier than watching you leave with him! I was jealous, sí, because everybody always chose Primo. Ever since I became a Cardinal, I was told that was as far as I could go, that was it for me! Primo was the golden boy, he was Papa, he was going to find a wife, have a kid and that kid would be Papa and where would that leave me? Cast aside, again, as always! Fuck, even Terzo got more attention for his damn looks than I ever got for my hard work, my devotion!” 

You shrugged and stared at him incredulously as he yelled. “Why was any of that my fault?” you screeched. 

“B-because you... you were choosing him too!” his chest heaved, and for the first time ever you saw tears in his eyes too, glinting off the light of the room. “I needed you, ______. You were the only one who saw me for who I was, and you chose him too!” 

You tried to protest in anger, shaking your head and taking a step towards him to defend yourself but he continued before you got the chance. 

“Nihil... he always said I would never be Primo. But as Cardinal, I was expected to do everything for him. I lived in his shadow every... fucking... day. It drove me mad...” he looked up at the ceiling as he screamed through grit teeth, trying to let gravity defy the building tears, “And then Papa was to go on tour again, to bring back the Ghost project and perform for thousands of adoring followers and I was to sit here and wait for the only person I’ve ever loved to forget me and fall for him like the rest of the masses...” He was sobbing in anger now, forgetting the fight against the onslaught of waterworks and giving in to the pain he felt.  

“I never... I never thought you slept with him. Not really,” he admitted. “But I was told over and over it was only a matter of time... And I believed them. So, you ask me why? Because it was easier to believe you had already fallen under his spell and remove myself from the equation, than to watch it happen while I was still by your side.” 

You were stunned into silence, watching the man you believed for the last eight years had become void of emotion spill every single one he’d buried spill from him. He’d never told you any of this, not once expressed any resentment to his elder brother. And Nihil... you wanted to ring that old man’s neck. 

“I just... I got lost, amore. The more I drank, the worse it got. The bigger the disappointment,” he’d stopped shouting at you, his voice strained and quiet, “You started to hate me, and I took it as proof of my suspicions that you would someday leave. And then when you did...” his voice cracked, the words sticking in his throat. He sank to sit on the edge of the couch, defeated and weak. He removed his mitre and held his head in his hands, quietly sobbing with cloudy black tears from his makeup dripping to the floor. 

You stood awkwardly playing with your fingers, wiping your own tears away with the back of your hand as they fell. Your lip trembled holding back a breakdown. Now, you were beginning to understand the weight of the responsibility he’d bared back then, of the pain of his dismissal and rejection throughout his life. It still hurt you deeply that he couldn’t see past it to know you would never have chosen anyone over him – but at least you understood. 

“Terzo got me clean after you left,” he said, sniffling and raising his head but still unable to look you in the eye. Instead, his gaze focussed in on the corner of the room, at where the liquor cabinet used to sit. You followed his eyes and noticed it wasn’t there anymore, now an empty corner he’d never filled with anything else. “But it took a long time. I knew what I’d done, but... I didn’t want to face it. I’ve been so angry at myself, amore. Angry at everyone, but never at you.” He looked you in the eye then, “it was never your fault.” 

“No, non è vero, fottuto idiota, (no, it wasn’t, you fucking idiot,)” you seethed, taking a deep breath and shaking your head. Secondo chuckled humourlessly. Oh, how he’d missed you scolding him in Italian. 

“Sí, sí... fottuto idiota,” he sighed, dragging his palms down his face and smearing his tears with his paints. He looked down at his gloves, smeared with grey stains where the white mixed with the black, and he chuckled again. “Sono un disastro, no? (I am a mess, no?)” he said, holding his hands up briefly for you to see the mess before he removed both gloves, dropping them to the couch beside him. You scoffed again, a hint of a smile tugging at your lips; but you hid it from him, looking down at your feet again. “In more ways than one, I have always been a mess. But it was never your job to clean that mess up.” 

“Didn’t stop me from wanting to,” you told him. You looked up again, now that the almost-smile had faded, “I loved you more than you ever realised.” 

Secondo nodded, chewing on his bottom lip. “My biggest regret is not seeing that at the time. I’ll never know love like that again...” 

You tilted your head to the side in pity, scanning the man before you who looked and sounded so much more broken than you could have imagined. You had no idea this was affecting him still to this day, no clue that the angry persona you’d left behind hadn’t just created a bitter old man who’d forgotten what he was bitter at – he was, in fact, bitter and angry toward himself. He’d never forgiven himself.  

But how could he? How could he ever forgive himself for what he’d put you through, for treating you like he did. He was disgusted by himself, but in true Emeritus fashion, he didn’t know how to deal with his emotions, and it spiralled out of control. This was his personality now, a figurehead to be terrified and intimidated by.  

You remembered how he could be though. Those figures you followed through the halls earlier that evening, that had guided you back to Secondo’s front door just when he’d needed you; they reminded you, however painfully, that there was a time when he was happy. Both of you were so happy. 

“Do you remember the first night I spent here?” you asked him after a few moments of silence, raising your arms to hug at yourself, enveloping yourself in a protective shield in case this train of thought went terribly awry and you needed your defences up.  

Secondo looked up at you, his brow furrowing in confusion. You continued, giving yourself no time to back out of your train of thought, and no time for him to reply.  

“Sister Imperator had almost caught us in the gardens. We were making out, behind one of the bushes when we heard her heels on the cobbles...” you laughed. Your smile was so beautiful to him still, just like all those years ago when you’d met eighteen years ago. It infected him, tugging at the corners of his own lips as he smirked and let his mind wonder back to that night.  

“Sí, I had hair...” he chuckled.  

“We ran... we just, ran...” you sighed, smile widening as you took a small step towards him. “You dragged me through the halls until we stopped hearing her heels.” 

“The old bat could never have kept up with us.”  

“No...” you laughed. “You kept shushing me, as if you weren’t the one making me laugh.” 

“As much as I enjoyed your laughter, amore, you were going to blow our cover,” he teased. “I believe I had no choice but to silence you... if memory serves me.” His smile faltered as he remembered that kiss in his doorway, leading you inside his quarters for the first time, spending the night entangled in and bewitched by everything you.  

What would he give to kiss you again? What would he sacrifice for a chance to hold you in his arms one more time?  

Everything. Anything.  

“Eighteen years passed by so quickly,” you sighed. “I always thought I would spend the rest of my years with you...”  

“Sí... anche me... (yes... me too...) I took you for granted, amore mio- oh...” he caught himself, a sinking feeling in his chest, “Mi scusi... I must stop calling you that.” 

Guilt settled in your stomach for the way you’d scolded him for that earlier. Truthfully, you desperately wanted him to never stop calling you that. 

“You... you don’t have to... stop, I mean,” you stuttered, twiddling your fingers and avoiding his eyes. When you did look up at him through your lashes, you saw the look of confusion in his features, and the faint flicker of hope in his eyes.  

“But... I thought you said-?” 

“Y-yeah I did, I just... I was angry,” you shrugged, folding your arms protectively again, as if literally shielding your heart. 

“Are you not angry now?” he asked gingerly, gently ‘poking the bear’ as it were. 

“Yes... No... I am, but...” you stopped yourself, sighing and dropping your arms by your sides in exasperation. “I want to be. I want to be so angry at you. I want to hate you and scream at you. Hell, I’d punch you if I could but...” 

He stood then, taking a step forward. “But what, amore...?” You met his eyes, biting your lip as he took another small, yet significant, step towards you. Could you say it? Were you brave enough?  

“If I’m angry, it’s because I still care, isn’t it?” you asked rhetorically, “I’m angry because... because I still love you.”  

Time stood still for Secondo. His heart pounded in his ears, his chest tightening at the admission that you – sweet, wonderful you – still loved him, despite the hell he had put you through. 

He acted on impulse, no coherent thought process registering. Closing the distance between you, he pulled you to him by your waist, desperately pressing his lips to yours. As if you had expected it, you immediately melted in his hold, your eyes fading shut and lips encapsulating his in submission. You were tired of hating him, tired of being angry. Being honest with yourself, you had only ever wanted to be in his arms again since that night he told you to leave.  

Finally, here you were.  

His bare hands grasped at the fabric of your habit like he was clinging for life, dangling over a gorge only you could pull him up from. You felt much the same, your fists balled in his robes pulling him to you by his chest. Your lips fit together as they always had, moving in nostalgic synchronicity. You felt alive again, synapses in your brain firing in every which way and alighting the spark you’d let dim to nothing but an ember until now. 

Secondo pressed his forehead to yours when he parted from you, his eyes remaining shut while he coped with the racing of his heart. It wasn’t until he raised one of his hands to cup your cheek that he realised your cheeks were wet with fresh tears. 

“Amore...” he breathes, tickling your lips below his, “I have loved you every single day of the last eighteen years...” 

You don’t bother holding back the sob that jumps from your chest – you couldn’t if you tried. Secondo’s thumb swept over your cheek, wiping away the tears as he shushed you gently. Your fists, balled so tight in his robes, had started to shake as your bottom lip did.  

“I-I’m scared, Secondo... If I let you in again, I-I couldn’t... couldn’t handle losing you again,” you wept.  

“No, no no no amore mio, I wouldn’t be so foolish. Not again. Per favore, credimi... ti amo (Please, believe me... I love you,” he begged. 

“Sí, credo che tu, (yes, I believe you,)” you told him, your lips finding his once again and fists pulling him impossibly close to you. He huffed a sigh of relief into the kiss, his fingertips ghosting over your jawline gently despite the desperate nature of the act.  

You tilted your head to reach a more comfortable angle; one where you could run your tongue along his bottom lip, begging for progression. He submitted with no hesitation, allowing entry with a low hum from deep within his ribcage. The hand around your waist squeezed at your hip as your kiss deepened to desperation.  

Breathlessly you pulled apart from him. “This is where I’m supposed to be,” you told him firmly with a sob, slamming your fist to his chest, “this is home.” 

“Sí, amore,” he gripped your wrist, holding your fist tightly against him, “come home to me.” 

You crumbled then, your knees buckling as you wept into his chest. He wrapped his arms around you tightly, giving in to his own sobs as he held you upright. He pressed his lips to your forehead, peppering kisses across your face wherever he could reach until finally he found your lips once again.  

Truly, his arms did feel like home. You hadn’t felt so complete ever since the last time he’d held you, an emptiness you’d tried to fill with work and frivolous relationships but nothing and no one could ever fill the void he’d left. Now you were home, you wouldn’t dare let go again.  

You’d never kissed anybody so desperately in all your life, bruisingly desperate in fact. Your lips pressed and moulded together so hard, it was bordering on painful – yet nothing could have been more painful than the last eight years. No, you needed this. You needed him.  

“Take me to bed, Secondo...” you mumbled into his lips. Secondo stilled, his hands coming to sit at your waist and pushing you back; not even half a step away from him, yet you already missed the warmth of his chest along with the rhythmic thumping of his heart.  

“Amore, I don’t wish to rush you...” he spoke cautiously, his eyes scanning your face. “We don’t have to go there tonight...” 

There he was; for a split second, you could have sworn you saw a glimmer of the man you’d fallen in love with eighteen years ago... His paints vanished, his deep-set wrinkles smoothing out, his hair tucked and poking out from beneath his Bishop’s biretta. That same kindness, that care and cautiousness of the night he first brought you to his quarters...  

He’d said the same to you then, ever so chivalrous at all times but you knew then as you knew now – you were ready. You needed him. 

Slowly, you raised your palm to his cheek, noting the strange feeling of his paint-covered skin on your fingertips. You traced the lines where the white met the black, smudged together in places where his tears had streaked down his face. It amazed you how much the years had aged him, what the stress had done to him and yet, he was just as handsome to you as the day you’d met. 

“I think we’ve both waited long enough, caro,” you smiled, relishing in the way his brow softened, and his eyes glinted with happiness. He brought his hand to yours, holding it in place as he turned his head to press kisses to your palm. He laced his fingers with yours turning to the direction of his bedroom and leading the way. Once inside, Secondo took a step away from you.  

“Un momento, amore. There is something I must do...” he lifted your hand and pressed a kiss to the back of it, letting go before he stepped into the bathroom to the left. You could hear the faucet squeaking as he turned it, the unmistakable rush of water hitting the porcelain sink below. 

In his absence, you couldn’t help the way your gaze wondered as you remembered the details around you. The furniture remained unchanged but worn slightly with age, the shine of the dark wood not as prevalent as it had been. The bookshelf in the corner was still covered in tiny knick-knacks and ornaments, some of which you had bought him. One still sat on his nightstand; a small statue of Baphomet depicted as he traditionally was. On the other nightstand – the side that used to be yours – sat the same deep green glass vase you remembered, all the shine gone as it sat empty and covered in a layer of dust.  

That vase used to never sit empty, fresh flowers in it constantly. Secondo made a point of it, always replacing the flowers before they could wilt too much with different varieties all the time. He loved how it would make you smile, how you would bury your nose in the petals to smell the latest additions. Seeing it sat so sad and empty stung a little, but you understood.  

So enthralled in your journey down memory lane, you didn’t notice the end to the running water next door, nor the footsteps of the man coming to stand with his chest to your back as one arm snaked around your waist, the other tilting your chin up to look back at him so he could press his lips back to yours again.  

You turned in his arms, sinking into another slow and passionate kiss. When you raised your palms to his cheeks, you distinctly felt the smooth skin now void of the greasy and smeared paints. This was how you remembered him; not with the full skull paint and certainly not smeared with tears and despair. He removed his paints for that very reason. 

Secondo removed your veil from your head, letting your hair fall around your face in that beautiful way he always loved. Within seconds his fingers were threading their way through your roots while his other hand held you tightly to him by your hips. It was all too easy to lose yourself to his kiss, quickly becoming more needy as time ticked by.  

He made sure to move at your pace, though. It wasn’t until you started to undo his shirt buttons – his robe removed and folded in the bathroom moments ago already – that he even attempted to undo the zipper at the back of your habit. It wasn’t until you kicked off your boots that he did the same to his loafers. It wasn’t until your hands scrambled for the belt around his hips that he let it slip from your shoulders and pool at your feet. It wasn’t until he was stripped bare by your frantic hands that he allowed himself to unclasp your bra and drag it down your arms, followed by your panties that hit the floor with the rest of the hastily removed garments.  

He was too frightened you would startle easily, realise what you were doing and suddenly slap yourself with the reality that you still hadn’t forgiven him, and run off feeling embarrassed and angry. He needed to give you the space to run safely, if you needed to.  

But as you had already told him – you were going nowhere. He was certain of that now.  

Now completely exposed to each other, there was nowhere to hide. The warmth of his bare skin under your palms sent a thrill through your body, already responding to the way his fingertips dug into the meat of your hips as he kissed you with a new fervour.  

With your hands cradling his jawline, you stepped backwards, bringing him with you until you were able to sit on the edge of his bed, shuffling back while he crawled over you. It was too easy not to separate your kiss from each other, in tune with one another enough that you could move as one. You felt the pillows behind you, laying back and bringing him with you as he settled between your thighs.  

Already, you could feel him pressing against your core. You ached for him, desperate to have him. It was as if there were pulses of arousal flowing through your body and accumulating at your core, where heat had begun to pool.  

As much as Secondo wanted to dive in, to take you as he once had so many times, he knew this was not a moment to rush. Instead, he focussed his efforts on trailing his lips down your jawline, following the curves down your neck and collarbone as his palm kneaded at your breast opposite his mouth. Slowly, he savoured the velvet smoothness of your skin on his tongue, taking your nipple into his mouth while your back arched up into him in pleasure and anticipation.  

Secondo had missed these little noises you would make. The mewls and whimpers as he brought you to the brink of desperation; he adored them. If he himself hadn’t missed you the way he did, he could spend hours working you up to release. Another time though, perhaps. If you would want another... 

The hand that kneaded at your other breast snaked its way down between the two of you where his length was resting against you at the inner junction of your leg and hip. He allowed his fingertips to brush over himself only for a moment, before he dragged his middle finger through your glistening folds and circled your clit once, twice...  

You gasped under him, hips chasing the high and in turn grinding into his hardness which earned a deep moan from him against your breast. He could feel you were ready for more, drifting his finger to your entrance and starting with just one as he pushed inside, feeling your warmth envelope his digit. His cock twitched against you at the feel, like a silent plea to be buried inside you. All you could do was hold him against you, an arm around his waist and one around the back of his head forcing him flush against your body.  

From the way you rolled your hips against his finger that slowly but surely curled over and over inside you, Secondo knew you needed more, and so alongside his middle finger, he slid his ring finger too. The way he curled them both inside you had your eyes rolling back in your head – he always was good with his hands, and just as he could then, he could read you like an open book, reciting verses of pleasure and passion from your pages. 

He began to move them inside you, readying you for him. As the seconds ticked on, his need to sheath himself inside you grew increasingly hard to ignore, his hips grinding into you from above. His lips found yours again, abandoning your breast in his frenzy to be close to you.  

He overtook your senses; all you could do was see him, hear him, smell him, feel him, taste him. You decided in an instant that was all you wanted for the rest of eternity. Just him. 

You needed more of him, all of him, and so you lifted your legs from the mattress, spreading your thighs wider in a way of presenting yourself to him to hopefully, finally, fill you with more than just his fingers. Secondo growled against your lips, his resolve crumbling. His hand slipped from inside you and instead came to grip the back of your thigh, pressing it back to give him the room to easily slide his member through your folds, effortlessly catching his tip on your entrance so that slowly, maddeningly, he could push himself into you.  

For a moment, neither of you could focus on anything other than that feeling; of filling you, of being filled. Both of your jaws went slack, moans spilling from your lips and mingling in the millimetres between you. When Secondo was fully enveloped in your heat, his forehead met yours while he gathered some form of composure. He could feel his chest tightening, the wounds of the last eight years stitching themselves back up. He let out a sob through gritted teeth, and whilst you too were completely enthralled in the overwhelm of emotions, it was all you could do to console him in that moment. 

“I-I’m here, caro. I’m right here,” you reassured him, your fingers tracing patterns across the nape of his neck. He had to take several heavy, deep breaths that puffed his cheeks up on the exhale each time before he could even bare to look you in the eye. When he did, he found nothing but love in them, your irises swimming with it.  

“Ti amo, amore mio...” he repeated, his voice cracking with emotion. You smiled at him, such softness in your features as a prickle of tears glistened in your eyes.  

“I love you too, caro.” You always had. You pulled him to you for another kiss, quickly falling under his spell once again. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, holding him as his hips started to sluggishly roll against yours, dragging his length through your heat achingly slow. Both of you needed to savour that feeling, one you had missed out on for so long.  

As your tongues danced together, so too did your hips, meeting in the middle as the two of you picked up a comfortable pace, effortlessly working together to drag the groans and whimpers from the other.  

Neither of you were under any illusion that this would last particularly long, despite dragging it out to relish it at first. But the longer you stayed banded together, the harder it was not to give in to the pleasure, to that familiar heat coiling in both of your abdomens.  

Secondo squeezed the underside of your thigh as his cock twitched and kicked inside you, begging for a release he was trying too hard to stave off. Your walls fluttered around him, rippling and sending jolts of electricity through you. Your bodies worked together, keying into a frequency you had only ever been able to register together. Nothing and nobody else had ever come close to understanding either of you. It was the two of you; it was always supposed to be.  

“A-ah!” you cried against his lips, squeezing your eyes shut while your body dangled over the edge of a sensational orgasm. “S-Secondo...”  

“Ooh, say that again, amore. Let me hear you...” you asked, ready to let go at the sound of his name from your lips once more. 

With a few more thrusts you gathered the strength you needed, opening your eyes to meet his beautifully mismatched ones and holding his cheek as you moaned his name one more time for him. 

“Secondo...”   

That was it for him. He couldn’t stop himself if he tried, his cock spilling inside you and his thrusts becoming erratic. You could feel him inside you, length pulsing and warmth spreading that triggered an almighty break in your body, orgasm ripping its way through you. The shouts of pleasure the two of you made together sounded like a symphony to your ears, and the both of you gripped onto each other for dear life as if this were a dream, and you might wake up at any moment.  

But neither of you disappeared; no puffs of smoke, no fading into the darkness. You stayed in each other's arms, coming down form your highs and catching your breaths while the weight of the world seemed to drift from your shoulders. That baggage you’d been carrying for years, the pain and hurt... it didn’t exist in that moment.  

You weren’t kidding yourself into thinking that everything was perfect, and you could instantly go back to playing happy families with Secondo; not at all. But that moment? That was perfect. It offered you a relief of your woes that you’d needed for so long. And now, instead of bottling up your emotions, the two of you could begin to heal. Really heal.  

It would take a lot of work, probably some shaky moments; hell, maybe even some therapy for the both of you but for the first time in eight years, you felt peace.  

Home. This was home.  

A sliver of golden sunlight shifted slowly down the wall as the sun rose outside, pouring in between the curtains that hadn’t been drawn completely closed the night before. Eventually, it hit your eyes like a blindfold, waking you with a squint and a grumble as you flipped onto your other side to avoid it.  

The white spots in your vision cleared after a few moments, and you found yourself staring at a bed that wasn’t yours. At least, not anymore. It once had been, shared with the love of your life.  

And yet, he was nowhere to be seen, the sheets on his side wrinkled and haphazardly strewn aside. You sat up slowly, wiping the sleep from your eyes and holding the deep green sheets against your bare body. Even the bathroom door was wide open, no sign of him at all.  

For a moment you almost convinced yourself last night had never happened, but even you couldn’t deny the evidence of being sat completely nude in Secondo’s bedroom. Perhaps he’d had second thoughts about what had transpired. Maybe it was too much too soon.  

It wasn’t until you looked around at the room and your tired eyes fell upon your nightstand – or at least, the nightstand that was once yours – that you relaxed, a warmth spilling through your chest and raising goosebumps on your skin.  

Your vase shined in the sunlight, newly polished and casting a green imprint on the wall behind it. Inside it, a fresh bouquet of queen of the night tulips with splashes of white jasmine offsetting the deep purple. You could smell the jasmine from where you sat, a favourite scent of yours.  

Secondo regretted nothing of last night. He, much like you, saw that as your fresh start – as fresh as the bouquet before you. He felt the same relief as you did, the same hope for some kind of future together. 

Staring at the flowers, a smile spread over your lips you couldn’t contain. Part of you knew why that vase had sat untouched and empty since your departure. Secondo bringing it back to life again the moment you came back to him was all the reassurance you needed that you were welcomed home with open arms.  

“Primo will be angry when he sees the stalks in his garden,” Secondo chuckled, breaking the silence as he leaned against the doorframe looking devilishly handsome with his skull paint fresh and crisp, his black shirt tucked into his slacks and cinched with a belt. His arms were folded over his chest, sleeves rolled up to the elbow. A smirk played on his face, enjoying the look of shock in your features when your head whipped around at his sudden voice. 

“You didn’t...” you scolded playfully.  

“Oh, I did amore...” he smiled, pushing off from the doorframe and coming to sit on the end of the bed in front of you. “Let him be mad. He will understand in time.” 

A comfortable silence settled over you as he lifted his hand to brush your bed hair from your cheek.  

“You were always most beautiful like this, dolcezza,” he spoke dreamily, taking you in in the morning sun, wrapped in his sheets with messed hair and a bare face. Your eyes fluttered shut, chasing the feeling of his fingertips. You let yourself enjoy the blissful silence for a moment, but one of you had to break it eventually. 

“We’ll need to work on this, Secondo. All that time... we can’t erase it in one night,” you told him, bringing your knees up to rest your arms and chin on shyly. 

“Sí, sí, quite right. It’s only a start, amore. I will prove things are different, te lo prometto (I promise).” 

“I don’t doubt you, my love,” you smiled, reaching out for his shirt collar and pulling him gently to meet your lips in a soft, gentle kiss to seal his promise.  

A promise you knew he would fight both heaven and hell to keep.  

Major thanks to @her-satanic-wiles for beta reading once again! There's no tag list for this one since this is a request from two people that got out of hand... I hope, dear anons, you enjoyed this!

[thatmexisaurusrex]

if we got a second season of tfatws what would you want to be in it 👀

Oh my gosh, such a good question to ask! 😆 A very hard one too Cassie, lemme think on this 🤔

Okay, a few things that would be a must would be:

A "Meanwhile, on the boat..." moment, or perhaps a montage of moments where things are happening throughout the MCU movies that happened post-TFATWS and Sam and Bucky are just 😂 on the boat, hearing about the events after the fact. I keep thinking about the scene in season 7 of Supernatural where they montage Dean commenting on what Castiel does with his new godlike powers while Dean fixes his car, but it doesn't have to be like that (3:16-3:46 here for reference lol).

Sam needs to save Bucky from falling. Sam had someone he couldn't save in the air. Bucky didn't have anyone to save him when he fell. Sam and Bucky both need that catharsis and it's wild that didn't happen in the first season.

Sam flying around as Bucky snipes at things 😂 Again - how did that not happen in the first season?

Sam and Bucky must either be already roommates or looking for an apartment which will be the place they will live in together.

Sarah, AJ, and Cass must be in it as well as other people we've seen like Carlos, Tommy, Isaiah, and Eli.

Another song by Curtis Harding must close the show's next sunset ending (it MUST be a good ending where they look into the sunset again, I'm sorry, I don't make the rules). Perhaps Can't Hide It by Curtis Harding?

Joaquín! There must be more Jay, I refuse to believe there wouldn't be so much more Jay in a season two.

FLASHBACKS. WHERE. WERE. THE. FLASHBACKS. Gimme Sam and Riley flashbacks, flashbacks of Sam with his family, gimme more info on Sam.

Can we???? Get more info on Sarah too???? Like was she married before??? Who are Cass and AJ's dad or dads??? How does she feel about Sam disappearing for a huge chunk of years??? I just want to know more about her.

And GIDEON. GIVE SAM HIS OLDER BROTHER.

Also, GIVE SAM BIRD TELEPATHY, YOU COWARDS, AS WELL AS A FALCON NAMED REDWING.

AYO AND ANEKA VISIT. THEY HAVE TO VISIT. LET AYO AND ANEKA BE BESTIES WITH SAM AND BUCKY.

Acknowledgment that Sam found Bucky in Europe but kept Bucky's secret and visited Bucky. Also that Sam visited Bucky during his time as a goatherder in Wakanda, possibly with a reference to the costco tub of lube 😂

MORE EPISODES. GIVE US MORE EPISODES. GIVE US TEN EPISODES AT LEAST, YOU COWARDS.

Things I can live without but I think would be a waste if they aren't in a hypothetical season two:

A huge and exciting action sequence during a New Orleans Mardi Gras Parade with Sam being the King of that parade.

There's a team of villainous jugglers in the Marvel comics called the Death-Throws. I really want them as secondary comedic villains who may or may not be kind of good people a la Jessie, James, and Meowth from Team Rocket in Pokemon movies. Just let Sam and Bucky have some comedy villains in the background doing their thing, Marvel.

Visiting Steve on the Moon. I just think Sam and Bucky deserve space shenanigans. I will also take a Facetime, if that's too out of budget, though.

Misty Knight cameo where Sam and Misty either imply or outright talk about being exes. Probably amicable, though, it would be funny if Sam's a bit awkward about it, but Misty's chill with him.

Karli resurrection. She deserved more of a redemption arc than Walker. Bring her back to life, Disney, I dare you.

Bucky and Falcon!Redwing don't get along. More because Bucky is jealous than anything else.

A VISIT TO WAKANDA! Do they go to Birnin Zana? Do they visit the town Bucky was living in as a goatherder? Do they go to Ayo and Aneka's home for dinner? Maybe they possibly only let Sam into the country while Ayo is like "I told you to lie low for a while, White Wolf" to Bucky 😂

Baron Zemo can have a cameo, if only because Anthony Mackie was bummed that Daniel Brühl isn't a part of Cap 4.

Wildest Options I Don't Think Would Happen But I Would Love:

SamBucky wedding. It all takes place the days leading up to their wedding. Or, if I'm being more realistic, a wedding. Like, if, say Sarah and Rhodey were getting married or Carol and Valkyrie or perhaps Ayo and Aneka.

SamBucky kiss? Though, again, highly doubt that and I'm really okay with SamBucky not being canon.

Fourth wall break where Feige himself walks into a room, sits down, and apologizes about how he treated Sam Wilson's character in the MCU and promises to do better. He pulls out an entire slide show and the episode is just him talking about how he will be integrating Sam more thoroughly into the MCU. I'm talking how specifically Sam will cameo, where he will cameo, pitches for other projects Sam will be heavily tied to, the works.

[ominous-feychild]

Happy Worldbuilding Wednesday! What would you say is the defining trait of any of your settings?

Omg, this is a very difficult question to answer because I do a LOT of worldbuilding, haha. But let's see...

I think, technically, the most defining traits of my settings is how different they are? I hop around the (in-universe) world in each individual story, and each in-universe country is inspired by real world cultures. But mostly drawing inspiration from ancient cultures because I explicitly prefer ancient history to modern. Plus, it's more fun to research. Which--ha--I'm definitely in the minority for feeling this way, I know!

I actually mentioned this recently toward the very end of another post I made recently, but I'll restate it for convenience's sake, haha... and then go into more detail.

Glavnran (tAR) is Slavic (drawing primarily from early Slavic history, while I do my absolute best to figure out what the folklore was like before Christianity got its grubby hands on it. A polytheistic spinoff of Christianity exists in my story, appropriating a lot of its themes and imageries. That religion exists nowhere near Glavnran, so it has no place there. Also I think I've made it clear I dislike Christianity.)

Jhandar (tAR) is Indian (off the top of my head, I can't recall if I was taking from any specific era, but I'm drawing on inspiration from Hinduism and there's a prominent caste system. Jhandar is also an empire, drawing inspiration from Rome and especially the rule of the Qin Dynasty of China. While not exactly thematically relevant, it's fun and helps explain some things I wanted happening in Glavnran/the surrounding countries. Oh, yeah, Glavnran is under the thumb of the Jhandan Empire. It's why there's so much tension between the Glavni and Jhandan peoples.) (Also, the blue-and-red coloration here isn't a "good-and-evil" thing. To anyone who's read anything about my writing, it should be VERY clear that Glavnran isn't a great place and is, in fact, full of crime and -phobias of all sorts. It's based on their temperatures/climate, haha. I would've put Glavnran as orange but that fits other countries better.)

Lynsmouth (SaS) is Western European (the Western World gets a lot of focus in media, so Lynsmouth and the country it takes place in that I've definitely named get to be the Token "West" in my writing. It gets inspiration from all over Western Europe, but I've primarily focused on France and the Netherlands for it. It's also got Italian-style mafias, haha. They have the Christian-adjacent religion where they glorify a single god. It is, however, subtly dying out, because of Lore and immigration of a sort. The "new arrivals" so to speak have their own religions.)

Kihroin (RFtA) is Northern African (as in Islamic. I'm most likely leaning most strongly into Morrocan inspiration for anything "modern", but obviously most strongly leaning toward ancient history. Islam itself obviously won't appear in my writing, as I'm working within a fantasy world with provably real pantheons of gods. I haven't decided how I'll adapt their hyper-religiousness into Kihroin, especially because I'm personally uncomfortable with religion (though I bet you couldn't tell) and yet want to adapt something that major to their modern culture(s) into my writing. Yet another reason RFtA isn't a current project.)

Cirrane (RFtA) is Latin American (given that actual Native American history is incredibly difficult to get our hands on--cough cough THANKS COLONIZERS, THANKS CHRISTIANITY cough cough--it has a lot more modern inspiration(s) than ancient. Howeverrrr... that's not necessarily a "bad" thing considering that Cirrane is a very bad place and I know plenty of people will @ me accusing me of racism for it anyway. Nah, man, it's pretty much everywhere in my writing! It's almost like it makes for a better story! Also my Mexican gf approves of what I'm doing with it, so take THAT, SJWs.) (Oops, I ranted there for a second. Long story short, it takes a lot of inspiration from all over Latin America! That applies to the other two "Latino" countries too, though, haha. Besides that, it's also stolen quite a bit of imagery from Rome. Ah, that must be where the Evil's from. /hj)

Tzakah (RFtA/tCC) is also Latin American (one of my favorite places in all of my worldbuilding!!! Is also extremely tropical. It's a lot more "original" of a culture due to worldbuilding stuff, but it still takes a lot of Latin American Inspiration.)

Minogua (RFtA/tCC/???) is the last Latin American country (explicitly has a previous history of colonization that they've (relatively) recently shaken off through rebellion and ousting the authorities from other countries. Tackles a lot of those issues a lot more directly and has them more modern than the other two. Though it makes sense considering Tzakah was previously part of Cirrane. Regardless! There's lots to possibly tap into, but Minogua so far only has characters originating from there. Well, and minor plots relevant to those characters but y'know. I definitely want to eventually make a story placed there eventually to more directly explore its themes!)

Honorable mentions/speedrun:

Isagnea (tAR, though idk how much it'll show up, and ???) is Italian (not very worked on, but it's the home country of some side characters... hence why it's not really worked on. It'll definitely see more attention if and when it becomes relevant. Most likely, it won't be until if/when I work on another story focused on those characters. Or, y'know, it appears in another story.)

Ilyich (tAR, tho it likely won't show up more than once) is Slavic (country Glavnran was once a part of, before they split off (not peacefully) over religious differences. Methinks a Christian-esque religion might actually be rather hated by the Glavni people...)

Shilyma (tAR, mentioned but not visited) is a Slavic/Asian mix! (so, yknow, likely would take inspo from Mongolia? Not too developed, but is like Tzakah in that its origins are unique.)

Anispe (tAR, end of series, and ???) is Greek (spoilers! 😁 But Jhandar is actively at war with it, trying to get them under its thumb as well! I have Plots to eventually make a story centered on Anispe before it was Anispe, too!)

Shaoraigh (SaS) is Celtic (an oldie but goodie! I did a good bit of worldbuilding here in the past even though it's never appeared in my writing. One of its gods are VERY important in the worldbuilding, however.)

Drønhals (SaS) is Celtic/Norse (Freya's home country, was once part of Shaoraigh (in-universe) but they separated over religious differences!)

Tulidin (tCC) is Chinese (I'm probably changing its name eventually, though. Also has minor worldbuilding and a character originating from there.)

Shoutout to misc unnamed countries that exist, but I've never gotten around to naming them for one reason or another! Like, for example, the Jhandan-Glavni colonies Rieka and Adilzhan are from and the Hawaiian-and-Japanese-inspired country hidden away from the rest of the world. (Wish I could make it Pure Hawaiian, but... you try doing research on Hawaii. Join me in my hatred for Christianity.)

Can you tell I've been writing/working on this world for ten years?

This post has gotten WAY longer than I was expecting (though really I should've figured, smh) so I'll make this last bit quick:

The technology contained within each country/story is very different, both due to wealth gaps and time period jumps! There's... a lot of worldbuilding. The Arcane Rifts takes place approximately 200 years before Sun and Shadow and Rising From the Ashes (which are connected to each other), so that on top of the exploitation from Jhandar means they're not going to have the greatest tech for example. Sorry this was so long! Hope you enjoyed reading!!!

Also, apparently I have more of Western Europe in my worldbuilding than I thought. Now I'm disappointed in myself.

Also-also, I misread this Ask. I thought it was asking for the defining traits in everything... whoops. I made this WAY harder on myself than I needed to.

Tagging those interested!: @the-golden-comet @the-letterbox-archives @honeybewrites @darkandstormydolls @mysticstarlightduck

@urnumber1star @aalinaaaaaa

[mariana-oconnor]

The Missing Three Quarter pt 2

Back to the rugby players.

It argues the degree in which I had lost touch with my profession that the name of Leslie Armstrong was unknown to me.

I told you Watson had forgotten all his medical knowledge. In the last story he didn't even prescribe brandy. smh

Yet even without knowing his brilliant record one could not fail to be impressed by a mere glance at the man, the square, massive face, the brooding eyes under the thatched brows, and the granite moulding of the inflexible jaw. A man of deep character, a man with an alert mind, grim, ascetic, self-contained, formidable—so I read Dr. Leslie Armstrong.

Obligatory reblog of Watson's horny descriptions. He's having a moment.

“I have heard your name, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and I am aware of your profession, one of which I by no means approve.”

Sorry, Watson. Looks can be deceiving. Obviously we must immediately hate him for this point of view. It is demanded.

"At the present moment, for example, I should be writing a treatise instead of conversing with you.”

Oh fuck you and your self-important nonsense. A guy is missing. You're either a pompous arsehole or you're involved. Yeah, yeah. You're renowned throughout Europe.

“He is an intimate friend of mine.” “You are aware that he has disappeared?” “Ah, indeed!” There was no change of expression in the rugged features of the doctor.

Yeah, he knows something. Look, this guy is terrible. He's just the worst. I hate him. Godfrey has some terrible friends and a terrible relative. I hope he's run off somewhere with someone who appreciates him and cares about his interests and his well-being.

A pompous butler ushered us severely to the door, and we found ourselves in the street. Holmes burst out laughing.

I agree, he is ridiculous. Also how pompous must the butler be to be described as pompous after meeting that man?

“It's been out three hours,” said Holmes; “started at half-past six, and here it is back again. That gives a radius of ten or twelve miles, and he does it once, or sometimes twice, a day.” “No unusual thing for a doctor in practice.”

Watson, let's face it, you don't know what's usual for a doctor in practice. Your carriage went out in the middle of the night and didn't return for a week. You are an anomaly and should not be counted.

"I do not know whether it came from his own innate depravity or from the promptings of his master, but he was rude enough to set a dog at me. Neither dog nor man liked the look of my stick, however, and the matter fell through. Relations were strained after that..."

Were they? How unexpected. I've made all my best friends after they've threatened to set a dog on me and I've threatened to beat them with a stick. If you can't be friends after that, how do you even make friends at all?

"...but, now that I find he keeps so keen a look-out upon anyone who may follow him on these excursions, the affair appears more important, and I shall not be satisfied until I have made the matter clear.”

Doctor Armstrong is really bad at dealing with this all. I know Holmes has made admiring comments a few times, but really the man should have shown some concern over his 'intimate friend' going missing, and he shouldn't have piqued Holmes' interest about his carriage ride. He should have just gone someone entirely mundane that it would be completely reasonable for him to go multiple times a day, and left it at that.

"You are not familiar with Cambridgeshire scenery, are you? It does not lend itself to concealment. All this country that I passed over to-night is as flat and clean as the palm of your hand..."

Can vouch for this. Have driven through Cambridgeshire on numerous occasions. Very flat.

'Meanwhile, I can inform you that no spying upon me can in any way help Mr. Godfrey Staunton, and I am convinced that the best service you can do to that gentleman is to return at once to London and to report to your employer that you are unable to trace him.'

I assume from this that Godfrey doesn't want his uncle to find him. My best bet at this moment is that he's got a girlfriend his uncle wouldn't approve of, who is ill perhaps? idk. I'm clutching at straws right now.

“No, no, my dear fellow, there is no cause for alarm. It is not upon this occasion the instrument of evil, but it will rather prove to be the key which will unlock our mystery. On this syringe I base all my hopes."

Holmes, that statement really is not as reassuring as you think it is.

When we descended I followed Holmes into the stable yard, where he opened the door of a loose-box and led out a squat, lop-eared, white-and-tan dog, something between a beagle and a foxhound.

PUPPY!

And on the side of good? Watson's not going to have to shoot this one?

Who's the best boy in this story? Such a good boy, Pompey! Such a good boy.

I caught a glimpse of Dr. Armstrong within, his shoulders bowed, his head sunk on his hands, the very image of distress.

Ah, so he does have emotions other than arrogance. How unexpected.

A woman, young and beautiful, was lying dead upon the bed. Her calm, pale face, with dim, wide-opened blue eyes, looked upward from amid a great tangle of golden hair.

So I may not have been that far off the mark with a relationship that his uncle would not approve of with a sick woman.

“You are a good fellow,” said he. “I had misjudged you. I thank Heaven that my compunction at leaving poor Staunton all alone in this plight caused me to turn my carriage back, and so to make your acquaintance."

Nope, sorry. Still don't like you. I get you were a dick to try and protect your friend, good for you. Cool motive, still an arsehole. You can still be nice to people you're lying to. You don't have to be a dick. It might even help you throw them off the scent.

...or is it worse to be nice in order to manipulate people instead of just letting them know you're being an arsehole?

I guess he's not actually a terrible friend. He's just bad at acting. He might as well have put a sign on his forehead saying 'I am suspicious'.

"A year ago Godfrey Staunton lodged in London for a time, and became passionately attached to his landlady's daughter, whom he married. She was as good as she was beautiful, and as intelligent as she was good."

I'd like to register how impressed I am that 'intelligent' makes the list of her virtues at all, even if it is third. That is probably just my cynicism talking, though.

"But at last there came a terrible blow in the shape of dangerous illness to his wife. It was consumption of the most virulent kind."

Of course it was consumption. If a beautiful, kind young woman in this era died of a terrible illness it was always consumption.

Or brain fever, I guess.

"The result was that he came straight away in a state bordering on frenzy, and has remained in the same state, kneeling at the end of her bed, until this morning death put an end to her sufferings. That is all, Mr. Holmes, and I am sure that I can rely upon your discretion and that of your friend.”

Well this is just a very tragic story. And it might not even have been a story if Holmes had just told Dr Armstrong that he wasn't working for Godfrey's uncle in the first place. Although Dr Armstrong seemed determined to dislike him from the start.

Very sad. And Godfrey can't even tell his friends on the rugby team why he wasn't there without risking his uncle finding out.

But we got to meet Pompey, so that was a good thing. I hope he got lots of treats after working so hard.

[female-malice]

Q: Growth has always been part of the European story, even Europe as a peace project was tied to economic growth. Can't we avoid throwing the baby out with the bathwater and go for green growth?

A: It sounds so good. Who's not for green growth? People have it in their job title or the name of their department, but it's unproven. Some European countries have decoupled rises in GDP from their carbon emissions, even measured on a consumption basis. And this decoupling is now celebrated as green growth as if the new paradigm is here and we are in a new world. But it's nothing close to what's required. The rate these countries are reducing carbon emissions at is one to two percent a year. The climate science about what's required to keep global heating below 1.5 degrees tells us we need reductions on the scale of eight to ten percent year on year.

When I explain it to people, I say that if we want to catch the last train home, we're gonna have to run. Not just run, sprint for our lives. If you break into a slow jog, we're going to miss that train. And that train is the stability of the climate, which will undermine all of our lives irrevocably into the future. There will be no growth in a hot-house future.

Carbon emissions are only half of the story when it comes to green growth. The other half is the material footprint: nitrogen use, land use, water use, minerals and rare earths. When you look at data on materials and GDP, there's nothing like the same scale of decoupling going on. So let's be very sober about the scale of the challenge and not get caught up in the dream of green growth. Some people say that it's too early to rule out green growth. I'd say the opposite. It's too late to pin our hopes upon it. We know that when push comes to shove, between green and growth, we know what will get shoved, it will be the stability of the climate and the web of life.

Every nation in the world is on this unprecedented journey. European countries have made some of the most progress in the world when it comes to meeting people's needs, even though there is still much poverty amid plenty. But they have a huge ecological overshoot and need to completely reorient their economies. There are no advanced nations. Because no country is currently meeting the needs of all of its people within the means of the living planet. Costa Rica is closer than any other. I profoundly believe that the European Union has the history and the ambition to show what it looks like to decarbonise and dematerialise the intensity of the economy.

[back-and-totheleft]

Ten Minutes with Oliver Stone

Saturday March 16. It is 1 p.m. In a little over an hour, we have a meeting with Oliver Stone. The American director kindly agreed to answer our questions. The instructions are clear: three questions maximum. At 1:40 p.m., five of us are shown to a small room filled with chairs right next to room 5 of Flagey. In an atmosphere intended to be as informal as possible, Mr. Stone spoke to us about his latest documentary, Nuclear Now, his relationship with documentaries, journalism and above all, the Original Soundtrack!

The BO: Hello Mr. Stone, thank you for agreeing to answer our questions

Oliver Stone: Hello.

In short, we are a media that deals with music and Cinema. Sometimes we try to make connections between the two. We have prepared 3 questions for you. Our first question is related to your coming to this festival, why is it important for you to be there at a festival like Millenium?

Why is it important that I'm here? Because I want to sell the idea of ​​nuclear energy in Europe, particularly in France, Belgium and Holland. France is committed, and Holland and Belgium are favorable, but I would like to see a little more and for it to go faster. You are important countries. Small, perhaps, but you have a mind. You have a big impact on the world. It is important for the world to have nuclear energy. We don't have enough. This is really a problem. People don't think about nuclear power, they have, in a way, forgotten its existence. It's interesting, the Americans say: "Yes, nuclear power, we tried that." Saying that somehow implies that we missed. But we didn't fail, it worked. This is what I'm trying to correct: the impression that nuclear power is a failure. This is very important work, scientific work. But scientists can't do that job, so I do it, as a filmmaker, as a writer. You know, people probably don't care, a lot of people actually don't care but so what? It's important! This is what having a conscience is. If you have a conscience, sometimes you do the right things because you have to do them, right? Like going to your grandmother's funeral, for example. [Laughs] Just kidding, I loved my grandmother very much.

It's interesting that you talk to us about that, we notice that in many of your films there is this documentary aspect. What do you think is the role of documentaries? Why do them? Why are they important to you?

That's a question that would require a very long and complicated answer. I'll give you a short answer. When I make a film, I have to create everything. I have to hire actors, I have to create the set, I have to hire extras, I have to write the dialogue to some degree, light the room, shoot it, etc. Look at us now, we're talking. This is a documentary! Basically, it's much simpler. I don't have to do any of the things I mentioned. I just need to find a real person and talk to them. A documentary gets straight to the point. It goes faster. For a film, it's a minimum of a year, or even two years of time. People don't understand that.

Film critics know nothing about current events. Very few of them are aware of what is happening in the world because they never leave their cinemas! Therefore, they're stupid [laughs] when it comes to what is happening in the world. If you're doing something that requires being a little politically sensitive, they often don't understand it. They can't understand it, because they don't read anything. For example, there was a film - I won't mention the name - which came out a few years ago, which had great reviews, an Oscar nomination, everything! And it was a fraud! Everything was wrong. It was a lie from start to finish, about this certain woman. [I suspect he's referring to The Post here, Spielberg's movie about Katherine Graham].

This is something that's also true for documentaries, you know. People see 20 Days in Mariupol and say, "That must be reality." That's not how it works. That's the problem. I've never had a documentary that wasn't controversial, because I go out there and try to tell the fucking truth. It goes against the established order in my country, what we call the mass media or corporate media. Call it corporate media because corporations are the most influential. Be careful with them. You're journalists and you'll all join this type of media because that's where the money is, which I can understand. Being a freelance journalist is much harder, and even harder when you're young. So become corporate journalists for a few years. They'll try to brainwash you but don't get fooled. That's the best advice I can give you.

Finally, I've already told you a little about the concept of our site and how we deal with cinema and music. So we wanted to know what, for you, is the role of music in a film?

You asked me three good questions and they're all extremely important. They deserve very detailed answers. I could talk about this one for hours. It's a fascinating subject.

What is the role of music in films? Obviously, some directors don't want music and therefore use it minimally. Film criticism at the moment likes minimalism. People like Ken Russell come to mind. He exploded his films with music, revealing himself. Baz Luhrman too, and there are many others who like to use a lot of music. I honestly have to admit that sometimes I'm like that too.

Music is a vital part of the lives of men and women. It's really an important part of our life. I see music as another camera, a sort of secondary entry point. There's music all the time. Now that we're talking, I hear some. Although we're having a very prosaic conversation. It doesn't really seem like there is any music. Perhaps, in the third question, the idea arises: how would Beethoven have answered this question? Ta da da da da dum [laughs] Do you know what I mean? It makes a huge difference!

I can't precisely tell you how music affects a scene. Without music, of course a scene is drier, but maybe some people prefer it that way. They want it to be honest, too honest. I think a film is partly manipulation. We're trying to influence the audience to think a certain way. That's what a film is all about, influencing the audience to believe it. To achieve that, I see no problem in cheating as much as you want. I really don't see a problem there. Either way, we still cheat.

I've had the chance to work with five or six composers in my career, some of them very good. I think I was very lucky to come across them. The last one I worked with, Vangelis, was excellent. He did the music for Alexander for me and also for my latest film Nuclear Now. This is his last work, I believe. He's deceased now. It’s a very subtle soundtrack. Maybe if you see the movie, you can hear it!

While Matteo explains to Stone where the Manneken Pis is, Sam tries to speak English and Ethan greets the director's wife. So an interview ends that we won't soon forget.

-"Ten Minutes with Oliver Stone," La Bande Originale, March 25 2024 (translated from French)

[wonderandwanderinginmexicocity]

Fear and (Self-)Loathing in Roma/Condesa

"I have never felt salvation in nature. I love cities above all."

-Michelangelo

"Poor Mexico, so far from God and so close to the United States."

-Porfirio Diaz (supposedly)

One Sunday morning I stumbled out of an unsuccessful coffee date and found myself in a new corner of Mexico City: Plaza Rio de Janiero. In the center of the park is a replica of Michelangelo's David, porcleain butt portrayed prominently for all to see. I think about what the great Renaissance artist once said, about even how five hundred years ago there were still individuals drawn to cities, and I wonder what Michelangelo would think of this one, for all its beauty, filth, and confusion. I don't know if I have ever felt salvation in cities, as Michelangelo supposedly did. He and I do agree about wanting to be where things are happening. A quiet life in the country is not without its charms, but only in a bustling city can you feel the slow hum of all the potential possibilities.

I sit down on a bench and look around, taking in the sounds and sunshine of the morning. I don't know why there is a replica of David in a park named after a city in Brazil, but no one claimed Mexico CIty ever tried to make much sense. Plaza Rio de Janiero is one of these lovely Spanish style parks that often dot the more affluent parts of the city. Nothing says bougie like a vintage market, and it being Sunday in the Roma neighborhood, naturally one of these was set up. People greet each other in English. Foreigners in shorts and backpacks walk around, taking pictures of everything. I begin to feel vaguely queasy.

During the pandemic, when people were finally free from the chains of office life but also simultaneously stuck at home, a phenomenon began (or at least kicked into overdrive) in the Mexico City neighborhoods of Roma and La Condesa. "Digital nomads", as they are often referred to, realized they could live in a neighborhood that reminded them of Europe at a much lower price than say, New York City, San Francisco, or LA. Often in the tech field, these new foreign workers streamed across the border, many of whom did not have the legal right to live or work long term in Mexico, and have inevitably pushed local residents out. "These foreigners move here, the price of rent goes sky high, and they don't pay any taxes to the Mexican government. They leave after a year or two, it's just a long vacation for them, and then people who are actually from this city can't afford to live in these neighborhoods anymore!" One Mexican friend that used to live in Roma told me. She also pointed out to me that many buildings in Roma and Condesa were destroyed in an earthquake in 2017, and rebuilt as Airbnbs.

An interesting irony is that people like to think that travel changes them, helping them learn and grow. A lot of these digital nomads may travel to places like Tulum and learn a few words in Spanish (I see signs for Spanish lessons in English all the time around here), but many of them inevitably are hanging out with other foreigners and speaking English, French, or German. Sooner or later, they go back form whence they came. What permanently changes from tourism is not the travelers, but the places that get visited. "I knew it was time for me to find a new neighborhood to live in when the cashier at 711 addressed me in English," a Venezuelan who has lived in Mexico City for over ten years told me.

There is nothing wrong with wanting to live in a different country or have a fresh start. But these individuals are coming into Mexico without papers, usually not learning the language, bringing in US dollars that cause inflation and not paying taxes into the system they're living under. It strikes me a bit like elephants stomping around on the grass, not concerned with what happens to the ants under their feet. Personally I don't live in either Roma or Condesa, I have residency, and I work for a Mexican organization. I pay plenty of taxes. Maybe a few years ago I could have afforded to live in these neighborhoods, but certainly not now. Part of me, frankly, is jealous: I'd love to live on a beautiful street with picturesque parks and Greek statues. I can understand the impluse. The queasiness is a reflection, in part, of my own smaller complicity.

But it was a beautiful lazy Sunday, and maybe that was enough thinking about the bigger picture. It's so nice out, I decided to walk the good forty minutes home.

[yolppy]

When listening to music

When listening to music, have you ever wondered – who is the inventor? 'Music playing equipment' came up for the first time.

singing time Have you ever wondered – the older generation who didn't know the concept of music before? What kind of song does he sing? Can the singing sound come from the roar? or a flirtatious sound And why didn't the cat, dog, and chicken crow sing out a song? And also the house magpie that sounds like singing, is it 'singing' in the same sense as humans?

There are many music problems that have no answers. A lot of puzzles pop up easily since we were young. But believe it or not, it's the most difficult problem to answer!

For human beings, once understood that The oldest musical instrument ever studied and discovered. It is a 43,000-year-old bone flute, which was discovered in the surroundings of what is now Slovenia. however, the land was inhabited by the Neanderthals, known as the Divje Babe Flute, but some refer to it as the 'Neanderthal Flute'

The name Divje Babe is the name of an archaeological site in Slovenia. It is a long cave, 45 meters long and 15 meters wide, which is a good place to stay. Neanderthals are believed to have been in the caves here as early as 55,000 years ago, and many ancient remains have been discovered. There were up to 20 hearths and more than 600 other objects.

Among the objects studied and discovered in this group. There were 10 hollow bones lined with holes. It looks like a flute. But do not think that it is like a flute now. since there weren't many holes in that hole Some pieces only have two holes. ดูหนังออนไลน์ which in the beginning of the study was discovered It was before World War I, and archaeologists were still guessing what it was like.

Until 1995, an archaeologist named Ivan Turk, working with the Slovenian Academy of Sciences and Arts, therefore gave the name to the bone with this hole The 'Neanderthal flute' he gave it this name. It doesn't mean that he knows it's a musical instrument. however, because he saw that its appearance resembled that of a flute only. therefore using this name without knowing clearly whether it is a flute or not But it led to a heated argument that Is this really the world's first music device? Because some people feel that Perhaps this was a bone pierced by the fangs of a large carnivore. because there are only two holes And it probably won't be used for 'making sound'.

However, scientists are of the same opinion. The first musical instrument made by humans. It's probably a flute or a flute. Well, it's not just that 43,000-year-old flute, but it's probably a 'newer' flute, a flute found in Europe, about 35,000 years old, discovered by a group of scientists and archaeologists at the University of Tübingen. (Tübingen) in Germany, in a cave in the south-west of the country. which is probably made from mammoth ivory And then there were four holes together. Not just two holes like a Neanderthal flute.

determining that What was the world's first musical instrument was very difficult. Researcher for 'born music', Francesco d'Errico from the University of Bordeaux in France, said working on the topic required commitment and Massive Dedication Because we can't guarantee that what we find is a music device or not. Including a lot of real music playing equipment is made from easily degradable equipment such as wood, like some tribes that still have an ancient way of life There was a search for wood that was eaten by termites until it was hollow inside. then use it to make a dryer or paint machine Even so, as you know, wood is something that decays easily. Therefore, after tens of thousands of years Therefore, there is no evidence left to prove it.

Another researcher from the University of Oxford, Iain Morley, author of the book The Prehistory of Music, also stressed that antique instrumentation is a rarity. Therefore, many people turn to look at the 'development' of the human body instead.

It is believed that human beings have evolved to the point where they can 'produce' their own voices with multiple sounds. Neanderthals have been humans (unlike dogs and cats, which can only make a few sounds) since 530,000 years ago. It would be effective to 'sing' it.

Ask the question, how do you know that humans over five hundred thousand years ago had many voices? The answer is because human fossils were found at that time. which has a small horseshoe-shaped bone in the neck called the hyoid (Hyoid), in which this bone has a shape that has changed from the previous period due to the development of the larynx moving downward and in a position that allows us to speak and sing out And then this hyoid bone is found in Neanderthals. Including other human species such as Heidelberg Man. It is thought that the larynx may also drop earlier.

But even if it is suspected that humans sometimes roared into a melody hundreds of thousands of years ago. But we never know what those sounds are. Charles Darwin, the world's foremost scientist Be the first to comment on this topic. and trying to explain why humans are 'Musical Being', he wrote in the book on the concept of development saying that natural selection Any part related to

[ladyhindsight]

I'm the anon who talked about Jonathan Shadowhunter's name a few weeks ago

To the other anon: yes I did read the Codex and... that's exactly why I have issues with the names lol I know that Shadowhunter wasn't his real name, but one he chose! That was my issue! It makes no sense, like it makes no sense that the Angel spoke English... in a country that's in the middle of Europe, in an age when English was not widely spoken! (I think it was Middle Ages?)

This was my issue. It makes no sense for the Angel and Jonathan to speak English, for Shadowhunter to be his chosen name (because, again, English!)... and for Jonathan to be named Jonathan, to be honest. I'm not sure it was a commonly used name in Europe back then, if at all (John was, but John and Jonathan are not the same).

Clare took many things from Jewish tradition (like the name Jonathan + the story of Jonathan and King David, whom she turned into the first Nephilim and first Silent Brother 🙈🙈🙈 the whole thing about angels teaching humans to work metal and make weapons) and put them in a very anachronistic, Americanized context, in which they make little sense.

All in all, Nephilim culture makes no sense.

Many people say that since she's Jewish she should get a free pass for misrepresenting, Americanizing and disrespecting Judaism... But as an American Jew myself I say, NO.

Clare said she's not religious and it shows in the way she uses Judaism to serve her terrible books. She doesn't hesitate to disrespect, disregard and bend traditions and stories to serve her.

For example, there's a big, terrible and frankly dangerous stereotype surrounding Jewish people and blood (historically we were accused of using blood to make rituals, kill people, use dark magic), in some places people still believe it and threaten Jews because of it! And what does Clare do? Turn Simon Lewis, her only Jewish character, into a vampire who actually attacks and kills an innocent girl. In TMI Simon says he's kosher, so it's implied that he's religious to some extent... yet there's no commentary on him being turned into a vampire besides "wrong religion" jokes when people threaten him with a crucifix, and that awful scene where he and Clary go through pamphlets about "coming out" to your bigoted parents (and ofc his mom throws him out 🙄 because all religious people are bigots except the Nephilim, right? Yes, I know Clare said they don't worship a God, but they do worship the Angel aka a non human, allmighty being). Besides him being unable to walk in the sunlight (which ofc gets fixed later) and needing a new diet, Simon takes to vampirism surprisingly well...

Another big NO in Judaism is tattoos. Many Jewish people believe that if you get tattoos aka markings on your skin, you can't be buried in a Jewish cemetery. But again, Simon is more than ready to drop his culture and get the markings... just like he's ready to drop his whole family, because the Shadowhunters are a cult 🙄

(Granted not all Jewish families are against tattoos, but getting inked is generally frowned upon, even in non-religious families like mine, because we still respect traditions and our elders, and we associate tats with the Nazis forcing us to get marks on our arms... which is exactly what the Nephilim do with Simon. I can't believe Clare didn't see that and think it was a problematic narrative)

Clare just takes Judaism and any culture she feels like and bends them to fit her awful books. It's maddening.

I mean, Jay Kristoff and Emily Duncan were heavily criticized for their antisemitism, is it too much to ask that everyone be held to the same standards?

I went to read more about name Jonathan, and it probably would make sense if the name was in its Ancient Hebrew form, Yōnāṯān (יוֹנָתָן). Then, as someone who hasn’t touched the Codex even with a ten-foot pole, I discovered that Jonathan had a sister Abigail, whose name is also in English. In Ancient Hebrew form the name would be Avigayil (אֲבִיגַיִל). I think it would make more sense if their names were just Anglicized versions of the Hebrew ones (by the later, English-speaking generations), but Clare hasn’t written anything even remotely this being the case. Similarly the name Shadowhunter just exists in English form in the series, it doesn’t originate from any other language.

Jonathan’s country of origin is never told, but of course from when the map was what it was during the Crusades. Not that it really matters because we can pretty much deduce they were Europeans since the First Crusade was initiated by the Latin Church and was partaken by the contemporary European kingdoms and empires. There’s also the fact that the roots of the birth of the Nephilim are in religious wars, and trying to remove Jonathan Shadowhunter and the origin of the Nephilim from that is evasive. Okay, let’s leave this thing here and go do this completely other stuff, totally didn’t just try to invade another land and get distracted.

It’s interesting to note some liberties authors and filmmakers take when it comes to representing a part of some culture, religion, or myths. What makes inspiration differ from misrepresentation and all that. The wiki states that: “Jonathan then transformed his sister, Abigail, and his friend, David, into Shadowhunters. Inspired by the tale of their coincidental biblical namesakes, Jonathan and David took that story and became the first parabatai,performing a ritual where they took each other's blood, spoke the oath, and inscribed the runes upon each other.”

In Books of Samuel, Jonathan and David, bonded by a strong friendship, form a covenant by taking a mutual oath. “Now it came about when he had finished speaking to Saul, that the soul of Jonathan was knit to the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him as himself.” It’s funny that an author writes their coincidental biblical namesakes when there is absolutely nothing coincidental about it. It isn’t just that Clare was inspired by the writings in the Old Testament, she outright writes that her characters took that story, being coincidentally named the same, and created the parabatai bond based on it. They acted on religious texts. And of course, Jonathan’s sister just happened to be named after the second wife of King David.

Instead of just being inspired by the biblical canon, you take that canon and draw a straight line from it to your characters instead of coming up with something of your own. This reminds me of the poem Annabel Lee, that Clare just took it and wrote it like Poe had written it about her characters and their tragic love story. It felt just wrong, taking someone else’s work and making it about your work.

Abrahamic religions especially are such a big part of the series, the Nephilim lore in the series is basically built on them. Clare not being particularly religious is really reflected on the fact that she seems unaware of the points you made about blood and tattoos regarding Jewish beliefs in her writing. There’s a lot of historical context missing in the books that make Clare’s choices seem questionable.

Simon laments the fact that he no longer can say god’s name after becoming a vampire, but that is the extent his grief over his religion really goes. There is no talk about Simon having doubts because he is demanded to change his faith after ascending either.

The whole faith of Raziel is so nonsensical.

“All the stories are true,” says Jace but in edgy teenage fashion doesn’t, at first, believe angels exist because no one has ever seen one

If all stories are true, there are multiple gods, but this one particular god created angels and thus Raziel

But why is Raziel worshiped god-like (though yeah, yeah, Raziel did create them) and every other faith is excluded when ALL THE STORIES ARE TRUE

Why is their faith so centered on Raziel alone when their universe is obviously filled with other god-like beings and entities? I guess it’d be fine if Raziel was worshiped as a patron but didn’t exclude other faiths and the Nephilim didn’t outright demand you to just drop the religion you practice. Why is it suddenly the Shadowhunters’ business what you can worship and what not? There plenty of polytheistic religions so why can’t the Shadowhunters be polytheistic too? It’s nothing away from worshiping Raziel.

Clare should be definitely held to the same standards. Being Jewish doesn’t really take away the fact that her misrepresentation is still misrepresentation. There’s a lot of things in The Shadowhunter Chronicles that has been just picked and chosen and not thought about too deeply, even though many of the concepts have thousands of years of culture and history behind them.

[lokis-army-77]

If You Please

Chapter six

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count: 3280

I'm bad at writing descriptions, so this is basically a reader insert into The First Avenger and then we'll see how it goes from there.

Warnings: Canon typical violence

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Masterlist

It had been almost five months since I had left for London. Five months without Steve and nearly six without Bucky. I knew Steve had been traveling the country doing musical numbers to help sell war bonds, something I would have to tease him about later. He was here in the camp today and I had plans to go visit him when I was finished with my work. Peggy and I had been gathering intel on the movements of HYDRA, and there were signs that Dr. Zola had been using American POWs as experiments for his own super-soldier serum. We had arrived in Northern Italy about two weeks ago, there was a Hydra base a few hours away that we were keeping an eye on. We had reason to believe that Zola had moved to the base some time ago.

I was sitting at my desk scanning through some files when Peggy burst through the tent and into the makeshift office. I looked up at her questioningly. “You aren’t going to like this,” she said and handed me a small yellow telegram. I opened it and quickly read the contents.

107th infantry captured by HYDRA. Heavy casualties. Azzano, Italy.

I felt time stop as I read and reread those few words. Bucky was in the 107th. I quickly sprung to my feet and headed for the tent opening. Before I could cross the threshold Peggy grabbed my arm. “Let go of me Carter, I have to go save him,” I said, yanking my arm away, with little to no effort.

“Would you stop for a second?” She grabbed my arm again. “You can’t go rushing into this, you need to think carefully. You can’t just waltz into a HYDRA base by yourself, it's madness.”

“Yes, I can. Now let go of me.” I yanked my arm out of her hold and reached over to the coat rack next to the opening of the tent and grabbed my jacket. It had started raining an hour ago and the dirt paths had become small pools of mud but I didn’t care. I ran quickly through the rain toward the stage on the other side of the camp, Peggy right on my tail. The mud made it harder to run as fast as I wanted to, I had almost fallen twice. When I made it to the stage no one was in sight. I jogged around to the back and looked all over until I saw Steve in a corner with his sketchbook in hand.

“Steve,” I called out, quickly making my way to him. He looked up from his sketch and smiled at me.

“Hey Kid, I didn’t know you were here. It's good to see you.” he walked toward me and gave me a hug, which I returned but abruptly pulled away. He gave me a concerned look when I stepped back. “What's the matter? You usually like my hugs.”

“Steve now really isn’t the time for hugs. We just received a telegram, Bucky's regiment has been captured by HYDRA. I’m not sure if he was captured with them but if he was I’m going to get him and I need you with me.” I watched as his eyebrows furrowed. His face contorted with emotions. He grabbed my hand and pulled me out of the stage tent and soon we were running to Colonel Philip's tent.

Steve barreled into the tent and went up to Colonel Philips. “I need to see the casualties list from Azzano.”

The Colonel looked up from his desk and shook his head at Steve. “You don’t get to give me orders boy. Now go on,” he said and started to go back to what he was doing.

“I just need one name, Sir. Sergeant James Barnes of the 107th.”

Colonel Phillips' eyes widened a bit and he looked at Peggy and me. “I’m going to have a conversation with you two that you won't enjoy,” he scolded and shook his pen at us.

I stepped forward to be beside Steve. “Sir, we just want to know if he’s alive,” I pleaded.

“His name is B-A-R-” Steve started to spell off Bucky’s last name.

“I can spell,” He spat sarcastically. He got up from his chair and paced to the table behind him. Holding up a handful of letters he stopped. “I have signed more of these condolence letters today than I care to admit. I'm sorry for both of you but the name does sound familiar.” I took in a small gasp of air and my face fell.

“What about the prisoners? Are you planning to rescue them?” Steve asked with more concern in his voice.

“The plan’s called winning the war.” Philips quipped out.

“But Sir. If you know where they are why” Steve was cut off.

“They’re thirty miles behind the lines. Through some of the most heavily fortified territory in Europe. We’d lose more men than we’d save. I don’t expect you to understand that, because you are a chorus girl.” A thick silence could be felt when Philips stopped talking.

“I understand it just fine Sir,” Steve said in contempt.

“Then I suggest you get going. From what I understand, you have somewhere to be in the next 30 minutes.”Colonel Philips said as he walked off.

“Yes Sir, I do,” Steve replied and stormed out of the tent. I looked past where he had been standing and looked at the map that was off to the side and realized that Steve had seen where the HYDRA base was pinpointed. I ran out after him.

I caught up to him in the backstage tent where he was packing up a bag. I started to grab some of his things and helped. Peggy arrived frantically minutes later. “Are you both planning to walk to Austria?” She asked.

“Yes, If that's what it takes to save him,” I stated.

“You heard the Colonel. Your friend is most likely dead, there’s no point.”

“You don't know that.” Steve countered.

“But you can’t go, The colonel's devising a strategy, if he finds out what,” Peggy starts but Steve cuts her off.

“It will be too late if we wait around for us to win the war, I need to go now.” He grabbed his bag and headed out to one of the jeeps. I stayed behind after spotting a rack with helmets on them. I rushed over and took one with an A painted onto it and then made my way to the jeep as well. I hoisted myself up and into the passenger seat as Steve finished talking with Peggy and she climbed into the back seat. He turned to me and shook his head. “No, get out. It’s too dangerous.”

“I will not. Don't forget we took the same serum, I’m stronger than I look. I can handle it.”

“I said no. I will not be putting you in this type of situation. Even if Bucky is our friend you can't risk your life like this.”

“What and you can? He’s my fiancé and I am coming with you to get him whether you like it or not! Now drive!” I yelled angrily, crossing my arms and turning away from him. I was so angry that I hadn't even noticed what I had let slip.

“Did you just say, fiancé?” I remained silent. I wouldn't talk to him until he calmed down and drove. He sighed and turned the key when he realized that I wouldn't break.

Peggy directed Steve to the makeshift airport a few miles out from the camp. She had made a call to Howard Stark to have a plane ready for us when we arrived. I kept quiet the whole ride, still upset that Steve thought he could keep me from coming. He tried to ask about Bucky and I’s relationship several more times before we reached our destination but I remained silent.

It was dark by the time we arrived at the airport. Before Steve even stopped the jeep I was already jumping out of the front seat, helmet in hand, and heading to the plane that was waiting on the dirt runway. We found Howard sitting in the pilot's seat smiling over his shoulder at us.

“Thanks for your help Stark, I can always count on you,” I said as I took a seat in the copilot's chair. I looked behind me as Peggy shut the plane door and took a seat in front of Steve in the cabin.

“Now what kind of friend would I be if I didn’t fly you into enemy territory in the middle of the night?” He laughed out, patting my left shoulder. I shook my head and grabbed the set of headphones off the dash and slid them on as Howard started the plane down the runway. When we were up in the air. He spoke again, this time to everyone. “We should be able to get you both right at their doorstep.”

Steve looked up from his hands and called out, “Just get as close as you can.” He then went back to his conversation with Peggy.

I looked over at Howard, who was flipping a few switches. “You know, we're all going to be in some deep shit when this is over and done with. I’m so not looking forward to the very long and stern talking to from Coronel Phillips.”

“Oh don’t worry, he’ll get over it. Especially if you bring back the soldiers and destroy the base. And technically I’m not here, so unless you can give him proof that I'm flying, I’m still in my private lab.”

“You always have a plan to get out of trouble don’t you Stark?” I questioned.

“Mostly,” he replied. Some time passed before he called out, “We’ll be over the drop zone in ten.”

I gave an assertive nod and took my headphones off and placed them back on the dash. Then I grabbed the helmet from beside my feet and secured it on my head.

“Also took the liberty of bringing a couple pistols and ammo for you, Peggy said you didn't have time to gather any supplies.”

I gave him a quick “Thank you” and stood from my seat and went to sit beside Peggy. She handed me the second parachute and I quickly put it on. I reached over to where two pistols in a belt holster were laid out on the seat and brought them closer to me. I undid the clasp that held the belt together and brought it around my waist. I looped the strap through the metal frame and pulled it taught. “I’m all ready,” I reported to nobody in particular.

“Okay then, Here’s the transponder, you’ll need to activate it when you’re ready. It will let us know your location,” Peggy said while handing a small almost palm-sized black box over to Steve. He turned it around in his hands for a second before he called out to Howard to ask if it worked.

“It’s been tested more than the both of you, it should,” Howard called back.

Then out of nowhere we were being shot at. We weren’t even five minutes away from the drop site. Howard started dodging bullets, making the plane shake from the harsh movements. Steve suddenly got up and threw the cabin door open. A strong gust of wind went through the plane, knocking me back into my seat.

“Stop, We're taking you all the way in!” yelled Peggy as Steve got ready to jump out.

“As soon as I'm clear, turn around and get the hell out of here!” he yelled back at her. I started to make my way over to the open door when Howard made another sharp jerk, I braced myself with my feet spread and my hands pressed to the top of the plane.

“You can't give me orders,” Peggy called out over the wind.

Steve just shook his head and said “Yes I can, I'm a captain.” Then he jumped out into the gunfire. I stepped closer to the door and took a deep breath.

“Be careful and don’t die.” Peggy gave me a pat on the back and then I jumped.

I closed my eyes and could hear the wind rushing past my ears. I could feel how cold it was on my face. I let out the breath I was holding then pulled the string to deploy my shute. The wind caught in it and I jerked up. This time Instead of free-falling I was floating down rather peacefully, considering that there were guns being fired in my general direction, but that didn’t last long. The shots followed the plane as it flew further away. I spotted Steve as he descended into a small clearing in the dense forest and maneuvered my parachute to follow. I put my legs out in front of me as I got closer and closer to the ground to get ready to catch myself.

When my feet hit the ground, I leaned back so my momentum wouldn’t flip me head over tails. I skidded to a stop and hastily unclipped my parachute from my back and stood up. Steve motioned for me to follow him into the tree line, and I did.

We walked for almost five minutes when we came upon the outside fence of the HYDRA base. It was crawling with guards walking the grounds. I ducked down behind a tree as several large trucks drove up the dirt road beside us.

I looked to Steve and whispered, “What are we gonna do now?” I saw Steve eye the last truck in the line.

“I’ve got a plan. Follow me.” He slowly got up from his crouched position and ran to catch up with the last truck, jumping into the back. I followed closely behind him and jumped into the back a moment later, landing headfirst into Steve's back.

“Ow, you couldn’t have gotten out of the way?” I fussed as I readjusted the helmet on my head.

“How was I supposed to know you’d come barreling in straight into my spine. I'm the one that should be saying ow.” He argued back. I pushed him out of my way and looked around, my eyes soon landed on the two HYDRA guards sitting at the other end of the truck.

“Uh, hi,” I mumbled. Then within a second, they were both up out of their seats reaching for Steve and me. One of them put their hand on my left shoulder and I grabbed it with my right hand and twisted. I kneed him between his legs when he fell to the ground I gave him a good kick to the head, knocking him out. Reaching down, I grabbed him by the collar and threw him out onto the road along with the guard that Steve had taken down.

I heard talking as the truck drove through the gates of the base. I felt us slowing down and pretty soon the truck jerked into reverse. We both waited in silence to see what was going to happen. I heard some footsteps coming closer to us. Steve, also hearing them, moved over to where the tarp-covered the back of the truck and positioned this shield in front of him. A guard lifted the tarp up and Steve swiftly took the guard out by hitting him with the shield. I came up beside him and stuck my head out and looked both ways, making sure no one would see us leaving the truck.

“This way,” I whispered as I jumped from the back of the truck. “I know where they probably keep the prisoners.” We headed out into the large open yard where several vehicles were being kept. Carefully maneuvering past stationary and moving guards we made our way to the back of the main building. “They’ll be keeping them in the lower levels. There should be several staircases leading to the main basement level out here, we just need to find one.” I said over my shoulder to Steve who was directly behind me.

It took no time at all to find one of the staircases and descend into the darkness. I spotted a door at the bottom of the stairs and went to open it but it was locked. I looked over to Steve who moved in front of me to look through the window of the door. He tapped on it twice and when the door was opened by a guard he slammed it onto the man's head. The man fell to the ground unconscious and I nimbly slipped over him and through the door. Reaching to my right thigh I grabbed the pistol out of the holster. They were only to be used as a last resort, but with this building being as big as it was, there was no telling what trouble we would run into.

Steve took the lead onto the large factory floor. We passed hundreds of what I assumed to be nuclear bombs, which were in various stages of development. I couldn't believe my eyes. HYDRA had been able to make multiple high-tech bombs and back in the states, the Manhattan Project was still ongoing. We kept walking until an unmanned workbench came into sight. There was a glowing circular ring on the table, surrounded by what seemed to be high-tech hand grenades. Steve and I both grabbed one, looked at it, and then shoved them in our pockets.

“Steve, I think the entrance to the basement cells is this way,” I whispered, pointing over to a set of stairs a few feet away from us. We sprinted to them and started down. After making it down three flights the stairwell opened up to a large dark room with bared holes in the floor. “This is where they are being kept. There’s one guard in here, so you take him and I’ll go down to the next floor.” Steve nodded. Slowly he crept up behind the guard and I turned to go down to the next floor where the cells were located. I heard the guard fall and the jingle of keys as Steve took the guard out.

“Throw the keys down and I’ll start unlocking the cells,” I called out and jogged down the line of cells to where Steve stood, staring down through the bars. He tossed the keys down to one of the men and they handed them to me after I put my pistol back in its holster. I unlocked a few of the doors before I took the other keys off the chain and handed them out to some of the soldiers so they could help free the others faster. When they were all out of the cells I made my way to where Steve was.

“Is there anyone else? We’re looking for a Sergeant James Barnes.” Steve questioned the men around him.

The one in a red beret spoke up, “There’s an isolation ward somewhere here in the factory, but no one has ever come back from it.”

“Okay men, the tree line is northwest, about 80 yards past the gates, after that follow the creek to the clearing. You need to get out fast. We will meet you there when we get everyone we can find out,” I order out to the group of men.

“Do either of you know what you’re doing?” asked one of the men at the front.

“Sure we do, I’ve knocked Adolf Hitler out over 200 times.” Steve started then turned to run back to the stairs and I followed suit.

Tag list:

@ginger-swag-rapunzel

@underc0vercryptid-reads

[stefankarlfanblog]

Meaningful experience for a pampered actor

Original article written for Fréttablaðið on the 21st of October 2007, An interview with Stefán Karl conducted by Júlía Margrét Alexandersdóttir.

Original article: https://timarit.is/page/3977440#page/n11/mode/2up

Stefán Karl Stefánsson has done what few Icelandic actors have had the opportunity or dared to do - to throw themselves into the deep pool in Hollywood. The leap seems to be paying off and after three years of living there, he has created a name and relationships that actors would pay their rent for. Júlía Margrét Alexandersdóttir talked to the actor about fame that doesn't happen overnight but takes years.

This (Interview) doesn't go smoothly in the beginning. Stefan Karl is busy with conference calls. I'm now number one in the row and he tells me right at the beginning of the conversation that he may have to leave the middle of an interview for another conference call. It's 10 o'clock in the morning in San Diego. He has already been awake for a full five hours, then couple's youngest daughter, him and Steinunn Ólína Þorsteinsdóttir, Júlía, are then awake and ready to go. Stefán Karl then starts his marathon through calls to Europe and then switches off the phone between two and three the other day. Then the children come home from school and kindergarten and do their homework, then drive to ballet class and the daily family bread. He says, however, that he will even try to go golfing there in the afternoon.

A dangerous dream environment

"It's going very well now, but it didn't go smoothly in the beginning. If anyone finds bureaucracy and the system heavy in Iceland, it is about ten times more complicated out here. We were still lucky not to be late on the trip out. Today, it is almost completely hopeless to enter the country and get a work permit. Although the bureaucracy and the system out there were a maze, the environment was very comfortable. "We were most shocked to see how cheap food could be. Dream environment for the family? Absolutely.

On the other hand, this area is far from safe and you can't look away from your children for a second. We accompany them to the school and at the entrance, there is a security guard. The freedom we live in Iceland is a criminal act here abroad, "says Stefán and adds that often that freedom should be treated like a criminal act in Iceland as well. "There are far too many children in Iceland who are alone and walk on their own. I know that through my organization, Rainbow Children, and it is a crime in itself. "

Do you want a dark-haired man with an Icelandic accent?

It is mainly the oldest daughter who remembers the freedom in Iceland and complains about it. But now the family is said to have moved to San Diego, from Los Angeles, which is a much more family-friendly environment and Stefán Karl likens San Diego to his old village, Hafnarfjörður - if we assume that Los Angeles was Reykjavík.

The world knows that it was Lazytown that drove them out in the beginning, to follow the shows abroad, but did anything more happen? "We were starting to thirst for something new and different, and following the premiere of the Lazytown episodes in the United States, I got an opportunity that no actor has had before. So we decided to try our luck. However, it is quite clear that it takes a minimum of 3-5 years to get established on the map here. Those years you need to get to know people, form relationships and get into real trials. It doesn't work in the way that you can just come out here for a month, meet agents and then they will call you the next time you need a tall, dark-haired and blue-eyed man with an Icelandic accent in the role. "

Didn't look for an agent

Stefán Karl says that Steinunn Ólína and I really enjoyed going out. The couple has been in a certain privileged group in the acting profession and it is never healthy or good in the long run for the actor to be in an environment where it is possible to reject and accept the tasks offered to you.

"Coming from an environment where we were certainly at home, where we were both well established, and in an environment where people really care about who you are, is a healthy and meaningful life experience. You just have to stand and sit like everyone else and prove yourself. Which was very shocking for a pampered young actor like me. Here you have heard things that you have never heard before about yourself. "

"You just have to stand and sit like everyone else and prove yourself."

Three years later, Stefán says the couple understand much better how it all works. Therefore, it is only now that it is possible to start talking about some expectations for things, when you understand where you can be on the map. The latest phase is incredibly large. Collaboration with one of the great directors on Broadway; Jack O'Bryan. "Our acquaintance began with an agent I met on Broadway, an older woman who has done very good things for her actors, including Ben Stiller's agents, Matt Damon and, of course, Britney Spears, although that partnership soon fell through.

Our collaboration began about a year ago, but it is said that when I first came out I met this same agent, who then immediately wanted me to collaborate, but of course, they were so wet behind the ears and green that I refused. " The same agent put Stefán in touch with Jack O'Bryan, who is in check for good things, and Stefán Karl has now signed a contract with the agent for the future. "After all, the arrogance in a man has dropped during the three years you have been hardening here."

American classic in the hands of an Icelander

The agent sent Stefán to auditions and the wheels began to turn and the company The Running Subway Productions, which is one of the largest production companies on Broadway, desperately wanted Stefán in the role of the Grinch himself who stole Christmas.

The producers seemed to see that Stefán's form suited the Grinch very well. Stefán went to a "workshop" where he practiced as the Grinch with Jack O'Bryan and the widow of dr. Seuss, the author of the books, who according to Stefán was very old and well-concised! "From then on, we began to wonder where and if I would do it.

Originally I was going to do this in San Diego and we moved to here but there was no time to move my work permit and get me into the American Actors Guild in time. It was therefore decided that I had the opportunity to do this next year, 2008, I could choose my city to play in. Of course I said New York - Broadway. The honor is enormous that he chose me and I don't underestimate it and of course I am just full of humility to work with him. I don't know what this will bring, it's like everything out here - still so crazy but he wants to work with me and I with him so it's just great.

The role of Grinch is in my head and I'll keep it when and if the call comes. But then something completely different could happen. For example, Jack O'Bryan is involved with Young Frankenstein to name one thing. I would be well suited as an extremely disturbing monster, according to Steinunn Ólína, my wife. "

The race at the airport

Drama in the United States is an industry. Only the large studios in Hollywood return Iceland's multiple economies to the coffers, and Stefán says that it was due to the fact that at home there is often prejudice and ignorance towards Hollywood. "Here things happen slowly and quickly. An acquaintance of mine said that in the United States you wouldn't get a job until you had the role, played it, got the check, bought food for it and yes - returned it to the toilet.

That's why it's so bad to talk about an unspoken thing, even though you see that there is more than an overwhelming chance that it will be guaranteed that everything will work out. ”But does he thank the Lazytown episodes for the opportunities that are now available to him? "Yes of course. The shows have given me a lot of experience and connections with people. Hollywood is like an airport - the whole environment a bit like people running around with briefcases in a hurry to do business. Steinunn and I are now finally seeing the results of our efforts here in the city.

Nothing is secured "One of my acquaintances said that in the United States you would not have a job until you had been given the role, played it, received the check, bought food for it and yes - return it to the toilet," says Stefán Karl .

Photo by Matthias Arni Ingimarsson

Jim Carrey and Pavarotti

And at home, of course, everyone is curious about what's going on. News of a big movie from the couple's production company, High Risk Production, went viral in the media a few years ago. Where is that project now? "It is going very well. We are working on several projects, with Swedish and American parties, and are producing a film on the international market that is expected to be processed after the end of the year, and we have a large distributor there.

These days I'm on the phone because we're working on financing that project, which is very exciting and opens up possibilities for us. The company is growing rapidly and this is very global as they say. The conference call is waiting for me exactly where I will start by apologizing for being 20 minutes late. "

Before Stefán is released in the next tool, the rural and vain question is asked if anyone out there thinks he is the next Jim Carrey?

"Yes, yes. And Tom Hanks and Antonio Banderas. But I take as much notice of it as Garðar Cortes being the next Pavarotti without compromising on Garðar's talent of doing good things in the big world. I just believe that no one is being favored by such comparisons. "

➜ Did you know that ...

- that when the name Stefán Karl Stefánsson is typed on Google, 200 thousand results appear. The results for Björk Guðmundsdóttir are over 400 thousand.

- that Stefán Karl is not far from acquiring this talent because Magnús Ólafsson, better known as Bjössi bolla, is his uncle and Stefán often performed with him.

- in fact, Stefán could also gain a foothold in blogging because Stefán Friðrik Stefánsson, who is a a blogger and plus more, is probably also related to the actor.

-that Stefán Karl established an Icelandic army during his high school years. Entrance exams were very rigid and at one time there were only three registered soldiers.

[fareastfilm]

Programme for Tuesday 30th  April

THE ZOMBIES RETURN TO THE FEFF!

After zombie hit One Cut of the Dead, here come Rampant and The Odd Family! And don't miss family drama The Rib and My Name Ain’t Suzie, Anthony Wong's debut film

Tuesday the 30th of April. After the triumph of One Cut of the Dead (a smash hit in Japan that won the Silver Mulberry at FEFF 2018 and a distribution deal with Tucker Film), the zombies are back in Udine. And this time, they're not coming from the Land of the Rising Sun but from South Korea, in Kim Sung-hoon's irresistible zombie wuxia Rampant and Lee Min-jae's hilarious zombie comedy The Odd Family. “Just how many variations of that horror cornerstone the living dead can there there be?” you might be asking yourselves. Well, if you think you've seen them all, the fifth day of the Far East Film Festival 21 will prove you wrong...

There's more to the fifth day than just zombies, of course: there are eight films scheduled at the Teatro Nuovo, and highlights include Chinese family drama The Rib by Zhang Wei (a father devoted to tradition and his transgender daughter) and the film debut of Anthony Wong, special guest star of the twenty-first edition (on Friday the 3rd of May he will be collecting his Golden Mulberry Lifetime Achievement award): My Name Ain't Suzie, by Angie Chan. Hong Kong's riposte to Hollywood classic The World of Suzie Wong.

Asia-Europe co-production workshop Ties That Bind, now in its eleventh edition (with 10 projects selected), kicked off on the 29th of April, and today on April the 30th it's time for Focus Asia - the project market dedicated to "films of tomorrow" with potential for co-production and co-financing in Europe or Asia (15 projects selected) – to get to work. Over 200 professionals from 36 countries are expected in Udine for a packed programme consisting of panels, one-on-one meetings, screenings and networking opportunities.

9.00 Default by CHOI Kook-hee (South Korea, 2018)

1997: a Korean bank functionary attempts to prevent the national financial crisis she realises is coming. A financial consultant tries to fight back against it with risky investments. A small business owner signs a big contract, unaware of the looming disaster. In a single week their lives are turned upside down and Korea is forced to declare bankruptcy. A solid financial drama starring a Mephistophelian Vincent Cassel.

11.05 JK Rock by MUGURUMA Shunji (Japan, 2019)

U2's The Edge claims grown-ups can't really play rock'n'roll, and Shunji Muguruma's film seems to be the proof of it. The manager of a small bar puts together a rock band featuring three high school girls. To help them on their way, he calls in handsome and rebellious Joe who has unfinished business with rock, with his old band (Jokers) and with his namesake - a former friend who went off to America on the crest of a wave of success.

12.50 A Speck in the Water by Ishmael BERNAL (Philippines, 1976 – 2018)

Ferry owner Benjamin's regular passenger Chedeng is about to become a midwife. Chedeng has a friend and neighbour called Maria, and without either of them knowing about the other, both Chedeng and Maria are involved in relationships with Benjamin. When Maria discovers she is pregnant, she becomes Chedeng's first patient, and the situation takes a tragic turn.

15.10 The Rib by ZHANG Wei (China, 2018)

When young trans woman Huanyu decides to undergo gender confirmation surgery, her father Jianguo, a widower and devoted member of a Christian community, suddenly finds himself faced with a situation he doesn't know how to deal with. A story that might seem commonplace to Western audiences becomes a courageous - and necessary - act of defiance in a culture like that of China.

16.50 Rampant by KIM Sung-hoon (South Korea, 2018)

Korea, the Jeseon era. The crown is threatened by rebellion and court intrigues, but all this is irrelevant in the face of the greatest threat of all: a disease that is spreading from the provinces and which turns people into ravenous zombies. A monstrously enjoyable genre crossover that is a pyrotechnic mash-up of zombie movie, costume drama and wuxia!

19.40 The Crossing by BAI Xue (China, 2018)

Every day, tens of thousands of people cross the border between Shenzhen and Hong Kong. Among them is 16 year old Peipei, who lives in Shenzhen with her alcoholic mother and often visits her father and his new family in Hong Kong. At a party she meets Hao and his friends, a gang of petty criminals who smuggle iPhones across the border, and Peipei agrees to become their courier...

21.40 The Odd Family: Zombie On Sale by LEE Min-jae (South Korea, 2019)

Or how to make a killing from the undead. The head of a messed-up family is bitten by a zombie, but instead of turning into a zombie himself, he starts getting younger. His relatives smell an opportunity to make some money, and start a business that has the town's old people lining up for their bizarre fountain of youth. But as we all know, when you're dealing with zombies, disaster is always around the corner...

23.50 Fly By Night by Zahir OMAR (Malaysia, 2018)

A taxi driver uses his job as a cover for an extortion racket - but when his brother's impulsive behaviour brings the police and the triads to his doorstep, he will stop at nothing to protect his family. A vivid, refined and bloodthirsty thriller with a dark and fatalistic heart that adheres to the conventions of genre while managing to make them feel fresh and exciting.

[unicornprincessinthetardis]

My (often relatively reasonable) dad: ...so Enoch Powell was right, what he said has happened.

Me: and you don't think maybe he could've said it without inciting racial hatred and literally saying that in time the rivers might run with the blood of 'native' British people because of immigration, do you?

My dad: no, you're being ridiculous, it had to be said, and there really are areas of cities that are majority black or Muslim now so he was right in his predictions, and it didn't change how things were anyway

Me: *goes away to calm down and read up on the 'Rivers of Blood' speech*

[I already knew some of this but here's a précis for those unfamiliar: in April 1968, in Wolverhampton, UK, a Conservative MP, Enoch Powell, made a speech, about the proposed 'Race Relations Bill' (which subsequently made it illegal to refuse housing/ employment/public services to people on the grounds of race/colour/ ethnic & national origins).

The speech was strongly anti-immigrant, calling for 'voluntary re-emigration' and for moves to be made to stem the tide of immigration, else Britain would be 'overrun' and sooner or later white British people would find themselves fully second-class citizens, and that in some ways they already were. He also talked about a "tragic and intractable phenomenon which we watch with horror on the other side of the Atlantic", which I take to mean immigration in the USA to the similar end of white people no longer being in charge - which in 1968 was so far from the truth, and just horrible baseless fear-mongering, playing on people’s xenophobia and racist prejudice - and compared pro-immigration/anti-discrimination newspapers to the ones that had denied and hid the rise of fascism and threat of war in the 1930s. Plus, he talked about a constituent of his, a woman who lived on a street that had become occupied by mostly black people, who lost her white lodgers and complained to the council for a tax rate reduction because she wouldn't take black tenants, and instead basically got told not to be racist, and presented it as a bad thing that she'd been treated like that.

The speech's common name comes from a phrase he quoted from the Aenid (because he was also a Cambridge-educated classics scholar), 'I seem to see "the River Tiber foaming with much blood"', although he just called it 'the Birmingham speech' and seemed to be surprised by the uproar he caused.]

Me (to self): So it didn't change things did it? How do you explain the attacks against nonwhite people where the attackers literally shouted his name and repeated his rhetoric? Oh, they would definitely have happened if he hadn't made that speech, wouldn't they? And the British people of foreign descent who were so afraid they might be removed from their lives just for not being white they always had cases packed to go? And the fact that experts says he set back progress in 'race relations' by about ten years and legitimised being racist/anti-immigrant in the same way UKIP and some pro-Brexit types have done within the last few years here (fun fact: immediately after the Brexit vote, people were being racially and physically abusive to visibly Muslim and/or South Asian people, telling them to leave because of Brexit, which was of course extreme nonsense because their presence would be nothing to do with the EU, and more likely the British Empire and the Commonwealth, but they were doing it because it seemed suddenly okay to be openly racist, because Nigel Farage and his ilk, and a legally non-binding vote surrounded in lies, said so) and others have done elsewhere, in the US and Europe and Brazil and so many other places.

Powell was interviewed about the speech in 1977 and stood by his views, said that because the immigration figures were higher than those he had been 'laughed at' about in his speech, he was right and now governments didn't want to deal with the "problem", were passing it off to future generations and it would go on until there was a civil war!

He also said he wasn't a 'racialist' (racist) because he believed a "'racialist' is a person who believes in the inherent inferiority of one race of mankind to another, and who acts and speaks in that belief" so he was in fact "a racialist in reverse" as he regarded "many of the peoples in India as being superior in many respects—intellectually, for example, and in other respects—to Europeans." (I mean, I know I can't hold him to our standards but a) that's still racism and b) he did think that mankind was divided into very distinct, probably biologically so, races, which, yes, normal for the time, but the whole 'each with different qualities and ways in which they were better than others' is iffy)

Me: *goes back to Dad to make my point and definitely not get upset* So here are some things that literally happened as a consequence of the 'Rivers of Blood' speech...

So even if he was correct to say what he did (I mean, he wasn't but you have to tiptoe around Dad and I had points to make), he shouldn't have said it the way he did

My dad: so you think the truth should be suppressed? You're only looking at this from one perspective (he thinks he knows better because he was alive at the time and my brother and I weren't despite the fact that we're both into politics and history and, y'know, not into scapegoating, behaving oddly, and laying blame because people are different to us - he and mum also have issues with trans people and we're trying so hard to change their views/behaviours but I'm not sure it's working & that's a whole different story) and there are these areas that really are Muslim-only (because informal lending and wanting to keep the community together is such a crime, right?) and they don't integrate and want to impose Sharia law (only he couldn't remember what it was called right then) and you don't know what it's like (he is an engineer surveyor and travels all over to inspect boilers and cooling systems and all sorts of stuff, and this includes into majority-Black or -Asian (Muslim and otherwise) areas in Birmingham - which is not a no-go area for non-Muslims, I'm a deeply agnostic white woman, it's my nearest big city and I wish I went there more often but it's tricky as I don't drive, public transport is bad/inconvenient, and I have no friends to go with except depression and anxiety [which are worse 'friends' than the ones that I found out only liked me in high school because I always had sweets and snacks at lunch so when I got braces and my mouth hurt too much to eat much of anything which meant I certainly didn't have snacks, they dropped me pretty quickly] so apparently he's the expert on all such matters)

What I wish I'd said: *staying very calm* well, and that's your opinion, I'm going, I've got sewing to finish *leaves*

What actually happened:

Me: have you considered that they are able to buy up areas like that because white people leave because of their prejudice against the 'influx'?

Dad: they buy up great areas because they buy in groups (I think this refers to a sort of community lending thing to be compliant with various parts of Islam? [Please correct me if I'm wrong] which is effectively what building societies/credit unions were, at least to begin with, and he doesn't take issue with those) and want to stay together. Why do they do that? Sikhs don't do that, they buy big houses and aren't bothered about being close together.

Me: different religious ethoses? I don't know... But you do know that they people who want the UK to be a caliphate ruled by Sharia law are just a minority, and that most Muslims would not want that at all, just like you?

Dad: but they still do want it, and it could happen, if there was a charismatic leader,

Me: *incredulous* you know it's about as likely for that to actually happen as for strictly Orthodox Jewish people to be able to make this country into another Israel, right? Besides, there are the police, and the armed forces, and intelligence agencies, not to mention the Government and civil service (thought I'd got a win there, he hates the unchanging upper-class-public-school-Oxbridge nature of the people who effectively really run the government, constant no matter the leaning of the elected party, but no) who have a vested interest in preserving themselves in their current state so would be able to stop anything like that

Dad: yes, but the cutting of funding to police and public services means they might not be able to stop it (I realise now that he's oddly economically left-wing but also really quite socially conservative in some ways)

Me: *getting angry* but it's still an absolute minority, most Muslims would be horrified if it really did happen, and have you ever considered that maybe they wouldn't be so ill-disposed to us and to integration if we didn't demand it of them the moment that they arrive, demand that they assimilate or go away (he often uses the phrase "yes, but they're in somebody else's country, they should make an effort") and maybe young people wouldn't be so easily radicalised and people generally mistrust the people who don't try to understand them, you know, want them to change everything about themselves (for instance, Dad is violently opposed to the burqa etc and not really a fan of the hijab - still doesn't get that it's a choice and people can do what they want because apparently 'anyone could be wearing one of those things' - burqas/niqabs, I presume - and that it must all be forced because who would possibly choose to dress like that - I have half a mind to show him those sites about Christian modest dressing (one was a shop and a lot of their range was pretty cute!) that I once found, just to see if that'll prove to him it is a choice thing) *tries to leave*

Dad: *angry* You stay there and listen to me! You're just looking at it from one perspective and that's not the truth, you're so biased and closed-minded, you only look at things your way!

Me: *furious* Really? Really? Am I? *Scoffs/incredulous exhalation* I'm closed-minded, am I?... *Storms out, shouts as I go* I'm not the one who said Enoch Powell was right!!

This is all heavily paraphrased, because I've been writing this for literal hours now and I was angry and don't remember well at the best of times, it may have been worse than how I'm writing it

Also, going to be tricky to patch up but right now I stand by what I said, because I know my perspective is limited, but at least I actually admit that and try to find out what people different to me think, rather than basing all my opinions and things on my own experiences which can't be universal, as he seems to

Other bs my dad said during the two conversations: "don't get so upset about it, it's only history" (which is bold, considering it was the 50th anniversary this year and he was literally 11 years old when it happened so probably saw/heard news coverage)... "Yes of course far right groups use 'Enoch was right' as a slogan, it doesn't mean anything"... Reiterating the 'nothing changed' thing multiple times... Dismissing the fact that Powell said there'd be a civil war because apparently just because the British/Europeans were aggressive conquerors anyone else who came in numbers anywhere would eventually have that aim and how ridiculous that view actually is... Dismissing the fact that Powell basically incited racial hatred and violence with the inclusion of an irrelevant Classical phrase which spread fear on all sides...

I could go on but I'm so tired and don't want to make myself more upset

I love my parents but I really don't like them very much lately but I don't know if I just put up with it or leave sooner or later and if I do leave I don't know where I'd go because no friends

Basically I'm so sorry for my parents' prejudices which I'm still trying to unlearn myself - I apologise wholeheartedly to all Muslim and Jewish people and honestly pretty much everyone they're prejudiced against

[mjkcskwrites]

Why the British are despised overseas

My dad was an army brat, following his dad from base to base

He spent his life from age 3 to 14 living in Germany

He studied German for seven years in school

Today I asked him; Do you speak German then?

HE SAID NO! He spent most of his childhood in Germany and still doesn't speak German! For fucks sake.

This is why every single European rolls their eyes at British tourists. THIS is why we are despised.

We never try to meet them in the middle. Sure, we might have a few stock phrases from a guidebook. I'm sure they think our badly pronounced sentences are cute. Or, you know, so stupid that they switch to English just to save their poor ears.

Name ten English shops that the employees speak more than English especially in touristy areas. Can you? Now realise that every time I have gone on holiday, to different countries in Europe mind, every single shopkeeper and restaurant waiter has been able to at least limp by in English.

We are required to at least learn one language during school. Can any of you honestly tell me you kept up with that afterwards? Or remember any more than the occasional word? Or that you were close to fluent while learning it?

On the other hand, I saw this cool YouTube video where some English high school students were given a Korean high school English language exam. It was so complicated they couldn't figure it out.

THIS is the effort other countries go to. Why can't we?

[csrgood]

Food Security - You Can't Build Peace on Empty Stomachs

Originally posted on LinkedIn

Almost 50 years ago, the Nobel prize committee sent a strong signal to the world, underpinning the social value of agriculture. Norman Borlaug (1914-2009) – the father of the so-called “green revolution”, a scientist who invented disease-resistant wheat and saved millions from starvation – was awarded with the Nobel Peace Prize in 1970.

During the Oslo ceremony, Borlaug held a speech about his work, titled “The Green Revolution, Peace and Humanity”.

“Civilization as it is known today”, he stated, “could not have evolved, nor can it survive, without an adequate food supply. (…) If you desire peace, cultivate justice, but at the same time cultivate the fields to produce more bread.”

Today, half a century after the Nobel Prize, similar questions still prevail more than ever. Food security and water management are increasingly understood as key concerns for global governance and stability. Against this backdrop, it is timely that the 2020 Munich Security Conference (MSC), which just came to an end, dealt with the topic of food security for the first time in its long history.

During the conference, I joined our CEO Werner Baumann as well as the member of our Supervisory Board and former President of the World Food Programme Ertharin Cousin, in some of the food security conversation. We received great feedback, e.g. from David Beasley, Executive Director for the UN World Food Programme.

As a leader in agriculture, we are starting to get our arms around the scale of Bayer’s responsibility. Just to give you one example: Almost half of all fungicides for wheat in Europe, the Middle East and Africa are Bayer products. They are essential for avoiding crop failures with wide-ranging consequences. Wheat is – and has historically been – at the center of agricultural goods when we talk about global crises.

The discussions in Munich have left me thinking about the need for next steps. Here are some of my immediate take-aways:

Climate Change is the most significant threat to food security which will in turn become a major security risk.

My first point is that climate change is by far the biggest threat to food security. That comes with no surprise but with a lot of evidence. 2020, for the first time ever, the top five risks in the annual World Economic Forum’s Global Risks Report were all climate-related. Near-term impacts of climate change add up, as the report says, to a “planetary emergency that will include loss of life and social and geopolitical tensions”.

For example, 93% of the climate security and military experts surveyed in the recent World Climate and Security Report assess that climate-driven water insecurity will pose a significant or higher risk to global security by 2030. Other studies emphasized the impact of climate change on migration or on crop insecurity.

Munich and Davos meetings are setting the agenda—but we need to engage with farmers on the ground. We aim to support 100 million smallholders to lead better lives.

While many discuss the climate-related issues from a 30,000 feet airplane-perspective, farmers can tell from looking at their fields. In 2019 alone, they had to deal with another dry summer in Europe, historic rainfalls in the United States, a massively destructive drought in Australia or parts of Africa, and locust infestations in East-Africa. 

Last December, we presented our new sustainability strategy at Bayer. Beginning this year, sustainable business and financial success is equally important to us. Ten years ahead, in 2030, we want to achieve our ambitious sustainability goals in line with the Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs) of the United Nations.

One of the key elements is our focus on smallholder and subsistence farmers, a key group when it comes to strengthening global food security. 550 million smallholder farms exist all over the world and in developing countries, they produce about 80 percent of available food supplies–but in many cases, the producers themselves face hunger and poverty.

By 2030, we strive to provide 100 million smallholder farmers with access to training, tailored agricultural solutions and partnerships to increase their harvests and improve the local food supply. Most of the smallholder farming responsibilities rest on the shoulders of women. 25 years after the first UN Women Conference in Beijing, the world needs to prioritize significant efforts to improve women’s livelihoods in rural areas.

Our work has already begun:

In a partnership with IFC, Netafim and Swiss Re Corporate Solutions, we assist smallholder farmers in India, Kenya, Ghana, Zambia and Southeast Asia in growing their farms into commercially viable and sustainable businesses.

In Indonesia, we recently signed an agreement with our partner HARA to build a digital platform along the agricultural value chain and outreach to one million smallholder farmers over the next three years.

Experts from Bayer and partners including the Solidaridad Network and the Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation came together in Germany to work on a plan to address Fusarium wilt, a deadly fungus that is threatening banana plantations worldwide.

In Nigeria, a new variety of the cowpea legume with a BT gene now makes an important component of the nutrition for more than 200 million people resistant against insects and has the potential to reduce crop losses.

In Mexico, as part of a commercial pilot project this year, Bayer is introducing the first short-stature corn. It has a more compact structure, making it able to better withstand difficult environmental conditions such as strong wind and require less water. It also enables better cultivation through the targeted use of fertilizer for example and can deliver far higher yields.

My third take-away: Innovation will be key to feed the world of 10 billion people.

Another take-away is (once more) the importance of innovation: To secure food supply in a world growing to 10 billion and increasingly affluent people whilst we will be hit by an increasing impact of climate change, it will take the brightest minds and the smartest technologies to ensure we feed the world without starving the planet. My colleague Bob Reiter and his team are stewards of the by far largest R&D budget of an agri-business in history.

They are working passionately on future innovation for a more sustainable agriculture. Over the past few days, they have published fascinating insights into our innovation pipeline that are relevant to investors as well as the public. Achievements like hybrid rice or the short stature corn will have tremendous value for global food security. At Bayer, we are committed to make these innovations available for all growers, including access programs for smallholder farmers.

Lastly: Collaboration is the name of the game

As so often, it’s about the right mindset. We must agree that the global environmental, health and nutritional challenges we face today are complex, significant and inter-connected. No one country, multilateral institution or company can solve this challenge alone. As my colleague Ronald Guendel pointed out: “Collaboration is the name of the game when it comes to food security”.

In the run-up for the 2021 UN Food Systems Summit, we need to form new partnerships that enable us to work across existing conflict lines to de-carbonize agriculture, support farmers to better withstand extreme weather events, and tackle the extreme poverty in rural areas.

When it comes to food security, as the Australian author Julian Cribb phrased it in his recently released book “Food or War”:

“Food is one of the greatest, least recognized and most affordable ‘weapons of peace’ available to humanity.”

Or in the famous words of Lord John Boyd Orr (1880-1971), who became the first director-general of the Food and Agriculture Organization of the UN back in 1945:

“You can’t build peace on empty stomachs.”

Engaging in an honest, respectful and constructive debate about the challenges towards a more sustainable development strategy is the type of leadership expected from our generation. And it’s our joint responsibility to achieve the SDGs in 2030. To get there, we have less than #120months – 119 actually, and the clock is ticking.

#120months - the series

source: https://www.csrwire.com/press_releases/43952-Food-Security-You-Can-t-Build-Peace-on-Empty-Stomachs?tracking_source=rss