#the general knowledge that he has a son will be the only closet piece he is going to have in the future

[sadaveniren]

Ok but how do you not let what is going on with bg affect (or is it effect i never know lol) your view of Louis? Because this past year has affected mine and it's truly heartbreaking. It's clear to me that Louis is actively involved now and I don't think any excuse be it contracts or closeting or career is good enough to justify this morally fucked up situation. I always thought Louis was braver and stronger than that.

I’m gonna try and say this as kindly as I can but it doesn’t affect me because I’m an Old Gay on top of being an Old Fan so when I say I respect, accept, and understand closeted people I am very aware of what it is I am saying and implying and also what it is I am expecting of the closeted person. I expect nothing from them except their continued protection of their closet. And I believe that someone protecting their closet IS important, important enough to even allow you to do “morally fucked up” stuff. Because the closet comes from a morally fucked up place. The closet is about a queer person surviving. End of.

Tbh what would make me think of Louis less is if this was real. If I believed BG was real I would have to accept this celebrity I like is a shitty father, who gave zero shits about this child until they were roughly… 6ish aka old enough that the dad can spoil him with minimal effort or obligation in his end. I would have to accept that Louis had zero hand in raising his child, has zero influence in his child’s life outside of giving him big gifts, and is all in all a sperm donor with money who if he decides tomorrow he wanted full custody he could just take it away from Briana with his money even though he put in NONE of the hard effort of raising a child. He didn’t even have overnight privileges when Freddie was a baby. If you have ever heard a single mother talk about her shitty baby daddy… just apply all of that to Louis and that’s what he would be. If BG was real.

But it’s not real. Briana was never pregnant. Therefore Louis isn’t a shit dad. He’s not a dad at all. He’s a closeted queer person trying to navigate his situation the best he can. As a fellow queer person I respect closeted queer people and I demand nothing of them. I don’t think less of them. I don’t think they are weaker or less brave just because they stay closeted. I understand it’s necessary for their lives that they know better than I will.

[portkcys]

#𝚖𝚊𝚌𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚗. an introduction to ernie.

⌜ leo woodall, cis man, he/him, ⌟  welcome back to hogwarts, ERNIE MACMILLAN ! according to your file, you’re a TWENTY THREE year old PUREBLOOD. as i’m sure you remember, last spring had its challenges, but i’m confident you’ll take your studies more seriously this year. as a FIFTH year HUFFLEPUFF, focusing on HEALING AND MEDICINE, you’ve got a lot on your plate. our records show that you're INDUSTRIOUS and GENEROUS however, they seem to have left off that you're PRIDEFUL and REACTIVE. if i’m correct, you’re siding with THE LIGHT, which makes sense considering you’re known around the castle for smoothing down a perfectly pressed suit, the knowledge that you belong in any room you stand in, a stuffed animal buried under bedsheets, childhood dreams disintegrating under your fingertips, sitting on the roof with your friends to watch the sunset. let’s hope you make it through the year in one piece.

#𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚜.

FULL NAME: ernest cyneweard macmillan

NAME MEANING: ernest | serious and vigour. / cyneweard | royal guard. / macmillan | son of the bald one.

NICKNAME(S): ernie, ern, mac

DATE OF BIRTH: may 30th.

AGE: 23.

GENDER + PRONOUNS: cis man + he/him.

RELIGION: atheist.

#𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚙𝚜.

FATHER: cyneweard maximillian macmillan. newly strained relationship: cyneweard instilled a deep, almost dangerous, level of pride in his son. after all, they were macmillans: sacred, long-lived, survivors and protectors. it is this that is his downfall. he refuses to see that voldemort has returned, whether out of fear or just disbelief - an opinion that, for possibly the first time in his life, that ernie doesn't share. it's resulted in a chasm opening up between them and there's only a matter of time before they'll have it out.

MOTHER: andromache florence macmillan nee fawley. loving but distant: andromache was a good mother to her only child. she couldn't have anymore children after him, and even though that wasn't a rarity, she doted upon him -- sending care packages and money under the not always so watchful eyes of his father. they're somewhat strained at the minute, as she, most definitively out of terror, has taken her husbands side in believing that voldemort is not dead, but he's still in more contact with her than he is his father.

SIBLINGS: none applicable.

EXTENDED FAMILY: maximilian macmillan (paternal grandfather), briar macmillan nee fudge (paternal grandmother), alcott macmillan (paternal uncle, godfather), dorothea macmillan nee fawley (paternal aunt via marriage, godmother), edmund macmillan (cousin), perseus black (paternal uncle via marriage, deceased), elladora black nee macmillan (paternal aunt), dorea ollivander nee macmillan (paternal aunt), garrick ollivander iii (paternal uncle via marriage), osric fawley (maternal grandfather, deceased), winnifred fawley nee gamp (maternal grandmother, deceased), aeson macdougal (maternal uncle via marriage), isabella fawley macdougal (maternal aunt), morag macdougal (cousin), adira smith (maternal aunt via marriage, godmother), calliope smith nee fawley (maternal aunt, godmother), zacharias smith (cousin), deimos burke (maternal uncle via marriage, estranged), araminta burke nee fawley (maternal aunt, estranged), elspeth burke (cousin), octavian burke (cousin).

PETS: owl named peter, pygmy puff named wendy and a therapy kneazle named lily. 

ORIENTATION: demiromantic, closeted bisexual.

LOYALTY: hufflepuffs, mainly. the light.

#𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜.

HOUSE: hufflepuff. hufflepuff geminis stand out for being geniuses at what muggles like to call 'multitasking'. they can't just work on one project - they need to have eight or nine things going all at once, usually as close to the deadline as possible. they also tend to be a little more outspoken and extraverted than the average hufflepuff, who would rather sit near the back of the classroom and quietly take notes to study later. because they often bite off more than they can chew, they are always complaining of various ailments related to stress.

BLOOD STATUS: pureblood, member of the sacred 28. consists of at least nine generations of purebloods. the macmillan family are closely connected to the following pureblood families: blacks, burkes, smiths, fawleys, ollivanders and the macdougals. a noted entry must also be the fudges, who have been considered pedigreed purebloods for only two generations.

AMORTENTIA: tba.

WAND: acacia, phoenix feather core, 11 1/2 inches, flexible. acacia is a very unusual wand wood which created tricky wands that often refused to produce magic for anyone other than their rightful owner, it also withhelld its best effects from all but the most gifted witches and wizards. this sensitivity rendered them difficult to place. garrick ollivander ii kept only a small stock for those witches or wizards of sufficient subtlety, for acacia was not suited to what was commonly known as 'bangs-and-smells- magic. when well matched, an acacia wand matched any for power, though it was often underrated due to the peculiarity of its temperament. acacia wands were not used often, as in the wrong hands, it would either be overpowered or extremely weak. case in point: ernie's father once took ernie's wand to show him how to perform a spell, and the wand practically revolted from his touch and refused to emit even a singular spark. phoenix feather wands were capable of the greatest range of magic, though they may take longer to reveal this. they showed the most initiative, sometimes acting of their own accord, a quality that many witches and wizards disliked. they were most picky about potential owners, their allegiance was hard won and they were the most difficult to tame and personalise. ernie has only ever felt his wand act of it's own accord once, and that was to save his life - he has never managed to feel even the slightest bit upset about this fact.

AREA OF STUDY: healing and medicine. the focus of magical healing practices and muggle medicine. ernie is most drawn to muggle surgical methods and devising ways to make them more effectively used as part of magical healing practices, as well as potion inventing.

CLUBS: member of the slug club and the wizarding wireless. ernie has been a member of the slug club since he first started at hogwarts. the wizarding wireless is new, though, something that came about after cedric passed. he couldn't sleep, couldn't eat, and well, he needed something productive to do and the wireless gave him that.

PATRONUS: boar. the wild boar is usually produced by those who are incredibly strong and noble. many who conjure the wild boar are normally down to earth and very reserved, but very dangerous and fierce when threatened. they are quick thinking, clever, and very competitive in battle, making these witches or wizards very confident when challenged. those who conjure the wild boar are incredibly honorable. they are excellent warriors and end to follow closely to tradition. the wild boar patronus normally belongs to those who are willing to fight for their beliefs and who are incredibly loyal. in short, it symbolises strength, power, athleticism, independence, avoidance of unnecessary conflict and defence.

BOGGART: voldemort over his friends corpse. he's never seen voldemort. there aren't any photos printed in newspapers, not even the old ones. just fear, hysteria disguised as normality. he doesn't need to, though. his nightmares provide him more than enough to be able to picture the man himself. the first time he saw his boggart after that lesson in third year - where it was a stone justin, by the way - he threw up.

#𝚙𝚑𝚢𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚜.

ETHNICITY: white.

NATIONALITY: british.

HAIR: blonde. short, heavily textured with added volume. low fade on the sides. product use is obvious - volumising mousse and matt pomade are preferred. gel is a no-go (what, you think he wants to look like a malfoy?)

EYES: blue.

SKIN: fair, unblemished. ernie takes very good care of his skin. people could call him vain, but he just considers it self-care and a normal part of his routine. okay, yeah, i'll admit the LED light he uses sometimes is a bit much, but who doesn't enjoy their skin looking good?

HEIGHT: 5’10”.

BUILD: mesomorph - athletic, heavy, naturally high muscle to fat ratio, medium bone structure, wide shoulders, narrow hips, ability to easily gain muscle mass, almost appears square. kibbe is natural - romantic.

FACECLAIM: leo woodall.

VOICE CLAIM: leo woodall.

#𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕.

TRAITS: + industrious, + generous, + intelligent, = competitive, = predictable, = obedient, - prideful, - reactive, - anxious.

STRENGTHS: potions, care of magical creatures, defense against the dark arts, natural inclination towards healing magics, rugby (part of an amateur league), apparition (soundless).

WEAKNESSES: transfiguration, divination, natural disinclination to dark magics, has panic attacks, flying.

#𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗.

born in norwich, norfolk — he is very much a stereotypical southern posh boy for a good chunk of his life, as well as being the only child and heir to his fathers ‘empire’. 

home schooled until the age of 11 when he was dumped head first into private school (the same one his father attended, no less), where he thrived. 

hit a growth spurt at age 13 and was nigh unrecognisable if not for the same blue of his eyes to the school staff at the beginning of the next term. 

signed a contract at the age of 14 that dictates the terms upon which he is, as the eldest and only son, to inherit the family fortune. one of the terms was that he find a pure or halfblooded wife with whom to have at least one child. 

his family has many hands in many pots — though they keep their hands much cleaner than the malfoy’s do, despite being just as proud as them of their status in society. 

was rather a stout child, and some would say he still is as an adult. but he’s mostly filled out the soft edges with muscle. 

tends to talk about himself when he’s nervous — which comes across as him being arrogant and a bit of a braggart. he comforts himself with possibly mind numbing facts about his long family history. 

he had no interest in choosing magical law for his area of study, much to his father’s chagrin. he instead chose healing — a profession his father had to be reminded is just as impressive. 

often distributes snacks from his care packages around his fellow hufflepuffs. he hates seeing others go hungry, even if they, like him, are too prideful to accept charity. 

suffers from panic attacks and a probably undiagnosed anxiety disorder, which he is unlikely to actually get diagnosed so long as he is under his father’s proverbial thumb. 

regrets his - in retrospect very hasty - actions in calling potter a cheat last year. he could not get out of bed for two days after he came back with cedric’s body, and only did so after hearing how scared one of his best friends sounded. 

he has taken up running when he cannot sleep. read: he has taken up running at any available moment. it clears his mind, gives him room to simply breathe again. rugby helps, too, though that’s more about the bruises left afterwards. 

he’s known about the entrance to the hogwarts kitchens since his first year — whenever the hufflepuffs have anything even small to celebrate, he’ll often be put in charge of putting all the food and drinks together.

his father was approached by voldemort’s followers back before ernie was born. ever since, they’ve been monitored near constantly and everyone who comes to their family home is subject to rigorous background checks. they’ve had their heads forcibly in the sand on the issue of voldemort’s return. 

believes voldemort is back, much to his parents irritation. he has been instructed to keep his head down, to ensure the family name is not muddied by the potter boy’s ‘delusions’. (yes, they know he is 23. no, they do not care that the average 23 year old is not being instructed on how to behave by their parents.) 

he hasn’t been disowned over this but tensions have risen. he spent the last three weeks of the summer holidays with justin rather than stay at home. 

went through a history of magic phase in first year — the boys in his dorm can still recite the names of the trolls in alphabetical order thanks to him jabbering on about it. 

feels incredibly lost, if we’re being honest with each other. he doesn’t like to let it show because he thinks it’s a weakness. the world is turning back to war again and he’s honestly terrified - for himself, for his family, for his friends. 

has had a series of failed relationships that ended in disaster. he, a big believer in the concept of true love, is known as a bit of a bleeding heart despite being, well. ernie. 

producer for the wizarding wireless club, often takes the night shift with luna but is known to show up at 4am for the morning shift, the maniac, bright eyed and bushy tailed to get to work. he has allotted slots to talk about therapy and remind people of the importance of attending your doctor/healer appointments regularly.

#𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍𝚜.

his hufflepuff crew..... his besties his beloveds his bastards? where r u!!!

his platonic soulmate(s)? he says there is more than enough love to go around

childhood friends

friends

people he used to tutor

people he still tutors

his cousins aka my fave hater zacharias smith wya…..?

enemies

academic rivals

exes

a friends with benefits turned soooo messy

bisexual awakening

[ultravioletqueen]

Ya hable de hecate,toca hablar de su adorado esposo y guía de vampiros novatos ;)

-ritcher tiene ascendencia alemana de su padre y ascendencia francesa de su madre.

-la familia de ritcher era muy pobre y después de que uno de sus hermanos muriera el tuvo que empezar a trabajar desde su adolescencia.

-el tenía 4 hermanos,los 4 murieron de causas naturales como enfermedades o vejez.

-tenía una buena relación con todos sus hermanos,sin embargo no se llevaba bien con sus padres debido a que lo forzaron a trabajar siendo muy joven e intentaron hacer lo mismo con sus hermanos más jóvenes.

-el aprendió esgrima después de ser convertido en vampiro.

-a diferencia de rowena el no pudo aprender magia,pero pudo aprender estrategia militar,combate cuerpo a cuerpo,uso de armas, y en general aprendió a ser un soldado.

-solo usa una espada porque no le gusta lo ruidosas que son las armas de fuego.

-figura paterna para los vampiros más jóvenes y sin experiencia.

-a diferencia de otros vampiros que muerden hasta matar naberius solo toma lo que necesita, no es fanático de matar sin razón y piensa que es exagerado matar solo por un poco de sangre(para el es como matar una vaca entera por solo una hamburguesa).

-es un gran coleccionista de armas antiguas y piezas de porcelana.

-no tiene conocimientos médicos tan vastos como los de hecate pero si sabe técnicas medicas militares.

-es bueno con los niños,aunque no quiere ser padre.

-suele conseguir armas para el clan vampiro.

-hasta cierto punto respeta a los cazadores pero no dudará en matarlos.

-tiene fobia a los insectos(especialmente escorpiones).

-al igual que rowena es bisexual de closet.

-es un gran inventor y usualmente hacer armas para el clan.

-al igual que hecate el suele estar acompañado se perros,en especial su perro favorito es uno de 3 cabezas al que quiere mucho.

-su hobbie favorito aparte del esgrima/la poesía es leer no ficción,se queja cuando el material no es fiel a la historia real.

-el admira el trabajo duro y la amabilidad inquebrantable.

-probablemente tiene misofonia.

I already talked about Hecate, it's time to talk about her beloved husband and guide to novice vampires ;)

-ritcher has German ancestry from his father and French ancestry from his mother.

-Ritcher's family was very poor and after one of his brothers died he had to start working as a teenager.

-He had 4 brothers, all 4 died of natural causes such as illness or old age.

-He had a good relationship with all his siblings, however he did not get along with his parents because they forced him to work when he was very young and tried to do the same with his younger siblings.

-He learned swordsmanship after being turned into a vampire.

-Unlike Rowena, he could not learn magic, but he could learn military strategy, hand-to-hand combat, use of weapons, and in general he learned to be a soldier.

-he only uses a sword because he doesn't like how loud guns are.

-father figure for younger and inexperienced vampires.

-Unlike other vampires who bite to death, Naberius only takes what he needs, he is not a fan of killing for no reason and thinks it is exaggerated to kill just for a little blood (for him it is like killing an entire cow for just one hamburger) .

-He is a great collector of antique weapons and porcelain pieces.

-He does not have medical knowledge as vast as Hecate's, but he does know military medical techniques.

-He is good with children, although he does not want to be a father.

-He usually gets weapons for the vampire clan.

-To a certain extent he respects hunters but will not hesitate to kill them.

-has a phobia of insects (especially scorpions).

-Like Rowena, he is a closet bisexual

-He is a great inventor and usually makes weapons for the clan.

-Like Hecate, he is usually accompanied by dogs, especially his favorite dog is one with 3 heads, which he loves very much.

-His favorite hobby apart from fencing/poetry is reading non-fiction, he complains when the material is not faithful to the real story.

-He admires hard work and unwavering kindness.

-probably has misophonia.

[jacquelinemerritt]

Horror Media Review: Rosemary’s Baby (1968)

Originally posted September 2nd, 2016

The corruption of domestic American life.

This review is part of a biweekly series of pieces on classic horror films. See them all here!

Rosemary’s Baby, Roman Polanski1 and Mia Farrow’s breakout film is a masterpiece of tense and subtle storytelling. Today, watching the film feels like going back to the source of inspiration for the “Satanic Panic,” and indeed, in 1968, when the film was released, four other films about Satanists and black magic were released, arguably helping to plant the cultural seed for the very real moral panic over Satanic Ritual Abuse in the 1980s.

Due to its status as a cultural landmark, the basics of the plot are well-known: Rosemary (Mia Farrow) and her husband Guy (John Cassavetes) move into a new apartment and become friends with an old couple that lived next door, Roman and Minnie Castavet (Sidney Blackmer and Ruth Gordon, respectively), who conspire with Guy to impregnate Rosemary with the son of Satan himself, leading to a painful pregnancy and the birth of a demonic child.

The reveal that Roman and Minnie are Satanists has not lost its potency, despite the ubiquity of this story, because it reveals a truth that speaks both to the culture of the time and the culture of today. The Castavets are not the only members of this Satanic cult; every tenant in the apartment besides Rosemary has joined in the worship of Satan, and the depravity of these members of the “Greatest Generation” is meant to reveal the depravity that is necessary for having a successful domestic life in America.

This full depravity is not arrived at all at once; the film is very deliberate in showing that this level of corruption is arrived at by making a series of individual moral compromises, and we see this in Guy’s character arc. A struggling actor, Guy is immediately turned onto the Castavet’s cult when Roman promises off-screen to ensure that Guy gets a significant part in a play, “the kind of role that people notice,” as Guy puts it.

When he gets the role, Guy starts to exert pressure on his wife in small ways, leading her to eat a drugged dessert that will ensure Rosemary is asleep while Satan impregnates her,2 discouraging her from throwing a party with only friends her age, and throwing away the last gift Rosemary received from a mutual friend, all because it led her to (rightfully) believe that the Castavets were practicing witchcraft.

Guy’s pressure on her is only the backdrop to Rosemary’s struggles, however; she is the true center of this story. The compromises Rosemary seems to make are much more obvious, but despite being pressured to limit her agency and be compliant to Guy and the Castavets’ desires, Rosemary takes every opportunity she can to act on her own beliefs, engaging in little acts of rebellion and expertly hiding those acts from those around her.

This is the part of the review where the obligatory rave over Mia Farrow’s performance has to occur, but it’s honestly impossible not to rave at just how brilliant she is in the role. She puts on an air of innocence that serves to hide an incredible strength, all of which is devoted to trying to be the best mother she can for her child. She projects the sense of someone who desires the fulfillment that can come with domestic life and motherhood as well as the knowledge and insight of someone who knows that the trappings of domesticity are ultimately very dangerous. Her knowledge of that danger is what eventually leads her to flee home and bring a knife into the Castavet’s apartment, angrily trying to confront the people she believes have stolen her child away for use in a magic ritual.

The staging of this final scene is particularly important to the message of the film. Rosemary sneaks into the Castavet’s home through closet that connects her apartment with theirs, and she finds all of her neighbors sitting and chatting together around a black cradle adorned with an upturned cross. She wields a kitchen knife against them, but ultimately none of them are scared of her but one woman, who reacts with a scream that finally draws the group’s attention to her.

At this point, Rosemary is damaged, and this is her attempt to lash out at the people surrounding her for the harm they have caused, but even now she cannot break their façade of peaceful domesticity. Her presence does lead Roman Castavet to preach about the son of Satan and lead the crowd in a brief chant hailing their dark lord, but they immediately return to the peaceful conversations they were having as if “Hail Satan” was an absolutely normal cry for people to make at a party.

Then the baby starts to cry. No one can calm him down, because no one in this group has the proper temperament to be a mother.

Except Rosemary.

So she makes her way over to the cradle, trying to talk the woman rocking the demonic child into rocking him more gently, as that might calm him down. The woman doesn’t listen to Rosemary, but Roman does, and he shoos the woman away, beckoning Rosemary to come and take care of “her son.”

And the child, this son of Satan with yellow demonic eyes who caused her immeasurable pain, the child is still her son.

So she rocks him. And he calms.

Because what kind of mother would sit there and do nothing while her son cries for attention?

Rating: 4.5/5

1Discussing the work of Roman Polanski without mentioning that he confessed to the statutory rape of a thirteen-year-old girl is immoral and reprehensible. That does not mean that Polanski’s history of rape must be the interpretive lens through which the film is viewed, and it certainly doesn’t degrade the value of Rosemary’s Baby as a piece of art. There is, of course, nothing wrong with choosing to avoid supporting the work of sexual predators on principle, and it would be remiss to criticize anyone who avoids seeing any of Polanski’s films on those grounds.

2There is a significant cultural difference that must be noted here, however. While it is made very clear that Satan rapes Rosemary in her sleep, both through the imagery used and Rosemary’s description of her “dream,” when Rosemary wakes up and finds scratches on her side, Guy explains them away by saying that he “didn’t want to miss baby night,” implying that he slept with her while she was unconscious. Rosemary is somewhat disturbed by this revelation, but she adjusts to it fairly quickly, allowing the rest of the film to somehow gloss over the fact that her husband admits to raping her as a defense for why her actual rapist left scratches on her. It is a very uncomfortable moment, but it unfortunately can be explained away by the sexual politics of the time, as marital rape was completely legal in the state of New York (where the film is set) until 1984.

Rosemary’s Baby can be streamed via Amazon Prime and Hulu Plus.

Critical Eye Criticism is the work of Jacqueline Merritt, a trans woman, filmmaker, and critic. You can support her continued film criticism addiction on Patreon.

[peachy-panic]

“Zero.”

Me: What if Mr. Torley’s children are absolute brats that Jaime has to put up with

Me: ...but ACTUALLY what if he is like, super attached to one of them? And he’s sweet and kind and makes Jaime actually care for him a lot? Wouldn’t that be so TRAGIC?

That’s the thought process that initially prompted this piece. It ended up expanding into a lot more (and it got a lot darker, to no one’s surprise)

TAG LIST: @whumpervescence @shiningstarofwinter @distinctlywhumpthing @whumptywhumpdump - Please let me know if you’d like to be added/removed :)

WARNINGS: Not much in the way of outright violence here, though there are illusions to past/future noncon. The usual warnings of slavery systems, BBU, etc. Mentions of divorce/bad past relationships. Uhh, weird power imbalances between a child and adult, but the adult is not legally a person. However one might tag that.

Anyway, enjoy!

Mr. Torley’s sons are nine and six when Jaime is brought into the house under the guise of looking after them. 

Well, not a guise entirely. A decent portion of his weekdays does center around catering to their needs before and after school. If he’s honest, it’s the most bearable of his responsibilities in the Torley home. Or, at least, certainly not the worst. He used to like kids, in another life. He thinks he might have even wanted to be a teacher. He isn’t supposed to think about it, though. Isn’t supposed to think about anything from before. 

But he knows he likes spending time them sometimes now. That’s what matters. If nothing else, Jaime associates the boys’ presence with the knowledge that he won’t be called into the bedroom that night. And most days, that’s all he can afford to hope for. 

The boys, while only a handful of years apart in age, are vastly different from one another in personality. Both of them have the general, inevitable air of privilege one might expect from a child raised in exorbitant wealth. But the youngest, Kade, doesn’t seem to have grasped the concept of money or social status or his relationship to any of it yet. He is sweet. And kind. And he seems to genuinely enjoy Jaime’s company.

That is… God, it feels pathetic to even think it, but sometimes spending time with that kid — stacking Legos on the ground, reading stories before bed, chasing him around the kitchen while he tries to teach him how to make chocolate chip cookies from scratch — is the only time Jaime ever gets to feel like a person again. 

The eldest, Steven, is a different story. The instances are few and far between, but Jaime will occasionally catch vague glimpses of his father seeping through. The signs are milder, obviously, and Jaime doesn’t feel right thinking about a child in such a negative light. But it’s there; that seedling of a penitent for asserting power. For putting others beneath him and lashing out when things don’t go his way. Steven has more of an understanding, if only a vague one, about the separation of class and wealth. 

Or perhaps, he understands just enough to know that he is stationed far above Jaime in life. That he can push him further than he would ever dare with his parents or teachers or anyone else and expect little to no retaliation in return. 

He doesn’t seem particularly fond of Jaime as his little brother is, but it’s more a matter of indifference than outright dislike. To him, Jaime is just the young man with the thick collar around his neck who lives in the closet behind the laundry room and brings him food or toys or whatever he wants whenever called upon. It’s clear that this is not Steven’s first rodeo. And it’s with this revelation that Jaime realizes he is probably not the first kept Companion to live under Mr. Torley’s roof.  

It’s Friday, which means the children will be leaving tonight. Since the beginning of his contract, Jaime has come to associate Fridays with a steady build of dread, starting with a pinprick of anxiety when he opens his eyes first thing in the morning and reaching a crescendo when he sends the children off with their mother after school, waiting in the heavy silence of the house for Mr. Torley’s arrival home. For the weekend to begin. 

He tries not to think of it now, not until the moment he absolutely has to, but the conditioned knowledge of what’s to come looms over him like a stormcloud as he folds a tiny pair of jeans into a firetruck-red backpack. 

“Sev?”

Jaime turns to find Kade in the bedroom doorway wearing mix-matched socks and a too-big shirt he definitely stole from his brother’s closet.

‘Sev’ is an abbreviation for ‘Seven-Five-Zero,’ a half-shortening of his assigned Companion number by which the children were instructed to address him. Keepers are well within their rights to assign a temporary name of their liking to Companions in their service, but Mr. Torley had never bothered with such formalities. Here, he is ‘boy.’ On the weekends, he is ‘baby’ and other worse things he doesn’t like to think about. And to the children, ‘Seven-Five-Zero,’ or ‘Sev.’ And he can live with that, he supposes. There is little other choice.

“Hello, Mister Kade,” he greets him, unable to help the amused smile that pulls at his mouth at the eclectic outfit choice. “Are you almost ready to go?”

“I was thinking.” Kade ignores his question, crossing the room with his usual air of a long suffering forty-year-old stuck in a kindergartener’s body and plopping down on the bed. “You should actually come to mommy’s house with us this weekend.”

He pushes his tiny, round glasses up his nose when he says “actually” and Jaime nearly chortles out a laugh, but he composes himself, tucking a Ninja Turtles t-shirt into Kade’s backpack. “Oh?” He humors him with a serious raise of his eyebrow. “May I ask why you think so?”

“Yeah,” Kade replies, kicking out at the air with his legs dangling off the side of the bed. “Because mommy and Sheila don’t read the bedtime stories as good as you, and they don’t do the voices, and they just built a new swingset in the backyard and you can push me on it or maybe we can take turns.” He gives Jaime a scrutinizing look, and then adds, “You probably won’t break it.”

Jaime nearly laughs again, but something changes slightly in the six-year-old’s expression as he turns his eyes down to his knobby knees. 

“I miss playing with you when we go to mommy’s,” he confesses. “And... and daddy always makes you sad when you’re here.” He adds the part quieter, almost like it’s a secret he isn’t sure he isn’t supposed to speak out loud. And to some extent, that’s exactly what it is. 

Jaime feels something in his chest cave at the admission. Such a simple, heartbreaking truth from the myopic lens of a child’s eye. “Daddy makes you sad.” At the realization that for all his efforts, he hasn’t quite managed to shield the children from the insidious happenings that occur behind their backs, an odd mix of shame and grief curdles in his stomach. 

He isn’t sure how to respond. His instincts, his training, tell him to deny it or to move on. Push past any suggestion that his Keeper makes him anything but content and pleased to be at his service. He could recite any number of lines WRU had beaten into him to deflect the doubt, but Kade is smart, and clearly he is intuitive. It’s been several months since Jaime was brought into their lives, and god only knows how many months — how many others — there had been before him. 

Jaime feels himself making a bad choice, but he can’t seem to stop it. He pushes aside the tiny backpack and sits next to Kade on the bed. The childrens’ furniture is some of the only he is allowed on regularly, and it’s mostly because Mr. Torley isn’t around to enforce it or really care about it. Still, he perches somewhat hesitantly on the edge, as if he is going to be called out and ordered to the floor at any moment.

“Did, um. Did your… daddy,” he swallows around the word, “have someone here to watch you before? Before me?”

Kade is quiet for a moment, his heels kicking back and forth against the bed frame, giving Jaime a terrifying gap of time in which to regret his decision to ask the question. It’s not that he was specifically ordered not to ask the kids questions, but he still doesn’t relish the idea of Mr. Torley finding out he’s been poking around in affairs that are none of his business. 

After a long pause, Kade says, “Zero.”

At first, Jaime just blinks at him, assuming that was his strange way of telling him there had been none. Then, Kade looks up at him, a twinge of sadness in his big, brown eyes — eyes that he had apparently, mercifully, inherited from his mother. 

“His name was Zero.”

Realization clicks and floods Jaime with an unexplainable sickness. Zero. The Companion who came before him must have had that digit somewhere in his number, and… oh. 

Jaime had privately always wondered why they had chosen to abbreviate his name to the first of the last three numbers in his code — seven — instead of the final one. A zero. He never would have guessed it was because there had already once been a nameless, voiceless ghost who floated through these halls and warmed Mr. Torley’s bed who answered to it. 

“Zero was…?” A Companion. A slave. A whore, his mind supplies. “He was like me?”

Kade’s eyes float downward slightly, catching on Jaime’s throat. He reaches a hand up to touch the collar around his neck and Jaime flinches, hard, and it makes Kade flinch, too. He feels bad immediately. 

“I’m sorry,” Jaime whispers, feeling his own fingers come up to brush the material on instinct.

“He had one, too,” Kade says. Jaime swallows. “Why is your name numbers instead of words?” he asks with genuine curiosity. “You and Zero?”

Jaime’s eyes fall shut in a preemptive exhaustion at what it would take to try and answer that question as delicately as possible to a six year old. Part of him almost laughs again. You want to have a complex discussion of the systematic dehumanization of the lower class? He imagines himself saying to the wide-eyed boy.

But his question is so sincere. So innocent. And it pulls at a part of Jaime’s chest that hurts more than it should after all this time. 

“Do you have a real name?”

A real name.

Jaime. Jaime. Jaime. The desire to speak it out loud — to remember — is hot on his tongue, but not nearly as hot as the memory of the bolt of electricity against his throat. He wonders for just a moment if Kade would tell anyone if he told him. Not with malicious intentions, certainly, but with the careless loose lips of a six-year-old eager to share all his secrets with the world. The sudden urgency balloons in his chest, growing bigger and bigger until it feels like his ribs might splinter out from the force of trying to hold it in. 

And then, all at once, the moment passes. His training kicks in. Jaime breathes in deep and pushes away the rebellious feeling.

“Your mother will be here soon, Mister Kade,” he says instead, swallowing down his grief like poison. “You should probably put on pants.”

Resilient as ever, Kade springs down from the bed, only pouting slightly at the idea of putting on pants and having his line of questioning derailed. Jaime continues packing his weekend bag with detached automation, making sure to place his stuffed dog right on top where Kade will be able to find it easily. 

When he is fully dressed, Jaime ushers him out of the room to meet Steven downstairs, where he’s sure he is already impatiently waiting, glued to his gaming screen. They manage to make it into the hallway without any further prying questions, but Kade stops him with a slight tug on the hem of his shirt at the top of the stairs. 

“Sev?” Jaime stops, looks down at him, backpack slung over one shoulder. “Maybe… maybe next weekend then? You can come to mommy’s with us?”

For a moment, he allows himself to imagine this bizarre cartoon scenario the kid has dreamed up. He imagines long days in the backyard and cooking dinner for Mr. Torley’s ex wife and her girlfriend and the boys. Imagines weekend nights sleeping blissfully, mercifully alone.

“Maybe.” he smiles, indulging them both in the lie. “We’ll see.”

****

“Mommy!”

The boys whir past him as the door flings open, their mother waiting in a crouch with open arms.

“Hello, my babies.” She greets them with kisses on their cheeks, a ruffling hand in their curly hair. “How was school?”

“Fine,” Steven mutters, swiping his hand across his cheek where her kiss had landed and wriggling out of her grip. 

“It was good, mommy, and guess what!” Kade’s enthusiasm steals the focus of the conversation, as usual, and she turns to him with a smile. 

“What’s that Kadey-Cat?”

“Sev says maybe he can come over and play with us next weekend!”

Jaime, who has been standing back with detached politeness, feels his entire back knot up. 

The hot burn in his cheeks feels like a neon-red glow that draws all the attention in the room. There is a terrible silence that stretches out for far too long. When he looks up, their mother meets Jaime’s eyes with stark surprise. Jaime panics. Scrambles. He feels the need to explain himself, that it was not his idea, that he knows it’s against the rules, he knows it’s ridiculous. He feels like he needs to say something, say ‘sorry’ maybe, but he’s really not supposed to speak without being spoken to, and Mr. Torley has made it fairly clear that he doesn’t want him to speak to his ex wife specifically much at all. 

“Can he, mommy?” Kade insists with a bouncing urgency.

“Ah,” his mom stretches up into a standing position, thankfully breaking her silence. “We’ll talk about it later, Kade. Go get in the car, boys.” 

Steven takes off running toward the driveway, calling for shotgun, but Kade hangs back just long enough to throw a tight hug around Jaime’s knees. “Bye Sev,” he says with genuine affection like a balm on Jaime’s racing heart. “I’ll see you Monday, okay?”

Jaime swallows, allowing the briefest pat on the kid’s shoulder. “Yes, Mister Kade. I’ll see you Monday.”

And then he takes off after his brother. 

Jaime keeps his head bowed as he shrugs the boy's bags off his shoulder and hands them over to the former Ms. Torley without a word. But as she takes the weight of the red backpack, a soft hand closes in around his wrist. Jaime’s head jerks up, startled. 

His momentary relief that she doesn’t look angry is quickly extinguished by the realization of what she is looking at. Her thumb brushes lightly over the fading bruise around his wrist, a mere ghost of what it had been last Saturday when it had been inflicted. Then she suddenly seems to catch herself and let his hand drop. 

“Sorry,” she says quickly, taking a step back.

Jaime pulls both hands to wrap around his middle, his bruised wrists mostly concealed in the folds of his arms. He keeps his eyes down. 

There’s a long swell of silence, and then she says, “How long are you here?”

It’s the first time she’s ever truly spoken to Jaime. Their interactions are usually limited to a tense tradeoff of the boys in the foyer or on the front stoop, always wordless and stiff with closed off, unreadable expressions as their only form of communication. Her voices isn’t clearly indicative of how she might be feeling now either, but it’s almost a forced kind of flatness. As if she’s making herself seem impassive with great effort. Jaime knows that feeling well. 

“It is a six month contract, ma’am,” he replies politely. 

He sees her nod in his peripheral vision. “How much is left?”

It takes Jaime a moment to orient himself within an accurate frame of time. His only reference for how long he’s been there is when he catches glimpses at the wall calendar in Mr. Torley’s study. He recalls the way his eyes had wandered there the previous Sunday when he was… when he was on the desk. He’d counted the little red Xs marked across the days that had passed and wished he could have somehow fast-forwarded through the next one with his mind. 

“Two months, I believe,” he says. “Ma’am.” He really tries hard not to think about the passage of time while he’s here. It’s slow torture on his mind. 

When he dares to glance up at her, she’s studying him with the same tight, unreadable expression as always. It makes him squirm internally, like a frog pinned down on some high school kid’s biology tray. 

“Are you… alright?”

That’s not something he expects to hear at all, and he hopes he's able to neutralize his outward expression more than it feels like he is. It’s implicit in her tone, she’s not talking about ‘are you alright right now,’ but an underlying ‘are you going to survive those two last months?’ But there’s something else in her tone as well, something more important; the knowledge that there’s no good or truthful answer he can give, and the subsequent knowledge that the question has been asked in vain. 

For a brief moment, Jaime reads naked sympathy in her eyes, and it would make his skin crawl if it weren’t the first real exchange he’s ever had with her. It almost feels as good as it does shameful, to be seen by someone.

He catches himself suddenly thinking about the former Mrs. Torley in the same light as he had thought about the mysterious Zero. He doesn’t know much about their divorce or the circumstances surrounding it, but it’s painfully obvious she detests her ex husband, and that she had been the one to initiate the separation. She had escaped this home of her own accord; something Zero had never had the opportunity to do. Something Jaime wishes he did. 

But now he wonders… had Brooke Torley once been a prisoner inside these walls, too? Had she floated through the same hallways like a ghost? Slept on the same side of the king bed Jaime now occupies every Friday-through-Sunday night? Had she stared at the same spot of dust on the ceiling fan when long nights became endless ones under the glow of the bedside lamp?

Does she know what Jaime is really here for? And does she hate him for it?

Or does she get it?

He realizes he is staring and quickly pulls his gaze down, his hands behind his back. “Sorry,” he mutters. “Yes, ma’am. I’m… I’m alright.”

He hears a long breath slide out of her nose but doesn’t dare look up again. 

“Right,” she says quietly, then clears her throat. “Okay, then.”

She turns on her heel without saying goodbye, because she has no obligation to do so, and leaves Jaime standing in the doorway. He is still, eyes on his bare feet against the foyer tile, until he hears the SUV pull out of the long driveway. 

Only when he is alone does he close the door, sealing himself off from the outside world, the illusion of freedom, feeling the tightness of the collar constrict a little with a swallow. He thinks of living ghosts and what it means for a house to be truly haunted as he finds his place in the foyer where Mr. Torley likes him to kneel when he arrives home. He wonders if Zero knelt here, too. 

[feanorianethicsdepartment]

more thoughts about the homecoming au, the au where maedhros and maglor get brought back to tirion after the war of wrath to be prettied-up trinkets on finarfin’s shelf, with painted-over scars and muffled screams. it is dark, it’s full of all kinds of emotional and caretaker abuse, and the brothers weren’t exactly in a good state of mind before any of this happened. @sunflowersupremes wrote the initial au that wasn’t even meant as horror, @outofangband - this au is as much theirs as mine, several of the concepts here were originally theirs, and a lot of this originally came out in dms with them. part 1 is here. this part contains gaslighting, loss of autonomy right at the end, more suicide mentions (thanks mae) and just general abuse from people who care more about their own comfort than the people they’re supposed to be caring for. it’s worse than the first part, honestly

most of the stuff the fëanorians had on them when they surrendered got taken away pretty fast. which is honestly understandable; some of it was cursed, a lot of it was weaponry, all of it stank to the high vault of the stars

but they both managed to hold onto some personal effects, or get them back before they went in the incinerator. a broken locket, a torn-up book, nothing fancy, nothing large, but things that still mean a lot to them

the valinoreans aren’t entirely comfortable with this. they find a lot of the brothers’ comfort items mildly disturbing, stained with darkness and (occasionally literal) blood as they are. maedhros had this dessicated finger he refuses to explain anything about that got disposed of very quickly

maglor has a few strands of brightly coloured thread, spun around each other somewhat inexpertly. he tends to pull it out when he’s feeling depressed, working it between his fingers until he feels like he can face the world again

one day, one of his minders who gets along better with him asks where he got it. from the twins, maglor admits. it’s part of some embroidery elrond abandoned when they left -

and it’s snatched out of his hands. his minder looks down at him compassionately. ‘i know you miss them, but you caused those boys a lot of pain, you know? you shouldn’t romanticise your relationship with them’

which - maglor’s relationship with the twins was complicated, and while it wasn’t nearly as hellish as elwing fears, it wasn’t entirely healthy. maglor was dependent emotionally on the kids a lot more than any adult should be to children, and vice versa

because the twins were the last people he had left. when maedhros executed celegorm’s servants with no warning at all, this rift began to grow between the sons of fëanor and their followers. they’d always been terrifying, but they’d also been comradely and inspiring, the white-hot stars around which their people orbited. but when they turned their fangs on their own host, all that started to fall away, leaving only the fear behind

it got worse after sirion. by the time vingilot rose in the sky, maglor’s only real remaining relationships were with maedhros, who he hated as much as he loved, and the twins. watching over them, talking to them, not hurting them - it kept him grounded in reality, kept him sane

he knows, he knows, he knows, they’re better off without him. but his time with them is the only happiness in his memories that still feels real

but the valinoreans can’t accept that. the exile was an awful time with nothing in it worth keeping, and the sooner he can recognise that the faster he’ll be back to his old self

besides. their caretakers don’t like being reminded of their more... unpleasant deeds

(elwing sidebar: elwing and eärendil are having an easier time, because the teleri have experience dealing with trauma and are also just more accepting of the right to have your own take on your own experiences. still, though, elwing occasionally hears that a proper telerin mother would have stayed with her children, even if she had to give up the treasure her people died for to the monsters of her childhood nightmares)

(elwing was a young adult in a horrendous situation with no obvious way out, elwing is dealing with her own damage as best she can, elwing is valid, we stan elwing. she’s also one of the few direct-ish sources the noldor have for beleriand and what the fëanorians did there, and her (perfectly reasonable!) perspective colours a lot of their treatment)

in general the valinorean noldor are quite sure they know what beleriand was like and how it felt to be there, and aren’t particularly interested in being proven wrong

it was miserable, it was harrowing, it was nothing anyone should want to think about. it was a long nightmare maedhros and maglor are so fortunate to have finally woken up from

and you can kind of see why they think like that? the ones who have seen the hither shores saw them when ash rained from a void-black sky and almost everything was dead, and the survivors told stories of a long hopeless defeat and cruelties beyond imagining

but that deep black image blots out the genuine joy they felt in those five hundred years, the chance to prove their own greatness, the knowledge they were doing something good, nights when music echoed across the gap, warm hands in a cold fortress. there were things in beleriand worth remembering, aspects of the people they became there legitimately worth keeping

and even if there wasn’t - five hundred years. the scars on their bodies make it plain to see, every little piece of who they are was shaped by beleriand, for worse and for better. they just can’t leave it behind

their valinorean caretakers find this horrifying

maedhros likes to exercise. it keeps him calm, gives him something to do. it’s not something nelyafinwë was super into - he was more the peripatetic type - but it’s a feasible hobby for a noldorin prince to have, so he’s allowed to do it

sometimes, though, he’ll unconsciously shift into the old combat forms, precisely timed drills ingrained into his bodies. the first few times he does this, his minders are bemused more than anything, but then one day he happens to have a stick in hand to use as a mock-sword

then every time he starts to slip away into that meditative trance, hands reach out to stop him and hold him in place. ‘there’s no need to fight here, maitimo,’ an elf he knew before the unchaining tells him ever so gently. ‘you’re safe now’

... they say that, but maedhros’ nightmares keep getting worse

it’s like that with everything that makes the valinoreans uncomfortable. whenever they try to speak of their time in beleriand, no matter what they say, they’re told that oh, they know it was hard, but it’s all over now and they don’t have to dwell on it

but even after they’ve spent years in paradise, maedhros and maglor still won’t let go and allow themselves to heal

they just can’t come to terms with the truth of their ordeal

the narrative the valinoreans have constructed erases all of the bright spots, but it also bleaches out the true darkness

certainly they did horrible things, but did they really have a choice? in such a harsh world, they always had to be on guard, lest they themselves be killed. these poor boys never meant to harm anyone, but their father’s cruel madness and the painful chains of their oath and the vileness of beleriand forced them into atrocities they never wanted to commit

(surely the monsters the sindar spoke of wouldn’t cry. they wouldn’t lose themselves in waking nightmares or curl up shivering in well-hidden closets, they wouldn’t jump away from a casual touch or watch every new person like they might be a threat. they wouldn’t convince themselves the children they stole were happy, or talk to the shade of a dead kinsman they abandoned. surely they wouldn’t. surely)

(because if they are, and they’ve let a couple of orcs loose into the royal palace...)

(maglor and maedhros’ movements are pretty restricted. this is mostly for their own protection, but it’s partially - well, just in case. just in case)

this rankles at maedhros, though he tries not to show it. terrible they might have been, but his choices were his own

he was a warlord, he was a king. he expected to be hated for the things he had done. he didn’t expect to be pitied. he didn’t expect to be dismissed

sometimes, when he’s surrounded by people earnestly telling him that he’s not a bad person, he never was, it was all pressure from his father and the oath, he wants to scream that he chose to attack sirion because he was so, so tired of diplomatically dancing around problems he knew he could solve with his blade

but he stops himself, always. he knows how much what little freedom they do have is based on them not being a threat

and he will not wash this peaceful, innocent land in blood. he’ll kill himself first

maglor has lost all such scruples

it’s not often, but when they’re behaving themselves and no one who’s likely to take offense is in town, the brothers get taken out to court events

they paint makeup over their scars (which still won’t heal, everyone is concerned by the implications of this) dress them up in finery, string them with jewels, and show off how well they’re doing

(even if maedhros rarely says anything, and they never leave each other’s side)

tonight, it’s a feast. a minor celebration, nothing too crowded, nothing too loud. there’s revels and merrymaking and all kinds of fun

and after the food has been cleared away, there’s music

would his nephew like to play something, finarfin asks. it’s hard to tell if it’s a request or a politely phrased order

maglor decides he doesn’t have the patience to be taken aside and tell how much everyone wanted to hear his music, and accepts

finarfin smiles kindly. he’s thinking about how maglor’s minders have been talking about how he’s finally stopped trying to sing depressing or horrifying songs and how his voice grows more melodious by the day

maglor is thinking about how they won’t even let him sing about his wife. he wrote no odes to her beauty or her skill in the forge, but he sang ballads about the swiftness of her spear and her laughter after a battle

none of which the valinoreans want to hear. they want to pretend that love never existed, that there could be any joy found in darkness, that she’s at all worth remembering -

he gets up to play, and launches into the most vicious, most hopeless, most painful part of the noldolantë

they try to stop him, but he’s the greatest warsinger the world has ever seen, he’s sung with blood in his lungs over the roaring of dragons, there’s little they can do to block out everything they’re trying to ignore. he wails defeat and death and grief and death and despair and death

when they finally manage to knock him out, their whole petty festival in tatters, shock on their faces, tears streaming from their eyes, all he can think is that if they understand now, even a little, it’ll have been worth it

for the first time, but not the last, he wakes up in a cell

finarfin comes to visit, and starts giving a very disappointed lecture maglor is in no mood to hear. instead he just snarls that nothing they’ve been doing is helping him at all, and he’s so sick of false sympathy and no one listening to what his actual problems are

finarfin shuts his eyes, says ‘i’m sorry to hear you feel that way’ and leaves

a few days later he wakes up with a collar around his neck

it’s demeaning, but he gets released that morning, so he rolls with it. he gets told to never do that ever again, first by his minders and then by maedhros

his minders he nods at until they leave him alone. maedhros he snarks back at that it’s not like he’s doing anything to improve their condition

only he can’t

the words don’t just freeze in his throat, they can’t even form in his mind. what’s happening, he can’t say. what did you do to me, he can’t say. he can’t even scream

as maglor is clutching at his neck (he can’t get it off he can’t get it off) and all the colour is draining out of maedhros’ face, the minder in the room smiles

‘see? this way you’ll stop making yourself and everyone around you miserable. you can still talk about happy things -’

‘they did this in angband!’ maedhros roars, a statement that provokes his first actual fight with their minders. he’s harder to pin down than maglor. bigger

but their caretakers are becoming annoyed with the brothers’ obstinate refusal to let themselves get better. they may be content to wallow in the misery of their past, but inflicting it on others is a step too far

they clearly aren’t going to move any further down the road to recovery on their own volition, so it’s become clear they need a gentle push. is it a little distasteful? yes, but such things are sometimes necessary in medicine

the bright cheerful princes they will be again will thank them for it

oh god how did this end up so long. the last one should be shorter, it’s mostly clearing up some loose ends. why did i write this

[richincolor]

Today is Rich in Color’s eighth anniversary! Can you believe it?

We’ve read so many fantastic books over the years, so our bloggers compiled a list of eight books that we wanted to recommend to our followers. These books are ones that we love and that have stuck with us through the years. How many of them have you read?

All American Boys by Jason Reynolds and Brendan Kiely Atheneum/Caitlyn Dlouhy Books

In an unforgettable new novel from award-winning authors Jason Reynolds and Brendan Kiely, two teens—one black, one white—grapple with the repercussions of a single violent act that leaves their school, their community, and, ultimately, the country bitterly divided by racial tension.

A bag of chips. That’s all sixteen-year-old Rashad is looking for at the corner bodega. What he finds instead is a fist-happy cop, Paul Galuzzi, who mistakes Rashad for a shoplifter, mistakes Rashad’s pleadings that he’s stolen nothing for belligerence, mistakes Rashad’s resistance to leave the bodega as resisting arrest, mistakes Rashad’s every flinch at every punch the cop throws as further resistance and refusal to STAY STILL as ordered. But how can you stay still when someone is pounding your face into the concrete pavement?

But there were witnesses: Quinn Collins—a varsity basketball player and Rashad’s classmate who has been raised by Paul since his own father died in Afghanistan—and a video camera. Soon the beating is all over the news and Paul is getting threatened with accusations of prejudice and racial brutality. Quinn refuses to believe that the man who has basically been his savior could possibly be guilty. But then Rashad is absent. And absent again. And again. And the basketball team—half of whom are Rashad’s best friends—start to take sides. As does the school. And the town. Simmering tensions threaten to explode as Rashad and Quinn are forced to face decisions and consequences they had never considered before.

The Marrow Thieves by Cherie Dimaline Dancing Cat Books

In a futuristic world ravaged by global warming, people have lost the ability to dream, and the dreamlessness has led to widespread madness. The only people still able to dream are North America’s Indigenous people, and it is their marrow that holds the cure for the rest of the world. But getting the marrow, and dreams, means death for the unwilling donors. Driven to flight, a fifteen-year-old and his companions struggle for survival, attempt to reunite with loved ones and take refuge from the “recruiters” who seek them out to bring them to the marrow-stealing “factories.”

Wild Beauty by Anna-Marie McLemore Feiwel & Friends

Love grows such strange things.

For nearly a century, the Nomeolvides women have tended the grounds of La Pradera, the lush estate gardens that enchant guests from around the world. They’ve also hidden a tragic legacy: if they fall in love too deeply, their lovers vanish. But then, after generations of vanishings, a strange boy appears in the gardens.

The boy is a mystery to Estrella, the Nomeolvides girl who finds him, and to her family, but he’s even more a mystery to himself; he knows nothing more about who he is or where he came from than his first name. As Estrella tries to help Fel piece together his unknown past, La Pradera leads them to secrets as dangerous as they are magical in this stunning exploration of love, loss, and family.

Picture Us in the Light by Kelly Loy Gilbert Disney-Hyperion

Danny Cheng has always known his parents have secrets. But when he discovers a taped-up box in his father’s closet filled with old letters and a file on a powerful Silicon Valley family, he realizes there’s much more to his family’s past than he ever imagined.

Danny has been an artist for as long as he can remember and it seems his path is set, with a scholarship to RISD and his family’s blessing to pursue the career he’s always dreamed of. Still, contemplating a future without his best friend, Harry Wong, by his side makes Danny feel a panic he can barely put into words. Harry and Danny’s lives are deeply intertwined and as they approach the one-year anniversary of a tragedy that shook their friend group to its core, Danny can’t stop asking himself if Harry is truly in love with his girlfriend, Regina Chan.

When Danny digs deeper into his parents’ past, he uncovers a secret that disturbs the foundations of his family history and the carefully constructed facade his parents have maintained begins to crumble. With everything he loves in danger of being stripped away, Danny must face the ghosts of the past in order to build a future that belongs to him.

The Astonishing Color of After by Emily X.R. Pan Little, Brown Brooks for Young Readers

Leigh Chen Sanders is absolutely certain about one thing: When her mother died by suicide, she turned into a bird.

Leigh, who is half Asian and half white, travels to Taiwan to meet her maternal grandparents for the first time. There, she is determined to find her mother, the bird. In her search, she winds up chasing after ghosts, uncovering family secrets, and forging a new relationship with her grandparents. And as she grieves, she must try to reconcile the fact that on the same day she kissed her best friend and longtime secret crush, Axel, her mother was taking her own life.

Alternating between real and magic, past and present, friendship and romance, hope and despair, The Astonishing Color of After is a novel about finding oneself through family history, art, grief, and love.

Pride by Ibi Zoboi Balzer + Bray

Zuri Benitez has pride. Brooklyn pride, family pride, and pride in her Afro-Latino roots. But pride might not be enough to save her rapidly gentrifying neighborhood from becoming unrecognizable.

When the wealthy Darcy family moves in across the street, Zuri wants nothing to do with their two teenage sons, even as her older sister, Janae, starts to fall for the charming Ainsley. She especially can’t stand the judgmental and arrogant Darius. Yet as Zuri and Darius are forced to find common ground, their initial dislike shifts into an unexpected understanding.

But with four wild sisters pulling her in different directions, cute boy Warren vying for her attention, and college applications hovering on the horizon, Zuri fights to find her place in Bushwick’s changing landscape, or lose it all.

The Gilded Wolves (The Gilded Wolves #1) by Roshani Chokshi Wednesday Books

Paris, 1889: The world is on the cusp of industry and power, and the Exposition Universelle has breathed new life into the streets and dredged up ancient secrets. In this city, no one keeps tabs on secrets better than treasure-hunter and wealthy hotelier, Séverin Montagnet-Alarie. But when the all-powerful society, the Order of Babel, seeks him out for help, Séverin is offered a treasure that he never imagined: his true inheritance.

To find the ancient artifact the Order seeks, Séverin will need help from a band of experts: An engineer with a debt to pay. A historian who can’t yet go home. A dancer with a sinister past. And a brother in all but blood, who might care too much.

Together, they’ll have to use their wits and knowledge to hunt the artifact through the dark and glittering heart of Paris. What they find might change the world, but only if they can stay alive.

Felix Ever After by Kacen Callender HarperCollins

From Stonewall and Lambda Award–winning author Kacen Callender comes a revelatory YA novel about a transgender teen grappling with identity and self-discovery while falling in love for the first time.

Felix Love has never been in love—and, yes, he’s painfully aware of the irony. He desperately wants to know what it’s like and why it seems so easy for everyone but him to find someone. What’s worse is that, even though he is proud of his identity, Felix also secretly fears that he’s one marginalization too many—Black, queer, and transgender—to ever get his own happily-ever-after.

When an anonymous student begins sending him transphobic messages—after publicly posting Felix’s deadname alongside images of him before he transitioned—Felix comes up with a plan for revenge. What he didn’t count on: his catfish scenario landing him in a quasi–love triangle….

But as he navigates his complicated feelings, Felix begins a journey of questioning and self-discovery that helps redefine his most important relationship: how he feels about himself.

[baticorngirl]

Title: Scribbles of Love

Rating: General Audiences

Relationship(s): Talia Al Ghul/Bruce Wayne (Brutalia), Talia Al Ghul & Unnamed Child, Bruce Wayne & Unnamed Child,

Characters: Talia Al Ghul, Bruce Wayne, Minor Original Character(s),

Summary: Miraculously, Bruce and Talia have been married for quite a long time now. In fact, their first year anniversary is coming around the corner, and it's suddenly dawned on Bruce that he doesn't have anything to give her. He soon decides he wants to give her a love poem, but there's only one problem: Bruce sucks at writing poetry. As the anniversary comes closer and closer, will Bruce manage to write a half-decent love poem in time?

A/N: This fic is for @brutalia-week Day 1: “I made it for you”. It takes place in an alternate universe where Batman: Son of the Demon worked out. I think that’s all you need to know before you begin, so... enjoy!

(The fanfic is under the line below, but if you’d prefer to, you can also read it on Ao3(x) and FF.net (x)!)

__________________________________________________

Talia was training, as usual. Her feet were planted to the ground like a tree's deep roots, with her knees bent ever so slightly to get a good stance. The smile on her face was soft, but she made sure her strikes were anything but. Like Ra's has taught her so many years back, her moves were smooth and fast, a bit graceful… but powerful. The sword in her hand would've demolished anything in its path, as it zoomed around the room…. if she had been aiming for anything but an imaginary opponent, that is. Her hair flew into the air as she abruptly bent down (while still attempting to keep her feet as well-planted as possible) to swipe her "opponent's" feet. She pulled up and jumped, imagining that they were doing the same move back to her. Continuing to imagine each move, her arm twisted and turned to hit their sword back every time, getting faster and faster and faster and faster and…..

Knock, knock. Talia pulled herself up, mentally clearing herself from the perilous fight, at the sound of knuckles softly pounding on the door. "Come in," She called, slowly trotting over to the door. Just outside the door, Batman stood. His cowl was casually flung back to uncover his real face, and as he began to pull on his gloves and belt, it became clear he was about to get out of the vigilante gear. He sighed, neglecting to look at her as the pulling became more of just fidgeting and less of actually pulling them off.

"I… have to go." He began, his eyes still looking off into the distance. "It's just… a… small errand. I won't be long. Maybe an hour or two, but….. I can't keep watching the baby while I'm gone so I figured I should let you know." He immediately turned and began walking away as soon as he had conveyed the necessary information. Talia's eyebrow rose, noticing the odd behavior, but quickly shrugged it off. Her husband always acted secretive, so she doubted there was anything to worry about.

"Okay, Beloved. Farewell!" She quickly leaned in to kiss him on the cheek a moment before he left. Batman turned back towards her, his classic vacant expression turning into a smile for a moment. It only took less than a moment to go back to normal, though, as he quickly continued walking and went into a walk-in closet to get ready for his "errand". Once he was out of sight, Talia made her own way over to the baby's nursery in the opposite direction.

She swiftly picked the baby up, watching as the baby's eyes lit up in a giggle. The baby continued to smile and laugh even more as she kissed his small, round little nose. Talia rocked her child in her arms, ambling around the nursery. Soon, the high-pitched laughter had faded into the peaceful squeaks of a sleeping infant. The baby was slowly set back down into his crib. Talia patted his little head as gently as she could, before setting up the baby monitor and going to a nearby room to train a bit more.

Meanwhile, Bruce had just arrived at what he had told Talia was just an errand. He went into the front door, and was greeted by a friendly-looking person, sitting on a lounge chair just a few feet in. They smiled at him, and motioned for him to sit down at one of the many desks spaced around the room.

"Welcome. You're a bit early, so we'll just be getting started in a few minutes." They explained. He simply nodded in return. Luckily for him, they seemed to be unaware of his fame back in Gotham. Talia had still been doing some work under Ra's, and so they hadn't been in Gotham for quite a while due to where her father wanted her. Bruce had been enjoying the lack of fame and the dreaded paparazzi through their whole trip, and this was no exception.

Silence followed for a few moments. They both looked down their laps, unsure what to do or say. Awkwardness plagued them both, but eventually, the person in front of Bruce decided to start talking again to get rid of it.

"I'm sorry, I forgot to introduce myself. I'm Riley, what's your name?" They asked, reaching a hand out to shake hands. Bruce put his hand out as well, and they shook for a few seconds before he answered the question.

"My name is B-" He quickly got interrupted by a flood of people coming in. The clock had finally ticked that it was 10:00, meaning it was the exact time to start. Everyone sat down quietly. Riley jumped up from their chair, rushing up to the front.

"Welcome to this poetry class, everyone. I assume all of you are here to improve your knowledge of poetry to a level beyond what you were taught in school, or possibly even to build up to a career as a poet. My name is Riley, and I'm your instructor." They explained, and a wave of nodding ran through their audience. Bruce nodded, but stared for a moment in awe of the fact that he hardly remembered even just what he had been taught in school about poetry. He looked down at the desk in front of him, the idea finally occurring to him that maybe focusing all his later teenage years on training to become Batman instead of paying attention to High School was a mistake.

But there was nothing he could do about it now. Poetry hadn't ever been necessary until this situation. But here he was, lying to Talia that he was just "going out on an errand", because there was absolutely no way he could write her a love poem without extra help. It was an embarrassment, really, but poetry just wasn't one of his strong points. It required so much emotion, so much expression of it, and expressing his emotions just wasn't something Bruce naturally did.

"Of course, this is more of a beginner class, so even though some of you may become poets some day, we'll be starting with the basics for today's class." Riley continued the class introduction. Bruce sighed in relief. Perhaps he would actually be able to follow what the instructor was talking about, and be able to give Talia a half-decent poem when it was over. "First of all, most good poems have a lot of figurative languages. These are things that stretch the literal meanings of the words you use, and create an image or effect using them. Some examples are how saying 'Your eyes looked like stars' is a simile, a type of figurative language. There's also metaphors, which are essentially the same thing, but without using the word 'like'."

Bruce thought about this for a moment, and got out a piece of paper to attempt to start his poem with some figurative language. "What's Talia like?" He mumbled, remembering everything about her that he loved so much. She was such a good fighter, and yet kind of graceful, which he was sure he could relate to something, so he took note of that. Her eyes were kind of jewel-like, shiny and beautiful, and her dark brown hair was like chocolate, so he wrote that down, as well.

But most of all, what he loved about her was how much she tried for love. Even though everyone would say that her fighting abilities are her greatest power, her secret weapon, Bruce knew none of those meant anything. Not without the love she used those abilities for, at least. He wasn't quite sure how to say this poetically, though, so he decided to get back to it later.

Eventually, the class ended, and Bruce came back home. Then, next week, he went back to the class and continued to work on his poem. Every week this continued, until their anniversary came around. By then, his poem was nowhere near perfect, but he had tried. There was no way he could back out now, after spending so much time working on it.

Bruce stuffed the poem inside his pocket, and went to their room to get Talia. She sat on a stool, brushing her hair nonchalantly. She had already gotten changed into a beautiful dress, going down to her ankles with embroideries. Bruce stared for a moment, thunderstruck. An embarrassingly goofy smile was on his face, but he quickly shook it off and returned to his default, impassive expression.

"Are you ready, Talia?" Bruce asked, reaching his hand out to help her up. Talia got up herself, but took his hand anyway, nodding. Both bringing along a present, the couple held hands as they made their way to the car. They were planning on going to a fancy restaurant for their anniversary, and exchanging gifts after dinner.

"I can't believe it's been a year since we finally got together, Beloved." Talia said once they were in the car, smiling, "It's been so happy. We were so sad, and we kept having to reject each other, but then this happened, and now… I don't think anything will ever get in between us again." She clutched her necklace, thinking back to the time, almost a year ago, that he had given it to her. For once, she could think about that kind of time with pure joy and hope, instead of longing.

"Yes… I don't usually consider myself cheerful, but you're right. I honestly don't think we could be happier." Bruce looked down at his lap, lost in thought. "That baby is going to have everything. Our love, a family, a home, and of course, happiness. We've really done it." He mumbled.

Talia nodded, right as they pulled up to the restaurant. She scooched out of the car, pulling Bruce along with her. They went inside together, got seated, and ordered their food. As they waited, they decided it might be fun to give each other hints about the presents.

"I'm going to give you two gifts, technically." Bruce explained, feeling his pocket for the poem, plus the earrings he was going to give her along with it. "One's just…. A fairly basic anniversary gift. But the other thing, well, it's a bit more from the heart… I suppose. I don't know, I tried to make it special." He sighed.

Talia smiled, "That sounds wonderful, Beloved. I can't wait to see it." Bruce gulped at the thought that he may have gotten his hopes up for his half-baked writing, but she didn't seem to notice his nerves. "I just got you something basic, too, but it's the sort of thing that's customized to be quite special."

"That sounds wonderful, too." He replied, reaching across to put his hand on top of hers romantically. She wrapped her hand around his in reciprocation. They both leaned in to kiss, smiling.

"Here is your food," They both got knocked out of their romantic moment by the sound of their waiter's voice. They both pulled out of the kiss, and leaned back on to their own chairs. "Oh, was I interrupting something?" The waiter asked with a chuckle, before setting down both their dishes in front of the one who ordered it.

The waiter left, and both Talia and Bruce ate dinner. They talked and smiled as they ate, both attempting to get the other one to slip up and tell them what their present was, with little to no success. Soon, both Bruce and Talia were finished eating, and they quickly got out their presents.

Talia picked up a bag that Bruce had noticed she'd been carrying along throughout the trip, and reached inside. Out she pulled a little box, wrapped in bright, colorful, wrapping. She pushed it in front of Bruce, grinning.

"Go ahead, open it." She insisted. Bruce slowly began to peel the wrapping off, and opened the box that was inside the wrapping. Inside was a beautiful pendant, covered in small gems of all kinds of shapes and colors. The jewels sparkled, almost like magic, and a smile grew on Bruce's face.

"It's… beautiful." He commented, flipping it over in his hands cautiously. He stared, mesmerized at all the jewels. His fingers clutched it tightly. Talia's grin only grew. He was even more happy with it than she thought he'd be, and he hadn't even opened it yet.

"Open the pendant, it's even specialer inside." She nudged, slightly impatient. Listening to her words, Bruce gently flipped the pendant open. Inside, there was a picture of their sweet little baby. Talia reached over, touching a little bump on the back. He flipped it over, realizing it was a knob. Talia turned it, and the image changed to a picture of herself. "There's quite a few different pictures in it, and the knob changes it. I tried to get all of your closest loved ones, plus a picture of yourself in case you're ever in the mood to be vain." She laughed.

Bruce pulled it closer to himself to see it better, and began switching the knob between them all. "I… I love it." He leaned over to her, quickly pecking her on the cheek. "It's perfect." Her smile grew even more than it already had as he opened it. Bruce adjusted the knob to be on Talia again, and put it on.

"I'm really glad." Talia reached over and squeezed Bruce's hand. "Now, would you like to get out what you're giving me?" She beamed with excitement, almost as much as she had beamed when he opened his own. Bruce pulled the earrings out of his pocket, and nudged them in front of his wife.

"I suppose I thought you might like those, but I put a lot more effort into my other gift." Bruce spoke cautiously, too focused to let himself smile anymore. Talia took the earrings, which were actually quite beautiful and expensive, and exchanged the earrings she was wearing currently with them. As she does that, he pulls his poem out of his pocket. "I wrote you something. I know you were probably concerned about how I kept going out at the same time each week without telling you where I was going, but that was just because I had to take a writing class if I wanted to make this even slightly decent."

Talia frowned, "You keep a lot of secrets, but it's nice to know that at least one of them was out of love, and not fear or mistrust. Either way, thank you for the earrings. They are more than beautiful." She let go of the frown quickly after getting it, and gestured for Bruce to go on. "Now, I'm more than excited to hear what you've made. Go ahead."

"When you are here, I can only think about you, But even when you are far, I simply do it with longing, too;

I love you all the time, Day… or night, In the ocean, ground, or even sky, And this why:

Your eyes look like jades, And your smile like beauty in a solid form; You hair looks like silky chocolate, Your entire body is something I adore;

You are stronger than you seem, But so very graceful, as well; You fight stronger than a demon, With an angel's good intent, and morale;

Yes, you move like a swan, But much, much, more than that:

You love deeper than anyone could ever know, Just something that you have taught yourself, Your intentions are more than just moral, But an emotion, in itself;

So with that much personality, It is my honor to be able to love you back."

Bruce spoke the poem as clearly as he could, trying not to stutter or chicken out. It felt odd, showing this much emotion, but in a good way. Once he was finished, he looked up from his poem, smiling. Talia was rubbing her cheeks, wiping away the tears that had formed. Bruce leaned over to kiss the unoccupied hand, desperately attempting to make the moment even more romantic.

Before he had leaned back on to his own chair, Talia quickly pulled him into a kiss, "I love it, Beloved. Almost as much as I love you." She took the paper from Bruce's hand, folding it up and putting it in her pocket. "If you don't mind, I want to be able to remember this moment. Forever."

"Of course," Bruce said, trying to pretend he wasn't surprised that she had liked his poem so much. Perhaps she was simply humoring him to spare his feelings, but if she was, she was doing an incredibly good job at it.

They quickly paid for the meal. Bruce and Talia both beamed as they rode off into the night, hand in hand.

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A/N: Okay, now that you're done, some disclaimers:

I am not necessarily saying Bruce's poem was actually bad. He views it as bad, and it's certainly not perfect, but... I'm not necessarily saying it's bad myself, if that makes sense, (although I definitely did purposely not spend too much time on it when I was writing this).

Also, I'm not sure where this fanfic takes place, lol. It's just not in Gotham, but the rest if up for interpretation.

Oh, and I'm aware this entire fanfic is quite boring. The plot isn't very interesting, I'm afraid, but... oh well.

[alixanonymous]

How A Demon Commissions An Angel ~ A Daminette FanFic ~ Chapter 6: A Need For Clarification

From the phone of Damian Wayne: 

Chat Name: Unknown Number

Unknown Number: Hi, Damian? This is Marinette… 

Me: You’re late.

Unknown Number: I know, I’m so sorry! There was a bit of an emergency… 

Me: Oh?

Unknown Number: Yeah, sorry! I know you said you’d only be free for about another hour right? Can we work fast maybe?

Me: I suppose it’s better late than never, but in the future, know that I don’t tolerate tardiness.

Unknown Number: Look, things in Paris are kind of crazy right now. I can’t promise I won’t have to change plans unexpectedly but since we only have an hour to get things done, could we leave that talk for another time? I’ll try to let you know beforehand if something comes up. Okay?

Me: Fine, one second. I need to change your contact name.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Okay, let me do yours too!

Me: Do I want to know what you put me in as?

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: I bet you could guess :)

Me: … 

Me: It’s not Arthur’s little sister, right?

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Well, it wasn’t! :P

Me: No. 

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Yes.

Me: Change it back!

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: You don’t even know what it was originally!

Me: Anything is better than that. 

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Fine… 

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: But that means you can’t complain about what it is since you’re the one who told me to change it back.

Me: Fine, I don’t even want to know.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: But I do! What do you have me under?

Me: …  

Me: Your initials.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Isn’t that a little too on the nose?

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: (Not to mention totally uncreative)

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: But also, what if your brothers see?

Me: Well, not those initials… 

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: ???

Me: Weren’t you the one who talked about how we only had an hour to do this?

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Right! Sorry! Are you ready for some fast questions?

Me: Yes.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Okay!

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: I’m going to start with Grayson’s sweater.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: What in your opinion constitutes a “tacky Christmas sweater”?

Me: Aren’t you the fashion designer? Shouldn’t you know this?

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Well, I can’t say “tacky” is a style I’ve had much experience in sooo… 

Me: Right… 

Me: Well I guess I’d imagine it’d have to have a lot of bright colors.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: But you said Grayson likes navy blue, right?

Me: Right.

Me: Well before he liked navy blue, he used to wear a lot of neon red, yellow, and green.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: … 

Me: You know, as a child.

Me: Plus they’re sort of Christmas colors in a way, right?

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: I see… 

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: So when you said bright, you meant traffic-stoppingly bright?

Me: I suppose.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: I see…

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: While I can’t say I would have ever thought to put those colors together before, if he wore them as a child I guess they would have kind of a sentimental value, like a nostalgic factor.

Me: In a way, it’s like an inside joke too, I suppose.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: How so? Me: Well, you see…

Me: After I moved in with my father, I needed clothes so I wore some of his. 

Me: Well, they were clothes in his image.

Me: Of course, they weren’t hand-me-downs.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Huh. Whenever I pictured you, I can’t say it was in traffic light colors

Me: You picture me?

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Hahaha, no! Silly, it was only a figure of speech.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Right! Well, we only have an hour so we better get back on track! I think the colors are a very good personal detail!

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: So beside those, what else makes it a tacky xmas sweater?

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Do you want a holiday design? Like Santa or a reindeer?

Me: Perhaps?

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Or are there any other images you’d think he’d appreciate more?

Me: Well… 

Me: Maybe a bird?

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: A bird? Like a penguin?

Me: No! Definitely not!

Me: A robin

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: A robin? Why?

Me: As a child he also really liked the superhero Robin. 

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Oh! Batman’s sidekick, right?

Me: He’s Batman’s partner!

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Right. Is that also where the traffic light colors come from? Me: I suppose you could say that, yes

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Well, doesn’t he have a logo or something? Would that be what you want on the sweater?

Me: No, he’s an adult now, even if he doesn’t act like it. 

Me: I think if the design’s the actual bird it would seem more subtle.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: And thoughtful too! Less generic.

Me: I suppose so.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Cool, I’m starting to picture it. So do you actually want any Christmas aspects? Like do you want me to put a santa hat on the robin or maybe some wording on it like Merry Christmas or Happy Holidays?

Me: No, no santa hat and not “Merry Christmas” either.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Okay. Any text?

Me: Could you put “The First” on it?

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: I could… Why?

Me: Well, he is the oldest. So he was the first.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Right, no that makes sense.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: But I wonder… 

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Hey Damian, is your brother as… formal as you?

Me: No.

Me: Definitely not. He has no manners.

Me: Why?

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Well, a lot of young people use the term OG now. Maybe he would like that more.

Me: … 

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: It means like the original. 

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: You know, I think it actually stands for original gangster… 

Me: I see. 

Me: You know what, that’s actually very fitting.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Really?

Me: Yes. It seems like I should be grateful for not only your fashion expertise but also your knowledge of popular culture.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Thank you?

Me: Very well, is that all for Grayson?

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Uh, just a few more things. So no Christmas details then?

Me: Nothing more than similarities in the colors and style. 

Me: What I’m picturing, at first glance, one might think it looks like a tacky Christmas sweater but if they were to look closely, there wouldn’t be actual references to the holiday.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Got it!

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: So no hoods or pockets for this one?

Me: No. I think they’d be unnecessary.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Okay. Now, the main detail left is the thickness. 

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: I’m going to have to knit this by hand so would you prefer I use a thin or thicker, fluffier yarn?

Me: I guess it would depend.

Me: Would a thicker material be scratchy?

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: No, Damian. Nothing I make is scratchy.

Me: I see.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: The only differences would be a thicker yarn would make for a thicker and fluffier sweater and it would also be a bit warmer too.

Me: Oh well Gotham is pretty cold most of the time.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Gotham?

Me: It’s where my family lives. Well, Grayson also spends a lot of time in Blüdhaven.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Oh, I see why you guys like Robin now! He and Batman are based in Gotham right?

Me: Yes.

Me: Paris doesn’t have any superheroes right?

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Oh no, we do.

Me: I’m sorry, excuse me? I’ve never heard of any!

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Ladybug and Cat Noir are the main ones.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: And our mayor tries his best to keep it out of international news to keep tourism going.

Me: So you’re telling me that those outlandish stories on the Ladyblog are true?

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Most of them, yes.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Wait, you read the Ladyblog?

Me: I came across it while I was doing research on you.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: I see… 

Me: Is this a joke? If there’s supervillains in Paris, why hasn’t the Justice League gotten involved?

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: I don’t know? 

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: I’m not really the person to be asking about this stuff.

Me: Right, sorry. It’s just hard to believe.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Yeah, I get it.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: That’s actually why I was late today. There was an akuma attack earlier.

Me: What?!

Me: Are you okay?

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Oh I’m fine, Ladybug’s powers reverse all the damage. 

Me: … 

Me: I think this is going to take some time to sink in.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Right, well should we get back to the commission?

Me: Yes. Let’s.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Okay, so you’d prefer the thicker material then? 

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: It will cost more by the way.

Me: Yes, and money is never an issue.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Okay, then I think I have enough to get started on the sketch! I know we have two more brothers to go through but it’s getting late here and I still have some things to get done tonight… 

Me: Of course.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Would you be free to talk some more same time tomorrow? 

Me: I believe so.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: I’ll try my best to not be late this time. :)

Me: I understand now that it may be out of your control.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Unfortunately, but hey what can you do?

Me: Right.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: If you have any time before we talk again, I’ve been thinking it might help if there’s any reference pictures you could show me. 

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: You know if you see anything online or in a store or even if there’s any pieces your brothers’ already own that you’d want me to take some inspiration from, could you maybe send me some pictures so I can have a better idea of what you’re looking for?

Me: I see. I’ll do my best.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: That’s all I can ask! Goodnight, Damian! Talk to you tomorrow!

Me: Goodnight, Marinette.

Google Search History 

What does P.S. stand for?

MDC

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The Ladyblog

Albert Einstein Human Stupidity Quote

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Aesthetic

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Aesthetic Urban Dictionary

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OG Urban Dictionary

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How To Get Paris News Updates

Chat Name: Father

Me: Father, were you aware that there are superheroes in Paris? Why hasn’t the Justice League done anything?!

Father: I’m sure the Justice League is monitoring the situation. There’s no cause for concern, son.

Me: Right. Of course, Father.

From the phone of Jason Todd:

Chat Name: The Boys (Minus The Demon)

replacement: ummm…  sooo… 

replacement: just walked into my room and guess what I see?

big bird: A mess?

replacement: no!  the demon’s standing in front of my closet taking pictures of my clothes!

big bird: ? 

Me: uh wat

big bird: How the hell was I supposed to guess that?

replacement: so then I ask him what he’s doing… 

Me: anddddd

replacement: and he doesn’t even look at me but just says research… 

replacement: ???

big bird: (shrugging emoji)

big bird: Maybe this is a good thing? I mean what if he is doing research for Christmas and actually paying attention to what we like?

replacement: okay???

Me: i dont know he has been acting weirder lately

Me: like when i came home he was glaring at his phone and kept checking it for like five min without noticing i was there

big bird: Oh!

big bird: I passed him in the hall earlier and get this: he was smiling at his phone as he typed!

Me: what1!!

replacement: why didn’t you warn us?!

big bird: Because guys? I’m pretty sure it wasn’t like a threatening smile. I think it was an actual like happy smile.

Me: yeah right! demon spawn doesnt know how to do that

replacement: do you know who he was texting?

Me: ?

big bird: No! And I didn’t want to ask…

replacement: well we need to figure it out.

Me: agreed

big bird: Unfortunately, because she helped him with the encryption, Babs can’t hack into his phone.

Me: well then well ned to steal it 

Me: he has patrol with you guys tonight right

replacement: yes… 

Me: ill get it from babs after you leave

replacement: good plan but we don’t know his password… 

big bird: Oh, it’s I’m Batman!

Me: duh its im batman

replacement: ???

replacement: How do you know that?!

Me: like your password hasnt been it at one point

replacement: … 

big bird: We’ve all been there!

Me: its practically a right of passage

replacement: *rite

Me: shut it replacement

Chat Name: carrot top

carrot top: do I even want to know why you stole the demon brat’s phone?

Me: uhhh no?

carrot top: great

carrot top: just make sure you return it before he gets back

carrot top: I have no wish to get stabbed with a katana tonight

Me: great thx babs!

carrot top: oh and by the way, its programmed to delete all unsaved data after five hours

Me: what!!! 

Me: is there anyway you could retrieve his texts?

carrot top: of course I could!

carrot top: but Im not gonna

Me: why not???

carrot top: one word:

carrot top: katana

Me: fineee

From the phone of Damian Wayne:

Me: who is this?

T.G.Y.T.T.B: Damian, it’s five in the morning.

Me: who are you and why are you texting this number?

T.G.Y.T.T.B: Uh, it’s Marinette. 

T.G.Y.T.T.B: remember me?

Me: hello, marinette.

Me: why are you in damians phone as t.g.y.t.t.b.?

T.G.Y.T.T.B: uh, I have no idea. it’s too early for this.

Me: so, tell me… 

Me: what business do you have texting my brother?

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: ???

T.G.Y.T.T.B: oh, you’re Damian’s brother then?

Me: Yes, i’m Jason.

T.G.Y.T.T.B: You mean Grayson?

Me: i think i know my own name

Me: but to answer your question grayson is our other brother

Me: demon spawn likes to call by our last names

T.G.Y.T.T.B: Oh I thought it was just more… 

T.G.Y.T.T.B: nevermind

T.G.Y.T.T.B: Wait, Demon spawn?

Me: damian

T.G.Y.T.T.B: thats… 

T.G.Y.T.T.B: ironic.

T.G.Y.T.T.B: and kinda mean

Me: trust me he loves it

T.G.Y.T.T.B: So which one are you, Todd or Drake?

Me: todd

T.G.Y.T.T.B: Wait, why do you guys have different last names?

Me: uh cause all of us were adopted except for damian

T.G.Y.T.T.B: Oh

Me: but back to my question

Me: why are you texting my brother?

T.G.Y.T.T.B: Uh well I’m not… 

T.G.Y.T.T.B: I wasn’t… 

T.G.Y.T.T.B: I was trying to sleep… 

T.G.Y.T.T.B: And then I was texting you sooo

Me: Right but you were texting him earlier right?

T.G.Y.T.T.B: What does it matter to you?

Me: What business do you have texting my brother?

T.G.Y.T.T.B: None of yours

Me: … 

Me: Im his brother!

T.G.Y.T.T.B: Exactly, his brother. 

T.G.Y.T.T.B: Not his parent

T.G.Y.T.T.B: Not his warden

T.G.Y.T.T.B: So if you really want to know why I’m texting Damian, maybe you should ask him instead of stealing his phone and bothering innocent girls at five in the morning.

Me: well to be fair its only 11 over here 

Me: how was I supposed to know? 

T.G.Y.T.T.B: By talking to your brother instead of stealing his phone?

Me: how did you even know I stole it?

T.G.Y.T.T.B: … 

T.G.Y.T.T.B: really?

Me: hey now

Me: im only doing this because im concerned

Me: the kids been acting weird lately

T.G.Y.T.T.B: Gee, I wonder why.

T.G.Y.T.T.B: Do you think it maybe has something to do with the fact that you’re all threatening to send him away?

Me: he told you about that?!

T.G.Y.T.T.B: Yes. 

T.G.Y.T.T.B: So if that’s all, how about the next time you feel like sticking your head where it doesn’t belong, try talking to your brother first.

Me: wait

Me: can’t you give me anything to work with here?

Me: why did he tell you that he might be sent away? he barely mentions it

T.G.Y.T.T.B: Why does he even have to tell me in the first place? What kind of brother lets his sibling be shipped away?

Me: look

Me: you only know what damians told you

Me: there’s another side to the story.

T.G.Y.T.T.B: I’m sure there is.

T.G.Y.T.T.B: But Damian is my friend not you, so I don’t particularly care to hear what you have to say.

T.G.Y.T.T.B: To me, you’re just the person who wants to send my friend away even though you say he’s your brother.

Me: So you’re demon spawn’s friend?

T.G.Y.T.T.B: No, I’m Damian’s friend.

T.G.Y.T.T.B: Good night, Jason.

Me: wait

Me: i don’t really want him to be sent away or anything

T.G.Y.T.T.B: Have you done anything to help him stay?

Me: i’m trying to right now. 

T.G.Y.T.T.B: How is any of this helping him?

Me: my brothers and I are trying to figure out what’s he getting us for xmas so we can make sure its good enough to satisfy dad

T.G.Y.T.T.B: How about instead of that you have some faith in him and try to convince your father to stop threatening to send him away?

Me: our old man isnt really the type to change his mind

Me: again i dont want him to leave or anything but he does need to get better

Me: i mean hell he broke a kids hand! that stuffs gotta stop

T.G.Y.T.T.B: … 

T.G.Y.T.T.B: WHAT?!

Me: i see he didn’t tell you that

Me: look hes my brother 

Me: i dont want him gone but things cant keep going on like this

Me: i know your his friend but he has to change and our dad is just trying to do what he thinks is best for him

T.G.Y.T.T.B: That’s enough! 

T.G.Y.T.T.B: I told you I didn’t want to hear from you.

T.G.Y.T.T.B: Damian’s my friend. He gets to decide what he tells me and when and it was very wrong of you to breach his trust like this. T.G.Y.T.T.B: Whatever Damian has done, it doesn’t mean you have the right to call him a demon and steal his phone. I want you to return it now.

Me: … 

Me: your right 

Me: im sorry. 

Me: i guess we’re all just trying to do what’s best for him

T.G.Y.T.T.B: Maybe you should stop assuming you know what that is.

Me: i cant promise anything

Me: but im glad damian has you as friend

T.G.Y.T.T.B: Well… 

T.G.Y.T.T.B: I’m glad that he has a brother who wants him to stay.

Me: he has three

T.G.Y.T.T.B: That’s even better.

T.G.Y.T.T.B: Surely the three of you would be enough to change your father’s mind?

Me: its not as simply as that

Me: but i can promise you our dad wants whats best for damian too

T.G.Y.T.T.B: I’ll hold you to that promise.

Me: Im sure you will, spitfire.

T.G.Y.T.T.B: ?

Me: thats your nickname

T.G.Y.T.T.B: I see

T.G.Y.T.T.B: :)

T.G.Y.T.T.B: Maybe one day I’ll tell the very first nickname I gave your brother.

Me: anyway that day could be today?

T.G.Y.T.T.B: Considering it’s now only eight o clock and you woke me up at five in the morning, no. I’m afraid not.

Me: wait

Me: it hasn’t already been three hours has it?

T.G.Y.T.T.B: It wouldn’t have been if you responded faster… 

Me: uh oh

Me: crap crap crap

T.G.Y.T.T.B: What’s wrong?

Me: demon gonna kill me

Me: night sunshine

T.G.Y.T.T.B: Bye?

From the phone of Alfred Pennyworth:

Chat Name: Master Bruce

Master Bruce: Alfred, please hide as many of Damian’s weapons as you can.

Me: On it, Master Bruce. May I ask what happened?

Master Bruce: Jason stole Damian’s phone and used it to text one of Damian’s friends.

Me: Oh, I see.

Master Bruce: Hey, has Damian mentioned anything to you about a girl?

Me: A girl? No, not that I can recall, Master Bruce. 

Me: Is that who Master Jason was texting?

Master Bruce: Yes, but I wasn’t aware Damian made any new friends.

Me: Neither was I. Perhaps he is progressing?

Master Bruce: I suppose we’ll see.

Me: Indeed.

I literally posted this just so I could say that chapter nine is on AO3!!! 

Master List

[frankendeers]

Kylux and the Queer Literary Tradition

So, I have seen a lot of people talk about Kylux in terms of queer fetishisation or even labelling it a “crack ship”.

The discourse has somehow made Kylux out to be this straight-girl fantasy where two men are simply shipped because they are white and handsome. Such an unfavourable interpretation completely takes away from many Kyluxers being queer and/or poc themselves as well as shaming straight people for seeing queer potential where it’s not canonically stated to be. Since the comic came out, there has been much elation because it finally “confirms” some of the things that appeal to Kyluxers, therefore justifying the ship. I don’t think, however, that Kylux has ever been anything but rather conventional in its queer subtext. Kylux falls in line with a long tradition of homoerotic aggression between two men. I will try to put this into words as eloquently as I can.

First, let’s talk about how Kylo Ren/Ben Solo and Armitage Hux are queer coded on their own before moving on to their relationship.

Armitage Hux is almost comically queer coded. The act of feminising a villain to subtly convey to the audience that he is gay and therefore “morally reprehensible” has been a practice since the Hays code era (in some respects even before that -as the Victorian Age marks the beginning of our modern understanding of gender and subsequently, its subversion). He is seen to be physically weak, petty, moving and snarling and “bitching” in a way society would stereotypically ascribe to women.

His British Accent, at least from an American point of view, already marks his sexuality as ambiguous. This is not helped by the fact that he speaks in an abnormally posh way, alienating himself from the common people.Hereby, the movies draw a well-established line between decadence/queer and pragmatic/heteronormative.

In the “Aftermath” trilogy Brendol Hux states his son to be “weak willed” and “thin as a slip of paper and just as useless”, robbing him of his masculinity – no matter how ridiculous of an endeavour this is when talking about a four-year old boy. Hux is very early on criticised for not fitting into a socially expected form of manhood. This is especially evident when one compares him to his resistance rival, Poe Dameron. Now, Dameron has his own set of queer coding, but he is shown to be what is commonly viewed as “acceptably queer”. He is masculine, trained and proactive. When he ridicules Hux at the beginning of The Last Jedi, there is this juxtaposition of the helpless, feminine villain and the dashing, superior male hero. Hux is supposed to be judged as vain and arrogant while Poe takes risks and although reckless, is somehow to be admired. Further, Hux is constantly abused. He is thrown into walls letting out high pitched screams, runs away in the face of danger (as seen in the recent comic) and is pushed around by his own subordinates. His strength lies in being cunning and calculated, not stereotypically masculine virtues.

Hux’s destructive powers, his monstrosity so to speak, also follow a long-standing tradition of queer villainization. Harry Benshoff’s The Monster and The Homosexual articulates this as follows:

“[...] repressed by society, these socio-political and psychosexual Others are displaced (as in a nightmare) onto monstrous signifiers, in which form they return to wreak havoc […]” (Benshoff 65).

And what other, than a socio-political Other, is Armitage Hux - the Starkiller?

Kylo Ren/Ben Solo, too, is touched by the mark of queerness. It is no coincidence that despite his raw power and muscular physique, Kylo Ren has not been adopted by hegemonic masculinity in the same way Han Solo has, for example. When the logical is traditionally seen as masculine, the realms of pure and unfiltered emotionality is feminine. And Kylo Ren is unrestrained in his vulnerability, his tears, his pain – People make fun of the dramatic ways he gives words to his feelings precisely because it is regarded as weak, as whiny, as “womanly”. His long curly hair, full lips and dress-like costume only strengthens this impression. Kylo Ren is an amalgam of masculine aggression and feminine expressiveness. Some of his outbursts even remind of the pseudo-illness of hysteria. The gendered lines are blurred and unclear in Kylo Ren, diffusing any efforts to appease the binary. Benshoff describes this as a form of queer existence which does not only constitute itself in opposition to what is considered normal but “ultimately opposed the binary definitions and prescriptions of a patriarchal heterosexism” (Benshoff 63).

Both are not easily categorised. They are patched up by multiple, gendered signifyers. Kylo Ren’s masculine body in contrast to his femininized fashion. Hux’s slender body with his stiff and masculinised military get-up. Hux’s toxic tendency to avoid showing his emotions while also being shown as weak, womanly, cowardly. Kylo Ren is an excellent warrior, yet simultaneously being prone to emotional outbursts. Jeffrey Jerome Cohen’s famous work Monster Theory (Seven Theses) elaborates upon this further, while acknowledging that queer figures are most commonly depicted as the monstrous Other:

“The refusal to participate in the classificatory “order of things” is true of monsters generally: they are disturbing hybrids whose externally incoherent bodies resist attempts to include them in any systematic structuration.” (Cohen 6).

Nonetheless, many queer people feel empowered by these figures. Lee Edelman theorises in his polemic No Future: Queer Theory and the Death Drive about the nature of queerness as a force of cultural resistance. According to Edelman, the queer must always refuse societal expectations of a perpetual future and embrace the death drive instead. In this sense, queerness stands in direct opposition to futurity as it negates any meaning in sexual reproduction and marriage (cp. Edelman 13). When Hux destroys planets, when Kylo Ren proposes to burn it all down “The Empire, your Parents, the Resistance, the Sith, the Jedi”, they are not merely killing the past. They are also negating the worth of categories that make up future and present alike. They are resisting the heteronormative values of production.

Now that we have the puzzle pieces that illustrate how Hux and Kylo are queer figures in on themselves, it might be interesting to examine how they work together.

In her text “Epistemology of the Closet”, Eve Sedgwick talks about a common gothic trope where two men are caught in a feud full of mutual hatred. In this case, both men are mirror images of one another, making them especially vulnerable to the other’s advances: "[…] a male hero is in a close, usually murderous relation to another male figure, in some respects his 'double', to whom he seems to be mentally transparent."

Kylo and Hux are very clearly mirrors of one another. Aside from the gendered oppositions I have already illustrated, they are each other’s double in every sense of the word. Born on opposite ends of an age-old war. Both caught in complicated relationship with their fathers whom both have killed out of opposite motivations (loving them too much vs. hating them with a passion). They represent the opposite ends in the binaries for logic vs. spirituality, restraint vs. wildness, control vs. sensuality, technology vs. nature etc.

This shot from The Last Jedi shows both of them mirroring each other visually, henceforth strengthening this impression.

They are "mentally transparent" to each other, because they are different sides of the same coin which Snoke tossed around to his whims. Even their aggression takes on erotic forms. It is hard to deny the homoerotic implications in choking another men to make him submit, forcing him onto his knees. The breaching of personal spaces and looming over each other, the obsessive need to prove one’s own worth to the male other with which one is engaged in a homosocial bond:

“The projective mutual accusation of two mirror-image men, drawn together in a bond that renders desire indistinguishable from prédation, is the typifying gesture of paranoid knowledge.” (Sedgwick 100).

And through all of this, I have not even talked about the collaborative potential between the two of them. Their instinct to protect one another despite insiting the opposite. How both of them could overcome their trauma by engaging with the other, who suffered so similarly under family obligation and Snoke’s abuse.

Works Cited:

Benshoff, Harry: “The Monster and the Homosexual.” In: Harry Benshoff (ed. and introd.)/Sean Griffin (ed. and introd.): Queer Cinema, the Film Reader. New York: Routledge 2004. Pp. 63-74.

Cohen, Jeffrey Jerome. "Monster Culture (Seven Theses)." Jeffrey Jerome (ed. and preface) Cohen: Monster Theory: Reading Culture (1996): 3-25.

Edelman, Lee. No Future: Queer Theory and the Death Drive. ,2004. Print.

Sedgwick, Eve Kosofsky-Sedgwick. Epistemology Of the Closet. Berkeley, Calif. :University of California Press, 2008.

[leotanaka]

J. August Richards has an exuberance about him.

He has good reason. The actor, known his more than 30 year career which has included roles on Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., The Cosby Show, Angel, The Practice and more, just landed a leading role on the new NBC drama Circle of Dads. On April 20, he also rocked the internet by coming out of the closet as a gay man. The unplanned admission generated came in the context of discussing his Council of Dads role as Dr. Oliver Post, a gay, married African-American dad. The series follows a group of friends following the death of one of their friend Peter. Oliver, and several other men, come together to act as surrogate fathers to Peter’s children and to preserve the memory of their friend.

“I read your site every day!” Richards belts as we greet him on the phone. We warn him that we will need to use that quote in our piece. The two of us have made some time to chat about his coming out, the new show, and his experience as a queer, African-American working in Hollywood for more than three decades.

Council of Dads airs Thursdays on NBC.

So you’ve had an exciting few weeks. Exactly how are you feeling? What’s the state of your life?

Thank you for asking. Empowered.

Empowered?

Aligned. Clear about my purpose. That’s how I feel two weeks later. I will admit that I was on a bit of an emotional pendulum. In my imagination, there was a reaction that was the best reaction I could possibly get, which was supportive. But it exceeded that. Also I really did not expect it to go past my social media page. So that was a bit daunting. That was part of the emotional swing I was on.

Sure.

I had no idea that it would be picked up on various sites, which it was. And I didn’t even have a publicist at the time…

Oh my.

Yeah. So that’s how unplanned that was. I’ve hired one since because everything was going so far so fast that it was all a bit overwhelming. But when it went so viral, it made me feel like this emotional swing toward oh my God, why would you do that? No one even asked. That was the ultimate overshare. But fortunately, the pendulum has swung all the way back into the position of empowerment.

That’s so wonderful to hear. Now, when you describe it as an emotional pendulum, what are you doing as you walk around the house? How’s your mood shifting? What are you doing to take your mind off it all?

Yeah, it’s always surrounding a triggering question or triggering comment that I receive that really only triggered the fact that I was not expecting this attention. So that was the only thing that would scare me. It wasn’t negative at all. But, like, when people ask me, “Aren’t you afraid of how this will affect your career?” That question would really trigger me. I’ve obviously thought a lot about it. And that question doesn’t trigger me anymore.

I’ve talked to so many actors who have gone through a difficult coming out process and immediately have their agents or managers screaming “Why did you do that?” So it’s good to hear that it’s been so empowering.

I have a great agent. He’s been really supportive.

Now, you’ve said before that you’ve been out to people close to you for years. Have you had any blowback? People saying “why didn’t you tell me?”

No. Not one person. Anyone who needed to know, knew. And there were people who didn’t need to know that knew, just because they saw me out, or I went to a party. I’m living my life and doing whatever I want to do for the most part. People who know me, in my life, also know that’s not the kind of question I would entertain.

So let’s talk about your new show Council of Dads. Your role as Oliver, you’ve said, was part of what inspired you to go public. He’s a gay man married to another African-American man Peter, played by Kevin Daniels, and the couple has children. For you as an actor, what is it that speaks to you in a role where you realize it’s more than just a job? In other words, when the role changes you?

You know, honestly, it happens to me every single time.

Really?

Every single time, yeah. I think of it as my job to put something deeply personal to put on the line for myself. I have to find it, and I do with every role. This one is unique in that it pushed me up against a wall that I had created for myself. I think it served me when it had to. When I first started in the business, there were very few opportunities for a black actor.

Sure.

I jokingly say “I was too busy being black to be gay.”

But the industry has shifted enough to where there’s more LGBTQ representation and more black representation. And I just wasn’t mature enough as a human being to walk through life as a black gay man. Now, at 46, I have the confidence and the wisdom and the knowledge to be able to take it on. The reason I ended up talking about it publicly was that I saw a huge opportunity to be observant in a meaningful way, and I just could not pass it up. It was a very person decision. I wouldn’t be true to myself if I didn’t take the opportunity to continue a dialogue—it was started way before me. Black gay men, gay families—I would not have been happy with myself if I had not chosen to talk about it.

That speaks so well of you. One thing I really love about this show is the way it redefines community in a sense.

Yes.

There are right-wing voices that claim diversity is harmful, or focusing on it is harmful, that it’s all a myth. The series shows that community is defined by what is shared; in the case of the series, that’s a love for Scott Perry and his family. How do we encourage people to focus on what is shared, to accept one another?

Well, it oftentimes takes people knowing someone in a community, knowing someone that belongs to a community that is seen as “other” to break down that wall. Again, that goes back to the reason I decided to go public. The other great gift of coming out for me was that it made clear for me my true goal. I really want equality for all. I’m talking about groups that I belong to, and groups that I don’t belong to. Ultimately, we have to move toward a space where everyone can sit at the table equally. That’s one of the reasons I was so happy to be involved with this show. It has diversity, and it’s not cosmetic.

What do you mean by that?

It’s like there’s one of this and one of that. There are multiples of different in this world. As the season goes by, you’ll be able to understand even more what I mean by that. It really elevates the conversation about diversity in a way that I’m so proud of. You come home with Oliver & Peter. You come home with us, and a whole episode takes place in our house. So the other thing that attracted me to the show was that I’m not playing the “insert black gay guy here.” He’s a three-dimensional character. He’s not just the best friend. He has his own storyline. The character is not additionally marginalized by not giving him a full story.

I also love the way the show redefines masculinity.

Oooh! Mmhmm!

We have a trope in Western entertainment that fathers are either lovable buffoons like Homer Simpson or wisdom sages like Fred McMurray in My Three Sons. Either way, they are centers of authority and power. This show is different in that it shows men working together, sharing power, listening, conversing and making choices. It’s in the title: a council of dads. It’s not dictatorial patriarchy. Is that by conscious design, that Joan and Tony [series creators Joan Rater & Tony Phelan] had intended as much? Have you discussed it?

We’ve not talked about it, but I will say this: in developing the character one thing that you do as an actor is figure out the character’s super-objective.

Yes.

That means the one thing they want more than anything in life. It took me a while—call me slow—but I realized that what is important to Oliver is that he be a great father. That is the most important thing in his life. So I started to think about what makes a great father. I think the answer is different for each person depending on their father. So I think about Oliver’s past, and how his father did not accept him for who he was. He grew up in a household where he felt like an imposter, like love was conditional. He never got to fall into the arms of his parents and hear them say “You are ok as you are.”

Right.

So what makes a great father to Oliver is growing this invisible fence around the children where they are able to be themselves and thrive as who they are naturally, whatever that is. That’s what makes a great father to Oliver, and it’s a great gift that any parent can give their children.

Absolutely. As a working actor, I need to ask you about the cult of celebrity. In the social media age, actors are really encouraged to become a “brand” or a product to help promote their show. That includes putting private life on display. What is your experience dealing with that pressure? Is it fair to expect actors to perform on both sides of the camera, in essence?

Some don’t. There are still actors out there who don’t want to be stars, who don’t have social media at all. To a degree, I think it’s slightly a myth. Every job that I get there’s an actor in a pivotal role who is not on social media, or who didn’t have a big following. I don’t believe that a large social media following translates to viewers. If it did, Kim Kardashian would be in everything.

Lord help us.

So, like anything, you just have to decide who you want to be and rock out with that, win or lose. One of the places I’m at in my life is that I don’t feel like the world needs another f*cking celebrity.

[Laughter]

Nobody’s asking for one. I’m so tired of it. I’d just rather have an impact at some point in my life. If I can make the world a hair easier, or serve in the tiniest way, I’m so satisfied with that. The red carpeting thing is so played out to me. I’m so over it. So I think you’ve gotta make a choice about who you want to be, win or lose.

That’s great advice. So given the context of all of this, I also need to ask. This is a question that comes up a lot with actors I talk to. It came up with Billy Porter, with Nelson Lassiter, with Doug Spearman, and others. How can we encourage queer African-American men to come out and to feel safe in doing so?

That’s a big, big question. Number one, I’d say understanding. Just understand that it’s a lot to ask a person to own and take on another marginalized identity. As a black man moving through the world, you really have to live it to understand it: all of the concessions and adjustments that you have to make to the world just to get through your day. It’s a lot man, a whole lot. It’s a whole lot to ask people. I’m 46 now, and I said in another interview, if I had come out a day sooner, it would have been too soon.

Wow.

Only now do I feel like I have the understanding and the confidence and the clarity to move through the world as I do now. So the most important thing is understanding. I love the gay men in my life because they never pressured me to do anything. They only loved me and counseled me to be myself.

Beautiful.

Another way to help is to stand against racism. Working through the racism of our society might help people feel free to live in a world where they can feel like they can be themselves.

Amen to that. As a gay, African American man, what advice do you wish you could have had starting out in the business that you did not?

Actually I had wonderful mentors: African-American men who took me under their wings and advised me, counseled me, gave a call after auditions. Everyone showed up for me the same way they’re showing up for me now. My colleagues were the first ones to congratulate me.

That’s great.

But you ask me what I wish I could have known? That’s a difficult question. It was a different industry at that time. So I can’t answer that. I’ll have to think about it. It’s a great question.

[johnnydoe69]

Old Wars, New Faces Part 4

It had been several weeks since Odysseus/Kevin had started working on the farm. Kevin for his part had never felt more relaxed, his insecurities melted away by the day as confidence and strength coursed through him. Things were changing so drastically and so fast, he was quickly losing sight of who he was. At one point, he had called his parents and told them that he was gay and never coming back to Boston and right as they started screaming, he just hung up the phone. The old Kevin never would have been able to tell his parents off, let alone be in a relationship with another man, but he had done both.

A few days after they got together, Dryas offered to let Odysseus stay with him until he got back on his feet. Odysseus at first was content with finding a solitary cave or a canopy of trees to sleep under, rather than intrude too far into Dryas’s life but Dryas quickly convinced him out of it. It was during this time that Odysseus learned of the primary way Dryas made his money and kept his job on the farm, sex. Dryas was fucking one of the overseer’s sons and in return, if he didn’t piss Markos off too much, he was forgiven for mistakes that would have gotten others fired. Odysseus was fine with this; on his voyages across the Mediterranean his crew would sleep with a prostitute or two if they were in port and Odysseus would have gladly joined in if not for his devotion to his wife. Yet, there was still jealousy in Odysseus’s heart. He didn’t understand why he kept getting rejected by other men and sought Dryas’s insight.

He decided to ask Dryas this, after a passionate night of cuddling and making out. They were both sweaty and satisfied, their naked bodies curled up around each other, as the cool sea air licked their skin.

“Dryas, you always tell me that I’m more attractive than you and yet, you are the one who has men waiting for you. Whenever I flirt with a man they ignore me or threaten to kill me. I know things are different on Kefalonia compared to Ithaki, but I never expected so much hatred and disgust.”

Dryas rested his chin on Odysseus’s shoulder and sighed, “I don’t know what kind of crazy shit they do on Ithaki, but the rest of Greece is simply like this. With how open you’ve been, it’s a miracle you’re not dead. Granted these big muscles are probably a big help.” Dryas gave one of Odysseus’s biceps a tight squeeze.

“A lot of the men I sleep with are closeted. They only meet me through group chats or word of mouth. Most of my business takes place during the Spring and Summer months, when businessmen from the mainland come to escape their wives and gay tourists arrive after not being able to afford the big parties on Mykonos and Santorini. It helps that tourist season is when all the gay bars are open, but for the rest of the year nothing is.”

“Surely, there are other gay meeting spots on Kefalonia than what’s open for tourists?” Odysseus asked.

“Well, there is one place, but its kind of pricey and seedy. I’d probably just stick to online hookups instead,” Dryas said with a yawn.  

“No. That’s too much of a risk. I would rather meet the man in-person first,” Odysseus said firmly. Despite, the time of bliss he spent with Dryas he couldn’t risk being caught off guard by a servant of Paris.

“Alright old man,” Dryas said, rolling his eyes. “There's a small hotel called Odysseus’s Palace, its right off the beach, you can’t miss it. Inside the main lounge is a bar where some of the more well off and older gay Kefalonians like to meet up. I only go when I’m desperate for cash, they tend to be douchebags.” Dryas furrowed his brow and bit his lip, “On second thought, maybe you shouldn’t go to a place like that, Arsenios.

Odysseus moved his meaty arm behind his head to use as a headrest, “I’ve handled far more dangerous places in my lifetime, I’ll be fine.”

Several nights later, Odysseus decided to make his move. He left work late in the evening, took a shower, dressed casually, and texted Dryas letting him know he’d be out. 

There were only a few men at the bar. All of them much older and less attractive than Odysseus hoped. They gawked at his presence like dogs to a piece of meat. Odysseus ordered a round of tequila and was quickly joined by the other men at the bar.

Dryas had been right, the men were wealthy professional types, mostly lawyers and doctors with a handful of retired landowners thrown in. They laughed warmly at Odysseus’s stories of prior hookup attempts and admired both his physical beauty and youth, but then one man asked what he did for a living. When he answered honestly, saying he was a farmhand, the mood in the room suddenly shifted.

They started asking him if he would suck their cocks in the bathroom for 50 euros, or bark like a dog for 70. They asked if he had a pimp or if he was freelance. In another time Odysseus would have stomped their bodies into dust for badgering him about his sex life, but Odysseus feared that the control over his body was only temporary and a massive fist fight could awaken Kevin to the truth.

So instead, he took to ignoring them and slowly they melted away to their own separate corners, grumbling to themselves about how he was being a tease before Odysseus was left alone again.

It was then that Odysseus noticed another young man come to the bar. He was as big as he was, yet far more agile and light on his feet. The man drifted in and out of conversations with ease, his voice shifting so quickly to appeal to a different audience he sounded like a brand new person with every man he interacted with. 

 As the night wore on and most of the men had drifted home the stranger sat next to Odysseus at the bar. “How about a cup of Ouzo for this generous man and a cup for me as well,” the man said to the bartender. A minute later the bartender poured out two cups of white wine.

They both thanked the bartender and the stranger took a sip from his drink.

The man’s twinkling brown eyes glanced into Odysseus's, “From what I’ve heard from the regulars you are quite an interesting man Arsenios. A strongman who can’t get laid, a farm worker who spends his earnings on men who wouldn’t put a euro in a beggar’s cup. Just when I thought I’d be stuck with dull pretentious bastards until the day I died,” the man said with a laugh.

“Funny, I thought the same about you. Coming in two hours before closing, you moved like Hermes himself from one man to another, and despite seeming to not like the men you drink with they seem to trust you very well” Odysseus said, sipping his ouzo. “Though I still don’t have a name to your face.”

The stranger smiled warmly, “My name is Diomedes of Argolis. I'm here on business, not pleasure. This hotel has water damage and I was brought in to access the situation. I came to the bar out of boredom. Not much to do here, but fish and drink is there?

Odysseus cracked a smile, “You’re not completely wrong in that. I’m not from this island either. I’m actually from an island next door, Ithaki.”

“Hmm, I once knew a man who lived on Ithaki. Looked a lot like you actually,” Diomedes said curiously.

“What do you know of this man from Ithaki,” Odysseus asked leaning forward.

“He was a stubborn, arrogant, pain in the ass. Loyal to his friends, cruel to his enemies. He had a massive muscular body just like yours, though I usually remember that egomaniac smeared with olive oil to show off his figure.” Diomedes took a swig of his wine, savoring the taste before continuing.  

“He was a good friend, even when I wanted to kick the fucker’s teeth in. I only wished I did more with him when he was still alive.” Diomedes said with a sigh.

Odysseus nodded. “I’m sorry for your loss. He sounded like a good man.”

Diomedes smiled sadly, “Would you like to come up with me to my room? The neon lights of the bar are starting to give me a splitting headache and my place is only the floor above us.”

Odysseus nodded and they both got up from their stools. Odysseus tried to pay off the combined tab from everyone at the bar, but Diomedes wouldn’t hear a word of it. He simply plopped down his credit card and paid it off before Odysseus could refuse.

Afterwards they walked down the twisting corridors of the hotel to Diomedes’s room. It was a simple hotel room, similar to the motel room Odysseus had been living in with less filth. It was pristine, no swarms of cockroaches or lingering black mold anywhere in sight. When they crossed the threshold, they started making out.

They peeled off their clothes like second skins and embraced on Diomedes’s bed. As Odysseus felt Diomedes's warm tongue down his throat, he recognized the similar buzz of energy that ricocheted from Diomedes’s muscular frame, a buzz very similar to his own. Odysseus didn’t mind this and kept going, pushing Diomedes flat on the bed, and squatting on Diomedes' hard dick. He wheezed at the pain, they hadn’t used lube and there was no substitute in sight, but Odysseus made do.

It was Kevin, who was nearly pushed to the edge of oblivion by Odysseus, who was truly becoming aware of what was happening. His eyes widened at the warm glow that emitted from Diomedes' skin and became aware of the glow that came from his own. When Diomedes opened his eyes, it was full of an ancient knowledge Kevin couldn’t even begin to comprehend. Fear gripped him, sending waves of adrenaline up and down his spine, and yet this only made him grind deeper and faster on Diomedes’s dick, moaning harder and louder with every panicked thought.

Eventually, Diomedes came hard inside Odysseus/Kevin coating their insides with cum. Odysseus slowly raised himself off Diomedes’s dick, while furiously pulling at his own. Diomedes after taking a short breath, took Odysseus’s hand off his dick and massaged himself, using his thick fingers to coax the semen out of Odysseus’s hard dick and onto Diomedes’s flat stomach.

Then Odysseus collapsed onto the bed, both men panting heavily. After a few minutes of rest, they wiped themselves off and fell asleep. Both slept well into the night, even as Kevin’s brain raced at the possibilities at what was happening. Had the glowing been an illusion? A trick of the light? Did this man have something to do with the drastic changes to his body and attitude?

When Odysseus finally woke up the next morning, Diomedes was already out of bed and in the bathroom. Still exhausted from the night before, Odysseus staid in bed and stared out at Diomedes. If it was one of his enemies, Odysseus would have been dead already, but the stranger hadn’t revealed his identity divine to him earlier.

Diomedes caught him staring from his reflection in the mirror, “Before we had sex, did you really think I was some silly young twunk working a simple insurance claim?”

Odysseus laughed. “I suspected, but I wasn’t sure. Now who are you really?”

“I wasn’t lying when I told you I was Diomedes of Argolis,” Diomedes said turning on the faucet and washing his face.

“And that friend of yours that you spent all night insulting was supposed to me, right?” Odysseus asked, rolling his eyes. Diomedes didn’t answer so Odysseus continued, “Everyone in this country names their children after heroes and gods. Is Diomedes the name of the body you inhabit or was that by choice?”

Kevin squirmed internally, confused and terrified at the strange words leaving his lips. He tried to exert control over his own body, only to find he had none. Odysseus sighed.

“This is my own form, Odysseus. Purely immortal. Though, not enough to enjoy on Mt. Olympus it seems.” He said, taking out a toothbrush and cleaning his teeth.

“Your worship did fade out when the Romans lost interest in you” Odysseus said, trying to ignore Kevin twisting against his will.

“And my name was never as venerated as yours, hero of the Odyssey,” Diomedes said spitefully. 

Diomedes was the wisest of the men fighting Troy and yet strangely to Odysseus one of the heroes least mentioned in the mortal world. It was strange that such a hero could be largely forgotten. 

“Why didn’t you reveal yourself earlier to me at the bar?” Odysseus asked, sitting upright in the bed, arms crossed over his powerful chest.

“You were never as sly as people seemed to think you were. Or have you picked up the manners of your American body?” Diomedes asked.

“Honestly, I don’t know. It's strange being in another man’s body like this. It feels like mine and yet, completely alien to me.” Odysseus said looking at his hands. They were big, but nowhere as large as the mitts he had used to string a bow with. 

“But you didn’t answer my question.” Odysseus said. Diomedes gave his arms a casual flex in the mirror before returning to his bed and sitting next to Odysseus. 

 “Well, since you were honest, I have to say that as blissful as the Isle of Pleasure was, I was bored. My worship never recovered when my hero cult fell into obscurity and who knew how much time was left before my soul faded as well. Might as well come back and make a name for myself.” Diomedes got back off the bed and went to a dresser, pulling on a long-sleeved shirt and undoing the wrapped towel, letting it fall to his ankles.

“Besides, where would you lot be without me? Probably pissing yourselves outside the walls of Paris’s villa,” Diomedes said, pulling out a jock strap and a pair of jeans.

“Lot? There are more of us coming?” Odysseus asked, leaning on his side.

“Yep. Not much of a war with only 2 people, is it?” Diomedes asked, putting on his jock strap.

“You know where Paris is?” Odysseus asked. 

“Yeah, that guy does not keep a low profile. Here’s his Instagram account,” Diomedes said, tossing Odysseus his phone. Odysseus caught it with one hand and had a look.

 “He’s utterly defenseless,” Odysseus said, getting up from the bed.

“What you don't see is all the security cameras, bulletproof windows, and the fact that he is constantly surrounded by people who would die to defend him. You don't need to wear armor as obviously as we dod in the old days,” Diomedes said, pulling a tight pair of jeans over his legs and ass.

Odysseus paced around Diomedes' bedroom; his dick stuck hard to his thigh. “You’re right, we need allies and weapons. It would help if we could locate some of the other heroes back from the Underworld to aid us. Then we’d have a chance.”

“Well, I found you dumbass. It shouldn’t be hard to find some of the others. Not that I’ve been looking very hard,” Diomedes said, sitting back on the bed.

“Hey,” Odysseus said, dropping his phone back in Diomedes’s lap.

“Oh what? Don’t act like you haven’t been enjoying your time with mortals either,” Diomedes said. Kevin continue to struggle against Odysseus’s power, exhausting him to the point that after a few minutes of pacing Odysseus had to already sit back down.

“Yeah, I think the mortal whose body I picked up is becoming aware of my presence,” Odysseus said, panting.

Diomedes nodded. “Give yourself time to readjust. If you haven’t already, try giving the man whose body you inhabit a different personality to enjoy.”

“What does that mean?” Odysseus asked.

“You already call yourself, Arsenios. I’m guessing different than the body’s original name, try creating a persona for that. In that way you can cross into autopilot when you need, without worrying about internal resistance. It will be hard, but I know you can manage it.” Diomedes said, “Now get up, I have work in a few hours and I’m sure you have other places to be as well.”

Odysseus nodded and got out of bed, giving Kevin an internal kick, quieting him enough so Odysseus would have enough strength to get home. Things would be hard, Odysseus grimaced, but he could manage. A thought that made Kevin internally scream with rage.

[thegreen1969pontiac]

L’appel Du Vide Chapter 4- Midnight Coffee

                                          Eventual Dean x OC

Summary: When Hope’s sister is killed in a less than a normal house fire, and Sam, her sister’s boyfriend, disappears with his brother after her death they’re her number one suspects. When the cops declare the case cold she begins her hunt for the Winchester boys. She follows them in hope for some evidence pointing to the death of her sister, but will she find more than just the cause and the killer? Will she find out more than she wanted to?

Warning: creepy guy, very minor sexual themes, language, crappy writing

Word Count: 2434

I've got to admit, the Winchester boys seem to be the hardest to track men in the USA, well, besides my uncle. They seem like ghosts. Sam showed up to Stanford about four years ago, he came on an almost full-ride scholarship and no family to help him move in on moving day.  He was a smart guy, he was top of his class in almost all the schools he was forced to move around to. His dad, John, was a marine. They originated from Lawrence, Kansas, Dean was born January 24, 1979, which seemed to just rip me apart even more seeing as Jess was born the same day in 1984. But John Winchester seemed to disappear the date his wife, Mary died, November 2, 1983, just a year after my sister was born, and to the date the day she died.  Two November 2nd both involving the Winchester boys. What was this some family cult that killed the women of the family? What the hell? After asking the professors at the university, it seems that Sam was pretty normal. Quiet, courteous, polite and intelligent, but nothing out of the ordinary.

After all of this, there was only the date of the deaths that pointed to murder. I needed to find someone that my sister knew, someone who would know what kind of man Sam was. My sister mentioned this guy, he brought them together. This guy named Brady, Jess mentioned him once or twice he wasn't a close friend of hers just someone she met at a college party at one point. If you can imagine there was a shit ton of Brady's at Stanford University, after about 12 hours of driving Theo from frat house to apartment, it wasn't until maybe the 23rd Brady that I finally found the one that knew her. Brady was a successful kid it seemed that he had a job all lined up for him at Niveus Pharmaceuticals, a company that seemed to profit off the sickness of others. But I guess in his mind it would get the bills of Stanford University paid, he was a charismatic young man I could see why Jess let him set her up with Sam. He asked me to come in,

"Are you Brady? Did you know my sister Jessica Moore?" I ask already feeling tried from asking the same question over and over again.

"I'm Brady, yeah. I knew her, I heard what happened. Who are you?" He asked in almost an accusatory manner.

"I'm her sister, I go by Moore. May I sit?" I say already losing patience with the rich and snotty Stanford kid.

"Oh, yeah, yeah of course. Sorry for your loss."  He rushes out.

"I'd just like to ask some questions if you wouldn't mind, just for some closure." I come up with my excuse, it's not for closure though it is for knowledge.

"Yeah, yeah, what do you want to know?" He asks he gestures for me to sit down on the Italian leather coach that he probably paid way too much for.

"My sister, she had a boyfriend, What was his name again? Was it Smitty?" I ask playing stupid, I need to confirm his name, get some information on this sick son of a bitch.

"No, his name was Sam, Sam Winchester. I actually introduced the two." He smiled to himself almost proud that he introduced the two to each other.

"Yeah, good for you. Did you know Sam well? I didn't see him at the funeral, I just wanted to check up on him you know, help me understand how he is dealing with all of this," I stated, "I mean do you know where he is, I couldn't find a single record of where he could've gone after the fire." I smile, playing the victim wasn't ever my role.

"I don't know where he is now but I heard that he went on a road trip with his brother right before the house went down," He says, "I think I might someone who does though, her name is Becky Warren, she and her brother were friends with Sam when he was here. I really hope you find him though, but hey, I gotta get to lacrosse practice so..." He leads off, how did I know this douche would play lacrosse.

"No, I totally get it. Thank you for your time." I say and stand up, I walk out of the house and head to the address. I finally get to the house that is owned by the Warren family. There are only two cars parked in the driveway. I walk up the driveway and am at the door when the door swings open an I'm met with a frazzled looking girl.

"Are you Becky?" I ask blocking her exit from the house.

"Yeah, look, I have to get going I have class in like 10 minutes." She tries to move around me but I move in front of her again,

"Look, I need to know where Sam Winchester is and I was told you could help me if you could just give me a general idea I will be out of your hair," I say,

"I don't give out my friend's locations to strangers so why don't you piss off." She said and made a move to go around me but this time a grab her jacket and push her against the door frame.

"Yeah, well I don't usually arrange funerals for dead family members but it seems like we are all having a bad year," I growl at her,

"So I am going to ask you one more god damn time, you are going to tell me where my dead sister's boyfriend is or I swear to God I will make you and your brother's life the most miserable they can be, so you can know how I have felt every god damn day since I heard my baby sister was killed in that fire." I hiss out at her.

"I don't know okay, he only texts me so often." She whimpers, "The last I heard he was in Ohio." I smile and let her off the doorstep.

"See, that's all I needed we didn't need to get all nasty. Now lets hope we don't see each other again shall we?" Yeah, we can only hope, right? I turn on my heel and walk to Theo.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A suburban Ohio town has been dealing with the murder of one of their own Steven Shoemaker died in a strange way, the obituary said it was a stroke. But his eyes basically burst out of his skull. Death although seems to follow these boys so why not take a look. Toledo, Ohio was quite the apple pie life town, it was full of high school sweethearts and minivans, but under all of that sticky sweetness, I could tell that there were some underlying skeletons in the closet of the gingerbread house town. Driving there wasn't much of an issue after running on only alcohol and granola bars for about three weeks, it is nice to have a change to coffee and diner food. The food that was eaten along the way to Ohio made me feel like crap but the coffee was always warm and the diners mainly stayed open for 24 hours. That's where I am now, sitting at a 24-hour diner with checkered tiles and bright red seats. The coffee on the table no matter how much I want to say it was black and sound like the badass, it had two creamers and three sugars in it. I was researching the town on my lab top, when the sun peeks its way from behind the family houses I'm heading down to the coroners to get a closer look at the body of the victim. Its been around two days since I had a decent shower so I decided to pack up early and make myself not look like the sleep deprived, alcohol smelling, mess that I am.

The hotel life had been abandoned, motels were now my realm. I can't tell if it is because I don't trust myself to be in high places anymore or if I just don't believe in the normal life anymore and I'm punishing myself to shitty, never cleaned motels that look like they could also be pimping out prostitutes to each room. After the shower, I dress in some of my best clothes that I packed, a black pencil skirt and a white button up that I tucked into the skirt letting my collar bones show, I put my hair up in a professional up-do and grabbed the brown leather jacket that kept me warm in the cold weather. The only new things I needed were shoes and I ended up going to one of the many stores at Toledo's main street and just as the store was opening managed to grab a pair of classy black heels. The coroner's office would no doubt be open now and I just needed to complete the facade with a small pen and notebook. Instead of putting in my contacts this morning I left my glasses on, the blood shotness of my eyes were slightly hidden by the glass.

As I parked Theo in the parking lot of the office I see a black 67' impala sitting across the street. The license plates reading Kansas. I hold my breath, there is no possible way that I would find the boys in the first place I stopped. As I put on the heels from inside my car I saw two tall men walking out of the hospital, the stairs looked old and white, One of the men was no doubt, Sam Winchester, I quickly walked up to the boys ready to walk right up to the evil son of a bitch that murdered my sister and start beating the living hell out of the tall man. But the man next to the puppy dog man was intimidating, he was tall and wore a dark brown leather jacket over his blue flannel, he stared me down like a piece of meat and I knew that I could barely take down one of the two Winchester's and if this was Dean there would be no way in hell I would be able to take down either of them. As I walked closer to them and as they passed me I tried to identify every possible feature so I would be able to know who they were the next time I saw them. As I went up the stairs and they walked down I paid careful attention to which car they got into, and not at all to my surprise I see they get in the Impala with the Kansas license plates, I make careful note of those as well. KAZ-2Y5. God, that won't be hard to forget.

As I get inside the hospital building I walk quickly down to the coroner's office and although I hate wearing heels I like the way they make the clicking noise on the tile floor. The office does look like its open but I can't imagine that the sleazeball looking nurse that sits at the desk seemingly counting cash is the doctor I'm looking for. I tap on the door,

"I'm sorry are you Dr. Feiklowicz? I'm doing an article for the paper about death and I was wondering if I could get some details." I say smiling, I see him rush to put some bills in his pocket, I put it together in my mind and guess that it was the boys that gave the money to him. Why the hell would they pay to see their own murder victim, what kind of sickos are these freaks?

"I'm sorry, he won't be back for an hour, is there something I could help you with?" He says smirking. I can feel him looking me up and down and I can feel my inner head just retching at even the thought. "Oh, that's too bad, is there any way that I could see the body on my own maybe, I just am going to be taking notes." I hum out,

"I'm sorry I will have to ask for some identification before I can let you in, you said you were with the press?" I curse myself, I smile and nod,

"Of course, let me just get out my-- Oh, shoot I think I left my key card at the office, can I just give you my ID?" I ask falsely reaching for the key card that I did not own.

"Well-- I really do nee--" I smile and begin to take off my jacket leaving me in my skirt and blouse that although classy, seems to work on the idiot in front of me, I hold it in my hand arms crossed and stare innocently at him.

"Please, I really need to get some notes, I have to get these back before my boss gets back, he is so mean to me and I might lose my job," I say making myself tear up, I guess playing Ophelia in middle school paid off well.

"Well, I guess. Can I see your ID?" I hand it to him, he takes it and I see him try and make an effort to brush my hand with his own the action almost makes me sick to my stomach.

"Hope Moore, that's a real’ pretty name. A pretty name for a pretty girl," He says trying to woo me with his horrible pick up line.

"Actually I go by Moore." I let my sickly sweet facade drop that time letting him know that I do not want him to call me that again.

"Yeah, sure."

He leads me back into the room and he pulls the sheet off, after seeing my sister I don't think I will be so upset with dead bodies anymore. I ask him about the death and it's said that something bizarre happened that his eyes burst inside his skull, the creep nurse said that there has never been something like that to happen during a stoke. I thank him for his time and he seems to be wanting to ask me something but I rush out of the morgue and get back to finding the Winchester boys.

 I drive around town hoping to see the same black car and when I finally find it I notice that there are many other cars parked outside the house as well.

I grimace, funerals suck.

[abdulfashionstyle]

28 billion job is 'more suitable for a woman'

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[stone-man-warrior]

January 16: 2021: 4:51 pm:

Half-past a Bradbury.

Raytheon Thirty.

Witch Hunt ~ Rush Moving Pictures Album

Pagans (Pay-Guns)

War of the Worlds: A radio broadcast transmission.

Power Slide can be Automatic Transmission Fluid. ATF. (at Walmart, the sales associates always specify that the Transmission Fluid is Synthetic. There are dozens of brands of motor oil, and other “Oil”, in dozens of application configurations, and only few brands of Transmission Fluid. Truth is, it’s ALL synthetic, so, why does Walmart sales representative specify that the Automatic Transmission Fluid is Synthetic, when all of the oil is synthetic?)

================================================

Question:

On the internet, there are people who are able to walk you through a computer demonstration, with software that records the activity on the screen. Many people have such software, it seems as a perfectly good idea, a socially redeeming and life enhancing technology, one that is not readily available to everyone though. There is illusion that such software is available, because we can see that there are some people who have and use such screen recording software, the kind of thing that can easily demonstrate what kinds of mysterious problems a person is experiencing on their computers, if such software were really available to people who need it. But, that is not available in stores, and common sense would seem to suggest that such screen recorders should be standard operating system Trouble Shoot Component included from the factory. But it is not included. Only select people have such screen recorder software. It’s a Tesla, they made some, but you can‘t get one, because it’s an illusion.

Why are Screen Recorder Software not made available as part of the operating system for Trouble Shoot Diagnosis Tool? Why are Screen Recorder Software not available in stores? Why do only select people have and use Screen Recorder Software publicly online for demonstration of Screen Activity?

====================

Other:

Once the all of the books, printed knowledge, of all kinds, the whole Dewey Decimal System, all categories, is all collected and burned, there will only be digital Gnosis false knowledge available that can change on the fly.

The Christian terror pirates have been collecting all of the old books and destroying them.

The Fahrenheit 451 story is an instruction from the Vatican to collect and destroy the knowledge.

Think of the practicality of such an endeavor.

In the event that people needed to know how to turn iron ore, into a cast tool of some kind, or into a piece of steel, there is no way that will be available to learn to do that.

Consider the same with Aluminum. Instructions about how to collect the raw material, and cast a useful tool will be gone.

Therein lies the secret of why gold (AU; Hey You ~Pink Floyd; Hey Zeus... “Jesus! We have to start over, from the beginning! The books are all gone”; “Look... they have books on sail at the Walmart. Jesus!, look at the price, Vince.”) is so valuable, and is the reason only few, select people can afford to get some of it. When the shit goes sideways, Gold, is the only mineral that can be easily, and readily transformed into a tool that can be used for cutting, digging, can conduct electricity, and is recyclable such that the tool can change seasonally as needed at a given time, then change back to the tool it was before.

Take the books away. Make sure no one can afford Gold. The Pirates collect and hoard the books and the Gold. In event that something goes wrong with the global terror pirate plan, then, the Pirates have ensured that only Christian terror pirates will survive the meltdown, to start over. Gold is a fail-safe plan for terror pirates of the Vatican.

Practicality and common sense is out the window when seeing the truth about Gold. It’s super useful stuff, but we only use it in vein. Decorative Blood Gold, makes for a shiny target to shoot at, for pirating more gold. Pirate Mining is a Jewelry Store at the Fred Meyer, and a customer with a chipped debit card.

♣ “Jesus! It’s on Sail at the Fred Meyer Jewelry Store too!”

♥ “Yeah, but look at the price, Vincent.”

====================

The list:

Starts with:

Bill Gates/Eddie Van Halen, a team, one comes with the other, in 1971. Heathkit Company is Hijacked, Microsoft is born.

Elizabeth Windsor & Philip Mountbaten coin the phrase: “With assistance from two-squirrels and an owl, we shall rule the world”, while talking about a plan to eliminate all but 500,000 people on the planet, to start over, with use of nitrous oxide as a primary weapon. Invisible in every way, has no color, no odor, can’t taste it, it’s invisible, the victims will “Die Laughing”. The band Genisis is born, Phil Collins, both War Drum, and Singer/Messenger is out front, but behind cover of symbolic weapons on stage, as the voice of Philip Mountbaten calling the shots at the battlefields in USA.

All of that occurred on a basis made possible by a much other ground work that already had taken place, including that at the time, thousands or paratrooper Canadian terror soldiers had already landed in Southern California, and established themselves at residences of murdered victims, and most of the police stations in So Cal had already been taken, and manned with those Canadians, some of whom were Royal Canadian Mounted Police, specially trained as police, who could seamlessly infiltrate and blend in with US police at the stations, at neighboring police stations, on calls, in the battlefield that was the greater Los Angeles area at the time, late 1960′s early 1970′s. Many of the police stations nearer to Hollywood Studios areas had already been taken over by SAG actors, so that the Entertainment Industry could do as they please with sex trafficking and drug trafficking without interference from police. The Actors became the police, result of installation of Winchell’s Doughnuts all around the greater Los Angeles area.

The List, continued:

(Out of order here. Timing is not part of the list)

Steve Wozniak shows up. “The Wizard of Woz”. A skinny, very thin young man. He promotes the Cal Jam Concerts. Hundreds of thousands of victims are drawn to the enormous “Stadium Events”, Colossal Roman style terror is born. Cal Jam is among the first attacking done by the “Green Jello” terror cell, hence the name, “Cal Jam”. The “Three Percent Taking” became a model with Cal Jam for other such events, where 3% percent of the audience is killed, wallets and purses of three percent of the audience murdered there, are processed for Identifying the victims so that SAG can “Cast” replacement impostors, with help from CHP and California DMV data base information cross-referencing. The impostor replacement Cast begins to Vote for the shills that SAG arranges for them to vote for, on voting ballots.

Every once in while, at Alouette HQ, Leon Russel comes by, and all of the women go completely berserk when he does. Later, Leon performs a song called Tight Rope, a song about more than the cover story, and the cover story is all true on that one. The song was written by a ten year old boy who was held captive at Alouette HQ at the time.

Tony Iommi comes by Alouette HQ, stays there, for far too long, has a powder preference, loses two finger tips from angry ten year old boy, who is tired of Tony Iommi being at Allouette HQ. BFK was invented at that time, by the ten year old boy who was tired of Tony Iommi and his powder.

Mama Cass dies on the front porch at Alouette HQ, choked on the ham sandwich made with lettuce, she specified there would be no lettuce on the ham sandwich, was a colossal bitch, always pointing fingers and blaming the ten year old boy for everything that was going wrong, so, he put lettuce in the ham sandwich, and Miracle Whip instead of mayonnaise. Mama died on the porch, the Green Sheet newspaper and LA Times were in conflict about where and how she died.

Ann & Nancy Wilson looked on, changed the name of their band from White Sail to Heart.

Ten year old boy is angry about Allouette HQ activities, writes the song “If looks could kill”. Heart records the song, makes tons of money, ten year old boy gets jack.

Ten year old boy has two best friends, Howard Wilson is one of them for many years. Howard became a LA area police officer ten years after.

MKUltra program was a thing, top secret special training organization of federal government, a Mr. Gottleib was in charge of that. He may have lived in Las Vegas. Details are sketchy. It seems as Mr. Gotlieb was killed, or taken as a captive prisoner, his son, Jack Gottleb was the other best friend  of the ten year old bot (boy), and also wound up at Alouette HQ. Jack vanished at some point, when he and his mother Pete (Petie) were said to have moved to Las Vegas. Pete used to make the most awesome spaghetti made with tube shaped noodles, she called it Goulosh. Then, they both vanished.

Brian Wilson of the Beach Boys was kept in a closet in Jack Gottlieb’s house after the Jack moved away.

“Skeeter” moved in the house next to where The Wilson Sisters lived. He was difficult to get along with, was also a ten year old boy.

Leon Russel did not like it when people called him by his name, so, all of the Allouette HQ members (Green Jello Central Command) decided that “Leopold, Leopold. Leopold” would be the proffered method of addressing General Russell. Most Allouette HQ members adopted a three word repetition to say as their name, sex passion style.

Ted Nugent shows up, wants to know where is Mama Cass?

Dean Zelinsky takes over as leader at Allouette HQ. Ten year old boy begins to design and work on guitars for famous rock stars and not so famous ones. Requests from Eddie Van Halen to paint something special came in. and the ten year old boy began to design the Union Jack he was looking for on the guitar, scrambled egg version. The thing was not finished when he came to pick it up, so, he peeled off the masking tape of what had been painted, and that was the finished product after that.

Ten year old boy winds up in Century City on the top of a very tall building by helicopter for Astronaut training at a real astronaut training facility of MKUltra, and also at Los Angeles Harbor in a abandon US navy boat, one of many, that had been converted to a sound recording booth inside of a diving decompression chamber. Very scary. There were many ten year old boys and girls brought there, not all of them survived reaching the recording studio on the boat. The boys and girls had to dive beneath the boat from one dive port in the bottom of the boat, to a different dive port at the other end of the boat. “You need a bag to survive” were the instructions, and “Swim that way” as someone pointed out in which direction that other dive port was at in the abandon US navy boat at Los Angeles Harbor.

The members of Pink Floyd come to Allouette HQ. There is much talk, lots of musicians, Elton John was there, Jim Morison was there, lots of musicians. Ten year old boy winds up in a stone castle in Europe in a dungeon, for three months, escapes, stays in some Dutch style windmills in a field waiting to see if someone will drive by to hop in a truck to get out of there. Gets a ride to an airport, no one speaks English, points at a map to airport police. Tickets to California are provided, boy goes home, no one knows who he is, everything is different there around Allouette HQ.

Ian Anderson comes by, likes the songs that were written in the navy boat, gives the ten year old boy a satellite telephone, to write songs, and call them in.

Ten year old boy winds up on stage at Hollywood Palladium at a Doors concert singing “Ben“ from Micheal Jackson. Is carried offstage, put into a trash truck where there were four police officers also inside, one was still alive, gave his wallet to the boy, encouraged the boy to find a way out of the trash truck. Boy gets out, only wearing underwear, goes to the Brown Derby, to get help for the officers and some clothes. Gets a ride home.

After return from the castle dungeon, at school, fifth grade, after summer break, the assignment was to write an essay about what you did over the summer. The ten year old boy made up a story about someone else’s summer vacation. got a A+ on the assignment.

Someone gives the ten year old boy two Moog Synthesis and a VOX amplifier. Some asshole steals the tubes from the amplifier and puts them into the television. That is when the Pink Floyd came and off to the castle dungeon in Europe, this is out of order.

Boy stands on the edge of a volcano at Pompeii to hold the “Powdered Water” for the people inside of the volcano making the film Live at Pompeii.

Ten year old boy while at Allouette HQ is told to study the Bugs Bunny episode of the singing frog in the shoe box. Jim Morison and some others take the boy to Capital Records in Hollywood, after he builds a model of a “Flea Circus” inside of a shoe box, as he is told to do. The group goes to the reception area, and the boy is told to explain how the Flea Circus model works inside of the shoe box he made. The group of people is told to go up to the top floor.

Jim Morison jumps out of the window of the Capitol Records building.

The boy jumps out of the window after Jim Morison does, clings onto some drapes, lands on the next floor down in the window, runs away, sees Jim roll into a storm drain in the street, can‘t help, drives the black convertible with push button transmission, back home.

Ten year old boy goes to school, tells all of the adults what is happening, no one believes the ten year old boy.

Every once in awhile, some black limousines show up at school, to take the ten year old boy to many field trips, then return to school before the end of the school day. To a place in Palm Springs at Hwy 111 where the road takes a sharp 90 degree direction change at the center of Palm Springs, is a house with a pool that has glass walls around one side, and a fish aquarium is there, so you swim and the fish are right there on the other side of the glass in the pool. The boy was taken there, where there were other MKUltra ten year old boys and girls from other schools, at that place. The boy never went into the house, always stayed in the pool. Refused to go into the house. The house was round.

The ten year old boy had learned of the nitrous gas, that it was rocket fuel, was volatile, and started to carry around a giant size Zippo lighter all of the time. At the school, the teacher could smell the Ronson fluid, but did not take the Zippo away. There were “Cloak Rooms” at the school between the class rooms, where the supplies, books, students put their lunch pails and rain coats into the “Cloak Rooms”. Every once in awhile, the girls were told to go into the cloak room. When that happened, the teacher would point at the ten year old boy, and then to the Cloak Room. “Zippo” to the Cloak Room”. So, the boy opens the door, the girls are in their underwear, and the boy lights the Zippo, collects the girls, and their clothes, to go back to the classroom, where the girls get dressed after that.

There was a mean German nurse that worked at the school health department, where the boy was often sent after opening the cloak room door.

The boy became the Audio/Video Monitor at the school, was in charge of bringing the movie projector and the overhead projectors from the AV Department to the classrooms on movie days in each class. Sometimes, the boy was also window monitor, to open and close the big tall, double hung windows in the classroom.

That’s all for now.

=============

1-17-2021: 11:10 am:

Allouette HQ is a period of time at a particular place. The place has symbolically magnetic qualities such that they are capable of drawing in terror leadership like the shine of gold nugget in a creek bed draws a prospector to it.

“Gone Postal” was born there. “The Stork” birthed itself, at Allouette HQ.

It began in 1968, reached a peak in around 1974, and petered out by 1978, mission accomplished.

=============

That’s all for now.

===================================

9:36 pm:

Important local conditions information:

Use of the phrase “Check-In“ while trying to make contact with someone on a text message by cellular phone, will result in a Confusion Service at Monroe’s terror cell, where someone will portray “Deb Monroe”, at a chicken coup, where chickens are kept, the confusion is used to frighten someone who will be shown that a loved one is held captive, in distress, or, as a “Booty Call”, where the phrase Check-In is used to fool federal fools who are far away, refuse to do their own research, rely on the local terrorists to do their research for the federal fools who insist on being fooled all of time because they continue to trust the local authorities, who are Christian Terror Pirates, and are also Screen Actor Guild Actor terror pirate captains who command the Christian terror pirates to do terror activities.

There is absence of helpful people anywhere around here.

There are no possible ways to get in contact with helpful national security caliber of people.

The absence of helpful people extends to the south to Mexico, and to the north to British Columbia.

There are no helpful people of the caliber necessary to stop the further murders of more millions of citizens in any direction for more than one thousand miles.

The west coast of USA is no longer part of USA. It only appears to still be a part of USA. The entire population of the west coast of USA was killed over the past twenty years or so. In California the mass murdering began sooner, in the 1970′s. So, fifty years of mass murdering, replacing with impostors, and voting for the SAG shills on the voting ballots has already happened.

There is no US national Guard any more, on the entire west coast.

Wake the fuck up.

===============

10:09 pm:

I am not able to send important text messaging with my phone. The whole cellular network of towers is hijacked by the terror army, This account is made difficult to use also, takes much effort to write, the keyboard is controlled by people who make the keyboard not work as it should, and many ways to make writing a cry for help such that it is very discouraging to continue to try to get help. All of that happens as I am being poisoned with nitrous gas and other poisons, right now, at this time while I explain this at 10:13 pm on 1-16-2021 I am subject to poison gasses. Everyday by terror soldier at the window, or airplane fly over, or by railroad car pressure gas tank cars on a train driveby and by trucks and cars that release gas in the neighborhood, almost all of the forest animals are all dead, gone, except the ones that are collected from the nearby mountains and brought here to fool the federal fools who insist on being fooled all of the time, by refusing to do their own research, and rely on terrorists to do that for them.

=========================

1-17-2021: 11:31 am:

“Zippo to the Cloak Room”

[glittergummicandypeach]

If You Can’t Blame the Confederacy, Secede! | Abbeville Institute

American political theater has become the most entertaining show in town. Trump refuses to shake hands and Pelosi rips up his script.

This is red meat for the duly indoctrinated in the mainstream political parties, but in case you thought that Trump’s impeachment and subsequent acquittal would calm the waters and draw the final curtain on a five-month Greek comedy, the woke lunatics and their Girondist media allies have decided the show must go on.

And who can we blame? Why the Confederacy, of course, the fly in the ointment of good American government. If it wasn’t for those dastardly traitors of 1861 and their political progeny, America would be a glorious City Upon a Hill.

CNN’s John Harwood seems to think something nefarious is afoot from below the Mason Dixon:

While he clearly doesn’t know basic American geography or history, he certainly knows that the Confederacy is behind whatever problems ail America. How could these modern Confederates be so blind to the necessity of John Bolton’s important testimony, the same John Bolton whom leftists consistently called an untrustworthy warmonger until he had some dirt on Trump? They held the right opinion of Bolton before the show required a plot twist making the enemy of their enemy their friend. Except every viewer knew the end of the story before it showed up on the small screen. These people telegraph their punches like a drunk itching for a bar fight.

But Harwood’s geographic determinism thinly veils his real motivation: these Republicans who voted against his wishes are racist just like their ancestor traitors to the United States. And people wonder why Southerners still cling to the War, God, and guns.

The left won’t let them forget, except if they want to pack up or demolish a few hundred statues and remove the Confederate flag from every public space in the South.

“Hey deplorable, the War is over, except when we say it isn’t over.”

Of course, we all know that an independent South would be a vastly different country than the United States. The late Bill Cawthon did a splendid job explaining how several years ago.

And some leftists get it. The failed impeachment process has brought these woke secessionists out of the closet:

I’m all for it. “Jesusland” would be a pretty nice place to live and would be freed from the burden of being constantly overruled by some Yankee self-righteous do-gooder. It does, however, makes you wonder if “kim” realized that Trump is a byproduct of the U.S. of Canada? Maybe all these loving people north of the border are just bombastic jerks after all. Nah. That would make them Yankees, and Yankees are supposed to be the good guys.

Several hundred thousands dead Southerners would tell a different story, but what do they know? They were the ones who had the backbone to let the North go in peace in 1861 if they just sent the bluecoats back over the Mason Dixon. They tried “Jesusland” but were blown to pieces by Lincoln’s cannons. If they had their way, “kim” would already be living in a separate country.

And while the founding generation worried about the prospect of secession, very few would have wanted to go to war to prevent it. Patriots don’t kill other patriots, especially those who understood that self-determination is the bedrock of the American political tradition.

So who are the real traitors to America again?

Is Davis a Traitor? Or Was Secession a Constitutional Right Previous to the War of 1861? Albert Taylor Bledsoe, author, Brion McClanahan and Mike Church, editors Published a year after the war, it provides the best argument every assembled in one book for the constitutional right of secession. Everyone interested in the overall design of the Constitution ratified by the several States in 1788 should read this book.

Patrick Henry-Onslow Debate: Liberty and Republicanism in American Political Thought Lee Cheek, Sean R. Busick, Carey Roberts, editors A public debate carried on by President John Quincy Adams and Vice President John C. Calhoun under the pen names of “Patrick Henry” and “Onslow.” This important, but little known debate, about the limits of federal power is arguably more salient now than when it occurred.

Defending Dixie: Essays in Southern History and Culture Clyde Wilson A Collection of insightful essays on how Southerners think of themselves in the light of how they are perceived by outside cultural elites.

The Enduring Relevance of Robert E. Lee: The Ideological Warfare Underpinning the American Civil War Marshall DeRosa DeRosa uses the figure of Robert E. Lee to consider the role of political leadership under extremely difficult circumstances, examining Lee as statesman rather than just a military leader and finds that many of Lee’s assertions are still relevant today. DeRosa reveals Lee’s awareness that the victory of the Union over the Confederacy placed America on the path towards the demise of government based upon the consent of the governed, the rule of law, and the Judeo-Christian American civilization.

The Founding Fathers Guide to the Constitution Brion McClanahan An article by article and clause by clause analysis of the Constitution ratified by the founding generation of 1787 and 1788, a Constitution quite different from what the political class in Washington understands.

The Morality of Everyday Life: Rediscovering An Ancient Alternative to the Liberal Tradition Thomas Fleming Fleming (editor of Chronicles, A Magazine of American Culture) explains how the morality embedded in the ideology of liberalism leads to the decadence of morality in contemporary American society.

Forgotten Conservatives in American History Clyde Wilson and Brion McClanahan A study of thinkers who exemplify conservatism in a Jeffersonian idiom rather than a Hamiltonian.

In Search of the City on a Hill: The Making and Unmaking of an American Myth Richard Gamble A history of the "city on a hill" metaphor from its Puritan beginnings to its role in American "civil religion" today.

James Madison and the Making of America Kevin Gutzman Judged by Clyde Wilson to be the "standard" on Madison for sometime.

Nullification: How to Resist Federal Tyranny in the 21st Century Thomas Woods A readable, comprehensive treatment of the constitutionality of State interposition and nullification. Should be in the hands of every State legislator.

Nullification: A Constitutional History, 1776-1833. Vol. 1: James Madison, Not the Father of the Constitution W. Kirk Wood

Nullification, A Constitutional History, 1776-1833. Vol. 2: James Madison and the Constitutionality of Nullification, 1787-1828 W. Kirk Wood In this thoroughly researched and magisterial two volume work, Wood shows how nullification was an “American” constitutional principle (essential to republicanism), and not merely a Southern sectional one. And he explains how and why republicanism has been suppressed.

Rethinking the American Union for the 21st Century Donald Livingston Essays raising the question of whether the United States has become simply too large for self-government and should be divided into a number of Unions of States as Jefferson thought it should. (The book is signed by Livingston who wrote the "Introduction" and contributed an essay).

The Broken Circle David Bridges A historical novel (as close to historical detail as a novel can be), about Major James Breathed, an officer of horse artillery for JEB Stuart. Classically educated, deeply religious, and preparing for a career in medicine when his country was invaded, he reluctantly became a fierce warrior. He was wounded several times fighting from the very beginning to the end, in 71 battles. The Sons of Confederate Veterans recently awarded him the Medal of Honor.

Superfluous Southerners, Cultural Conservatism and the South, 1920-1990 John J. Langdale, III Explores the "traditionalist" conservatism that originated with John Crowe Ransom, Donald Davidson, and Allen Tate and continued with their intellectual descendants, Cleanth Brooks, Richard Weaver, and Melvin Bradford.

A Cautious Enthusiasm: Mystical Piety and Evangelicalism in Colonial South Carolina Samuel C. Smith Smith shows how Evangelical revivalism in the colonial South Carolina low country had origins in Roman Catholic mysticism, Huguenot Calvinists and German pietism. This disposition, usually identified only with Evangelicals, touched even high Anglicans and Catholics making possible a bond of low country patriotism in the Revolutionary era.

Fiddler of Driskill Hill David Middleton A collection of this prize winning poet’s work set in his home region of rural Louisiana, a place which views the world from a conservative, southern agrarian perspective. The fiddler is a figure of the traditionalist southern-agrarian artist.

Bourbon and Kentucky: A History Distilled Explores how distilling originated in Kentucky with it’s first settlers in 1775, and takes the viewer to the sites of Central Kentucky’s earliest distilling operations. Magnificent portraits and landscapes adorn the production.

The Southern Cross: The Story of the Confederacy’s First Battle Flag Chronicles the history of the design and creation of a flag that became the prototype for the famous Confederate battle flags. The hand-stitched silk flag with gold painted stars was borne by the Fifth Company of the Washington Artillery of New Orleans through the Battles of Shiloh and Perryville. The flag was designed and made for the army after the first battle of Manassas as a military necessity and wholly without the authority or even the knowledge of the Confederate government. Mary Henry Lyon Jones of Richmond, Virginia stitched the flag together. After Generals P.G.T. Beauregard and Joseph E. Johnston approved Ms. Jones’s flag, sewing circles of more than four hundred women in Richmond sewed 120 flags made from Ms. Jones’s original design.

Jefferson Davis: An American President The first and definitive documentary film on the entire life of patriot and president, Jefferson Davis. Across three beautifully shot and edited episodes, the full spectrum of Davis’ life comes into view: from his frontier origins and service to the United States as military officer, congressman, secretary of war, and two-term senator from Mississippi; to his rise and fall as Confederate President; through his unlawful two year imprisonment after the War; and finally covering his 25 years as a man struggling to find his place in a world in which it was no longer clear what it meant to be an American.

This content was originally published here.