#and there's so much more to be said about border crossings and being trans
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Obsessed with this comment on one of my art posts.
I can’t tell if it’s genuinely curious, or accusatory lol
But just to clear some things up (or not): I love being a trans-masculine butch dyke. I use the FTM label because it just fits for me. I have no way of explaining it, nor any desire to. I’m a messy queer person and my life experiences don’t conform to neat little categories. I like to live in the blurriness of boundaries and borders.
In fact, I’m from the U.S. Mexico border, and my gender identity reflects my other identity as a Fronterizo, a border dweller. Fronterizos know that the border between nations isn’t an impassible line in the sand, but a semi-permeable, flexible, and expansive area of land and culture that bleeds out on both sides. In this place, border crossing isn’t one singular dramatic event, marking the passage from one land to another, but a commonplace series of events that might happen multiple times a day. People cross the border on both sides to go to work, to go to doctor’s appointments, to visit friends and family, to buy groceries, to go shopping, to go drinking and any number of other normal every day reasons. Border crossing is a necessary part of daily life. In this way, one side of the border is not economically, politically, socially, or culturally complete without the other side. Both sides of the border come together to create a place that is neither fully US American or Mexican, but uniquely fronterizo.
So that’s where I’m coming from when I describe my gender. I have no interest in applying hard and fast rules and boundaries around my identity. because i’d prefer it to remain porous and expansive like the borderlands.
Another note: Fronterizos fucking hate border patrol. ¡Chinga la migra! so gtfo with any identity policing on my page. I won’t stand for it.
#sorry this is so long#i am just filled with so many queer thots#and there's so much more to be said about border crossings and being trans#maybe i'll write a more thought out essay about it some other time#If me being ftm and butch confuses you go read Stone Butch Blues and then we can talk#ftmgenderisttext
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browsing twitter for longer than a few minutes gives me radiation poisoning these days, and it’s worse in the evening, in the hours when the dark feelings creep in anyway. So even though I’m really apprehensive to talk politics on my art blog (I mean, if the backlash to a hyperbolic post I made about a famous youtuber is this bad, posting about politics would turn my activity page into a window to hell), I have to vent some of my feelings or that radiation damage will just keep getting quietly worse. And a fair number of people read this blog, and seem to like things that I create and say, so for what it’s worth, I want to say some things I hope people will think about.
Someone I really admire tweeted recently about how hopeless they feel. They said that after many years of fighting for social change, they had no fight left. They said they were too exhausted to vote in the upcoming US presidential election. And I tried to understand where they were coming from, because this is someone I look up to. But I can’t. I understand feeling burnt out. I feel nauseous and heartbroken and scared, thinking about the situation in Palestine and the situation in my country. I understand that it seems like there is no good leader to rally behind.
But I can’t tap out. I can’t give in to hopelessness and say, “I can’t choose. I’m tired and I’m done”. When a choice is between maintenance of an imperfect society with incremental steps towards better things, and cranking human misery and suffering enthusiastically up to 11, I’m going with the former. We are all tired every day. But voting is not physically difficult. Even if you are tired, you can do it. There is a day where you go to a building, and you fill in a bubble next to a name, and you go home. They even give you a sticker. I said voting isn’t hard, but actually, it’s very important to say that for a lot of people in the US, voting is hard to access, and for some groups, impossible. It is made difficult on purpose, by people—Republicans, it’s fucking always them, I don’t know why I’m using vague language—who want to disenfranchise as many people as they can. If voting was really a useless gesture, if it really meant nothing— they wouldn’t be working so damn hard to stop poor people and immigrants and prisoners and folks in general from being able to do it.
If you hate Biden, god, fine, whatever. But he is going to be the nominee of the political party made up of judges and politicians that, for the most part, believe that climate change is real and ought to be mitigated, that the US should not be turned into an evangelical christian theocracy, that firearms should be regulated, that businesses should be regulated, that healthcare should be more affordable and accessible, that people should be able to get safe abortions, that trans and all lgbt people deserve to live their lives, and that asylum-seekers shouldn’t be shredded by concertina wire trying to cross the border. The wheel of social change is huge and fucking heavy and sometimes it looks like it isn’t moving at all. But we can feel it move if we all push together.
I caught a Trump ad on the radio the other day and it was some of the scariest shit. “Trump will bring order to chaos,” it said. “He will ban travel from terrorist countries, and end the disastrous open-border policies allowing illegal migrants and deadly drugs like fentanyl to flood into our country.” The fucking anti-muslim travel ban. It’s back, baby. That was the exact phrasing: terrorist countries. If Biden’s foreign policy with regards to the Middle East is frustrating and despair-inducing already, Trump’s would be a catastrophe. The Republicans think Democrats are soft on terrorism. As much as anyone with a conscience is horrified by the US’s continued passivity with regards to Palestine, this motherfucker getting back in office would bring greater horror. I’m really sure about it. I don’t know what that part of the world will look like next fall, but I’m confident that if this dumb bloodthirsty motherfucker regains office, there would be absolutely no hope of public pressure swaying US foreign policy towards “less murder”. Protesting against war and genocide or for any progressive or civil rights cause would become even more dangerous. I still think about the woman who was run over by a car at the protest in 2017
…I’m rambling. I can’t help it. But I don’t want to just ramble unproductively. I should end this with something I hope makes sense to people snd can’t be easily dismissed, even if you already disagree with something I’ve said. I want to say how I genuinely feel.
I believe that imperfect activism is valuable, because it is better to show up and stand in solidarity with other people fighting for a more just world than to not show up at all. I believe all activism is in some way imperfect, because activists are people, and people are imperfect. That is to say, one middle-aged woman who showed up to a DC protest wearing a hand-crocheted pink pussy hat, who maybe hadn’t been to many (or any) protests before but who felt fired up about this one, was worth ten of the smug “real leftists” sneering about her on twitter. Maybe more than ten. Your own activism will be imperfect. But keep an open mind— to your own learning and to others’. Doing “the bare minimum” (and, ugh, what a discouraging phrase) is still doing. We have to encourage everyone who feels drawn to fighting for social good. We have to link arms with one another and be strong. Even if you think the person next to you is a lame-o liberal, if they believe that (for example) trans people deserve access to gender-affirming care and should not be smashed flat into fruit-by-the-foot and sent straight to hell, they are your comrade.
Be wary of people who self-identify as Cassandras and unheeded prophets, especially if their messages consistently emphasize how everything is garbage and the world can’t be saved. If someone is telling you that only they understand how uniquely horrible things are, that no progressive or leftist political philosophy is viable except for the specific one they adhere to, that no news or media sources are worthwhile or even trustworthy except for the small handful of ones they endorse… I won’t say to stop listening to them or following them, but I’d recommend listening to other people, too.
Do your own reading about issues that are important to you. Read many people’s words, watch videos, think about what you believe, and how those beliefs have changed over time, and stay open to being further changed. We are all constantly learning and shaping ourselves, and teaching, and being shaped by others. All of us are tired. But we can hold each other up.
I don’t have a rousing call to action. Just the same things many people are already saying that I’ve felt encouraged by, in a grim sort of way: protest and donate when and where you can, support political candidates on the local and national stage who do support policies you agree with, who could do real good. It feels very hard right now to be hopeful. But we all have to live in whatever future comes eventually— so I think we have to still participate, and that means things like voting. We are all tired. But we have to keep going. There is, ultimately, no sitting out. People who opt out of voting still must live under the social climate and policies imposed by the person who gets elected, and who they endorse and empower and appoint, and who those people empower and appoint, and so on.
This post doesn’t have a good conclusion. I didn’t write it thinking about what would make for a satisfying structure in general. But if you read it, then thank you for reading.
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Obligated commissions post, hello gang!
Here to commission me? well here are my prices and examples :) More examples of commissions can be seen in the tag #commission work !!
Busts: 15-25$ (sketches -> colored)
half body! 25-35$ (Sketches -> colored) *can be from hips to above
also if the lineart looks a lil different for the colored trans enid, its bc i didn't do that. I sketched it, a mutual lined it then I colored it!
Fullbody 35-45$ (sketches -> colored)
Note! Prices can change and vary depending on what is being commissioned! None of these are concrete
+10-15 usd per person
+5-10 usd depending on the background
There can be additional charges due to paypal fees
Can Draw!
Fanart
oc's/humanoids
pngtuber models
character sheets
horror, gore (not excessive)
Chibi
NSfW
Might Draw (We'll need to talk about these requests)
full on furries (not so experienced)
excessive gore/horror (same excuse as above)
comics
honestly, if it isn't in the Can Draw, let's talk about it.
Will not:
hate art
anything political
if it crosses my boundaries
Terms and Service! (this is a long one)
The client may ask for progress updates every 2-4 days, if not longer, should the commissionee not be in contact.
The art may take longer than the estimated time the artist gives. Should that be an issue or concern, the client must tell the artist.
In commissioning the artist, the client acknowledges that the artist is a student and that this is not the artist's full time job, and the client should not expect the artist to be able to treat it as such.
IMAGE RIGHTS
The client may not, in any way shape or form, use the art in a commission product for NFTs, no matter how much they offer to pay the artist. Should NFTs be made of the art without consent, the client gives full consent for the artist to take legal action against them.
The client may make minor edits to the completed commission (e.g. cropping, adding text/borders, changing brightness/contrast/hue/saturation...
The client may use/reupload the commission for personal/non-commercial use, but only if proper credit to the artist and a linkback to any of the artist's social media is provided.
If the commission includes characters that do not belong the client, additional credit to the owner(s)/creator(s) of said characters must be provided when using/reuploading for personal/non-commercial use.
The client may not use the commission for any commercial use unless discussed with the artist beforehand.
^ Should the client use the art for commercial use, provided the artist's consent, the artist will receive an agreed-upon percentage of the sales profits.
The client MUST credit the artist for any usage of the art on any platform.
The client MUST ask the artist if they want to use their art as a reference, and proceed to credit each time the reference is used.
REVISION POLICIES
Once the coloring stage begins, the only major revisions permitted are details that the artist may have missed and was specified by the client in the order while the commission was still in the sketching/lineart stage (e.g. a missing tattoo that's essential to the character's design).
If the client is unsatisfied with the commission, the artist is willing to discuss and make minor edits as stated prior (e.g. adjusting colors). However, the artist will not redraw the piece and expects full payment, as the client should have specified in the sketch stage changes they wanted to be made.
The client may not hire another artist to adjust the image without the commissionee's consent.
The artist is willing to edit the image post commission for the commissioner, but may charge a small fee depending on what is being asked of them.
Upon commissioning the artist, the client automatically agrees to the terms of service provided, as it is assumed they have read them.
-
...and that's about it? Just don't expect me to be obligated to draw something. Depending on how much commissions i'm getting and how busy i am, the art will take atleast a few days to a week!
If you got references, provide them! It'll help alot. You can also ask for progress updates, just don't mind me accidentally not seeing the message bc this is tumblr and I don't get notifs for some reason.
as of rn, im accepting payment through ko-fi and paypal
But ye! That's about it, thanks for seeing this yall
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It's going to be a long text, but bear with me. It's important.
As you know, there's a whole lot of people out there, refusing to acknowledge the human rights of people - as if, disabled people, queers, trans folk or even entire ethnic groups are somehow inferior or don't deserve the rights as much, as others - more privileged ones - like myself.
I'm white. I'm living in Poland, I've never experienced racism, I've never been discriminated against. Granted, I'm Eastern European, so Scandinavian folk and Westerners tend to be assholes because of that. But I am privileged and I acknowledge that.
I'm not going to talk about obvious fascists and supremacists here. You all know the drill already. I'd like to share with you my concerns about "enlightened centrism", liberalism and appeasement.
I'll start by stating the obvious, yet rather controversial take. Those prone to ignoring the human rights of others are also in danger of losing their own. That's why I'm not really in favour of trusting liberals on that particular issue.
Yet, we have to deal with them. From my experience, there's a lot of my fellow Poles having no real issue with genocide at our border with Belarus. Yes, I've called it a genocide - because it is one. If you didn't know - and you probably didn't, because the whole matter is obfuscated by media and the polish government - there's a crisis at our border. For two years, refugees from middle east travel through Belarus and are encouraged by it's Machiavellian totalitarian regime to "storm" Polish border. They are desperate for a better life in Poland and Europe in general and because of that, they are being used as a political tool to drive Poland into crisis. Despite the European laws clearly stating, that every person crossing the border is ought to be detained and put into "transfer shelter" under the protection of the state, obliged to provide food a bed and the bare minimum to survive - until the decision whether they are allowed to stay or not is made, and if it's made in favour of transferring the refugee back to the border safely - Polish government and border troops don't give a flying fuck and actively murder the refugees by transferring them to the marshes, woods and borderline shooting them or driving them back. No matter the cold, heat or rain.
Not so long ago, a viral meme went out into the wilderness of the internet.
It portrayed the (Syrian?) refugee, hanging head-down from the giant fuck-off fence. The imagine caused a general enthusiastic uproar from the Polish right, which found the photo funny, calling the poor fellow "A bat".
The genocide is generally kept silent and any kind of support, any attempt and journalism set to expose it is being silenced by force. Even I myself might be at risk of being detained and possibly arrested - although I doubt it and I don't care. I'm relatively safe. That being said, I took part in reaching out and helping the refugees directly.
The issue is generally ignored and the violation of human rights of people crossing the border is met with 76% public approval of people in Poland, according to GUS studies. This is fucking terrifying. 76% of people applicable to the study is okay with murdering the poor, innocent people at our border because - obviously, the economy will suffer. Because providing aid to a fellow human being is obviously going to result in degradation of one's comfort. Because we can ignore the human rights of these "dirty brown masses" bringing foreign culture and religion to our fantastic country.
This. This makes me s o f u c k i n g s i c k.
To whoever agrees with treating people like that - you deserve that to happen to you. And it will probably happen. The power-mongers in charge will gradually move on. All you liberal centrists saying it's alright, because it doesn't involve you - it does. And it will bite you in the ass sooner or later.
I don't understand how you can be so selfish, egoistic and heartless to say "yes" to treating fellow humans like garbage, just because they don't look or think like you.
If you are looking for someone ruining this country, this world - just fucking look in the mirror, you economic liberal, you conservative, you nationalist, you fascist cunt.
You are all complicit and you are all garbage human beings and deserve to suffer the consequences. But you obviously won't, because justice doesn't exist. The world is not fair and liberty is a myth.
And to whomever reads this and agrees, please, do your best to keep watch for human rights. Watch out for your fellow humans, especially the most vulnerable ones. All we have is each other and if we are not to look after each and every one of us - why even engage in society?
Compassion is key. It's what the world needs in these troubling times.
To all my comrades, actively trying to make the world better - you are the reason it all makes sense. You are the future and you are on the right side of history.
And even if we fall and fail - there's no shame in that. There's no shame in failing if you tried.
And we must try our best.
Sincerely, an anarchist.
#politics#im serious#geopolitics#human rights#communism#socialism#anarchism#anarchy#share#my rants#society#fuck the system#borders#no borders
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!! !! i wanna see ur ocs !!
Since you did three pairs, I’m gonna give deets on three characters that aren’t technically OCs but might as well be because they get no canon personality at all: Kristen’s little siblings.
Bricker is the oldest save Kristen, and spent the longest time buying into Helioicism. His parents didn’t make the same mistake twice and sent him to a Helioic school, where he excelled both academically and physically, and then on to train to become a paladin border guard like them. He was also good at that, but as soon as he went on his first patrol and realized being a border guard meant attacking or even killing people who just wanted to go to a different location (people that everyone said were monsters, too inherently different to humans to ever relate to them but Bricker stares down a Goblin who can’t be more than twelve years old as she stands in front of her little siblings and he would do that in a heartbeat, too) he pretty quickly broke his oath. Of course, he was on patrol with some other paladins, so... he had to get rid of the witnesses. He was technically on the border guard for a while, intentionally foiling attempts to catch people crossing over from the Mountains of Chaos, but then someone found out about his first patrol. Now he’s a wanted murderer and adventurer (same difference, right?) who helps people cross the border. He speaks fluent Goblin also :)
Bucky is the most normal of his siblings. He did okay in school, got an office job, and decided he was going to get fit. He met the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen at the gym. She also happened to be an Orc named Adaxi, prompting him to very quickly have to decide if he was going to side with his parents or acknowledge the facts in front of him (that Adaxi was perfect in every way). He chose the latter, but pretended to side with his parents for a few years because he didn’t want to lose his family. A while after they started dating, Bucky got fucking wasted at an Orcish party, passed out drunk, and met Luthic. When he woke up, he was able to rage, as well as had a lot more confidence. That prompted him to quit his job, cut things off with his family and seek out his older brother to adventure with him (and his girlfriend, when her work isn’t too busy).
Gemma is Kristen’s youngest sibling. I will not say what she is referred to in canon because A) I hc her as trans and B) it’s a stupid ass name. She knew something was Off at a very young age, but obviously the Applebees household isn’t a very safe place to explore that, so she kept praying for someone to make her normal. Eventually, an angel came down and was like “there’s nothing wrong with you, also your parents are heretics for preaching hate instead of acceptance. Do you wanna be a warlock.” Gemma said yes (because she’d never met anyone, much less an emissary of Helio, who had told her it was okay to be who she was) and became a warlock of that angel. She passed her powers off as clericism, but of course, after Kristen her parents viewed even that with suspicion. It wasn’t much of a surprise when their last child vanished as well, going to meet her brothers.
In the end, they meet the Bad Kids on an adventure and reunite with Kristen. She feels horrible that she never really tried to get them out, but they all ended up leaving anyway. Sometimes she joins their party for adventures! She’s so happy to have her siblings back :)
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The fact that I got to see MCR live is just so fucking mind blowing to me. Like I remember being 12-13 years old having sleepovers with my friends and watching old concert videos so we could pretend we were really there in the crowd. I remember my 13th birthday party being revenge themed and how every event my friends and I went to we'd make some mcr themed costumes or find a way to slip a reference into our outfits. I remember making a party poison cosplay out of a cheap blue leather jacket and some coloured electrical tape and I remember wearing that thing until it smelled like garbage and fell apart at the seams. I remember crying on the phone with my best friend at the time when the breakup was announced and making my entire group of friends "black parade jackets" (again, more old jackets with white electrical tape for the stripes bc I was literally like 13) and we all wore them to school on the last day of 8th grade and it was so much fucking fun. I remember trick or treating dressed as Mother War, gas mask and all, with my group of friends dressed as other BP characters and then coming home to watch shitty horror movies and jam out to their music. Every time a new Killjoys comic came out I'd beg my mom to take me to the comic shop to get it and when I'd find the new issue I'd get all giddy and excited, and then I'd go home and read it and scream to my friends about it. And through the darkest, most terrifying and traumatic years of my life those songs and comics we're the first thing I would reach for to find comfort. I have always said that they are a massive part of the reason I'm still here today and I'm so fucking greatful for that, because I love who I've become and I love being alive.
Now here I am like a decade later, still processing the fact that I was in that crowd on oct. 3rd. I might have had to cross a fuckin border and drop more money than I ever have on anything in my life, but the experience was so fucking worth it. MCR is at the root of most of my favorite memories and is just such a huge part of how I became who I am today. They are the reason I picked up a guitar and learned how to play, they are the reason I started writing my own music and what got me so excited to make art. Fuck, the first experiences I had really questioning my gender and coming to realize I am trans were all because of how good I felt dressed up like them. Thanks to them, I've made so many beautiful connections and memories and I've discovered so much about myself and just fallen in love with life. I really don't want to die anymore, I'm so greatful to be here and to be alive, I'm excited and hopeful for the future and to make more memories like this.
Basically what I'm trying to say here is that this band and their art is so deeply important to me and it's something that makes me think that being alive is a good thing and something I wanna keep doing for a very long time.
#txt#long post#im habing a MOMENT OKAY#i was looking through my baby emo pictures and talking to my gf about this and it made me feel happy and good#sometimes i wish i still talked to those old friends#we all grew apart after i switched schools but one saw my ig post about the concert and we talked a little about the Old Days™️#we're all so different now its crazy#anYway thats my rant tonight is Good Night
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Matt Walsh's show is equal parts stupid and sociopathic
That smug expression, god I'm already hating this and I haven't even pressed play yet. (Source: Matt Walsh Show at the Daily Wire)
The year is 2024 and Matt Walsh is still...well himself. If last years episode where I stated that he blatantly lacks empathy didn't tip you off, I really do not like this guy. He's one of the smuggest and most openly sociopathic people in the conservative movement today, proudly arguing that rights should be taken away from trans people for the crime of simply existing and ranting about his fantasies of calling transwomen ugly men live on air (see the link above).
While there has been a rash of Michael Knowles coverage on this blog recently, mostly because he can't stop making a fool out of himself, I feel like this post is going back to the blogs roots since our first post here was about Matt Walsh.
Matt Walsh has started off 2024 in a predictably boring yet bigoted and miserable way with his first episode of the year being about the "trans agenda". Today Matt has a very gross episode for us so lets get into it shall we? Also he seems to think being straight is being gay so that's gonna be lovely to address.
03:50, Matt Walsh: "This week James Madison High School in Brooklyn cancelled classes so that busloads of hundreds of illegal migrants could move into the school during bad weather."
So, Matt's "main story" for todays broadcast is this high school in Brooklyn that was temporarily closed so that it could function as an emergency shelter for asylum seekers during a snow storm. The children at said school were made to do E-Learning for the time being.
While I personally think that New York City needs to find a more permanent solution to where to house asylum seekers during snow storms and the like, I support this decision from the standpoint of the city using what they have. Keep in mind that this was a winter storm and many of these families had small children with them. Many of said families could have very well died that day had the city not relocated them into that school. Considering that Matt Walsh is "pro-life" he should be happy that Brooklyn is preventing the unnecessary death of minors. However since these are brown skinned children, Matt responds with a predictably cold lack of empathy.
Naturally, wherever Matt and Conservative grifters like him go bomb threats seem to follow and this story is no exception. The school received a bomb threat after making the decision.
04:30, Matt Walsh: "This is so hard to believe. It's so contrary to the concept of a sovereign nation that I think it bares repeating. New York just ordered a public high school to displace American students, children who have every right to be in this country, in order to house criminal foreigners who crossed the border illegally."
Let's keep in mind that again, most of these people had children with them. I don't think using schools as shelters is a permanent or feasible solution but I also feel like given the resources the city was dealing with at the time it was the right thing to do. I would urge the city to find a better solution but I wouldn't criticize them for protecting a vulnerable group of people with children from dangerous weather.
Let's also keep in mind that this is a high school, not an elementary school. These aren't small children, these are teenagers and they are being asked to remote learn for a day. If this was an elementary school I would see the parents concerns here a lot more clearly, but you're telling me that teenagers can't stay home alone and learn remotely for one day? Odds are that remote school might have happened anyway due to the storm. This is simply racists lacking empathy for others.
05:45, Matt Walsh: "But even if we did know exactly who these migrants were it doesn't matter, they don't have a right to be in this country much less in our schools."
That doesn't take away the right that children and babies have to live. The school opened back up on Monday after the storm ended and everyone was fine, no "American children" died and no permanent mental distress occurred, but some children's lives may have been saved.
Again, one day of e-learning isn't going to kill anyone but being caught in a storm just might. While discussion should be had about how to properly and humanely house asylum seekers in NYC, this kind of inflammatory bigoted nonsense does not help the discussion.
06:09, Matt Walsh: "But we are putting adult foreigners above our own children"
Even in the video that Matt played of one of the parents screaming at the asylum seekers coming off the bus, children are clearly seen getting off as well. To omit the fact that most of these people had children and even babies with them is to omit a key part of why this decision was made in the first place.
But then again, if there's one thing Matt has made abundantly clear during his storied career of being a bigoted asshole it's that he doesn't care who dies as a result of the rhetoric he pushes.
This was obvious after the Club Q shooting in Colorado where instead of putting his bigotry to the side and acting like an actual human being in the face of a tragedy, Walsh doubled down on his hateful rhetoric and went on a deranged rant about drag queens. One of the more lovely quotes in said rant was;
"“If [drag] is causing this much chaos and violence, why do you insist on continuing to do it? If according to you it’s putting people’s lives at risk… why are you still doing it, is it that important to you?”
If this sounds like blaming the victims of a mass shooting for their own deaths, congratulations you have eyes! The point I am trying to make here is that Matt displays a disturbing pattern of not caring about the human cost of his own rhetoric and a lack of empathy towards the people in the stories he covers and it's no different here.
06:15, Matt Walsh: "And they're doing this at literal gunpoint by the way. And all the parents can do is film and all the parents can do is film or they'll be arrested and charged with hate crimes probably."
The police presence at the school isn't "literal gunpoint" but if Matt is so concerned about police presence that's a talk I would be willing to have, too bad that talk will never happen since going against the police would lead to conversations around police brutality that are a bit awkward for Matt's Conservative worldview.
Public high schools aren't public in the sense that anybody can do whatever they please with them, they are still owned by the government. As a result the government of NYC, knowing that this decision would be controversial and would attract right-wing attention, sent some officers to the school to ensure the safety of the asylum seekers and the enforcement of the decision. Also they wouldn't be charged for hate crimes, that notion is a completely absurd construction that Matt is putting forth to his bigoted audience to make them angry. If they were to be charged with anything, which I doubt they would be, it would be trespassing.
07:33, Matt Walsh: "By the way it's great that there are a few parents out there that are filming this and are expressing their outrage but the fact that every parent isn't out there protesting, the fact that there are only a few, is pathetic in and of itself."
Probably because most parents realize that one day of e-learning isn't that big a deal and is a small price to pay for saving the lives of some children and the ones who are out seem more concerned that it's a group of non-white people temporarily moving into the school.
Just a thought.
07:49, Matt Walsh: "Now there might be a reason for some of that which is that the media isn't talking about this, you're not gonna find that footage on the national news or even the local news."
Hey ding-dong, I guess you don't have Google because a quick Google search for "Brooklyn high school migrants" brought this up.
How do you think I learnt about this story? My vivid imagination? No, I read about it in the New York Times. As for the video of the one woman yelling which was posted by known extremely credible journalistic source "Libs of TikTok" (which is more proof that Chaya Raichik's fans REALLY like sending bomb threats to places by the way) it doesn't add anything to the story. It's just one woman screaming at people and the news has already covered the protest in detail. It adds absolutely nothing to the conversation.
08:35, Matt Walsh: "No media organizations, even the ones that claim to focus entirely on big events in the city of New York, are tracking down the parents to hear exactly what's happening here."
Matt Walsh is a moron: a story in screenshots.
Those guys with cameras are from the nonexistent media, totally no coverage at all (Source: New York Post)
Hey look, the New York Post did speak to some parents who were pissed off at the decision. Quote:
“The writing was on the wall the minute the city started being inundated with migrants,” said one mother who only gave her name as Maria. “It’s disgusting. It should not be put on us taxpayers.” (New York Post)
Ignore the microphones with LITERAL NEWS AGENCIES LOGOS ON THEM, there was zero media coverage (Source: New York Post)
Just so you know, this Post article was posted on the 10th and Walshes episode came out on the 11th so it was completely available to him then. I hate to use the shitrag known as the New York Post as a source but the fact is that it's a major publication that interviewed the parents and has pictures proving that the news agencies were there. No media coverage my ass.
11:11, Matt Walsh: "But if you are wondering why the left was so intent on implementing those lockdowns, well there's your answer, they wanted a precedent they could use in the future and already they're using it in order to house illegal migrants in public school."
Surely it couldn't have been because there was a massive public health emergency that was killing thousands of people, no it was so that they could house asylum seekers in a high school for one day during a snow storm.
This makes absolutely zero sense when you think about it for more than five seconds.
11:44, Matt Walsh: "This is destruction that doesn't benefit any particular political party over another, it's destruction that's calibrated to destroy the entire foundation of this entire country."
Matt Walsh has a formula for these episodes. Introduce the topic, instead of arguing against what he is covering argue against some bizarre strawman version of it that is way broader than the actual topic, declare that this will lead to the literal end of society, and move on.
Notice how Matt leaves out key details of the story like the fact that this was during a snow storm and how most of the asylum seekers being moved in were family units with children in order to strengthen his argument. He also overinflates the entire thing from some teenagers being made to do one day of E-learning to some kind of grandiose permanent thing that the Democrats planned in advance during COVID and by the way they'll be making YOU house asylum seekers in your home next. Watching the Matt Walsh Show is like consuming news through some bizarre funhouse mirror version of reality.
Think about it, Matt never really argues the points he's trying to make, mostly because he probably realizes that most of what he actually believes would get his ass thrown off pretty much every social media platform in existence and that stops the money from flowing. What he does instead is rant about how the left is causing the literal end of society. How is the left causing the literal end of society? Who knows?! They just are!
11:55, Matt Walsh: "And if you don't believe that, consider the fact that just a few months ago, illegal migrants in New York City started encroaching on the turf of the single most reliable voting block for the Democratic Party, which is Black people on welfare and these migrants started showing up early to snag their handouts."
Nothing to see here, just another classic Matt Walsh being a racist moment. This is really just Matt's excuse to get in a dig at black people for daring to take government assistance money and it's so blatantly obvious. Otherwise why else would he bring this up? It's still not addressing the main issue at hand which is the school in Brooklyn, it's a completely different topic entirely.
But like I said before, Matt's show is very free of actual points outside of just saying something bigoted and then declaring that society is over because of said bigoted thing.
12:13, Matt Walsh: "This is like something out of a sketch comedy show, it would be funny if it weren't so tragic."
It's so nice of Matt to concisely describe my feelings regarding his show and the conservative media ecosystem as a whole.
14:12, Matt Walsh: "Here's what Chicago's O'Hare Airport looks like right now. The airport, one of the biggest in the country, is now walling off entire sections so that they can be used as migrant encampments."
This is even less of a story than the high school in Brooklyn. Small parts of this massive airport are being used to temporarily provide shelter for arriving asylum seekers in order to provide them shelter from the cold. Just so you guys know, parts of O'Hare have been used as a crisis shelter for months and society still hasn't ended. Why Matt Walsh has only decided to pick up on this story now is a mystery to us all. They are also using Terminal 4 to shelter the asylum seekers which isn't even a terminal used for flights. It's a shuttle bus terminal.
Just an aside, has Matt Walsh never been to an airport? People sleep on the floors at airports all the freaking time, hell I've done it!
14:52, Matt Walsh: "Granted people in airports already tend to splay out on the ground and treat terminals like campgrounds but this is taking that to another level."
How Matt? Because the people who are doing it are a different race than you? Airports are already filled to the brim with people who are sleeping on the floor due to missed flights and the like, that's just how it's been since the beginning of commercial air travel.
Matt still hasn't mentioned that this isn't a part of the airport that people are flying out of.
15:17, Matt Walsh: "The government is now ceding critical infrastructure to foreigners who have no right to be in the country."
That's a funny way of saying "They've allowed asylum seekers to sleep inside a bus terminal at an airport so they don't freeze to death."
This decision hasn't impacted air traffic out of O'Hare at all, if it did you could bet that more people that aren't Matt Walsh would be talking about this.
Notice how Matt doesn't really have a point here. His argument is as follows;
"People are sleeping on the floor at an airport, granted people already do that but this is different for some reason, also civilization is going to collapse because people are sleeping on the floor at an airport."
Notice how it makes zero sense, so little sense in fact that Matt refuted his own argument right after making it.
15:22, Matt Walsh: "Pretty soon we're not gonna be simply ceding public buildings, they'll take private property too."
"FEAR, FEAR, FEAR. Btw, no I don't have any proof for this"
15:28, Matt Walsh: "Already the government is laying the groundwork for that and once again COVID set the precedent. Remember when the Biden Administration banned evictions?"
The eviction moratorium was a humane decision given the circumstances. Numerous people were being put out of work by the pandemic and as a result were made more vulnerable financially, thus putting them at greater risk of eviction. That decision protected the American citizens that Matt's spent the entire episode saying he cares about, it's almost as if he doesn't care about the American public at all.
How on Earth does a temporary eviction moratorium lead to you being forced to house asylum seekers by the way? There is absolutely no direct line from one to the other. It makes zero sense like pretty much everything Matt's saying in this episode.
I'm starting to respect Michael Knowles a bit more because of this episode. Michael Knowles has a complete and total lack of talent that bleeds into all of the content he produces and so does Matt Walsh. The difference is that Michael will spend his episodes either watching CNN or reading an article from some publication and then go "this thing bad because libs" and then move on to the next article/CNN video. When Michael is made to talk about one thing for extended periods without reading someone elses work, he'll inevitably end up saying something stupid like how Mickey Mouse should be turned into a Nazi to own the libs but he mainly avoids that by reading others work and throwing up a two minute soundbite about it afterwards. The difference between Matt Walsh and Michael Knowles is that Michael seems to have a level of begrudging understanding of his lack of talent that Matt lacks. The issue is that Matt will try to talk about issues for extended periods of time and he usually makes a complete fool out of himself at best and reveals how much of a bigot he is at worst. Today it's a bit of column A and a bit of column B and we still haven't even gotten to his dumbass take on Valentines Day that went viral.
15:46, Matt Walsh: "Now public officials are once again suggesting that private property must be surrendered, and this time for the benefit of illegal migrants. Just a few months ago politicians in Massachusetts and New York demanded that residents offer up their homes to foreign nationals, watch."
Matt plays some clips of politicians asking their constituents to volunteer to host a migrant family. There's one word I'd like to emphasize and that's volunteer. Nobody is forcing American's to take on a family of aslylum seekers unlike what Matt's bestie Chaya Raichik would have you believe. It's on a 100% volunteer basis and the clip from Massachusetts makes that abundantly clear. And in case you are still concerned about asylum seekers being forced into your home, that clip of the governor of Massachusetts was taken in August of last year and no asylum seekers have been forced into peoples homes since then. Real weak, real stupid.
17:35, Matt Walsh: "If you're a landlord or property owner we can use you too. Very appropriately phrased isn't it? We can -- not even like 'we can use your property', we can use you."
What the governor was saying was that the state could use the help of landlords to deal with the massive influx of asylum seekers that they are seeing. I do believe that the Biden Administration itself isn't doing enough to help these cities with the influx in asylum seekers but that's a conversation that Matt isn't having here. Instead what we get is fearmongering about a clip taken in August of the governor of Massachusetts asking for people to volunteer space in their homes if they can to help deal with the influx of asylum seekers and maybe provide space to a family in need, not forcing people to take in asylum seekers like Matt is claiming here.
17:57, Matt Walsh: "This is one of the things Americans fought the Revolutionary War to prevent, that's why the Constitution prevents quartering troops in peoples homes."
Without the homeowners consent, so quartering troops is on a volunteer basis....like quartering asylum seekers is. I can't help but feel like leaving that part of the third amendment out was a conscious decision on Matt's part.
Also this is such a ridiculous comparison to make. It's not like America has seen a massive influx in troops that don't have previously established homes in the country and are in urgent need of housing.
18:16, Matt Walsh: "What we're seeing are illegal migrants, criminals, taking over your airports and your childs schools. At this rate it won't be too long until these criminals start walking into television stations with grenades."
Undocumented immigrant crime is insanely low when you look at the numbers. In Texas a study from The National Academy of Sciences USA discovered that the undocumented migrant conviction rate was 45% below that of native born Texans. Seems like a segment of the population that is very unlikely to walk into television stations with grenades.
Just to recap, Matt's bombshell proof of this migrant takeover is a school being used to shelter migrant families during a storm for a day and a bus terminal at an airport being used as a shelter for migrants for months with nothing bad happening there during said months. I can't stress enough how weak this is.
Matt finishes this story, does an ad pivot, and starts his five headlines thing. He mumbles incoherently about the debates and Chris Christie. It's very stupid. He's not saying anything of value, mostly just his thoughts on political candidates interspersed with smug comments about people he doesn't like. Here's some of Matt talking shit about Chris Christies "hot mic" moment.
25:29, Matt Walsh: "So he forgot that he had a mic on or forgot that it was hot, didn't know it was hot, and just so happened to say a bunch of stuff that would be embarrassing for his rivals but not for him personally. He comes off well because he's saying 'we told the truth but they didn't want to hear it and we worked hard'. So he said a bunch of things that are flattering for him, he didn't know, the world got a glimpse of what he says behind the scenes and it just so happens that for that 60 second period he was saying things that are flattering to himself and embarrassing to his rivals. What an enormously convenient accident for Chris Christie."
Or he did actually forget and was shit talking about people he doesn't like. Is it that hard to believe that a politician talks shit about his rivals behind the scenes and has a bit of an inflated sense of self?
I mean, there's a chance that it was faked since he did indeed come on a little thick so this isn't anywhere near the main thing that I'm gonna push back on Matt about. I do think there's also a chance that he didn't know.
Matt decides to talk shit about Ohio's anti-trans legislature. There's not much here, just mumbling incoherently about long since debunked myths about "child castration". It's not really much of anything and we aren't talking about it. Let's talk about tackle football for minors
30:04, Matt Walsh: "Ok, I have a -- I wanna play this for you. This is a news report, a local news report, out of the communist nation of California which is on the way to banning tackle football for children."
So, California is moving to ban tackle football for kids under twelve. I found the fact that pre-pubescent children are out there playing tackle football really strange and disturbing considering the concussion rates that tackle football has amongst adults, let alone small children who by definition have more fragile bodies than adults.
As it turns out, the impacts that playing tackle football has on minors are extremely harmful for their future development. A study from the CDC found that children between six and fourteen who play tackle football are 15 times more likely to sustain head impacts and 23 times more likely to sustain hard head impacts (ie; ones that literally shake your brain inside your skull which puts you at risk for brain injuries) than children who play flag football.
For those who don't know, flag football is a much safer alternative to tackle football for minors. In it, the players aren't allowed to make contact with each other and wear flags that the player is supposed to remove. This is designed to remove the need for players to tackle each other which, as we've already established, is quite dangerous.
Now since one of Matt Walsh's favorite arguments against gender affirming care is "think of the children", you would think such a massive defender of children's safety would be all for this. He isn't because it's a bill that was authored by the democrats and one of the requirements for working at the Daily Wire is being a contrarian asshole who automatically assumes that everything the Democrats and people on the left do is bad.
32:10, Matt Walsh: "Ok so, maybe it won't surprise you to learn that I hate this idea, banning tackle football. And it's something that you hear, California obviously is first up to the plate, but there's support for it all across the country and my prediction is that if California does it a bunch of other states will follow. And I think it's terrible."
Notice how Matt's initial arguments are "this is bad because I think it sucks". Matt does elaborate on his points a little later on but really all he has is that he doesn't like it because it goes against his staunchly traditional view of masculinity and outside of that he has nothing.
32:59, Matt Walsh: "Generally this is a reflection of our feminized society, yet again. It is a very feminine womanly thing to look at a sport where boys are tackling each other and say 'Oh that's too dangerous.'"
I love how much of a twelve year old boy Matt is here.
"Yeah, I'm gonna ignore all the data that say that concussions among young children are more common in tackle football because expressing concern that children might get hurt is so girly."
What a moron.
33:21, Matt Walsh: "Now I understand why women feel that way."
Because they've seen the data? Oh right, misogyny.
33:35, Matt Walsh: "That's also why women are not the foremost authority on what sorts of activities are best for boys."
Still not addressing the actual data regarding concussions. Misogyny isn't a replacement for actual arguments.
34:24, Matt Walsh: "Why can't they just play flag football instead? Well, because flag football is lame, that's why. You know why we don't have boys play flag football? Because girls can play flag football."
Ignoring the whole "not getting concussed as a minor is lame" aspect of this, this argument makes no sense. Women can also play baseball, should we get rid of that?
Also, women can play tackle football so this is a moot point. Matt has zero idea what he is talking about outside of "boys rule, girls drool" and it shows.
10/10 journalist Matt Walsh's next brilliant headline is "Breaking: Men from Mars and Women from Venus."
34:59, Matt Walsh: "So football will go from being a masculine sport for boys who want to go out there and tackle and be rough to a fun activity for girls and boys to do together, which is to say it will lose all of it's value."
Ok, so do boys need to "go out there and tackle" when they have more fragile bodies at 9 years old? No, there are much safer ways to do that. Plus, tackle football isn't being banned outright. It's simply being banned for ages that studies have shown that it's unsafe for.
35:35, Matt Walsh: "First of all, tackle football for kids is not that dangerous. There is this very, again very womanly, panic around tackle football. 'Oh it's too dangerous, they're hitting eachother.' It's not that bad actually, especially for young kids. In fact, for kids in that age range, the exact range that they are banning it for, it is especially safe at that age range."
Note how I have data to back up my argument that tackle football presents a risk to minors whereas Matt just has "It just is safe!"
I urge anyone who is a fan of Matt Walsh to keep an eye out for the fact that he never seems to have anything to support the arguments he is making. All of his arguments boil down to "it just is because I said so!" and he never seems to elaborate beyond that. If Matt has a recent study that says that tackle football is especially safe for minors, I'd love to see it. Otherwise he is just saying things with no evidence.
36:06, Matt Walsh: "Did you know that more kids die from baseball injuries every year than football injuries under the age of twelve?"
That isn't the conversation we are having. The conversation is about the long term impacts of tackle football related head trauma on minors, not fatalities. The issue is that the head injuries sustained while playing tackle football have the potential to cause serious harm later in life.
The bar for whether something is dangerous or not shouldn't be "Well, at least they aren't dying", otherwise you'll end up opening the door for a whole bunch of other dangerous and rightfully banned stuff for minors to come back.
Also you just know that Matt would freak out if we tried banning baseball for minors.
37:08, Matt Walsh: "Because these people are morons they don't understand that the worst thing you could do is ban tackle football for young ages but it's still legal for the--because now you're taking kids and they're not gonna learn, when they're still young and not very fast and strong, they're not gonna learn how to tackle and then you bring them into high school and now they're much bigger and stronger and faster and they've never learned to tackle and you're saying 'alright kids, go crazy'. Now you're gonna end up with a lot more injuries because of that."
Does....does Matt not realize that we can learn things when we grow older? Plenty of professional football players learnt how to tackle in high school and not when they were little kids. You can learn those skills when you are older.
37:45, Matt Walsh: "The second point which I think is the broader point that's important is that, as I've argued many times, society needs to have outlets for male aggression and energy."
Ignoring Matt's portrayal of boys as a net entity that don't have a distinctive personality outside of "aggressive", there are other ways to provide that outlet that don't put children at risk of long term head injuries. I used to occasionally play wrestle with my dad as a kid, I'm not a masculine guy in real life at all but I was certainly an energetic child and that provided a safe and fun outlet for me to get that energy out (although in retrospect it was probably quite tiring for my poor dad).
Now, some boys don't have fathers which is a point that Matt bandies about later but let's say you've got an aggressive and energetic boy that desperately needs an outlet yet doesn't have a father. You think there aren't other safer sports that aren't tackle football?
The point I'm trying to make is that there are dozens of other outlets to get that energy out, hell flag football could be one of them. You're still running around and getting that energy out. Basketball is significantly more popular than football amongst the youth anyway and that provides a fun outlet for that energy.
40:06, Matt Walsh: "And yet one by one, as a society we are taking away all of the healthy organized outlets for male aggression. How is that working out? How's it working out? Like, are we ending up with less violence and less aggression in society? No we're not. We're just ending up with the kind of violence that doesn't happen on the dodgeball field or a football field."
Notice how we went through the Matt Walsh argument cycle I mentioned earlier yet again. He introduced the topic, didn't address the main point which is that studies have shown the tackle football leads to increased head injuries amongst minors and instead ranted about masculinity, and then declared that banning tackle football will lead to increased violence with absolutely zero evidence.
I've watched a lot of the Matt Walsh Show for this blog and I will continue to do so and I feel like the more I watch the more I start to understand the kind of intellectually dishonest arguments Matt likes to make. Notice how Matt hasn't engaged with the point about youth being at greater risk for concussions when they play tackle football beyond "Well, I don't think that's true and nobody is dying". It's even worse when he tries to discuss trans issues because that's almost entirely informed by his own bigotry.
While Matt is less brazenly stupid than Tim Pool and Charlie Kirk, which is easy to do since my cat is probably less brazenly stupid than those two dipshits, he's a kind of subtle dumb that you start to notice when you pay attention to what he's actually saying. Although when he's talking about minority groups it's a way more brazen and sociopathic dumb.
40:36, Matt Walsh: "And that brings us to the point those coaches (he played a local news clip that involved some coaches speaking) were making about the disparate impact and the one time I'll agree with that point because as they said, young black boys especially, need these kinds of outlets and why do they need it? Well because many of them don't have fathers at home and -- you have a father at home who's active and involved and one of the things a father does is to help a boy understand how to take all that energy and channel it in healthy ways."
And again, there are safer ways for them to channel their energy. Flag football and basketball are significantly safer ways to channel energy that don’t open minors up to the risk of long term brain damage. The kids are still running around and interacting with other boys and I've yet to see an argument from Matt here that isn't "I think flag football is lame".
And what about countries where tackle football for minors is either not a thing or isn't that expansive? I grew up in Canada and tackle football leagues for minors weren't, and still aren't, that much of a thing here (we mostly play ice hockey at a young age which is a sport that Matt thinks is girly for some reason despite most hockey players ending up losing more than a few teeth by the time they retire).
41:03, Matt Walsh: "If you don't have a father you don't have that and that's why in particular, those kinds of boys, tackle football is very good for them. Even with the dangers and the risks it's still very good."
Uh Matt....didn't you just spend ten minutes of my day explaining how tackle football isn't dangerous at all? So I guess there are dangers and risks but apparently risking a concussion is good for boys even though they can get exactly what Matt is talking about from safer sources and sports.
41:14, Matt Walsh: "On top of that there's the male role models, the male influences, they get from their coaches."
I don't understand this point. Does Matt think that tackle football is the only sport with male coaches? You can get those same influences from other less dangerous sports.
If you had a good experience with tackle football as a kid, that's awesome and I am not trying to downplay that, I just think that there are other ways for young boys in the age range that California is banning football for to get into sports that put them at less risk in the future. And again, I'm not saying we ban tackle football for minors as a whole and neither is California, but I do feel like before you are twelve years old safety should be a priority and that includes safety in sports.
Anyway, this might come as a shock to you but the guy who thinks that the Democrats most reliable voting base is "black people on welfare" doesn't give two shits about young black boys without fathers. All this story is for him is an excuse to be a misogynistic asshole and rant about how society is "too feminized". And if you don't believe me, here's the very next thing he says.
42:32, Matt Walsh: "Young men aren't allowed to have anything, they just can't have anything cause we look at everything from this pathetic, weak, feminized mentality and we say 'that's upsetting, this is a little too rough. Calm down kids. Here take some drugs, we'll drug you instead to calm you down'"
Since Matt Walsh is a mental illness denier who thinks ADHD is just "a product of our environment" it's not really surprising that he thinks that the cure for ADHD (I'm assuming that's what he's talking about at least, it's hard to tell because the drugs thing came out of absolutely nowhere) is tackle football. Why is it the cure? Because Matt says so and whatever Matt says is automatically correct at all times.
But notice how he is basically just whining about how society is "too girly" and how young men aren't allowed to have anything. This is the kind of thing that you'd expect to find on an incel board on some godforsaken corner of the internet and yet here we are.
Matt briefly talks about Fruit Stripe Gum being discontinued. I feel like this is a story that literally only Matt Walsh cares about. Like, I'm picturing Ben Shapiro telling him to cover the usual transphobic bullshit and also tackle football being banned and Matt tells him "Yeah, but only if you let me lament a gum brand being discontinued". Matt then starts responding to negative comments that are cherrypicked examples of poor counterarguments.
46:25, Matt Walsh: "I am fine with anyone trying to go to flight school, ok? My problem -- you know, anyone at all. My problem is when efforts are made to increase the proportion of a certain population in the cockpit because in order to do that you are going to have to lower the standards."
Lets think about this critically for one second. So Matt is saying that he has no problem with minorities being pilots but he feels like if we increase the number of minorities being pilots we'd "be lowering the standards". So I guess minorities can't meet these standards on their own merits if what Matt is saying is true, after all back when we had "one standard" most (if not all) pilots were white. So when you analyze the argument that Matt is making, it's clear he does in fact have a problem with minorities being pilots since in his world they naturally don't meet these standards without the help of DEI. So really this argument is just poorly coded racism.
Alaska Airlines aside, which in my opinion was an example of Boeing cutting corners and endangering their customers as opposed to DEI (it makes zero sense to credit what happened to DEI by the way), air fatalities have been decreasing over the years as seen here.
Source: Statista
Now, there was an uptick in 2018 but if, as the linked article points out, you look at a longer time frame the overall trend has been going downwards. This is impressive as the overall amount of people flying has been going upwards. Plus this is a worldwide chart so it doesn't just include American commercial airliners. Private jets and military transport planes are also included.
Anyway, let's hear Matt's arguments out. Surely he has some hard proof that there is a separate standard for minorities that is easier and not just "there's a separate standard because I say there's a separate standard"....right?
46:50, Matt Walsh: "And how do we know that? Well it's because before they started with these efforts there was one standard and they said 'Here's how you become a pilot, here's what you need to do' and it just so happened that with those standards it was mostly white men who became pilots. Stands to reason that if you just continue along like you were before, you're gonna end up with mostly white men."
So the only group that can consistently meet the standards of being a pilot is white men, there's not really an argument you can make for that that doesn't loop back around to minorities and females having less intelligence and natural skill than white men which is probably why Matt doesn't linger on it for too long.
The fact of the matter is that every pilot goes through the same training. It's not like women and minorities go through a separate line of training from white men that's easier, that would be completely ridiculous. Luckily that's not happening.
47:19, Matt Walsh: "So if you decide that -- that there's anything else other than skill and competence that's a priority now and that you wanna increase the proportion of certain demographics, it means you're gonna start messing with the standards."
The thing is that people who are pilots don't immediately start off as pilots, there's a thing called "flight school" that they go to where they learn that skill and competence and if they are no good they don't graduate.
Now, me saying that this argument is that people are being let into flight school without having the skill and competence is a generous way to look at it because Matt probably means that minorities are inherently worse pilots. Why? Because Matt says so. Again, zero evidence to back up his claim.
49:20, Matt Walsh: "Are people really confused by this? Like, all of the many thousands of words that I have said on this topic and that is how you interpret it (he's responding to a comment accusing him of thinking that minorities can't fly planes)? Like are you actually confused? Are you actually this stupid? Or are you pretending?"
Matt Walsh getting pissed off at someone for interpreting his words in the only logical way to interpret them.
By the way, I love how this segment is called "Was Walsh Wrong?" because I don't think the answer has ever been yes. If someone finds a clip of this loudmouth narcissist admitting he is wrong because of a YouTube comment I would love to see it. Until then I'm just gonna assume that all these segments end with Matt saying he's right.
Anyway, here it is. Matt Walsh's extremely stupid Valentines Day take that everyone was talking about on Twitter. This is in response to a commentor saying that the reason a lot of Stanley Cups are pink (I guess he complained about that on another show, Matt throwing a tantrum over the color of a mug being "too feminine" seems in character) is because Valentines Day is coming up and some men might want to buy them as gifts for their partners.
49:59, Matt Walsh: "You think that guys are buying Valentines Day gifts in January? You think that any guy in the world is saying to himself on like January 3rd 'Oh that looks like a lovely gift for my wife for Valentines Day, I think I'll buy that now'? Literally no man has ever said that."
"Yeah, no mans ever put thought into a gift for their wife before."
This is just Matt Walsh admitting he's a terrible husband live on air. Putting thought into a gift for your wife is a lovely thing to do. This is just more proof that Matt's definition of masculinity is being an asshole.
51:10, Matt Walsh: "But of course, 97% of us are buying a Valentines Day gift on the way home from work on February 14th."
Just because you don't put thought into gifts doesn't mean that every man doesn't.
51:18, Matt Walsh: "But buying a Valentines Day gift for your wife a month early is the gayest thing you could do. Don't do that because if it's January 3rd and you tell your wife 'I got you a Valentines Day gift already' she's gonna say 'So you're gay?' Well that kinda ruins Valentines Day doesn't it?"
There it is, the stupid take that blew up Twitter last week Thursday. Straight is gay, up is down, the sky is green and the grass is blue. I love how Matt seems to think that it's gay to love your wife, it's so stupid. But don't worry, if you put off buying a gift for your wife on the way home from work on Valentines Day you can remain straight!
Naturally Matt went on Twitter, presumably realizing how dumb saying that a cis male buying a gift for his wife is gay makes him sound, to say he was joking when this started gaining traction. As someone who has watched the entire episode and knows the whole context for this, he delivered this in the exact same smug voice he delivers his allegedly "serious" points in. He was not joking, he just realized how much of an absolute goon he is and decided to backtrack without admitting that he was wrong.
I guess Walsh doesn't admit when he's wrong after all. I guess the only example I can think of was the time he tweeted that he apparently thought he had a natural immunity to poison ivy and then strolled through a patch and found out the hard way that he isn't...by the way he thinks ignorant people should be banned from voting.
Ad pivot and now we are talking about "Hollywood representation".
52:56, Matt Walsh: "If you've watched anything that Hollywood has produced at any point over the past decade and a half or so, you have no doubt noticed that movies and television shows are extremely diverse these days and I mean that in the way that everybody means it when they use the term, I mean that movies and television shows are a lot less white."
No they aren't, a vast majority of movies and shows that I am seeing still have white leads. Take The Last Of Us for example, a recent extremely popular show, the lead actors are white. Not that the skin color of a starring actor should matter and Matt's fixation on it raises up so many red flags.
What Matt means when he says that TV shows and movies are "a lot less white" is that TV shows and movies have more people of color and females and that angers him because of his racism.
"How dare the fictional world that I consume have people of color in it, this is white erasure." God, Matt is even more of a goon than usual in this episode.
53:32, Matt Walsh: "If a white male historical figure appears in a movie, he's usually changed to black."
Is Matt bothered by the fact that most of these foreign historical figures are speaking English instead of the native language that they would have spoken throughout history? If not, this argument is stupid because movies are venues of entertainment and aren't meant to be 100% historically accurate documentaries.
Also, here's a list of times Hollywood cast a white person in the role of someone who was historically a different race. So really Hollywood has been doing the opposite for years whereas I can't think of an example of what Matt is saying is happening actually occurring.
53:37, Matt Walsh: "But they can't take us out completely. I mean, after all plenty of scripts still have characters that are villainous racists or alcoholic domestic abusers and they at least want to cast us for that."
There are so many new movies with white males in heroic starring roles. Again, Matt's problem with diversity in movies stems from the fact that he's a racist child who can't handle seeing POC's or females in the media that he willingly consumes.
This is also such a complete non-issue. Who gives a crap if movies are casting black people in roles that are historically white or whatever? They're just movies!
Anyway, the story that Matt is trying to cover here (emphasis on trying) is about an open letter to the Film Academy about the exclusion of Jewish people from their new diversity standards. Yes, I think Jewish people should be included in the diversity standards. It doesn't hurt anybody and every group should have representation.
Anyway, Matt isn't happy about this letter because again, he's a child who is pissed that white men aren't getting every single role imaginable in Hollywood.
55:19, Matt Walsh: "Yes, by not specifically including Jewish people on a list of the most special groups of humans humans they are 'erasing Jewish people'. But of course, the same doesn't apply to white people and for their purposes."
I don't' understand what Matt's problem here is (well, I do, see above, but I don't understand it from the standpoint of the argument he's trying to make) because the overall bedrock point that "white people are being erased from movies" is fundamentally flawed.
56:02, Matt Walsh: "It must be stated for the millionth time that representation in and of itself does not matter."
There are a wide variety of reasons why cinematic representation does matter.
For instance, seeing yourself represented in media as a minority can be helpful to show those people, especially youths, that they have a seat at societies table too and that roles in movies aren't just reserved for white males.
Plus from a critical standpoint it leads to better storytelling. Simply representing one group leads to linear and bland films whereas representing stories from multiple groups leads to interesting stories that might not have been told otherwise. Parasite and Get Out are prime examples of this.
Really, this entire argument is Matt Walsh arguing why movies should only star white males. Only he's too much of a coward to admit that what I just stated is his position so he's splitting hairs about the definition of representation despite the fact that all his arguments can only lead back to the conclusion that movies should only star white males.
56:55, Matt Walsh: "So somewhere along the line we got this idea that wherever you go and whatever you happen to be doing, you should always see people who look like you and share all of your demographic details. We got the idea that you somehow have the right to be reflected by the world around you -- you need to have yourself reflected back to you by the world."
Classic strawman argument. Nobody is saying that the entire world should bend over backwards so that every single group on the planet should be represented by every single aspect of life, we are simply asking for more representation of minorities in media, a thing that harms absolutely nobody.
This is also hilariously ironic because Matt himself is basically saying here that he wants to see HIS demographic reflected back to him by the world and not just in any way either, a purely positive way.
"Yeah, I think minorities want to see themselves reflected back to them by the world and that's bad...that's why my demographic of white males should be reflected back to me by the world constantly."
57:23, Matt Walsh: "The only time a lack of representation is really a problem is when that absence has been intentionally engineered by the exclusion of certain groups on the basis of their race, gender, or whatever and in the name of representation that's exactly what they're doing to white males."
I feel like Matt Walsh lives in a parallel universe. Like, how on Earth can you look at the movies being released today and your first thought is "Man, white males are really being excluded"?
I looked at what my local cinema is playing and the list is pretty white. Wonka stars a white male, All of us Strangers stars two white males (although Matt probably wouldn't count that because it depicts a gay romance and he's a raging homophobe), Anyone But You stars a white male, The Iron Claw stars a white male, Napoleon stars a white male. I don't know if America is getting all these films that star racial minorities and we in Canada are getting all the films starring white males but from where I'm standing white males get plenty of representation. And again, who cares if there are a lot of movies starring minorities? I thought Matt didn't care about representation.
Also, exclusionary practices are very well documented in Hollywood. I'd say that going out of your way not to cast actors who are minorities is exactly what Matt is talking about here.
57:44, Matt Walsh: "As far as representation goes, we must note that Jewish people are definitely represented in Hollywood. I don't know exactly how many Jews are involved in film productions but I do know that it's certainly more than 2.4%."
A): They are talking about on-screen representation. When Matt says "involved in film productions" he is lumping in producers, directors, etc. That's not what they were talking about in the letter.
B): "I don't know but it feels correct" isn't a valid way to back up a claim you are making. But like I said before, that's what the reasoning behind most of Matt's arguments come from. For a guy who claims to be such an enlightened conservative who only backs up his claims using FAcTs AnD LoGiC, Matt seems to go off his feelings a lot.
58:20, Matt Walsh: "Now the same is true about black people, blacks are 13% of the population. They're also 13% of working actors."
Working actors is an extremely broad category. That category includes actors who are only seen in the background of one shot for five seconds of the movie and actors who only get minor roles in third-rate direct to DVD B-movies that don't make it to cinemas or streaming.
Here's a chart of the distribution of leading roles among minorities compared to white people. As you can see, white people still have the majority of leading roles in Hollywood. Intentional exclusion? Clearly not. But Matt isn't working off the data like he's pretending to here, he's working off his feelings.
Source: Statista.
As for women, it's certainly a lot closer but the majority of lead actors are still males. By using these metrics it's clear that white males still have the majority of leading roles in Hollywood movies.
Source: Statista.
58:27, Matt Walsh: "LGBT people are, by last count, 7% of the population. Again, it's hard to say exactly how many gays are in Hollywood but it is definitely within a shadow of a doubt more than 7%. A lot more."
This one makes even less sense than the argument about minorities since a lot of LGBTQ+ people in Hollywood could still be in the closet, which Matt hinted at when he said "It's hard to say". For there to be proper representation of LGBTQ+ people in Hollywood, even by Matt's own argument, they would have to be out and their role would have to reflect that.
You just know Matt would throw a shit fit if we got a major Hollywood movie starring someone who is transgender.
59:01, Matt Walsh: "If representation means anything, this is what it means, or should mean. So, even if I agree that every group should be represented everywhere, all that would mean is that the groups distribution in any given industry reflects it's general population density."
No, it means that minority groups should get fair and equal representation to white males. Matt is completely misrepresenting what representation in film means.
Also, if Matt brings up his racist and conspiratorial "white people are trending towards extinction" BS again this year you can be that I'm bringing up the fact that he just admitted that white males still make up most of the US population.
1:01:13, Matt Walsh: "Like, it's funny. You never hear anybody complaining about the fact that a majority of garbagemen are white and also almost all of them are male. Almost none of them are LGBT. You never hear anyone calling for greater black or female or gay representation among roofers or plumbers or janitors or the guys who come and empty out port-a-potties."
That isn't even what people mean when they call for representation in Hollywood. It's about people who are minorities seeing themselves on screen and shown in a very public industry that has a history of excluding minorities. That's radically different than the skilled trades.
Conclusion:
So, what have we learned today? Well, the last episode where I covered Matt Walsh pissed me off and I wasn't subtle about it in my writing. Today's also bugged me but I feel like I was looking more for how Matt constructs his arguments today than I was last time.
Matt Walsh never addresses the core points of what he is talking about and regularly lies by omission, leaving key details out of the stories he talks about in order to make his opinion seem more reasonable. Most of his arguments aren't backed up by actual facts and when they are the facts are flimsy at best. His entire thing is that he hates stuff and is overly performatively masculine (which if he ever makes one of his incel tier episodes might be something I dedicate an episode to in the future), I don't think he could function without hating stuff.
Most of his arguments are only tangentially related to the story he is talking about. Take the tackle football story for instance; instead of addressing the core issue at hand which is that data shows that tackle football leads to greater risk of head injuries, Matt spent most of the segment griping about how society has became "too feminized" and made absolutely ridiculous arguments like how tackle football is somehow the only sport where minorities can experience male role models in the form of their coaches. I'm starting to think that this Matt Walsh guy isn't as smart as conservatives say he is.
Anyway, that was painful. Cheers and I'll see you in the next one.
#us politics#politics#conservative bullshit#right wing bullshit#journalism#fact checking#bad takes#conservatives#disinformation#daily wire#debunking#matt walsh#fuck transphobes#transphobes suck
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9, April 2023
2019 came and went and after two moves one from Chicago and the other to Montreal and then back to New Orleans I had downsized so much that I had very little. I was rapidly becoming a minimalist and it felt good, because I was losing attachment to material things and gaining mobility by having fewer things to hold me down. I still didn’t know where I wanted to go next, but with the ever increasing cost of rent I was feeling more and more pinched. I made two disastrous attempts at being someone else’s housemate and finally I had had enough. I told my last housemate that I was leaving, I didn’t know exactly where I was headed, but I knew I needed to travel. I was going to visit my daughter in Southern California for a few days to start and then see what happened after that.
Altadena, California was a beautiful area geographically speaking with the brown mountains in the distance and the sparse desert like vegetation. I had a good time visiting with my daughter, but the cost of housing there was higher than in New Orleans, so I only stayed a few days. I took Amtrak to Houston, Texas where I had made arrangements to stay with a new friend for a while. I stayed in Houston for two months while I figured out my next move. I enjoyed my friend’s company, but I hated Houston. Houston is a place that demands that you drive a car to function and I didn’t even know how to drive, so I hated it. I managed to walk to a few places, but walking was dangerous as you were always walking alongside a high speed multi-lane road and to cross any intersection you had to sprint. No matter what I decided I knew I couldn’t stay in Houston. I had looked at Mexico before, but not seriously, so now I decided to get serious about the country just beyond the US southern border.
One search method I always use to filter a place is what is it’s stance on transgender rights and in the process of applying that to Mexico I discovered a city called Puerto Vallarta. I had never heard of this beach resort town on the Pacific coast of Mexico, but what I read surprised me. With searches like these they always tell you what things are like for gays, as if being trans or anything else LTBGQ+ is the same or will be satisfied if an answer about being gay is given. At any rate the information I found said that Puerto Vallarta was very gay friendly and welcoming and had a vibrant gay scene in its Zona Romantica, so I was intrigued. I continued my investigation focusing now on housing. I looked at airbnbs and found that they were very much affordable even for someone on my limited retirement income. Now I was beginning to get excited. I monitored the housing prices daily to see if they fluctuated any in the hope of getting the best price. I was pretty new to Airbnb so I didn’t really know how it worked. I started checking airfares too. I needed to know if I could really make this happen if I decided I wanted to make the jump. I already knew that I could get my social security in Mexico and I had an ATM card to make whatever transactions would be necessary. It boiled down to whether or not I felt this was a good idea or not for me. Mexico offer a 180 day on arrival tourist visa if you had a valid passport that wasn’t soon to expire, so getting into the country was not a problem. US passport holders didn’t need a negative COVID test either and you didn’t have to have health insurance to enter the country as well. Mexico clearly wanted tourists to come visit and spend money. It still took me some time to make a decision. My children thought I was crazy for traveling during a pandemic and my friends thought that Mexico was unsafe. But I was itching to go, because I knew that there would always be unknowns that were beyond my control and I had done enough research to know that I could make the six months work and I was more than done with the states and their fear mongering and spewing of hate towards transgender people and their continued attempts to deny the legacy of slavery and Jim Crow and if things didn’t work out I could always go back. Nothing is forever, so I made my commitment, booked my Airbnb and bought my plane ticket.
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PROMPT
Che “Taza” Romero x Reader
@stardust1978 asked: I wanted to request a Dialogue Prompt #5 under Angst with Taza when you are taking requests again. Thank you :)
Prompt: “My heart tells me to kiss you, my head tells me to walk away”.
Word Count: 2.6k
Thanks to my lovely beta reader @chibsytelford 💘
Author comments: I hope you all enjoy. Gif isn't mine, credits to the author.
Tag list: @starrynite7114 @chibsytelford @dazzledamazon @mara-mpou @sammskellington @gemini0410 @1-800-imagines @briana-mishell24 @sassymox @whyisgmora @aquamento @sadeyesgf @arved 💥 (if you wanna be tagged, send me a message!)
Who said ‘ride or die’ for first time, surely he knew you, because ride is your life.
“Nine-one-one, what's your emergency?”
“She came from nowhere! I didn't see her!”
It wasn't true. Once your helmet is on, your motorbike and you are one. There's no difference, as if you got melted with it when you turn the engine. You know every single inch of Cali's asphalt. You know every traffic light, every signal, every road, every street, every city, every single driver. You didn't come from nowhere, but he was looking his phone when he crossed the corner's avenue. He didn't see you, that's true. But you came from Sunset Boulevard with Figeroa street. You was driving fast, as always, but respecting the limit.
You were lying on the ground, upside down, when you realized that you couldn't move your right leg. You couldn't even feel pain. As the orders of your brain reached the toes of the left foot, the right foot didn't respond. Nothing. Breathing fast, you were drowning into agonizing coughs. You're a nomad. You know every single bone of your anatomy. You know what's broken, you know what's fragmented and you know what's twisted. You're choking because of the blood filling your lungs, for a splintered rib. And only when you hear the sound of an ambulance sirens, you let yourself go.
┅┅ ┅ ┅ ┅┅
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
A hard headache is lashing your whole body, growling slightly whilst feeling some long fingers tangling into yours. You know their touch pretty well, you don't even need to open your eyes to confirm it. Those fingertips have traveled through your skin so many times you lost the count long time ago. They hold yours tightly, with a trembling and cracked lips kissing every one, every knuckle and the wrist. You're sleepy, coughing for a while and raising your free hand to your belly when a bitter twinge hits it. You don't need to ask where you are, 'cause you know it at the exact moment you notice your right leg immobilized hanging of the metal structure of the bed.
Feeling weak and decayed, you turn your face at him, opening your eyes so slowly. The man drags his chair a little bit closer, leaning above the hospital bed to leave some dearly kisses on your forehead while your free sleepy hands toured your stomach till reaching his nape. It's been a long time since you saw him in Santo Padre. And even if you think he betrayed you, Taza still being the most important person in your life. And he will always be.
You met him sixteen years ago in Santa Madre, when you were almost fifteen. You stole a loaf of bread. You didn't have family, nor money, nor a job. You were a child suffering the poverty of the Mexican border. And as a fallen angel from heaven, he found you. He was running away too.
He saved you and you saved him.
Taza taught you every single thing you know today. About animals, about guns, about motorbikes and mechanic, about how to be silent, about fighting. He welcomed you in his ranch, he gave you a family and he brought you back to life.
“What ha—happened?” You mutter feeling high because of the morphine.
“A guy missed a traffic light and hit you”. He says licking his lips, choosing the correct words.
“And wh—what happened to me?” His sigh is more painful that have every bone of your body broken.
“A rib pierced your left lung, but you're okay now, cariño”.
“And what abo—about my leg?”
The Mayan doesn't know how to tell you. Isn't that bad, actually. But riding is your life.
“Femur fracture”. He can't lie to you. At least, not a second time since you met.
You turn your neck and face to the opposite side, feeling awake suddenly. You know what it's means. Your eyes filled with tears and your heart racing. The sanitary machines starts to beep louder, claiming the attention of some nurses who come to try to control your pulse.
“I'm ok—okay! Fuckin' leave me!” You cry squeezing over the bed, while Taza tries to hug you.
“Sh, (Y/N). Calm down, calm down. Everything is gonna be fine. Sleep a little more...” He whispers on your eyes, watching sideway how a doctor inject a whitish liquid into the line connected to your wrist.
You let yourself go again, between Che's strong arms, making you feel as if you were at home again.
┅┅ ┅ ┅ ┅┅
He explained you that you fell with your knee slightly curled and that was why you broke it. Luckily, in Los Angeles didn't wait for transferred you to San Diego, to make the surgery necessary. After one day unconscious, they flew you in helicopter to Santo Padre. And even if Taza told you that you could walk again and drive your motorbike, you couldn't help but feel anxious, terrified and mournful.
It was one long month in the hospital, receiving visitors every day from Stockton, Charming, Tijuana, Mexico... Even from the charters of Connecticut and Pennsylvania. You didn't used to talk a lot, mostly some words and some sentences. You were submerged on a gloomy environment, crying all the time because of the pain and the rage of being bedridden. Taza slept with you every night, before complaining all day about his back hurting with Bishop and Tranq. But he would do anything for you. Anything.
After the high medical and all the information the doctors gave you for the home life and rehabilitation, you agreed with the idea of coming back to the ranch. Actually, Taza as the stubborn man he is and Bishop as the president of your charter, forced you. They didn't give you any options. So you just ‘agreed’. Your next six month were going to be summed in the first one to rest, the next four going two times per day to the hospital and the last one trying to walk by your own. Feeling pain and agony with every step until you can make it disappear, by following the recommendations.
You used to be laid on the bed with the blinds half down, holding tightly your black leather vest against your chest, feeling that it was your only hope to wake everyday. Of course, there are things in life worse than a femur fracture, but for you it was painful in a psychologically speaking way. The doctors recommended the crew and your friends to talk you about day-life, happy situations or whatever that didn't let you think about it, so you could avoid a depression and harmful thoughts. So when Mayans came to visit you at the ranch, sitting by a side of your bed or lying next to you, they were always trying make you laugh and talk. But you couldn't. You were like a scared child believing that the sheets were shields that protected you about any hurt.
┅┅ ┅ ┅ ┅┅
Opening your eyes, rolling over the mattress, hearing some whispers outside of your room that won't let you sleep. Your heart race, getting up on your palms, when you can't find your vest on it. You look for it on the floor, behind the blankets, behind the pillows. Nothing. With a lot of effort you move your whole and heavy body to the wheelchair next to the bed, supporting your arms on it with a growl drowned in your throat. Rolling your fingers above the wheels faster than you can think, you go towards the door opening it loud and making it crash to the wall. Following the hallway to the living room, the voices stir anxiously. Tran and Gilly are blocking your gaze to the huge table, where you used to meet al the Mayans for a lunch, a dinner or an impromptu meeting.
“Look at you! You did it by yourself!” Angel is very proud, leaning towards you before your able to kick his crotch with your good leg, making him fall to the floor between whinings and sobs.
“Hey, hey, take it easy, karate kid!” Creeper holds your shoulders, while EZ press his hands on your tights and on your left leg, to avoid the fact that you hit them too.
“Where's my kutte?! What are you doin'?!” You shout with your eyes filled with tears, stirring to loosen from the grips.
“Cariño, calm down”. Then you hear his voice, appearance behind the big guys in front of you.
“You, fuckin' traitor! You're doin' it again! I fuckin' hate you, bastard!” You want to kill him, yelling full of rage while the tears run through your cheeks soaking the shirts.
“Fuck, (Y/N)! Calm yo' fuckin' self!” Angel growls trying to getting up from the floor.
“Bishop, please! I'll ride again! I'll soon”. Your cry gets louder seeing how the man is cutting a patch of your vest, between Tranq and Gilly, above the table. “It's the only thing I have! Please, don't!”
The president doesn't say a word knowing how much you're suffering and don't giving a shit about it. Riz leans close to you, slapping him when he tries to clean your tears.
“Don't fuckin' touch me!” You scream at him totally mad, squeezing on the wheelchair and trying to get up of it.
“Jesus Christ, calm down!” He says somewhat scared.
“I earned it! I did it! Please! Don't take it away!”
You feel like the air is leaving your lungs and your mouth when Bishop holds the kutte on air having a look of it, before starting to walk towards you. And when you're able to grab it, you do it holding it tightly on your chest, raising your gaze confused. He makes a soft move with his chin, pulling a way some inches the vest to see the new patch. The “nómada” one isn't there anymore, having been changed for “Miembro de honor”. Gasping not knowing exactly what to say, you hold it close again.
“It's the only thing I have...” You mutter with trembling lips.
“We know”. Bishop says bending down to leave a kiss on your forehead with a hand placed on your nape. “No one is gonna take it away, querida. But at least, I made you go out of your room”.
“Yea', the kick was worth it”. Angel says with a hoarse voice rubbing his crotch.
You can't help but smiling for first time after long months, when Creeper and EZ let you go. Riz helps you to wear it, putting it well on. It looks good on you, better than ever and you're starting to feel blissful again.
“We decided to have a day off, here with you. And we bought you free alcohol beer, so you can drink too”. EZ says almost singing, making you chuckle. “And pops' meat for the barbecue”.
Sounds good. Really good. So you nod without doubting pulling away some hair bristles behind your ears.
┅┅ ┅ ┅ ┅┅
You can't remember when was the last time you had so much fun with your true family. Vicki came too with some of your friends and Letti, who turned out to be better than you expected, after Coco told you so much about her. And even if you didn't want the day to end, you were waiting for it, so you could be alone with Taza and tell him that you were sorry about what you said early morning.
After all the goodbyes, and the apache bringing you back to the inside, you turn at him with some effort on the wheelchair. Placing both hands on your lap and pursing your lips, your gaze travels looking his.
“I didn't me—”.
“It doesn't matter”. He interrupts you, passing you away to let his body fall down on the nearest sofa.
Turning again, you guides yourself to him, insisting about it.
“I'm sorry, Che”.
“God, forget it, (Y/N)”. Rolling his eyes, he lies his head against the back of the sofa.
“No, 'cause I know it hurt you. And it's not fair”. You continue, getting up of the chair to jump with the other leg by his side.
He doesn't say anything when you wrap his neck with both arms, hugging him. Taza only clicks his tongue, slicing a hand between your back and the sofa to put you closer, holding you against himself. Resting your face on his chest, closing your eyes, yes, it's feels like you're at home again.
“You know what?” You say almost in a whisper.
“What?”
“My heart tells me to kiss you, but my head tells me to walk away”. It's not a secret, but sounds like. And you're not ashamed of recognizing it.
“You can't walk, idiot”.
You chuckle shaking your head, raising it to him, touching his cheek with your nose.
“Don't leave me again, please”. He sighs rubbing his forehand. “I know I fucked up things with that... chick. But I truly love you and I'm gonna regret all my life for hurting you”.
“Just... give me some time”.
“The one you need, I could wait all my life”. Pressing his lips on yours in a smooth kiss, you travel one of your hand towards a side of his neck.
The love you feel for him has never disappear, not even when you tried so hard to hate him when you became a nomad just to run away from all the sorrow he provoked you three years ago, a winter cold night when you arrived of a two weeks travel with the Stockton charter. By that time, you were going through some trouble and each one had a different way of facing it, instead of remaining together.
┅┅ ┅ ┅ ┅┅
It's been almost six month since the accident and everything has changed. Taza is driving his bike, with you by his back, towards the clubhouse. You called Bishop before to meet the crew on the front yard. You didn't tell him why, having a little surprise for them. So when you finally come and the guys are waiting you there, EZ is the one who notices that you're not carrying the crutches, drawing a big smile on his face and palming his brother's chest before pointing at you.
Taking off the helmet and giving it to Taza, proud-hearted of what are you going to do, you practically jump out of the motorbike. You can see every reaction on every face. They're happy and a little shocked when you put your right foot on the floor. You're walking without help. And even if you feel a little pain yet, there's nothing that could stop you now. You're like a child giving her first steps. Limping very slightly, you open both arms.
“What's up, guys?! Cat got your tongues?!” You laugh happily going towards them.
Bishop is the first one who holds you in his arms when you're close enough, laughing too for your feat.
“You did it, querida”. He says, and you're sure the president is about to cry.
“I told you!”
“Are you gonna kick me again, if I try to touch you, mi dulce?” Angel walks somewhat closer with a funny gesture on his face, before hugging him.
“The doc' said I could ride in two weeks, but I'm gonna wait another one, just in case”. You inform them, with Angel's left arm on your shoulders. “So, where's my bike?”
“Resting too”. Taza says then, kissing your cheek. “Waiting for you”.
#mayans mc imagine#mayans x reader#mayans mc x reader#mayans mc#taza romero x reader#che taza romero x reader#taza romero imagine#taza romero
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And The Winner Is...
So I was hella bummed to miss HIV/AIDS Awareness Day... So I wrote this for National HIV/AIDS Testing Day but I feel like it can emcompass both
anyways happy National HIV/AIDS Testing Day! If you’re sexually active y’all better go get tested! 😜
This is being posted to both my main and nsfs blogs because all of us nsfs content creators are guilty of (more often than not) creating content that doesn’t portray safe sex, which is the only way to prevent STDs and AIDS. For all my followers out there, please use condoms when engaging in sexual activity and if you don’t want to get pregnant, use some form of contraceptive as well. Stay safe. Love you guys <3
Please reblog the version with links
Fandom: Sanders’ Sides
Pairing: Loceit
Words: 2,899
Summary: Janus has been in the epicenter of the AIDS pandemic since it began. He’s seen more death, felt more loss, and heard more pain than any human should just within the last seven years. He’d all but given up on family, friends, forming bonds of any kind, because he knew they would just be taken away from him.
Until he met Logan Abbott.
Tags/Warnings: death, character death, HIV/AIDS, takes place in the 80s, specifically ‘87-’89, mentions of ballroom culture, descriptions of illness, descriptions of delirium/fever, descriptions of unintentional minor starvation, this is not a cheery fic guys just keep that in mind and be careful
December, 1987
“Number 37?”
Silence.
“Number 37.”
People glancing around. Logan nudges Janus. “Janus, that’s you.”
Janus startles slightly when Logan nudges him, blinking. He’d been completely zoned out, staring at the white wall opposite their chairs. “Ah, yes. Right. Thank you, I’ll be back in a moment.” He stands up, meeting the nurse’s kind smile with a blank look and following her back to the doctor’s office.
Janus shuts the door behind him, the click of the deadlatch nearly deafening in the silence. He takes a seat across from the doctor in a stiff polyester chair, shifting his weight nervously and crossing one leg over the other. Janus folds his hands in front of him and gives a slight nod.
The doctor smiles at him, opening up his file and looking over a page as she speaks. “So, are you ready to hear the results of your test?” She looks up, one of her eyebrows slightly raised.
All he can manage is a nod, his heart hammering in his chest. Please let it be negative, please let it be negative, it has to be negative.
“You tested positive, Janus. I’m sorry.”
Janus sits in numb silence for a moment, his mind screeching to a halt, the sound of his racing heart unheard past the ringing in his ears. Positive. He had HIV.
“Run the test again.”
He doesn’t even realize he spoke until the doctor is replying, a sympathetic frown pulling at her lips. “We’ve run the test twice. I’m sorry, but that’s the result.” He shakes his head, looking at her with wide, frantic eyes.
“I can’t have HIV, I can’t die! Not yet!”
The doctor raises her hands in an effort to placate him. “Janus, you aren’t going to die. This doesn’t have to be a death sentence. There are options; treatments, support groups. There’s AZT. You don’t need to fight this forever, you just need to fight until a cure is found-”
Janus jumps to his feet, pushing the chair back. “What cure?! No one is looking! The world wants us dead!” He’s bordering on hysterical; shouting, trembling with his racing heartbeat, tears streaming down his face. He wasn’t an idiot. Doctors may promise help and support and solutions but the facts were that no one cared enough to even look for a cure and the only worthwhile treatment killed as many people as it helped. He’d seen the effects of AZT, seen how it can make your body shut down. He was just as well off not doing anything, in his mind.
His doctor sighs, lowering her hands. “I understand that this is hard to accept. I’ll give you a moment to yourself, I’ll be right outside if you need me.” She walks past Janus and shuts the door quietly behind her, leaving him in silence.
It lasts for all of ten seconds before he’s falling back into his chair and hiding his face in his hands as sobs wracked his body. In the span of thirty seconds his entire life had been thrown up in the air, all plans for the future shrouded in a veil of futile hope that he’d even live long enough to see them happen.
The virus had swept through the gay community like the final plague of Egypt, claiming countless lives in the last seven years and looming over thousands more. It had become apparent very quickly that there would be no help. Not from the president, or any governors; no one. Hospital staff would do their best, but even they could only do so much and due to lack of knowledge many of them were afraid to get too close to those on the downslide, afraid of catching the virus themselves. It was the kind of plague that left even the most healthy man riddled with anxiety. It was the kind of plague that didn’t care about sex, race, gender, religion; it only cared about spreading death.
It was the one thing in this world Janus was afraid of.
Janus had been only nineteen when the pandemic began. He remembered hearing of it through rumor, how so-and-so’s brother/cousin/son had become mysteriously ill, only to die months later. He remembered when it was no longer a rumor and people in his own backyard began to drop like flies. He remembered friends locking themselves away, ending relationships, never leaving the house in fear of catching it. He remembered moments of silence in ballroom and the absence of it on the television. He remembered the first house he had joined and the exact number of days it took for him to be the only one left standing. He remembered burying friends, brothers, sisters, mothers.
And now Logan would have to bury him.
Oh god, Logan. How could he tell him? He knew the pain of watching the man you love withering to nothing before your eyes while no one offered help. Now that he was on the other side, though, nothing terrified him more than Logan not being there, being left alone to rot in a hospital bed while this virus stole his life from him. But Janus was not a cruel man.
He had to tell him. He had to give him a choice.
Janus took another moment to collect himself, wipe the tears from his face, and stood. He left the doctor’s office without a word and made his way back to the hall Logan was waiting in like countless others from their community. The way Logan straightened up and looked up at him with hopeful eyes when Janus finally turned the corner crushed his heart in his chest. This may be the last time that he gets to see that face, hold those hands, kiss those lips.
He walks up to Logan, who’s stood up to meet him with an expectant look. “Well? What’d she say, Janus?”
Janus takes Logan’s hand in his, squeezing it gently. Logan’s expression morphs into one of pain and sadness.
“I’m positive.”
“Janus…”
Janus takes a breath through his nose and lets go of Logan’s hand. “I’ve been on your side of this too many times to ask that you stay in good conscience. If you… If it’s easier for you to leave, to move on now before things get bad… I understand.”
“Ten, ten, ten, ten, ten! The winner is Janus from the House of Fidelity!”
Janus Jackson was twenty-three when he met Logan Abbott. By then he had buried half of his house and five boyfriends, and had decided life would be more tolerable if he stopped forming close bonds with other people. Despite this self-declaration, anyone you asked would claim that Janus was an open, kind, charismatic young man. He could make the terminal men laugh, gossip with the most effeminate queens, and trade beauty tips with all the trans women without making anyone feel awkward, out of place, or invalidated. No one knew his whole story, but everyone loved to fill in the blanks. This was just as well, in Janus’ mind, as it made it nearly impossible to tell which parts were fictional gossip and which were the sad tale of his life.
Logan was a twenty year-old nobody from out of state. He’d moved to the city for a change of scenery, or so he claimed to anyone who would ask. Janus could tell there was more to it though, and had he cared at all about making friends he might have pried. He assumed Logan came out and got shamed by his community, as was the story for many of the people in the ballroom scene. It was their home, their refuge where they could be themselves when the world told them they were a mistake, a disease, a cancer. Logan had taken quickly to the ballroom scene, finding like-minded people to watch the night’s categories with.
Logan blinks, his eyebrows furrowed and lips slightly parted. “I… Janus, I would never leave you just because you have the virus. You mean more to me than that. I love you.”
Janus sighs, relief and sadness washing over him; he was thankful he had met Logan, that he wouldn’t have to go through this alone, but the guilt of putting Logan through the same pain he’d gone through would weigh him down until his dying breath.
“I love you, too.”
At some point during the night, be it during a category Janus was participating in or just idle chit-chat, someone had pointed Logan his way. Janus swore he would find out who it was and make them suffer, but for the moment he had to uphold his reputation and make Logan feel welcome. Logan had come wandering over like a little lost lamb, taking the chair next to Janus tentatively and glancing at him.
“Are you… Janice?”
Oh, this bitch.
Janus rolls his eyes. “Janus.”
Logan blinks. “That is what I said.”
“You said Janice. My name is Janus. J-A-N-U-S. I can hear the difference.”
Logan looks at his lap. “I see. I apologize. Though admittedly I feel a little better not having had the chance to accidentally misgender you.” He casts a glance around the room; gay men, a few lesbians, trans women - some more obvious than others - and those you couldn’t label at first glance.
Janus snrks. “Oh honey. You better watch those comments before you offend the wrong people. This isn’t the suburbs, where you can gossip and slander behind closed doors.” He sighs through his nose, crossing one leg over the other as he gives Logan a once-over. “But I can’t fault you for not knowing. Yet. What is your name, pup?”
“Logan,” he says, just loud enough over the emcee to be heard. Janus leans in with a soft smirk.
“Well Logan, after the ball you’ll be coming to my house and talking to mother. We can’t have a cute thing like you living on the streets.”
Logan blushes and nods, and the two turn their attentions to the next category being walked.
(∩ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)⊃━☆ﾟ
In the spring of ‘88, Janus got a bad flu. Janus and Logan had just buried their house mother the week before, leaving the two of them and Roman - their newest and youngest house member, a gay Latino boy who was barely older than eighteen - in their house. Roman had been debating leaving to join another house, but his loyalty to Janus as an older brother-now-house-father (oh, the irony) kept him in that dingy apartment. Roman and Logan did their best to look after Janus, checking his temperature every few hours, feeding him soup and helping him drink water, helping him bathe when he was too weak to stand on his own. The flu lasted nearly a week before his fever finally broke. Once it did, Logan was hopeful that Janus would recover quickly, but he never fully did.
As the months went by, Janus seemed to have less and less energy. By the beginning of fall his diagnosis had been moved from HIV to AIDS, and he had stopped walking the balls. If he was having a particularly good day, he would still show up and show support for friends in other houses. Roman had even walked a category on one of Janus’ good days to cheer him up, earning the House of Fidelity their first trophy in almost a year. Janus had cried when Logan wheeled him down the runway to accept the trophy at Roman’s insistence.
The days began to grow colder and Janus never left the apartment. If he even got a cold, he could die, so he and Logan decided it would be better, safer, to stay indoors with the heat on. It didn’t last too long; November rolled around and Janus was admitted to the hospital with an infection. He couldn’t sleep, had trouble breathing, and would only eat if Logan was there to make him. No one thought he would live to see Christmas. Even after his infection cleared, Janus stayed in the AIDS ward with the other men who were too sick to leave. The place smelled of chemicals, with a backdrop of hacking coughs, desperate prayers, and crying. He hated it there, but Roman and Logan made sure to visit as often as they could to keep him company.
(∩ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)⊃━☆ﾟ
On Thanksgiving, Logan walked into Janus’ room to find him gripping the pole of his IV stand, walking the length of his room like it was a runway. His eyes were unfocused, swinging his arms around in a delirious attempt at vogueing. Logan carefully approached Janus, gently guiding him back to bed, his heart beating anxiously in his chest. Janus sat on the edge of the mattress and looked up at Logan with a soft smile.
“What are my scores, baby?” He asked airily. Logan swallowed, his eyes burning with tears.
“Tens across the board, my love.”
(∩ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)⊃━☆ﾟ
“Everyone misses you in ballroom, dad. Every night I got people comin’ up to me and telling me they hope you’re doin’ okay.”
Janus gives Roman a small smile, patting the teen’s knee as he sits before him on the bed. “And what do you tell them, Roman?”
Roman grins. “I tell them my dad’s the strongest guy there is! Just watch, spring’s gonna come and you’re gonna get better, I just know it.”
“I’d love to see the looks on their faces when I walk into the room like nothing happened.”
Logan smiles, running his fingers through Janus’ matted hair. “I’m sure you will, love. You just need to rest up.”
“Rest up later, it’s Christmas!” Roman shouts, bouncing a little. Janus chuckles.
“Yes, yes it is. Logan, did you bring the packages I told you about?” Logan nods and hands Janus two sloppily-wrapped presents. Janus hands the blue one to Logan, and the red one to Roman. “Merry Christmas, you two.”
Roman grins and snatches the present out of Janus’ hand, ripping the paper off. “Oh, bitchin’! Thanks, dad!” Roman holds up the leather jacket to inspect it, showing it off to Logan. Logan nods in amusement, watching Roman put the jacket on before he carefully unwraps his own present. He gasps as he looks down at the picture of him and Janus laughing together as they sit next to each other, Janus’ hand on Logan’s knee.
“Just in case. Don’t want you forgetting how hot I am,” Janus jokes lightly. Logan looks at him with teary eyes and takes his hand, squeezing gently.
“Never.”
(∩ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)⊃━☆ﾟ
“I’m sorry, I’m s-sorry, Logan,” Janus sobs, his body shaking as tears make their way down bony cheeks.
Logan shakes his head, taking Janus’ hands and looking him in the eye. “You have nothing to apologize for, my love.”
“I-I didn’t want to d-die alone, I’m sorry, I’m s-so selfish.”
“You couldn’t have gotten rid of me if you’d tried.”
The pair sit in silence for a moment, Logan rubbing Janus’ knuckles as Janus cries. It was one of those days where a fever made Janus overemotional. Sometimes he thought it was still 1987, and when he realized it was almost 1989 he would lay there and cry, apologizing for trapping Logan with him. It was the same conversation every time.
“I don’t w-want to die.”
“You won’t die, my heart, not for a long time.”
“I should h-have taken the AZT, I should have tried e-everything I could.”
“You said so yourself, there is a significant chance that taking AZT would have shortened your lifespan even more. I’m thankful that we’ve had this time together, I wouldn’t want to change a thing.”
“I-I’m so sorry.”
“... I know.”
(∩ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)⊃━☆ﾟ
Janus Jackson passed away on January 2nd, 1989, just twenty minutes after his boyfriend Logan had left the hospital. He’d passed away in his sleep, having been well looked-after and held in the arms of the one he loved until he drifted off. The funeral was a week later, and something told Logan that he would need to find a big space to hold it in. True to thought, the day of the funeral the entire church was full of people coming to say goodbye to Janus and celebrate his life, drawing a crowd so big that it spilled out the front doors. No one had known that Janus was religious. No one except Logan.
Logan tested positive for HIV just two months later. He’d sat in the doctor’s office in contemplative silence, nodded, and thanked them before leaving the room. That day, he’d walked the streets of Brooklyn and thought about his time with Janus; all the laughter, the excitement, and the tears. The one thing that kept coming back to mind was all the nights he would sit by Janus’ side in that hospital bed, listening to him cry and apologize, listening to his regrets. Logan returned to the doctor the next day and got a prescription for AZT.
Logan Abbott lived to the age of fifty-four. He had a small number of boyfriends in his life, a few after Janus’ passing, and had buried almost all of them. Shortly after testing positive he had joined ACT UP, leaving behind the balls that Janus loved so dearly to instead fight for his community’s life. When he finally passed on a cool spring day in his own home, Janus’ gift in his hands, he found he had no regrets, looking forward to seeing Janus once again.
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Star Trek: Infinity - 4
//I apologize for being gone so long! The next chapter will be a longer. I feel like I really know the direction I want to take this series in and I hope you guys will enjoy it
Part Three
The Crossing
Lieutenant Darg and the Ambassador entered the bridge as the Argo approached the edge of the galaxy.
“Helm, drop us out of warp.” Ensign Zumat halted the ship. “Bridge to Engineering,” Alvarez said.
“Olre here.”
“Chief, are we ready to jump to Trans-Galactic warp?” The Chief looked around the engine room, everyone staring at him expectantly.
“...Sure.”
The captain made a puzzled face and shook her head.
“Helm drop a communications buoy ten kilometres behind us.” Zumat pressed the corresponding controls and the buoy floated off a ways behind the ship. As they went along, the ship would be dropping buoys, hoping that even an audio channel from the nearest starbase could reach them way out there.
Alvarez took a deep breath and pressed the button for the all call. “Attention USS Argo crew. You no doubt already know that we have reached the edge of the Milky Way. I don’t know how long it will be before we return here. But I do know that there are millions upon billions of new places to explore and discover. Cultures and civilizations completely different from any other we’ve come across. We are on the cusp of an amazing journey. Take a look out a window if you’re near one. It might be awhile before we see these stars again.”
She paused for a few moments before saying, “Prepare to go to Trans-Galactic Warp. Bridge out.” She looked around the room as she sat down in her chair. Everyone followed suit and sat at their station, Kor taking a seat besides the captain.
“All decks report ready, captain,” Sh’zirak said, breaking the eerie silence.
Alvarez nodded slowly, her mind on her children once more. How much was she going to miss? Would they be all grown up when she returned? Would they even need her when she got back? They already took care of themselves so well. Would they miss her as much as she’d miss them? These thoughts circled her head and left her feeling conflicted.
“Captain?” Kor spoke softly, touching her shoulder. She met his sympathetic gaze as she remembered he could hear her thoughts. She took a deep breath and looked out at the edge once more.
“Ensign Zumat, set our speed at warp seven and then increase to Trans-Galactic warp on my mark.” The ensign nodded and input the commands as the Argo started forward at warp seven. The ship sped quickly towards the edge, and as it reached it, it started to strain against the gravity pulling back towards the center of the galaxy.
“Mark!”
---
“Captain…”
Alvarez squeezed her eyes further shut, ignoring the distant voice. She barely even registered that they were calling to her.
“Captain…”
The voice was becoming stronger and more clear and she struggled to open up her eyes and find the owner.
“Captain!”
Alvarez opened her eyes and looked up to see Sh’Zirak kneeling over her, looking concerned.
“Are you alright? You took quite the nasty fall when we increased to maximum speed.” Alvarez put a hand to the back of her head. She could tell a throbbing migraine was developing and did her best to ignore it. With Sh’Zirak’s help, she was able to stand and she quickly surveyed the bridge. No one appeared to be injured but everyone was a bit shaken up.
“Well,” she said with a chuckle, “Looks like we’re all still in one piece! I’d say that’s a good first sign. Ensign Zumat, current position?”
The ensign tapped rapidly at the console in front of them. They frowned and tried again to pinpoint the Argo’s location. “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know where we are.”
There was a thick tension in the air after hearing those words and Kor felt it throughout the entire ship. People were uneasy. They’d made it through the border of the Milky Way, now what? Alvarez was just aware of these feelings as Kor.
She nodded at Zumat to continue to try and find out just where they were and pressed the all call button. “Congratulations everyone. We’re on the other side. Please report any injuries to sickbay and resume regular duties. Bridge out.” The captain turned to the science officer.
“Lieutenant Nitea, go down to the Astrometrics lab and begin charting the fastest and safest course to the Andromeda Galaxy.”
“Yes, captain!” Nitea stood and walked into the turbolift, zipping down several decks.
Alvarez touched the back of her head again, the rhythmic thumping getting louder and louder. She sat down in her chair as everyone busied themselves with checking the ship's systems.
Kor set his hand gently on her arm and she looked over at him. “Captain, I think I’m going to get set up in my office,” he said before saying under his breath, “Feels like people are gonna need it.” Kor stood and entered the turbolift.
Sh’Zirak came around to her as Alvarez continued to rub her head. “Are you alright sir?” She looked up at the blue faced woman, giving her a forced smile and a nod.
“It’s just a headache.”
Sh’Zirak went back to her station but kept her eyes trained on the captain.
“Nitea to bridge, I’ve charted a course,” the Lieutenant piped up through the comms.
“Excellent work, Lieutenant,” Alvarez said. “Send it to the helm. How long will the trip take?”
There was a brief pause before Nitea quickly said, “About a month, ma’am.”
Suddenly any positive energy was sucked out of the airlock.
“Thank you, Nitea. Bridge out.”
The bridge was eerily silent. Even with their advanced warp drive, it was dawning on the crew just how far they’d be going and how long each section of their trip was going to take.
Suddenly, Alvarez cried out in pain, clutching her head. Darg and Sh’Zirak rushed to her as she fell to the ground. The pain was nearly blinding and she could feel tears starting to stream down her face as she let out a strangled cry.
“Bridge to the doctor, medical emergency!” Sh’Zirak barked out. “Beam the captain directly to Sickbay.” They let go of Alvarez and she dissolved into bright light. She reappeared on the floor of sickbay, Dr. Nuriun and a group of nurses lifting her onto a bio-bed.
“I’m gonna need a sedative over here quick!” Nuriun yelled to someone behind him as Alvarez continued to cry and scream. It felt as though someone was drilling into her head and stuffing glass inside. A nurse hypo-sprayed her and the sedative began to take over. Slipping into unconsciousness, the last things she could hear were the doctors and nurses rushing around, the beeping of a tricorder and a voice, cutting through the pain, no louder than a whisper.
“Danaria… come find me, please.”
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Words that you bury
A retelling of the most meaningful moments between Raphael and Magnus, when Raphael was staying at Magnus' home.
Or: 6 times Raphael and Magnus said "te quiero" to each other, and one time they said something else
Relationships: Magnus Bane & Raphael Santiago
Rating: M
Category: gen
Tags: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Past Abuse, Found Family, magnus is raphael's dad fight me on this, blink and you'll miss it Trans Magnus Bane, camille belcourt is an abuser, lots of crying ngl
Read it on Ao3
“I’m sorry,” Raphael says. Again and again and again, “Dios, I’m so sorry.”
“There’s no need to be sorry,” Magnus says. His hand hovers over Raphael’s shoulder, debating whether or not to touch it with the air. Every time it moves, Raphael lets out another sob, and Magnus recoils like an animal being attacked. Which is absurd. If anything, Raphael should be the scared animal in this situation. But there Magnus is, scared of a little touch, unable to help him.
“It’s so disgusting,” Raphael continues, and Magnus takes it for the yes, there is that he knows it is. His chest feels like it’s closing in on itself. Magnus tries not to fold in half under the force of it. “Why can’t I stop?”
“You’ve gone over a month without eating,” he tries to reason. “You can’t help being hungry, my boy.”
“This is not- it’s not hunger. Look around you! Look what I did!”
“It’s just a kitchen.”
“It’s- it’s all red.”
“From donated blood,” Magnus repeats. “I told you that, dear, no one was hurt for these. It’s okay.”
He had arrived home to find the kitchen essentially covered in his blood stock, which he had been keeping for Raphael ever since he first rescued him, over a month ago. It was the first time Raphael had used it.
The fact that it was splattered everywhere, and that Raphael had been at the middle, sobbing and bloody, told him that he might not have made that choice, though.
“I lost control,” Raphael continued, like Magnus hadn’t said anything. “I lost control, I just launched at it, now it’s everywhere, I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Magnus says, “you were hungry. You didn’t hurt anyone.”
“I’m not hungry. When I’m hungry I eat frijoles, I eat arroz de choclo, tortillas, enfrijoladas, un chicharrón que sea. This is blood."
"Donated blood. From mundanes with the Sight who want to help people like you. You didn't hurt anyone, Raphael."
"It doesn't matter! I don't want this. I want to be normal. I want to see Rosita. She was having such a hard time adapting here, she needs me-"
It pains Magnus to have to hold Raphael down, but he has no idea what Raphael might do in this state, with his super speed and strength. There's still sunlight outside and he could burn himself. And he worries Raphael would also hurt himself in… non-accidental ways.
"You need to be well first, dear. You're still weak. And still hungry," he says, trying to make his voice as comforting as he can. Raphael still recoils like he's been punched, though.
"No, I'm not gonna- I'm not. She's my sister! I wouldn't- no!"
"I know you wouldn’t. But seeing her like this will make you feel worse. You can barely stand up, dear." He doesn’t say that he’s seen it happen. Way too many times. Desperate vampires, wanting so bad to be normal, thinking if only they can stay away from eating long enough, everything you go back to normal. Then they see mundanes, and they snap, and it makes them feel worse. Magnus doesn’t want that to happen to Raphael. He doesn’t know if he’d be able to take it.
And Magnus doesn’t want to see any more suffering in this world.
“I-” Raphael says. Then he drops down back on the ground, cross legged, hugging his knees. “I know.” He looks at Magnus with his big, brown eyes, and they’re so full of pain it makes Magnus feel like his guts are bursting, ugly and everywhere. It reminds him too much of himself. “I can never see them again, can I?”
It’s a question, but doesn’t sound like one.
Magnus still hesitates to answer it.
“Maybe you can still say goodbye,” he says, because he knows the silence will just hurt Raphael more. “I know some people who did. You just need to be- well, first.”
“How can I,” Raphael says, his eyes puffy and red and angry, “ever be well?”
Magnus stops.
He could be cheery. He could be bubbly. He could tell Raphael that everything’s gonna be okay, that he’s okay, that he’s gonna be rich and happy and find a family. He could keep up with the detached, perfect persona he’s been playing since way before Raphael arrived, but particularly after that.
Instead, he says, “my mom killed herself.”
Raphael’s whole face transforms, from anger to a mix of confusion, understanding, sympathy, and something else Magnus can’t quite put his finger on. Something that looks that an older brother taking his sister to school. Something like- caring.
Magnus looks away.
“She- my eyes,” he continues. “She was so scared. My stepfather kept telling her about the devil, and then- then she saw it in me.”
A beat.
“My stepfather tried to kill me. I- I killed him first. It made me feel like the devil my mom feared I’d become.”
He turns to Raphael again, and that- undecipherable look is stronger than before. It takes up his whole features.
“It’s not- well. These kinds of things don’t- go away. I didn’t just lose my family then, I lost my city, my culture, my people. Myself.
“It’s not okay,” he continues, “but I am. Or- as much as I can. You find out that life goes on. That there’s more to it than the pain, even if it’s still there. I have more people now. I have another family. And you,” he gives him a sad smile, “you have me, at the very least.”
Raphael’s lip starts trembling, so he adds, “I’m not going anywhere.”
And Raphael breaks down.
It’s ugly, loud tears, sobs that rip him in half, burning all the way up. It’s hands gripping onto nothing so hard that his nails are about the break the skin. He shakes in a silent yell, already hoarse without a single word; raw and trapped in his pain.
And Magnus holds him. He slowly takes Raphael’s hands and put them around him, so he can grip Magnus’ shirt instead. He doesn’t want Raphael to hurt himself.
“It’s okay,” he says when Raphael visibly strains not to grip him, “it won’t hurt me, I’m a warlock. Let it out.”
It’s a lie, because Raphael has super strength and the way he grips Magnus digs his fingers into his skin and burns him in pain. But he doesn’t let a single sound out, knowing that soon the grip will make the skin numb. Raphael needs it, and he doesn’t mind.
“Mi hermanita,” Raphael cries, “está tan sola, tan…” he sobs, “me muero.”
Magnus struggles to remember the little spanish he had learnt when he went to Peru. He knows it’s something about his little sister, and- dying?
“Lo siento,” he says, because that’s something he remembers. I’m sorry.
“Me muero,” Raphael repeats.
“You’re not dying,” Magnus shakes his head. “You’re alive, okay? You’re a person. You’re a human. Estás vivo.”
Raphael keeps crying, albeit more silently. Magnus tries his hardest to think of something comforting to say to him, with his limited vocabulary. He knows that sometimes hearing Malay is all he needs to feel grounded, comforted, home. Aku cinta kamu, his mother would say to him before he went to bed. Her native tongue was Javanese, but since his stepfather didn’t speak it and she mostly had to speak Malay in the docks, that’s the language he was raised in. He never learnt Javanese, which makes him feel like a piece of him is missing sometimes.
“Te quiero,” Magnus says, suddenly inspired. It’s all right to say te quiero, right? Raphael has been living with him for a month after all. “Te quiero bién,” he adds on second thought. I want you well. Or at least he hopes that’s what he’s saying.
Raphael nods, still a little lost in his tragedy stupor. Magnus lets him, and keeps stroking his hair and repeating softly, te quiero, te quiero, estarás bién. Until Raphael finally stills, head still hiding in Magnus’ shoulder, but no longer shaking with sobs. Magnus idly realizes that his legs hurt from kneeling besides Raphael for so long, but he doesn’t care.
They stay like this, lost in stillness, until he feels Raphael’s hands letting go of his back. The blood flow returns to the abused areas, and Magnus has to hold back a hiss at the sudden mix of pain and relief. Then Raphael looks up at him. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I made a mess.”
Magnus looks around, at the bloody state of his kitchen. “Oh, this?” he asks, deliberately light, and then flicks his wrist in an also deliberate flourish. Suddenly the kitchen is sparkling clean. “Pay it no mind, dear.” The wet stains in both his and Raphael’s clothes have disappeared, and he also took away the pain in Raphael’s eyes for crying so much.
It takes Raphael a second to recoil. “Warlocks got all the fun parts out of this whole ‘devil blood’ thing, huh,” he says. It borders on bitter, but there’s some humor in it, too.
“Demon blood,” Magnus corrects, because he knows the weight the word devil carries. “And I think we could do with super strength or speed, but that’s my personal opinion.”
Raphael barks out a laugh, which clearly surprises him more than anyone.
Magnus smiles at him. “Come on, there’s more where those came from. Are you still hungry?”
Raphael’s wide-eyed nod tugs at Magnus’ heartstrings, but at least he’s not disgusted by it anymore. Magnus’ smile widens in encouragement. “Okay. Sit down, let’s give you a more proper meal.”
Raphael huffs, but doesn’t say anything. Magnus knows that, if mexicans are anything like javanese people, the concept of a meal probably involves several dishes, a lot of people, and at least two hours.
The look in Raphael’s face indicates that mexicans are exactly like the javanese. With a flourish of his hands - more ostentatious than necessary, so Raphael isn’t surprised by the sudden apparition - he conjures up a new bag of blood, except the bag is a dark blue instead of transparent, with a few jasmines along with the plate.
“Flowers?” Raphael says, amused, “What is this?”
“Well, you were clearly disdainful of my meal offer, so I thought I’d step up my game. Can’t have a warlock leaving people unimpressed, my dear.”
Raphael lets out a full, smooth laugh this time, one that doesn’t feel punched out of him. “Thank you,” he says, then looks between him and the plate, hesitating.
Magnus takes that as his cue. “Right,” he says swiftly, “I should probably go check the inventory of my apothecary. If you’ll excuse me.” and turns around to leave in long, fast strides.
“Magnus,” Raphael calls for him right as he’s about to reach the door.
He turns back to him almost sharply. “Yes?” he asks, with a small tilt of his head and raise of his eyebrows.
“Te quiero también” Raphael says.
I love you too.
“Oh.”
Raphael gives him a small smile, and when Magnus turns to leave again, his steps are a little less elegant, but a lot lighter.
*
“Magnus, what the fuck?” Raphael asks.
Magnus pauses, stick still halfway on hitting the dummy. He turns to Raphael quickly, but in a small movement; stopping with legs close together, feet touching, arms down, head slightly tilted to the right. He makes sure his shoulders are relaxed so his stance doesn’t seem guarded, but holds still so it doesn’t seem threatening, either. Glamor up, stick gone, breathing silent. He widens his eyes slightly. “Did something happen?”
The vampire is suddenly behind him, and Magnus resists the urge to jump. He knows the boy would not attack him, particularly not in this weakened state. He doesn’t want to act frightened and make him feel worse. He takes a deep breath and does not move.
The boy’s hands touch his back where it’s exposed under his tank top. His touch is so gentle it’s barely there, and Magnus thinks his hand might be only hovering close. He remains still and tries not to invade Raphael’s space.
Raphael takes in a sharp breath. “You’re bruised up.”
Magnus frowns. “I was only practicing. I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about.”
“No,” Raphael says, almost angry. “This is not- This is-”
Magnus turns again. Slowly, small movements, hands raised but close to his torso, feet touching again by the time he’s done. Raphael is pursing his lips repeatedly, head shaking slightly like its thoughts are scrambling up its balance. Magnus stays still.
Finally, Raphael speaks, tone so icy it burns. “I did this.”
“My bo-,” Magnus shakes his head. Condescendance won’t help. “What are you talking about? I didn’t even know it was-”
“Perfect shape of my fist. It was- You fucker, you said it wouldn’t hurt you.”
Ah. “It didn’t.”
“It’s purple, Magnus.”
“It’s alright.”
“It’s not. Come on, sit,” he says, pointing at Magnus’ own couch. Magnus drags it towards himself, silently showing Raphael that he’s fine. Raphael snorts, but there’s no humor in it.
Magnus sits down.
“Dónde está….. Que coño,” Raphael mutters to himself. “Don’t you have some sort of balm to treat these wounds?” he speaks up. He’s pacing around Magnus’ apothecary so fast Magnus feels dizzy. Fledgelings are like kittens, way too energetic and way too unaware of that. “An apothecary as big as this, and you only-”
Magnus doesn’t keep a lot of balms. He doesn’t need them himself, and when he needs one for someone else, he simply brews it. He thinks over a way to help Raphael calm down.
“I can magick it away,” he offers.
“No,” Raphael answers, turning his head towards Magnus sharply. “I did this, I have to fix it.”
“You didn’t do anything,” Magnus protests.
“I gripped you so tight it bruised, Magnus.”
“I told you, it doesn’t hurt. It’s, uh, a warlock thing.”
“Then why does it bruise?,” Raphael hisses. Then he takes a quick step back, like he’s been spooked. “Please don’t lie to me,” he says, voice small, head down.
Magnus’ heart aches. “It really didn’t hurt,” he tries.
“I know warlocks feel pain. I’ve seen Ragnor stub his toe, remember?”
Despite himself, Magnus snorts. “The old man is just dramatic.”
“I’m not about to dispute that,” Raphael mutters, “but I know that you don’t have a higher pain tolerance. And if you had, it would make no sense for the body to bruise. That’s a reaction to hurt.”
“Fine, it didn’t hurt a lot, then. I knew I could take it. I’m used to it.”
Raphael’s face turns even sadder, and Magnus scrambles his brain to find what he did wrong.
“I shouldn’t hurt you at all, Magnus.”
“Nonsense, it’s fine-”
“No mames, cabrón” Raphael mutters to himself. Magnus doesn’t know what that means, but with the way it stings with barely concealed anger, he doesn’t have to. “Just tell me where the balm is. Or whatever you use to treat this kind of wound.”
Magnus sighs, deciding not to argue over this anymore. Raphael is having a hard time, after all. “Third drawer to your left,” he says, silently magicking a little pot there. It’s not as good as his hand brewn one, of course, but it’s a little thing that will certainly lessen the purpleing. Raphael is by his side within a second, balm in hand. Magnus does jump this time, then curses himself for losing control like that.
“Sorry,” Raphael says.
“It’s alright,” Magnus says, “superspeed does that.”
“No,” Raphael clarifies, “well, yes, but I also meant- I’m just sorry.”
Magnus softens like a balloon deflates; so quick it’s scary. “You have nothing to be sorry about,” he says, turning to Raphael on instinct.
“I hurt you. You are already letting me stay here-”
“Don’t.”
Raphael scoffs. “It’s true.”
“No. I brought you here. I invited you to stay. I told you it was okay-”
“Right, and now I can’t believe you, can I, because clearly you would tell me that it was alright, and let me take and take, and get hurt!”
Magnus’ vision feels foggy. For a second, he doesn’t know why. “I-” he begins, but finds himself with no sentence to form.
Raphael’s tone is a lot quieter now. It still rings on Magnus ears, clear as water over the deafening silence that Raphael’s scream left behind. It’s like his shout itself created stillness.
“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” he says, biting his lip, “I don’t want to, I- I’m scared of hurting anyone.”
Magnus’ tear falls, but his vision only clears for a second before the fogginess returns. “I’m sorry,” he says, feeling like a kid who just got scolded.
Raphael shakes his head, but there are no tears for him to wipe. “You shouldn’t be the one apologizing,” he says, and it would sound like a laugh if it wasn’t so bitter. Magnus shrinks into himself again. “But don’t do that again. Don’t hurt to make me feel better. Te quiero, ¿sí? Y te quiero bién,” he says, so smoothly even Magnus feels calmed by the words, despite them being nowhere as familiar to him as they are to Raphael. “So your hurt won’t do me any good.”
“Okay,” Magnus says simply. He vaguely has the presence of spirit to admire Raphael for using Magnus’ own words against him like that. This boy is way smarter than he gives himself credit for. “Okay.”
Raphael’s lips quirk up, pursed and sad. “All right then. Let’s treat these bruises. Can you take off your shirt so I can see them better?”
Magnus nods. “Of course, my boy.”
*
Raphael crashes home like lightning on a sunny day; so sudden and loud you’re not even sure it happened.
He slumps against the door, shaking slightly, eyes shut like he’s trying to lock them away.
Magnus’ magic reaches out to him before he even thinks about it. “Raphael,” he says, getting up. There’s no sign of injuries. But he can barely stand straight.
Magnus doesn’t have the time to ask. He draws in a sharp breath, shaky and pained like a dying animal’s. “I went to see my sister.”
“Oh,” is all Magnus can say. Did he try to tell her? He knows Raphael’s family is very religious; maybe she didn’t want to accept him. His heart aches, filled with worst-case scenarios: did she try to kill him? Was he hurt? Did she cry? Did she scream at him to leave, terrified-
“I said goodbye,” Raphael finishes, words leaving his throat like a final breath. He shuts his eyes again, fists tightly against the door like they’re supporting him more than his legs are.
“Okay,” Magnus says, “okay.” He takes a deep breath so his voice sounds smooth and quiet, “let’s take you to the couch, yeah? Let’s rest a little.”
Raphael nods, slowly like he needs to think hard to remember how to do it. Magnus doesn’t let it deter him. “I’m going to put your arm over my shoulders, is that alright?” Raphael nods again. It’s a short walk to the couch, and he doesn’t need to support the entirety of Raphael’s weight, Raphael being more shaky than weak. But it feels like a run on the desert, feverishly painful.
He makes no move to go away once Raphael is settled (maybe he should have, he doesn’t know if he wants company, doesn’t know if he’s intruding, this is about his family, after all, what does Magnus understand-), but Raphael still grabs his arm once he lets him go. “It’s alright,” Magnus says, squeezing his knee slightly. “I’m here.”
Raphael nods again.
They stay in silence.
Magnus doesn’t know how long. Feels like years, his heart beating anxiously in his chest as Raphael cries, terrifyingly still. He shakes is an almost defiant way, his body held tight and tense, the few tears that manage to break free quickly wiped away. Magnus doesn’t know what to make of it, so he settles for caressing Raphael’s hair and repeating estarás bien every once in a while.
You’ll be alright. He’s not sure how effective it is, but every time he says it, Raphael nods, so he thinks that at the very least, it’s helping ground him a little.
Eventually, Raphael opens his eyes.
It’s only then that Magnus realizes he had been holding his breath, too.
His body is still tense, but he doesn’t relax, not yet.
His heart beats anxiously, and Raphael stays still.
“I said goodbye. It’s done,” is the first thing he says, tone boiling with finality. “I told her I couldn’t see her again.”
“Did you say why?” Magnus asks.
Raphael shakes his head. “No. I couldn’t.” He finally turns to look at Magnus, searching him like he expects to see judgement there. Magnus can’t judge him. Not one bit. Raphael turns away again, “It was dangerous enough to go see her, but- I knew how to not hurt her, and I couldn’t- I couldn’t not-”
He stops abruptly, taking another deep breath.
“She started crying as soon as she saw me. Hugged me so tight- if I was still a person she’d have broken my bones.”
“A mundane,” Magnus corrects; heart clenching and unable to let it go unchallenged.
“That’s what I meant.”
They look at each other.
Magnus caves. “So what did you tell her?”
“I told her that I’m okay. That she doesn’t need to worry. But that she won’t see me again. I used- that encanto thing, so she would think I told her before disappearing. I didn’t want her thinking I disappeared for almost four months only to-”
He puts his hand over Raphael’s. He’s gripping his own arm so tight Magnus is almost scared he’ll tear it off.
Raphael huffs, but doesn’t pull away. Instead, he says, “she begged me to stay.”
Magnus’ heart goes out for the boy, and a part of him tangs with ugly, bitter jealousy. Rosa didn’t care what Raphael was. Didn’t care what happened. She still wanted to be with him.
He bites the inside of his mouth, trying to get rid of these thoughts. Raphael is suffering, he’s in pain, he’s lost the person he loves the most and yet here Magnus is, selfish as always-
Raphael finally turns to look at him, eyes puffy and shining with caged tears, and all of Magnus’ thoughts silence before the pain that he feels for him. “I’m so scared of leaving her alone, Magnus.”
“My boy.” Magnus is unable to stop himself from reaching out and pulling Raphael into a hug. The boy is shorter than him, and smaller, and he buries his face in Magnus’ chest as he doesn’t shake, doesn’t sob, doesn’t wrap his arms around Magnus too tight. It burns in a thousand different ways, this not-closeness, this cage of fear Raphael put himself in.
They’re both trapped within themselves, desperately afraid to step out, but still weakly trying to reach for each other.
“She told me we’d find a way. That I didn’t have to tell her what was happening, didn’t have to explain, that she would help me anyway. She kept- she kept trying, Magnus, and there was nothing I could do-” he laughs wetly. “I’ve always hated saying no to her.”
“I’m sorry,” Magnus says, because he is, and there’s nothing else he can say. Raphael can’t stay with her; that never goes well with anyone. Besides, the clave has been particularly adamant on keeping downworlders and mundanes strictly separated lately; Rosa’s life is not the only one at risk if Raphael stayed with her.
She might even accept him, but it’s worthless. All that means is that he has to be the one to leave.
It’s a completely different kind of tragedy, not at all like what happened to Magnus’ family all those centuries ago; yet it feels exactly the same.
“Lo siento,” he repeats, hoping the familiar sounds of Raphael’s language bring him comfort instead of pain. All he does in response is nod, so Magnus can’t be too sure, but he’s shaking a little less, seeming to ease a bit into the hug and the way Magnus strokes his hair.
“When we moved here,” Raphael starts. The sound of his voice startles Magnus a little bit, and he chides himself for getting distracted by the touch; he’s not the one who needs comfort, “Rosa was four. It was all- pretty fast. One day we were helping my mom sell enchiladas on the street, the other we went on a days-long trip. And suddenly, we didn’t know anything. Even the way we sat would get us weird looks. We couldn’t understand anyone. No one could understand us. She was terrified.”
Magnus swallows down the lump on his throat. He understands this way too well, having seen his mom’s language suddenly become forbidden in her own house. It’s scary, being locked away from the world like this.
“She stopped talking,” he continues. “At all. Even in spanish, at home, to our mom- she wouldn’t say anything. She wouldn’t cry out when she was distressed, or in pain. She wouldn’t yelp in surprise. It was like she was mute.”
“She must have been scared,” Magnus says, trying to sound sympathetic, and not like he had no idea what to say.
“It was scary. I think- if she wasn’t there, I might have done the same thing.”
Magnus keeps stroking his hair.
“But I couldn’t, because I had to take care of her. Our mom couldn’t. There was so much on her plate. I was so worried for Rosa. She was so bright, and funny, and smart, way more than me. Still is. I wish you could have met her,” he sighs. Magnus knows he’s grieving over that, too, all the things he didn’t do. “Seeing her so quiet, I couldn’t take it. I talked to our neighbors, they taught me English, so I could speak for her, and explain things to her. We made our own kind of sign language, so I could understand what she meant- and one day she started talking to me.
“Not anyone else, just me,” Raphael continues, “I would go with her everywhere. She would talk to me, and make jokes, and laugh - and then someone else would say something around us, and she would draw back again. It was terrible, seeing her so scared, kept away from the world. But I could be her bridge, and with that, she got to learn at her own pace. I didn’t, so I know that that’s a big deal.”
“It’s terrible,” Magnus agrees, “walking blindly trying to find straws to grasp, knowing you can’t afford to make mistakes.”
Raphael hums. “Did you have to leave after- your stepfather, too?”
“Well, no. I was found by my father soon after. But after I ran away from him - I was in a completely different country, in a completely different time, and I didn’t know anyone.”
Raphael nods again, in a way Magnus knows means he’s paying attention to what he says. His fingers start tracing little circles on Magnus’ belly, and he looks serious, like he’s trying to commit this information to memory.
He doesn’t ask anything, though, and Magnus is glad for that.
“You went through it so she didn’t have to,” he states. “That was pretty brave.” He knows Raphael isn’t a lot older than Rosa. From what he’s told Magnus, two or three years, tops. He can’t imagine it, being only six and having to figure out your own on the world, with the responsibility of someone else on your shoulders.
“I don’t regret it. I kept trying to teach her English, even if she wouldn’t say anything when I did. I knew she was listening. Eventually she started talking again. First with my mom and the neighbors, in Spanish, then a little English then and there. She can speak perfectly now.”
Magnus nods. “She’s strong, too.”
“She is.” Raphael’s smile is unbearably sad, barely a tug, his eyes too still. “But to me- I still see that little girl who was too scared to stand up for herself. She’s so- great, and happy, and I was supposed to be there, to take the blows for her, to make sure she keeps- she doesn’t-”
Raphael shakes his head. “I know she can do without me,” he continues, “but I don’t want her to have to. And I- I don’t want to do without her.”
There’s a sob at the end of the sentence, and then a few more. It’s way more quiet than the breakdown he had when Magnus first found him, or that fateful day when he finally caved and tried to eat the blood on Magnus’ stock; he’s not crying with abandon. He holds himself tight, and hides his face on Magnus’ chest, and doesn’t make too much noise.
That makes it even more heartbreaking.
“I had to run away,” Raphael says. “When she started crying, telling me to stay. I had to run away so she wouldn’t see me break down. I turned my back on her. I’m so sorry. God, Dios, I’m so sorry-”
“You’re protecting her,” Magnus tries to reassure him. He knows it’s pointless, but he tries anyway. At the very least, he doesn’t want Raphael to feel guilty for doing the right thing. “You didn’t turn your back. She knows this. She knows you wouldn’t turn her back on her, Raphael. She knows.”
“I couldn’t even hug her,” is all Raphael answers, muffled by the tears.
Magnus holds him tighter, purely on instinct. He feels a little silly; he’s nowhere near the comfort Raphael wants. They’ve only known each other for a few months, and Magnus is nothing but the reminder that his life is all upside down.
A crazy, lonely warlock who can barely handle his own baggage. That’s all he has to offer to Raphael.
But he’ll still offer it.
“Lo siento,” he repeats again, “cry away, it’s okay. I’m sorry. Lo siento.” Then, because he feels like Raphael doesn’t know it, and he needs to, “you’re a good man, Raphael. You’re so good to your sister. She won’t forget that.”
It makes Raphael sob harder, but he keeps it up, knows he needs to know it, and needs to let it out too. “You did good,” “you’re a good brother,” “you’re so strong,” “I’m proud of you.” He barely notices it when the first “te quiero” slips; probably wouldn’t have had at all, if Raphael hadn’t immediately answered.
“Te quiero también,” he says. It’s the first thing he’s said since Magnus started talking.
Magnus takes that as a win, and continues to comfort him, letting Raphael cry himself to sleep.
Once he does, instead of pulling away, Magnus simply lies down on the couch, and sleeps right there with him, hand still tangled in Raphael’s hair.
It’s as much for his sake as it is for Raphael’s.
*
When Magnus gets home, back from a day of shopping for potion ingredients and getting some more blood to replenish his supply, the sun is about to set. He’s pleasantly tired, ready to waste the rest of his evening away with Raphael, who must be waking up.
He closes the door behind him, and there’s a blur in his peripheral vision. Fast and noisy and going straight in Magnus’ direction, too fast for him to even process anything but the threat.
The worst part is, his first instinct is to freeze. The flinch is all but imperceptible, the move to cover his face and not really defend himself; he doesn’t move, doesn’t jump, his magic doesn’t react in time. Pliant. Helpless.
He registers that, bitterly and with just the narrow - sharp - edge of fear, before he registers that it’s just Raphael.
Who’s looking miserable. And also has a bag in hand.
“Sorry,” Magnus says, at the same time, and his tone just as small, as Raphael. He almost laughs to himself at the ridiculous pair they make, before he’s distracted by his double take. Raphael has a bag in hand.
“There’s no need to apologize,” Magnus says, his body looking as if it’s waiting for the bell to ring so he can move. Undecided on his next step. “What’s going on?”
“I think I should leave,” Raphael answers, and even if it’s a direct answer to his question, it still feels abrupt. “I was just getting my things and waiting for the sun to set. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Oh.
He- wasn’t expecting that, somehow. Raphael had been doing well lately, but he hadn’t really found a clan. Magnus wasn’t even aware that he was getting close to other vampires. “Okay,” he says, like he hadn’t been planning on watching a movie with Raphael that night, or teaching him how to make potions next week - Raphael had mentioned that he liked cooking, but it was too painful to do that just yet when he knew he couldn’t eat, so Magnus was thinking of teaching him how to make some potions that didn’t require magic, have him reconnect, somehow, with his hobby. Then again, it’s not like he told Raphael about any of these plans. He just- assumed. “Where are you going?” is the first thing he asks, stomach churning at the idea that it’s the New York Clan. He doesn’t want Raphael with- her. Then again, it’s not any of his business.
Raphael looks, if possible, even more miserable. “I’m not sure. For now I was just going to look for the nearest one. Then I’d see where would be best.” Then, mumbling to himself, almost like some sort of reassurance, “New York is big, there must be plenty of clans.”
Actually, there is only one, because Camille has been systematically dismantling and destroying other clans for decades now, and Magnus stops and frowns. Raphael doesn’t even know about the clan situation in New York. Why is he in such a rush to move?
Magnus sits down on the couch opposite from him, slowly. Like he’s afraid of scaring Raphael away. Once he’s settled down, legs crossed, arms relaxed, he speaks, “wouldn’t you rather know the clan before you move there? It’s a pretty big commitment,” as softly as he can. Maybe Raphael needs a change, he reasons with himself. Or maybe he just wants to get away from here. “If the problem is the loft, I can always redecorate it. Or I can find an hotel for you to stay,” he offers. Raphael shakes his head vehemently, like Magnus’ words are attacking him.
“No. I don’t want to take even more from you.”
Understanding downs on Magnus like the descending of an elevator, and suddenly he feels silly. Of course. He should have known. “Is that what this is about?” he asks, “you not wanting to impose?”
“I think we can both agree that I overextended my stay here.”
“You must have really good persuasion skills, then,” Magnus answers, raising an eyebrow. Raphael always speaks - clearly, for lack of a better word, almost technically, his terms precise and specific. But when he talks like that, like the lines were taken from a textbook, Magnus knows that he’s speaking from rationality, not from heart. He can’t say he likes it.
Raphael just looks at him for a moment, brow just slightly furrowed. Like even he doesn’t know what to do with it. In the end, he replies like Magnus hadn’t said anything, “I’ve been here for months. Just staying and- crying.” He says it like he’s tripping, and there it is. That little lapse of truth. Magnus tries to grab it with all his might. Subtly.
“If I recall correctly, you also tended to my bruises right on the first month,” he says, “and showed me some really good music the other night.”
Raphael grimaces like Magnus is being difficult. “You know what I mean. You’ve been way too kind to me. I can’t keep taking advantage,” he says, sincerely.
“You’re not taking advantage. It doesn’t bother me.”
Raphael chuckles, like the idea is a joke. “You don’t mind a stranger staying at your house, feeding off your supply, needing your help at every turn for three months?”
“It’s hardly a stranger if they’ve been living with me for three months.”
“Magnus,” Raphael says, sighing, like he’s drained, like he’s trying to get every ounce of air to have the energy to keep going. “Don’t think I don’t appreciate what you’ve done for me. It’s because I appreciate it that I can’t keep doing this. I’m pulling you down, taking your space. I have to go and figure this out on my own.”
“I don’t think you’re underappreciating me,” Magnus answers sincerely, and for a second, it feels like his own offer of vulnerability to Raphael, “I think you’re underappreciating yourself.”
“It’s not about me,” Raphael says after a second of silence. “It’s just. I’ve been taking too much from you. And I know you’ll just keep letting me. Don’t tell me it isn’t true,” he adds when Magnus makes just the smallest of moves, “It’s not fair. You’re giving me a house, things to- feed, emotional support. You were there for me after Rosa, you-” Raphael falters, and that’s new. He hardly ever leaves a sentence unfinished, unless he’s having a breakdown. “It’s too much,” he finishes softly, painfully.
“It’s not,” Magnus says, just as softly. He sees Raphael shake his head, like he’s ready to say that Magnus is lying, so he takes a split second decision. “Having you here far outweights it.”
It’s his own display of vulnerability, but it’s not incidental, this time. It’s not an offer for Raphael to take, either; it’s a promise of honesty he makes to the both of them. He doesn’t want this conversation to be over before it even starts.
So he continues. “I don’t want you to leave.”
Raphael looks positively shocked, the force of it taking up all of his features, like he hadn’t even considered that option. He looks more shocked than he did when he first saw Magnus using magic. Magnus tries not to let that sting too much, not to think, did I do something wrong? Does he really not know?. Tries not to wonder if he’s so closed off he’s forgotten how to love. If he’s denying that boy the affection he so clearly needs, even as he feels it. If he’s becoming Camille, or his father.
“Having you here… It’s been doing me good. You have no idea how much,” he confesses, a little scared of how scared he is of saying it. “You’ve been giving way more than you think,” he finishes, nowhere near satisfied with what he’s managed to express, but still not knowing how he could continue.
“I don’t understand,” Raphael says, and the sincerity of it cuts Magnus.
“I-,” Magnus doesn’t look at him. He can’t. There’s something grabbing at his throat, a mix of fear and pride, the kind that’s heavy, that pulls you down. “I’ve been lonely,” he manages.
Raphael still looks lost, almost afraid, like a lone sailor who sees a storm approaching. So out of his depth it’s terrifying.
Magnus sighs and pauses, trying to gather himself, because he feels the same way. He's never even talked about this with anyone who wasn't there when it happened - and even then, Ragnor, Cat, and Dot had gotten a version with more furtive silences than words. Because they were there, and they knew how to fill the gaps.
Talking about his mum had been easier. Hell, even his father.
Camille was different. And he battled within himself, simultaneously sure that he was just telling this to Raphael to force him to stay, and that telling him would drive him away for good. And that's just typical, with Camille - all paths are equally painful, and all lead to the same place, no matter how wildly different and even conflicting.
So, in a fit of stubbornness, and defiance, he does the opposite of what he's convinced he should do. He tells Raphael.
"I had an ex. A vampire. Over a century ago," he begins, and has it been this long? It definitely doesn't feel like it, the wound fresh and rotting like it was carved only yesterday, like it was being carved right now, "she drove me away from almost everyone." He admits quietly, and feels, strangely, like what Raphael had described a confession to be like. "Even Ragnor, and Catarina. I-" deep breath, "I haven't been able to bounce back."
"What did she do?" Raphael asks, and his voice is quiet, soothing, as if it's holding Magnus' hand. But there's a strain underneath, too, something that sounds like the fire that burns in his eyes, that rightful fury that reminded him of hell. A fire Magnus had only really seen in the eyes of those who believe in it.
"Honestly? I don't know," Magnus says, truthfully, despairingly, like he hates the words. "It was just exhausting. Terrifying. Every time I looked, it seemed I was more cornered than before, and I was so scared of being alone, scared enough that I'd just… Let her do what she wanted," he admits, the shame burning hot in his throat, scratching him raw, leaving him defenseless and burning and weak like before. But he pushes through, a miracle in and of itself, "and she convinced me that she was the only one who could ever love, or even like, me."
Raphael looks at him, that fiery gaze even more intense than before, and Magnus can't face it, because if he does, it'll take him over, and he doesn't deserve it, doesn't deserve its protectiveness. It'll burn him, because he's unworthy, and he's weak, and heavenly fire is poison to people like him.
His hands are clenched so tight they're shaking, and he focuses on them, on the grounding pain, on the movements of his fingers as he rubs them together. "When I freezed, today," he says, his voice sounding shaky, and small, and pathetic, "it was instinct. Something I learnt from her. When she was mad, she would come to me running, just like you did," so fast he just heard the noise of the disgruntled air being cut by her body, sharp and loud and destructive, "sometimes she'd shove me, sometimes she wouldn't. But I never knew, so sometimes I flinched, and that would - really hurt her. So I learnt not to flinch, just freeze and brace myself to keep from hitting my head."
Raphael hisses, and Magnus jolts, seeing his fangs are drawn out. He covers his mouth with his hands quickly, looking a little sorry, but still burning, rage, anger, fury. He's getting better at controlling himself, though, because he manages to draw them back, and say "Sorry. I didn't mean to scare you, that's - probably the last thing you want to hear now is a vampire hissing."
Magnus chuckles, humorless, "it's ok, my boy. You don't scare me, just- like I said, it was instinct."
"Still, I don't want to force you to remember that. If I had known what I was doing to you-"
"No!" Magnus says, with that kind of strength and conviction that jolts his whole body, his brain only processing that he said it after he already had. "No, no, Raphael, I'm sorry, that's not what I was trying to say at all, my boy, I'm sorry-"
"I just never expected to be hurting you on top of-"
"You don't! That's what I was trying to say-"
"Please, Magnus, what can I do to-"
"No, my boy, no," he says, this time calm, but firm, and Raphael silences. Briefly, he notices that he got up at some point.
Raphael looks at him, and his eyes are big and wild and expectant, like he's waiting to follow Magnus' lead, and it's heartwarming and confusing and helps him keep talking.
"It's not about that. You hadn't even done anything that reminded me of her before this, today," he says softly, softer than he's ever heard himself talk. "And it was just a split second. Believe me."
"I believe you," Raphael answers, nodding. Magnus smiles.
"What I am trying to say," he continues, making a show of sitting back down on the couch, all relaxed body and certain movements, and he can see Raphael visibly relax on his own couch, "is that after her, I was afraid that everyone would hurt me. I was afraid that I'd let them, like I had let her. I put up walls, and I made a front for myself, and I didn't let anyone get close. I didn't make any new friends. And I felt as lonely as I thought I would once she left me."
Raphael looks at him with something akin to shock in his eyes, but Magnus just keeps going, not stopping to think of the implications of that. "You're the first person who got close to me. You're my friend, and having you here has been doing me so good," he confesses, "to remind me that I don't have to be lonely, that I won't be. You haven't just been taking, my boy, you've given me so much. So-," he stops when he sees Raphael get up and walk towards him.
The hug is almost sudden, even if it follows very slow, calculated movements, the kind that is designed to give you every out. Magnus overflows with it, even with the awkward position of him sitting and Raphael standing, even with the limited contact. Raphael's face hides into his shoulder, and he feels fierce, strong protectiveness in place of the vulnerability from before.
"So," he chokes out, "I really don't want you to go."
Raphael nods. "Okay. Okay. I'm sorry."
"None of that," Magnus laughs, a little wobbly, like he's overloaded.
Raphael huffs, suspiciously fond. Then he says, "te quiero, Magnus."
Magnus' eyes widen only slightly, and he answers, "te quiero también."
*
Magnus stumbles down the street, trying to support himself on a nearby house’s wall. He’s close; only a matter of two blocks before he gets home, but he feels like he’s been walking there forever. He’s so exhausted he didn’t even manage to portal himself home.
It had been an emergency call - a friend of Catarina’s who had recently adopted a little warlock girl reported her missing. They went straight to Magnus. He had been dedicating a lot of his time to that, recently, many warlocks reaching out to him when there was some kind of emergency.
He’s always kind of fulfilled that role, helping people when they needed it, but recently the number of calls he’d gotten had skyrocketed.
People have been speaking of making him High Warlock of The City Of New York.
There’s no High Warlock of The City Of New York.
He doesn’t even know if there are any High Warlocks for specific cities; distance is not a problem, so High Warlock positions usually cover a pretty large area. Hell, some of them cover entire countries. The Iberian Peninsula has only one, and most of the time she is so bored she petitioned to be able to make regular warlock work as well.
(It was approved.)
But New York - New York had been messy, and scary, recently. There had been a rise on hate crimes, and most of the downworlder community was on edge - but especially warlocks, who had been preferential victims of kidnapping. Crazy shadowhunters wanting to study “demon blood”.
They weren’t very organized political groups - yet. But the number of hateful shadowhunter groups had been on the rise, and the Clave had done nothing to stop it - not that anyone expected them to.
And New York, well, it had a pretty high warlock population density, and a particularly uncaring Institute in the hands of particularly bigoted shadowhunters. It was the best place for hate groups to start, and the High Warlock of the state hadn’t been managing to handle all the calls from all the population.
Hence why Magnus had been called in so many times, and why people were speaking of giving him a position.
He’s not sure if he should take it - certainly there are people more fit for the job than him. Then again, he wouldn’t be able to turn his back on his people in such a hard time, and he never believed a lot in institutions such as the High Warlock position in times like this. And - well, he isn’t sure if he would be able to manage all of the region’s problems, his own, and also take care of Raphael.
Not that Raphael needs him a lot - he was more and more independent these days, long used or at least resigned to his vampire life. He has started volunteering as a cook in a nearby shelter, something Magnus had learnt filled him with joy; he’s made a few other downworlder friends, even a few vampires. It has been over a year - soon, Magnus guesses, he won’t need Magnus anymore, and will look for a real place to live in.
Magnus is - scared of that.
He doesn’t want to - he should be happy for Raphael, and he is, he truly is. He’s glad he’s making friends, going outside, finding joy, reconnecting with himself, his love for cooking, finding a place and a community. He’s proud of him, even. He would never want Raphael to be dependant on him, unhappy and lonely.
Honestly, Magnus is probably the dependant one.
He doesn’t know what he’d do without Raphael - he had been feeling so lonely before him, even with his small group of friends, with his regular visits to Pandemonium; he had no one to talk to and no one to give him company for more than an hour or two. He and Raphael had settled into an easy routine; for the first time in, who knows, so long, Magnus felt like he had someone to share his life with, somewhere to belong, something he could be a part of.
It scared him to know he’d lose that soon. Raphael won’t want to see him again once he leaves - Magnus is probably a walking reminder of the worst moments of his life, anyway.
Seeing him leave will hurt.
But as long as Raphael is still there, he’ll want to focus on him, because Raphael doesn’t have anywhere else to go, while there are plenty of competent warlocks who could take a High Warlock position. He doesn’t want to leave his people, and he won’t - which is precisely why he won’t take such a responsibility if he can’t have it be his priority. Even if he knows Raphael probably won’t be there for much longer.
But he doesn’t want to prepare for that ahead of time. He doesn’t want to face the inevitability of it.
He’s just so scared of being left. Even if he knows it’ll happen. Has to happen. For Raphael’s happiness. For his good. It’s not like Raphael - owes it to him to keep in touch, to see him, when Magnus knows that he had no choice when he decided to stay with Magnus, and he probably only represents more pain for the boy.
So he supposes he’ll cross that bridge when it comes crashing down under his feet.
He’s alright with that - it’s not like preparing himself will really lessen the pain.
The visits that end up being shorter and shorter, the calls that will stop being returned, the furtive running when Raphael encounters Magnus by chance - Magnus knows he’ll pull away slowly, because Raphael is a nice boy, and he probably thinks that it would be ungrateful to cut Magnus off his life completely once he leaves.
But the disgust- the bad memories will win out, eventually.
And that’s okay. Magnus doesn’t want to be a burden to anyone. Much less to Raphael - he’s not only company, not just someone to fill the hole Camille left in his heart; Raphael might be the person that comes closest to understanding him. He knows about Magnus’ past, and he understands what it’s like to lose everything you knew in just a day. He’s hilariously sarcastic and never endingly good, he cares for others more than he cares about himself sometimes, he has a patience Magnus could never hope for and a cool head that never meant a cold heart. Magnus was so proud of him, of how he acted and his values, he could cry. He loved Raphael like he’d love a son, and he’d rather die than make Raphael suffer, force him to revisit the times that almost managed to dull his light and pull him away from the very things he dedicated his heart to.
He wishes he could be something other than darkness in people’s lives, though.
At least he managed to save today’s girl - she had been kidnapped by a small, but vicious shadowhunter supremacist group, and even her caretaker couldn’t find her.
Magnus had been trying to find her for a few days, when he supposed one of the shadowhunters slipped up. He got a try. He got to her fairly easily, but he didn’t know what state she was in, or what they were planning. Catarina was working a shift, Ragnor took too long to answer, and Dot was helping the actual High Warlock with another problem she couldn’t tell them about. But Magnus didn’t have time to wait, so it was just him and Kai - the girl’s caretaker.
Kai was also a warlock, although a pretty young one - only starting to venture into their 50s. Noelani, the girl, was only 7, just old enough to start to get a real hold of her magic, and just naïve enough to let people know about that. They had been on visit in New York, Kai having been called to speak about gender colonialism at a Nā ʻŌiwi NYC event. As their tutor - Noelani wanted to be a kahuna lapa’au, a magical healer, and, as the only other warlock and seeing as māhūs were traditionally responsible for keeping alive the traditional hawaiian practices, Kai had taken her under their wing - Kai had taken her with them, and the bright, overly enthusiastic about sharing her knowledge of magic, girl had attracted the attention of shadowhunters. About halfway through the month-long event, she went missing, and Kai called to Catarina, who was helping them both with healing magic, and who called for Magnus’ help.
Taking down the shadowhunters with their combined power wasn’t hard, even if Magnus did most of the work - there were only 4 of them, although he suspects they might have other connections. But the last one managed to cut Magnus with her sword, and, as it turned out, it had magic-suppressing venom.
If Kai hadn’t given her the final blow, Magnus could have been in deep trouble.
As it was, though, they were both fine, and they managed to leave with Noelani safe, the shadowhunters’ little lair burnt to a crisp, and their bodies sent over to the nearest clave branch. Magnus knew the clave wouldn’t mind, because that way they could return the bodies to their families, say they died honorably in some battle, and once it was clear that the crimes were stopping, take credit for solving the problem.
“Protecting the downworlder community is part of our job,” they kept saying, even as they did a piss-poor one.
But Magnus couldn’t portal back, and, because Kai had never been to his loft, the best they could do to help was portal him somewhere in Brooklyn. Magnus didn’t have any money for the subway or a cab either, so walking it was. Noelani and Kai had offered to walk him to the loft, but he had waved them off, saying that he was fine, just needed a magic replenishing potion; and besides, they were scared and needed time to cool down. A walk would probably do him good, anyway, get some exercise and a bit of fresh air after so long working on this case.
It was all true, at the time. But the venom seemed to have longer-term effects that were much slower on the uptake. By the time he reached the street of his loft, he was exhausted, his wound was bleeding out, and he had trouble walking as well as breathing.
By the looks of it, the shadowhunters were succeeding in creating new weapons against downworlders. Fantastic.
He would be fine though. He just needed to get home, take his magic replenishing potion, and then get rid of the venom. Worst case scenario, he’d call Catarina. She’d know what to do, and if she didn’t, she would figure it out. She was smart like that.
So that’s what Magnus is telling himself as he limps down the last bit he needs in order to get home, the magic replenishing potion is on the apothecary, right on the first drawer, you just need to drink it, have a stamina potion if you need to keep yourself awake as well, you’ll be fine, as he stops for a moment to get some breath, almost there, just this little breath and you’ll be fine, no need to panic, it’s okay to go slow, as he starts walking once again, just that corner and a few more steps and that’ll be it, the wards will let you in, it’s so close now, come on, as he turns around the corner, there’s a shadowhunter at my doorstep.
There’s a shadowhunter at his doorstep.
Magnus blood runs cold, and instinctively he freezes, but the shadowhunter immediately turns to look at him. They’re like sharks, they can smell his blood as soon as it starts to drip down, showing his weakness. They thrive on it.
This guy is not here as a clave representative - if he were, that wouldn’t be much better, but the fact that he’s not makes even more anxiety pool deep inside of him. Magnus didn’t tell them he was the one who gave them the bodies, and if they traced the magic back, it would be Kai’s, not his. Besides, the shadowhunter’s alone, and smiling, and shadowhunters never smile when it comes to clave business.
He also has a huge seraph blade drawn and at the ready. And shadowhunters do smile when it comes to using these.
“Magnus Bane,” he says, almost conversationally, except for his distinctly threatening stance. Magnus figures the snarl at the end of his words is just how he’d normally say any downworlder’s name. “I knew we should have come for you sooner. This little chat of ours is long overdue, don’t you think?”
Were he not in a distinctly weakened state, Magnus would be rolling his eyes. Shadowhunters’ one-liners were always absolutely terrible, and the fact that they always said it like they were evil geniuses only made it more cringe-worthy.
But Magnus is is a distinctly weakened state, and he can’t afford himself to relax, not when he know he’s slow and weak and has no magic. So he stays still, and stops his automatic magic functions - his magic already subconsciously keeps his glamour up and his adrenal glands producing testosterone, even when Magnus is too weak to use it consciously, much in the same way that his body would keep breathing if Magnus were in a coma. Right now, though, he needs every reserve he can get, and he’s also hoping that having his warlock mark exposed will make him look more ready for the fight than he actually is. Maybe even make the shadowhunter feel a bit more threatened.
It doesn’t. He’s starting to shake in weakness and the shadowhunter only lets out a low whistle. “Oh, I love it when you do this. You guys try so hard to hide it, pretend you’re real people, don’t you? But this is when you show who you really are. Ugly, deformed animals. You know it, and you can’t hide it, not when it matters.”
Magnus doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t know if he could. He just looks at him, his vision at least a little better with his natural eyes out at night, his legs shaking slightly as he tries to keep himself upright, his throat closing up in fear and the almost childish refusal to let the shadowhunter’s words truly sink in.
He’s too weak to throw a punch. He’s too slow to run, and has no place to go to. He has no weapon. He barely has enough magic to create some sparkles, even now that he ceased all of its functions. He can’t send a fire message to call for help. Raphael isn’t home. Maybe if the shadowhunter lunges at him and he can reach his throat, he can use the last of his magic to taze him, but even that’s a long shot. He can feel his magic getting weaker and weaker, and the shadowhunter’s sword is long. He has no strength, he has no speed. He has just enough adrenaline running to keep up with what’s going on. The shadowhunter lets out a disdainful, “bring it on, warlock,” and makes towards him.
And it hits him. He’s going to die.
He’s going to die the only way he never wanted to - by the hands of greedy, hateful killers, his body to be used to inspire more fear in his people. Weaponized against those he tried to protect.
And painfully.
Bleeding out. Beaten up. Helpless and tired. And something tells him this shadowhunter won’t mind taking his sweet time with him.
Magnus falls as soon as the shadowhunter’s body hits him, a full force launch that knocks him down easy. So easy the shadowhunter himself loses his balance for a second, not expecting so little resistance, and in his stumble Magnus manages to touch his neck.
But not to conjure any magic.
He realizes, belatedly, that he should have gone for his eyes. It wouldn’t require much strength, and if he fell down, Magnus would have a chance of making it to his loft. He could even call Catarina the mundane way from there, not to mention he had his wards.
But he didn’t. He tries to reach up with his other hand, but the shadowhunter lands a punch to his exposed ribs before he can. When his arms fall down from the blow, he steps down on Magnus’ shoulder, hard, not enough to break anything, but enough for him to scream, which is just humiliating.
He’s going to die, and he can feel the cold of the seraph blade against his throat, and the shadowhunter is probably saying something, and he doesn’t know how he could move without cutting himself right now, and he’s too weak to do anything, and the adrenaline is only helping him panic, not think, and the shadowhunter is probably laughing, enjoying his weakness like they always do, and he’s going to die, and that might be his last thought, he’s going to die, alone and weak and hated and not even managing to put up a real fight, this shadowhunter is going to kill him, and he’s going to die.
Raphael lunges at the shadowhunter and breaks his neck.
It cracks like wood under someone’s feet, and just like that, he’s gone.
“Raphael,” is all Magnus can manage, and it’s a useless thing to say, but it’s the only one he wants to right now.
Raphael. Raphael. He’s here. He saved Magnus.
“Magnus,” he answers, his voice laced with all the fear Magnus was feeling before, and Magnus can barely register why. Suddenly, he’s lying on his couch, and there’s noises of things being open and thrown out so fast coming from his apothecary he kind of snaps into life again.
“Mierda, mierda, mierda, carajo, coñ- puta madre, ese desgraciado puso esa mierda en su- vamos, vamos, por favor, Magnus-”
Magnus has no idea what he’s saying, even if he has a feeling he could piece it together if he could think clearly right now, but Spanish is far from coming naturally to him. Still, Raphael says his name with so much anguish, Magnus feels the need to intervene.
“First drawer of my desk. Magic replenishing,” he says, still a little weak. Raphael is at his feet so fast he can’t help but jump, and Raphael’s face does something that Magnus can only describe as twisting.
“Sorry,” he says, and for a second Magnus marvels at the fact that Raphael knows, that he understands. He’s forgotten what that felt like, to have someone know, to not have to fake smiles whenever he was forced to remember. “Please drink, Magnus, please,” he insists when Magnus looks at him for too long.
Magnus gives him a small nod, then downs the potion. He can feel his magic spark to life again, slowly filling back up. He feels more aware, more grounded, even if still tired.
Raphael looks at him expectantly, like he’s hoping for Magnus to start floating or curing himself, so he feels the need to explain, “it’ll take a while for it to fully take effect.”
Raphael tenses in a way that tells Magnus that if he had weaker self control he’d be bouncing around the walls. “We can’t wait. Magnus. What else can I do? Please-”
“Did you- my wound-”
“Applied pressure, bandaged a little, I couldn’t find-”
“Third drawer, the little purple thing. I also need a stamina potion. I’m afraid I don’t have this one at the ready.”
Raphael is back with his balm. “Should I call Catarina? I couldn’t remember her number.”
Magnus shakes his head, even if he’s a little unsure. He doesn’t want to bother Catarina, but he also doesn’t want to put more stress on Raphael. Then again, standing in the sidelines while Catarina works would probably only make him more agitated. “You can make it pretty easily. Just mix some ginger powder, grinded malagueta, honey, and werewolf fangs. Equal parts. They’re in my apothecary, all labeled-”
“Like this?” he has all the ingredients in an instant, and mixes them in front of Magnus, like he’s afraid of doing it unsupervised. Magnus knows he’s far from a boy, but when he’s like this, so eager to help and anxious for his guidance, Magnus can’t help thinking of him like one.
Like a son, he tries not to think, even if he knows, deep down, that that’s what he feels. He’s watched Raphael grow and build himself, has seen him change and open up and look up to Magnus for help, for advice. He’s held him as he cried and been shocked to find out Raphael could do the same, too. Every time he sees Raphael helping others, or making new friends, or starting new projects, pride swells in his chest as if ready to burst. Raphael is his own man, but Magnus also feels that a part of him is permanently with him, and a part of him is permanently changed by Raphael’s presence.
It’s terrible, and he knows it. Raphael has his own family. The last thing he’d ever want would be to replace them.
But Magnus can’t help it.
So instead of saying any of that, Magnus just nods, and adds the last bit of magic that the potion needed to hold up, and drinks it in spoonfuls as Raphael carefully lifts his bandages, cleans his wound up with alcohol - for the second time, Magnus can tell now that he’s paying attention, and either Raphael was incredibly fast or he was more out of it than he thought - and spreads the balm in deliberately slow strokes.
It fills him to the brim with a mix of pride and some sort of love that’s almost painful, aching. He knows Raphael is doing it not to scare him and he feels so- touched, he can barely compute it.
He tries to reign it back in before any tears could make their presence known, and by the time Raphael is done, the wound is already closing and Magnus can feel his glamour snapping back into place and his hormone activity returning to normal. Soon the magic will finish what the balm started and the wound will be closed. He’ll just have to check to make sure the venom is out of his system. But if his simple magic replenishing potion was enough to undo its effect, he supposes it can’t hold up for more than a few hours.
“Water,” Raphael says, resolutely, “and food.”
“I don’t think I should eat,” Magnus protests, and immediately regrets it when Raphael’s eyes widen like he just passed out. No matter how much time passes, he never fully gets used to Raphael’s idea that feeding a person will solve all their problems.
Not that the idea itself is that foreign to him, but - the gesture is. No one’s really worried about that since he lost his mother.
“It’ll slow down the healing potion,” he explains, “I haven’t fully absorbed it.”
Raphael keeps still for a second, like he struggles to process that, but then he nods. “Water, then,” he says in a tone of finality that Magnus wouldn’t have dared to protest, even if he hadn’t noticed that he’s actually pretty thirsty. When he comes back with a cup and the hugest water bottle Magnus had on the fridge, he ends up drinking it all, and then some more after Raphael fills it again, until finally he feels like he’s stable enough to fully settle into his tiredness. His head falls back on the couch, and he closes his eyes as he hears Raphael shuffle about and carefully sit beside him.
Once he’s done, Raphael wraps his arms around Magnus and rests his face on Magnus’ shoulder, and Magnus has the weird feeling that he’s comforting Raphael as much as Raphael’s comforting him, even if that makes no real sense. His grip is so tight it almost hurts, but it’s exactly that Magnus needs, comforting and putting the best kind of pressure over him, grounding him, making him feel- safe. Raphael knows it, he realizes, he’s been living with Magnus long enough to know what he needs for comfort.
“Are you sure you’re alright?” Raphael asks, slightly muffled. His hands are rubbing up and down Magnus’ arm, where they meet, like he wants to make sure Magnus knows he’s real.
“I feel fine,” he replies, and it’s not a lie. “My mind isn’t foggy anymore, my magic is going back to normal, the wound is closing. Soon I’ll be good as new,” he half-jokes. Raphael just nods, but otherwise doesn’t move an inch, and Magnus allows himself to just bask in that presence, that feeling of- home.
(He shouldn’t think it, he really shouldn’t. Not when he knows this is the last place Raphael would want to call his home)
“Are you okay?” Magnus finds himself asking, when the silence starts to feel heavy enough to put itself between them. Raphael looks at him like he’s crazy, and Magnus would feel sheepish if he had enough energy for that.
“He didn’t even touch me, Magnus, I’m fine,” Raphael says, in a slightly confused but still reassuring tone, like he’s afraid Magnus hasn’t processed what went down.
“You killed him,” Magnus replies, shame lodged at the base of his throat.
He couldn’t defend himself. He was weak, and dependant, and Raphael had had to step in for him. Raphael, who almost starved himself so he wouldn’t hurt others, who paid penance almost every day, who could barely handle the thought of upsetting someone else. He killed someone because Magnus was too weak.
He imagines catching the boy on his knees again, burning himself with ashes because of this, and the thought makes his stomach churn.
“Yeah,” Raphael says, still rubbing his arm affectionately, the touch grounding, “yeah, he’s gone, it’s okay.”
He thinks of his father’s voice, booming and disdainful. You’re weak. Thinks of feeling stuck, of being a burden, dependant. You need me. Thinks of Camille-
“Magnus,” Raphael says again, a note of desperation in his voice. He always got so lost when it seemed like Magnus lost his footing, and it only made him feel more responsible. “Magnus, it’s okay. You’re safe. He’s gone. You have your wards. I’m here. No one else-”
“I know. I just… I didn’t want to make you do this,” he admits, embarrassed. It makes him feel more childish, the way there’s nothing he can do. Nothing he could have done. He put yourself in danger, and he wasn’t strong enough to end it himself. If-
“Magnus,” Raphael interrupts, sounding shocked, “he was going to kill you.”
Magnus nods, a self deprecating smile on his lips. “I know.”
Raphael swallows, and Magnus can feel the distress in his movements, in the way his hands twitch, and his arms sometimes press a little too tight against Magnus for just a second. “Please tell me you weren’t going to let him,” Raphael says, “please tell me you weren’t- Magnus,” he pleads.
“I wasn’t going to let him,” he says, “I just. Couldn’t win. Of course I would, if I had the chance, I just. Wish I hadn’t made you- I know how you feel about hurting others.”
He turns to look at Raphael, even if it slightly upsets their embrace, and his eyes are wide like he can barely process what Magnus just said. He wonders, briefly, if Raphael hadn’t realized what he had done, until Raphael speaks. “Magnus. He was going to kill you. I would kill him a thousand times over. Honestly, I- I won’t even ask for forgiveness for this one.”
Magnus doesn’t know what to do with these words. They hit him like cold water, shocking but way too quick for him to realize it.
“I don’t care, Magnus,” Raphael says, even more emphatic this time.
Magnus breaks down crying.
It’s - hard to explain. He’s still scared of being so weak, the idea that he almost died still hitting him with shock every once in a while like crackling electricity. And he doesn’t want Raphael to have to deal with these things for him.
But there’s something about being cared for like this, of knowing that Raphael wouldn’t hesitate to protect him, that floods him with something that feels almost like relief.
He knows Raphael doesn’t have a “no-exceptions” moral code; he’s told him all about Rosa, about the fights he would get into when other students tried to bully her, about the people he’s hurt. He told Magnus about how he stabbed a white supremacist who went after a girl in Raphael’s neighborhood, one day. Raphael doesn’t want to hurt anyone, but there’s very little he wouldn’t do for those he loves.
I’d rather it is me making the hard choices, he had told Magnus once. It’s better if these sins are mine to carry.
But he knows how Raphael truly feels about it, from the small, almost imperceptible whisper that followed. I’m already rotten with them, anyway.
And Magnus feels terrible, sick to his stomach, like the worst man on Earth, that he added one more weight to Raphael’s shoulders. And even worse than that, because the fact that Raphael is willing to protect him, enough not to regret it, makes him feel so much lighter, better, relieved.
It’s been so long since anyone stood up for him without utterly despising him for it.
“I’m sorry,” he says, hands going to his face so he can at least hide the tears that he knows he won’t be able to stop. Magnus rarely cries, is very good at hiding it up with smiles and gestures and mean comments, but when he does, it overtakes him with all his might, breaks him down into sobs like his lungs want to tear him apart, shakes him like there’s so much trying to get out that he can barely keep himself from bursting.
It’s ugly, and loud- and obnoxious, and annoying, and pathetic, and weak, and manipulative, and he can hear their annoyed voices in his head, every time we fight you just break down and then I have to stop everything and handle you, we will talk when you’re finished with this little fit of yours, and he can’t stop it.
“Don’t be sorry,” Raphael says, “don’t be sorry, okay? I don’t care, I’m just glad you’re okay, Magnus.”
Magnus nods, letting Raphael draw him closer and hide his face on his shoulders. He feels a little stiff, and cold, but Magnus melts all over him anyway, grabbing his torso desperately like he’s scared Raphael will be torn from him.
Raphael pets Magnus’ head slightly, muttering words of comfort to him, and he really feels like this whole thing is on reverse. He’s been the one to take care of Raphael for so long- and not just Raphael, he realizes.
By this point, taking care of others is something that comes from an almost sense of duty. If it were a choice, he would choose it, of course; but he doesn’t feel like it is. To not be the one helping Raphael feels completely unnatural, and he has a feeling that, if it were with someone else, it’d be good - but he feels like, somehow, he’s losing Raphael by doing this. Like it’s proof that he doesn’t need Magnus anymore.
He knew this. He already knew this. He’s been getting ready for it. But having Raphael hug him and murmur words of comfort to him, seeing himself as the dependant, crying one- it’s really rubbing it in.
He doesn’t even know what to do with it, because he’s not about to pull away, to drive their distance, to put himself together. He can’t. He’s so distraught, and wild, and terrified, all he can do is grab him like a lifeline, and hope that it’ll take at least a little longer for him to go.
“You’re alright. You’re safe. That’s all that matters to me. Okay? Don’t apologize. Te quiero,” Raphael says, in that short, calm, but unbearably strong way only he knows how.
“Te quiero también,” Magnus answers immediately, through sobs, agitated and weak, and just as sincere. He wants Raphael to know. That he loves him. That it’s okay.
Raphael nods and hugs him tighter, and keeps saying it. Te quiero, te quiero, I love you, Magnus, te quiero, te quiero tanto. It makes Magnus sob harder, but it’s good, and he needs it, needs it like his strength and magic, needs it like he needed Raphael to barge in at that moment, desperate and unwavering, and make him safe, and bring him home.
He cries to Raphael’s words, and then falls asleep to them, and by the time he wakes up, startled to see neither of them had moved an inch, and is practically yanked back into the hug as soon as he tries to move, he starts to believe them, too.
*
It wasn’t long after that that Magnus took the High Warlock job.
They got a better name for it - High Warlock of Brooklyn. Less of a mouthful, more respectful, even if not as accurate. He carries it with pride, of his role, of his people, of the lives he’s saved, the people he’s helped. Slowly, he’s using the role to turn the city of New York into a safety net for warlocks, keeping them connected and tuned to help each other when needed. He has to, otherwise there was no way he’d be able to handle the amount of cases they get.
But he’s happy with what he’s been doing with it, with the way his influence has slowly started to gather warlocks closer together, connecting instead of hiding away from each other. He’s proud to be building a community based on mutual support and trust. He’s proud of the way people look up to him.
And yes, part of the reason he did it was because he thought Raphael was going to leave soon. He wanted to have something else to do so the loneliness couldn’t get to him. He wanted to help more people, since it was clear Raphael didn’t need him.
Even if Raphael took his sweet time to leave. It’s been almost a year since that happened, half of which was spent with Raphael all but glued to Magnus’ back, like he was scared that Magnus would be attacked again. Magnus had not-so-subtly started to train more in front of him, with dramatic and impressive bursts of magic and powerful punches and kicks. Raphael smiled in a way that told him that he knew what Magnus was doing, but otherwise took a long time to relax.
But he’s ready for it. He knows it won’t last long. Maybe Raphael is scared of leaving him alone, is looking for a better place to stay, is letting him adjust to this new role he’s taken. Maybe he feels indebted still - he wouldn’t be surprised if Raphael refused to leave because he wanted to “repay” Magnus first.
Magnus tries not to let that part sting. He knows that’s just how Raphael is, never believing he deserves care without giving anything in return; but a part of him keeps thinking, he wants to pay his debts so he won’t be tied to you anymore.
Anyway. He’s ready. He is. Even if he still feels like his home is only truly home once Raphael is back from the restaurant, even if he loves his late night talks with him, even if he’s the first person Magnus has opened up to in centuries, even if he has to hold himself from saying that’s my boy! whenever Raphael brings in some good news, even if he’s growing used to ruffling his hair and kissing his forehead in goodbye and even if he’s definitely way too attached, he’s been preparing himself for it, and he’s ready.
That’s what he tells himself.
But Magnus is a terrible, terrible liar.
"I suppose this is not another guilt-ridden outburst," Magnus says, calmly. Steadily. Still.
Raphael's smile is small, but real. "No," he says, ruffling his hair. "I've given it a lot of thought."
"Of course," Magnus answers, neutral as the diplomat he sometimes is. He pretends to be looking at something in his desk, even if it's completely cleaned out and he always magics what he needs into his hands, anyway. "I assume you have a place to stay?"
Raphael lifts his chin. "I'm joining the New York clan."
"That's…"
"I know," he sighs. "Camille's clan. I hate it as much as you do. But I can't… I can't let her get away, Magnus. For what she did to you. For what she's doing to other vampires. I've only met a few, and she makes them miserable," his fists clench and unclench almost subconsciously, and Magnus thinks, not for the first time, that Raphael holds himself so tight Magnus is scared he'll snap out of his own skin.
"You don't have to- avenge me-"
His voice sounds almost angry in distress, which is - not what he wants. He very rarely fails to keep his tone in check, especially when it comes to things like these. But Raphael doesn't seem to mind. He knows full well Magnus isn't angry at him. It hurts a little, how easily he can read him.
"I know that," he says with a little tilt of his head, like he's acknowledging all that's going on inside of Magnus in that moment. "But I don't want to watch her destroy so many mundanes' lives. I don't want to go to another city and be away from home. And I don't want you to have to deal with her presence everywhere. I don't want her to go unchallenged-" he takes a deep breath. "She's a monster, and I want to take her down. And I have a plan to."
Magnus doesn't know what to say. Raphael sounds resolute beyond words. And even if he feels guilty - for turning against Camille when she had helped him once, for letting Raphael go through her violence because of him - he can't find it in himself to tell Raphael not to.
He's seen what she's been doing to the other vampires. Even helped a few of them she had turned her back to. If anything, they deserved better - but Camille was good with political alliances, and she ruled them with a mix of painful isolation, favors, and fear, just like she did Magnus.
His stomach turns, and suddenly he doesn't want to think about that.
He doesn't have to, because Raphael keeps talking. “You don’t have to visit me, of course. I’ll come here. I won’t make you see her, I promise. I’ll try not to let her know about us, if she doesn’t already.”
Magnus’ nod is a little dumb. He doesn’t know what to say. He can’t go see Raphael. He can’t make it known that they know each other. He has to stay away. He was expecting the distance to stretch slowly; he never thought it’d be like this.
“I understand,” is all he can think to say, soft and with just the smallest hint of the sadness that swirls inside of him. He swallows, and hopes that the motion puts a lid on his feelings. “When are you leaving?”
He doesn’t think the question sounds like an accusation. But Raphael still lunges forward and takes his hands in his. “I’m going to visit, Magnus, I promise. I’ll need it, too.”
“Yes. Yes, of course,” he replies, a little embarrassed. “Wouldn’t want you to be stuck with her nail polish claws all the time.”
Raphael smiles at him, a tiny thing that doesn’t quite land, just like Magnus’ joke. “I’ll miss you, Magnus. What you did for me… I can’t say how much it means to me.”
“It was nothing,” Magnus says, and it feels like it’s choked out, but the end result is so smooth he’s almost terrified at his own ability to hide it. “Just what anyone would do.”
“No. Most people would help me. You gave me,” he looks down at his own hands, fingers twisting a little around Magnus’, like they’re not quite sure what to do with themselves, “a home,” is what he settles with, “when I didn’t think I could ever have one again. I- this means a lot to me, Magnus. You mean a lot to me.”
“You too, dear,” Magnus answers, a little more firmly this time. “Te quiero.”
“Yeah,” Raphael says, sounding somewhat defeated, and Magnus tries not to think about what that means. “Te quiero también.”
“Well then. Let’s plan your moving,” Magnus says, already thinking about how he’s going to redecorate Raphael’s old room. He does that a lot, and he knows it; his things are too easily tainted with the presence of others. When he loses them, he can’t stand them anymore.
Raphael lets himself be led by Magnus’ automatic rambling, and even when they eventually settle on the couch and Magnus falls asleep on his shoulder, the distance between them feels wider than ever.
*
Magnus has always wanted to have a family.
Even from before he lost his mom. He wished his stepfather would raise him. He wished him and his mother didn’t have a purely contractual relationship. He wished he wasn’t going to leave within a year. He wished he didn’t scream at them both, or look at them with what could only be described as disgust in his eyes, or twist his nose when Magnus came back from his apprenticeship with the dukun. He wished he didn’t hate their food.
He wished his mom hadn’t died. He wished he could feel her hands again, washing his hair, the soothing smell of jasmine. He wished he could make her laugh one more time. Better yet, smile. That wide, soft, careless smile she pointed at him sometimes. He wished she would hold his hand as they walked to the port, feeling the cool breeze when it was day, shielding him from the cold wind when it was night. He wished he could hear her say it again, the this is my child that soon turned, as it was clear what his gender was, this is my son.
He wished, more than anything, that she hadn’t hated him.
It made him sick to the brim, like he could barely stand being inside himself, to think about it. His mother hated him. His stepfather yelled it at him as he tried to drown him. His father was so terrible Magnus couldn’t even wish that he was different - he just wished to get away, to run, to hide, anything. To not be him. To not be his family.
But he wanted family. He wanted the comfort of knowing there would always be a group of people who’d care for one another. A group he could belong to. A group he could love. He wanted to have a home, and he didn’t want to do it alone. He wanted to be soothed by the certainty of having others around, not terrified by it. He longed, and he looked for one in all the right and wrong places - Ragnor, Catarina, Camille, Freddie, lovers and friends alike. In Ragnor he found a quirky and caring uncle. In Catarina a close friend. In Camille, just enough to feed his hope. In Freddie - maybe the closest he’d ever gotten to companionship, even if tainted by both of their fears of opening up, and lost forever to his death. Raphael had been the one who felt the most like it.
He knew it was preposterous to even hope to be Raphael’s family. It was everything to him, too. And he had actually had it once. Magnus wouldn’t know where to start making one. He felt so helpless at his leaving, just like he did when his stepfather yelled at him, when his mom died, when his father brought him to Edom at the end of another day.
He wasn’t destined to have it. He wasn’t supposed to. He was rotten, and immortal. Broken and tainted by bad choices. He lost his chance.
He really wanted some whisky.
“All settled,” he said once there was no other way of stalling. Raphael wasn’t taking a lot, playing the role of a lonely vampire who’d just found out about the Shadow World. He wanted to look lost, so Camille would think he was easy prey. Magnus felt that this plan was mocking him, but he didn’t know why. “Take care.”
“You too,” Raphael answers, taking his weight from one leg to another like he can’t find a way to stand comfortably. Magnus sighs. Goodbyes are always painful for him, and awkward for the others. Sometimes he thinks he prefers it when people leave without doing it. But he supposes Raphael has had his fair share of disappearing suddenly. Besides, it’s not his style.
Still, Magnus doesn’t want to drag this out for him. Or for himself. He clasps his hands, seemingly satisfied with Raphael’s arrangements. “Well, good luck, then,” he says, lightly, like all the weight that drags him down was left at the bottom of his stomach, too deep to touch his words. “Take care. No, I’ve already said that. Well, then I suppose the pleasantries are already done. I’ll see you soon,” he says, purposefully vague, so it doesn’t feel like a promise, or a threat. He almost wants to turn away and slam the door behind him, redecorate the entire loft and then drink some tequila just for the burning irony of that. He doesn’t, though, because a part of him wants to see him leave, at least. He should be cheering him on. When a kid leaves their parents’ home, that’s freedom, right? It’s calls for pride and celebration.
Then again, it’s not like he’d know.
Raphael just stands in front of him. He’s stopped his - swinging, and is now looking at Magnus, something deep missing in his eyes like he’s not fully there. He’s unnervingly still, and Magnus thinks, not for the first time, that it sometimes feels like Raphael only has two modes when it comes to movement.
He never really managed to teach him how to use body language. It’d be pretty useful. Especially against Camille. Oh, fuck, Raphael was going to try and overthrow Camille. Magnus felt like his whole body was twisting. Was Raphael really ready for that? Magnus couldn’t even help.
His thoughts are forced to a halt when Raphael brings him into a hug, sudden and tight. Maybe a bit too tight, but at the moment, it’s exactly what Magnus needs, that grounding touch and pressure that feels like safety and calms his racing mind. Raphael is small, compared to Magnus, but he feels solid and precious in his arms, both shielding him and needing to be protected. It’s recharging, warm, like his magic when it envelops him after a long day.
It’s a long hug too, enough for Magnus to consider his options. He doesn’t want to put more pressure on Raphael. But Raphael is hugging him. And he feels like Raphael would like to know- deserves to know that he’s loved, that he’ll always have a home with Magnus. That he’s family to Magnus, even if Magnus isn’t to him.
So, when Raphael lets him go, Magnus takes a deep breath and says, “Te quiero.”
“Magnus,” Raphael says, putting each hand on one of Magnus’ arms, like he needs him to stay still to absorb this information, “You’re like a father to me. You know that, right?”
Magnus just stares at him, in open shock, frozen like his whole body and magic has stopped still. Raphael isn’t looking at him, which is probably a good thing, because he looks like he’s battling with the words before they leave his lips.
“You’ve taken me in, and you… Understand me… And you trusted me when I couldn’t trust myself. This will always be my home, to me, as long as it is your home. I don’t want to leave, and I…” he lets out a deep sigh, like he gives up on the battle, and then switches back to spanish, where he sounds confident, strong, certain, “Te amo, Magnus.”
Te amo.
It’s like the world is bursting out of Magnus.
Te quiero means I love you, but te amo runs so much deeper than that. It’s the kind of deep, selfless caring where loving a person feels a natural part of yourself. It’s deep, and strong, and calm, all at once, and many people live without ever saying that to anyone who isn’t their spouse, or family.
It’s bigger than when he made Magnus his mom’s special recipe. It’s bigger than the hugs, and the tears, and the time that he saved his life. It’s solid, palpable, words as solid as a spell’s.
And Magnus bursts.
All but lunges at him, forcing him back into a hug that’s, if possible, even tighter than the previous one. It knocks the air out of his lungs with a sob, sudden and desperate and relieved, like he hasn’t been breathing before he allowed himself to let that fear go.
He’s crying, like a kid, suddenly and freely and honestly, and all words escape him, except for the ones he holds deeper in his heart.
“Anakku yang kuhargai,” he says, amazingly clearly considering how overwhelmed he feels, “aku sayang kau.”
My precious son, I love you so much. It’s Malay. Words of his past, of his history, of his making, from so long ago Magnus doesn’t even know if they’re still the same, but still the ones his heart speaks in, the ones that touch him deepest even when he hasn’t dared utter them in years.
Raphael doesn’t know what it means, of course. It’s so silly- but he doesn’t have to, because he understands it all the same. And he knows, because he gets it, just how much Magnus is sharing by saying this to him, like this, in tears, in Malay, in the language that has always been family and home to him.
Raphael doesn’t know, but he knows, because he hugs Magnus back just as tight, and tells him “it’s okay, it’s okay, we will always be family, Magnus, it’s okay.”
And god, Magnus thinks. It just might be.
#sh#shadowhunters#Magnus Bane#Raphael Santiago#sh fic#magnus bane fic#raphael santiago fic#idk#camille belcourt is an abuser#camille's trash party#rosa santiago#found family
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bookposting #22
tender is the night, f. scott fitzgerald: 3.5 stars, i’d say. i really do like his prose style. it…there’s some l-word, i forget which—languid, that’s it. it felt very languid. i was less a fan of the flashback parts, partially because i didn’t like being in dick’s head as much as i liked being in rosemary’s. it also sometimes felt like fitzgerald was kind of wobbling around on the border between “no, obviously dick isn’t meant to be a sympathetic character, he’s a self-destructive asshole” and the, like, not being really sure whether he was extending that “you shouldn’t like him!” to the part where he marries his teenage psychiatric patient. (fortunately the autobiographical resemblance didn’t get that far…?) really what i was mostly thinking by the end was, damn, fscott and zelda, i really wish you’d lived in a time when it was easier to get divorced. but, you know, on the list of books about people just really fucking themselves over, this is one of the better ones. i think i got it because i can’t / couldn’t stop thinking about “patient is the night” from over the garden wall.
the fire next time, james baldwin: 5 stars easy. i really wish i’d read it sooner; i ended up reading it because i bought my roommate a copy for his birthday and wanted to be able to write him a decent further-reading list to go with it. i just was completely awed by the facility with which he was able to touch on so many different things and draw them back together into a whole, and he was such a writer. i don’t know that i can really talk about "down at the cross” right now without just quoting massive passages because it just speaks so completely for itself. read it.
trouble the saints, alaya dawn johnson: three stars? this is kind of hard to talk about because i theoretically like a lot about it. alternate-universe 1930s-1940s where at the age of 10 some people of color gain a power called “the hands” along with occasional semi-prophetic dreams, “the hands” basically give you one superpower like “can see a person’s worst deed by touching them” or “can sense threat to oneself”, protagonist’s power is unfailingly perfect aim, which she uses to kill for the mob. i think maybe it was a marketing issue, because from the blurbs and so forth it seemed to be being sold as much more of a straight up and down fantasy noir, which is absolutely not what you’re getting. it’s extremely character-driven and thematically very concerned with passing, liminality, justice, ancestral trauma. i will say i didn’t care as much for the middle third, i thought dev’s narrative voice was not interesting, especially compared to phyllis or tamara. it’s…i don’t know, i think it’s interesting and it’s definitely something i’d enthusiastically recommend to other people but i just didn’t really click with it. maybe a prose issue, idk, it got kind of dense sometimes in a way that didn’t really work with the plot, imo.
the story of silence, alex myers: rating…i don’t know, i feel like it might be a book that’d improve on rereading, provisional three because i felt a bit disappointed. retelling of the roman de silence, a 13th century french poem about a lord who, due to inheritance law, raises his afab child silence as a boy and which i haven’t yet read (which might be one of the reasons it didn’t click, i couldn’t tell if/where myers was deviating from the story beyond the obvious change to the ending—in the poem, silence ends up married to the king; in the book, silence escapes that fate and the fate of being forcibly externally gendered in general). i think that probably its best strength is as a prose adaptation of the poem, because it definitely has the feel of, like, the better prose adaptations of arthurian poems (which this is, merlin is in it). but on its own i’m less sure; there’s not really a lot of character exploration. i’m gonna donate my copy because it’s a 400-page hardback and i don’t want to pay to send it home, i can get a paperback in the states.
wakenhyrst, michelle paver: two stars. oy. a very boring gothic horror with not enough horror and far too many diary entries from the main character’s terrible father. remarkably unsympathetic treatment of the housemaid who is being, frankly, sexually exploited by said father. also i felt like there were digs being taken at margery kempe, which is less serious but still annoyed me. paver really, really likes doing epistolary/diary-based horror—she did it in dark matter, which i did like—but these ones are just not well-done, the shift back and forth between them and the main character’s perspective doesn’t do much, and the horror—which as far as i can tell is the maybe-real ghost of the father’s sister who he let drown in the fen when they were kids coming back into the house—is just not given enough room to get really settled and also not really successfully integrated with the big spooky 15th century painting that’s also part of the whole thing somehow.
one-way street and other writings, walter benjamin, trans. j.a. underwood: three stars again? i don’t know; i think that a lot of it was very well-written / translated but i was missing the referents to actually engage with it. also i was really, really tired when i read the first two essays. i did like “one-way street,” it felt kind of like invisible cities in a way, and “hashish in marseille” was funny because like dude we’ve all been there, we’ve all been high and unable to stop staring at people’s faces. i think overall the things that i understood i liked but i didn’t understand as much as i wanted to.
the dunwich horror and other stories, h.p. lovecraft: three and a half, four, something in that neighborhood, graded to the lovecraft curve (a curve somehow squamous and rugose!). overall the stories were pretty well-selected—the dunwich horror is definitely one of his best, the thing on the doorstep is very interesting as a story, like, thematically; the dreams in the witch house didn’t work as well for me because it is kind of about a guy double-majoring in math and folklore too hard (and what the fuck is “non-euclidean calculus” anyway, howie), accidentally discovering teleportation, and then getting chased by a witch and and her half gef the mongoose / half vladislav cat familiar in the form of evil shapes, the lurking fear really dropped the ball at the end and is basically a dry run for the rats in the walls; i had no idea what was going on in hypnos, and the outsider is a decent sort of twilight zone-y tomato in the mirror couple of pages. i think really what i found most interesting about this collection is that it made it very clear to me that lovecraft was deeply, deeply obsessive about eugenics. which, i mean, i’d already known he had the ingredients for it (seething, all-consuming racism; classism of the “augh the inbred hillbillies!” type that was very foundational for american eugenics; his personal concern with / fear of hereditary mental illness; interest in what was in the 1920s cutting edge science) but i hadn’t quite put them together until looking at the dunwich horror and the lurking fear and their presentation of rural new englanders, combined with the, you know, his stuff about innsmouth (as always i say: THE FISH PEOPLE DID NOTHING WRONG) and the racist implications therein, which crops up in dunwich and in thing on the doorstep, the way all three are very, very concerned with genealogy / heredity… shouldn’t have taken me that long to figure it out. one thing i did like about the lurking fear was the moment when the narrator, atop the hill where the abandoned house of the ill-fortuned and vanished martense family stands, looks out over the plain and suddenly realizes that the weird earth mounds in the area are all radially emanating from that hill. it’s an actually effective spooky moment! i thought it was gonna be giant mole people! it isn’t, it’s the martense family having somehow managed in 100 years, through some really committed inbreeding, to devolve into weird voiceless subterranean cannibalistic hominids. boo.
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Racism is real.
Excuse me for this, but I need to say something about what’s going on concerning these issues like that Karen and George Lynch. I will be real blunt here. If this offends you, don’t read it. First, Imma say this, there’s no such thing as post-racial America. Racism has always been here, but why? One if you think that racism exists because people talk about, you’re stupid af. Does Firemen talking fires create more fires? No. So stop that.
As said by the quote, racism is about power, not morality. That’s why racism stays afloat in this country because it actually benefits it. Racism is privilege/predujice plus power. You must have power to be racist. Racism is about a system that favors one race over others. Racism is about targeting marginalized races through institutional violence or discrimination. Lynchings, blackface, segregated buildings, gerrymandering, racial violence and killings, gentrification, not serving marginalized races, workplace discrimination, persecution of immigrants, police violence, assimilation, economic/income inequality, mass imprisonment, racial profiling, sacred land being disrespected, poor environmental/economic/working conditions are examples. Our government is responsible for keeping racism alive, from the beginning to right now. They either supported it, let it happened, or did nothing. The 13th Amendment never ended racism nor did integration. I’m all for desegregation, but the push for integration was a waste because it did nothing to protect us (Black people) from racism, it just assimilated us. You can’t integrate without any social or economic justice. MLK warned us about it.
If we’re living in a post racial society, why are there still, KKK, Neo Nazis, and all types of fascists and white supremacists running around? Why are there still places that are segregated? I see this a lot in my home state Mississippi, and other southern states. And it’s not just there, it’s everywhere. There is just as much racism and segregation in other regions like the Midwest and the Pacific States. For example, progressive cities like Portland, Seattle, Austin, San Francisco, NYC, Boston and yes Minneapolis have racism. Why are worshipping racist imagery like the CONfederacy (it’s dead and no more), plantations, famous people that we known racists this includes politicians and presidents? We still have the issues of racism like the aforementioned ways of institutional violence and discrimination still going on and our government (alluvem) did nothing. They’ve let the beast grow stronger and it’s gonna continue until we stop it.
What I need to add about racism being still alive is that its been normalized and/or no one gave a damn about it. Racism is more than just hating on skin color or calling people racist slurs, stop looking at the Webster definition. Racism is also about ways how to support the racist system. Examples: Falsely calling the police, supporting a reason why a Black person or POC should get killed, policing Black people/POC on racism, denying racism, fetishizing us and our culture, complaining about us winning awards and pageants, getting roles that are usually reserved for whites, stereotyping, and moving on up in the workplace, All Lives Matter, what about Black on Black crime despite every race doing some crime, okaying removal of Indigenous land, supporting racist politicians, branding nonChristians as terrorists, supporting that immigrants should be treated terribly because they crossed the border despite the fact that this country is originally Indigenous land, angry about the kneeling protests, putting MLK in yo mouth, wisecracking jokes about us like something about welfare or unemployment, saying words like thugs, animals, ghetto, criminals to describe Black folks, issa lot. Here’s a pyramid too.
But what about racism by Black people? Don’t be silly. We can be douches to y’all, but we (along with Indigenous people) can’t be racist to y’all because we don’t have the power to actively discriminate against y’all. If you want reverse discrimination, then look at Planet of the Apes. The apes are rulers of their planet, while the humans are oppressed. That’s what it looks like.
Now on the Karen (Imma call her on that) and George Lynch. So the Karen had the audacity to call the police on Christian Cooper because she couldn’t control her dog. This is a historical problem. Women like her have accused Black men of harming them, when it was a lie, and it got Black people killed. Emmett Till, Tulsa riots, Rosewood, Scotsboro Case, the Central Park Five are examples. On George Lynch, it was murder by the police. Police violence is institutional because it’s made to target marginalized people especially Black and Brown people, women, poor people, immigrants, LBGT people especially trans people (the ones y’all treat like garbage, despite the fact that all they wanna do is live life), and it’s not a few bad seeds, it’s a majority. There are cops that are good people, but that don’t mean anything. And the riots that happen, it’s not an act of recklessness, it’s a rebellion. Riots been happening since ever. There were riots when MLK was killed, the Vietnam War happening, when Black people were getting killed or brutalized by the police like Rodney King (LA), Mike Brown (Ferguson), Freddie Gray (Baltimore), and now George Lynch (Minneapolis). If you can’t put 1 and 1 together, then you’re the problem. These riots are because they’re angry at the system that keep targeting people like them. Keep in mind that these people are targeting corporations and the state not people. It really shows that you care about property than human lives. BTW, where’s all that energy for Tulsa and Rosewood, the KKK, Rioting over sports, Rioting over that creepy coach from Penn State, and those anti-quarantine protestors with racist imagery who’s armed with guns and been blocking ambulances? I don’t see y’all saying anything bout them. This also ties into other issues. Y’all have a problem with rebellious violence, but not a problem with going to another country and destroying it?
I’m so dang tired, y’all and stuff like this happens not just the people who do it, but the people who refuse to acknowledge it or do nothing about it. Look at the quote above. If y’all ain’t gonna do anything about it, you’ve chosen a side. Lemme tell y’all something, your ignorance, apathy, apologism, colorblindless tone policing, and reactionary behavior contributes to stuff like this. If ain’t gonna be anti-racist, then sit down and shut up. Stop with this crap like I don’t see color or we’re the same. Our race matters. We ain’t the same as you. We’re different from you. We don’t have the same luxuries and lifestyles as you. Stop thinking we can make it far as you. We got blocks in our way. You don’t.
All the things that I’ve mentioned about concerning racism is why we kneel (I see nothing wrong with it). Y’all upset with people kneeling, but y’all think that all types bigots and reactionary trash should have free speech. Rioting happens because of injustice against marginalized people. If you can’t see that, you’re lost. As Malcolm X said, the chickens are coming home to roost. What about all that stuff they’ve taken? Screw dat stuff. These multi-millionaire and billionaire companies got the money to save themselves. Property can be replaced, not human lives. Speaking of that, why ain’t you mad that these corporations have doubled, tripled their wealth during this crisis?
Now to allies because Imma see who y’all riding with. One of the worse things you can do is center yourselves or one of your kinfolk into issues like this. It’s not about you. If y’all are all talk, no action then you fake as hell. If you doing this cuz you saw the video, then it’s not genuine because you had all time to do so. If you see someone being racist or just being a huge reactionary ass, CALL THEM OUT ON IT! It’s time to hold these people accountable or if they can’t comply, cancel them. If you see someone doing something to Black people, stop em. There’s Google, y’all need to look up the history of Black people not only in America, but the world, because anti-Blackness is global. This includes Indigenous people too. Understand how colonialism work because that’s how stuff like this happens. Support Black people financially such as Mutual Aids, helping out when they’re down financially, and sending money to Black owned anything. The founder of Little Ceaser’s helped paid for Rosa Parks’ living. Fight for better working, living conditions for us. If you see something wrong, speak out. Don’t be a white savior. You ain’t doing this for validity. You’re doing this because it’s what you’re supposed to do. Don’t listen to the media, because they’re full of lies (alluvem). I’m finished y’all. Here some more quotes:
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Second Democratic Debate Analysis, pt. 1
Like last time, I’ve (finally) read the transcripts. I read the fact-checkers’ analysis. I have ranked them.
Also like last time, due to the size of the field, I’ll be splitting my analysis into four groups. This first one will be the Please Do Not Make Me Vote For Them group:
Good news! Due to candidates dropping out, it’s a shorter list!
Biden, Williamson, Delaney, Ryan, and Bullock
Under the break, I’ll be analyzing their debate performance, how effectively they represented themselves on the issues, and how much I hate them, in reverse order of preference. Let’s begin.
17) Bullock
Governor Steve Bullock did not make an appearance in the first set of debates, and now I know why. He is the Shirley Exception made flesh. “Surely no one would actually use our laws to hurt someone. Surely if someone is really a good person they won’t face terrible abuses. Surely not…” Stevie, these are things that are currently happening. These are facts.
Those who read my analysis of the first debates should know that I do not accept any luke-warm “healthcare choice” arguments, and Steve is full of those, too.
He’s very worried about other candidates campaign promises being unrealistic, and says that it’s important to listen to “real Americans,” as if democratic socialists and the majority of Americans who support universal healthcare aren’t “real” enough for him.
As if that weren’t enough, he also argues in favor of some of the abuses of immigrants, as a deterrent to immigration.
To his credit, he supports treating gun violence as a public health issue, including research by the CDC into causes, which could inform actually useful gun control policies. He wants to see Citizens United overturned, which is also good. But not good enough.
16) Ryan
Representative Tim Ryan has the distinction of being one of the candidates I hated entirely in this debate. I agreed with none of his points, and most of my notes contain profanity. He introduced himself as New and Fresh, playing on his youth (he’s 45. The average age of the democratic candidates is 54. There are 4 people running who are younger than Tim) without offering much substance.
He opposes decriminalizing the border. On healthcare he seems to think we can’t make healthcare better for everyone because then unions won’t have anything going for them which is just…
He thinks letting businesses “buy in to medicare” is a good idea, and all I can hear is “privatize the social safety net and let companies decide whose grandma actually deserves to have proper care when she breaks her hip.”
I’m not saying Tim is evil. I’m saying he’s spineless and would let bad things happen because it’s too much work to stop them.
15) Delaney
Representative John Delaney joins Tim Ryan in the dubious category of “I hate you and everything you stand for.” The only reason he ranks slightly higher than Tim is because someone had to. Their scores were the same level of shrieking profanity.
John thinks that reminding everyone that he was the youngest CEO in the history of the New York Stock Exchange is a good thing, showing that he has absolutely no idea what democrats are looking for in a candidate. Surely, we should trust him! He sold his soul early and has abided by the contract for so long!
He is another candidate decrying “unrealistic” campaign promises. He reiterated his concern that Medicare for All would underfund the healthcare industry in America, he considers it an “extreme” policy proposal, and called it an “anti-private sector strategy.” Yes, John, because the private sector’s profit motive has been working so well, let’s all continue dying so that small groups of people can make lots of money off of the price of insulin. Fuck you.
14) Williamson
Marianne Williamson’s contributions were blessedly brief and infrequent. She supports public campaign funding, which is great, but she also spent an entire minute on “I have concerns” without once proposing a solution, referred to the American healthcare system as a “sickness care system,” which for me evokes concerns about chemtrails and chemikillz, and her opening statement evoked American Exceptionalism.
I’m so tired of Marianne Williamson.
13) Biden
Former Vice President, Former Senator Joe Biden was invited to comment on everything. As a result, I have over a page of notes just for him. The moderators’ bold strategy of checking in with Uncle Joe every time anyone said anything gave him opportunities to say a few things I agreed with, but ultimately was not enough to get him out of my lowest ranked category.
As he said in the last debate, Joe supports rejoining the Paris Climate Accord. This time, he said we need to “increase” the standard, apparently recognizing that solutions negotiated several years ago will not be sufficient now, and he wants to see an end to fossil fuel subsidies. These are good things I can agree with.
Joe is concerned by the treatment of immigrants seeking asylum, and the excessive wait times for their cases to be heard and the refugees either released or returned to their country of origin. His solution is to “flood the zone,” spend more resources to make decisions faster. This guarantees nothing except a reduction in detainees which, while generally positive, is less than half a solution.
The thing Joe said that I liked best was about the treatment of former-inmates after the completion of their prison sentences. Joe said that former-inmates should have access to public programs and benefits upon release. This would be a significant change from the current system, which continues to punish people long after their sentence is served. He also said that drug crimes should result in rehab, not prison.
Joe continued to use his association with Obama as a shield against criticism, which was worn thin before the first debate started. He evaded questions about Eric Garner, refused to answer questions about Obama-era deportations (with the added bonus of “what I said was said in confidence, you’d share it, but not me”), invoked American Exceptionalism in his opening statement, interrupted Cory Booker at one point, blamed all of our current political and social dysfunction on Trump, and thinks we should renegotiate the Trans Pacific Partnership.
The cherry on top of this shit sundae? He said the phrase “I have the only plan that (…)”
I haven’t talked about this much, because it’s a little hard to express in text, but I have a very, very negative response to any claim to being the only person who can solve a problem. It’s bad when Trump does it, it’s bad when Biden does it, it’s an abuser’s tactic. “I’m the only one who loves you, I’m the only one who can help you, I’m the only one” is always a) a lie, and b) a red flag.
Granted, I was so far behind that some of Biden’s comments formed parallels I might not have seen when he initially said them, but some of the things he said about immigration were symptomatic of the same thought process that gave us that abominable rewrite of Emma Lazarus’s New Colossus. Biden, when trying to make a point about the strength of America being in our diversity, said that “we’ve been able to cherry pick from the best of every culture,” and followed it up with “anybody that crosses the stage with a PhD, you should get a green card for seven years. We should keep them here.” Not everyone who immigrates to the U.S. is going to have an advanced degree. Not everyone who immigrates to the U.S. is going to be “the best and brightest.” And that’s a good thing. There is a limit to the number of doctors and lawyers a society needs. Some immigrants are going to be nurse’s assistants and cab drivers, and we need them here, too.
Even with all of that, the worst of what Joe had to say was about healthcare. Joe thinks that limiting co-pays to $1000 per person is part of making healthcare accessible to everyone. He thinks your health insurance premium should be no more than 8.5% of your annual income. I did some math. For minimum wage, that’s almost $2500 for insurance, out of pocket, before anyone sees any benefit. After taxes, that leaves about $10k for a minimum wage worker to live on for a year. At $15/hour, $20k to live on. These are not reasonable numbers in most of the country.
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Okay, story time:
Or how me and my gf met, ‘cause I’m very much thinking about her right now.
Me and my gf met online. Not here. I was venting about having to go back to the place I was living with a hundred a forty men in one building, and she, randomly, found it. I still can look up that first conversation. She had just realized she was trans and was looking for someone to talk to, and I guess I was too.
A couple of days later she sent me a picture, the first time she went out in a dress. She was so scared. And ridiculously beautiful. And then we talked on the phone and I realized I was crushing on her badly. But, hey, you know, she was three hundred miles away so I kept it to myself.
And then we skype called. Picture her, on my computer, in a tiny room in a place surrounded by men I was not out to, and me being entranced. We talked for hours. And then we made plans to call again the next day. A few calls later I awkwardly ended a call with “I love you.”
And then the next day we called again, and she said she wanted to tell me something, and I wanted to tell her something as well. It turned out it was the same thing. We made it official not long after that.
It took another month before we met in person. She crossed an international border to meet someone she had never seen in person. Our first kiss was in a bus station in Buffalo, both of us still presenting male. I was shaking so, so badly. And then we spent a weekend in a friend’s basement. Best first date ever.
We’ve changed since then. I’ve changed. So much has happened. I went full time, as did she. We’re both more confident. There was the period of time she was literally on the other side of the world, I got my job, she graduated. All that. But she has become just the most wonderful woman ever and I cannot wait to know all the other people she will be.
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