#the comments were full of men who think they have the right to enforce rules of modesty on a grown woman. its not your fucking job

[llegato]

the way modesty is weaponized against muslim girls is so fucking disgusting it makes me feel sick

[random-of-random]

The Secret

Chapter 2 - Just One Day

Authors Note: Thanks for reading and favoriting, and for commenting. You guys are great!

Y/N Y/L/N and Percival Graves had met four years earlier, in 1921. She was new to MACUSA and he was already a top Auror. It was a tradition in the department that new employees learn from close observation of people who had been there longer. Y/N had been assigned to shadow Percival and she was given several words of condolence from her new co-workers.

“Don't let him push you out of here.” Arnold had warned her as he gave her a cheeky grin. He was being shadowed by Lovell. From the little she had gathered Percival Graves was a good guy, however he was also shrewd and some described him as single-minded.

When she went to his office and knocked on the door, she could feel her nerves building. His office was smaller then, and this one he shared with Arnold.

"Come in." His voice called and she hesitantly opened the door. Two desks were crammed into the tiny space, filing cabinets seemed to overflow. There were files covering the desks and piled on the floor. It was easy to see that it was a time-consuming job. Behind the desk to her right sat Percival. He didn't even glance up at her, at first, and he continued writing on a piece of parchment, the quill scratching on the paper reminded her of school.

"Mr. Graves?"

"Yes. You must be Miss. Y/L/N." She moved toward him slowly.

"Yes, sir."

"Graduated from Ilvermorny?" His hair was slicked back and black. She couldn't see the color of his eyes.

"Yes sir."

"One of the top students in your year." He still hadn't looked at her.

"Yes sir."

"What house?"

"Horned Serpent, sir."

"Did you always want to work in magical law enforcement, Miss. Y/L/N?"

"Frankly sir, no." That seemed to get his attention. The quill stopped and he turned to slowly look up at her. His eyes were a chestnut brown and seemed to be looking through her.

"What did you want to be?"

"A stage actress." She admitted and it garnered a small smile.

"Is that so?"

"Yes, sir."

"So, why are you here?" It wasn't a rude question, nor intense. Just inquisitive.

"If I was going to be on the stage then I would want to be somewhere big. Considering the Rappapport Law, I wouldn't be able to achieve that properly. So, I turned to the next best thing."

"From being an actress to catching criminals?"

"Yes, sir."

"And they sent you to me." He stood and placed the paper he was working on in an already full filing cabinet. "I suppose you've heard the stories." She could have lied, kissed a little ass, but that wasn't her style.

"Yes, sir, I have."

"And? How am I living up to them so far?" When he turned to look at her again she couldn't help but catch the smile he was trying to hide. Percival was handsome and she had a feeling he could be very charming if the mood struck him.

"A little lacking, sir." He chuckled.

"Welcome to the department, Miss Y/L/N. Now, if you wouldn't mind, we had a big bust if illegal imports yesterday and most of that needs sorted."

"Fine. Not a problem." She said putting on a smile. As soon as she left his office, she knew she was in trouble. Girls talked about plenty of other men in MACUSA, but Percival Graves was something special.

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

Y/N shadowed him continuously. Yeah, he was tough. Yes, he could be distant and cold. However, he was the best Auror she had ever seen. He was quick with a wand, his spells were powerful, and he had even mastered a few spells without the use of a wand. Every morning she would arrive at the Woolworth building by 7 AM. Every night she wouldn't leave until 8 PM. He stayed the same hours.

People constantly asked her when she was at lunch, "don't you hate this?" Her answer was always the same.

"Of course not! Are you crazy?" And she wasn't lying. She wasn't being insincere. Working as hard as she was had already improved her skills. There was so much Y/N thought she knew that was now being challenged. In her mind, she was working for the best.

The hardest part was Percival himself. She was enjoying being around him entirely too much. The way his eyes followed her suddenly didn't feel uncomfortable. It was welcome. The way he was studying her, she almost dared him to figure out her secrets.

Within three months she had stopped eating with the rest of her co-workers and started eating in Percival's office. Sometimes they would go over files, talk about the goings on in the magical and non-maj governments, and on rare occasions they would talk about personal things.

The personal conversations became more frequent over her year of shadowing him. He talked about the long line of Aurors in his family, and how he felt obligated to follow in their footsteps. However, it turned out that it was a field he was good in and enjoyed. He asked her about her family and seemed to want to know anything she was willing to share. She found out when he attended Ilvermorny he was in the Wampus house. Three had turned for him, the other two being Horned Serpent and Thunderbirds, but he went with the house based with warriors. It suited him.

"When I was in school Wampus beat Horned Serpent every time they played." He joked with her one day.

"That is not true." She said with an accusatory tone, though her eyes were alight. It was almost closing time, but they were still sitting in his office - the same place they had been talking for the last hour.

"It is." He insisted.

"If I waste my time going back through the records to prove you wrong..." he laughed then and the sound was beautiful. The door opened quickly and all signs of the levity were gone in that instant. Arnold walked in carrying yet another file.

"What's that?" Y/N asked.

"Dark wizard from Germany has landed in the US. He's a bad one. Already responsible for seven deaths. We have to catch him." Percival was on his feet in a second.

"Where?" He asked pulling on his coat.

"He was spotted in Central Park." Arnold answered.

"Let me come." Y/N suggested.

"No." Percival answered quickly.

"Why not?" She asked and he seemed to ignore her. "You were the one who said I was doing really well."

"I did say that." He admitted as he walked out of his office. Y/N was in tow.

"Then I should be able to go and prove myself."

Percival let out a tense sigh. “Y/N..."

"Come on, Percival. You know I can do this."

"No!" His shout made her take a step back in shock. The department was suddenly quiet as they all looked on at their head Auror. Granted, most of them were surprised this was the first time they heard him yelling at her. He took a few steps closer to her and lowered his voice so only she could hear. "Not this one. Just, trust me on this?" She merely nodded before she watched him walk toward the elevators. Turning on her heel she headed straight back to his office and shut the door after her. She was so mad it was hard to think of anything else. So, she did what she had been wanting to do for ages. She organized. Everything. Three hours later she was still putting papers into the last cabinet. She modified everything magically so it could fit five times the space is previously had. Any loose papers were sorted and put in their proper files which were then put in alphabetical order in one of the filing cabinets. A work of beauty. She allowed herself a moments rest as she looked over the office. It looked as if there was twice as much room as there had been. When the door opened she stood to smugly see his face, but it was Arnold who walked through the door. His normally styled hair was hanging loose, his tie was completely off, and she saw what looked like blood covering the arm of his white button down.

"Arnold, are you-" She moved toward him, but he put his hand up.

"It's not my blood." Her stomach turned and her breath hitched in her chest.

"I-is Mr. Graves... alright?" She dreaded the answer.

"I think so. He's with the healers now." Arnold took a seat at his desk and leaned back.

"What was he hit with?"

"A spell we had never seen before." Arnold answered her, his voice slightly shaking. "He just started bleeding." Y/N looked at him in shock. "It stopped when we got him subdued, but Percival lost a lot of blood."

"Are you alright though, sir?" She asked.

"I'm going to be fine, Y/N." She nodded and stood awkwardly. "He's in the healers room down on 20. In case you were interested."

"Thank you, sir." She took off, trying her best to look calm and inconspicuous. A few people had started to suspect something was going on between Percival and Y/N. How wrong they were despite how much she wanted them to be right. The rumors seemed to die down quickly. Something about Percival not being the type to settle down, let alone with someone like her. Y/N liked to joke, she was a little more lax about rules, and she didn't mind a little dancing every now and again. People in the building just decided that the two were never possible. Arnold, however, seemed to know how she felt about Percival. He would catch her looking at Graves as he scribbled a sentence on parchment or read quietly. As soon as Y/N would realize he was looking, Arnold would give her a kind smile or a wink. Though, he never told another soul about what he saw.

When the elevator stopped on 20 she stepped out and into a whole different world. She had been to a healing floor before, but not like this. It was bustling with healers running all over the place.

"Can I help you?" A young woman behind a desk asked.

"Yes. My boss was brought in: Percival Graves. I wanted to check and make sure he's alright."

"Your name?"

"Y/N Y/L/N."

"Alright, thank you. Have a seat in our waiting area and someone will be right with you." The woman indicated a small alcove filled with chairs. She hesitantly sat, but within a minute felt that she may stand up and demand an update. It was an excruciating hour before someone came out.

"Miss. Y/L/N?"

"That's me." The man who was now standing in front of her was older, maybe late 50's, with a kind smile.

"I am Mr. Graves healer."

"Is he okay?" She asked.

"Yes. He is going to be alright." She let out a breath she didn't know she was holding and she allowed herself a small smile. "He lost a lot of blood, so we're producing potions for him to take every four hours for the next three days." The doctor explained. "He'll be groggy, but I believe he will do just fine. He will however need care because I want him to get bedrest. I can keep him here, if he would prefer."

"Thank you, and I'll run the options by him." Y/N said as she shook his hand.

"Would you like to see him?"

"Can I?" She asked. He put his hand softly on her upper back and led her back and deeper into the hallway. They walked for less then a minute when they stopped outside a room.

"Go a head in." He encouraged.

The room was very plain and ordinary. Sitting up on the bed was Percival. Already looking like he wanted to go another round. However, his skin was pale and it was easy to see he would be unsteady on his feet. His own clothes must have been discarded as he was wearing a hospital gown. She could faintly make out former cut marks on his arms that were an angry red. His brown eyes connected with hers and for a moment, she saw it. Relief. She couldn't stop herself. Taking several quick steps forward she pulled Percival Graves into a hug. Her arms wrapped around his upper back and shoulders and, to her great surprise, she felt his arms wrap around her waist.

"I'm glad you're back." She whispered before pulling away.

"You didn't have to come down here."

"I know." She answered. "So the docs said you have a potion you have to take every four hours for three days."

"Alright."

"And you have to rest - no working for those three days." He looked almost angry. "That way when you do come back you'll be at 100%."

"If I have to."

"And you're suppose to stay on bedrest. So, I'm going to come take care of you."

"What? No."

"It's your choice, Percival." She said with a shrug of her shoulders. "Let me take care of you for a few days..."

"Or..."

"Or you to stay here and be a special patient of the healers." It was as if he was at war with himself for a moment.

"When can we leave?"

[booksnmore]

Chapter One

Series Summary || In the cutthroat world of mergers and acquisitions, Feyre Archeron has to try and keep her head when caught between duty and a man that might have stolen her heart. (Modern Day ACOTAR AU)

Chapter Summary || After career-altering news at work, Feyre visits her favorite bar and finds someone to distract her for the night.

Word Count || 5348

A/N || Mature themes that are not appropriate for readers under the age of 18. Includes graphic depictions of sex. Reader beware. 18+

Tagged Crew: @highqueenofelfhame

Feyre tossed her keys in the bowl to the left of the front door and kicked off her shoes, one too-tall heel after the other, grinning slightly at the satisfying ‘thunk’ they made as they collided with the wall. She bent over and rubbed at the red lines pressed into her feet from the uncomfortable footwear all day, and cursed, not for the first time, the strict dress code enforced at her job. 

“Women should wear appropriate skirts and shoes,” she muttered as she padded down the hallway into the kitchen, making it clear what she thought of their ‘appropriate’ standards. The apartment was quiet, her cat napping on the couch not bothering to wake up and greet her. 

“Hello to you too, Jiji,” she said, ruffling the black cat’s fur as she walked past and ignoring his indignant ‘mrr?” of protest. She pulled the pins out of her hair as she walked past the coffee pot and pulled out a bag of tea, groaning as her long, strawberry-blonde hair tumbled free of its tight constraints. 

Flicking on the T.V. while her kettle came to a boil, she absently thumbed through the channels, ignoring the doom and gloom the news was preaching, and settled on an old re-run of Golden Girls. Ah, she could always rely on Dorothy to tell it how it was. The kettle kicked off, and she poured the water over her teabag, inhaling the bite of the black tea as it steeped. 

Her phone pinged from the couch where she’d set it, so with tea in one hand and remote in the other, she walked over to see what it was. If Lucien thought he could text her after hours and ask her to do more work off the clock, she was tempted to tell him where he could shove his brief. It was hard to believe that her drunken 3am application to the agrochemical company as a paralegal had panned out at all. After all, she’d been a recent grad with only her stellar 4.0 GPA and a few semesters of volunteer work at a local tax office for low income residents to commend her to the position. The HR lady had claimed that she was just the fresh perspective the company needed, and being naive enough to trust this, Feyre’d jumped at the chance to move to California. After all, she knew she was just one face among thousands, looking for a job. The salary they paid was enough for her to just manage to afford an apartment all to herself, if she ignored that some walk-in closets were bigger than the whole place.

She swiped open the message on her phone and, sure enough, it was a message from Lucien, the corporate lawyer she worked under. It wasn’t that he was a bad guy, not entirely. He was easy-going and gave Feyre opportunities to learn first-hand, and never pushed his workload onto her like she knew some of the other lawyers for the company did with their paralegals. He was interesting to look at; not necessarily conventionally attractive, not with the glass eye and scar down his cheek, or the perpetual frown he seemed to wear around their boss Tamlin, but something about him drew the eye in a way a model’s perfect proportions couldn’t. They had an easy-going enough relationship, and though they were friendly with each other he was always careful to keep things professional, and she never felt weird or creeped out around him. Not the way she felt around Tamlin.

The son of the CEO, and a chairman in his own right, Tamlin seemed to have a special affection for Feyre, and tended to offer her and Lucien workloads that were more interesting, or easier, and laved attention on her at work to the annoyance of her coworkers. She didn’t return the feelings, but how would she ever say that to her boss? So she smiled, and gritted her teeth, and bore the condescending little comments about how cute she was that day, how that skirt made her look luscious, how that blouse really did need something under it, as he could see her bra quite clearly, though it didn’t bother him. 

No,  those inappropriate comments were just made for the betterment of the company. If she wore that skirt that clung to her hips when they met with the judge, he was sure the court would rule in their favor. If she just smiled more, the judge would be a little more lenient. She tried to ignore the way she could feel his eyes crawling over her, or the way his brow would pucker when she wore a top buttoned all the way up. The only good thing about their relationship was that they rarely met in person. Lucien was aware of it, and did his best to help, in his own way. He and Tamlin apparently went way back to Yale together, but despite that he tried to field any in-person meetings with Tamlin that he could, and seemed to always have something for Feyre to be doing out of the office when Tamlin would drop by. She was silently grateful, not wanting to say anything and risk disturbing the fragile peace they’d found.

She read the brief message, eyes narrowing. Come into the office now. We have a problem. Though he was only a few years older than her, he texted like an old man, she thought with a small grin, then groaned loudly at the thought of shoving her feet back into her shoes after just freeing them. Since Tamlin required them to turn read receipts on for the company chat, he knew she’d seen his message and would expect her soon. Glancing ruefully at her tea, she stood up and slipped on her favorite pair of flats. She would just ignore the snide comments about how her shoes just weren’t professional enough. If he wanted her in overtime, she’d wear what she damn well pleased. 

“Guess I’ll see you later, Jiji,” she said, kissing the cat’s head despite his grumpy yawn. “Hold down the fort for me, won’t you?” The traffic was terrible - she’d only just gotten home in a cab after a 45 minute commute spent almost entirely sitting still. Paying for an extra cab wasn’t in the budget, and she suspected that Tamlin would want her in sooner than that anyway, so she pulled on a jacket and grabbed her purse. It was only ten blocks or so; she’d walk.

The streets were overrun with people, but at least with them she could slip past, using her smaller frame to get through where others couldn’t. She hated the way people would look down on her, using her height as a way to intimidate her, but decided in that instance that it was for the best. Autumn was in full swing, and the brisk nip of the breeze was turning to a more biting cold. Tugging her jacket more tightly against her, she almost regretted her decision to walk. However, when the looming office building stood just ahead and she looked down at her watch, she knew she’d made the right choice. Closer to 15 minutes than 45, and she did feel less sleepy after the walk.

Pushing the doors open, she waved at Jackson sitting behind the security desk, and the gray-headed man gave her a sympathetic look back. “He’s in a fine mood tonight, Ms. Archeron,” he warned, knocking his head towards the upstairs offices. “Best to just nod and get back to your beau at home.” 

No matter what Feyre told Jackson, he was convinced she must have a boyfriend, and had dreamed up the fantasy that she was engaged and totally in love, and had a dog and two cats. All she had to say was that the old man had too much time on his hands, and a far too active imagination. 

“Thanks for the heads up, Jackson,” she said, hitting the button for the elevator doors and taking that moment to compose herself. She knew her cheeks were flushed from the walk and the wind, so she instead used the reflection of the elevator doors to try and fix her windblown hair into something resembling a bun. She only had her emergency hair tie and none of the bobby pins required to keep the stray curls around her face from springing loose, so she did what she could before the doors dinged, then pressed the button that would deliver her to whatever Tamlin had needed her for so desperately that night.

When she stepped off the elevators, she knew something was very wrong. It wasn’t just Tamlin and Lucien that were gathered around the large table in their conference room. Standing beside them was Aamon Verne, Tamlin’s father and CEO of Viridis Agrochemicals, and Nikoli Hybern, the Chief Strategy Officer. The three men together were never a good omen. Taking a deep breath to calm her nerves, she walked up and rapped sharply on the glass door. There, in the chairs towards the back, next to Lucien, sat Nuala and Cerridwen, her two fellow paralegals, who offered her a look that was both encouraging and warning.

“Yes, come in girl,” said the elder Verne with a sweep of his hand. Despite his age, he still looked every bit the powerful man he was in his youth. Aamon Verne was a name that was both respected and feared in the industry, though Feyre had more loathing than respect for the man. He saw those around him only as tools for his use, and she’d heard him and Tamlin speaking about Nuala and Cerridwen while at lunch once in a way that made her skin crawl. 

Still, he was her boss and she dipped her head briefly at both him and Nikoli, resolutally ignoring Tamlin as much as possible. All three of the men had deep-set frowns, and only paused in their argument long enough for Tamlin to wave her over and push a stack of papers into her hand that seemed identical to what Nuala and Ceridwen were holding. He waved her away carelessly and she took a seat next to her co-workers, thumbing through the papers even as her ears revealed what was happening. 

“Who does this Rhysand think he is?” thundered Aamon, though no one was dumb enough to answer. “Buying out our shareholders, and our company out from under us? I knew this would happen if we went public. It was bound to happen eventually.” Nikoli didn’t look perturbed by his boss’ behavior. Only Tamlin of the three had turned a shade paler, though in his defence his face showed nothing of his emotion. 

“We could still reach out to the shareholders,” began Tamlin, but his father quickly cut him off. 

“And what? Beg them for our jobs? They aren’t fools. They knew we would throw everything we have at them the moment we found out.” Sneering at his son, Aamon turned to Lucien who stoically met his gaze. “Take your people and figure something out. Find us a way out of this, and I’ll give you double your wages as a Christmas bonus.” The unspoken threat was clear: if you don’t, none of us will have a job. 

Feyre’s head was spinning. A hostile takeover? Of their company? Feyre quickly went over the figures in their head. Since they were a publicly held company, they had thousands of shareholders, but not nearly enough that a tender offer wouldn’t work. She thumbed through the brief she’d been handed and, sure enough, Caeles Enterprises had offered to buy out their shareholders with a tender bid high above the price of the stock itself. It seemed the enough shareholders had sold, because at the moment, Caeles held the majority of Viridis’ shares of the stock, making them a majority shareholder. Feyre finally understood why the three heads of the company were so riled up. It really could be the end of their time at the company.

Leaning over to Nuala, Feyre asked, “What do we know about Caeles?” She pulled a pen out of her small leather portfolio and began to jot notes down as Ceridwen answered. “They’re relatively new, founded about ten years ago by Rhysand Neri and his cousin Morrigan. Apparently they mostly focus on renewable food sources, though it seems more broadly the company is focused on genetically modified agriculture. They have their hands in, uh, just a sec.” Ceridwen thumbed through the pile of paper, though Feyre found it before she did.

“Looks like their most recent focus is on soy crops in the Central Valley region. That explains why they're trying to take us over, at least.” Feyre’s gaze shuttered at that, knowing just how brutal Viridis’ policies towards competitors was. She and Lucien had just finished filing a lawsuit against the Growers of the Valley, requiring them to turn over 20% of their profits, as it had been ‘anonymously’ discovered that a large portion of their crops seeds were from Viridis’ own stores. She knew those farmers in the Growers of the Valley association couldn’t afford the 20% tariff, but per her company’s procedures it was a required case to take. 

She ignored the growls and curses from the three heads of the company and continued to thumb through the papers, before turning to Lucien. “Whitemail? Do we have enough capital to cover the shares it would take to tip the balance back in our favor?” She watched the gears in his mind turning, but scribbled a few other options on her notepad as well. 

“Let’s talk whitemail,” he finally said, standing up and motioning to the three of them to follow him out of the main office. “We’ll just be in the other room so you three can talk freely,” he said with a careless wave, already ushering them out of the room before Aamon could protest.

“Thank the gods we’re free of that,” said Nuala with a huffy laugh, giving Ceridwen a look. “If I had to stay in that testosterone-filled room for another moment, I think I’d have suffocated.” Feyre gave her friend a look of agreement, and even Lucien couldn’t hide his grin.

“What Feyre suggested might work,” he said, sitting down at the table and spreading the company’s bylaws out on the table. “Each of you grab a section, and let’s see what anti-takeover measures we can take. The likelihood that the new guy’ll fire all of us is pretty high, so work as though it were your ass on the line because, let’s face it, it probably is.”

So they hunted, heads down and fingers flying across the keyboard, for hours, until Feyre’s neck was sore and Nuala was yawning for the third time in as many minutes. Glancing down at her watch, she gave a resolute yawn of her own and sat down her pen, tip practically chewed up from that night’s frantic search. 

“Lucien, respectfully, we’re all exhausted. Nuala can barely keep her eyes open, and I think I’ve seen Ceridwen misspell the word ‘thorough’ at least four times. With spellcheck on,” she added, cutting off what would have been Ceridwen’s excuse. “I’m going to finish up for the night. It’s 12am, and I doubt the partners are going to let us sleep in tomorrow morning.” Though she might let Tamlin walk all over her, she knew her limits. She could feel a headache just starting in her temple, and her stomach rumbled in complaint at its negligence. 

Lucien threw up his hands, the picture of exasperation, but Feyre could see through it to the real exhaustion below the surface on him too. “Fine, you lazy lot. Go home and curl up with your teddy bears for all I care. I’m going to stay and see if I can find a way to keep Aamon from killing and eating me tomorrow morning. Night, ladies.” With little more than a glance up as their chairs scraped against the ground, Lucien continued flipping through pages, jotting notes in his messy handwriting, and biting his lip. If it were any other situation, she might have found him cute, but he was her superior and that was just too complicated for her. Shaking the errant thought from her head, she grabbed her jacket, tucked her portfolio under her arm, and headed out into the now decidedly frigid October air. 

The cold instantly snapped her awake as she stepped out onto the street, hands jammed in her coat pockets. Glancing back the way she came, she made a snap decision to instead head east, ducking into a bar just down the road from work she wasn’t at all unfamiliar with. Her first few months working with Tamlin’s condescending and sleazy comments had seen her, Ceridwen, and Nuala at the bar more often than she might’ve liked, but in moments like this as she slipped inside and was greeted with a smile by Ressina from behind the bar, she knew there were worse places she could end up. 

“You’re not normally here on the weekdays babe,” said Ressina in the way of a greeting, wincing in sympathy at Feyre’s sour expression. Without prompting, she made up Feyre’s drink of choice - a vodka cranberry - and passed it over before leaning on the bar, expression expectant.

Feyre took a long drink before giving a huffy laugh at Ressina. “You are probably one of the only bartenders in the city that actually wants to hear what her patrons have to moan about, you know that?” The bar was mostly empty, save for a couple that looked like they were only moments away from leaving and finding a room somewhere. Feyre was surprised to find that the idea actually held some appeal to her, as well. Brushing that aside, she glanced down the bar at a lone figure staring into his drink, and decided it was safe enough to tell her friend.

“You know where I work, right? Well, let’s just say none of us might work there any longer. There’s new blood coming in and apparently trying to clean house. I don’t know how much longer I have a job.” She gave a mirthless laugh and finished the rest of her drink in one go, motioning for a second one as Ressina made comforting noises. 

“That’s rough kiddo,” said the barkeep as she stirred up another drink for Feyre without prompting, tisking under her breath. “I swear, the way they use you there with no gratitude, this might just be the thing to kick your ass in gear and get you to actually find a place that values you.” 

Feyre just shook her head and pulled out her portfolio, now nursing her new drink as she scribbled new strategies to prevent the takeover. Ressina took this for the break in conversation it was and began to clean up behind the bar, preparing for closing while humming to the music under her breath. The woman really was beautiful, and Feyre found herself distracted watching the way her inky hair swayed with her as she went about cleaning up and closing out tabs. Feyre’s fingers itched to draw her, already imagining the lines curving around her figure, the strokes it would take to convey the feather-fine hair. After a few minutes, however, she forced herself to get back to work. That was, ostensibly, why she was at the bar after all. She began to jot down counter strategies, leaving little notes to herself later on to explain what she was talking about, and found herself so absorbed in her work that she didn’t notice the man at the end of the bar studying her until Ressina cleared her through and tossed her head in his direction.

“Uh,” she began, unsure how to spark a conversation with a man that clearly felt no shame at drinking her up like he was parched. “Hi?” Her cheeks were flushed from the alcohol and cold, and she knew she’d had just enough to drink to loosen up by the heat radiating off of her ears. 

The man took a long sip of his drink before standing up and walking over, never taking his gaze off of Feyre. She felt goosebumps rise on her arms, but tamped down on the feeling and forced herself to keep a neutral enough expression. He was better looking in the light, his raven hair almost purple in the neon of the bar and mouth curved in what she could only imagine to be a smile promising filthy things.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he said, sitting down so close that their thighs touched. She felt warmth spread down her neck, though she forced herself to meet his gaze steadily, ignoring the quickening of her breath. He, however, didn’t ignore it and watched the way her breasts rose and fell under her blouse, drinking in the sight before looking back up with a smirk.

“Do I even know you?” Feyre asked, brow cocked. “I bet you use that line on all the girls.” She turned away, a deliberate move in that dance as old as time. Parry and riposte, ebb and flow. The heat in her veins made her bolder than normal, but he didn’t seem to mind. “I don’t even know your name, stranger.”

A funny look crossed his face so quickly that Feyre decided she imagined it, before he answered easily, “Daemon. And yours, my beauty?” 

Feyre laughed, rolling her eyes at him, though she felt herself more at ease with what was clearly a teasing compliment. “Laying it on a little thick, don’t you think Daemon?” She tucked a curl behind her ear that had fallen out of her haphazard bun, noticing the way his eyes followed her every movement with the laziness of a predator that knows it has its prey cornered. 

“What are you doing here, anyway? Beautiful woman like you, alone on a cold night like this? You should be curled up in furs next to some lucky guy somewhere.” His tone was light, but the hungry light in his eyes couldn’t be mistaken for anything other than lust. 

“Work,” she replied, expression tightening slightly at the reminder. “Don’t suppose you know anything about that, do you?” She nodded down at his midnight suit, well-fitted and beyond anything she could ever afford, and cocked a brow. The challenge was clear in her gaze. She reached out and took his hand, ignoring the spark at their connection that caused Daemon to raise an eyebrow, and turned it palm-up. “Not a callus to be seen, just as I suspected,” she said, giving a theatrical sigh. “Bet your silver spoon is tucked away in that fancy suit too, isn’t it?”

He didn’t answer, instead taking her hand and placing it on his chest where she could feel his heart pounding beneath the silky fabric. His other hand slid into her hair, massaging the back of her head and drawing an unintended moan from her. The tension from that day seemed to loosen and slide away. She’d always loved getting her head massaged, and it was almost as though he’d known this when he began. Her hands bunched the fabric of his lapel, eyes glazed until he drew his hand down to her cheek and began to draw close. 

She realized where this was going, chastised herself for being too easy, and then met his lips with her own. It was utter possession. His kiss was firm and commanding, taking and giving in equal measure. She felt his chest rumble when she slipped her tongue past his lips, tanging with his own, and would have kept going if not for a pointed cough from behind the bar.

Pulling away, Feyre felt her face turn scarlet and had to force herself to ignore Daemon’s self-satisfied smirk as he straightened his clothing. 

“You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here,” said Ressina with a knowing look, glancing between the rapid rise and fall of Feyre’s chest and the lipstick staining the corner of Daemon’s mouth. “Go on, lovebirds. Don’t make an old woman long for something she can’t have.” She turned her back to them to clean the glasses sitting out, but not before Feyre saw her grin. 

Turning back to Daemon, she was at a loss for words. She wasn’t a one-night-stand kinda gal. Not that there was anything wrong with it, but she just...tended to not have time for relationships, and being the pragmatic girl she was, took care of any needs with brisk efficiency and the help of a not-inexpensive vibrator she’d gifted herself as a housewarming present when she moved to Cali. This guy, though… He almost seemed worth the trouble of bringing him home. She looked between him and the door, though her question was apparently written plainly enough on her face for him to make the one to suggest it.

He leaned in, nuzzling her neck and pressing kisses behind her ear. “I’d ask my place or yours, but I’m all the way across the city. You live closer?” His words were a torment of warm breath against one of her most sensitive places, drawing goosebumps up along her neck. Her head swam as though she was drunk, but she hadn’t had enough to go beyond a buzz and knew it must all be him. 

“Yeah,” she breathed, tilting her head to the side to give him better access. 

“Then let’s go, Feyre darling. Don’t make me wait.” 

He didn’t have to ask twice, not with the heat in her stomach dropping lower, lower, until she felt her thighs squeeze together unconsciously. She quickly paid for her drink and ignored the salacious looks her friend was giving her, before grabbing her portfolio and keys, nearly stumbling after Daemon as he stood and took her hand. If the bulge in his pants was any indication, it seemed like he wanted her as badly as she wanted him.

The trip home was a blur of scorching hot kisses and freezing wind, the combination almost driving her wild. They stumbled up the steps to her apartment and, with clumsy hands, she unlocked the door. Daemon pressed her back against the door, slamming it closed behind them, and began to ravish kisses up her throat, along her cheek, until he possessed her mouth entirely. Their kisses weren’t sweet, but a clashing of natural phenomena: a tidal wave against a sheer cliff, the inexorable pull of gravity on a falling stone. Their breath mixed as she pulled at his clothing, forgetting in the moment that the silk falling to the ground around them likely cost more than she made in a month. 

“More,” she demanded, biting his lip petulantly when he pulled away in order to unbutton her blouse. He flashed a promising grin her way, in that moment being the picture of boyish pleasure and nothing like the foreboding man she’d first seen at the bar. The moment the chilled air hit her breasts, she arched her back and he took the opportunity to fill his hands with her, mercilessly brushing his thumb over her nipples until they rose in stiff peaks. 

“Beautiful,” he murmured, against her skin, lowering his head to taste the rosy buds that now stood erect between them. “Divine.” He laved his tongue over her breasts, then down the valley between them until she couldn’t keep herself from pulling him back up to her mouth. Her hands snaking down his chest, undoing the buttons as she went until she could press her hands against his bare skin, teasing her fingers down his side until she reached his belt. 

“Gods,” she groaned, clumsily undoing the buckle and shoving her hands into his trousers where she took possession of his cock, hard as steel and nearly as big around as her fingers could reach. She felt a shudder roll through him as she slowly teased him, swiping the bead of liquid from his tip and using it to help her hand glide up and down his length. “You’re so big, I-”

“Bedroom,” he bit out, cutting her off. He seemed to strain against her hand, nipping down her throat and along the tops of her breasts. “Unless you want to have sex against this door.”

The thought appealed to Feyre, but she managed to surface from her heady lust long enough to lead them both to her bedroom. She didn’t bother turning on the light, instead toppling into bed with him. “Condom?” she asked breathlessly, the thought only now crossing her mind. She was on birth control, but something about a one-night-stand seemed to require protection from a different sort of danger. 

“My wallet,” he groaned, the sound turning into a growl as she slid her hand around his hips to dip into his back pocket, giving his ass a grope before returning with the foil-covered square. He squeezed his eyes shut as she rolled the condom down the length of him, then his control seemed to snap. 

Rolling her beneath him, he poured kisses down her body until he reached the edge of her skirt, which he roughly pushed down until she was bare to him in only her pink flower underwear and tan bra. She hadn’t planned on getting laid when she got dressed that morning, but couldn’t muster enough concentration to worry about what he thought as he yanked the two pieces of fabric hiding her from him. His mouth slide lower, lower, pressing kisses to the delicate skin of her hips and inside of her thighs, before he sat up and pressed a thumb over her nub, rubbing once, twice, as she groaned beneath him. 

“Yes, yes,” she breathed, hips bucking as he continued, adding first one, then two fingers inside her as she struggled against the wave rising higher and higher inside of her. 

“So tight,” he growled, withdrawing his fingers and, in an act that had her melting, licked off each of his fingers, before lowering his face and feasting. A rumble of pleasure vibrated against her, causing her to alternate pushing against his head and pulling him closer, thighs squeezing against his shoulders.

“I’ve got you,” he promised, seeming to know what she needed but couldn’t say aloud. “Ready…?” He took her cry of pleasure as a yes, then said lowly, “Then come for me, Feyre darling.”

He drew her nub between his lips and sucked, laving his tongue over the sensitive bundle of nerves as she convulsed beneath him, finding herself soaring up and up until her pleasure broke on a knife’s edge, sending her shattering down back to earth.

Panting, Daemon gave her no time to recover, propping her hips up and lining himself up before driving in with a thrust. The pressure was intense, and this time her cry was tinged with discomfort, though he remained still until she began to slowly rock against him, moaning his name under her breath.

He took this as the permission that it was and began to move, slowly at first, then more quickly, angling himself so that he hit that one spot inside of her that caused her legs to clench so tightly around him that she thought he would complain. 

She kept up the quiet litany under her breath of “yes, yes, yes,” as he drove into her, hips pistoning until she felt his control shatter and his pace grew frantic. The heat inside of her roared up again, rising like a furnace, until she felt him thrust deep inside of her and groan, his pleasure sparking her own until they were both tumbling down, down, into each other and the orgasm they shared. She felt her eyes closing when the bed dipped under him as he stood. The sink ran in the bathroom, then he returned, sliding under the covers with her and petting her hair with a lazy, unhurried pace. Her eyelid began to grow heavy, until finally she gave into sleep.

[route22ny]

By Timothy Snyder

Published Jan. 9, 2021 - Updated Jan. 10, 2021, 10:12 a.m. ET

When Donald Trump stood before his followers on Jan. 6 and urged them to march on the United States Capitol, he was doing what he had always done. He never took electoral democracy seriously nor accepted the legitimacy of its American version.

Even when he won, in 2016, he insisted that the election was fraudulent — that millions of false votes were cast for his opponent. In 2020, in the knowledge that he was trailing Joseph R. Biden in the polls, he spent months claiming that the presidential election would be rigged and signaling that he would not accept the results if they did not favor him. He wrongly claimed on Election Day that he had won and then steadily hardened his rhetoric: With time, his victory became a historic landslide and the various conspiracies that denied it ever more sophisticated and implausible.

People believed him, which is not at all surprising. It takes a tremendous amount of work to educate citizens to resist the powerful pull of believing what they already believe, or what others around them believe, or what would make sense of their own previous choices. Plato noted a particular risk for tyrants: that they would be surrounded in the end by yes-men and enablers. Aristotle worried that, in a democracy, a wealthy and talented demagogue could all too easily master the minds of the populace. Aware of these risks and others, the framers of the Constitution instituted a system of checks and balances. The point was not simply to ensure that no one branch of government dominated the others but also to anchor in institutions different points of view.

In this sense, the responsibility for Trump’s push to overturn an election must be shared by a very large number of Republican members of Congress. Rather than contradict Trump from the beginning, they allowed his electoral fiction to flourish. They had different reasons for doing so. One group of Republicans is concerned above all with gaming the system to maintain power, taking full advantage of constitutional obscurities, gerrymandering and dark money to win elections with a minority of motivated voters. They have no interest in the collapse of the peculiar form of representation that allows their minority party disproportionate control of government. The most important among them, Mitch McConnell, indulged Trump’s lie while making no comment on its consequences.

Yet other Republicans saw the situation differently: They might actually break the system and have power without democracy. The split between these two groups, the gamers and the breakers, became sharply visible on Dec. 30, when Senator Josh Hawley announced that he would support Trump’s challenge by questioning the validity of the electoral votes on Jan. 6. Ted Cruz then promised his own support, joined by about 10 other senators. More than a hundred Republican representatives took the same position. For many, this seemed like nothing more than a show: challenges to states’ electoral votes would force delays and floor votes but would not affect the outcome.

Yet for Congress to traduce its basic functions had a price. An elected institution that opposes elections is inviting its own overthrow. Members of Congress who sustained the president’s lie, despite the available and unambiguous evidence, betrayed their constitutional mission. Making his fictions the basis of congressional action gave them flesh. Now Trump could demand that senators and congressmen bow to his will. He could place personal responsibility upon Mike Pence, in charge of the formal proceedings, to pervert them. And on Jan. 6, he directed his followers to exert pressure on these elected representatives, which they proceeded to do: storming the Capitol building, searching for people to punish, ransacking the place.

Of course this did make a kind of sense: If the election really had been stolen, as senators and congressmen were themselves suggesting, then how could Congress be allowed to move forward? For some Republicans, the invasion of the Capitol must have been a shock, or even a lesson. For the breakers, however, it may have been a taste of the future. Afterward, eight senators and more than 100 representatives voted for the lie that had forced them to flee their chambers.

Post-truth is pre-fascism, and Trump has been our post-truth president. When we give up on truth, we concede power to those with the wealth and charisma to create spectacle in its place. Without agreement about some basic facts, citizens cannot form the civil society that would allow them to defend themselves. If we lose the institutions that produce facts that are pertinent to us, then we tend to wallow in attractive abstractions and fictions. Truth defends itself particularly poorly when there is not very much of it around, and the era of Trump — like the era of Vladimir Putin in Russia — is one of the decline of local news. Social media is no substitute: It supercharges the mental habits by which we seek emotional stimulation and comfort, which means losing the distinction between what feels true and what actually is true.

Post-truth wears away the rule of law and invites a regime of myth. These last four years, scholars have discussed the legitimacy and value of invoking fascism in reference to Trumpian propaganda. One comfortable position has been to label any such effort as a direct comparison and then to treat such comparisons as taboo. More productively, the philosopher Jason Stanley has treated fascism as a phenomenon, as a series of patterns that can be observed not only in interwar Europe but beyond it.

My own view is that greater knowledge of the past, fascist or otherwise, allows us to notice and conceptualize elements of the present that we might otherwise disregard and to think more broadly about future possibilities. It was clear to me in October that Trump’s behavior presaged a coup, and I said so in print; this is not because the present repeats the past, but because the past enlightens the present.

Like historical fascist leaders, Trump has presented himself as the single source of truth. His use of the term “fake news” echoed the Nazi smear Lügenpresse (“lying press”); like the Nazis, he referred to reporters as “enemies of the people.” Like Adolf Hitler, he came to power at a moment when the conventional press had taken a beating; the financial crisis of 2008 did to American newspapers what the Great Depression did to German ones. The Nazis thought that they could use radio to replace the old pluralism of the newspaper; Trump tried to do the same with Twitter.

Thanks to technological capacity and personal talent, Donald Trump lied at a pace perhaps unmatched by any other leader in history. For the most part these were small lies, and their main effect was cumulative. To believe in all of them was to accept the authority of a single man, because to believe in all of them was to disbelieve everything else. Once such personal authority was established, the president could treat everyone else as the liars; he even had the power to turn someone from a trusted adviser into a dishonest scoundrel with a single tweet. Yet so long as he was unable to enforce some truly big lie, some fantasy that created an alternative reality where people could live and die, his pre-fascism fell short of the thing itself.

Some of his lies were, admittedly, medium-size: that he was a successful businessman; that Russia did not support him in 2016; that Barack Obama was born in Kenya. Such medium-size lies were the standard fare of aspiring authoritarians in the 21st century. In Poland the right-wing party built a martyrdom cult around assigning blame to political rivals for an airplane crash that killed the nation’s president. Hungary’s Viktor Orban blames a vanishingly small number of Muslim refugees for his country’s problems. But such claims were not quite big lies; they stretched but did not rend what Hannah Arendt called “the fabric of factuality.”

One historical big lie discussed by Arendt is Joseph Stalin’s explanation of starvation in Soviet Ukraine in 1932-33. The state had collectivized agriculture, then applied a series of punitive measures to Ukraine that ensured millions would die. Yet the official line was that the starving were provocateurs, agents of Western powers who hated socialism so much they were killing themselves. A still grander fiction, in Arendt’s account, is Hitlerian anti-Semitism: the claims that Jews ran the world, Jews were responsible for ideas that poisoned German minds, Jews stabbed Germany in the back during the First World War. Intriguingly, Arendt thought big lies work only in lonely minds; their coherence substitutes for experience and companionship.

In November 2020, reaching millions of lonely minds through social media, Trump told a lie that was dangerously ambitious: that he had won an election that in fact he had lost. This lie was big in every pertinent respect: not as big as “Jews run the world,” but big enough. The significance of the matter at hand was great: the right to rule the most powerful country in the world and the efficacy and trustworthiness of its succession procedures. The level of mendacity was profound. The claim was not only wrong, but it was also made in bad faith, amid unreliable sources. It challenged not just evidence but logic: Just how could (and why would) an election have been rigged against a Republican president but not against Republican senators and representatives? Trump had to speak, absurdly, of a “Rigged (for President) Election.”

The force of a big lie resides in its demand that many other things must be believed or disbelieved. To make sense of a world in which the 2020 presidential election was stolen requires distrust not only of reporters and of experts but also of local, state and federal government institutions, from poll workers to elected officials, Homeland Security and all the way to the Supreme Court. It brings with it, of necessity, a conspiracy theory: Imagine all the people who must have been in on such a plot and all the people who would have had to work on the cover-up.

Trump’s electoral fiction floats free of verifiable reality. It is defended not so much by facts as by claims that someone else has made some claims. The sensibility is that something must be wrong because I feel it to be wrong, and I know others feel the same way. When political leaders such as Ted Cruz or Jim Jordan spoke like this, what they meant was: You believe my lies, which compels me to repeat them. Social media provides an infinity of apparent evidence for any conviction, especially one seemingly held by a president.

On the surface, a conspiracy theory makes its victim look strong: It sees Trump as resisting the Democrats, the Republicans, the Deep State, the pedophiles, the Satanists. More profoundly, however, it inverts the position of the strong and the weak. Trump’s focus on alleged “irregularities” and “contested states” comes down to cities where Black people live and vote. At bottom, the fantasy of fraud is that of a crime committed by Black people against white people.

It’s not just that electoral fraud by African-Americans against Donald Trump never happened. It is that it is the very opposite of what happened, in 2020 and in every American election. As always, Black people waited longer than others to vote and were more likely to have their votes challenged. They were more likely to be suffering or dying from Covid-19, and less likely to be able to take time away from work. The historical protection of their right to vote has been removed by the Supreme Court’s 2013 ruling in Shelby County v. Holder, and states have rushed to pass measures of a kind that historically reduce voting by the poor and communities of color.

The claim that Trump was denied a win by fraud is a big lie not just because it mauls logic, misdescribes the present and demands belief in a conspiracy. It is a big lie, fundamentally, because it reverses the moral field of American politics and the basic structure of American history.

When Senator Ted Cruz announced his intention to challenge the Electoral College vote, he invoked the Compromise of 1877, which resolved the presidential election of 1876. Commentators pointed out that this was no relevant precedent, since back then there really were serious voter irregularities and there really was a stalemate in Congress. For African-Americans, however, the seemingly gratuitous reference led somewhere else. The Compromise of 1877 — in which Rutherford B. Hayes would have the presidency, provided that he withdrew federal power from the South — was the very arrangement whereby African-Americans were driven from voting booths for the better part of a century. It was effectively the end of Reconstruction, the beginning of segregation, legal discrimination and Jim Crow. It is the original sin of American history in the post-slavery era, our closest brush with fascism so far.

If the reference seemed distant when Ted Cruz and 10 senatorial colleagues released their statement on Jan. 2, it was brought very close four days later, when Confederate flags were paraded through the Capitol.

Some things have changed since 1877, of course. Back then, it was the Republicans, or many of them, who supported racial equality; it was the Democrats, the party of the South, who wanted apartheid. It was the Democrats, back then, who called African-Americans’ votes fraudulent, and the Republicans who wanted them counted. This is now reversed. In the past half century, since the Civil Rights Act, Republicans have become a predominantly white party interested — as Trump openly declared — in keeping the number of voters, and particularly the number of Black voters, as low as possible. Yet the common thread remains. Watching white supremacists among the people storming the Capitol, it was easy to yield to the feeling that something pure had been violated. It might be better to see the episode as part of a long American argument about who deserves representation.

The Democrats, today, have become a coalition, one that does better than Republicans with female and nonwhite voters and collects votes from both labor unions and the college-educated. Yet it’s not quite right to contrast this coalition with a monolithic Republican Party. Right now, the Republican Party is a coalition of two types of people: those who would game the system (most of the politicians, some of the voters) and those who dream of breaking it (a few of the politicians, many of the voters). In January 2021, this was visible as the difference between those Republicans who defended the present system on the grounds that it favored them and those who tried to upend it.

In the four decades since the election of Ronald Reagan, Republicans have overcome the tension between the gamers and the breakers by governing in opposition to government, or by calling elections a revolution (the Tea Party), or by claiming to oppose elites. The breakers, in this arrangement, provide cover for the gamers, putting forth an ideology that distracts from the basic reality that government under Republicans is not made smaller but simply diverted to serve a handful of interests.

At first, Trump seemed like a threat to this balance. His lack of experience in politics and his open racism made him a very uncomfortable figure for the party; his habit of continually telling lies was initially found by prominent Republicans to be uncouth. Yet after he won the presidency, his particular skills as a breaker seemed to create a tremendous opportunity for the gamers. Led by the gamer in chief, McConnell, they secured hundreds of federal judges and tax cuts for the rich.

Trump was unlike other breakers in that he seemed to have no ideology. His objection to institutions was that they might constrain him personally. He intended to break the system to serve himself — and this is partly why he has failed. Trump is a charismatic politician and inspires devotion not only among voters but among a surprising number of lawmakers, but he has no vision that is greater than himself or what his admirers project upon him. In this respect his pre-fascism fell short of fascism: His vision never went further than a mirror. He arrived at a truly big lie not from any view of the world but from the reality that he might lose something.

Yet Trump never prepared a decisive blow. He lacked the support of the military, some of whose leaders he had alienated. (No true fascist would have made the mistake he did there, which was to openly love foreign dictators; supporters convinced that the enemy was at home might not mind, but those sworn to protect from enemies abroad did.) Trump’s secret police force, the men carrying out snatch operations in Portland, was violent but also small and ludicrous. Social media proved to be a blunt weapon: Trump could announce his intentions on Twitter, and white supremacists could plan their invasion of the Capitol on Facebook or Gab. But the president, for all his lawsuits and entreaties and threats to public officials, could not engineer a situation that ended with the right people doing the wrong thing. Trump could make some voters believe that he had won the 2020 election, but he was unable to bring institutions along with his big lie. And he could bring his supporters to Washington and send them on a rampage in the Capitol, but none appeared to have any very clear idea of how this was to work or what their presence would accomplish. It is hard to think of a comparable insurrectionary moment, when a building of great significance was seized, that involved so much milling around.

The lie outlasts the liar. The idea that Germany lost the First World War in 1918 because of a Jewish “stab in the back” was 15 years old when Hitler came to power. How will Trump’s myth of victimhood function in American life 15 years from now? And to whose benefit?

On Jan. 7, Trump called for a peaceful transition of power, implicitly conceding that his putsch had failed. Even then, though, he repeated and even amplified his electoral fiction: It was now a sacred cause for which people had sacrificed. Trump’s imagined stab in the back will live on chiefly thanks to its endorsement by members of Congress. In November and December 2020, Republicans repeated it, giving it a life it would not otherwise have had. In retrospect, it now seems as though the last shaky compromise between the gamers and the breakers was the idea that Trump should have every chance to prove that wrong had been done to him. That position implicitly endorsed the big lie for Trump supporters who were inclined to believe it. It failed to restrain Trump, whose big lie only grew bigger.

The breakers and the gamers then saw a different world ahead, where the big lie was either a treasure to be had or a danger to be avoided. The breakers had no choice but to rush to be first to claim to believe in it. Because the breakers Josh Hawley and Ted Cruz must compete to claim the brimstone and bile, the gamers were forced to reveal their own hand, and the division within the Republican coalition became visible on Jan. 6. The invasion of the Capitol only reinforced this division. To be sure, a few senators withdrew their objections, but Cruz and Hawley moved forward anyway, along with six other senators. More than 100 representatives doubled down on the big lie. Some, like Matt Gaetz, even added their own flourishes, such as the claim that the mob was led not by Trump’s supporters but by his opponents.

Trump is, for now, the martyr in chief, the high priest of the big lie. He is the leader of the breakers, at least in the minds of his supporters. By now, the gamers do not want Trump around. Discredited in his last weeks, he is useless; shorn of the obligations of the presidency, he will become embarrassing again, much as he was in 2015. Unable to provide cover for their gamesmanship, he will be irrelevant to their daily purposes. But the breakers have an even stronger reason to see Trump disappear: It is impossible to inherit from someone who is still around. Seizing Trump’s big lie might appear to be a gesture of support. In fact it expresses a wish for his political death. Transforming the myth from one about Trump to one about the nation will be easier when he is out of the way.

As Cruz and Hawley may learn, to tell the big lie is to be owned by it. Just because you have sold your soul does not mean that you have driven a hard bargain. Hawley shies from no level of hypocrisy; the son of a banker, educated at Stanford University and Yale Law School, he denounces elites. Insofar as Cruz was thought to have a principle, it was that of states’ rights, which Trump’s calls to action brazenly violated. A joint statement Cruz issued about the senators’ challenge to the vote nicely captured the post-truth aspect of the whole: It never alleged that there was fraud, only that there were allegations of fraud. Allegations of allegations, allegations all the way down.

The big lie requires commitment. When Republican gamers do not exhibit enough of that, Republican breakers call them “RINOs”: Republicans in name only. This term once suggested a lack of ideological commitment. It now means an unwillingness to throw away an election. The gamers, in response, close ranks around the Constitution and speak of principles and traditions. The breakers must all know (with the possible exception of the Alabama senator Tommy Tuberville) that they are participating in a sham, but they will have an audience of tens of millions who do not.

If Trump remains present in American political life, he will surely repeat his big lie incessantly. Hawley and Cruz and the other breakers share responsibility for where this leads. Cruz and Hawley seem to be running for president. Yet what does it mean to be a candidate for office and denounce voting? If you claim that the other side has cheated, and your supporters believe you, they will expect you to cheat yourself. By defending Trump’s big lie on Jan. 6, they set a precedent: A Republican presidential candidate who loses an election should be appointed anyway by Congress. Republicans in the future, at least breaker candidates for president, will presumably have a Plan A, to win and win, and a Plan B, to lose and win. No fraud is necessary; only allegations that there are allegations of fraud. Truth is to be replaced by spectacle, facts by faith.

Trump’s coup attempt of 2020-21, like other failed coup attempts, is a warning for those who care about the rule of law and a lesson for those who do not. His pre-fascism revealed a possibility for American politics. For a coup to work in 2024, the breakers will require something that Trump never quite had: an angry minority, organized for nationwide violence, ready to add intimidation to an election. Four years of amplifying a big lie just might get them this. To claim that the other side stole an election is to promise to steal one yourself. It is also to claim that the other side deserves to be punished.

Informed observers inside and outside government agree that right-wing white supremacism is the greatest terrorist threat to the United States. Gun sales in 2020 hit an astonishing high. History shows that political violence follows when prominent leaders of major political parties openly embrace paranoia.

Our big lie is typically American, wrapped in our odd electoral system, depending upon our particular traditions of racism. Yet our big lie is also structurally fascist, with its extreme mendacity, its conspiratorial thinking, its reversal of perpetrators and victims and its implication that the world is divided into us and them. To keep it going for four years courts terrorism and assassination.

When that violence comes, the breakers will have to react. If they embrace it, they become the fascist faction. The Republican Party will be divided, at least for a time. One can of course imagine a dismal reunification: A breaker candidate loses a narrow presidential election in November 2024 and cries fraud, the Republicans win both houses of Congress and rioters in the street, educated by four years of the big lie, demand what they see as justice. Would the gamers stand on principle if those were the circumstances of Jan. 6, 2025?

To be sure, this moment is also a chance. It is possible that a divided Republican Party might better serve American democracy; that the gamers, separated from the breakers, might start to think of policy as a way to win elections. It is very likely that the Biden-Harris administration will have an easier first few months than expected; perhaps obstructionism will give way, at least among a few Republicans and for a short time, to a moment of self-questioning. Politicians who want Trumpism to end have a simple way forward: Tell the truth about the election.

America will not survive the big lie just because a liar is separated from power. It will need a thoughtful repluralization of media and a commitment to facts as a public good. The racism structured into every aspect of the coup attempt is a call to heed our own history. Serious attention to the past helps us to see risks but also suggests future possibility. We cannot be a democratic republic if we tell lies about race, big or small. Democracy is not about minimizing the vote nor ignoring it, neither a matter of gaming nor of breaking a system, but of accepting the equality of others, heeding their voices and counting their votes.

Timothy Snyder is the Levin professor of history at Yale University and the author of histories of political atrocity including “Bloodlands” and “Black Earth,” as well as the book “On Tyranny,” on America’s turn toward authoritarianism. His most recent book is “Our Malady,” a memoir of his own near-fatal illness reflecting on the relationship between health and freedom.

***

Essay copied & pasted here in its entirety for the benefit of those stuck behind the paywall. Follow the link for the accompanying photos and captions.

[elmidol]

Sed Non Obligant

Three Blind Tooke Part Three Death Is An Art

Read on Ao3

Three Blind Tooke 

 Part Three: Death is an Art

 Chapter Sixty-Eight: Sed Non Obligant

For with you, I am now one;

 For with you, our life has begun.

 Transitioning from limitations on social interaction to pursuing the company of multiple individuals threatened to wreak havoc on your nerves. There were some of those beings that you did not worry how they would react to your prolonged absence. Others, though, you were unsure how awkward things would be in those first several minutes. Would they make any scathing remarks? You thrust aside those thoughts, opted to seek out the former persuasion of folks, and thus were able to breathe. One such being was absent from the planet; Rey had returned from the world of her birth only to be called away to assist in some matter of piracy. Due to her abilities in the Force and the planet that had been targeted by the pirates, she was more welcome than the newly instated galactic law enforcement--nevertheless, Dameron had gone along with her, albeit unofficially and as a partner rather than in any position of authority.

 Prior to his death, while you had felt a kinship with Vicrul, it had been different than the bond that you shared with Ap’lek or even with Cardo. There was a portion of him lost to you now that you would never touch, never know; in the same way, there were parts of you that he would not know. When he had held your hand by the edge of the pool, that squeeze of reassurance, of understanding, that had simultaneously been a farewell and greeting. It was Vicrul that you sought, though you were aware that Kuruk was with him at the time.

 Floral and fruit scents wafted through the room the moment that the doors parted to permit you entrance. You inhaled deeply, allowed your eyes to close, and gave yourself the opportunity to remember the planet of your birth, your childhood. Things dead and lost, memories that opened doors for your future. Peace settled within you. Reopening your eyes, you studied the potted plants in the nursery. Kuruk observed you from one of the corners of the room. He wore his normal attire, whereas Vicrul had removed his helmet and a layer of his clothing. You nodded in Kuruk’s direction, and he returned the greeting before gesturing with his head towards the other Knight of Ren.

 Heart thudding in your chest, you pressed one hand to your heart and closed the distance that had remained. Vicrul gave a grunt of acknowledgment as you drew up to his side. His organic arm twitched, meanwhile he squeezed a mechanical fist around a bag of soil. You heaved a sigh, understanding him though he had not spoken, not yet. You did not pity him, and that was likely why he did not pull away from you when you touched a hand to his upper arm while saying a soft hi.

 “It’s quiet here.” There was no joy in his words, although you would not say that there was resentment either. Boredom perhaps. He was struggling to find his place in this galaxy, which was what would have occurred even if he had not lost a limb. The two of you were, in essence, in the same boat.

 You reached forward to toy with the leaves of a plant. The action, the feel of what you had touched, sent a series of tingles running along your spine. “Do you feel caged?” In answer to your question, Vicrul held both of his hands palms up in front of himself. He stared at their surfaces then curled the two limbs into loose fists. His body was the cage, these new limitations obstacles that he would overcome. An end to the war left him with little to take his frustrations out on. “There will be missions of some sort.”

 “Rules.” You barely managed to contain the snort; a choked sound erupted from you, earning Vicrul’s full attention. From his position, Kuruk swiped the back of his hand along the lower half of his face, as though he was also stifling proof of amusement. He may have been agreeing with his fellow Knight of Ren. For how long had they traveled among the stars without being forced to abide by laws? They had a reputation, one that had taken years to develop. This adjustment period would be more difficult for them than it was for you.

 That was, strangely, humbling.

 You lingered in the nursery for the remainder of the shift that Kuruk and Vicrul were taking to care for the plants. Afterwards the three of you walked together towards the medical facility in which Cardo received his scheduled therapy for the damaged nerves in his right hand and left foot. The injuries had not been enough to keep him down, however he battled occasional numbness. This was not much of an issue when it came to his hand, though his foot losing feeling was not something he had yet grown used to. You did not know a lot regarding the treatments that he was receiving, and you did not pry.

 Ushar had joined Cardo for the session, which allowed you to meet with the pair at the same time. You felt more of the nervousness that had started to bubble forth again die down. These men were a part of your family--and while family could disappoint you, that was not the case with them and you. “You’re looking well.” Not a jab, more a statement. You could barely remember when last you had stood face to face with Cardo, or even face-to-mask. It was a blur, a swirl of moments that had elapsed after you had come back from death.

 “I’m trying,” you replied. There were not a lot of other ways to explain it. You were not unwell, however you could not say that you were well in the general sense. The path you had decided to take was getting you there. A small smile tugged at your lips, and Cardo relaxed upon noticing it. “There are so many decisions to be made. Things to figure out.”

 “War is swift, yet so is peace.” Swift or fleeting, which would be the more correct term? You hoped it was the former. Nodding, you drew closer to Ushar so as to give the physician in the room enough space to finish their task before leaving to tend to other patients. “Politics were not part of my plan.”

 Oh, how you felt those words on a deep level. Understanding that politics were involved in war, it remained different than being actively political in the sense of attending meetings. Action versus discussion. One of the offers that had been extended to you for a future had been to serve as an aide to politicians that your mother knew. As before, you had no interest in that. Less interest, you thought while observing the four Knights interacting.

 Trudgen would join them in time; the medically induced coma had had the side effect of plaguing him with night terrors since he had woken. You wondered--without fully wishing to know--what sorts of things so bothered him that Trudgen had become more reclusive. That his sleep pattern was disturbed enough to have physical side effects. He had requested that you meet with him one-on-one later, and you planned to do so within the coming hours of that same day. In the meanwhile, you watched his fellow Knights of Ren and resisted the urge to ask them for how to prepare for the upcoming meeting. This was no stranger. It would be okay, you told yourself.

 And it was.

 The pair of you met outdoors rather than inside, and you found yourself pleased with the arrangement. Trudgen’s desire for fresh air was one that you shared. The two of you sat together under a large tree that was native to the planet, its branches stretched far and providing ample shade from the bright sunlight. You toyed with a flower that fluttered down from the tree, rolling its petals between your fingers while looking at the Knight of Ren’s helmeted visage. He wore his usual armor, his weapon within reach despite the peace that the planet was enjoying.

 “How many offers did you receive?” His voice did not break. Trudgen sounded little different than he had the last time you had spoken with him. In reply to his question, you first took a moment to consider what proposals had been extended to you regarding potential futures.

 You relinquished your hold on the flower and watched as it fluttered away on the light breeze that stirred the cloth of your shirt. “Eight, technically speaking.” He grunted at that. “There were only ever three that seemed honest to me, that felt as though they were meant for me personally.” You paused to observe Truden, who cocked his head to the side. “One of those, to help gather remnants of Naboo and to write the tales I grew up with as a child, that can coincide with another offer. That was the one I thought about the most.”

 “What does your mother think about that?” Teasing but honest, genuine curiosity. It made you chuckle, your eyebrows rising as you remembered her face when you had mentioned your decision. She had not been displeased nor hurt; if anything, the two of you seemed to understand one another more. With the war over, the two of you had been able to communicate things that had been looming over your heads. “When you wear that expression, it’s obvious that the two of you are one.” It was one of the highest compliments that you could be paid, where before you would have shrunk from such a comparison. You felt a warmth permeating throughout your entire being. The Knights of Ren understood Kylo so well, and for any of them to see that the two of you were one meant more than when others realized it.

 “It wouldn’t make sense to do anything else though,” you said at last, wrapping your arms around your legs. Conversation died away for a while after those words were spoken. Trudgen tensed multiple times during the silence, which prompted you to start talking. He listened to another tale that you had learned during your schooling on Naboo, although this story had not originated on your birth planet. It was one that Trudgen was familiar with, a fact that you learned when he commented on an upcoming element. You nearly stopped, feeling rather self-conscious and unsure if he was interested at all in you continuing. At his urging, you did finish the entire story.

 The two of you did not part for the remainder of the day; he accompanied you on your visit to Ap’lek, who was in the process of studying laws on planets that Kylo’s presence had been requested. These texts had been provided by your mother, and you recognized a number of them from when she had hoped to secure you a job as an aide. Millicent released a loud meow at Trudgen. She slunk along his legs, weaving through them then returning to Ap’lek, whom she had clearly adopted as master. It was much the same as how the akk dog had formed a bond with Kylo and you. Where normally the creature would bond with a single being, this was more proof for you that you did indeed share a soul with Kylo, that the two of you had all along been on a path of self-destruction. Millicent nudged Ap’lek with her head, and you saw in him a flicker of utter peace that you knew on a deep level.

 You moved over to the pair, kneeling down and stroking Millicent’s ears. She leaned into your touch. While petting her, you thought of the assortment of electronic pets that you had collected. They were in a box within the quarters that you shared with Kylo, a box that was easily stored on a ship when it was time to leave the planet. The plants, on the other hand, would remain behind in the nursery with the exception of two smaller ones that were transportable. One belonged to you, the other to Vicrul. Millicent and the akk dog would join you as well. The Knights of Ren--they would never not be that--and Kylo, that was where you would go. Wherever fate took them, you were along for the ride. Along the way, you could complete your task of writing the tales from Naboo. You could collect relics. Most important of all, you would be with those you cared for.

 Even your mother, much to your surprise, had voiced her support after listening to how you had spoken of your decision, of your thoughts on the matter. Due to the political nature of Kylo Ren’s position, your paths would cross many times with your mother. That was something that you quite liked. Having her support, having her in your life while being able to make your own decisions, to forge your own path, to be yourself.

 Scooping Millicent up into your arms, you cuddled her to your chest and let yourself smile. Ap’lek noticed this within seconds. “Where’s your dog?”

 “With Finn, I think. I’m seeing him later.” That was still another bonus to your choice; Finn planned to study more regarding the Force with the Knights and Kylo between lessons with Rey. You were not losing anyone, not really. Poe was another familiar face you would see. Rose had signed on to assist in ensuring equipment was up to date.

 The children that had been studying the Force with the Order of Ren had returned to their families until the academies devoted to teaching them how to wield the Force were completed. The older students had copies of texts that Rey and Kylo had acquired, albeit the basics. Anything advanced would be too much of a risk. There would be no Jedi, no Sith. Just the Force, a balance within it. An acceptance of the Dark and the Light, which the heroes of the Rebellion had not fully achieved. It was this that instilled in you more hope, that allowed you to believe this peace might be real.

 It was not perfect. There were pirates, there were criminals. There was no galactic war. That was the difference. That was why hope was spreading in a much greater capacity than it had before.

 Learning from the past, Kylo was not going to demilitarise completely as the New Republic had done--that had allowed the First Order to rise from the ashes of the Empire. All in a single lifetime, two great wars. For some, three great wars in just one lifetime; the Clone Wars were not that ancient. You almost whistled at the thought.

 Instead you were drawn out of your thoughts by Millicent squirming to get away so that she could climb onto the datapad that Ap’lek had just laid out. He dragged her off the device, much to her chagrin, and scratched under her chin as he read. Trudgen had since taken a seat next to you. He, from what you could tell, liked the noise, the company. You liked to think that once you all set out, there would be more improvements.

 “Have you read this one?” Ap’lek asked, drawing your gaze off of Trudgen. You tilted your head as you considered the text that was displayed then gave a nonverbal response indicating the negative. “Hmm.” That noise reminded you of Kylo, who had also been reading more texts on the matters. They were both rather dutiful students even if they were bored out of their minds. That dedication, though, was what caused others to respect them.

 “What planet is that for?” By way of response, he scrolled backwards in the text until the name was visible to you. It was something from Wild Space as far as you could tell, not a planet that you readily recognized. “Interesting.” This was in reference to the first paragraph, which you skimmed through. Trudgen chuckled, and Ap’lek sighed again.

 Hours later, when you were with Finn, you curled against the akk dog’s side. It was pleased to be in your company, which had been a rare occurrence since you had returned to life. More often than not the akk dog had remained near to Kylo since you preferred solitude. You ran a hand under its chin, sighing in contentment. Finn stretched his arms above his head before stifling a yawn. His training was taxing mentally as well as physically, although this was in part because he was helping some of the children on the planet that were Force sensitive. He rather enjoyed that.

 It was nice, you thought, that there had been not a second’s worth of awkwardness when you had entered the room. Finn had greeted you as though the pair of you had spoken just the previous day if not earlier in the morning or afternoon. You did not have to pretend with him. Finn saw the hesitation in you, the ever-present threat of being overwhelmed, and he did not pry. He had been forced to adjust to a new life all too fast when he had left the First Order.

 “Have you heard from Rey?” you asked him. If you reached out, you might have been able to feel her in the Force. Finn would more easily be able to do so due to his natural abilities and the bond that he had with her. You imagined that they communicated with one another in that way from time to time, although it would not be often; that would drain the two of them, which could give the criminals that Rey pursued the upperhand. Finn nodded, revealing that he had spoken with her via commlink a standard hour before you had arrived. She was wrapping up with the mission that she had undertaken. The target had jumped to a new sector in space, one that did welcome those under Dameron’s command. “That’s good.”

 “Yeah.” He grinned widely. “Poe said to tell you that he’s open to give you more flying lessons any time. You pick things up easily.”

 “So do you,” you teased, mirroring his smile. He could fly basic speeders and smaller ships, however Finn did not have any desire to pursue those skills or any dreams of flying a vessel such as the Millennium Falcon. That he was leaving to his friends. To your friends. Your smile lost some of its length, and your hand paused in its stroking movement on the akk dog’s chin. “Finn?” He hummed acknowledgment whilst nodding, urging you to speak, letting you know that he was listening and that he would not say anything that would make you regret opening up to him. “Sometimes I don’t feel real. I used to have those moments before everything happened. Even before I joined the Resistance. It’s just more pronounced with this. I feel as though I’m not me, I’m just pretending.”

 You knew that there was a proper name for that: imposter syndrome. Speaking in a more technical sense did nothing to lessen the weight of what you felt. It made it too clinical, too cold. It simplified things and made you feel like a statistic.

 Finn reached for your hand, slipping yours into his and giving you a squeeze that you quickly, readily returned. The friendship that you shared with him was one of the elements of life that made it worth living. Where other relationships of the past had helped you to become who you were, Finn was one of those individuals that played a part in who you would transition into, just as you were the same for him. The pair of you understood one another, complemented each other in a different way than how Kylo and you were. He touched and saw your soul without being your soul.

 You released a breath, thinking how Kylo had revealed to you that he had sensed something in Finn when they had been on Jakku together. That was after you had been captured, you remembered. Finn had confirmed that he, too, had felt the connection. It was similar though different than what he had with you. The way the two men explained it, they felt things in the Force that you could not. Instead of hating this as you had in the past, it sent a new warmth through you. There were mysteries in the galaxy. There were new discoveries to be made. The war was not the entirety of your life.

 “Hey…” His voice trailed off as you turned your head to meet his gaze. “I… You know, as a stormtrooper--I never interacted with you.” You nodded, aware of this already. “When I learned more about you, how you were his prisoner, I wondered if you resented the fact that I helped Poe escape but not you.”

 A laugh erupted from you before you could stop it, and you could have sworn Finn was blushing at your amusement. “Sorry. I just--no, it’s funny, because I hated the Force at that point but I prayed… I prayed that Poe would get away. You helped do that. You helped answer my prayers. You helped me regain a sense of hope. You touched my life in a good way without knowing it.”

 He audibly swallowed, his throat bobbing. You smiled at him, your expression soft and one of appreciation for his presence, for who he was. This man and Rey had both offered you hope before you had met them. Their existence had saved your life, had saved Kylo’s, had saved the soul that you shared. You squeezed his hand once more, and Finn returned the gesture. Relief overcame his expression. The guilt he had harbored, no matter how small, was washed away.

 The akk dog leapt up to its feet, behaving in a manner that exposed its excitement. Finn grunted in understanding while you rose to greet Kylo as he entered. The exhaustion that so often showed on his face after conducting political business was absent. He handed the datachip he had been carrying to Finn. Next he turned to you, setting one hand on your upper arm while touching the top of the akk dog’s head with the other. You said a quick farewell, aware that you would see Finn in the early hours of morning, and allowed Kylo Ren to lead you away. The akk dog followed along without any prompting.

 “All of the Knights survived,” you said. This was not the first time that the words had left you. Kylo nodded all the same, not annoyed. You slipped your hand against his, the backs of your limbs touching. If you had needed him to hold your hand to be more grounded, that would have happened. It was not a necessity. The contact, small as it was, was perfect. Each brush with every step a reminder that the two of you were together. “We’ve all changed though. We’re still changing.”

 “We are adjusting, which you are rather skilled at.” The compliment made your heart flutter. It was not just the words, but the meaning behind them. Kylo admired your ability to adapt, he had said so countless times. No matter how often you accomplished this feat, he was left in awe when next you succeeded. It was not that he doubted that you would succeed on any of those occurrences. The simple things in life were sometimes the most important, the most marvelous of all. Like the stars that one gazed upon in the sky, the stars that appeared each and every night.

 When the war had ended, Kylo had given you two separate offers, one based on the words that he had spoken to your mother, promising to return you to her. He had, you had told him, already done that. For the rest, it was your decision to make. To remain with her or to go with him. Whichever was to be the case, the pair of you would not separate. For the past few days, he had prepared himself for you to remain behind in part due to the fact that your mother’s offer for a job had been extended after he had given you the option to remain behind. He knew how worn the war had made you, that dying had made you.

 “Like the Knights, politics aren’t my favorite,” you said teasingly. He half turned his head, his eyes darting about your face as he took in your features. Even if you traveled with him, politics played a role. You twitched your fingers, threading them through his though you did not hook them together. It was a passing union. As you began to draw your hand back to yourself, he shifted his and rethreaded your fingers together, hooking them into a loose embrace. Your palms were not touching, but that did not matter. “Kylo.”

 He tugged, steering you in a new direction that would lead to one of the more secluded gardens that the owner of the building had given Kylo access to. There was no official name yet for the position that Kylo was in. He rejected the idea of being referred to as Emperor. Supreme Leader no longer held any appeal, although for the time being that was what many continued to call him. He accepted it without a word, at least not publicly.  Kylo had voiced his thoughts with you on the issue, how he felt detached from those labels.

 There was time to breathe between the meetings with politicians. Moments that the two of you were able to share and be yourselves. To just be.

 You entered the garden, which had a gazebo that Kylo led you towards. Vines crawled along its sides. Blossoms grew from them, many of the buds not yet in bloom. There were seasons, which made you happy. You stood within the gazebo with Kylo, facing him and memorizing the scars on his face. The moles. The flecks of color in his eyes.

 “You’ve never wanted a title.” You had not thought much about that; whatever title he took on, it would change how others referred to you. Had he been keen on emperor then you would have been empress. You shook your head, agreeing that you did not desire any title like that. “Names are fleeting for you.”

 Ryoo-bud. Tooka. Tooke. Supernova. KS. Prisoner. Glitterstim. Fate. Wife. Daughter.

 “For you as well.” He dipped his chin.

 Ben. Creature. Monster. Commander. Supreme Leader. Master of the Knights of Ren. Husband. Son.

 Kylo spoke your name. You reached up with both of your hands to cup his face. Your thumbs traced his lips, which parted then pushed together as he kissed their pads. This was a Kylo that few were able to see. Fully exposed, baring himself by dropping all emotional defenses. He stared into your eyes as you stared into his. Seeing each other. The rest of reality dropped away until there were just the two of you. The sun, the moon, the planets, the stars. Everything existed within you, composed of those who had touched your lives.

 “It doesn’t matter what they call us, not really.” Words could not define what the two of you were, who the two of you were.

 At one point, while in turmoil, he would have brought the galaxy down to its knees, quaking in fear. Now it bowed in admiration for all that he had overcome.

 “We’ll be together.” You dropped your voice. “Nothing will stand in our way.” His eyes pinched in the corners at your teasing, and you grinned. He knew that you were not mocking him, not being cruel. “I can focus on creating, on breathing life into the remnants of Naboo and other planets, people that would otherwise be lost. At the same time, I’m going to be with you. Helping you. Whatever you need. We determine our fate--together.” 

 No one else could do that, no one could choose it for you. Regardless of what they thought of you, what they called you. Only your choices would matter. Kylo bent down and kissed you. “Yes, we will.” And he said your name once more, breathing more life into you, completing you again, as he always did simply by existing. As you did for him. One soul, which could not and would not die. Together throughout all of time.

[the end]

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Timothy Snyder [don't miss a word]

When Donald Trump stood before his followers on Jan. 6 and urged them to march on the United States Capitol, he was doing what he had always done. He never took electoral democracy  seriously nor accepted the legitimacy of its American version. Even when he won, in 2016, he insisted that the election was fraudulent — that millions of false votes were cast for his opponent. In 2020, in  the knowledge that he was trailing Joseph R. Biden in the polls, he spent months claiming that the presidential election would be rigged and signaling that he  would not accept the results if they did not favor him. He wrongly  claimed on Election Day that he had won and then steadily hardened his  rhetoric: With time, his victory became a historic landslide and the  various conspiracies that denied it ever more sophisticated and  implausible.                                                

People believed him,  which is not at all surprising. It takes a tremendous amount of work to  educate citizens to resist the powerful pull of believing what they  already believe, or what others around them believe, or what would make  sense of their own previous choices. Plato noted a particular risk for  tyrants: that they would be surrounded in the end by yes-men and  enablers. Aristotle worried that, in a democracy, a wealthy and talented  demagogue could all too easily master the minds of the populace. Aware  of these risks and others, the framers of the Constitution instituted a  system of checks and balances. The point was not simply to ensure that  no one branch of government dominated the others but also to anchor in  institutions different points of view.                                                                                                                          

In  this sense, the responsibility for Trump’s push to overturn an election  must be shared by a very large number of Republican members of  Congress. Rather than contradict Trump from the beginning, they allowed  his electoral fiction to flourish. They had different reasons for doing  so. One group of Republicans is concerned above all with gaming the  system to maintain power, taking full advantage of constitutional  obscurities, gerrymandering and dark money to win elections with a  minority of motivated voters. They have no interest in the collapse of  the peculiar form of representation that allows their minority party  disproportionate control of government. The most important among them,  Mitch McConnell, indulged Trump’s lie while making no comment on its  consequences.                                  

Yet  other Republicans saw the situation differently: They might actually  break the system and have power without democracy. The split between  these two groups, the gamers and the breakers, became sharply visible on  Dec. 30, when Senator Josh Hawley announced that he would support Trump’s challenge by questioning the validity of the electoral votes on Jan. 6. Ted Cruz then promised his own support, joined by about 10 other senators. More than a hundred Republican  representatives took the same position. For many, this seemed like  nothing more than a show: challenges to states’ electoral votes would  force delays and floor votes but would not affect the outcome.

Yet  for Congress to traduce its basic functions had a price. An elected  institution that opposes elections is inviting its own overthrow.  Members of Congress who sustained the president’s lie, despite the  available and unambiguous evidence, betrayed their constitutional  mission. Making his fictions the basis of congressional action gave them  flesh. Now Trump could demand that senators and congressmen bow to his  will. He could place personal responsibility upon Mike Pence, in charge  of the formal proceedings, to pervert them. And on Jan. 6, he directed  his followers to exert pressure on these elected representatives, which  they proceeded to do: storming the Capitol building, searching for people to punish, ransacking the place.

Of  course this did make a kind of sense: If the election really had been  stolen, as senators and congressmen were themselves suggesting, then how  could Congress be allowed to move forward? For some Republicans, the  invasion of the Capitol must have been a shock, or even a lesson. For  the breakers, however, it may have been a taste of the future.  Afterward, eight senators and more than 100 representatives voted for  the lie that had forced them to flee their chambers.Post-truth is pre-fascism,  and Trump has been our post-truth president. When we give up on truth,  we concede power to those with the wealth and charisma to create  spectacle in its place. Without agreement about some basic facts,  citizens cannot form the civil society that would allow them to defend  themselves. If we lose the institutions that produce facts that are pertinent to us, then we tend to wallow in attractive abstractions and  fictions.

Truth defends itself particularly poorly when there is not  very much of it around, and the era of Trump — like the era of Vladimir  Putin in Russia — is one of the decline of local news. Social media is  no substitute: It supercharges the mental habits by which we seek  emotional stimulation and comfort, which means losing the distinction  between what feels true and what actually is true.Post-truth  wears away the rule of law and invites a regime of myth. These last  four years, scholars have discussed the legitimacy and value of invoking  fascism in reference to Trumpian propaganda. One comfortable position  has been to label any such effort as a direct comparison and then to  treat such comparisons as taboo. More productively, the philosopher  Jason Stanley has treated fascism as a phenomenon, as a series of  patterns that can be observed not only in interwar Europe but beyond it.

My  own view is that greater knowledge of the past, fascist or otherwise,  allows us to notice and conceptualize elements of the present that we  might otherwise disregard and to think more broadly about future  possibilities. It was clear to me in October that Trump’s behavior  presaged a coup, and I said so in print; this is not because the present  repeats the past, but because the past enlightens the present.Like  historical fascist leaders, Trump has presented himself as the single  source of truth. His use of the term “fake news” echoed the Nazi smear Lügenpresse (“lying press”); like the Nazis, he referred to reporters as “enemies  of the people.” Like Adolf Hitler, he came to power at a moment when the  conventional press had taken a beating; the financial crisis of 2008  did to American newspapers what the Great Depression did to German ones.  The Nazis thought that they could use radio to replace the old  pluralism of the newspaper; Trump tried to do the same with Twitter.

Thanks  to technological capacity and personal talent, Donald Trump lied at a  pace perhaps unmatched by any other leader in history. For the most part  these were small lies, and their main effect was cumulative. To believe  in all of them was to accept the authority of a single man, because to  believe in all of them was to disbelieve everything else. Once such  personal authority was established, the president could treat everyone  else as the liars; he even had the power to turn someone from a trusted  adviser into a dishonest scoundrel with a single tweet. Yet so long as  he was unable to enforce some truly big lie, some fantasy that created  an alternative reality where people could live and die, his pre-fascism  fell short of the thing itself.

Some  of his lies were, admittedly, medium-size: that he was a successful  businessman; that Russia did not support him in 2016; that Barack Obama  was born in Kenya. Such medium-size lies were the standard fare of  aspiring authoritarians in the 21st century. In Poland the right-wing  party built a martyrdom cult around assigning blame to political rivals  for an airplane crash that killed the nation’s president. Hungary’s  Viktor Orban blames a vanishingly small number of Muslim refugees for his country’s problems. But such claims were not quite big lies; they stretched but did not rend what Hannah Arendt called “the fabric of factuality.”

One  historical big lie discussed by Arendt is Joseph Stalin’s explanation  of starvation in Soviet Ukraine in 1932-33. The state had collectivized  agriculture, then applied a series of punitive measures to Ukraine that  ensured millions would die. Yet the official line was that the starving  were provocateurs, agents of Western powers who hated socialism so much  they were killing themselves. A still grander fiction, in Arendt’s  account, is Hitlerian anti-Semitism: the claims that Jews ran the world,  Jews were responsible for ideas that poisoned German minds, Jews  stabbed Germany in the back during the First World War. Intriguingly,  Arendt thought big lies work only in lonely minds; their coherence  substitutes for experience and companionship.In November 2020, reaching millions of lonely minds through social media, Trump told a lie that was dangerously ambitious: that he had won an election that in fact he had lost. 

This lie was big in every pertinent respect: not as big as “Jews run  the world,” but big enough. The significance of the matter at hand was  great: the right to rule the most powerful country in the world and the  efficacy and trustworthiness of its succession procedures. The level of  mendacity was profound. The claim was not only wrong, but it was also  made in bad faith, amid unreliable sources. It challenged not just  evidence but logic: Just how could (and why would) an election have been  rigged against a Republican president but not against Republican  senators and representatives? Trump had to speak, absurdly, of a “Rigged  (for President) Election.”

The  force of a big lie resides in its demand that many other things must be believed or disbelieved. To make sense of a world in which the 2020 presidential election was stolen requires distrust not only of reporters  and of experts but also of local, state and federal government  institutions, from poll workers to elected officials, Homeland Security  and all the way to the Supreme Court. It brings with it, of necessity, a  conspiracy theory: Imagine all the people who must have been in on such  a plot and all the people who would have had to work on the cover-up.Trump’s  electoral fiction floats free of verifiable reality. It is defended not  so much by facts as by claims that someone else has made some claims.  The sensibility is that something must be wrong because I feel it to be  wrong, and I know others feel the same way. When political leaders such  as Ted Cruz or Jim Jordan spoke like this, what they meant was: You  believe my lies, which compels me to repeat them. Social media provides  an infinity of apparent evidence for any conviction, especially one  seemingly held by a president.

On the  surface, a conspiracy theory makes its victim look strong: It sees Trump  as resisting the Democrats, the Republicans, the Deep State, the  pedophiles, the Satanists. More profoundly, however, it inverts the  position of the strong and the weak. Trump’s focus on alleged  “irregularities” and “contested states” comes down to cities where Black  people live and vote. At bottom, the fantasy of fraud is that of a  crime committed by Black people against white people.It’s  not just that electoral fraud by African-Americans against Donald Trump  never happened. It is that it is the very opposite of what happened, in  2020 and in every American election. As always, Black people waited longer than others to vote and were more likely to have their votes challenged. They were more likely to be suffering or dying from Covid-19, and less likely to be able to take time away from work. The historical  protection of their right to vote has been removed by the Supreme Court’s 2013 ruling in Shelby County v. Holder, and states have rushed to pass measures of a kind that historically reduce voting by the poor and communities of color.

The  claim that Trump was denied a win by fraud is a big lie not just  because it mauls logic, misdescribes the present and demands belief in a  conspiracy. It is a big lie, fundamentally, because it reverses the  moral field of American politics and the basic structure of American  history.

When Senator Ted Cruz  announced his intention to challenge the Electoral College vote, he  invoked the Compromise of 1877, which resolved the presidential election  of 1876. Commentators pointed out that this was no relevant precedent,  since back then there really were serious voter irregularities and there  really was a stalemate in Congress. For African-Americans, however, the  seemingly gratuitous reference led somewhere else. The Compromise of  1877 — in which Rutherford B. Hayes would have the presidency, provided  that he withdrew federal power from the South — was the very arrangement  whereby African-Americans were driven from voting booths for the better  part of a century. It was effectively the end of Reconstruction, the  beginning of segregation, legal discrimination and Jim Crow. It is the  original sin of American history in the post-slavery era, our closest  brush with fascism so far.If the  reference seemed distant when Ted Cruz and 10 senatorial colleagues  released their statement on Jan. 2, it was brought very close four days  later, when Confederate flags were paraded through the Capitol.

Some things have changed since 1877, of course. Back then, it was the Republicans, or  many of them, who supported racial equality; it was the Democrats, the  party of the South, who wanted apartheid. It was the Democrats, back  then, who called African-Americans’ votes fraudulent, and the  Republicans who wanted them counted. This is now reversed. In the past  half century, since the Civil Rights Act, Republicans have become a  predominantly white party interested — as Trump openly declared — in  keeping the number of voters, and particularly the number of Black  voters, as low as possible. Yet the common thread remains. Watching  white supremacists among the people storming the Capitol, it was easy to  yield to the feeling that something pure had been violated. It might be  better to see the episode as part of a long American argument about who  deserves representation.

The  Democrats, today, have become a coalition, one that does better than Republicans with female and nonwhite voters and collects votes from both labor unions and the college-educated. Yet it’s not quite right to  contrast this coalition with a monolithic Republican Party. Right now,  the Republican Party is a coalition of two types of people: those who  would game the system (most of the politicians, some of the voters) and  those who dream of breaking it (a few of the politicians, many of the  voters). In January 2021, this was visible as the difference between  those Republicans who defended the present system on the grounds that it  favored them and those who tried to upend it.In  the four decades since the election of Ronald Reagan, Republicans have  overcome the tension between the gamers and the breakers by governing in  opposition to government, or by calling elections a revolution (the Tea  Party), or by claiming to oppose elites. The breakers, in this  arrangement, provide cover for the gamers, putting forth an ideology  that distracts from the basic reality that government under Republicans  is not made smaller but simply diverted to serve a handful of interests.

At  first, Trump seemed like a threat to this balance. His lack of  experience in politics and his open racism made him a very uncomfortable  figure for the party; his habit of continually telling lies was  initially found by prominent Republicans to be uncouth. Yet after he won  the presidency, his particular skills as a breaker seemed to create a  tremendous opportunity for the gamers. Led by the gamer in chief,  McConnell, they secured hundreds of federal judges and tax cuts for the  rich.

Trump  was unlike other breakers in that he seemed to have no ideology. His  objection to institutions was that they might constrain him personally.  He intended to break the system to serve himself — and this is partly  why he has failed. Trump is a charismatic politician and inspires  devotion not only among voters but among a surprising number of  lawmakers, but he has no vision that is greater than himself or what his  admirers project upon him. In this respect his pre-fascism fell short  of fascism: His vision never went further than a mirror. He arrived at a  truly big lie not from any view of the world but from the reality that  he might lose something.

Yet Trump  never prepared a decisive blow. He lacked the support of the military,  some of whose leaders he had alienated. (No true fascist would have made  the mistake he did there, which was to openly love foreign dictators;  supporters convinced that the enemy was at home might not mind, but  those sworn to protect from enemies abroad did.) Trump’s secret police  force, the men carrying out snatch operations in Portland, was violent but also small and ludicrous. Social media proved to be a  blunt weapon: Trump could announce his intentions on Twitter, and white  supremacists could plan their invasion of the Capitol on Facebook or  Gab. 

But the president, for all his lawsuits and entreaties and threats  to public officials, could not engineer a situation that ended with the  right people doing the wrong thing. Trump could make some voters believe  that he had won the 2020 election, but he was unable to bring  institutions along with his big lie. And he could bring his supporters  to Washington and send them on a rampage in the Capitol, but none  appeared to have any very clear idea of how this was to work or what  their presence would accomplish. It is hard to think of a comparable  insurrectionary moment, when a building of great significance was seized, that involved so much milling around.

The lie outlasts the  liar. The idea that Germany lost the First World War in 1918 because of  a Jewish “stab in the back” was 15 years old when Hitler came to power.  How will Trump’s myth of victimhood function in American life 15 years from now? And to whose benefit?

On  Jan. 7, Trump called for a peaceful transition of power, implicitly  conceding that his putsch had failed. Even then, though, he repeated and  even amplified his electoral fiction: It was now a sacred cause for  which people had sacrificed. Trump’s imagined stab in the back will live  on chiefly thanks to its endorsement by members of Congress. In  November and December 2020, Republicans repeated it, giving it a life it  would not otherwise have had. In retrospect, it now seems as though the  last shaky compromise between the gamers and the breakers was the idea  that Trump should have every chance to prove that wrong had been done to  him. That position implicitly endorsed the big lie for Trump supporters  who were inclined to believe it. It failed to restrain Trump, whose big  lie only grew bigger.

The breakers  and the gamers then saw a different world ahead, where the big lie was  either a treasure to be had or a danger to be avoided. The breakers had  no choice but to rush to be first to claim to believe in it. Because the  breakers Josh Hawley and Ted Cruz must compete to claim the brimstone  and bile, the gamers were forced to reveal their own hand, and the  division within the Republican coalition became visible on Jan. 6. The  invasion of the Capitol only reinforced this division. To be sure, a few  senators withdrew their objections, but Cruz and Hawley moved forward  anyway, along with six other senators. More than 100 representatives  doubled down on the big lie. Some, like Matt Gaetz, even added their own  flourishes, such as the claim that the mob was led not by Trump’s  supporters but by his opponents.Trump  is, for now, the martyr in chief, the high priest of the big lie. He is  the leader of the breakers, at least in the minds of his supporters. By  now, the gamers do not want Trump around. Discredited in his last  weeks, he is useless; shorn of the obligations of the presidency, he  will become embarrassing again, much as he was in 2015. Unable to  provide cover for their gamesmanship, he will be irrelevant to their daily purposes. But the breakers have an even stronger reason to see  Trump disappear: It is impossible to inherit from someone who is still  around. Seizing Trump’s big lie might appear to be a gesture of support.  In fact it expresses a wish for his political death. Transforming the  myth from one about Trump to one about the nation will be easier when he  is out of the way.

As Cruz and Hawley  may learn, to tell the big lie is to be owned by it. Just because you  have sold your soul does not mean that you have driven a hard bargain.  Hawley shies from no level of hypocrisy; the son of a banker, educated at Stanford University and Yale Law School, he denounces elites. Insofar  as Cruz was thought to have a principle, it was that of states’ rights,  which Trump’s calls to action brazenly violated. A joint statement Cruz  issued about the senators’ challenge to the vote nicely captured the  post-truth aspect of the whole: It never alleged that there was fraud,  only that there were allegations of fraud. Allegations of allegations,  allegations all the way down.The  big lie requires commitment. When Republican gamers do not exhibit  enough of that, Republican breakers call them “RINOs”: Republicans in  name only. This term once suggested a lack of ideological commitment. It  now means an unwillingness to throw away an election. The gamers, in  response, close ranks around the Constitution and speak of principles  and traditions. The breakers must all know (with the possible exception  of the Alabama senator Tommy Tuberville) that they are participating in a  sham, but they will have an audience of tens of millions who do not.

If  Trump remains present in American political life, he will surely repeat  his big lie incessantly. Hawley and Cruz and the other breakers share  responsibility for where this leads. Cruz and Hawley seem to be running  for president. Yet what does it mean to be a candidate for office and  denounce voting? If you claim that the other side has cheated, and your  supporters believe you, they will expect you to cheat yourself. By  defending Trump’s big lie on Jan. 6, they set a precedent: A Republican  presidential candidate who loses an election should be appointed anyway  by Congress. Republicans in the future, at least breaker candidates for  president, will presumably have a Plan A, to win and win, and a Plan B,  to lose and win. No fraud is necessary; only allegations that there are allegations of fraud. Truth is to be replaced by spectacle, facts by  faith.Trump’s coup attempt of 2020-21, like other failed coup attempts, is a warning  for those who care about the rule of law and a lesson for those who do  not. His pre-fascism revealed a possibility for American politics. For a  coup to work in 2024, the breakers will require something that Trump  never quite had: an angry minority, organized for nationwide violence,  ready to add intimidation to an election. Four years of amplifying a big  lie just might get them this. To claim that the other side stole an  election is to promise to steal one yourself. It is also to claim that  the other side deserves to be punished.Informed  observers inside and outside government agree that right-wing white  supremacism is the greatest terrorist threat to the United States. 

Gun  sales in 2020 hit an astonishing high. History shows that political  violence follows when prominent leaders of major political parties  openly embrace paranoia.Our big lie  is typically American, wrapped in our odd electoral system, depending  upon our particular traditions of racism. Yet our big lie is also  structurally fascist, with its extreme mendacity, its conspiratorial  thinking, its reversal of perpetrators and victims and its implication  that the world is divided into us and them. To keep it going for four  years courts terrorism and assassination.

When  that violence comes, the breakers will have to react. If they embrace  it, they become the fascist faction. The Republican Party will be  divided, at least for a time. One can of course imagine a dismal  reunification: A breaker candidate loses a narrow presidential election  in November 2024 and cries fraud, the Republicans win both houses of  Congress and rioters in the street, educated by four years of the big lie,  demand what they see as justice. Would the gamers stand on principle if  those were the circumstances of Jan. 6, 2025?To  be sure, this moment is also a chance. It is possible that a divided Republican Party might better serve American democracy; that the gamers, separated from the breakers, might start to think of policy as a way to  win elections. It is very likely that the Biden-Harris administration  will have an easier first few months than expected; perhaps  obstructionism will give way, at least among a few Republicans and for a  short time, to a moment of self-questioning. 

Politicians who want  Trumpism to end have a simple way forward: Tell the truth about the  election.America will not survive the  big lie just because a liar is separated from power. It will need a  thoughtful repluralization of media and a commitment to facts as a  public good. The racism structured into every aspect of the coup attempt  is a call to heed our own history. Serious attention to the past helps  us to see risks but also suggests future possibility. We cannot be a  democratic republic if we tell lies about race, big or small.Democracy  is not about minimizing the vote nor ignoring it, neither a matter of  gaming nor of breaking a system, but of accepting the equality of  others, heeding their voices and counting their votes.

[myfriendscallmecoelophysis]

Remember Me

Oops more Mianitian Isles fic. There’s not enough about Ianite. So have a 2500 word Ianite-centric thing. 

I can pretty much guarantee that a lot of this will no longer be canon as we learn more about the world and more of the story unfolds. As it stands now, this is the best I can do, especially considering how much secret conversations are occurring between the players and their respective gods. I watch Sparklez POV mainly but have seen glimpses of how Mianite speaks to Karl and how Dianite speaks to Tom in private chat. For now I am going with what Sparklez knows. 

Enjoy and as always 

Find me on Ao3:

Selenejessabelle12626 for the tame stuff

Lady-Spieroles for the less tame stuff ;)

~

Ianite woke up one morning with the strangest feeling. It was a sensation of wholeness and rightness, like something she hadn’t known she’d lost had suddenly been found. She’d felt a bolster to her strength as well, as though this feeling was boosting the fledgling powers she possessed. She wished mother was here. Mother had known all there was to know about the divinity she and her brothers were destined to grow into. Mother had been the one to see visions that became prophecies. Mother had known what awaited them when they got older. Mother would know what was happening. Gods did Ianite miss her mother. 

Over the next several days, Ianite’s dreams were filled with visions. She was used to the chittering voices that accompanied her thoughts, the voices of a thousand of her lives Mother had told her when she was younger, but Ianite had only rarely seen visions from these lives. Were these new visions part of the feeling she’d had? Were they part of the change? 

In one dream she was caged, shackled with burning molten chains, her sweet little Dianite warped into a demonic creature sneering down at her. This version of her had been mostly forgotten by the people of the realm, leaving her next to powerless to do anything but resign herself to her prison. But she still had a sense of hope, He was coming. He would save her. She had no idea yet who He was, but deep in her bones she knew He would not abandon her. This was the version of Him she had the greatest desire to meet. This was the one who’d all but created her after she had been forgotten. 

In another it was she who stood above Dianite and Mianite both, imprisoning them so that they would sow no more destruction across the world. She ruled this realm with an iron force of balance, a life for a life. The only true measure of balance. He stood at her side in this world, an enforcer of her will, armed with enchanted bow and sword, an unstoppable warrior. This dream scared her, made her fearful of what she was capable of if she chose that path. But still He remained loyal, despite this version of herself being so different from the others.

In yet still another she sat on a hill overlooking a quaint port town with a castle at its center, watching a pair of children run and play. The children looked to her with joy in their eyes and love in their souls. And He sat at her side, entwined His fingers with her own and pressing His lips to her cheek. This was the life Ianite would choose if she had to pick another. It was this dream she liked the most. The Ianite of this world was happy. 

While all her dreams bore great differences, there was one similarity among them. There was always a man at her side. His appearance differed little through each reality, only his dress and age seemed to change, though no matter what He always wore the oddest glasses upon His face. He was hers, the voices said. He was the only one throughout every life that supported her and followed her no matter where she led.  He was only one man though and each version of her got their chance to have Him by her side. And now, she realized, He was here in her world. It was finally her turn.

She felt the change in the air when the worlds synced. It was an influx of energy unlike anything she or her brothers had ever felt. Without a word to one another, they went their separate ways to think about what was happening. Mianite disappeared into the clouds to his ‘fortress’ (though Ianite knew it was little more than a fort made of cloud matter, her little brother was imaginative like that), Dianite ventured to his underground ‘lair’ (a cave he’d managed to cultivate life in despite the lack of sun, goodness her brothers had active minds), and Ianite herself went to the sea cave where she liked to be alone and gather her thoughts. 

When the burst of power came, it was so abrupt and strong that Ianite nearly fell from the rock she was sat upon and into the sea. “My powers… They are coming to be real!” She said to herself in astonishment, looking down at her hands. She had a faint purple glow about her and for the first time in her memory, she could silence the voices of her other lives that were in her head. She finally had control. 

Across their realm, both brothers had similar experiences of power, giving their own words of shock and acceptance. None of the three knew the source but only Mianite understood that this was not a coincidence. Whomever had caused the sync between worlds had caused this strengthening. It was something he must investigate. The prophecy of their mother had spoken of the coming of heroes who would give them the strength to finally overthrow their father. After all these years, it was finally time. 

When Ianite returned home, she noticed the change within her brothers. Both had a similar glow to them that she herself had, though in red and blue respectively. None of them commented on the change when clearly all three had experienced it. They knew Mother’s prophecy, they knew what they were destined to do. It had been nearly a millenia ago when she’d first told them, disguising their fate within a bedtime story. Once Mother had gone, Ianite, as the eldest, had become the reluctant guardian to her brothers, doing her best to keep their home at balance as only she was able. But now it seemed, her time was coming to an end. Soon their Chosen Champions would be calling out to them and things would change forever between the three of them. She would miss this calm, the peace between Order, Chaos and Balance. But even she was growing restless and tired of waiting.

When she fell asleep that night, she used her new power to bring forth the dream of the port town. But this time, she saw not the man that Ianite had married, but the version of Him from the world where Ianite had been imprisoned. He had traveled across the dimensions to that one, here in this world He would do as He had done in the last, make choices that he believed would be in her best interests rather than His own. He was loyal, all versions of Him were, but this one especially. Secretly, the Ianite who fell asleep now, hoped she might meet Him who had been the one to give her strength in the world where she’d had none, to give her life when she'd given up on it.  She knew not His name, but did know His face and was very eager to meet Him, however long it took. 

She was in the sea cave a week later when she felt the pull. She heard a new voice in her head, that of a man. “SMITE YEE ALMIGHTY IANITE” he called to her. The pull grew stronger and stronger and then she saw a room of purple and white stone, an illustration of herself decorated a wall and when she turned, there He was. 

She didn’t know what to say, all this time and she was at a loss for words upon laying eyes on Him.

“Hello!” She said, deciding to begin simply. 

“Milady.” He greeted, inclining his head. “How are you?” 

There were others there, but she cared little for them right now. All she cared about was that He was here. The man that all other versions of her trusted and believed in was here for her. 

“I wasn’t expecting to be here so soon.” She admitted.

“I wasn’t expecting it either.” He agreed. 

She looked around the temple they were in. She knew other versions of Him were skilled builders and apparently this one was as well. She wanted nothing more than to stay and speak to Him and get to know Him but already she felt the power that had pulled her here starting to wane. 

“I can’t stay long… but this place! This is beautiful!” She told Him, hoping it would lessen the blow that she was leaving so soon. 

“Thanks I worked hard!” He said with pointed enthusiasm while the other men snickered behind him. Perhaps they had teased His capabilities and her praise had given Him the validation He’d desired?

She looked around further and nodded to herself and Him. This would be her temple most certainly. This would be the place she would channel her power through. “Yes, this will be fine! I love it! Thank you!” 

She’d decided to ignore the incorrectness of the portrait, figuring that in another realm, the Ianite He knew must have had eyes like this. The other men however were not so keen on letting it slide. The man who’d called her, a priest, she realized once he spoke, was the first to draw attention. All but opening the floodgates for the other two to ask questions. 

Ianite noticed the way her Champion blushed, embarrassed by his mistake. “It’s called heterochromia…” she defended “and I think it makes me cute!” 

“Yes! Very cute!” Her champion agreed immediately. She chuckled at His eagerness to impress. 

One of the other men, who appeared to be a zombie? asked after Dianite. “Dianite?” She questioned “He’s fine. I’m sure you’ll meet him soon.” 

“Dianite is super nice right?” Her champion asked with a mischievous look in his eye. “Like just a great dude?” 

“Oh he’s very sweet.” She agreed. Confused by the way the zombie argued with the others at her confirmation. 

He tried to find out more but she chose not to answer. He’d meet Dia soon enough. “But I really can’t stay.” She told her champion with a frown. 

“Why not?” The priest asked. 

She knew it was not her place to tell them the full truth. They need not know of what was to come, not yet at least. They’d only just met. “I left because of a great evil in this land.” She told them. 

The zombie shouted in disbelief but she waited only for her champion's reaction. “Fenrir?” He asked “Is that the evil?” How he knew of Fenrir she wasn’t certain, but was not yet certain if she should tell them more. She would speak to her brothers once they’d met the heroes themselves and decide on a course of action. 

“Please… give me another day. I will return for good.” She promised, looking to Him. He was the one she was to trust and believe in, not any of the others. Though perhaps she might confide somewhat in the priest, he seemed to know more than the others. He was the one who’d summoned her after all. 

“Tomorrow you’ll be back forever?” her champion asked, a hint of pleading desperation behind the lenses of His glasses. She knew that other versions of herself had been lost to Him or had taken Him quite some time to meet. He didn’t want to lose her again. 

“Well, as long as forever can truly be. But yes.” 

The relief on His features gave her hope that she might be enough for Him who had lost so much. 

The moment was ruined when an arrow struck the column beside her with a shout of accusation from the zombie. In an instant her champion had drawn His bow and fired an arrow at the zombie. It didn’t connect, a warning shot, but an efficient one. Her other selves had not been mistaken, He hadn’t hesitated to defend her despite there being no harm done. 

“Mister Zombie. I think you dropped this arrow.” She said pointedly, pulling it from the stone and throwing it back to him while he continued to make accusations about who’d fired the shot. He opened his mouth to make an excuse but stumbled back when her champion rammed into him with a trident’s magic. The other’s laughed at the zombie’s expense, the zombie joining a moment later, clearly used to the teasing.

“That sounds like one of my brother’s ‘pranks’.” She chuckled along with them. 

The priest tried to revisit her avoidance of the mention of the great evil but her champion asked further of her brothers. Whether He knew he was giving her a way to avoid answering the priest she wasn’t sure, but either way she took the opportunity. 

“Mia would prank us both. No idea why.” She told him, confused by their surprise.

“Mianite does pranks? Not Dianite?” Her champion asked, eyebrows furrowed in disbelief.

What world did they come from where Dianite was the mischievous one? Neither of her brothers were particularly ruthless, though she supposed Mianite was the one who more often started quarrels between them. 

“But, really, I think I should leave.” She told them, frowning slightly at the disappointment on His face. “If I can come back, maybe my brothers can too. Go see them!” She urged. She’d had her time to speak with the heros, her brothers deserved the same chance. She knew that they were just as eager to meet them as she was. 

“Ok, we will.” Her champion assured her. 

The Priest spoke further to them and she took the chance to look around. Despite the issue with the portrait, it really was a lovely temple. The portrait was clue enough that He’d known her before, for if she’d never seen Him in this world then He’d never seen her here either. He’d chosen colors and materials she was fond of as well. It was magnificent, truly.

“Good to see you my lady.” He said once the other’s had left. There was a fondness in His voice that sent a flutter of joy through her heart. He left without another word, following His friends to summon one of her brothers. 

“Glad to finally meet you, my Champion.” She whispered, letting go of the strength that kept her here and returning home. 

She was in the sea cave once more when she opened her eyes but now she felt a lightness in every breath. He was everything she’d expected and she could hardly wait to get to know Him better. He was not the husband of one of her lives, nor was He the warrior of the darker lives. She was hesitant to get her hopes too high, but He might just be the man who’d brought her to life in the world where she hardly existed. 

That night, as she fell asleep, Ianite dreamed of the world where she had been married to Him. Except now, it was not the husband she saw, instead He wore red glasses and was surrounded by others, His friends, as they celebrated a victory she felt the significance of even now. She was not there corporeally, but instead was a spirit of herself. She was present in the consciousness of the spirit as a tome was placed in His pocket, this version of herself’s final words to Him. She watched as He found the tome and began to read it out loud to His friends.

“...The man is faced with a choice between the two. His life is riddled with choices! And like the stubborn idealist he is, he carves out a middle path. He’ll take neither god. He’ll have a goddess all to his own...” He had a smile on his face and tears in his eyes as he read, for in this realm he had lost his goddess. 

It is upon the final words that Ianite knows that this is the version of Him who she has met. He always looked the same but it was in His eyes that she saw the same respect and trust she’d seen in the temple. Not the loving adoration of the husband, nor the resolved acceptance of the warrior. 

The voice of herself that had been imprisoned echoed in her mind. “Treat him well and treat him fairly young one. He deserves it after all he has done for us.”

[bad-boy-spanker]

Austere Academy:Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Green extended his hand, Jack was taken aback by the kindness in his eyes, this was the guy who spanked men to tears, he looked friendly, caring, maybe AJ was just trying to mess with him, Jack smiled & shook Green's hand warmly.

"Jack Moore, nice to meet you, Gaz"

Green chuckled to himself.

"Thank you, now I don't mind you calling me Gaz while we're alone, but if we're around others, it's probably better that you call me sir"

Call him sir, was this guy taking the piss, they were the same age.

"Now, before we get to the tour, there's some business we need to take care of"

Green led Jack over to AJ.

"AJ here told me that you kept him waiting, normally I would spank you for that, but AJ should have given you the brochure before giving you your uniform, you didn't know the rules yet, AJ did, so you will not be getting spanked, AJ will"

Jack didn't know what to say, wasn't AJ was staff, he wasn't going to spank a member of staff, was he, Jack watched as Green unclasped AJ's trousers, & pulled them down to his ankles, his Calvin Klein's soon joined them, Jack noticed the pink spots on AJ's arse where Green had slapped him, Jack already thought AJ had a nice arse, it looked even better bare, you could see the fine hairs that covered it & what looked like faint marks, maybe from a recent caning, Green sat on the bonnet of the car, grabbed AJ by the ear, & bent him over his knee, the first hard slap landed on AJ's unsuspecting arse, bringing Jack back to his senses, a red handprint was now forming over the pink spot on AJ's left arse cheek, soon followed by a similar one on the right, as Green spanked, he began admonishing AJ.

"This is the second time this has happened AJ, you're a senior, I expect better"

Jack now understood what was going on, AJ was a senior, not staff, he thought it couldn't be right a staff member getting spanked, Green spanked AJ hard & fast, barely taking a second between slaps.

"Ah-ha"

The pain had started to build in AJ's bum, he moved from side to side trying to escape Green's punishing strikes, but Green held him in place, he began focusing some of his spanks on AJ's thighs, causing AJ to buck.

"Ah-ha-ha"

Jack winced as he watched Green punish AJ, he felt for him, it was a mistake, mind you, if AJ hadn't said anything, it would be Jack in his position, his arse red & burning, after a few more minutes of harsh spanking AJ, began to cry out.

"Ah-ha-ha, I'm sorry sir, ah, it was a simple mistake, ah, it won't happen again"

Green kept on spanking, tears formed in AJ's eyes, his bum was stinging badly, he couldn't take it, he started crying.

"Please, sir, I'm sorry, please"

Green stood AJ up & bent him over the car, bending down to retrieve the belt out of AJ's trousers, which he folded & handed to Jack, Jack took the belt, confused as to why Green gave it to him, but Green's intention soon became apparent.

"Now AJ, it's only fair that Jack here has some part in your punishment, as it would have been his bare bottom I was spanking if you hadn't told me the truth, he's going to give you five with the belt, then we're done"

Still sobbing, AJ nodded his head, Green guided Jack into position behind AJ & gave him the go-ahead, Jack didn't want to spank AJ, he'd never spanked anyone before, he fumbled a bit but eventually raised the belt & brought it down on AJ's burning arse.

"Ah"

Jack felt terrible, he could already see a welt forming, but he swung again.

"Ah-ha"

Jack whipped three, four & five down quickly, but not with much force, still enough to make AJ writhe, his sore red arse jiggling as he did, Green gave a bit of a disapproving look, he didn't want Jack letting AJ off easily.

"Ah-ha-ha"

The last one had to be good, Jack didn't want to end up in Green's bad books, he drew his arm high & slammed the belt into AJ's arse.

"Ah-ha-ha-ha ha-ha"

AJ remained bent over just sobbing as Jack handed the belt back to Green, Green rubbed the boys back & helped him pull his shorts up, AJ wiped his face & put his belt back on, he threw his arms around Green, who hugged him back equally as tight, Jack didn't understand how AJ could hug the guy who had just spanked, AJ & Green hugged for a minute or so, AJ promising it wouldn't happen again, & Green reassuring him it was forgotten, AJ said goodbye to Jack & ran inside, still rubbing his sore bum, Green turned to Jack.

"Well, now you've seen how I deal with lateness, I trust you'll be at all your lessons on time, Jack"

Too fucking right, Jack thought, no way he wanted to be on the receiving end of that.

"Yes, sir"

Green's smile reappeared.

"Quick learner, that'll serve you well here, come on, I'll show you around"

Green put his arm around Jack's shoulders & led him inside, as they entered the main building, Jack was taken aback by how modern the décor was, from the outside it looked like an old, stuffy, boarding school, the interior, however, was chic, light grey walls, with light wood floors & sleek, comfy looking furniture, as Jack was admiring some of the artwork, Green was explaining the role of a senior.

"Being a senior means you can be trusted to have certain privileges, like AJ, for example, he's our driver, he picks up new students, seniors are still students, but they have responsibilities, they are also authorized to enforce discipline"

Jack turned his head at Green's last comment before he had time to ask a question, Green walked him into a classroom, it was filled with young men, all dressed in white shirts, with black ties & black trousers, each at an individual desk, all sat in front of a MacBook, Jesus they got fucking MacBook's, how was this place a reform school.

"This is the finance class, run by Mr. Ian Shaw, sorry to interrupt Mr. Shaw, just showing the new lad round"

The man stood at the front of the class turned his head, fuck he's gorgeous, he had shaggy dark hair, a stubbly chin & icy blue eyes, like some sort of vampire, he was wearing dark blue jeans, a bluey grey button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up, he had to be in his early forties, total DILF, big shoulders & a nice arse, Jack was enchanted.

"No worries, Mr. Green, I was just teaching Stephen Allen here a lesson in listening"

Jack was so busy drooling over Mr. Shaw, he failed to notice the man bent over the desk, his trousers around his ankles, & his smooth, toned arse, a bright shade of red, before Jack could process, Shaw slammed a plimsoll down on the lowest part of Stephens arse, Stephen let out a loud cry, without missing a beat Shaw, slapped down four swats, Stephen wriggled over the desk, Jack thought he'd probably do the same.

"Are you ready to listen to me now"

"Yes, sir"

Stephen choked out between sobs.

"Good, now stand up, put your hands on your head, & make your way to the wall"

As Stephen stood up, Jack gasped, Stephen was easily in his late thirties, dark blonde hair, buzzed short all over, a trimmed beard, with sad, blue eyes, he was a full-grown man, & here he was in tears, with his red arse on display, Green & Shaw exchanged pleasantries, as Jack stood shocked at what had unfolded, he was getting a few leering stares from some of the guys, not that he minded, there were some good looking lads in this class, Jack was finding it hard to believe that they were all ok with what had just happened, Stephen was a grown man & he willingly bent over to get his bare arse spanked, like a petulant teenager, why did they just take it, before they left to head to Green's office, Green turned to Stephen.

"I’ll see you tonight, Stephen”

Stephen looked at Green miserably, his eyes still red from crying, he gave a sniffle as they left, & Green confirmed to Jack that he would be giving Stephen an over the knee spanking before bed, Jack felt sorry for Stephen, his arse already looked so sore, he wondered how anybody could take another spanking, after what Stephen had just suffered, his thoughts were disrupted however when he was bumped into.

“Watch where you’re going”

It was that Callum guy from the brochure, before Jack could respond, Green delivered a harsh slap to Callum’s pert arse.

“Callum, where are your manners, apologize right now”

Callum huffed & sarcastically smiled at Jack.

“Sorry, newbie”

Green rolled his eyes.

“Don’t start, Callum”

Callum smirked at Green.

“Whatever”

Jack smiled at Callum’s attitude, Green wasn’t so impressed, five slaps landed on Callum’s arse, making him squirm.

“Owah”

Callum glared at Green, after the spanking Green gave AJ, Jack couldn’t believe Callum would dare answer Green back.

“Get moving Callum”

Callum sauntered off, despite his bravado, Jack noticed Callum rubbing his arse as he strutted down the hall.

“You’d be wise to steer clear of Callum there, he’s been on punishment parade for the past three months, I’d demote him from senior, but deep down, he’s a good lad, just got a bad attitude, which usually dissipates after he’s spent some time over my knee”

Jack thought about Callum’s tight arse bent over Green’s knee, he’d love to see that, Callum kicking his legs as Green spanked away his cocky attitude, he was getting hard just thinking about it, he discreetly covered his bulge as they entered Green’s office & sat down.

“Now that you’ve had the tour Jack, any questions”

Of course, he had questions, could the seniors spank other students, why did they just take it, was the mouth soaping thing real, he wanted to know everything but didn’t know where to start, so said nothing.

“Not really sir”

Green smiled at Jack, he could tell he was a bit shaken up, they all were when they first arrived, he’d adjust in time.

“Then there’s only one thing to cover before you’re dismissed.

Jack nervously shifted in his seat, he had a feeling he wasn't going to like what Green had to say.

“It’s time for your first Austere Spanking”

[five-wow]

i’m watching 10.21!!! [insert excited but apprehensive noises]!!!

by the time you’re reading this i’ll be done watching, so as always, thoughts under the cut:

i opened up the episode, steve’s voice said “previously on ha-” and i paused it because i actually need some food before i do anything right now.

food (and coffee that is 90% milk) acquired! the previously on is just the last few seconds of the previous episode, and oof, it reminded me how hilariously evil this micheal claypool sounded with that intense british accent they gave him (surprise twist: the h50 finale is actually the new bond movie), but now he just showed up on steve’s doorstep and he looks like a really kind somewhat older man, gosh.

steve: “please uh, come on in and make yourself at home.” danny, wherever he is right now: “NINE YEARS. I HAD TO WAIT NINE YEARS AND THIS GUY JUST SHOWS UP AND-”

mr. claypool comes in, sits down, hands a still standing steve a letter and then gathers his coat and briefcase and is immediately back out the door, fdjkfd. also, omfg, i don’t like that doris is still causing drama from the grave, but i have to say, it’s impeccably in character, at least.

steve looks a little disbelieving and unhappy about the contents of the letter, which is not great. it couldn’t have been just a nice “hello my son, sorry you’ve had to live without me for these past four months, i wanted to tell you one last time that i love you and hope you’re doing well”, could it? (for that matter, does mary get a letter??? it always feels like mary either got out in time by not going into anything like law enforcement and therefore not getting pulled into her family legacy of dangerous shit all the time, or like she’s just been outright rejected by their parents who keep building all of their mysteries around steve.)

okay so now we’re watching a woman and her son being held hostage by two criminals who probably killed a cop and want her to stitch one of them up, and obviously they’re bad guys, but one of them just said “think bus boy’s got a thing for you” about the dude who just rang the doorbell and hand delivered a toy the kid had forgotten at a diner and yes!!! i agree!!! and it looked super cute so maybe you could just put your guns away and let them fumble around each other for a little before one of them finally asks the other out on a date and then they end up as a really cute little family.

oh SHIT crush guy just burst into the apartment and really, really seems to know his way around a gun and how to hold his own in a fight against armed criminals. oh! ohhhh, this is the new character they were going to introduce that would potentially have become a cast member if the show had continued without steve, isn’t it? ahhh. that makes sense.

while the woman calls the police, crush guy (who heroically saved her and her son and got shot in the process) just. leaves. that’s not suspicious at all!

the intro!!! feelings!!!

we’re at the cemetary where john mcgarrett rests so i expected to be shown steve, but instead we get?? danny rolling up in the camaro to look at steve crouched by the grave? oh my gosh. ten times better.

danny is SO WORRIED. and he is RIGHT because steve is acting very unlike steve.

fdjkfdjk OF COURSE doris’s message is a bunch of symbols. doris!!! you do not write goodbye messages to your son in wingdings!!! be a good mother for maybe once, perhaps, my gosh!!!

!!!!! steve telling danny he just doesn’t think he really cares anymore and wants to be done with doris’s whole thing is !!!!! very good!!!! i am using too many exclamation points and very aware of it but !!!!!!

i just. look. i just. steve has SAD FEELINGS and he TALKS ABOUT THEM with DANNY and this is pretty much a dream come true. YES. not the sad feelings, i’d rather have happy feelings, but after everything these characters have gone through they need to acknowledge that there are sad feelings before happy feelings can be had.

also, omfg, i had a brief heart attack because steve says joe’s name but he says it with an abandoned “and” kind of tacked onto it, a little mumbly, so it sounds like “losing joe’n- and mom” and for a long moment i was like, losing joan?? what?? because that would not be okay, holy shit, no.

on a lighter note, steve: “i’ll drive.” what a suprise!!! truly a shocking turn of events. :p

yes, steve, antagonize the scary-looking dude who is grieving over his dead brother while standing over the dead brother’s body in the morgue. i’m sure that’s a brilliant plan.

wait what, we suddenly see adam and junior who are talking on the phone because junior called adam to give him an update, and then adam goes, right, but the bad guys don’t know the address yet, and we do! and it turns out he is. standing in the apartment both parties are looking for right at that second. uh. communication, adam, dear lord.

there is some team organizing in hq around the case and then they all disperse and danny looks ready to follow steve into his office but then he gets distracted by tani asking to talk to him for a minute, and then they go out onto a BALCONY that i don’t remember ever having seen before? omg. secret headquarters balcony.

tani asks about steve!! she is worried too!! i’m forgetting about the balcony betrayal and having intense feelings again.

fdjkfd danny tells tani that steve has been running non-stop and is getting burned out and tani asks “alright, well, what are we gonna do about it?” and with absolutely zero hesitation danny goes “i’m gonna force the issue.” i don’t even think that’s a bad plan per se! but the quick and determined way he says it has me laughing anyway, like danny’s been daydreaming while the team was talking about their case and thinking, hm, what can i do to help steve? i know! i’m going to push him in a corner and keep him there and make him FEEL his FEELINGS. danny’s solution here is to throw a grenade at steve, but like, one full of love and caring and hopefully pancakes.

danny is telling tani that he’s seriously concerned about steve’s functioning on the job at the moment and meanwhile steve is out with junior interviewing a guy with an axe. fdjkfd.

okay so steve and junior catch the bus boy crush heroic rescuer guy (whose name is cole) and he won’t talk, and then junior arrives back at hq and tani comes out of her office to talk about steve again, ahhh. she is so worried! and junior is extremely uncomfortable because he feels like he has to defend steve and he ends up saying that steve will deal with things in his own way and oh junior, no, sometimes being hurt and pushing it away is not the best thing. even MORE reasons why steve needs to work through this in a healthy way: he’s setting a very destructive example for junior.

meanwhile steve is chilling on the floor of their rendition room “interviewing” cole all on his own, which seems to boil down to psychoanalyzing cole in a way that sounds suspiciously like steve’s pulling apart pieces of his own mind but attributing all of the problems to cole because that’s way safer than admitting that maybe most of these are his own issues, too, that he’s giving voice to for probably the first time ever.

steve to himself cole: “you’ve been here in this hole since [name of place where tragedy happened]. you‘ve put yourself there.” SUBTLE.

fdjkfd i paused at the perfect moment because immediately after that sentence cole goes “you know, something tells me i could say damn near the same thing about you” and uh, yes. thank you for making my point in-universe, cole, gosh.

steve: [gives a hard stare for a second and then switches back to cole’s current situation without addressing cole’s comment at all]

ahhhh there is a shot that starts with lou, tani and quinn around the tech table analyzing a video that shows our Bad Guys of the moment holding the poor diner lady and her kid hostage (again!) and then moves smoothly through steve’s glass door into his office where he and danny are having a heated discussion about the case and twirls around them. that was very cool!

so the bad guys want cole or they won’t release their hostages, cole wants to do it, danny wants him to do it and convinces steve after multiple little scenes of them disagreeing about it, and then military police comes in and takes cole away, preventing them from actually carrying out their plan. oops!

and THEN cole escapes out of a vehicle with three men guarding him, hah. i’m definitely seeing the heavy handed parallels with steve they’re throwing at us, omg.

danny about cole to steve: “i think this guy might be crazier than you.” i kind of love that every time a new intended team member shows up (tani, junior, i'm pretty sure quinn too?), danny has to compare them to steve in some way. it’s a rule. every time anyone says something vaguely snarky steve physically can’t stop himself from saying “ah, did you know you sound just like danny williams?” and every time someone does something ill-advised yet heroic, danny is obligated by the universe and the wiring of his own heart to go “ugh, you remind me of steve.”

cole gets a pass because he did good stuff and is a war hero, steve and cole make friends, and then cole says he noticed the cypher on steve’s desk and we’re back to the thing i thought this episode would focus on way more heavily.

steve HAS been doing research to try to crack it! danny was right about steve not being able to let this go.

cole knows a guy who’s good at cracking codes! i guess that’s a neat way to connect him to steve’s finale plot and move it along at the same time, haha.

steve is still at the office when his phone rings and it’s danny and then steve walks onto his beach where danny is waiting for him in their two chairs with two beers, and i love that, especially because we don’t hear danny’s side of the phone conversation but it was a very short scene so what did he say, exactly? “come home, i’m lonely, i have beer”?

steve: “what’s the face, you got a face on, your face” fdjkfd. eloquent!

SCREAMING. “you think lincoln is my new bff? yo, no one can replace you, you’re my danno!” i am. oh my gosh. this is steve reassuring HIMSELF, not danny, but it is also incredibly sweet and YOU’RE MY DANNO. now THAT’S the kind of content i want. yes. good. holy shit.

danny says to stop doing “that”, by which he means deflecting, and steve just goes “okay” and looks uncomfortable but starts talking anyway and i LOVE THEM. this is a good, healthy friendship.

steve: “i kinda feel like i’ve been protecting everybody except for myself, does that make sense?” YES. YES, STEVE, IT DOES, and i am VERY GLAD you’re saying those words with your own mouth.

i am making very high pitched noises at the moment. a) steve says he can’t take a break “here” because there are too many memories and that SCARES ME because he SHOULD NOT LEAVE THE ISLAND but also really really validates a fic idea i’ve had for ages in a way that i love, b) steve says “i will say this is how i thought it would end for us, couple old guys, sitting on a beach, watching sunsets” and YES oh my gosh, and c) then DANNY GOES, “i mean that sounds great to me, we can still do that” and HELLO YES it is SO GOOD to hear them VOICE these things that they’ve obviously both wanted for literal years and which we’ve been shown through steve’s clinginess when danny wanted to retire and danny’s bringing steve in on the restaurant thing and danny’s literal dream of him and steve sitting on that very beach as old men with steve telling him he loves him. just, my gosh, this is all those things but put into words that they are saying and it is very validating and sweet and necessary and scares me very much about where this is going, but for the moment i adore it.

the episode has two and a half minutes left and i’m kind of feeling like this is enough. let’s just end it here. happy end, guys, let’s all go home! except steve and danny, who are already there, obviously, and should do the opposite of move, ever.

OH. OHHH. steve tells danny he doesn’t know anymore and danny looks sad and then steve continues about how he’s been trying to distract himself with stuff like “a bunch of dating, which was nice, but didn’t help” and the RESTAURANT gets a mention though i’ll admit it’s one that’s very confusing because steve says “when it closed”, which... it didn’t, as far as we had been told until now? isn’t kamekona still running it? i always assumed he’d have turned it into a very successful bussiness venture.

danny looks UNHAPPY ABOUT THINGS STEVE IS SAYING and i relate, while i’m at the same time weirdly very very proud of him for saying these things? i don’t want him to feel this unsure about everything (particularly whether he can stay in hawaii, because it seems that’s what he’s talking about and that’s Bad), but it is a needed breath of fresh air to have stuff that happened and that he’s been bottling up for ages actually impact him emotionally.

okay, fjdksfdjslfs, danny suggests steve should GO TO JERSEY and says that steve has NEVER BEEN and i get that this is mostly kind of a joke but actually YES, STEVE. GO THE FUCK TO JERSEY. that would be perfect! danny can subtly follow you under the guise of an extended visit to family and you can spend time there together exploring danny’s home state instead of steve’s and you can come back home to hawaii when you’re ready and it would be beautiful and a very nice, symbolic way to end the show. we start with danny moving to hawaii to find a home there, and we end with with steve moving to jersey to realize where his home is.

this argument though, it’s giving me life. steve when danny starts suggesting other places, angrily, for no good reason: “now i HAVE to go.” danny, both giving and getting up: “i’m gonna get another beer.” steve, calm again: “okay, i’m gonna go to jersey.” danny: [walks away while steve yells after him about all the recommendations he’ll need for when he’s in jersey]

danny is inside to get the beer, hears a noise, finds a burglar at steve’s desk, fights him, destroy half the living room and is found by steve who also heard noise from the house and suddenly keeps saying “yo” to danny a lot this episode.

of course the burglar was there for the cypher that doris sent steve, because she can never just pop up in steve’s life in a way that isn’t  somehow dangerous to him and everyone around him. it was good, though!!! a very nice cliffhanger.

final thoughts: VERY GOOD, VERY INTENSE EPISODE. i liked cole more than i expected for a character that gets introduced as potential main cast in the last two episodes of a show that’s by now already been cancelled (that could have been problematic, but i think the writers handled it well by brick-to-the-face using him to explore steve’s issues) and i love danny being so worried about steve and tani following his lead and wanting to talk to everyone close to steve about how worried she is, too, and everything steve says has ME worried about how they’re going to end this, but so far, it’s also amazing A+ perfect fanfic fuel, holy effing shit. EMOTIONS. FEELINGS. STEVE HAS THEM. it’s literally that easy to please me, fdjkfd.

and i will say that while i’m worried about him and he’s clearly hurting and there are ways the show could take this that i won’t like (steve leaving the island at the end of the show while danny stays, mainly, which would be kind of horrible in all kinds of ways), i do somewhat love seeing steve deal with the fact that he’s older than he was ten years ago, he’s never really worked through all of the incredibly horrible shit life kept heaping on him, and he’s just getting really damn tired of everything. old, tired steve is a good thing; it’s the start of a new chapter, one where he hopefully doesn’t keep clinging to that endless denial of hurt and his tendency to put the job above everything including his own mental and physical health. i just hope, hope, hope that this last chapter that we actually get to watch play out on screen will be one that ends in a place that feels right, because this could either end perfectly or so, so badly. 🤞

[zayray030]

Unlucky Things, Become the Best Things

Summary: Iris contemplates her life as she holds her goddaughter, named Moira Anaya Queen Harper, and how everything led to this moment. And honestly she wouldn't change it for the world.

A/N: First actual story so be nice please. This will most likely be a really long one-shot, so buckle up. Please Like, reblog and comment.

Iris really wanted to escape the current situation she was in. The ‘situation’ was having a bunch of creepy middle aged men cornering her into some alley trying to sweet talk her into going home with them. Now, normally, she would have fought back, but currently she was drunk off her ass in Starling city trying to get a lead on the Hood to get some brownie points for her journalism class. At this point though, no story was worth this.

“Please leave me alone” she tried to say. She would not resort to begging. She was a middle classed black woman and she would have her respect. She now understands why her dad always made her carry a gun with her at all times. Oh, what she would do just to be between her father and Barry again.

“Come on sweetheart. Just one night. Bet we can make a girl like you feel good” said one of the guys mockingly making the rest burst out in loud laughter as well. She wanted to punch him really badly but she knew that the chances of her actually winning were slim to none, especially considering her current state.

“No thank you, I'm good. I don't need anyone making me feel good.” she replied. And also just because when she was drunk she had no filter “I also doubt the likes of you could make me feel good anyway.” Sometimes she just hated the fact that she was one of those people who didn't have a filter when they were drunk.

“Now come on, don't be like that. As if anyone would want to come near a filthy -” whatever he was going to call her was cut off by the arrival of a boy in a red hoodie slamming into him.

“Didn't you hear the girl. She said no” he sounded pissed and if Iris was less drunk she would have swooned. However she was drunk and all she wanted was a hug from her best friend telling her that she was beautiful.

“And what are you going to do laddie?” asked one of the goons leering into him making Iris want to puke up whatever meal she had at the hotel she was staying in. She didn't exactly have it in her to remember what she ate.

“This.” he said before taking out a knife and that's when all hell broke loose.

*

In the morning Iris woke up covered in a blanket on a couch and the smell of eggs cooking and a boy humming. She also woke up to a killer hangover but that's to be expected. However the part where there is a boy humming isn't and she would be disturbed at the second part if she didn't feel her clothes from last night, that consisted of a small black dress, fishnet tights and a pair of heels on her body. Still she kept her guard up.

“So sleeping beauty awakes?” he asked sarcastically when he saw her awake. She remembered him from the boy who saved her last night and if he wasn't that guy and if she wasn't such a nice person, she would have given a full lashing. Only fair considering she has to wake up to a killer hangover.

“Bitch, I'm a queen and I'll wake up whenever I feel like it.” she snapped at him. Iris felt slightly guilty but sue her. She woke up from a killer hangover on a strangers couch and the only thing she remembers from last night were the creeps from last night and that's not exactly something pleasant to remember.

“Well, it looks like someone is not a morning person. I'm hurt. I would have thought you would spare me considering I saved you.” he commented lightly, not really taking offence to what she said. He seemed mostly amused if anything and Iris was not in the mood. Saviour or not, she was hungry and pissed as well as lost.

“ You wake up with a killer hangover, starving, scared and in someone else's house and I'll like to see you be a morning person.” she snarked back. No one was going to make this morning more insufferable than it was. She idly wondered what Barry was doing this morning and if he missed her.

“Fair enough. But still, don't I get a thank you for saving your life.” he replied, unruffled by her rudeness. She wanted to smack him. She hates morning people. Except for Barry, because he's Barry. Not like that meant anything.

“I'll thank you by not kicking your ass into next week if you don't give me those eggs.” she snapped. And then looked down suddenly feeling guilty. She should be nicer to him. She shouldn't be this rude.

The boy must have noticed her bashfulness. He didn't comment on it, instead handing a tray with eggs and toast along with coffee.

“Feisty. So where was that spirit last night?” he asked. Owch. Low blow.

“Drunk of its ass. What's your name, by the way.” she asked. She needed a name. Their first meeting might have been unconventional and their second isn't going any better, but she will get the guys name.

“Understandable. Next time however, if it decides to get drunk off its ass, drink somewhere safe and bring someone you trust along. Also the name’s Roy. Roy Harper”

“Thank you for the advice Roy Harper. I'll be sure to remember that. And also, really. Thank you so much for saving me last night.”

“No sweat. A few bruises and cuts but U think it's worth it.” he replied, rubbing the back of his neck. Oh yeah. The fight. How can she forget. She however found it odd that she didn't feel any pain anywhere else on her body. Last she remembers was a lot of blood and screaming. A lot of cursing as well and some crying.

“Why don't I…” she trailed off. The question was simple enough. Why doesn't she have any wounds?

“I protected you. You were crouched down too far for them to reach you. I just grabbed you and pushed you in front of me to make sure they wouldn't be able to get a clean shot. Must have done something right .” he said, like it was no big deal. However to Iris, this man saved both her life and a lecture from her dad on why she couldn't be a cop.

“Thank you.” she beamed at him. The tips of his ears were turning red and Iris couldn't help the laugh that escaped her. But suddenly she had an awakening that had her groaning against the mouthful of  eggs that she was eating. “Where's my purse!?” She knows she could have been nicer when asking but her purse had all her valuable stuff including a picture of her and Barry that her father took and she was not about to lose that.

“Don't worry sleeping beauty, it's right here.” said Roy handing her her purse “You might want to check your notifications quickly. Especially a voicemail from a guy called, Bear?” he seemed confused by the nickname but Iris didn't have the time to explain it to him at the moment.

Iris quickly took her purse, zipped it open and after rummaging in her purse she found her phone and she couldn't keep the quiet sob of relief to herself. Roy leaned back, looking slightly scared at the idea of having to comfort a female crying. Men. Well not Barry. He would listen and let her cry freely.

She quickly took out her phone and unlocked it entering the day that her and Barry had their imaginary wedding. When she opened it up there were a ton of messages from her dad and a ton more from Barry. She replied to Barry first knowing that he would report to her dad quicker than her father will report to him.

She tried to call him but it went to voicemail after a few rings. She quickly left him a message though “Hey Barry, I know I should have called you yesterday but I just felt really tired and wanted to go to sleep. Tell my dad that I'm coming back today or tomorrow depending on things. Also don't worry. Cop's daughter and all. I'll be able to handle myself.” Iris didn't know how she felt about lying to her best friend but she knew if she told him what actually happened he would tell her dad and her dad would enforce more ridiculously high rules in her. The sexism was unbelievable.

“Why did you lie to your boyfriend? Don't want him knowing that you're with another guy?” he asked teasingly. She didn't know whether she wanted to slap him or not. She settled on not and got right back to her aggs. After taking a bite and slowing it slowly she answered.

“A) He is not my boyfriend. B) Barry knows that I won't cheat on him so yeah I wouldn't lie to him about that.'' She was lucky sometimes that she was born with such dark skin. It concealed the blush she was feeling at the incredulous eyebrow raise that Roy directed at her. “C) The reason I lied was because if I told him the real reason on what happened he would tell my dad and my dad will enforce some more sexist rules to ‘protect’ me.” she couldn't help but put quotation marks on the word protect. It was more like keeping her in the dark.

“Ah, overprotective father I see

What else is he? A cop?” he asked sarcastically. However when she nodded he huffed out a breath but looked over at her again and smirked. “Ya know. For a cop's daughter, you're not that bad. Unless you're a cop yourself?” he asked. He seems blase about the whole thing but when Iris looked at his eyes, it held a small form of fear. She couldn't help but soften up to him. Not pity. But soften. Pity was disgusting. It's what people had when Barry told them that his mother died. It was what people had when she told them that her mother was gone.

“Nope. Tried though. My dad gave me the silent treatment until I changed.” she replied casually, but there was a small hint of hurt.

“Emotionally manipulative, overbearing and a cop for a father. Oof. You drew the short straw.” he fired back at her easily. Even though she knew it wasn't a jab at her, she still felt the need to protect her father.

“And yours?” Immediately she felt bad. He curled in slightly in on himself. “Shit, should not have said that. This morning just keeps getting better and better doesn't it.” she groaned out flopping backwards making sure that her empty tray was on the coffee table before flopping back on the couch.

“It's okay. People have done it in more dickish times. Plus, I fired that first shot.”

He reassured her. He then seemed to have made an ultimate discovery because he quickly opened his mouth to add something back on. “Also, what's your name. Kinda didn't get it while you were eating your eggs.” he asked.

“Iris West.” Iris replied to him. She smiled slightly at him. She felt better. She had a full stomach but her headache was going to kill her.

“Well Iris.” he said as he got up “Do you want me to drop you at your hotel or are you spending time at a friend's?” he asked, walking to the kitchen area part of the place and sticking his head in a cabinet. He came back a few seconds later with a bottle of headache pills.

“Hotel.” she replied quickly taking the pills from him and drowning them with whatever was left of her coffee. “And if you wouldn't mind.” she added at the end. He seemed trustworthy. At least he hasn't asked for ‘repayment’ for saving her from the night before.

Suddenly there was the sound of the door opening and Iris quickly pulled the blanket all the way up from where it was on her lap.

“Hey Roy I was worried when you didn't show up at work and i-” began a thin, pretty brunette before she turned after dropping her bags down and stopped when her eyes landed on Iris.

“Thea, this is Iris. I-” Rou began but Iris cut him off. She wasn't going to be saved from being questioned by his girlfriend or whoever that was.

“I can introduce myself, bookaroo.” she said testily. She then turned to Thea, keeping one hand on the blanket, she extended the other to shake the other females hand. “Hi my name is Iris West. Some creeps didn't know what no meant so your boyfriend saved me. And I seriously admire your patience levels. I've been with him for like 10 minutes and I have had to restrain myself from slapping him numerous times.” she said sweetly. She heard Roy spluttering indignantly but her eyes were on Thea and when she laughed Iris let out a sigh of relief.

“Tell me about it. But someone has to to have the patience and he's lucky that I like him.” she sweetly said  joining Iris on the coach and instead of shaking her hand she hugged her. Iris returned it slightly surprised but she felt grateful nonetheless at the sweet gesture. Maybe this morning wasn't all that bad.

“Thea!” Roy whined at his girlfriend. He pouted when all she did was giggle at him and send him a smirk.

“Anyway, you look like you need a quick wash, a shower and some new clothes.” said Thea. Iris felt like that she should be insulted but she felt grateful that Thea understood what she needed at the moment. She felt too mortified to actually say anything. “You're lucky I went shopping this morning before coming back. I think I might have a hoodie and some shorts you can tie up with a belt. However with you I think the hoodies might actually be long enough for you not to need that.”

“You're an angel sent from heaven Thea.” Iris said to the girl leaning on to her, her headache disappearing slowly.

“You're welcome. Do your parents-”

“Her dad's sexist and overbearing and I don't know about her mother.” replied Roy for her. She felt grateful. She didn't really want to talk about her father. “And her boyfriend will tell her dad.” he said at the end and Iris felt the urge to hit him again.

“I told you he isn't-” she tried to reply but he cut her off again.

“Sure. He's just your friend.” said Roy.

“What? Can't women and men be friends?” Thea demanded coming to her aid. She felt truly grateful for her right now.

“Sure, they can , but leaving I love you at their voice mails ain't exactly platonic Thea. Especially if said guy is someone who is going to tell you father about something. Especially if you call them first.” he said, trying to placate his girlfriend.

Thea looked down where Iris was in her arms raising her eyebrows for confirmation. When Iris nodded Thea directed the smirk at her but Iris cut her off before she began.

“We can talk about my love life when I'm showered, dressed in comfortable clothes, I've taken my stuff from my hotel room and invited you two to coffee at Jitters in Central City.” said Iris lifting her head up and Thea released her hold on the girl and helped her steady herself to make sure she didn't collapse.

“Of course. Roy, she's using your shower.”

Roy looked like he wanted to argue but thought better of it at the last minute instead taking in Iris's rumpled appearance and deciding that she needed the shower. “Sure.” he said.

“Great. Let me grab my bags and then we'll see what we can work with.” Iris would have protested at the clothes normally but she was confused. What store was open at this hour?

“What store is open at this time?”

Thea and Roy both turned to Iris, Thea looking worried and Roy wary.

“Iris it's noon.”

“WHAT!?!”

*

With Iris showered and changed into a comfortable hoodie and some silk pajama pants and her heels from last night, that Thea spent some time admiring, they all got out of Roy's home.

“So where's your hotel? ” asked Thea as they got into a limo. Another thing that Iris found out was that Thea was Thea Queen. Normally she would have fangirled but she realised that the tabloids were all wrong about Thea. Thea was cool and sweet. And Iris finding out that her boyfriend was Roy, whose an idiot in his own right, made her more normal. Iris realised that's what Thea wants, so she doesn't make a big deal out of it.

“Star Hotel” she replied as she got into the limo, facing Thea and Roy.

“So what brings you from Central City to here?” asked Roy.

“I was trying to get some extra credit for my journalism class by doing something for the Hood.”

“Iris! That's ridiculously dangerous!” scolded Thea gently. Iris would have felt slightly ashamed if it wasn't for the fact that Thea was in Roy's lap and that kinda ruined the effect.

“I know. I'm just trying to prove to both him and Barry that I don't need to be constantly followed everywhere.” replied Iris.

“Oh.” Thea seemed much more sympathetic to her now. “That I could understand. My mother forced my brother to get a body guard and I'm kinda shocked that she didn't do the same for me” said Thea slightly cuddling into Roy. Roy had a small blush on his cheeks from the sweet affection. So, a big guy gets shy with sweet affection? Huh. Cute.

“Poor guy. I can't imagine being a grown man and having someone follow you around constantly” said Iris feeling slightly empathetic to Oliver Queen. She might have swooned about him and demanded every detail about him from Thea any other day or time, but Iris guest that she already got shit like that from other people and she wasn't about to become like those people.

“You know something about that?” asked Roy, raising an eyebrow at Iris trying to cover the red on his cheeks.

“My dad tries to do the same thing to me all the time. All it takes is for me to threaten to move her for him to leave me alone. Although I'm slightly wondering whether I should move to Metropolis instead. It's more sunny there.” said Iris teasingly.

“Starling has its own own charm to it.” replied Roy back, passionate about his city.

“Okay you two, let's get along. And Roy, Iris got attacked last night. Do you really think she would like it after that?” asked Thea, trying to diffuse the situation.

“You shouldn't judge something based on one thing.” replied Roy sounding slightly embarrassed hiding his face in the crook of her neck.

Thea immediately softened and ran her hand through his hair. Clearly that has its own story to it. One that Iris is going to find out one day.

“I can't believe my afternoon is consisting of me being the third wheel.” Iris had to cut into the moment as cute as it was. They were at  the hotel that she was staying in and she quickly needed to catch her train to Central.

Roy blushed a magnificent red colour and Thea just smirked at her.

Part 2

Part 3

[hardtoswallowtruthpills]

Jenna Marbles Didn't "Do Blackface"; Here is How Cancel-Culture Broke the Internet’s Adult in the Room

On May 31, 2020 Jenna Marbles, a well known Youtuber with about 20.3 million subscribers tweeted out in regards to African American’s rights to life and the Black Lives Matter movement. Marbles stated that “This is not a political issue, this is a human rights issue.This is systematic racism and oppression at the hands of law enforcement in our country. We want justice and we want change.  It shouldn't have happened once and it should never happen again.This is not a discussion”. Almost a month later, though, Jenna Marbles released a video on her Youtube channel vaguely titled “A Message”. Her subscribers would come to find when watching this video that Marbles was officially quitting YouTube over messages she had received asking her to address videos that were made in 2011 and 2012 for their “racist” content, as well as asking her to apologize. Marbles obliged, officially ‘canceling herself’ as some have said. Most of her fans are concerned about the break that Jenna Marbles is taking from the internet. Most even begging her not to leave Youtube permanently, but, there are bigger issues within this whole debacle that are being overlooked.

 Mainly, how did we get to the point where the current generation (which yours truly is a part of by the way) is so sensitive, that we harassed, intimidated, and bullied potentially one of the biggest voices on Youtube for the Black Lives Matter movement off the internet for an indefinite amount of time?

Don’t worry dear reader, you probably are wondering what could have possibly caused such a thing. Well, as most media outlets will tell you, Jenna Marbles quit youtube, and in turn the internet, because of accusations of her “doing blackface”. Surface level this sounds bad, doesn't it? It almost seems like her getting driven off the internet by a vocal minority almost seems expected, but remember, this is only surface deep. There's a whole bunch of stuff under the surface that needs to be unpacked, stuff that exposes why those who went after Marbles are, to put it lightly, hypocritical, or if you want it put bluntly, full of it. All of them though, have gone too far. Dear reader, this is a prime example of how the cancel-culture we have created is toxic slacktivism that gets us nowhere, and diminishes real world issues, and inevitably has broken one of the internet adults in the room.

The video that Marbles addressed in her apology that brought on the blackface accusations was one in which she did an “impression” of Niki Minaj. Here's the thing though...she was overly tanned at the time, filming in low lighting, and was wearing a cheap, acrylic, neon pink wig. With all factors combined, it becomes clear that none of this was “blackface” as the slacktivist warriors claim, it was just really bad filming technique. At the end of the video, Marbles even claims that it was “just a joke and that she loves and respects minaj”. We see in this clip one the wig is off, that Marbles was a spray-tan junkie at the time, which was common for girls in their 20’s about a decade ago.

Marbles also went on to apologize for a rap video she did, once again about a decade ago, for an original song called “Bounce on that Dick”. The rap was about toxic masculinity and the misogyny that toxic masculinity encourages. The lyrics express how men constantly brag about penis size or their attempts to sexualize women is ingrained in society's toxic notions of sexuality and masculinity. In this video Marbles, done up as a stereotypical asian man raps "Hey Ching Chong Wing Wong, shake your King Kong ding dong,". In her apology she admits it was racist and wrong and that she has privated the video because of the hurtful stereotype it portrays. Still though, it is being used against her even after apologizing.

Marbles also goes on to mention some of the other private videos on her channel. Claiming that she herself found most of them to be expressions of the internalized misogyny she held within herself back then. All of the videos she mentions in her apology have been privatized instead of deleted, showing in a way that Marbles is not going to pretend like these things didn’t happen, but she is also actively making sure that the videos cannot offend anyone anymore. 

For context, all of the videos that she discussed were around 8 to 10 years old as of this year. Meaning that in the oldest videos, Jenna Marbles would have been 22. Most 22 year olds at the time made mistakes, Jenna Marbles is not an exception to the rule, especially since the internet was becoming a vast place where anyone and everyone could express their thoughts and opinions. Sadly though, it seems this vocal minority that took it upon themselves to harass Marbles for an apology in the name of social justice think that just because she is a public figure, that at 22 she should’ve seen that in 10 years, this would come back to haunt her. The social justice slacktivists that seem to think they have done good in this world also forgot that in 2010, that was the humor of the time. Jenna was participating in humor that, back before cancel culture was really a thing, was considered harmless. She was doing impressions right along Shane Dawson’s Shanaynay, a Ghetto caricature that frequently appeared in videos on his first channel ShaneDawsonTV, or NigaHiga’s fake infomercials that would sometimes contain Ghetto or Gangster impressons and over the top asian impressions. Jenna was right there in terms of misogynistic or sexist stereotyping becoming a joke with Smosh, which compared a “Just Dance” game character to “A Skinny Ron Jeremy”, or comparing soft McDonald's fries to what the penises of men with erectile dysfunction would look like. Needless to say all of these creators couldn't see a decade into the future. It was acceptable to joke about these things back in the day in terms of Youtube culture. Since everyone in 2020 is now overly sensitive to decades old content, though, it is enough to get a creator “canceled”, even if they have shown significant improvement over those 10 years.

This vocal minority deliberately targeted Marbles, and pulled up videos from her past back up in an attempt to find something, anything problematic with her. Mind you, this is someone who’s most exciting, recent content was hydro-dipping a pair of crocs, acid washing old sweatshirts, and throwing a birthday party for her greyhound, complete with treats for the dog, and a  framed picture of Jerry Sinfeld as a birthday gift. Those who contacted her about her past and demanded an apology are directly responsible for what happened. They can claim it was Jenna’s choice to leave as much as they want, but would Jenna have made this choice if she weren’t harassed and bullied to the point where she felt her very existence on Youtube was hurtful? Would she have walked away if she weren’t scared that anything she could possibly say would inevitably offend someone? Most likely, the answer here is no. Instead of educating, or politely correcting past errors in private direct messages, these people decided it was their god-given right to demand an apology for videos that were made 10 years ago. They know that these videos and mistakes don't reflect the Jenna Marbles we all knew for the past 3 years, the one that actually changed and grew from it all.

These people seem clueless that their crusade for clicks and apologies they can turn around and deny under the guise of “the creator not meaning it” are diminishing every aspect of real-life issues and movements. If this continues the way that it is, if Smosh, or NigaHiga, or Shane Dawson are next in line for the cancel-culture call out machine. If they’re next to be accused of deliberately offending people, and when they apologize being told what their intentions were by internet strangers, who’s going to be there when they need big creators to back up their cause the most? The answer is nobody, nobody with a platform will be there to support them.

These people seeking to call out and cancel big name celebrities and public figures for their “racism” are ultimately going to hurt the Black Lives Matter movement. If anyone, celebrity or everyday citizen were on the fence with their support and they saw the Jenna Marbles fiasco, do you think they would be willing to support these movements? Especially in the case of Jenna MArbles, who openly defended the group before the accusations and cancelling began? They probably would be running for the hills. When we let people get away with being toxic, we are complicit in cancel-culture, If we are calling someone out for something that happened a decade ago, if we feel the need to air out their dirty laundry, without first addressing that the ones doing the aring out may have their own dirty laundry, then we let hypocrites get away with their hypocrisy. If you honestly support the Black Lives Matter movement, you would understand that change comes through education of the self and others, through protest, through showing those in power that we will no longer stand for their oppression of the minority. What does not bring about change is liking comments that harass people for mistakes made a decade ago, by canceling anyone over these mistakes, by driving a woman away from a platform where millions could’ve heard the message that she was trying to spread because of the entitled and toxic personality that these people seem to possess. All of this is driving people away from a social justice movement that is trying to bring about change, and is silencing those who are trying to be heard. Those who participate in this kind of toxic cancel-culture, are making movements like the Black Lives Matter movement an utter joke to those who are trying to understand, or worse, those who like life the way it is, who like their privilege, and want movements like this to be undermined.

In the end, it should be believed that those who called Jenna Marbles out OWE her an apology. Your toxicity drove away a proponent to a movement that could have made a difference. You made a woman who has continually educated herself over the last decade up and leave because you refused to believe that change was possible. These participants also OWE an apology to their closest Black Lives Matter chapter, for they need to understand how much their participation has diminished the message and work of those trying to actually make a difference. Maybe after this experience, they will realize that making a change doesn't happen through cyber-bullying. Perhaps, these people who participated in the cancel-culture that drove away Jenna Marbles will realize that they haven’t done anything to better themselves until they pick up a book from a Black author, or actually take to the streets and march for what should be a basic human right. Besides, maybe marching will also give these people a long-needed lesson on how it feels to have your speech repressed, and how discouraging it is when others won’t listen to what you have to say, just like how they did not listen to all of those apologies they demanded get thrown their way.

For now though, sadly, we get to live with the ramifications of the actions of a few. As long as Jenna is off the internet, there is one less platform bringing the much needed attention to a much needed movement. So, thank you cancel-culture, you silenced someone who has grown and was using their privilege to speak up for the good of those who cannot speak for themselves by claiming they were the very thing they were speaking out against. We all hope you're proud of what you did, that you feel superior for bullying someone. Since you like to cause ramifications like this to come to be, we hope that you ride off this high for a long time, specifically so you leave the rest of those using their platforms and privilege for good alone.

[secretshinigami]

Author: @translightyagami For: @kratqa Pairings/Characters: L, Light Yagami, Kiyomi Takada, Sayu Yagami, Kyosuke Higuchi Rating/Warnings: T for, you know. Murder happening off screen but its still gross. Prompt: Roleswap AU between L and Light. Author’s notes: I hope you like junior sleuths Light and Kiyomi, L and Ryuk having a mutual candy-and-TV = Death Note agreement, and letter-writing, because when I write a fic…you know there’s gonna b letters. i also appreciate your patience with any typos; I am a human with sticky fingers.

To-Oh during spring made Light’s skin crawl: love notes proliferated the campus from students not quite grown out of youthful notions; heat creeping beneath his sweaters, tugging at them as if to say short sleeves begged entrance; and the anniversary of his father’s heart attack—one year past—hung over all the landmarks no matter their relation to cardiac health. In that way, he noticed the newspaper story of the murderer who died of a heart attack blaring on a nearby kiosk. Without any real eye of the bizarre, Light didn’t notice things unless their relevance was near to his own life or those around him. Dark ink stared back at him, a jack-knifed business man laid out next to a graphic discussing murder statistics in the Kanto region. It was of no surprise or consequence to Light, whose policeman father made him all too aware of how life flitted from a people every day.

Slipping payment to the newsstand worker and stalking off to his next class, Light read through the story: a well-liked business man succumbing to a heart attack mid-quarter projections meeting and was found—after a house search was requested by the detective L—to have four intact human skeletons buried in his backyard. The wife, a woman with a name that flew in one ear and out the other, claimed no knowledge of her husband’s cruel hobby of picking up young men and then poisoning them with club drugs concocted in their garage; however, the great detective was said to still hold her in suspicion and no innocence was assumed.

A woman bumped into Light, who flicked his newspaper down and apologized for not paying attention. His thoughts were scrambled between happiness for a murderer slain and a stomachache—born not of bad food but an innate strangeness to what he’d just read. The newspaper went into his bag, the story out of his mind, and Light continued classes at To-Oh without much more than passing conversation devoted to “that criminal who died of a heart attack, can you believe it?”

Which, of course, wasn’t his last thought on the case. He chewed the flavor out of the incident, but in quiet. Light never liked to burden people with more than they could take and while his own voice was his favorite song, he knew people had limits. Off-hand, he mentioned the report to his father at dinner, whose murmured response left Light’s trap shut tight to further inquisitions.

“How troubling,” his father said. “We must treasure every day, and live our lives as honestly as possible.”

Three weeks later, in a smaller column, another criminal’s heart attack was reported; this time, Light didn’t pay for the newspaper as Kiyomi put her copy down in front of him. Her near-despot rule over the school’s journalism outfit drove her to often drop stories in front of him, asking for his interest and time to discuss various dictates of law enforcement. For this story, however, she asked not for his expertise, but instead to prod in tandem with her at the curiosity of it all.

“It’s weird, isn’t it?” She traced a finger over the meager profile shot of the victim, who was discovered post-death to have been collecting severed human fingers in his fridge door. “That one guy dies, turns out to be awful, and then another one?”

“Makes a person want to believe in patterns.” Light looked at her through his lashes, fork to his lips as he took another bite of their shared tart. Whenever they discussed important issues, Kiyomi liked to do it at cafes; Light suspected it was out of journalistic habit, since she took all her interviews to the same place they sat now. “Or even luck, I guess.”

“Luck?”

“Well,” he said, “luck for anyone who would have been those guys’ victims. Luck for the rest of us. Not so much for them.”

Kiyomi took a larger piece of tart, shining with a glazed cherry, and chewed it in vigorous gnashes. “Do you believe in patterns?” Her question was idle, almost absent between chews.

Light shook his head, fork placed down on a napkin and his hand now free to fish his phone from his pocket. “I don’t think there’s anything to this random stuff besides a few jerks getting their comeuppance,” he said. “Nothing but justice, you know. I have to go; my sister texted me.”

Sayu sent him a string of texts, to be honest, about how his mom needed him to come home and help with dinner. Of course, when Light arrived he saw the situation for what it was: his sister needed to watch a TV drama premiere; his mother needed onions chopped; and both of them were unwilling to compromise. Fortunately, the best brother and good son arrived home in time to accommodate them by chopping onions and fending suggestions that he was on a date with Kiyomi.

He fell into his computer chair, swung himself around in lazy circles until his brain became dizzy—one word thoughts all that remained. Onions. Kiyomi. Death. Patterns. Luck. Sticking his foot out, Light halted his movement and froze. In two scoots, he was at his keyboard, and he typed in his query to the Internet as quick as he thought it: Recent Murder Investigations Detective L. After a second, he added quotations around the phrase Detective L and pressed enter. Floods of pixel results washed over him as Light took in link after link to articles covering the great detective who solved any case put on his desk but never revealed himself to the public.

Three articles spoke of specific cases L solved: the Monkey Thief Theory (a jeweled monkey stolen from a well-loved heiress, ultimately found to have been absconded by her own hand); the Pit Viper Peril (a man who used viper venom to poison his business associates); and the Beautiful Woman Break-ins (a woman broke into several of the world’s richest mansions but stole only their fresh fruit. The woman was caught, but no details on her arrest were ever given to the public.) Two articles called L the single most important person in criminal justice history. One article mentioned, albeit as an end note, that L had worked on both cases whose solving had more to do with sudden heart attacks claiming the perpetrators than his own prowess.

A headache formed at the horizon of Light’s skull after reading too close to the screen, so he tried to print the articles. Only one printed all the way—on the second, he ran out of paper and went to Sayu’s room to bug her for using all the printer paper, which she insisted she needed for art.

“You print off pictures of that actor guy in full color and paste them onto your binders,” Light complained. “I need that paper for important stuff. You can’t be so wasteful.”

“It’s the art of collage,” she intoned. “You wouldn’t understand. You don’t have passions like I do, otherwise you’d go out with Kiyomi.”

Light took a third of her printer paper as revenge for the comment and brought in the articles to show Kiyomi. Her eyes were luminous when he arrived at the café table, arms similarly weighted with information which they swapped. She gave him a newspaper with intriguing, if distressing, updates: another man killed by cardiac arrest, revealed to be a secret killer.

“Do you know who was pursuing this one’s death?” He paused, pushing the paper away to give the waitress his full attention and order: black coffee and banana muffin, if they still have some. Kiyomi ordered ahead of him, and her meal sits in front of her pock-holed by her absent bites. In answer, she shakes her head and takes another minuscule clump of her rolled omelet.

“Nobody special was named, if that’s what you’re asking,” she said. “These articles are pretty good, but it’s hard to know whether L has been involved in more without knowing how many heart attack deaths like this have happened.” She gestured with her chopsticks as she continued, pointing at the highlighted National Police Association in the paper’s text. “From what I can gather, the Japanese police are the ones that found the posthumous evidence in the man’s apartment, same as with the other ones.”

“What’s the rub is how would they know?” Light tapped his chin, wristwatch catching café lamp glow and projecting a jiggling circle down on the laminate table. “A heart attack happens, you can just rule that as someone’s poor health, or maybe just a sad stroke of fate. But someone must be alerting police to these people’s suspicious nature for them to be investigating in depth.” He coughed, his next sentence making his throat close in embarrassment, but continued. “Listen. I support the police, you know that, right?”

“Sure,” Kiyomi mumbled around more egg. “You support your dad, at least.”

“Yeah. Well. I know the guys he works with, and while they’re not stupid, there’s no way they got this intuitive so quick.” His muffin slipped in front of him and Light nodded his thanks to the waitress, waiting until she left to pull over one printed article. “Here’s what I know: at least one of these cases was under L’s purview. Who’s to say the other ones aren’t also?”

Discarding the article, Light reached for the condiment caddy and snatched up two creamer cups, while Kiyomi set her chopsticks down in contemplation. Her eyes—dark blue to the point of midnight—scanned both the newspaper and articles. With her mouth pressed together, red lips shining with waxen smoothness, Light could see why she held sway over so much of the school’s masculine consciousness: a beautiful woman who thought before anything. His own attention settled further from attraction and more into an approach toward admiration; she would’ve made a good rival, were he still seventeen and looking for the challenge.

“How would we find out what cases L has worked on?” Kiyomi’s gaze darted from the papers to Light’s coffee, swirling ever more auburn with the creamer added. “Why didn’t you just get a latte, if you’re going to make it so sweet with cream?”

“I like to make things myself.” Light waved his hand to dispel her remark. “I don’t know how to find all the cases lining up to this particular situation, which also have L’s involvement, but I think I can get us to a starting place.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. But I’ll need my computer.” Light took a sip of his coffee and couldn’t resist the pleased smile it brought to his lips: the satisfaction of something useful and pleasurable mixed into one cup. “And about an hour of time, so I’ll probably skip contemporary law today. You don’t have to come, but you can if you like.”

“I should stay, go to class to get notes so you don’t fall behind.” Kiyomi ran her finger around her own teacup, liquid no longer steaming but cool and green with tea leaves solidified at the bottom. “Can I ask you something?” Her voice wavered and Light couldn’t catch its true colors—only flashes of uncertain purple, vulnerable red. “Is it silly to be excited about this? Trying to figure out a mystery together?”

Swallowing, Light pretended not to hear the word together as he knew she meant it: you and me, an item, a duo. “No,” he said. “It’s exciting to solve mysteries, in any case. Every time I’ve worked on stuff like this with my dad, I feel changed, uplifted. Like,” he paused, rubbing his fingers together, “someone just turned on the lights in a pitch-dark room, and now I get to see all the secrets around me.”

“I understand,” Kiyomi said, and in that moment, Light looked at her midnight eyes and saw that she did.

…

It was easier than expected to hack into his dad’s account on the NPA intraweb, although Light knew he used the same password for everything: ssl226. He wanted, in a strange way, for his dad’s heart to be harder to crack—to know less about the key and earn it fitting in the lock—but couldn’t dig into why he felt such a way. Not with Kiyomi sending him text after text from class, each one a more urgent call for updates on his progress. His attention snapped from phone, to computer, to an odd hole in his stomach after their earlier meeting.

He never enjoyed when people tried to get close to him, as though they wanted a piece of Light the same way a child wants a piece of adulthood—desperate without knowledge of what lay beneath. While a social creature, thriving on connection, he cringed from women’s fumbled confessions of attraction and roamed away from their asking mouths toward men, who wanted silent partners to their escapades and were willing to return the favor. In many ways, those interactions left Light cold as well: tacky plastic bandages peeling off at the slightest friction.

The truth was it was easier to want what was right in front of him and not consider the far off. So, Light’s fingers flew across his keyboard with the neon flash from his cell phone ignored. He flipped through files labeled in long numerical defaults—a mark of his father’s tech-illiteracy—with time ticking away. When he finally alighted on the correct documents, his phone inbox was full. Without reading any of the messages, he deleted them all and texted Kiyomi to meet him later at the library.

Armed with a large stack of paper, he weighed down his backpack and left, waving off his mother’s question about why he was skipping class. On the television, a reporter spoke about rising stock in the Yotsuba Corporation’s new make-up company. She laughed after her speech and admitted to wearing their lipstick during the segment. Both Sayu and Light’s mother laughed along too. Light ran out the door, his bag smacking on his side.

The library was quiet except for a few students banging on keyboards, their faces shining with essay-deadline sweat. Light found Kiyomi lounged on a two-seat bench, her legs propped onto the low table and a style guide opened over her face. She sat up when he dropped in beside her, pushing the guide off and starting into an interrogation on why he didn’t answer her texts. Holding up a hand, Light pulled out his papers and set them on the table, smacking a finger on them.

“I know who he’s attacking next,” he said.

“What?” Kiyomi pushed his hand aside and flicked through his findings. “Okay, so these are the last, what? Twenty or so cases the NPA worked on with L?”

“Yes, about twenty,” Light agreed. “But we don’t usually call on him, unless it’s a difficult case. I mean, it’s pretty rare he takes any case at all unless it’s big news. But look at the cases he’s worked on since 2002.”

“Heart attacks.” Stopping at the top page, Kiyomi drew her finger along the chart labels—suspect name, suspect location, case title, behavior—and ended on the final column of conclusion. “Not all of them, though. Only a few scattered ones.”

“I know!” Light couldn’t stop a little eagerness leaking in; his sleuthing was about to pay off. He took out another stack of paper—thinner than the last—and handed those to Kiyomi. “I looked at those cases. All of them had victim counts lower than ten. Some of them were even cases the NPA didn’t put much resources behind. But,” he raised his finger in emphasis, “these ones had interesting details. Like the guy who had skeletons in his backyard? He was some kind of cannibal who left organs behind. The finger guy was notorious, even though he was pretty low activity.”

“You sound like you have a theory.”

“I might. Check out the most recent listing.”

Kiyomi flipped back to the case chart and narrowed her eyes. “Do we know this guy? Kyosuke Higuchi?”

Light sighed and tapped his finger to his knee. “He’s some kind of executive, at the Yotsuba Corporation. I tracked the case listed to one about a bunch of their new make-up brand’s younger interns going missing. The count is five right now, but one of them was the niece of a big government person so the NPA got told to ask L about it.” He smiled at Kiyomi. “Do you want to hear my theory?”

She tapped the paper stack and set it on the table, turning her full attention to him. “Someone is picking off the small fries,” she said, “with heart attacks, and the link between cases is L.”

A frustrated puff of breath exited Light. “Well. Yeah. I guess,” he said. “But it’s pretty smart, right? Getting rid of the guys who you can find, but can’t super prove anything about, before they get to higher numbers.”

“He’s still killing people,” Kiyomi said. “I mean, isn’t that just like what they’re doing? These guys are victims too, in a sense, and this L guy is offing them before they get a trial. What if he’s wrong?”

Light folded his arms across his chest. “But he hasn’t been wrong,” he said. “Not yet.” Shuffling in his seat, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and took a deep inhale. “I want to send him a message.”

“What? A message?” Kiyomi laughed, her long earrings shaking with her clipped hair. “What’re you going to say? We’re on to you, buddy. Better watch out.” She shook her head, laughter making way for a more serious expression. “It’s not a good idea,” she said. “We don’t know how he’s giving people heart attacks, other than by magic or something. It’s dangerous.”

Air lifted and deflating from Light’s chest as he mulled her response around inside. It burned a trail through his soft meats, where enthusiasm continued to grow through whatever scorch she inflicted with sense and caution. His body was a garden growing thicker at just the idea of communicating with the person who had such a power, who made such a decision as to end someone’s life when they ended someone else’s.

Headless of his contemplation, Kiyomi stood and took the papers. “It’s interesting, I’ll give you that,” she said. “But we shouldn’t contact L directly. It will alert him to our own knowledge; we’d give more ground than gain. Let me look over what you have, and later this week, we’ll pool our thoughts and start to put together a better case.”

He handed over his print outs, not too precious about them since he had the real digital versions at home. As she left, Light’s eyes danced away from Kiyomi’s prim stride and toward the tall bookcases. His mind brought to him a scenario where he, and everyone else in the library, was crushed by toppled bookcases and the ceiling caving in. A tragedy without a pinpoint reason behind it—only a god who wanted to see something destroyed. Or maybe it was some kid who leaned too hard. Life was so random in how it could be taken or given, and that thought propelled him further into whatever L’s powers were.

Somehow, there was a man out there able to control death and Light, despite Kiyomi’s warning, wanted to know the shape of his tools.

…

L counted three red candies from his pack and collected them into his palm. They rattled against each other like gemstones, gleaming under computer-haze lights until long black claws pinched one away.

“Red ones are best,” Ryuk said. “Except for cherry flavor.”

“Cherry flavor is fine if you get the right brand.” L turned back to his laptop, nabbing a pink hard candy for himself and sucking its watermelon flavor into a slow, sugar liquid. It subsumed his entire mouth, coated his tongue and teeth. His hand stayed outstretched as Ryuk one-by-one crunched the red candies into his toothsome mouth. Clattering shards collected at his lip corners only to be wiped away by his skeletal hand.

At the moment, both occupied the same opulent hotel room despite their aesthetic pairing more implied them existing in different realities. L had laid out over his hotel desk his laptop, a bowl of packaged sweets, and a thin notebook—opened to a page half-filled by his scrawl. Methodical in his fingers, he looked over the most recent reports sent in from Japan, his interest waning here and there into an intense focus on whatever candy he opened next. Ryuk, on the other hand, was taken up by the television, which L left on for him in most hotel rooms, and all the small colored blotches fizzled together on the screen. He laughed as one blotch fell down a flight of stairs.

Their relationship often balanced on this mutual agreement for entertainment—it flowed between them as Ryuk received TV, movies, and candy from L and L, of course, got the Death Note. While this arrangement meant they were in constant contact, Ryuk did fly between the human world and Shinigami realm on his own whims; he told L human poker wasn’t as good as the death gods played it, which L couldn’t argue being he wasn’t too fond of poker either way. At one point, L asked why he—of all people on Earth and beyond—received such an unholy tool of death and Ryuk responded, “Oh, yeah. The thing sort of fell out of my pocket. I need one of those chain wallets, keep that on me.” As if to prove his point, the next time Ryuk showed up to see how L and the Death Note were progressing, he had his personal Note hooked to a thick metal chain.

“Made it myself.” His voice smacked of undue pride, although L complimented the chain without trace of sarcasm. “Not as good as the human ones, but pretty cool.”

L didn’t care if the Shinigami made a thousand ugly chain wallets, or watched TV all day. What he cared about was the ease the Death Note brought to his work. So often fissures of stress cracked along his psyche when dug into cases which were clean cut—to him, at least—but couldn’t get traction enough with local enforcement to make arrests: to bring justice to people who screamed their guilt to L’s careful crow eyes. But with the Death Note, all he had to do was write a name, wait and assign a search team to the killer’s home posthumously.

Spread in front of him, he tapped a pen end to the blank Note page. All that was left in the Higuchi case was to find a time to kill him while he was alone; for that purpose, L wormed around several important forms and decision-makers to install camera into the vile businessman’s home and office. Blue connective fuzz overlaid the images displayed on his laptop and made Higuchi, idling behind his large desk, appear alien. To some degree, L felt the man was alien to him—in thought, in action (or lack of it), in intention—and had no interest in learning a scrap about Higuchi. He cared more about the space beneath the man’s home, which would be unlocked and unloaded of its human prisoners once Wedy got her go-ahead; keeping a successful thief on his payroll benefited L tremendously.

“He’s been alone for two hours,” L said, to himself and also Ryuk, if the Shinigami wanted to hear. “If I kill him now, how long before someone finds the body?”

“Weekend,” Ryuk piped back. L looked over his shoulder to see his long ebony chicken legs crossed on the bed while yellow eyes stared at the television without blinking. “He might just rot there over the next two days.”

“Oh, I think so—,” L stopped mid-speech at Higuchi’s secretary and her brown ponytail bobbing into frame. She stood at near two inches taller than the man, who sneered as she spoke. At the very least, L knew she was not in danger of kidnapping. He sat straighter and leaned to hear their conversation over the microphones, the secretary’s voice soft and faint from many miles away.

“A young man left this for you.” She held out an envelope; even at his angle, L saw no address or marker beyond Higuchi’s name. “He said he needs you to give it to someone.”

“What?” Higuchi’s nasal intonation pinched his words. “I’m not some kind of messenger. Tell him to just send it by post, if he needs someone to see it so bad.”

“He sounded urgent that you give it,” the secretary said, and dropped the envelope down. “I’ll tell you something, he was very handsome. Seemed like a smart young man. This is probably his resume, you know.”

“Ah.” Snake oil slithered through Higuchi’s response as he took hold of the envelope. “Well, who am I to keep down a young upstart? Anything else he said?”

The secretary taped her finger to her lip and hummed. “Just that it was important someone get this message,” she said. “Someone powerful, who knew what you’d done. I don’t know what he meant by that.”

L’s eyes lit up; Higuchi became pale. “Ah yes,” the businessman simpered. “I’m not sure I know either. Well, why don’t you go home? I’ll see you on Monday.”

The moment the secretary left, Higuchi threw the envelope into the trash and L whipped around to Ryuk.

“Can you fly somewhere for me?” he asked. “And pick something up?”

“Dunno,” Ryuk said. “Depends what I get in return.”

After an hour and a promise for several all large candy purchases, L held a faintly sticky gold envelope in his hands. His hands, covered by white fabric gloves, turned the item over and over in curious rotation. Thumbing the corners, he admired how thick the stock seemed, how elegant the adhesion of the close seemed to lay, and upon opening it, he was sorry to mar the lines. Out fell a quarter-folded page with lines as crisp as the outer shell. L unfolded the page, smoothed it with both hands with delicacy he hadn’t practiced on something non-confectionery in years. Across the fine surface was hard-black typed words, struck out in small font but for some reason read to him like slow cream—a voice L never heard before but caught him, easily, by his mind’s tongue.

Dear L, the letter started. I know what you’ve been doing, but I don’t know how. I’d like to know. I’d like to know you and what tools you’ve picked up that let you wrack such havoc inside cruel men’s bodies.

Are you like them? A cruel man? I can’t say; but I’d like to be able to reject the sentiment.

Each word dropped into L’s consciousness as water on a garden and flourished greenery within him until his interest became a full forest. Someone caught on to him; their fingers brushed his toes but couldn’t quite hold the tiger. Still, the letter’s writer was unknown and on this front, L couldn’t abide. He took to his laptop and rolled back footage upon footage until video of a man at Higuchi’s secretary’s desk showed. At all times, the man’s face was out of view and his voice so low, L couldn’t make out his exact words. Had the letter writer known he’d been watched? A subtle tingle wormed through L’s chest: he knew about the cameras, or suspected them; he knew Higuchi was next; and he knew L was listening, in some capacity.

But how much did this man—who still carried handsomeness in his stature, turned head or no, and had a whisper coated by sugared familiarity—actually know? L frowned and turned back to the letter, scanning it again. He then turned to Ryuk.

“If someone wanted to send a message with the Note,” he said, “how might they do so?”

Ryuk laughed, throaty and amused. “Few ways,” he demurred. “You’re a smart guy. You figure it out.”

L raised an eyebrow, but not an argument. After all, he was the world’s greatest detective; a smart guy who could figure it out. He set to work and by nightfall had a plan. As he finished, he imbued his last pen stroke with some warped hope—that the letter writer saw what his message truly was: not cruelty but a hand beckoning him closer. An invitation.

“A challenge,” L said, to himself, to Ryuk, to the young man whose face he didn’t know. “And an answer.”

…

“Is that the newspaper?” Light slipped in next to Kiyomi, who held ink-covered pages in front of her face, elegant nails curled against headlines like red slashed wounds. Their first period literature class—a dreaded requirement on their degrees which neither enjoyed—found him harried from waking up late. He was unpracticed in disordered sleep and didn’t know how to control panic when it seeped from his pores and into his routine; ever since he gave the letter off to that Higuchi, Light was aware to his core something might happen—something deadly, even.

Kiyomi tilted the front page down enough to show her disappointed gaze trained on Light’s perfect smile—beguiling by practice, not nature. “You can buy your own,” she said. “After all, you don’t want anything from me, much less information.”

“Don’t be like that,” he countered. “You know, I didn’t make any moves.”

“Don’t lie,” Kiyomi said. “Look,” she flattened the newspaper to the desk, and after glancing around, pointed to a large headline, “your little love note found its recipient.”

Light leaned over the paper and scanned the article. Phrases floated forward—a sex dungeon with the women freed by an unknown accomplice—and others were faded but intriguing—Higuchi succumbing to cardiac arrest after consuming an energy drink, a large latte and a bottle of caffeine pills. His eyes froze on one paragraph, detailing a letter found in Higuchi’s handwriting and tucked inside his pocket.

“Experts say the letter was written within an hour of the man’s death,” the article read. “It’s contents are, however, not addressed to anyone known to the victim but instead a mysterious figure called ‘letter writer.’ Beneath we have listed some of the letter, which was confiscated by police and edited for clarity.”

Kiyomi sighed. “You’re in real danger now,” she said softly. “We’re both in danger.”

“He responded,” Light said, breathless. “He wrote back to me.”

Dear letter writer,

I don’t want to alarm you or make it seem as though I am on a crusade. Far from it. This is just my job, and I am good at my job. I get rid of people doing terrible things, but time and resources don’t always play on my side. This is my way of prioritizing.

I’m not a cruel man; and I hope you never think of me as such. But understand I can’t tell you what my methods are. After all, where’s the interest in that for me? But I can give you something small, something to hold onto: without your face, I can’t harm you.

Speak to you soon,

X

Light’s heart thudded in his throat. “Do you still have that chart on you?” He asked Kiyomi, who brought out the papers with eyes warmed by the prospect of research.

“Of course.” She laid them out and shrugged in closer to Light. “What are we looking for? What do we do next?”

Light couldn’t answer. Around and around in his head echoed Speak to you soon in a voice he didn’t know. Yes, they’d speak again soon enough, but he just needed to find out what they’d talk about. Right now, the room was dark; it was all a matter of turning on the light and seeing the secrets in the room.

[readyaiminquire]

Not my president? - Understanding charisma.

Note: While I’m reworking this blog’s format, I wanted first to finish a planned series of posts on charisma that I began publishing a while back. Rather than making it a series, I figured I might well play around with a long-form format instead. This post will re-hash some of the information from the earlier post, but this time I promise it will actually reach a conclusion!

With US election campaigns in full swing, and with Democrats hoping to oust Trump from the Oval Office, the question of how Trump won at all has re-emerged. After four chaotic years, no-one Blue would want another four. Despite a laundry list of failures, scandals, and broken promises, will Trump be able to galvanise enough voters – again? Though I am by no means an expert on US politics, I feel that one area that a lot of pundits and commentators have failed to consider is that of his charisma. At the end of the day, it is Trump’s charismatic leadership that allowed him to be elected in the first place - and bear with me on this! We must really begin to look and deconstruct charisma to get to the heart of it all. Make no mistake, charisma serves a fundamentally important function within any democratic system – they would not be able to operate without it. As oxymoronic as it might sound, charismatic leadership is not reserved for the despotic, but it is a process we all engage with.

Who are our charismatic leaders? We think of Gaddafi, Stalin, the Kims in North Korea, or indeed the Ayatollahs in Iran – alongside questionable undercurrents of fooling the masses, abusing one’s power, and the creeping, assured emergence of ever more oppression. Charisma’s negative political baggage, however, doesn’t really help us to understand what it functionally is. So let’s shed all judgement, positive or negative, and instead look at charisma as a process. German sociologist Max Weber succinctly defined charisma as

“a certain quality of an individual person by virtue of which he is set apart from ordinary men”

In other words, charisma is a sort-of otherworldly quality that sets you apart from the masses. Authority is derived from charismatic qualities. Unlike other forms of authority, such as legal-rational authority (which relies on some sort of legal code, such as, a constitution) or traditional power (where authority is derived from something outside of the system itself, like the divine right to rule), charismatic authority comes from the very simple fact that people want to follow you.

It’s quite evident that Weber effectively sees charisma as some innate and mystical power – some sort of magic you have that makes people want to follow you. So, let’s look at Weber’s definition from a different perspective. Let’s consider charisma as something you do, rather than something you have. Charisma must always be the result of a set of rhetorical actions intended to convince the ‘common man’ that the charismatic person is indeed not common. Through such conviction, the ‘common man’ becomes a willing follower. In his book How to do things with words, J. L. Austin outlines that there are two different kinds of rhetorical actions: referential and performative. Referential actions simply describe the world, which means that it is either right or wrong. Performative actions, on the other hand, doesn’t describe anything at all and therefore cannot be right or wrong, merely successful or unsuccessful. To shamelessly steal an example from Alexei Yurchuk:

“If one makes an oath under appropriate conditions, while internally not intending to keep it, the oath is not made any less powerful in the eyes of those who accept it as such”.

Assuming you accept the above, charisma as something performed has some broad implications in the real world. But to make sense of that, we need to look at the typical Western democratic system.

Democracy comes with an awkward promise: that all people are created equal, and that the whole system is run by the people and for the people, while at the same time requiring elected hierarchies and leaders to effectively function. In other words, democracy only works because we’re willingly giving up our sovereignty to the system – something which, in most situations, might be perceived as deeply undemocratic. This tension, obviously, needs to be resolved somehow. The relationship between the State and the leader is roughly analogous with the relationship between power and authority. The State has power, and without diving far too deep into Foucault, power is inherently relational rather than what we might classify as material. Put simply, it emerges from social structures. In the case of the State, this relational power is very clear when you consider the different experiences and interactions different people – minorities, the homeless, immigrants, the privileged, and so on – have with its representatives. They all have a very different relationship to the State as an entity (anthropologists Veena Das and Deborah Poole refer to this as the ‘centre and the peripheries’, arguing that the best place to ‘see’ the State is the border at which its power breaks down). 

In the same way, the State as an entity is also immaterial – we only interact with representatives of the State (civil servants, politicians, police officers) or we see the outcome of these representatives enforcing the power of the State upon us (laws, regulation, taxes). Authority, on the other hand, is effectively the ability to ‘direct’ power. The leader of the State relates in the same way to its structure, coming to embody the system as a whole, while the structure itself maintains the overarching power relations. 

It is commonly understood that states only ‘work’ as a concept if the people within them act as if they do, something akin to the thought experiment of ‘would war end if all soldiers refused to fight?’. The leader, as the embodiment of the whole structure, begins to play a key role in maintaining this illusion. Much work has been done on this idea of ‘two bodies’. Alexei Yurchuk wrote that this set-up is traditionally very common among kings and other monarchs – in some cases very literally, with dolls being made of the monarch upon their deaths to quite literally give them a second body. The bodies a king inhabited were their ‘individual’ body, i.e. the person itself, and the second being that of the ‘office’ of Kingship, a divine-like body. It is this second regal body, in full regalia upon their throne, surrounded by servants and gold and pomp and circumstance, who is truly the king; the individual person will always simply be the person. This process is largely the same within the modern democratic state: there is the elected individual – the person – then there is the leader (president, prime minister, etc.), the embodiment of authority. 

It is here we must return to what I wrote above about voluntarily submitting. When imagined, the idea of a leader as an embodiment of authority immediately sounds inherently un-democratic; non-democratic at best. It is this tension, alluded to previously, that charisma serves to reconcile. 

It may sound contradictory, but in these cases charisma functions to dictate how – for example – a President can behave. It is what causes world leaders to attend particular events, or why they partake in completely-natural-totally-not-staged photo-ops. It’s not necessarily because they want to, or indeed because they think it’s fooling anyone, but rather because it is what the system requires the leader to do. It is, in other words, charismatic performance. Even more importantly, it is not the individual which fulfils the requirement, but rather them in the function as President. It is their second body, so to speak, which is having their photos taken beside some national memorial. This leads us to the crux of the whole situation: returning to the issue of democracy and leadership. We the people need to willingly submit ourselves to the leader’s authority. This is often done through voting. However, to effectively convince people, the leader must not only follow a particular agenda, philosophy, or give the correct promises, but they must also follow along in the ‘dance’. They must act statesmanlike (stateswomanlike?), to fulfil what we can in practical terms call ‘the minimum amount’ of charisma needed to be considered for leadership at all. In this sense, all democratic leaders are (somewhat) charismatic, by necessity.

Nonetheless, this of course highlights that charisma isn’t binary, despite often being spoken of in terms of haves and have-nots. Instead, we should imagine charisma as a spectrum: two people can be charismatic, and one more so than the other. Indeed, it also means that charisma is individually understood, that is to say, that different people are differently charismatic to different people. Despite the initial Weberian definition, it isn’t a magic spell. It is a performance, a dance, which functions as a safety-vale in Western political systems, a means to reconcile what is seemingly a fundamental contradiction. 

This, of course, has very real-world implications. Let’s turn to an example. A rather thinly veiled metaphor, if you will, but such a reduction of an (obvious) example can help give some grounding – while playing with some nuance. You have Mr Red and Ms Blue, two presidential candidates in a totally hypothetical country. Ms Blue is a well-established politician, with a strong pedigree of various political posts. She’s experienced, educated, well-spoken, intelligent, and internationally respected. Mr Red, a newcomer on the stage, has no background in politics. He is radically outspoken, blunt even, criticised for his lack of experience, his limited rhetoric. His background is as a somewhat successful businessman, a stereotype he fully embraces. He’s divisive, to say the least. I’m sure you’re seeing where I’m going with this.

Within this completely hypothetical country, you have a traditionally large working class, which used to be strong in the past but has since declined as production jobs moved overseas. The perception among this group is that they have been abandoned by the powers that be – abandoned for several generations. They feel they’ve been systematically shut out of politics, unable to make themselves heard (lack of education, money, and so on), while the politicians – across the board – have continued toeing the same line. The established body politic, like Ms Blue, doesn’t much represent, let alone understand, them. Stage right: Enter Mr Red, down a gilded escalator. His rhetoric is outrageous, his promises ridiculous, his beliefs morally bankrupt. No-one believes what he says, not really. But it doesn’t matter. Mr Red wins anyway. He wins every time. Why? Because he dances to the tune of these otherwise marginalised voters. He speaks to them, makes promises for them, and whether he intends to keep these promises or not, or indeed whether he is expected to keep them, is irrelevant. At this stage, it was no longer about his promises but rather because he acted to this otherwise downtrodden group as the State, the leader, is expected to act: he listened to their issues, spoke to them directly, in a language they could connect with, made them a part of his wider political discourse, stepped out of the ivory tower, extended his hand as a candidate for the Presidency. He at this stage fulfilled the minimum amount of necessary charisma to even be considered as someone to follow. To counterweight this, Ms Blue maintained her distance and stance, equating herself with previous ‘establishment’ politicians, and as a result became unelectable: not because of having a worse programme, or lack of political merit, but rather because she became someone impossible for these voters to follow at all. She could not have been voted for, because she didn’t dance at all.

Charisma, though a funny thing, something we’ve all heard of and often instinctively see and understand, operates in not only a perhaps more complex way when dissected, but also with much more material force. In a sense, society as we know it requires a particular ebb and flow of charisma. But even then, it is not as random or magical as often believed; instead, it is simply the result of certain actions, of convincing people that you are indeed charismatic. Weber throughout most of his career maintained that charisma cannot be learned, that it was something you were born with, though he might have changed his mind on this, as an unfinished paper (sadly only a collection of notes) showed that he intended to write a paper on learning charisma after all. This isn’t the topic here, though, but rather to understand charisma as a social performance, a dance, which lies at the heart of the Western political system and discourse. It is a force rarely considered, not often analysed, and if even invoked, done more so to paint a mystical picture of the person in question. 

The funny thing, of course, is that all leaders are charismatic, and necessarily so. Some do it better than others, of course, but without it democracy as we know it wouldn’t be able to function. Without charisma, we would all simply vote for ourselves. 

 Selected bibliography / recommended reading:

Austin, J. L. 1955. How to do things with Words (J. O. Urmson & M. Sbisàeds ). Oxford University Press. 

Das, V. & Poole, D. (eds.) 2004 'Anthropology in the Margins of the State' Santa Fe: Scool of American Research Press; Oxford: James Currey Ltd. 

Hansen, T. & Stepputat, F. 2006 'Sovereignty revisited' Annual Review of Anthropology, vol. 35 

Weber, M. 1946 [1919] 'Politics as a vocation'. In Gerth, H.H. and Wright Mills, C. (trans. & eds.) Max Weber: Essays in Sociology pp. 77-128. New York: Oxford University Press

Yurchak, A. 2003 ‘The Soviet hegemony of form’ in ‘Everything was forever, until it was no more’ Comparative Studies in Society and History 45(3): 480-510

Yurchak, A. 2015 'Bodies of Lenin' in Representations vol. 2(2015) pp.116-157 215

[anachroniisms-archived]

Hi all! I’m Rey and I’m here with Andrea!

The TL;DR version is:  ex-U.S. marshal who was just a little too trigger happy so she got put on time-out. Now she’s a journalist. Andy’s an old west gunslinger who’s been born into a different era. Above all she’s about putting bad guys behind bars and protecting good people; she’s a hunter. She’s here to kill detain Madden Coyle. And maybe a few others.

I’m always looking for plots and connections! Andy grew up in Valdez so I think there’s potential? Also you can read her super extra bio below. Feel free to hit me up here or on discord at the_revati#8487

THE HUNTER -

⋆ ◦ ° ☾ stella maeve + cisfemale + she/her — have you seen andrea shepard around? this thirty one year old known as the hunter has been hanging out at valdez town square a lot recently. they are a civilian that works as a/n ex -u.s, marshal turned journalist, and they feel vindictive about the gangs. a heteroflexible scorpio, they are tenacious + resourceful, as well as judgmental + destructive. gunpowder, lioness, bruised knuckles × rey. twenty-one+. she/her. PST. × (Madden Coyle’s connection)

tw: death, murder, self- mutilation  

BACKSTORY

Her father was a Voloshyn and that meant he was a significant part of the Ukrainian mafia that owned a small corner of the world. His family? They didn’t live in this corner. Though born in Odessa, Ukraine, Andrea was raised by her mother Alice Shepard in the town of Valdez, Colorado. Alice had grown up in Valdez and though she’d spent most of her life in New York working as an art curator when motherhood struck, she decided that returning home - far, far, far away from Odessa - was the best choice for the children. Mikhail was her first born, but her daughter Andrea was born two minutes later. When they were older, Alice would tell them they came into this world holding hands.

Valdez was a decent enough place to grow up. Like any town, it had its dark underbelly. Alice did her best to keep both Mikhail and Andrea away from it, but the two grew up a part of the town as much as anyone else. It’s where Andrea picked her first fight, had her first kiss, got drunk for the first time. And Mikhail? He was her best friend.

For the most part, Andrea and Mikhail didn’t see their father. The holidays were the exception and dinners were always silent when Alexi Voloshyn sat at the head of the table.  There was a shock in this pattern when the twins turned 11. Summer break rolled around and, all of a sudden, Mikhail was whisked off with Alexi to spend the summer in Odessa. Ever summer after that was the same. Mikhail would leave in the dead of night and Andrea would get left behind. It became increasingly obvious before long that Alexi was grooming Mikhail to step into his shoes with the mafia. The young girl grew increasingly bitter about this tradition with the passing of each halcyon season. Mikhail would return just in time for school to start with nothing but a “It was fine” as a reply to Andrea’s “Well? How was it?”  

It’s not that Andrea wanted her own hand in the criminal underworld of Europe - she was too young to understand that - she just wanted to be taken as seriously as her brother. She began to act out as a cry for attention - but all attempts went ignored. A stray comment from Alexi about marrying her off one Christmas dinner set off the final fuse. Andrea was 15 and at peak teenage rebellion. Without blinking, she grabbed the carving knife from the ham in front of her, and cut off her own ring finger. She tried not to cry when she did it and felt immensely betrayed by the three tears that managed to leak out during the act. The entire thing was very much a ‘fuck you’ to the path that had been laid out for her. It was very much supposed to be a ‘fuck you’ to her father. He wanted her to get married? Fuck that. Ring finger? Gone. Now she could never get married.

Instead of reacting with anger or fury, her father simply looked at this act of defiance and laughed. In her 15 years it was probably the first time Andrea heard such a sound. It was a warm, accepting laugh. As the family doctor stitched and patched her up, Alexi finally conceded that Andrea could join them in Odessa next summer. The young woman learned that acts of self-destruction as loyalty held a certain sort of esteem in her father’s eyes.

Sure enough, Andrea went to the Port of Odessa the next summer. It’s where she learned how to fire a gun, worked as a hired hand on a ship, saw her first dead body. She’d been brought along but it was Mikhail that Alexi continuously sent into the fray. It was Mikhail that went on the ride alongs and once again it was Andrea that was left behind. You’d think a father would be more precious with the life of his son but, again, acts of self-destruction as loyalty held a certain sort of esteem in Alexi’s eyes. One cold night, a deal went south and shots were fired. Andrea heard about it from one of her father’s friends the next morning. She heard that while Mikhail’s body had been found, Alexi’s was conveniently missing. Whispers floated that her father had managed to flee the scene. Any sadness Andrea had for her brother was swept away with the resounding notion that her father was a fucking coward.

Andrea returned home to Alice alone. The two boarded up Alice’s childhood home and moved to New York. That was Andrea’s tipping point. At her mother’s insistence she applied to colleges in New York and wound up settling on pursuing a political science degree at Columbia. There was an intense irony to the fact that Andrea was quickly falling into a path carved out for law enforcement, but the second she noticed it, she leaned into it. It was another ‘fuck you’ to the memory of her father. More than that, she had a knack for it in a way that she a knack for nothing else.

Andrea joined the NYPD fresh out of college and quickly climbed the ladder to the rank of deputy sheriff. In the police department, she finally found the family she’d been searching for. In Sheriff William Kolstad, she found the brother she had lost. Alas, Sheriff Kolstad was a good man and good men don’t last long on the force.

Only a few months into her time with the PD, Kolstad was murdered in cold blood. The incident turned Andy’s vision red. She was 21 and full of fire. She hadn’t been able to do anything about her brother... but for William? She’d find it in her track down whomever was responsible.

Madden Coyle, eighteen years old was found guilty and placed on death row for the murder of an on duty police officer in cold blood. Andrea didn’t blink an eye. The loss of Kolstad left her affected and, in the same way she handled her brother’s death, she decided that packing up and moving was the right way to cope with things. She asked to be relocated and, as a result, was shipped off the Glynco, Georgia to become a firearms instructor at the U.S. Marshal’s training center.

She was in Georgia when she heard that Coyle had gotten out on a technicality. She heard of the ruling by way of a ping to her cellphone in the middle of class and the young woman came to a full stop at the mere sight of it. It possibly right then that Andrea decided to transition from an instructor to marshal.

During her time with the Marshal’s service, Andrea was assigned to several different field offices across the U.S. She gained a reputation for being trigger happy and was thus stationed in increasingly remote stations. Alice passed during Andrea’s time in the Fairbanks office and due to poor weather conditions it was a week before Andrea got the news. Alice had left Andrea the house in Valdez, Colorado.

Her life continued in other ways. During the day she would do her job, and at the night she would come back to the husband she’d met during her time on the NYPD. For a while, life was right. When Andrea caught whiff that Alexi Voloshyn was making the journey from the Port of Odessa to the Port of New Orleans, Andrea caught the first flight she could to Louisiana. 

Cut to: two weeks later. Andrea. Run out of New Orleans by the Ukrainian mob for publicly killing Alexi Voloshyn. Out of a desire to avoid scandal and a fear for her safety, her Chief Deputy decided that it was time for Andrea to take a sabbatical. It was time for her to go home.

Andrea had no interest in hanging up her badge. She fucking despised the thought of it. She was ready to contest, she was ready to fight back. But as fate would have it, Andrea caught word through the grapevine that Madden Coyle was based in Valdez, Colorado. Any protests to the suggestion died in her throat. She took the sabbatical, left her gun and her badge, and made her way back home. She intended on going alone, deciding that she’d make the trip, handle Coyle, come back. To her surprise, her husband was looking for a change as well and so Andrea and her husband into the old estate her mother left for her. 

Valdez came with its own obstacles. The gangs infested the town and Andrea did her best to stay above it. When her partner strayed, Andrea kicked him out and never looked back. For her, it was as simple at that. Andrea had a rigid view for most things. While others saw the world in shades of grey, she saw it in shades of black and white. 

Now, Andrea lives alone with the occasional roommate that comes and goes. She keeps most of the estate boarded up and only really uses the parts she needs. To keep herself from going stir-crazy, she has taken up a part-time job as a freelance journalist. Old habits die hard though - hunting is in her bones. She plans on cleaning up this town. 

PERSONALITY / OTHER

an old-west gunslinger born into a different era

trigger happy

deep seeded anger towards the criminal underworld of this city. All about putting bad people behind bars and protecting good people.

holds a mother-fucking grudge like no other. See: 10 year vendetta against Madden Coyle.

methodology: shoot it before it shoots me.

honestly, if she wasn’t wearing a badge “back in the day” she’d be pretty close becoming an outlaw herself. She walks a dangerous line but shhhh we don’t talk about that

is no-nonsense

If you missed it in her bio, she’s missing her ring finger. She cut it off herself cause she didn’t want to get married. Ever. She always wears a glove on her left hand. 

forgets to eat. Survives on a diet of scotch and gummy bears.

has two facial expressions: scowling or smiling slyly

is angry. Always. Keeps it bottled up. Always.

crime never sleeps and neither does she.

likes crossword puzzles

plays the saxophone and the piano. A fan of jazz music.  

“I think she had fun, once” - the gas-station lady

also has a goldfish that she keeps forgetting to feed it’s a wonder it’s still alive.

“Call me Andy.”

WANTED CONNECTIONS 

I’m down to get creative with any of these! Also, I love angst???

Housemate - There is too much room in her parents estate for her live there alone. Andy’s put up a “for rent” sign with the intention of renting out one of the rooms to another Valdez citizen. (taken)  

Former friends, exes, frenemies - Maybe she lost touch with them, maybe she didn’t. If your character grew up in Valdez, there’s the chance they knew each other. Maybe they had sleepovers, maybe they were childhood enemies, maybe they dated. Bonus points if they lead lifestyles she disapproves of now! (open)

Siblings - Andy and Mikhail were Alice and Alexi’s oldest, but that doesn’t mean they couldn’t have had other younger siblings. Also open to having Alexi have had other affairs. (open)

The Hunted - they’ve crossed paths in the past and she’s got a vendetta against them (open)

Ex-husband - He joined the criminal underworld. She left him. Simple as that. (open)

Co-worker - Other “journalist” friends. (open)

And literally anything else. 

[hypomanicsatanicpanic]

saw a 15 year old lesbian comment on reddit that “most” lesbians realize they are gay earlier than 15....  LOL. 

For what it’s worth, I really hope that most gay and bi femmes are realizing who they are attracted to earlier than I did: hopefully, the prevailing culture is less toxic/homophobic/biphobic, there are more accessible resources to learn about diverse sexuality, there’s more representation in the media. 

But I also think a lot of us "older" folx ended up repressing/ not recognizing our attraction to women until somewhat later in life than 15. 

I didn't actually realize that until I was attracted to women until 23/24. I was just starting to question a bit at 20, but I wasn’t sure about it until a few years after that. I’ve only ever had sex with one woman, one time. A majority of my life past the age of consent (which was 16 in my state) has been spent in a monogamous sexual relationship of some sort with a cis-het man- and being the Type of Person who is in that kind of relationship really enforced this sense of being A Straight Type of Person. That, along with a whole truckload of internalized biphobia (You’re not a Real Bi if you’ve never been in a relationship with a woman! You’re not a Real Bi, because Bi Women Do Not Exist- you’re Clearly A Poser Who Gets The Attention Of Men By Pretending To Be Interested In Women, Even If You’ve Told Zero People You’re Interested In Women! You’re Obviously Going Through A Phase. You Can’t Be A Bi Woman While Being In A Relationship With a Cis Het Guy). I still struggle with that sometimes, being in an open/ poly relationship with a cis guy is different, and I’m dating women and NB folx, but the persistent, shitty, biphobic question is still there, bouncing around- can you actually be a real WLW if you have any ongoing sexual or romantic relationship with a man?

I think part of the reason it took so long for me to figure out what attractions I have was that there was no WLW frame of reference for the first ~18 years of my life. In high school, there were no "out" lesbians, bi people, NBs, or transpeople; only one very flamboyant gay dude (who was bullied by pretty much everyone), and one very not-flamboyant but not closeted gay teacher (who was bullied by the administration, by students, and by homophobic parents). There was certainly no sex ed to speak of (yeah, we did sit in a room while we were shown drawings of reproductive organs, and told that condoms were not 100% effective and that the pill was risky and that having sex would definitely make you Teen Pregnant).  Being bi or gay was so far out of the parameters of possible Things You Could Be presented to my peer group that I literally didn’t recognize feelings of attraction when I had them...which in turn led to a whole lot of unfulfilling and shitty sexual experiences later on. It’s like when you consistently are forced to eat more food after you are full- you lose touch with your appetite, and that fucks up your eating habits.  

Even people in cis-het relationships were not really much help in explaining attraction. The straight girls I knew were dating people because they thought they were a "cute couple" or because there was social pressure to do so- nobody openly talked about attraction or sexual feelings they were having beyond- "He's soooooo cuuuuute!" or “he’s got GREAT eyes!” or “He’s sooooo hot!”. Nobody talked about what cute or hot actually meant, it was just assumed you’d know what that meant, because you thought so too. I actually thought that the reason I never agreed that boys were cute is because I just didn't find the right one that I was attracted to-- that the people my friends were into were not my type, not that the men who are “my type” are very much more an exception to a rule that excludes most men than a rule to which there are exceptions. I regret that I was never confident enough to tell the girls who’d make that kind of comment that I didn’t get it.  At least in my experience, teenage gay and bi femmes really didn't have any kind of open existence in the early 2000s and 1990s, especially not in the conservative place I grew up. I suspect this is also true of the rest of the US--If you think of Mean Girls as an (exaggerated) portrait of what was going on in high schools at the time, you can clearly see why being a big-L Lesbian like Janis (who also fulfilled nearly every goth/art-kid/non-conforming asshole stereotype) was not something that a lot of young people in my community (pretty affluent, very academic and preppy, pretty rural, a lot of South- and East Asian -immigrants) could relate to. There was no real sex ed, definitely not sex ed that even mentioned lesbians (!), or sex that was done for reasons other than procreation.  Actually, the Mean Girls representation of sex ed was pretty spot-on.

 Also, Janis's character didn't go very far to actually talk about her attraction to women, or what that was, or how she experienced it... there were just rumors flying around that she was lesbian, which everyone seemed to think of as a bad thing, for reasons that were never explained. I don’t think I saw another representation of lesbians in the movies (and can’t recall any in books, with the possible exception of Tamora Pierce books, where I think it was subtle enough I mostly didn’t pick up on representation that did exist). Sure, I conceptually knew that Ellen was a lesbian, but had no idea what the fuck that actually meant, other than that she was Different, and in the abstract Liked Women. I don’t think I saw a picture of her holding hands or hugging Portia until I was 20 or so. 

 Anyway, in my circle of (mid-to-late-twentysomething) friends we joke that L/B femmes goes through delayed adolescence because everyone is still trying to figure out how to talk to women and ask people out on dates into their mid-20s. Or, you know, they’re already married.   Not sure how to end this post, but  1) representation is REALLY important in children and YA works as well as in adult works 2) bi femmes exist, and shouldn’t have to prove shit to anyone 3) queer discourse is fucking important.  4) a lot of us are late bloomers, and that’s ok. sometimes it’s not safe to bloom early.  5) hopefully not everyone in the future will have to be a late bloomer  6) inclusive sex ed is important  7) lots of love for my fellow midwestern queers

[tkmedia]

He Saved 31 People at Sea. Then Got a 142-Year Prison Sentence.

Greece is prosecuting migrants on charges of people smuggling, and imposing heavy jail terms. Rights groups say many migrants are being unfairly accused and sentenced.ATHENS — When Hanad Abdi Mohammad grabbed the wheel of a foundering smuggling boat off the Aegean island of Lesbos last December, he said he was scared but determined to save himself and the other 33 people on board.Six months later, Mr. Mohammad, 28, from Somalia, is in a prison on the Greek island of Chios after receiving a 142-year sentence for human smuggling.“I still have nightmares about that night,” Mr. Mohammad said in comments relayed by his lawyers from prison, describing the fateful crossing from Turkey, in which two passengers died. But he said he had no regrets. “If I hadn’t done it, we’d all be dead.” A copy of the ruling from the Lesbos criminal court, dated May 13 and seen by The New York Times, said that Mr. Mohammad had been sentenced to a total of 142 years and 10 days in prison for smuggling undocumented migrants into Greece. But it added that he would serve a total of 20 years, the maximum allowed under Greece’s criminal code.Mr. Mohammad is one of several asylum seekers in recent months to have received long prison terms for trafficking or facilitating illegal entry despite arguing that they were just seeking safety, according to human rights groups. The groups have identified dozens of such cases over the past few years, although it is difficult to arrive at an exact number.According to legal experts and rights groups, the practice of putting migrants on trial for smuggling began around the time of the migration crisis of 2015-2016, when more than 1 million refugees streamed through Greece, overwhelming its resources. The practice has intensified as Greece hardened its migration policy in recent years and the European Union doubled down on deterrence, they say.Greece, for its part, defends itself, saying that its courts are fair and that it has an obligation to guard its borders.

A refugee camp on the island of Chios in 2019.Louisa Gouliamaki/Agence France-Presse — Getty Images“In Greece as in the U.S.A. and the whole Western world, justice is strong and independent, judging on the basis of facts presented during hearings,” the migration minister, Notis Mitarachi, said in a written statement when asked for comment on the convictions. He added: “Greece will continue to guard its land and sea borders, which are also Europe’s borders, as its duty, respectful of international and European law.”In the same Chios prison as Mr. Mohammad are two Afghan men, aged 24 and 26, both of whom received 50-year sentences for facilitating illegal entry into Greece on sea voyages last fall, according to to Lorraine Leete of the Legal Centre Lesvos, which represented them. One had traveled with his pregnant wife and child. And a 28-year-old Syrian man is in prison in Athens after receiving a 52-year term in April after crossing from Turkey with his wife and three children, according to his lawyers, Vicky Angelidou and Vassilis Psomos. The lawyers, who declined to name those convicted on privacy grounds, said there was no evidence that they were driving the boats and that there was only one witness, a Greek Coast Guard official.Mr. Mohammad’s sentence was heavier because two women drowned in that crossing. But eight migrants who had been on the boat said that the Turkish smuggler transporting them had abandoned the vessel and that Mr. Mohammad tried to save it after a Turkish Coast Guard vessel forced it into Greek waters, according to his lawyers. Only two of the migrants were allowed to testify in court because of coronavirus restrictions.“The criminalization of migrants as a means of deterrence has been a strategy for a long time,” said François Crépeau, an expert on international law and a former top United Nations official on the rights of migrants. “The latest step is what we’ve seen in Greece recently, which is obscene numbers of years in prison for people who are basically trying to save their lives and protect their families.”Over the past two years, smugglers have been increasingly limiting the time they spend on boats, abandoning migrants when they approach Greek waters, or training them to take the wheel, according to Dimitris Choulis and Alexandros Georgoulis, the lawyers defending Mr. Mohammad and others in similar predicaments.When boats arrive on Greek shores, one migrant is typically singled out by officials, Mr. Choulis said. But the decision is often made without real evidence, he added, noting that one Afghan man is facing smuggling charges simply for having the GPS open on his cellphone during a crossing.Casting a refugee as a smuggler is “treating a small-time drug offender like Escobar,” said Clio Papapadoleon, a prominent human rights lawyer, referring to the Colombian drug lord. She said there were no real efforts made to trace the actual traffickers.“In none of these cases has there been an investigation by the police and judicial authorities to trace the smugglers,” she said. “Those arrested are never asked who gave you the boat, who abandoned you at sea?”Migrants resting at the port on the island of Samos, Greece, after being rescued by the Coast Guard in 2019.Angelos Tzortzinis/Agence France-Presse — Getty ImagesMs. Papapadoleon, however, acknowledged that migrants may sometimes agree to take the wheel in return for a small payment, or free passage, as smugglers take advantage of their desperate financial situations.“Outrageous and far-fetched prison sentences are a method of intimidation,” said Ioannis Ioannidis, chairman of the Hellenic League for Human Rights and a former government official, likening it to the illegal practice of pushing migrants back out to sea. “They’re saying ‘You will face thousands of difficulties and risks to get here and if you do get here your life will be hell,’” Mr. Ioannidis said.He added that there was heavy pressure applied on security services by the government to find smugglers. “So the services might be overzealous in their approach, thinking they will prosecute someone but ultimately justice will decide,” he said.It is unclear how many of the hundreds of migrants serving time in Greek prisons for human smuggling or facilitating illegal entry may have been unfairly sentenced.But according to a report published in November by Border Monitoring, a German charity, at least 48 cases had been identified just on Chios and Lesbos where “the defendants did not profit in any way from the smuggling business.” According to Valeria Hänsel, one of the author’s of the report, that number was likely to be just the tip of the iceberg, since most arrests take place on boats, making it hard to monitor them.The Greek police said in a statement that every suspected case was fairly investigated under the supervision of a prosecutor, and that all offenses were prosecuted in accordance with Greek law.Alexandros Konstantinou, of the Greek Council for Refugees, said that convicting refugees as smugglers was part of a broader strategy to deter more arrivals.Others measures included the criminalization of illegal entry in 2020, applied to migrants at the Greek-Turkish land border, which led to dozens receiving prison terms instead of going to reception centers for identification, and a recent decision by Greece to designate Turkey as a safe country for asylum seekers. That move was aimed at pressuring Turkey to take back migrants currently in Greece and make it harder for migrants to apply for asylum there.Hundreds of migrants gathered at the border crossing between Turkey and Greece in 2020.The New York TimesA root of the problem is Greece’s strained relationship with Turkey, which early last year stopped enforcing an agreement struck with Brussels in 2016 to halt the flow of migrants, and take back those who manage to cross into Greece illegally that do not qualify for E.U. protection, some observers say.“It’s very difficult for Greece but also for the E.U. to cooperate with Turkey to crack down on trafficking,” said Camino Mortera-Martinez, a senior research fellow at the Centre for European Reform in Brussels. “It’s easier for the Greek authorities to say ‘You were there, you were steering the boat and so you are charged with this crime.’”According to Gerald Knaus, the architect of the 2016 E.U.-Turkey deal, the trend comes in the context of an “incredible hardening” of migration policy globally, including the “normalization” of violence at borders, notably in Hungary and Croatia, and regular pushbacks.In Greece’s case, he said, the authorities were to likely to keep resorting to such measures until Turkey agreed to take back migrants who do not need protection in the European Union. “Unless the E.U. puts a new deal on the table for Turkey,” he said, “I fear we’re going to see continued lawlessness.” Read the full article