#in order to allow them access to a victim

[woundcat]

last rb also made me think of this, but when I talk about grooming in regard to the ratliff brothers, I also think about lochlan's awareness of the situation within the family structure.

when lochlan engages in saxon's sexual overtures he becomes something more substantial than the child he's always been to the ratliffs, and he knows that. he finally feels something other than the usual rules. (he may not be allowed to feel things on his own, he may only be told what he needs to know, he may only be an adult when his family says it's okay, he may only want things when someone tells him what to want. he still occupies a very classic child-space within the nuclear family). he enjoys feeling needed/wanted by piper, but that's different. he's still her baby brother. he needs to please saxon by being the sexual project that his brother works on in order to enact his hypersexual alpha male fantasy. and that's new, that's different and confusing, because he's not a kid anymore. it feels weird, but what else is there? if not this, then how else to de-kidify himself. "one day I'm gonna take you down" is such a sad little attempt at gaining agency, but to him, it probably feels empowering.

lochlan's not just a kid who's been a passive actor in his relationship with saxon, on some level he knows what he's giving to get the validation he needs. no one gives him the validation that only adults seem to be able to access. he's not important to his perfect nuclear family unless they want something out of the role he plays (e.g. piper asking him to come to dinner, timothy using him as a catalyst through which to justify poisoning the rest of family). lochlan's always going to be placed into child-status with them, and children are so often rendered into objects.

that makes it hard for lochlan to identify which one of them is doing it correctly. which version of objectification is most correct? when saxon believes in his ability to fuck, it must be a good thing, right? and never mind that saxon basically labels him as young fucking cum, at least he's handing him a beer and giving him the world.

and I don’t think saxon actively wants to become the new ratliff patriarch at this point. he's still depending on daddy. his goal is still tim's approval. but he's an adult now and has been for some time, and yet he's stuck doing what he's told. he needs power to become that figure, and sex is his power, and so turning his gay effeminate brother into a (hetero)sexual being is power too. THE power, maybe. because if he can make lochlan (the child, the object, the project) into a MAN then maybe he's a real man too. 

only it blows up in his fucking face because guess what - saxon is also a victim of the nuclear family, and the kid in him is floundering. (not to say their victimhood is mutual or at the same level + and I don't love that as an identifier). I mean it's the perfect conditions for sibling incest, really. the child's need for power can only be fulfilled by the other child who desires the same comforts. the child is now a man and the man is now a child. the man fills the child-shaped hole of his brother. lol. no one is happy.

what lochlan needed was a channel through which he could explore his young adult sexuality outside of his family and feel like human being. but unfortunately he took the one that was right in front of him because it looked the most appealing and for a moment he felt good and sick and good again. at least he's felt things he's never felt before. and despite all of this, in the end he's still chided for kiddish hero-worship and sees his family all godlike in the lights as he dies, because they are all he knows. project unsuccessful. 

tldr: it's all about the STRUCTURES!!

I also think there is covert incest operating in other family dynamics ie. saxon and his parents / piper and lochlan. but another conversation for another day.

[monstersdownthepath]

Monster Spotlight: Rusalka

CR 12

Neutral Evil Medium Fey

Bestiary 3, pg. 232 (art from 2e's Bestiary 2, pg. 229)

Let me tell you, I had a hell of a time picking between what picture to actually use for this article. The Rusalka of Earth are oftentimes the spirits of young maidens who perished near waterways and sought to trick men into the same waters in order to drown them, but the Rusalka of Golarion are a whole different sort of beast altogether! They are cruel and bitter fey who enjoy breaking the spirits of any being lured in by their hypnotic voice, often keeping them around to serve as mean-spirited entertainment before drowning them and moving on to the next plaything. Thus, I was torn between using the illustration of a more traditional Rusalka which portrayed them as a watery young woman, and the more monstrous image from 2nd Edition's Bestiary 2 that reflects what they are in the actual game.

Even now, as I write this, I can't decide. Perhaps I'll pick via coin flip, and whatever happens, happens. You, the DMs of your own games, can use whichever versions you like!

Whatever they may look like, their attitudes and the ways in which they interact with the world are roughly the same. They are malevolent entities that haunt waterways, preferring ponds and rivers that are less than a day's walk from human settlements as to have consistent access to their favorite prey, waiting patiently in or near their home waters while singing beautiful, alluring songs or performing elaborate and entrancing dances atop the water's surface to make passers-by fatally curious. For times when this alone is not enough, Rusalka can cheat with Beckoning Call, supernaturally hypnotizing all creatures within 300ft which fail a DC 27 Will save and forcing them to approach the crooning fey. There is no limit to how many times a Rusalka may unleash this call, only that it takes a standard action to perform, an additional standard action to maintain, and that any creature succeeding against the song is immune to it for 24 hours.

Anyone who succeeds the save is going to have a hell of a time breaking the spell over their allies, because you're never going to be able to see the source to attack it preemptively. Rusalka can turn invisible at will and have +27 to Stealth besides, allowing them to sit placidly on the surface of the water or among the branches of trees growing in their territory without fear of being spotted before they wish to reveal themselves. They can be quite theatrical about it, too, using their 3/day Control Water to command their home to accommodate another victim (or hide just how far from shore they really are) and an at-will Fog Cloud to create some necessary cover to let them get dangerously close to their new playmate or the party (or mask the receding shoreline!) without them knowing until it's too late.

Once pulled in by the song (or interesting debate; the Call can be casual speech!), the Rusalka then has all the time it needs to decide what to do with the new potential plaything. Most of them are immediately targeted with the fey's 3/day Quickened Charm Monster and kept nearby for both entertainment and to protect the Rusalka against anything capable of harming it, while anyone not sufficiently entertaining is quickly dispatched by the foul thing's magic. Let it be known that few Fey fight fair, but a Rusalka in battle is downright infuriating, combining both underwater combat AND heavy concealment, while you're also likely down one or two party members from the charm effect! And because they can, essentially, attack out of nowhere any time the party is crossing near a body of water, they may not be prepared for an aquatic battle, leaving them all the more vulnerable to the thing's frustrating kit and environmental hazards!

To begin, a Rusalka is guarded by an eternal, undispellable Blur effect, granting them 20% concealment just off the bat. They can naturally walk on water but freely sink below it if they're in potential danger, shielding themselves from ranged attacks as they weave in their own from the protection of the water. If this weren't enough, they can use that Fog Cloud to break line of sight between them and dangerous casters, though thankfully they can't see through their own mist... not that it matters much for anyone already grappled by them.

Yes, grappled. Rusalka are deceptively strong at 20 Str, but they use their arms as little as possible, preferring to instead entangle their foes with their lengthy, dangerous Tresses. Their malicious manes can lash out at victims up to 15ft away, dealing 2d6+5 damage and Grabbing anything they hit, at which point the Rusalka can use their swift 60ft swim speed to drag their targets deep below the waves... and I do mean the full 60ft, because it does not gain the grappled condition when snagging creatures with its Tresses. Anyone who gets grappled is one round away from being disappeared to the bottom of a lake, so you'd better have brought Freedom of Movement!

For the entire party. Because Rusalka can make up to four attacks with their Tresses when using a Full-Attack, and thus simultaneously grapple and drag around four creatures at once without any speed penalties. Drowning isn't normally a threat unless you dump Constitution (Do Not Do This), but with one of these fey around, it becomes a very real threat the party must contend with, as their swift swim speed lets them hit the bottom of most lakes in just a round or two. That being said, despite the danger presented by drowning--especially since, again, the party probably ran into the Rusalka by accident unless specifically sent to kill it--grappled victims are more likely to die from the Constriction, adding another 2d6+7 crushing damage to each creature that fails to escape the grappling hair each round.

Recall, as well, that the Tresses have a 15ft reach, while the Rusalka has only a 5ft body. They can keep the entire party entirely at arm's length with their +27 to grapple checks, preventing any melee from touching them while underwater combat rules stop ranged attacks and grapple rules prevent most forms of magic. And just in case you're not taking me seriously enough about the drowning threat, a single touch attack from a Rusalka can inflict the staggered condition on a failed DC 27 Fortitude save, allowing them to weave in a debuff during their Full-Attack to make it even harder for grappled foes to escape OR fight back.

A single Rusalka is one of those monsters that feels extremely mean to drop as a random encounter, capable of killing an entire unprepared party while having little counterplay unless the whole group has a way to either fight it underwater without penalty OR drag it ashore and keep it there... provided the ones capable of beating its Str contest aren't already charmed. And even on the shore, their constant Blur and their at-will Entangle and Fog Clouds make them frustrating to actually hit, with Entangle especially preventing the more fragile party members from escaping their deceptive reach before they're snared and dragged further out of position. They're protected by a hefty DR 15/Cold Iron and 23 Spell Resistance and are fully immune to Fire damage, and their feat selection plus their inflated 20 Hit Dice gives them heightened saving throws at +12/+18/+15, preventing most save-reliant effects from reliably working, especially anything trying to target their Reflex saves

And if all else fails, they can turn invisible and dive into the water, very likely preventing the party from ever finding them unless they want to just blow up the entire body of water. They're frustrating all around, and can lead to encounters that feel frantic or even hopeless! And I didn't even bring up the fact they can summon 1 Huge or 1d3 Large Water Elementals 1/day to really clog up the battlefield with giant chunks of HP! At some point, boiling away the whole lake starts to feel justified.

You can read more about them here.

[heavengones]

you'd think she would have learned her lesson by now , putting herself in tricky situations with someone she considered a close friend , but then she's looking into his eyes and her stomach is in knots . the kind you warn yourself about : butterflies . bees . birds . swallows hard , glancing between his eyes as her body ultimately falls victim to his strength , rolling her eyes , "it's because i have short arms that you're cheating ." anything to keep her mind from focusing on his warmth and how touch ignites the fuel , lighting the match in her system and single handedly dousing her in a million flames , burning at his stake . naturally parts her legs for him to fit between them , running her foot up the back of his leg , bucking her hips up slightly to feel his erection pressing against the inside of her thigh . "think you're the one who likes it ," whispers with a hum , breathing out against his lips , desperate for a taste when the next set of syllables out of his mouth keep her muted for a beat . you're not going on another date with him . he wasn't asking , he was telling her . and though it should piss her off that he felt the need to order her around and make decisions on her behalf , her stomach tightens further with a need for him that no other man -- including the one he alluded to -- could satiate . eyes flutter shut the moment she feels his lips on hers , skyrocketing her heartbeat until she feels it in her throat and kissing him back as lesser parts to allow access inside her mouth , tongue licking into the comfort of his own .

doesn't   know   how   to   keep   himself   from   touching   her   ,   from   wanting   her   .   they've   caved   into   each   other   too   many   times   now   --   her   living   here   ,   alone   with   him   ,   gave   him   to   much   access   to   blurring   the   lines   .   it   was   easier   before   ,   when   she   was   gone   and   when   she   lived   at   home   with   her   shitty   parents   :   he   had   no   choice   but   to   keep   his   hands   and   desires   to   himself   .   but   he's   never   been   a   noble   man   ,   so   why   start   now   ?   stares   down   at   her   with   smirk   still   curling   his   lips   ,   eyes   taking   in   the   sight   of   her   helpless   and   squirming   beneath   him   .   "   it   is   fair   .   not   my   fault   your   arms   are   short   .   "   knee   brushes   against   him   ,   sweatpants   doing   him   no   favors   in   hiding   how   blood   is   rushing   to   where   it   shouldn't   ,   and   he's   swallowing   .   hard   .   they're   so   close   that   every   rise   and   fall   of   her   chest   is   brushed   against   his   ,   her   body   heat   combining   with   his   and   making   the   temperature   in   the   room   twenty   degrees   hotter   .   wants   to   say   screw   the   movie   ,   they   could   make   their   own   .   "   mm   ,   is   that   what   this   is   ?   "   voice   is   low   ,   taunting   as   he   lets   the   remote   fall   to   the   floor   and   hand   that   isn't   pinning   her   wrists   above   her   head   is   drifting   down   to   gently   brush   along   her   waist   .   her   shirt   has   risen   with   the   way   he   has   her   positioned   ,   porcelain   skin   exposed   beneath   the   thin   fabric   of   his   shirt   ,   and   he   can't   resist   temptation   to   feel   her   .   "   i   don't   think   it's   a   problem   .   "   head   is   tilting   ,   their   noses   brushing   as   he   glances   from   her   eyes   to   her   lips   ,   "   but   i   do   think   it's   cute   seeing   you   act   like   you   don't   like   it   .   "   hot   breath   is   brushed   along   her   brims   ,   and   he's   meet   her   gaze   again   ,   holding   it   for   a   beat   or   two   ,   "   you're   not   going   on   another   date   with   him   .   "   it's   not   a   debate   ,   nor   an   invitation   for   another   argument   ,   because   he   isn't   giving   her   a   chance   to   respond   .   instead   ,   grasp   is   tightening   around   frail   wrists   and   he's   tilting   his   head   forward   ,   pressing   hot   curve   of   his   mouth   to   hers   .

[pynkhues]

Interesting idea about Marius maybe being noticeably taller than both Lestat and Armand. I haven't read the books and I've been thinking that it doesn't matter what Marius looks like, but I've seen some people say that he looks like Lestat and that's important. The show can obviously adapt or not adapt whatever elements of the books it chooses, so it doesn't really matter for the show, but does it matter in the books that Lestat resembles Marius?

Hmm, I don't remember it being super important that Marius and Lestat look alike? But again, I've only read the first five books and I read them a hot minute ago (although I am re-reading TVL now - I just got pulled in again when I was reading sections for this fic, haha, Anne is such a compelling writer).

Marius and Lestat's relationship is fairly unique in the books in the context that they take on a bit of a father + favourite son dynamic. Marius is the one who coins the term 'brat prince' for Lestat (and it's absolutely a term of affection when it comes from him), and he's the one who kiiind of steps in in the way it would've been expected Magnus do of that era of ancient vampires when Lestat tracks him down after leaving Paris and before he goes to New Orleans. Marius also has a bit of a flirtation with Gabrielle and is the one who tells Lestat to go live a human life because he was turned before he got to have one (absolutely hilarious levels of hypocrisy coming from Marius who loved turning children lol) which is a big part of why Lestat settles down with Louis in NOLA as opposed to doing whatever else with him. So yeah - it's very much a quasi fatherly role he steps into with Lestat, at least in the early books.

I do think in that sense that it's important Marius see parts of himself - or at least, traits he wants to have - in Lestat, but I don't from memory think it matters too much in terms of physical appearance? It's more that he needs to be extremely charismatic in a way that's not dissimilar to Lestat (but I'd argue not that similar either - they're very different characters, and I think Marius' persona is a lot more of, well, a persona than Lestat's is). Arguably, it's a part of why Armand effectively imprints on, and has the degree of idolatry that he does for Lestat too.

[toopunktofuck]

hi so some fun facts about being a homeless single woman with no children in the USA:

The idea that homeless single women receive quicker help and more help than homeless single men is a huge myth. A lot of organizations and shelters to help the homeless in many areas of the USA were established at a time homelessness among women was much rarer, and as such they only help men. Nothing has changed within these organizations over the decades. The biggest shelter in my area only houses men in 2025. If I hear “well you’re lucky because they wanna try and get ladies off the street first!” one more time after I received zero help from any organization or shelter during months of being homeless with no place to go I will rip my hair out.

This is partially also because single women are generally assumed to have more resources and connections than homeless men. If this is untrue for you, you’re often fucked.

I was repeatedly told that because I was not pregnant, I do not have children, and I wasn’t actively fleeing DV with an associated police report, less help was available to me. It is a systemic flaw that women are encouraged to have children they cannot afford in order to access actual fucking help, not a personal flaw. I was not in any position to have a child at all and have no desire to have children, but it’s still something I considered out of sheer desperation.

This also means in at least some places DV victims cannot receive DV shelter without risking their lives with a police report.

I was connected by a hospital to a case management service specifically for homeless mentally ill individuals. My first meeting with my caseworker I was told the housing crisis is so bad that my only realistic option was to try and beg for housing from my ex. While my ex is not abusive and he did ultimately allow me to stay until I figure something out, it is very likely that women are being encouraged to return to their abusers during this housing crisis. It’s so bad they really don’t have any other fucking ideas.

It’s not “easier” for single homeless women. It’s much harder for them to receive tangible help. You are assumed to have a support network that does not exist and male-only shelter is still extremely common. I’m just sick as hell of the myth that women always get housed first.

[pathologicalreid]

buried alive | S.R.

in which the BAU races against the clock to rescue you from a killer team

who? spencer reid x fem!BAU!reader

category: angsty

content warnings: kidnapping, case stuff (murder yk), suffocation, being buried alive, hospitals, blood, nausea, CPR, funerals, use of pet names, guns, and drugs. i think that's all.

word count: 2.9k

a/n: okay, so i've been reading so much spencer fanfic and i started writing it and yesterday i realized i have 20 fics written and they're doing no one any good just sitting on my computer. i decided to finally try posting one. i wrote fanfic in high school (so like seven years ago) but this is my first time writing for a TV show. i've also never really posted on tumblr so please bear with me while i try to figure out formatting. tysm for checking out my post.

part two part three

You walked into the conference room and dropped the file on the table, allowing it to land on the wood with a satisfying splat. “The unsub’s burying them alive,” you said, letting the rest of the team know the conclusion you had come to with the medical examiner. “The M.E. found metal shavings and satin threads under the nails of our last victim. The most common materials to make up a casket.”

“There’s no way someone could bury someone alive in a casket alone, we’ve got to be dealing with a team, at least three people,” Emily concluded, standing in front of the evidence board.

It was the team’s third day on a case in Nebraska, four women had been discovered dead. Asphyxiation by hypoxia. Carbon dioxide poisoning.

“Approximately 420 people in the United States die from accidental carbon dioxide poisoning every year,” Spencer said, grabbing the file off of the table and flipping through it, taking a few seconds to read through it.

Rossi looked over Reid’s shoulder to look at the file, “but there’s nothing accidental about these deaths. Who would have access to these caskets?”

You shook your head, placing a hand on the back of Spencer’s chair, “A funeral director seems most likely.” You looked around at the Omaha field office, different agents running about in an attempt to solve these very murders. “They’d have the most access, write it off as displays. It could be hard to match the materials since they’re so common.”

Hotch leaned over the table and pressed the conference phone, “What can I do you for?” Garcia’s bright voice rang through the speaker.

“Garcia, I need you to look into funeral homes within the comfort zone. Look for a director who’s ordered more caskets than they’ve had funerals. Find anything, nothing is too small.” He told her.

“Absolutely, I’ll hit you back when I’ve got something,” she said, hanging up the phone.

There ended up being four funeral homes in the unsub’s comfort zone, so the team split up. You went with two locals to a family-owned business, Garcia had sent you all of the files you’d need on the location. “It looks like the Varn family has been in the funeral business since the seventeenth century,” you read aloud to the two agents you were in the car with.

“Does it mean they’re more or less likely to be the killers if they’ve been in business for so long?” One of the agents asked you, a younger man named Harrison.

You pursed your lips as you continued to look over the files, “I’m not seeing any glaringly obvious stressors before the murders started, but over the years I’ve learned that’s no reason to write someone off. Psychopaths can be tipped off by the slightest thing. Things none of us would bat an eye at.”

Harrison nodded in the passenger seat, looking over to his partner Jimmy, “You and your guy sure do make an interesting pair.”

“I’m going to take that as a compliment, so thank you.” You and Spencer never explicitly stated to the field office that you were dating, but you walked into the precinct this morning holding hands. The agents must have drawn their own conclusions.

The younger officer cleared his throat, “It is a compliment, ma’am. The two of you are very impressive, your whole team is.”

You smiled, “Thank you, Harrison.”

The funeral home was run by a mother and her two sons, you held up your credentials for the mother when you knocked on the door. “Are you Sheila Varn?” You asked her, raising your eyebrows.

“Yes, what’s this about?” She inquired. She didn’t really look the part of a serial killer, a middle-aged woman who was running her family business.

Pocketing your credentials, you spoke, “We’re investigating the recent murders in the area and we were wondering if you had samples of the materials your caskets are made out of. Might we be able to come in?” You asked, adding a charming smile for effect.

Something flashed across her face before she returned your smile, opening the door and welcoming the three of you inside. “Hold on, let me get my boys up here. They’re so much more versed in the goings on of the town than I am,” she said, opening the door and calling for her sons. Felix and Joss came up the stairs from the basement, now they definitely had the physique to load dead women into caskets and bury them alive.

“Why don’t you two men come with me? I’ll get you those samples,” Sheila said, motioning for the agents you were with to follow her. To your horror, they followed her around the corner. “Felix, Joss, show this young lady what you know,” she instructed.

You took a deep breath before you looked up at the two men.

They were tall, maybe Spencer’s height, but they were built like wrestlers. There was no way you could physically subdue them on your own.

You passed out before you even had the chance to pull your gun.

Hotch was in full Unit Chief mode, Spencer watched from the corner of the room as he separated people into groups and gave them specific instructions. JJ and Morgan walked into the precinct, “What’s going on?” JJ asked looking around the room.

“The Varn Family is the team; two agents were found drugged on the side of the road and when we went to the funeral home Y/N was missing. Her badge, gun, and phone were all there, covered in blood,” Spencer said morosely, watching as Hotch finished giving orders and called the rest of the team over.

Your picture was up on the evidence board with the word “missing” written in bold letters beneath it. All of your belongings had been put into evidence for the time being. “Reid?” Hotch said his name, causing his head to snap up. “Are you okay to keep working?”

Spencer nodded affirmatively, “Yes.”

“Good, I need you to estimate how much time we have, I want a clock on these screens,” he ordered.

Morgan turned to Reid, “What do you think she has, kid?”

“The tidal volume for the average adult is point five at rest. That ends up being about six liters per minute. The average casket is approximately 886 liters in total volume and the average volume of the human body is 66 liters, leaving 820 liters to be filled with air for her to breathe. If she’s been gone for half an hour already, I’d estimate she has less than five hours of breathable air left.” Spencer explained, doing all of the math in his head while Emily put a timer on the screen next to the evidence board.

After a moment, Hotch continued, “Rossi, JJ, go back to the funeral home. Tear it apart, there has to be something there we haven’t found yet. The rest of us will split the list of cemeteries in the comfort zone and search them.”

“That’s a lot of ground to cover, we don’t have anything else to go on?” Morgan asked, looking at the list of burial sites he had been handed.

Hotch looked at Spencer, but Spencer stayed silent. “That’s all we have right now,” Hotch responded, “hopefully we’ll come across leads as we go.”

It smelled like a garden around you. The memory reminded you of spring with your mother, tending to the vegetable garden.

The only difference was that instead of the sun beaming down on you, it was pitch black. The space surrounding you was so dark that you weren’t totally sure your eyes were open.

Your head was throbbing just above your right temple, and you observed your surroundings. Slowly, you lifted your arm until it hit a ceiling.

Not a ceiling. A lid. You were in a casket. You pressed one hand to your chest and tried to slow your breathing. Chances were that the casket was already buried beneath the surface of the earth, trying to open it could be catastrophic. You patted the pockets of your jeans, only to find your phone missing, so the team wouldn’t be able to trace the location.

Even if you had it, there likely wouldn’t be service six feet under.

Your team would find you. They had to find you.

They found Spencer, they found Emily, and they would find you.

Spencer shifted in the passenger seat of the SUV, “You know, carbon dioxide poisoning is a rather peaceful way to die.”

“Reid,” Morgan said, turning the vehicle onto the main road, they had just finished scouring over another cemetery with still no sign of you.

He sighed and stared at his hands, “No, it’s good. We see so many people killed in so many different ways that it’s good that she won’t be in pain when she runs out of air.” He tried to convince himself.

Morgan cleared his throat, “We aren’t out of time yet, kid. We can still find her. Y/N’s smart, I’m sure she found a way to make more air or something.”

But they were running out of time, less than an hour remained on the timer set on all of their phones.

They pulled into the next cemetery, “There’s some fresh dirt over there, what are the names on the graves of people who were actually recently buried?”

Spencer starts to recite the names, and the two of them start to comb through the cemetery.

You had done enough research on this case to understand what was going on. The light-headed feeling had started not long ago, but now you felt like you were spinning, despite the knowledge that you were stuck in place.

It was a high. Not unlike the good kids high. Except instead of trying to chase a feeling, you were dying.

The timer went off when they were still scouring graves, shovels in hand. Derek stopped in his tracks, but Spencer kept going.

“Wait,” Spencer called out, reading the name on the card next to the fresh grave he was standing at, he moved to start digging. “Essie Dunbar was a thirty-year-old woman who was mistakenly buried alive in 1915,” he said, digging. “This has to be it.”

Derek called Hotch, putting the call on speakerphone so he could help Spencer dig. “Hotch, we got her, but she’s buried.”

“We’re on our way, Omaha police have one of the brothers in custody,” Hotch told Emily to have an ambulance dispatched.

What Reid knew that Derek didn’t was that it could take four hours to dig a grave by hand. The soil had been overturned, so maybe call it three. Your odds were still negligible. He didn’t stop, he didn’t stop when a caretaker came running at them, and he didn’t stop when Derek told him to get his digging equipment out here now.

Derek flashed his FBI badge to get what they needed. He had to physically pull Spencer back from the grave so the backhoe could dig, only going until there was less than a foot between them and the casket.

Spencer crudely attached a chain to the casket and the caretaker's vehicle. Carefully, the caretaker dragged the white container out of the earth and up a slant they had dug. It was locked shut, “Reid, move,” Derek ordered.

He leaned back and Derek fired at the lock, taking it off and opening the casket. Spencer gasped, there was blood on the side of your head, dried and raked through your hair. He was vaguely aware of Hotch and Emily arriving as they pulled you out of your satin prison. You had no pulse, but you were still warm. Immediately, Spencer started CPR.

“Reid let me do it,” Derek insisted.

What he was trying to say is that he shouldn’t have to be the one to try to save your life.

Morgan repeated himself and Spencer pulled away, allowing the other agent to immediately take over. There was a siren in the background, an ambulance. More people showed up, Spencer heard their voices, but he just kept watching you. CPR was effective if it was done shortly after your heart stopped, and even then, permanent brain damage was likely.

It had been eight minutes since they pulled you out of the ground. Clinically, you were dead for eight minutes before you gasped.

Spencer smoothed your hair back, away from your face, while you desperately tried to catch your breath. You weren’t moving, and Spencer started running through symptoms of hypoxia. His biggest fear was brain damage, that they had done more harm to you in bringing you back than they would have had you died.

The EMTs came running over to where everyone had gathered, dispersing the crowd, and placing an oxygen mask over your face. As they were loading you on the stretcher, you started trying to talk, reaching your arm out to your side. “Wait, what’s she saying?” JJ asked.

“Sometimes it’s hard to talk after CPR,” the male EMT said as they moved you closer to the ambulance. He listened to what you were saying, “It’s not coherent.”

Spencer didn’t move, all of the adrenaline that had been coursing through his body all day was leaving.

Aphasia. They were saying the lack of oxygen to your brain was causing aphasia. “No,” Emily said, realization dawning on her features as she strained to listen to you. You were whispering, rasping the same word over and over again. “She’s saying ‘Spence.’”

He stood quickly and looked at you, sure enough, you were reaching out your hand and whispering, “Spence, Spence.” Your voice no more than a whisper.

Grabbing your hand, Spencer squeezed it, “I’m here,” he answered. “It’s okay, it’s over,” he told you, moving your hair out of your face. Spencer secured your oxygen mask over your face as you tried to take it off, “You have to keep this on, angel.”

To his relief, you squeezed his hand back.

You had been instructed to get some rest, but you couldn’t close your eyes. You asked Spencer to go back to the hotel and change his clothes because he smelled like dirt, and it made you nauseous. Your head had been bandaged, you’d been run through an MRI, and you did an EEG, so far, the only brain damage that had been incurred seemed temporary.

According to the doctors, the nausea and fatigue should wear off, but they hadn’t been able to fully assess if any permanent damage was done. At this point, the worst of your injuries had been caused by being given CPR, resulting in cracked ribs.

Despite your headache, you kept most of the lights on in your hospital room, not quite ready to be left in the darkness again. “Hey,” a voice called from your doorway, Spencer stood, waiting to be invited in. He was wearing different clothes, a button-up with a green cardigan thrown over it, and clean pants. “How are you feeling?”

A nasal cannula slightly restricted your movement, but you were sat up in the hospital bed, “Better than I was, but not perfect.”

He shook his head, walking in and taking a seat next to you, “No one expects you to be perfect right now.” Gently, he reached out and took your hand, skimming the pad of his thumb over your knuckles. “They found the mother and the other son, and all three of them are going to go away for a long time,” he told you, speaking in the kind of hushed, reverent tones that are reserved for hospitals.

You sighed and tilted your head back, “Good,” you maundered. “That’s uh, good,” your voice was barely audible.

“So why do you look so worried?” He asked, leaning in closer to you.

In an attempt to dismiss his concern, you joked, “I think I owe Morgan some sort of life debt now.”

Spencer offered you a soft smile, “The two of you tend to trade those off, I’m sure you’ll find some way to make it up to him.” He inclined his head towards you as if to silently say, So what is it really?

You swallowed thickly, “I’m scared to close my eyes, Spence.”

His shoulders dropped, “oh, Angel,” he breathed. “Is there anything I can do for you?” He asked, looping a loose strand of your hair behind your ear. “Wait, what are you doing?” He asked, watching you as you lifted yourself, so you were on one side of the bed.

Shyly, you patted the new empty half of the bed, inviting him to sit next to you.

He had no choice but to comply, he had the hardest time saying no to you. Leaning the bed back slightly, Spencer kicked off his shoes before he laid down next to you, wrapping an arm around you as you set your cheek on his shoulder.

Your body relaxed into his and you sighed, “Spence?” You murmured.

He pressed a gentle kiss to the crown of your head, “Yes, angel?” He whispered back to you.

“Thanks for coming to save me,” you mumbled, slowly relaxing enough to fall asleep.

Spencer exhaled, “I’m always going to come to save you.”

part two

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Gurwinder

Published: Aug 8, 2024

Across the West, protests are getting larger, more frequent, and more disruptive. Over the weekend, the UK saw nationwide anti-immigration riots in which cars were flipped over and buildings set aflame. A few days before that, Just Stop Oil activists sprayed orange paint in the world’s second-busiest airport, Heathrow. The week before, as Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu addressed the US Congress, pro-Palestine activists rioted in Columbus Square, vandalizing memorials and releasing a swarm of maggots and worms in his Washington hotel.

These are just the latest examples of a growing trend of shock-activism that combines political protest and public nuisance, and which has this year seen activists across the West spray-paint Stonehenge, squat on university campuses, block access to roads and bridges, occupy museums and government buildings, storm sports events and movie premieres, attack priceless artworks and historical artifacts, and even desecrate war memorials and holocaust monuments.

Ostensibly, these “nuisance-protests” are carried out by distinct groups motivated by a particular cause, such as the environment, Palestine, trans-rights, or immigration. In reality, however, all are animated by the same, self-destructive ideology: neotoddlerism.

This movement has its roots in the digital revolution of 2009, when use of smartphones and social media reached a critical mass, allowing strangers to easily unite and mobilize around shared views, which led to a rapid increase in the size and frequency of protests around the world. But protests didn’t just become bigger and more frequent, they also became more outrageous.

In infants, the chief causes of outrageous behavior — impulsivity, grandiosity, attention-seeking, and a sense of entitlement — are considered normal, but in adults they’re key symptoms of the “cluster-B” personality disorders. All four such disorders — narcissistic, histrionic, antisocial and borderline — are characterized by overemotionality and a need for validation. They’re also associated with heavy social media use, likely because dramatic cluster-B behaviors, such as playing the victim and catastrophizing, excel at getting attention on such platforms.

The ease with which dramatic behavior gets attention online has convinced many political activists that a better world doesn’t require years of patient work, only a sufficient quantity of drama. Many activists on both the Left and Right now hope to bring about their ideal world the same way a spoiled brat acquires a toy they’ve been denied: by being as loud and hysterical as possible. This is neotoddlerism: the view that utopia can be achieved by acting like a three-year old.

It’s an ideology for an age of instant gratification, activism for the attention-deficit generation. Just as convenience culture has led us from hours-long films, to half-hour-long TV shows, to minutes-long YouTube videos, to seconds-long TikTok clips; so the same dumbing-down is happening to politics: the arduous process of discussion and debate is giving way to the instant hit of shocking outbursts and other viral moments.

Instead of trying to produce the best arguments, neotoddlers try to produce the most outrageous video clips, which typically involves vandalism, desecration, or some other kind of public meltdown. Thus, they outrage others by embracing their own outrage and lashing out at the world. This surrender to their own impulses makes them first-order thinkers, meaning they consider immediate consequences but not consequences of consequences.

This chronological myopia was starkly illustrated after the October 7 terrorist attack by Hamas against Israel. Many pro-Palestine neotoddlers publicly celebrated the massacre because, trapped by their emotions in a perpetual present, they couldn’t think far enough ahead to realize that Israel was going to retaliate, and that its wrath would be catastrophic for the Palestinians. When the inevitable retaliation came, the neotoddlers’ joy turned to horror as it dawned on them that actions have consequences.

One young pro-Palestine activist, Riddhi Patel, learned this lesson the hard way. In April, she addressed councilors at a Bakersfield City Council meeting in California, and, outraged by their refusal to pass a motion calling for a ceasefire in Gaza, proclaimed to the councilors that she’d murder them, adding: “I hope one day somebody brings the guillotine and kills all of you motherfuckers.” Later, she appeared in court on 16 felony counts, sobbing uncontrollably as she was confronted by the second-order effects that her first-order thinking had failed to foresee.

Unfortunately, it’s unlikely she’ll learn much from her punishment. Not only do neotoddlers lack impulse-control, they also mistake their lack of impulse-control for morality, and mistake the impulse-control of others for callousness. “Where is the outrage?” they commonly yell, demanding everyone be as irrational as them. For the neotoddler, impatience is a virtue.

The Civil Rights movement succeeded because it was guided by leaders who had clear, specific, and realistic goals, and were able to negotiate to achieve them. Since neotoddlers “organize” mostly on social media, they’re decentralized, and don’t have leaders that can guide them or negotiate for them. They are therefore ruled by their loftiest ideals, in service to their basest impulses, and they don’t have the means to create, only to disrupt.

And so they disrupt, with the goal of spreading awareness. Yet their attempts to do so are misguided because, for all the issues they protest about, the problem is not a lack of awareness; it’s a lack of solutions. We don’t need to be told that war, crime, and pollution are bad, because we learned such lessons in primary school. What we need are clear, specific, and realistic plans of action. And the neotoddlers, being impulsive short-term thinkers, have only broad demands but no rational way to achieve them.

Anti-immigrant activists chant “Get them out!” as if there weren’t a host of legal and logistical challenges to doing so. Pro-Palestine activists chant “ceasefire now!” as if such a ceasefire wouldn’t quickly be broken by Hamas (as happened on October 7th). Climate activists chant “Just stop oil!” as if that wouldn’t cause Western civilization to regress technologically backwards into an age of famine, war, and superstition.

Neotoddlers are so shambolic they even try to disrupt attempts to meet their own demands. Many pro-Palestine activists call for peace in Gaza and yet support Hamas, the main obstacle to peace in Gaza. And many eco-warriors oppose fossil fuels but also try to stop viable alternatives such as electric and nuclear by, for example, storming Tesla factories and atomic energy conferences. And recent Right-wing protesters in Sunderland, who claimed to represent the unheard, burned down a citizens’ advice center, one of the few places to offer an ear to the unheard.

Unsurprisingly, nuisance-protests often end up alienating ordinary people. While the public supports climate action, it has a negative opinion of Just Stop Oil. And while the public supports a ceasefire in Gaza, it has a negative opinion of the campus protesters. The same is true of Right-wing nuisance protests: while the public generally believes immigration should be curbed, it overwhelmingly opposes the recent riots, which have achieved little except convince the public that Right-wing extremism is a serious threat. So, though nuisance-protests do get attention, little of that attention is converted to sympathy and a lot to spite.

But if nuisance-protests are counterproductive, why are they spreading? Because protests are usually motivated more by emotion than reason. Take the recent Southport riots. These have been driven not by any rational plan but by the frustrations of Right-wingers and ordinary working-class people that their communities have been forgotten and their concerns about immigration are not being taken seriously by politicians. These frustrations, stoked by fake news, have led them to engage in infantile actions like vandalizing mosques and setting fire to police cars, all of which hurts their cause more than help it. It does, however, make them feel good for the moment, and they live mostly for the moment.

As for Left-wing neotoddlers, their motivations tend to be more complex (but no less childish), because they’re generally much more affluent than Right-wing neotoddlers. For instance, an analysis by the Washington Monthly revealed that the Gaza campus protests were largely confined to the most expensive and elite colleges. And Just Stop Oil members are themselves quick to admit that their movement is “privileged” and living in a white middle-class “student bubble”.

This is no accident: it’s often the prosperous, not the downtrodden, who have a greater motivation to protest. As the philosopher Eric Hoffer explained in his 1951 book, The True Believer:

There is perhaps no more reliable indicator of a society’s ripeness for a mass movement than the prevalence of unrelieved boredom. In almost all the descriptions of the periods preceding the rise of mass movements there is reference to vast ennui; and in their earliest stages mass movements are more likely to find sympathizers and support among the bored than among the exploited and oppressed.

People need struggles. If their supply of problems dwindles too low, they begin to embellish the problems they already have, or invent completely new ones. As Hoffer writes:

Passionate hatred can give meaning and purpose to an empty life. Thus people haunted by the purposelessness of their lives try to find a new content not only by dedicating themselves to a holy cause but also by nursing a fanatical grievance.

The young and privileged are particularly prone to this. They don’t have to worry about money, nor do they have homes or families of their own, so they have nothing to lose, and nothing to conserve. This gives them both the need to find struggles and the luxury to be radical.

Overall, Left-wing neotoddlers and Right-wing neotoddlers tend to come from different demographics — with the former being younger, richer, more educated, and more female than the latter — and this gives them different motivations, and different modus operandi. For instance, research suggests that the cluster-B trait of narcissism takes a different form in the two groups. In Right-wingers, it mostly manifests as a sense of entitlement, while in Left-wingers it mostly manifests as a need for exhibitionism.

This is born out in the different approaches Left-wingers and Right-wingers take towards their public tantrums. The nuisance-protests of right-wingers are primarily attempts to relieve their frustrations at not getting what they want. As such, they typically take the form of straightforward thuggery and hooliganism: starting fires, overturning cars, and hurling bricks.

In contrast, Left-wing nuisance-protests tend to be less about relieving frustration and more about getting attention directly. As such, they’re usually more calculated and creative: throwing soup over paintings, releasing insect-swarms into hotels, or, most recently, painting the hands of a statue of Anne Frank red.

Generally, the Left-wing approach is more effective at getting attention; it took mass destruction by hundreds of Right-wingers in Southport to make news headlines, but it only took two Just Stop Oil activists with orange paint at Heathrow to achieve the same.

Left-wing nuisance-protests are also treated more kindly by the mainstream. Right-wing protests tend to be roundly condemned by polite society, firstly because they tend to be more violent, and secondly because upholders of mainstream culture — such as liberal journalists, academics, and entertainers — are culturally programmed to dismiss concerns about Islam or immigration as “far-Right”, placing such concerns outside the bounds of polite discourse (and into the hands of actual extremists).

In contrast, Left-wing neotoddlers are generally viewed by Western cultural elites as well-meaning. When Left-wingers recently flooded the streets of Walthamstow to counter-protest the Right-wingers, they were lauded by many Western outlets — from the BBC to NBC — as spreading peace and unity, even though the Labour councilor Ricky Jones used the protest to demand that his fellow Left-wingers slit the throats of Right-wingers.

The West’s mainstream knowledge-producing institutions, from academia to the liberal media, tend to be populated mostly by Left-leaning people who see Left-wing neotoddlers as a force for good because they’re broadly ideologically aligned with them and judge them by their perceived intentions rather than their results. For this reason, the mainstream treats Left-wing neotoddlers as its golden child, always seeing the best in them, while Right-wing neotoddlers are treated like the red-headed stepchild, worthy only of scorn.

This is particularly true at universities, where conservative speakers are routinely shouted down, and students are overtly encouraged to campaign for Left-wing causes, while also being taught that speech is violence and it is therefore acceptable to shut down speech they don’t like by making loud noises. The universities’ decades-long encouragement of cluster-B infantilism reached a tipping point this summer with the campus protests. We saw the students put everything they’d been taught — exhibitionism, catastrophization, and hysteria — into practice. The protests quickly came to resemble a LARP. Whenever the protesters occupied a new part of the campus, they hung banners and declared it liberated. All this liberating eventually made them feel hungry, but when they demanded refreshments from university officials, and were denied, they claimed they were being deprived of “basic humanitarian aid” and might die of starvation.

This kind of grandiose fantasizing is emblematic of people with narcissistic traits because it makes their struggles seem bigger than they actually are. As such, we commonly see similar kinds of catastrophization among other flavors of neotoddler; every flood or forest fire is an omen of “climate catastrophe”, biological facts about sex are “erasing trans people” and immigration is “white genocide”. Such histrionics, whether propagated in error or with intention, serve to manipulate other hysterical people into becoming neotoddlers.

And the grim irony is that, by believing the world is worse than it actually is, neotoddlers make the world worse. Their disruptions and vandalism exert a huge economic and social cost on society, and they prevent ordinary people from getting to work, attending funerals of loved ones, and meeting vital medical appointments.

Unsurprisingly, the harm neotoddlers cause to liberal democracies has endeared them to foreign dictators. The Ayatollah developed a soft spot for the Ivy League campus protesters, cheerleading them on X, and even writing them a letter of support. It also recently transpired that Iran has been funding and directing neotoddlers across the US, and that they even masterminded an anti-Israel protest at McGill University in Canada. Meanwhile, the fake news that sparked the Southport riots was amplified by pro-Kremlin Telegram channels and even Russian state TV.

So how do we end this age of neotoddlerism? The simplest way would be to cut off its main source of support. And that isn’t the Ayatollah or Putin, or even the universities. The neotoddlers’ main source of support is, in fact, you and I.

Neotoddlerism endures because it’s much more effective at making news headlines and going viral than traditional forms of protest. As a case in point, on 22 June, celebrity environmentalists like Emma Thompson and Chris Packham led a huge march of over 60,000 people through London, to raise awareness of habitat destruction and wildlife loss. It received little press coverage. Around the same time, a handful of Just Stop Oil protesters squirted orange paint on Stonehenge; it made the front page of every major UK newspaper and received coverage in the global press too.

Likewise, last week in London, there was a generally peaceful march against mass immigration, involving tens of thousands of people of all ethnicities, and led by figures like Tommy Robinson and Laurence Fox. It was ignored by most of the press. One week later, when Robinson embraced his inner-toddler and stoked violent riots, they made global headlines.

At a time when competition for attention is fierce, it makes business sense for the press and social media platforms to boost stories that outrage people into clicking and sharing. Such platforms naturally form a symbiosis with people who seek to outrage their way to fame: demagogues like Robinson; vandals like Just Stop Oil “poster girl” Phoebe Plummer; and more bizarre figures still, like the “performance artist turned political activist” Crackhead Barney, who wears little but a diaper and seeks to save Gaza by being as obscene as possible.

By giving these figures platforms, we’ve not only allowed them to proselytize to huge audiences, but we’ve also turned them into idols — living testaments that you can get what you want by acting like a baby. Imagine how horrifically a toddler would behave if his every tantrum made world news?

And we can’t blame the media for this; they’re just showing us what we want to see. It is ordinary people who have made being a public nuisance pay. Neotoddlerism needs nothing more than attention to thrive — it is physical clickbait — and we just keep clicking.

The more we share and comment on clips of people throwing soup over paintings, or graffitiing on memorials, or vandalizing mosques, or blocking roads, or spraying orange paint at airports, or pitching tents on university campuses, the more we’ll see such events recur in real life.

The solution to neotoddlers, then, is the same as the one to regular spoiled brats: to ignore their outbursts and deny them attention. The media will stop reporting on their meltdowns when we stop engaging with them. They’ll stop amplifying — and thereby incentivizing — the neotoddlers when we do.

If we gave less attention to those who outrage us, and more to those who inspire us, it would incentivize young people to invest their idealism in, and derive their purpose from, finding practical solutions instead of merely restating the problem in ever sillier ways. So we should learn to react more slowly to news, to pay attention to what we pay attention to, and give more of our attention to behaviors we wish to encourage. It’s not just the neotoddlers who need to be less impulsive, we do too.

And if we take the time to consciously focus our attention, we find there are many people in this world who actually deserve it. While Greta Thunberg became world famous by yelling and blocking entrances to public buildings, the Dutch inventor Boyan Slat has been quietly removing plastic from the oceans through his startup, The Ocean Cleanup. His project recently hit a milestone of 15,000,000kg of trash removed from oceans and rivers worldwide, but it’s hardly been reported by the press.

We don’t yet have any start-ups to clear the oceans of rubber dinghies, but such a thing is possible, if addressing illegal immigration can be made more palatable to polite society. And that will only happen when the people who wish to “stop the boats” refrain from acting like the violent thugs they’re often stereotyped as, and start supporting practical, adult solutions.

Every child begins life throwing tantrums. And every good parent learns to ignore them, because they know that acknowledging attention-seeking behaviors validates them, and prevents their kids from outgrowing them. If we wish to stop seeing good causes ruined by bad actors, we must stop rewarding immaturity. If we wish to usher in an age of post-toddlerism, we must stop making neotoddlers famous.

[nesiacha]

Survey: Who is your favorite feminist revolutionary of the frev (or at least someone who contributed to women's rights)?

In this survey, I have deliberately chosen a representative from each different faction.

On the Girondist side: Marquis de Condorcet The revolutionary who campaigned for gender equality, one of the few in his era. He is impossible not to mention in this discussion.

On the Dantonist side: Camille Desmoulins He advocated for the rights of married women to administer their property in 1793. In issue 14 of his journal Révolutions de France et de Brabant, he speaks highly of Théroigne de Méricourt and writes the following passage: "At the request of Mademoiselle Théroigne to be admitted to the district with a vote of consent, the assembly followed the president’s conclusions, thanking this excellent citizen for her motion; a canon from the Council of Mâcon having formally recognized that women have a soul and reason like men, they cannot be forbidden from making as good use of them as the speaker did; he will always make Mademoiselle Théroigne, and all women of her sex, free to propose what they believe to be advantageous to the homeland."

For the Maratist group: Jean-Paul Marat The journalist from L’Ami du Peuple often defended women who were victims of domestic violence, encouraging them to flee their homes and denounce those who abused them. Here is an excerpt from his writings found in the excellent book Madame Marat: A Heroic Life in the Turmoil of the French Revolution by Stefania di Pasquale: "Women are more inclined to tenderness than men. During their childhood, children are expected to oppose themselves to shame, but as soon as they come to the age in which women start listening to us, we hurry to conquer them and to excite their imagination; we focus all of our thoughts to unleash their senses. Hasn’t the time come to create a sweet bond with them? Men have always chosen while women have always accepted! How many foolish parents sacrifice the happiness of their daughters? Forced to yield the object of their heart forever, they become unable to love again, seeing only misfortune in their future." He also defended prostitutes.

For the Cretois group: Charles-Gilbert Romme The revolutionary mathematician, founder of the revolutionary calendar, also worked for certain women's rights. He founded a mixed club with Théroigne de Méricourt, and in a report on public education dated December 20, 1792, he advocated for girls to have access to republican schools. He made the following remark: "They should not be strangers to social virtues, since, in addition to needing them for themselves, they can develop or strengthen them in the hearts of men. If, in the natural and social order, man is called to execute and act, woman, by an imperious and necessary influence, is called to give the will a stronger and more vehement impulse." Although Romme’s feminism had limits, as seen in his statement: "The secondary schools in question are not for both sexes."

For the Robespierristes group: Georges Couthon One of the best-known members of the CPS in Year II, also spoke in favor of women's rights to share property administration in August 1793, as seen here: source. Additionally, he allowed his wife to give a speech at the Federation Festival in Clermont-Ferrand in 1790, before he gave his own speech, as seen here: source.

For the Enragés group: Jacques Roux Here is an excerpt from Markov Walter on this Enragés leader: "All the revolutionary parties tried to involve women, while, with the exception of the Enragés, they sought to exclude them from any real political activity. Jacques Roux considered them the decisive reserve of the Revolution. 'Victory was indisputable as soon as women joined the sans-culottes.'"

For the Hébertist group: Jean-Nicolas Pache This former Girondin minister of the War , who became an Hébertist and later Mayor of Paris, founded the Société patriotique du Luxembourg club, which, according to Louis Devance, "admitted women from the age of fourteen, with the same formalities as men, but their numbers could not exceed one-fifth of the total members; they were eligible for the same positions in the society, excluding the office roles."

For the Babouvist group: Gracchus Babeuf Babeuf wrote a letter in favor of gender equality to Dubois de Fosseux in 1786, as seen here: source. He supported the full participation of women in political clubs and paid tribute to the women of the French Revolution in his journal article: "Women dedicate their entire days to prevent us from starving," and said of them, "But beware, women, whom we have degraded, without whom, however, and without their courage on the 5th and 6th of October, we might not have had freedom!" He even remarked to one of his colleagues: "The advice you give us regarding the role women can play is sensible and judicious; we will take advantage of it. We know the influence that this fascinating sex can have, who, like us, cannot endure the yoke of tyranny and who are no less courageous when it comes to breaking it." He believed that the homeland had everything to gain from exploiting women’s talents in politics.

For the Thermidorian group: Armand Benoît Joseph Guffroy When he is not making false accusations against Élisabeth Le Bas or showing appalling behavior by kicking his former collaborator Marie-Anne Babeuf out after a violent argument, or writing poorly about Lucile Desmoulins and Marie-Françoise Hébert(euphemism) , one can find some quality in Guffroy's progressive views on women's rights. He wrote: "I had proposed to admit women to the primary assemblies, to deliberate on the choice of municipalities, and I still believe that my two separate ballots and my posted ballots would disturb all the conspiracies. If one is wise, one will come back to it; and I predict that we will never have a public spirit, public morals, if women do not participate in the administration as I have proposed. The National Assembly admitted to swearing the constitution, those who were in the tribune on the 4th of this month. Why would we separate them from the public good? The queen promised to raise her son in the principles of constitutional liberty; all French mothers must publicly swear this civic oath: without that, I repeat, no morals, no morals, no fatherland. Frenchmen, prove that you are men, by giving back to your wives all their dignity; French women, prove that you are worthy of giving birth to a race of free men."

Sources:

Antoine Resche

Louis Devance Le féminisme pendant la révolution française

Walter Markov

Stefania di Pasquale

Jean-Marc Schiappa

Charles-Gilbert Romme, "Rapport sur l’instruction publique, considéré dans son ensemble, suivi d’un projet de décret sur les principales bases du plan général, prononcé devant la Convention le 20 décembre 1792"

Thank you @anotherhumaninthisworld without whom I would not have been able to see the writings of Couthon, Guffroy, and Desmoulins in favor of women's rights.

[midnighthazee]

Greenridge ABO Series

a/n: I changed the name of Enhypen's pack to Enha instead of I-land...feel like it fits better :) sorry for any confusion :/

Series Masterlist Masterlist

Warnings: explicit language, fluff, SMUT 18+ MDNI, reader x skz (wonder who it will be), mentions of abuse/sexual assault, hint of Samsung phones (since skz supports? it and can't touch iPhones lol sorry apple users...I was you a few months ago), thigh riding, pet names, praise kink, unprotected p in v (wrap it up pls!), oral, fingering, creampie, aftercare🫠😖

WC: 4681

Chapter 15

Chan managed to actually get some proper rest since he had been inside this cell. The letters of his loved ones and the delicious meal the lawyer provided gave some peace to his anxiety. He slept nearly eight hours before waking up. He was hungry of course, but the food on his plate was cold by now. Not that it looked edible anyways.

He got up, using the restroom as he looked at his reflection in the mirror. His hair was a bit of a mess but the bags under his eyes weren’t as severe. He washed his hands, craving a shower. 

He took some water to his hair to fix it up as best he could. Then he stretched, ready to start his workout routine for the day. He did his routine of push ups and sit ups, as he’s done the whole time. He had extra nervous energy pent up today as he anticipated the next trial. 

It was a few more hours before a security guard finally arrived. He took Chan to a bathroom where Seojoon was waiting. 

“Good to see you. We have thirty minutes. I insisted you get a chance to freshen up before the trial. I also bought you a suit. So shower quickly.”

“Thank you!” Chan said, hurrying to shower. It had been days and he couldn’t wait to finally feel clean.

Thirty minutes later, Chan was dressed in a suit, ready to face the judges and jury. Seojoon escorted him, standing next to him at the desk. The judges entered, everyone standing. 

“You may be seated.” the main judge said, waving dismissively. ”Alright. We are here to discuss case number 2018325 with Defendant Christopher Bang.”

“You honor, Attorney Park Seojoon. If I may begin.” Seojoon spoke.

“Go ahead, Counsel. Lay a foundation.”

“My client is an exemplary citizen. What happened with his younger brother is a tragedy he’s had to carry his whole life. He’s been judged harshly, blamed for his death and forced to have to relive this day over and over again. It is not fair for him to have to spend his life with this burden, as opposed to grieving and moving on to a healing place. He has a pack of his own, people who are devoted to him and would vouch for his character. 

“No one is born a murderer. Of those who have killed, some of them have done it in dire circumstances. That circumstance usually being ‘it’s me or you’. And this is exactly what he had to face. In order to save himself he had to kill two fellow hybrids. These hybrids were, however, of poor character.”

“Objection! We aren’t here to discuss his victims' character.” It was Griffin Blake again.

“Overruled.” the judge to the right spoke. “Counsel…proceed.”

Griffin rolled his eyes.

“Thank you, your honor.” Seojoon bowed slightly. “Hayes and Milo Carver were part of the Nyko pack, under the rule of Alpha Lewis. They were brothers and, with Lewis’s permission, they abused, sexually assaulted, and neglected three omegas in their care. The omegas were falsely led to believe they were each Lewis’s soulmate and marked by him. They were kept in horrible conditions in the basement of his home with limited access to food and water. They spent their whole time down there, unless being used for the sexual pleasure of the pack or their guests.”

Indistinct chatter was heard from the jury as they processed this new information.

“I have pictures for evidence for the jury, if I may.” Seojoon added.

“Objection! These were not submitted beforehand.” Griffin stood abruptly.

“I’ll allow them.” the main judge said.

Seojoon motioned for the tech to display the photos on the project screen. Gasps were heard across the courtroom as the pictures were clicked through.

“This was what the cell the omegas were held in looked like. Mind you it smelled of piss and mildew down there. And this is the torture room, where they were abused or forced to participate in activities chosen by the alphas or betas.”

“Thank you.” the judge on the left said.

“Objection! Relevance?” Griffin said.

“Sustained. Counsel?” the judge on the left gestured to Seojoon.

“The relevance is that one of those omegas, on a night of being hunted by the two victims, was found unconscious on the Greenridge territory. Mr. Bang’s pack took her in, calling their doctor to come tend to her. It was then, Chan found her to be soulmates to his entire pack.”

“Objection! Everyone knows omegas have one soulmate. Only alphas can have multiple.”

“Overruled. There are rare cases of an omega having multiple. It’s not unheard of.” The judge on the right informed.

Griffin plopped down in his seat with a huff, running his fingers through his hair.

“Mr. Bang and his pack have found their soulmate, and tended to her. She was underweight, malnourished, and skittish. They earned her trust, and she eventually opened up, confessing what her scars hinted at.”

Chan was impressed. Seojoon was a natural with the jury. He was easily winning them over. Where did Minho find this guy?

“This man is not a cold-blooded killer. He’s a pack man. He takes pride and thrives off of caring and protecting others. He wouldn’t kill unless it was the last option. And even then he wouldn’t enjoy it. He is not the man to kill his own brother.”

The jury mumbled away with each other, the judges writing notes down. 

“Mr. Blake, do you have anything to add?”

“No, your honor.”

“Very well. We will take time to debrief. Let the jury come to a decision. Once that is done, we will be back.” the main judge announced.

“Y/n!” Hyunjin called from the living room. 

You were in your room, cozy in your reading corner when you heard him. You marked your page and hurried to the banister overlooking the living room.

“Hey, come down here. We have something for you.” Hyunjin smiled.

Excited, you hurry down the steps, coming into the living room and sitting on the couch. Everyone is sitting around, eagerly waiting for the reveal.

“So, me and Jisung went on a little errand today. And we got you something.” Hyunjin smirked.

“What is it?” you asked, impatient.

Hyunjin revealed his hand that was hiding behind his back. He held it out to you, holding a cell phone. Your eyes go wide.

“We thought it was probably best if you had a cell phone. In case we ever need to reach each other.” Minho explained. 

Very smart. You lost track of the amount of times you wished you could have called them the past week.

“Me and Felix have the same one.” Changbin smiled.

“Hopefully you like the case. We thought those SKZOO characters from that band were cute.”

“They are really cute.” you say, still stunned as you flipped the phone over and saw the adorable case.

“We can teach you how to use it, of course.” Changbin adds.

“And Channie hyung’s cards are on there so if you need to buy anything.” Jeongin says, giddy.

Minho hits him in the back of the head.

“Don’t go spending crazy.” Minho cautions you.

“I wouldn’t even know what to buy.” you say.

“All our numbers are in there so you can just tap it to call.” Felix informed, demonstrating with his name.

You spend the rest of the afternoon learning your phone with the help of the boys. You download some games, set up a password and facial recognition, and even find fun themes for your wallpaper and app icons. It was so exciting. You had seen the boys on theirs but never thought you would have one of your own. 

Minho was back in the kitchen for dinner, fixing food for everyone with the help of Felix. You had never been so excited for dinner, coming into the kitchen and watching eagerly. Minho smiled at you, finding you adorable. He wasn’t as cold with you, but he still kept his distance. Seeing you in the med bed downstairs and knowing he put you there still left him with an uneasy feeling.

When dinner was finally ready, everyone fixed their plates and sat down at the table. It felt almost…normal. You just wished Chan was here and all the drama was over.

“Minho, did you hear from the lawyer today?”

“Oh. I did. He’s hopeful he swayed the jury. He gave a story, pulling on the heart strings. Hopefully Chan will get sympathy votes and come home to us.” Minho announced.

“So we could have Chan back tomorrow?” Jisung asked.

Minho nodded with a shrug. “It looks like it.”

“We should go. Be there for the trial.” you suggested. 

“Yes. Can we go?” Felix asked.

“We just got back. Let’s wait and see if he is going to come home first.” Minho suggested.

“But if we aren’t there, he will have to wait six hours for us to get there.” Jisung pouted.

“Better than another day in solitary.” Minho noted. “Let’s get the trial results first.”

The rest of dinner was quiet, everyone worried for the results of the trial tomorrow. Once everyone finished, Jisung and Hyunjin emptied the dishwasher and reloaded it, cleaning up the kitchen before going to their rooms for the night.

Jisung and Felix were video gaming in Jisung’s room while Minho and Changbin were doing some work in Chan’s office. Hyunjin was sketching in his room, lofi music playing. Jeongin was getting in the shower before bed. And Seungmin was in his room, playing a game on his phone as he tried to convince himself to go for a shower.

“Hey Seungmin, can you help me with my phone?” you ask, knocking on his door.

“What do you need help with?” Seungmin asked, laying across his bed.

“I was wanting to save music and make a playlist on Spotify."

“Oh here let me show you.” Seungmin sat up so he was sitting on the edge of the bed.

 You sat next to him and he showed you how to do it. You added a few songs you had heard the boys playing around the house. Seungmin added a few others he thought you would like before handing you back your phone. Your fingertips brushed as you took the phone, his gaze lingering on your lips.

Before he could stop himself, he kissed you. It was purposeful, his mouth moving with yours perfectly. You melted into his touch, one of his hands coming to cup your face as he kissed you. You pushed more into the kiss, as if starved for it, and he responded by guiding you onto your back. His lips never left yours in the process, his body now hovering over yours.

“This okay?” he looked down at you.

You nodded, leaning up to reconnect your lips to his. Your hands trailed down his torso, finding the hem of his shirt and pulling it up. He let you, helping remove it.

“You sure?” he asked, looking into your eyes.

“Just don’t go feral on me.” you chuckle.

“I’ll try not to.” he laughs.

He kisses you with more fervor, his body pressing into yours shamelessly. Your own body reacting to his touch, you could feel the heat centering at your core. 

Seungmin’s hand trailed down your side, slipping under your shirt and cupping your breast. He found your bra snap in the front and unhooked it. He pushed open your bra and began teasing your nipples. You back arched off the bed, a small moan escaping your mouth.

He smirked at how easily you reacted. “I barely touched you baby? I bet you're already wet for me.”

You roll your eyes, playfully pushing him.. “Shut up…” 

He grabbed your hands, pinning them by your head. He smirked at you, leaning into your neck and kissing you. You moan as he nipped at your skin, instinctively grinding your hips on his thigh. He moved to take off your shirt and bra, then slid your pants off. You were left laying there in just your panties as he looked down at you.

“I like these…” he tugged a little on the pale pink bikini bottoms you were wearing. 

You blushed, knowing he could see the wet spot on them.

He moved off the bed, ridding himself of his pants. Then he sat down on the bed, pulling you over to him. You climbed onto his lap, straddling one of his legs. His hands were on your hips as you kissed him, breasts flush with his chest.

You moved your hips slightly, a slight shiver going up your spine from the friction.

“That’s it…move those hips for me.” Seungmin whispered between kisses down your neck. 

His hands started to guide your hips, rocking you on his leg. It felt so good you began to moan in his ear. Your hips began to move at their own rhythm as you rode his thigh. He smirked at how sensitive you were, nipping at your collar bone before attaching his lips to your nipple. You threw your head back, hands holding onto his shoulders as you rocked back and forth.

“You gonna cum on my leg like a good girl?” Seungmin whispered.

“Yes..” you breathed out.

“How long have you been thinking about this, huh? I bet you’ve been dying for me to make you feel good.” Seungmin taunts. 

You bite your lip, blush creeping on your cheeks. His teasing was making your pussy wetter somehow and you weren’t used to it. You clenched around nothing, growing frustrated by the emptiness.

“Seungmin…” you whined.

“What baby?”

You whimpered in response, unable to say the words.

“Is my baby close?” Seungmin asks with a flex of his thigh, making it firmer between your legs. 

The delicious friction between his leg and your panties made you moan louder - made you rock your hips faster. You looked at him, a huge smirk plastered on his face as he watched you come undone. You made eye contact with him, feeling the coil inside about to snap.

“Cum on me. Make a mess on my thigh baby.” Seungmin coaxed, pinching one of your nipples.

“Ahhh..” you moan, gripping his shoulders tighter as you cum undone. Juices drip from your center as your orgasm washes over you. 

Seungmin kisses you, pulling your body flush with his. “Good Girl.”

You groan, hiding your face in his chest. He lifts you, putting you on your back and removing your soaked panties. He leans down, licking through your folds.

“Mmm…sweet…as I suspected.” Seungmin looks up at you from between your legs. It was so sinful, but you loved it.

You bite your lip, hiding your face.

Seungmin slips off his underwear before hovering over you. He moves your hands from your face and you lock eyes. 

“Let me see that pretty face,” Seungmin smiles, peppering your face with kisses. “I can’t wait to see you all fucked out after this…” 

You swat at his chest, whining and bucking your hips. “Seungmin…”

“So needy…” Seungmin smirks. “You’re like Jisung…”

Looking between your bodies, Seungmin lines himself up with your entrance. He looks up at you one last time, as if asking for permission. You nod and he pushes in slowly. His girth stretches you out and makes your eyes shut.

You moan as he bottoms out, holding onto his forearms. He slides out slowly, only to push back in. He does this teasingly slow move a few times before he can’t take it anymore. His tempo picks up and you chant his name.

“Y/n…you’re so tight.” his face scrunches as he thrusts into you.

“Seungmin…mmm you feel so good.” You lean up, connecting your lips.

You feel yourself on the verge of cumming once more, clenching around his length. He hisses as you do, slowing his movements.

“Please…don’t stop…”you moan.

Seungmin keeps his tempo, bringing you to climax. 

“Ahh,” you moan loudly.

Seungmin was quick to cover your mouth, chuckling. “You don’t want the boys hearing, do you? They might get jealous.” 

Your body trembled, mind barely understanding what he said. His hand caressed your cheek as he slowed. You came down from your high, catching your breath as you relaxed your grip on his arms.

Seungmin pulled out, laying down next to you. “Get on top.” 

You hesitate but do as he says. He tells you to face away from him, leaning on his legs for support.

“I want you to ride me, baby. You’re in control now.”

You never did this position before but you were curious. Your old pack never gave you controlling positions, they always dominated you instead. Not that you wanted control…or to be involved at all.

You straddled his hips, lining up his cock and sinking down on it. He felt deeper like this as you braced yourself on his legs. Slowly you began to rock back and forth, finding your momentum. Within a few seconds, you were moving faster.

Meanwhile, Seungmin was enjoying the view. He was always sneaking looks at your ass and now it was naked, on display right in front of him. He reached out, squeezing and rubbing your cheeks. As he fondled your ass, you began to do more of a bounce motion. He threw his head back, getting lost in the way you were riding him. It was too good and he didn’t know how much longer he would last.

You were close too, this angle hitting your sweet spot just right. Your grip on his legs tightened, your pussy clenching around his length. He could tell you were close too. He wanted to hold out, but the way you were clenching him was intoxicating.

“I’m gonna cum, baby.” he rasped out.

You grinded down, rolling your hips on him. He gripped your hips tightly, trying to hold back as best he could. His head was thrown back, eyes squeezed shut as he focused on not cumming.

Your orgasm hit you hard, making your legs shake and squeeze Seungmin’s hips. Your body jerked a bit as you rode out your high, eyes rolled back. You pussy clenched impossibly tighter around Seungmin and he lost all resolve. His cock twitched, filling you with his cum. He let out a guttural groan, his hips bucking.

As you came down, you both were moaning and panting as you tried to catch your breaths. Seungmin sat up, hugging you from behind and kissing your back. He then maneuvered you two so that you both were laying on your sides. He even managed to do so without slipping out.

As you laid there, he kissed up and down your shoulder and neck. You hummed in satisfaction, feeling yourself falling asleep. 

“That was amazing,” he whispered. 

You nodded, turning your head. He kissed your lips as he slowly slid out of your warmth. You whined at the loss but he peppered your face with kisses. Your body slowly laid back and Seungmin hovered over you. He kissed down your torso, teasing your nipples before moving down. He reached your core, licking at your sensitive folds. 

You squirmed, but he locked in your clit, sucking and teasing. Your legs tried to close but he pinned them open, leaving you to gasp at the euphoric feeling.

“Minnie…” you moan.

He doesn’t let up. He’s determined to make you cum at least once more. His expert tongue works magic on your clit, making you build to a climax in record time. It felt so good but you tried to hold back and enjoy the moment. That’s when he added a finger, curling it just right. How did he know your body so well? 

Your orgasm finally washed over you, making your toes curl, back arch, and legs shake. He pushed you, prolonging your high with his finger until you were squirming to get away. When he finally stopped, your whole body went lax. Your muscles ached and you could barely open your eyes. 

“Look at you…” Seungmin was pleased with himself. He had you looking just how he wanted - properly fucked out and on cloud nine.

“I’ll be right back.” With one final kiss to your forehead, Seungmin rose from the bed. 

You laid there, feeling a little wetness dripping out. Nearly asleep, you didn’t hear him return from his bathroom. Seungmin carefully took the washcloth and began cleaning you. You squirmed a little, sensitive from all the stimulation. He was careful and considerate, cleaning you up so gently.

Once he was done, he closed your legs and covered you with his comforter. Then he went to shower like he originally planned. He didn’t take long, relaxed after your time together and wanting to hurry back to you. 

When he was done, he climbed in bed behind you and kissed your temple. You snuggled into him despite being fast asleep. Tomorrow you would probably be sore, but it will be worth it. 

Morning came and you woke up to the slight snores of your soulmate sleeping next to you. Last night’s events came back to you in a rush, leaving you flushed and craving more. You rolled over to see him sprawled out on his side of the bed. You smile, amused. Carefully you slip out of the bed and find your clothes. Your legs were a little shaky as you moved about his room, slipping on your pants and shirt and grabbing your bra and panties. You quietly open the door and hurry out, closing it softly. Then you go across the hall to your room. You shut your door and strip, putting your clothes in the hamper. Then you go for a shower, the warm water soothing your aching muscles.

After your shower, you head downstairs, finding Felix and Jisung in the kitchen finishing up breakfast.

“Need help?” you ask.

“No. We’re almost done.” Felix smiles.

Jisung walks by you, puckering his lips at you casually. He leans in for a kiss so you lean towards him. He swerves away from you, leaving you stunned. He quickly approaches from the opposite side, pecking your cheek. You glare at him while Felix giggles. How long was he going to tease you for?

You were chatting at the island when everyone started to come into the kitchen. Breakfast was finally ready and you were starving. You loaded your plate, making everyone stare in shock. Seungmin smirked, knowing he probably worked up your appetite. Then you all sat down and began eating.

“Did last night’s escapades leave you hungry?” Changbin whispered, leaning over to you.

You were drinking juice at the time, and nearly choked on it. You coughed, trying to collect yourself from the sudden embarrassment. Your face was beet red as Seungmin gave you a knowing look.

“You okay?” Minho asked.

Everyone was looking at you.

“Yeah.” you clear your throat. “Just fine.”

“More than fine, I’m sure.” Jeongin commented. 

You stare at him with a furrowed brow.

“You think we didn’t hear you two last night?” Jeongin shakes his head.

You want to sink from the table and crawl up to your room. It was suddenly very hot in here and you were losing your appetite.

“Relax, we’re just messing with you.” Changbin nudged your arm.

“I know.” You knew. You were just caught off guard and embarrassed. 

You make yourself resume eating, quiet for the rest of breakfast. You offered to clean the kitchen, hurrying away from the table as soon as you had finished. As everyone else finished eating, they would give you their plates. Jisung offered to help, washing dishes with you.

Once it was just you two left in the room, Jisung spoke up.

“I’m glad you were enjoying yourself…”

You don’t say anything.

“Seungmin was worried about his turn. Hopefully now he can relax.”

“Worried?”

“He was afraid we would…outperform him.” Jisung rolled his eyes. “At least with you. But we’ve all been with each other so we knew he would be fine.”

“He was more than fine.” 

“He definitely is.” Jisung winked at you.

You smile. You had forgotten they were all mates. This eased your embarrassment, knowing they have probably heard each other one time or another. They were probably used to it by now.

The rest of the morning went by smoothly. You hung out with everyone and enjoyed being home once more. The guys decided to play movies to kill the time as they waited for the lawyer to call with an update. Minho was in Chan’s office, busying himself while he anxiously waited.

“Please rise for your panel of judges.” the officer spoke.

The audience, Chan, Seojoon, and Griffin all stood, waiting for the judges to take their seats. Once the judges sat, so did the audience and jury. 

“Good afternoon, we are now convening in the matter of case number 2018325. Please have the parties identify themselves for the record." the main judge announced.

“Defendant Christopher Bang.” Chan spoke.

“Thank you.”

“We are here to discuss the matter of your three homicide charges and whether or not they will be reduced.” The main judge stated for the record.

Chan shifted in his stance, hands behind his back as he stood confidently.

“Upon review of the security tape footage within your holding cell, as discussed last time, we found the footage to be tampered with.” the judge to the left said.

Chan looked over to his lawyer who gave him a subtle thumbs up.

“Because the footage was tampered with, we will be further investigating the incident.” the judge on the right speaks. “This, however, does not clear you from the charge as we have not ruled out your involvement in this incident.”

“You believe my client was involved in the tampering of evidence? Evidence that would clear him of a homicide charge?” Seojoon questioned.

“At ease counsel. We do not believe anything at this time. We must first prove that he was not involved in this matter. It’s procedure”

“With that being said, we will reconvene in two days' time. This will allow the techs to finish reviewing the footage and possibly restore what was tampered.” the judge on the left spoke.

“Meeting adjourned.” the main judge spoke.

The judges, jury and audience began exiting the courtroom. Chan turned to Seojoon, confused.

“Not here.” was all Seojoon said.

Seojoon and Chan went into the interrogation room to talk.

“What the fuck was that about?” Chan asked once they were alone.

“My guess is they think there is a possibility that footage was conveniently tampered with just enough to be noticeable. For example, you or someone you hired are tricking them. You tampered with it and made it obvious but didn’t actually hide anything because there was nothing to hide.”

“What would I gain from that?”

“They would see the tampering and believe you were telling the truth without looking into it. Then you are free of the charge even though there was no secret visitor.” Seojoon shook his head. “But because there actually was a visitor, they will uncover that and clear you.”

“This is ridiculous. It’s never ending. It will be Christmas before they make a decision at this point.” Chan threw his arms up, exasperated.

“Chan, calm down. This is exactly what they want. To drag you around so you’re restless and on edge. They want you to get angry so you make a mistake or act out and they charge you with something else.” Seojoon explained. “And it’s not going to take another three months. Stay positive.”

Chan sighed heavily. He knew Seojoon was right, he was just furious they were giving him the run-around.

“If I hear anything, I’ll let you know. In the meantime, rest up. I’ll see you in a couple days.” Seojoon gave Chan a look, making sure they were on the same page.

Chan nodded. Seojoon headed out and Chan was taken back to his cell. He looked around angrily. He wanted to punch the wall, but he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t show how much they were pissing him off.

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Shout out to my lovely beta @cherry-erii

[hadesoftheladies]

Opinion: We Need to Start Talking About Violent Feminist Activism Seriously

while i do not think that females are as violent or would be as violent as males without patriarchal obstruction, i think it's mostly the emasculation of women (female socialization) that leads to this demureness that perpetuates female subjugation. we often frame femininity as something that inhibits consciousness-raising, but it is actually far more frightening and deeper than that. femininity and its practices inhibit female self-worth which in turn causes women to devalue themselves. this is why women are not accustomed to fighting for themselves, like every other animal (male and female) on this earth. women are so used to "lying down and taking it" because it is something they are primed to do. the danger of femininity isn't just that it deforms our bodies or divides us from each other, it is that it physically and mentally disables our ability to fight back.

i have often neglected to mention alternative methods in my separatist posts, but separatism is not the only way we can enact large-scale societal transformation. it is the only nonviolent way.

the truth of the matter is, as much as we make jokes and fantasize about killing men, the reason most women and girls "behave" when it comes to men and men do not "behave" when it comes to women is because women simply aren't feared, despite the fact that we have the power to become a threat. even in feminist circles such as this, talk of women physically harming men is seen as taboo, as something that can be easily used against us. so we have to constantly disclose that we aren't serious. i think this is part of the problem.

the other word for fear is respect. men cannot respect or revere men they do not fear on some level. in a twisted way, in order for women to become human to men, we have to get scary. we have to hold real power over them and become intolerant to them.

this doesn't necessarily have to be done strictly in violent ways. resisting femininity can range from allowing ourselves to frown and even scowl in public, not being hospitable toward men, not complimenting, affirming, validating or cleaning up after them. but the point of combatting female socialization is resisting the role of women in patriarchal society: sexual object, or in other words, victim. it is the victimization of women that men find especially erotic. that's why consensual sex isn't enough for them. they are fuelled by female terror.

in short, gyns, i'm saying the time has come when we should aim to put the fear of god in these bastards. the only way they will view rape as badly as they view cannibalism is if there is a constant looming threat of brutal social castration. they need to fear social punishment, which is difficult because half of society is made up of men that approve. so how can the other half, women, make it so that the other half are afraid to do so?

which brings us, ironically, back to separatism and also gender non-conformity. in order for women to reach a place where we can defend ourselves using violence and not get taken ten steps back for killing/maiming a rapist, pedo, abuser we need women to have access to ironclad female solidarity.

male solidarity is what keeps the status quo intact, and female solidarity is its only worthy counterpoint. the reason patriarchy is so strong is because of female solidarity with males rather than intra-community solidarity. this is the weak point of patriarchy, it's over-dependence on women on a cellular level. society as we know it, patriarchal or not, will fall to shit if women refused to participate in its core structures. literally the only reason children are still being born, raised and schooled in the face of men's destructiveness is because of women. men can destroy as much as they like and a society will still function for the most part because of the resilience of women. literally the biggest economic problems societies face come from male criminality whether from upper or lower class men. the only reason any of it still functions is because of women. women are the glue of the home themselves, the basic unit of society. take women away, and i promise there's nothing fucking left.

for this reason, the biggest de-radicalization tools patriarchy employs against female liberation are marriage/co-habitation with men, femininity and religion and i will get into the details why briefly:

-marriage/co-habitation often results in the woman's isolation from female community or larger society because the man strategically makes himself the central focus/recipient of her resources (health, attention, energy)

-femininity keeps women focused on male approval as a source of power, further encouraging female-female competition and destroying solidairty

-religion and romance are explicitly androcentric, focusing on framing men as the only possible givers of life, purpose, fulfillment and meaning to women while simultaneously demeaning, obscuring and devaluing the fact that women are oftentimes the primary sources of human life and love

now see that all three do three very important things for de-radicalization: they frame men as sources of life, meaning and vitality as opposed to a threat or disadvantage, isolates women from their true selves (devaluing their friendships, erasing their history and contributions, distorting their nature), and pits women against each other. to sum up, centering men and then erasing and isolating women from each other and themselves.

but we won't scare men by psyching ourselves out of what's going to be necessary to defend ourselves. in order for women to be mobilized to take power men have no authority to deny them, we have to cultivate strong, nearly unbreakable self-esteem. we need to esteem ourselves so highly that we never question whether or not we should feel entitled to a better life.

that's why refusing to emasculate yourself is the first step. decolonizing your mind of its male-centeredness and no longer seeing yourself as subordinate, inferior or less worthy to a life of freedom than him.

the second step after de-centering men within yourself is to quickly center women. that's where separatism comes in. not only does this also aid you in decolonizing the rest of your mind, but it gives you the courage to go for better rather than settle for what men say you deserve. seeing that actually, men aren't vital at all to a wonderful life. throwing yourself into female centricity and replacing male hegemony with female history, philosophy, culture, literature, all of it. but not just on a mental level, on an interpersonal and financial level as well. this boosts you economically and empowers you buy giving you that independence necessary to make demands.

then when it comes to the dire, when men retaliate as they are prone to do, you don't hesitate to punish them for it. you don't hesitate to make it cost them. whether that's in organized feminist cyber attacks (doxxing, phishing, DDos attacks, etc). you make them see themselves as potential victims. where what they do to others can also be done to them. where they fear being poisoned, disappearing, outed, isolated, killed.

this kind of organized self-defense will not happen without female solidarity. we already have examples of women coming together to beat abusive men up and get rid of the threats themselves when victims of male violence fear state retaliation too much to defend themselves. female solidarity can substitute for state neglect. it is the only thing that can. the king of the pride doesn't stand a chance against a pack of lionesses. and the state cannot punish all its women lest it destroy itself entirely. governments know that restricting women restricts their economy, so killing masses of women is just not feasible.

female solidarity is the missing piece, and that's what the status quo continually tries to dismantle. also, non-violence in the face of our oppression has never been a virtue. it is something the patriarchy has counted on.

the lie of femininity is that men will respect or care for us once they see how we suffer and how beautiful we are. we think they will set us apart as sacred if they are in love with us. but the truth is they will only respect us if they fear us.

anyways, i'm just thinking out loud here, and these are all generalizations. i'll need to make a whole other article where i break this down on an infrastructural level.

[shaesinflames]

🌥️ Rainbow Factory Infection AU🌥️

Hello everypony!! Ive been loving the infection stuff and wanted to jump onto the trend myself with an AU that came to me very suddenly. I'm gonna try and get all my thoughts out here:

☁️ Scootaloo fails her flying assessment by getting disqualified for checking on her injured friend who had crashed during their turn. The two of them get taken to the Rainbow Factory as a punishment for their failure, and quickly realize the deadly situation they're in.

🌈 There are few dozen pegasi there already. All of their wings have been torn off of them, their cutiemarks are branded over, and chains are fastened around either their legs or neck. They all seem so... dull. As if the color has been stolen from them.

☁️ Rainbow Dash enters to examine the new sacrifices, and is mortified when she sees Scootaloo. She had trained her every day to prevent this from happening; she never wanted the pony she thought of as a little sister to end up here. Dash had to quickly decide if she was more loyal to her career, or to her friends.

🌈 She chooses Scootaloo. This does not go over well. Whether you enter the Rainbow Factory as a prisoner or an employee, you were not allowed to leave until you died. Rainbow Dash grabs Scootaloo and attempts to flee with her.

☁️ A chase ensues. She realizes that even if they do escape, they wouldn't be free. They would be hunted for as long as the factory existed. The answer suddenly seems obvious. Dash veers away from the exit and heads deeper into the building, straight for the core.

🌈 Because of her high status in the company (and a lot of kicking), Rainbow Dash gets into the restricted access room and corrupts the core, sparking a reactor meltdown. Her and Scootaloo manage to escape seconds before the core collapses, and the Rainbow Factory is lost to the rainbows it created.

☁️ Not long after, ponies begin to emerge from the ruins. Well, they seem to still be ponies. Mostly ponies. The Inital Victims. The pegasi who had been deemed useless and dispensable in one way or another, and had been put through torture for weeks or months in order to drain them of their very magic and soul.

🌈 The Victims seem to have a symbiotic relationship with the Rainbow Infection in their body. They live just out of reach of death; gaunt and hollow, yet somehow surviving. Blind, weak, and terrified, they seem to believe they're still trapped in the factory, and will viciously maul any living being they sense with a newfound strength. So far, they don't seem to be curable, or killable.

☁️ The Infected pegasi have a much more unpleasant experience. Every waking moment is nothing but agony as the infection consumes their magic and feast on their vessel, reducing them to nothing more than another fluffy white cloud looming in the sky.

🌈 The Infected aren't hostile, and seem to still be lucid up until their death. However, they are incredibly contagious, and the final stage of the infection seems to be designed specifically to further the disease.

☁️ Unicorns and Earth ponies are completely immune to the Rainbow Infection. Alicorns are not. The princess's have been barricaded in Celestia's castle to protect them all.

🌈 Without any pegasi to moderate the weather, it has become increasingly unpredictable and harsh, making typical farm work almost impossible. The Survivors are getting low on rations, and they're getting desperate and hungry.

I think thats about it. Idk at the time of writing this its 3am lol.

[valehour]

I swear to god if I read one more "Messmer/Marika did nothing wrong" post I'm gonna fucking lose it.

Guys, Gals, Nonbinary Pals etc.

Be fucking serious.

it's somewhat obvious that Marika's people's oppression, and the subsequent domination of the social order was inspired by christianity's oppression and then rise to power within the roman empire- going on to be the dominant religious order which, in turn, persecutes religious minorities. Like. that's only just subtext by tooth and nail. It does not at all justify either religious regime's atrocities. It is Exceedingly obvious the game expects you to understand that, to quote Leda "They [the hornsent] were never saints, they were just on the losing side of a war". this line, alongside the black knight helmet, and the crusade insignia Expects us to understand that maybe the whole "Marika ordering a crusade to genocide a people in the name of revenge" is wrong, actually.

As for Messmer, he is indeed a victim of Marika, like most of the demigods. it's just that he's also (arguably Firstly) a willing collaborator in these atrocities, he's not an innocent uwu snake sadboy.

If we are forced to compel a singular unnuanced 1 dimensional archetype onto Messmer, the game expects us to understand that it's "Demon King". he's doing Authurian Romance Villain shit as filtered through the lens of dark fantasy. it's not a coincidence that most of the information about him comes from other people about how much he's personally destroyed their lives. He lives in a castle called the "Shadow Keep" for god's sake, his soldiers torment the people and we, adventuring wanderers and followers of grace/Miquella fight and defeat him, which, were this a traditional story ultimately lets us access Enir-ilim and fix things. That were this a tradiitonal story, then defeating the "Demon King" sets the land back to right by enshrining the True, Good King (or god, such as Miquella is, in this case).

The fact it doesn't is the complication to this otherwise simple story- the fact that Messmer is also a victim of Marika's pursuit of revenge is important nuance, and adds to the tragedy of this story- simply killing The Bad Guy In Charge doesn't fundamentally fix things. It's that complication that makes them so deeply fixating as people. But there is a mountain of difference between "I find Messmer's tragedy Sympathetic and Compelling (and thus want to fuck him)" and "Messmer did nothing wrong". You do not get the title "The Impaler" by being innocent.

you are, in fact, allowed to be horny for the snakeboi or for Marika without actively ignoring the realities of their casual brutality. Actively making a pair of complicated, messy, tragic characters into something simple and easily digestible for maximising fuckability is not a sign of like, actually liking them. Love your genocidal warmongers as they brutally murder civilians or like, admit you don't actually like them, you like the flanderised imaginary version of them- an attraction no more substantive than the kind of R34 art that gives Ranni tits and hips broad enough to change her aspect ratio, instead of her cool weird fucked up doll body. You Cowards.

[adviceformefromme]

LOCK-IN SZN [YOUR 8-WEEK ACCELERATOR] Week 1 

If you do one thing today on the first Sunday of the month its go grab a cute new journal and write on the first page ‘LIVING FROM MY HIGHEST TIMELINE’. 

Join the official group on Discord here❤️

January is done and past, and by this point you will have realised that new year does not equal new you. And it’s actually on you, to make those micro level changes each day that transform your life. You’ve already declared your desires to God. They’re crystal clear. Your vision board is done, your goals are written. So what next? How do you access your ELEVATION? How do you truly access your highest timeline, and thrive and live from that place? How do you launch the business and make 26k in sales on your first day? How do you live in the flow state that allows you to feel and radiate your very most authentic self day in day out? 

1] First things first. Instead of praying to God for the lower level things, the car, husband, abundance, God knows your desires. What you’re gona do is pray and meditate on accessing and living your highest expression. This is the what these 8-weeks are about. You want to access your highest timeline, and this is why you need to study yourself and become your greatest project. All that energy deciding what Lululemon jacket to buy, and what bag is the best investment for next season… Those consuming thoughts are gutter level. You have to rise above, using your mind for accelerating you higher. Your mind for connecting with God. Your mind to guide you to living and breathing in your flow state daily. So each day this week I want you to spend 20 mins meditating and asking God, the source: 

‘How can I access my highest expression? How can I live from this place? Who do I need to become? What do I need to let go of? What aspects of my character need to die in order for me to rise to become who you have called me to be? Where am I stuck? What are my blind spots?’ You are going to sit in silence for 20 mins and LISTEN.

2] Once you’ve done your daily meditation LISTENING, you want to study yourself this week. You want to observe and make notes on what keeps you in the flow and what keep you out of your flow state. Get so clear on this, this is self-study. So write them down on one page ‘flow killers’ and the other ‘flow state’. For example when you put your favourite music on in the morning and dance while making breakfast, flow state, waking up to a messy room flow killer writing and posting on your blog flow state screen time 3 hours plus for the day flow killer. This is for you to observe, and study and realise. And this is this weeks homework. Studying this is going to allow you to thrive and accelerate in these next 8-weeks. 

Remember, this is your life. You get to be impacted by the world and everything you consume. OR. You get to impact. Impact your own life, impact the lives of others. The moment you start choosing yourself and your elevation, is the moment you are making an impact and no longer become a victim of this world. Stay focused, and stay close to God. This is the beginning of your accession.

[forcefulkitten]

eternal hell

[sukuna x fem! reader]

summary: you wished to die at the hands of Sukuna. instead, he'd rather force you to endure an eternal hell.

warnings: 18+, nsfw, mentions of death and torture, blood and injury, non-consensual sex, anal sex, rough sex, double penetration

word count: 2,861

“Oi, I’m dying of thirst here.”

As a servant of the four-armed curse, carrying out his demands were the only time you had to yourself but you didn’t have any peace while doing so.

Sukuna’s other servants were only allowed to stay within the bounds of their living and working zones, which were completely sectioned off from his shrine and living areas, where you had sole access to. They didn’t bump heads with Sukuna as long as their tasks were always completed, leaving him no reason to claim more lives unless he was just in the mood to do so. They were grateful to survive his slaughter but only because they didn’t serve him personally. Truthfully, they lived a much less troubled life than you.

You didn’t pay any mind because you weren’t like them, they were sheep and you pitied them for it. The differing in mindsets are the very reason you ended up secluded from them. Feeling gratitude towards Sukuna was something you’d never resonate with. One thing hadn’t changed since the day you were dragged here— your wish to die. You’re weren’t grateful to be alive. The thought of your bones scattered messily around his shrine, mixed in the piles of countless other victims, was a charity you dreamed of.

Your battered figure showcased the countless futile acts of rebellion against Sukuna. Bruises and scabs both new and old. Several fractured bones in different healing stages. You were a mere mangled skeleton, hanging onto life while he continuously pushed you to the brink of death. Recovery would require ample rest, a nutritionally balanced diet and free time; three luxuries of which you received the bare minimum.

Sukuna watched as you limped back to his throne. You disrobed before heading up the steps of his shrine, one of many humiliating rules you had to follow when around him. Holding the chalice out for him to grab, your other arm covered your breast from his sight.

“Here.”

He signaled for you to step closer, looking over every battered inch of your body.

“I’ll reiterate the orders you’re already aware of. Abide by keeping yourself completely uncovered in my presence.”

A calloused hand reached out to uncover you and you flinched backwards, opting to uncover your chest and avoid his touch. Utter dread and disgust flowed through you at the hum of approval he made. Much to his annoyance, you shoved the chalice closer for him to grab, triggering him to think you were testing him at this point.

Sukuna’s lower arms wrapped around your thighs and pulled you between his legs. A third hand rested on the small of your back and his last free hand grabbed the drink from you. He pushed for a reaction as he poured the frigid water over you, tossing the chalice aside afterwards. The metal clanked against the mountain of bones as it fell down. Liquid dripped down your collarbone, then between the valley of your breasts before he lapped it up. The entire time, ruby eyes never abandoned your disturbed glare, arms keeping you firmly in place. You stood frozen in complete shock being that he never showed sexual interest in you prior. He licked a drop of liquid from the curve of your breast until his mouth met your nipple, sucking harshly, not releasing when you grabbed a fistful of his hair and attempted to yank him away from you. Pulling tufts of his hair only made him growl against your skin, the powerful vibrations giving you goosebumps.

“Quit it, asshole! You’re fucking disgusting.”

Sukuna ignored your angry pleas, shushing you with firm nips against your breast, two of his hands palmed your ass and gave it a firm squeeze, his nails digging into your skin. A hand wrapped around your throat, forcing you to stare at him furiously as he forced a hand between your thighs. You began punching him with clenched fists for a moment, soon halting as the nips against your breast turned to warning bites.

His calloused fingers entered you forcefully, the grip against your throat tightening. With no slick to minimize the sting it felt like his long nails were scratching your walls. Your breathing was irregular. Eyes blinked tears away. Humiliated was truly an understatement. He curled his fingers inside you, his tongue taking turns licking and sucking each breast. At this moment you preferred for him to strike you, all you could think of was how much better it would’ve felt instead of him having his way with you. Your own body betrayed you when he spanked your cheeks again, cunt becoming slick, finally aiding him in pumping his fingers inside you. He laughed cynically, considering this a win.

“Well, that’s enough fun for one day.”

Sukuna’s arms withdrew from you completely and you fumbled backwards before gaining balance. His latest way of screwing with you left you bewildered.

“Fun?”

“It was fun for me. You’ve finally served a real purpose around here. I’ve been far too easy with you.”

“You consider this… easy?!” You shouted, gesturing to your battered condition.

He got up and stood in front of you, moving a stray hair from your face with a manipulative gentleness that caused you to feel nauseous.

“Compared to what’s coming, yes.”

Prior, the cruel beatings he gave you seemed to quell his sadistic nature. You considered yourself lucky for making it so long without being sexually tainted by his conniving hands. It was only a matter of time before that wouldn’t suffice anymore, considering he’s a heedless man, having desires that only benefitted himself.

Later that evening, you laid on the concrete beside Sukuna’s bed, head rested on a dingy pillow while you were wrapped in a thin bloodied sheet Sukuna tossed at you one night to use as a tourniquet. He laid back with his legs sprawled out, 2 arms crossed behind his head while the other two held the book he was reading. A blanket covered his groin area since he often slept unclothed. You never understood the unexplained mouth on his stomach, but it did match the oddity of the plank on half his face. His bed was overly dressed in bedding— plush blankets and an obnoxious amount of pillows; insane for a man who barely washed the blood off from his victims. You can count on one hand the times you were able to grant yourself a nap on his bed while he was out during the day. Those short lived slumbers were never enough to compensate for your overall lack of sleep, but they were still worth every minute.

You hated the pity mindset but one question always lingered. ‘Why me?’ Sukuna quite literally, in his horrific nature, had a fan-club of servants who doted over him. They’d jump at the chance to be one of his toys even considering he’d destroyed everything that mattered to them. Who knew whether it was the desire for a change in routine, Stockholm syndrome, or the need to be validated in some twisted way. Whatever the reason, you’d happily trade places with them. They had liberties you couldn’t get your hands on, as simple as raggedy blankets and bedsheets they’d found on an inventory run, or the opportunity to cook their own meals and not be watched over while they enjoyed. Sukuna could have eyes everywhere if he wanted but there was no need. In a way, he destroyed their world and rebuilt it all at once. Their price to pay was far less than yours.

When the silence of the night was replaced by Sukuna’s throaty breathing— a sign that he fell into slumber; that was your cue to crawl over and rest your head against his mattress. It was easier to deal with neck strain the following day than sleep with that poor excuse of a pillow you felt the concrete floor through. You shifted to your comfort, determined to get some rest and move back to your space before he woke up.

Atleast, that was the plan.

Sukuna normally slept like the dead. Was it the sigh of relief you briefly let out before shutting your eyes? Had you accidentally made too much movement? He sat upright and glanced over at you. There was an uncanny aura that didn’t sit right with you. You barely had a moment to shuffle away.

“What is it you’re doing?”

A lump of fear settled in your throat. Instead of talking through it, you just stared blankly at him. You realized this was the stupidest time to have been caught. After he pushed your boundaries earlier, you didn’t know what to expect.

The corners of his mouth turned upwards forming a sinister grin, his head tilting slightly. Sukuna leaned in closer, going as far as motioning with his hands for you to get up. You hesitated, the disgust of earlier setting in.

“Absolutely not.”

Sukuna cupped your jaw in his hand, painfully squeezing your cheeks.

“In case that wasn’t clear, I wasn’t asking for permission.”

You tried to fight back the tears that flooded your tear ducts, recalling the way he violated you earlier.

“NO! No, no, no no. Leave me the hell alone. I’ll go back on the floor, I only rested my head for a moment. Fuck this.”

The response wasn’t like your normal self. You panicked, over-explained, let that tough guard down and basically begged. He soaked it all in, realizing the physical aspect of humiliating you was your breaking point. Had he known this all along, he would’ve pushed you this far long ago.

He released his grip from your face and watched you expectantly. There wasn’t a justifiable reason for Sukuna to accommodate you.

“You’ve got two seconds to decide whether I break several bones before having my way with you.”

You were one knee onto the bed before he stopped you, pointing at the sheet still wrapped around your body.

“Nuh uh. You know better than to bring that dirty rag with you.”

The order of being nude in his presence was firm, the only time you were clothed was when leaving his shrine to fetch food or drinks, or on the rare occasion he brought you outside. You let go of the sheet and glanced between your spot on the floor and his bed. Sighing when you felt the fabric drape onto your feet, you climbed under the covers, keeping distance between you two.

Sukuna’s bed was plush, comfortable, and warm. It molded to your form, melting away the tension in your body. The feeling of comfort was distant but familiar— similar to hugs from your family and the recipes your mom only made during holidays. You were so foolishly desperate that you categorized this as nearly the same, turning to lay on your side to hide the softening in your features when you reminisced.

You waited… and waited patiently some more, hoping to hear Sukuna’s breathing turn ragged. There was no point in rolling over to confirm he was still awake, you followed the same routine nightly and knew when he’d fallen into a slumber. It was clear he wanted to initiate when you least expected it and although you were anxious and feeling uneasy, the pure exhaustion outweighed that.

Unaware of how much time passed, Sukuna’s heavy weight shifted quickly, waking you up as your body sunk deeper into the mattress. His arms wrapped around and pulled you flush to him, propping your lower back to flush against the disgusting mouth on his stomach. In that moment the defeat from earlier washed away. You felt repulsed again, the small nap reigniting the fight in you.

You did everything you could to fend him off while in his hold— kicking your heels into his shins, biting his forearm until he bled, even somehow managing to land an uppercut to his face after elbowing him in the ribs. Pretty impressive considering he laid behind you. These efforts barely phased him but he did opt to let you go, watching deviously as you skittered across the room, clearly out of breath already. Your eyes frantically scanned the room for anything to use against him but there wasn’t anything that would’ve assisted you in the slightest.

Sukuna scooted out the bed and to your dismay, you realized much like the rest of his body— he had additional parts, two dicks. The trepidation across your face that was to blame for why he was so hard. Clearly you had gotten too comfortable with the beatings and humiliation that you previously anticipated all his moves and prepared yourself for the worst. Today was different. His pent up energy couldn’t be ignored, he planned to fuck you until your fighting spirit was completely pulverized. Until he loathed how you’d writhe under him.

Your mind just raced in the moments leading up to him standing before you. It got worse as each day passed here. Everyday more daunting than the previous one. The devil himself wouldn’t even grant you something as simple as death, the very thing he handed out so easily.

Sukuna towered over you and his size alone was alarming. Long nails dug into your cheeks when he grabbed your chin in a cupping position, holding your mouth open. Your attempts to jerk away from his grasp only caused him to tighten his grip, causing unbearable pain against your jaw. Two fingers slipped into your mouth, coating themselves in saliva. They tasted awful, like metallic, making you gag when he pulled them out. He used your saliva to coat both the tip of his cocks in slick before coming closer— two heads poking against your abdomen.

The last thing you remembered was the grunt he made after you kneed him in the groin. It must’ve hurt even the slightest because he backed away for a moment before punching you right in the temple.

If the ringing in your head wasn’t a clear confirmation that you were knocked out, the new position definitely was. Your face grazed against the cold concrete floor with every one of Sukuna’s thrusts from behind. There were too many sensations going on and none of them were enjoyable.

The sting against your ass as he smacked it, the burning stretch in both your holes, your knees scraping against the ground. He was enjoying every moment, the noises eliciting from him almost similar to the excitement expressed when he wreaked havoc on lives. The raggedy sheet and thin pillow you used were close by. You found yourself reaching for them as your tears dripped onto the ground, alerting him that you were awake.

Sukuna pulled out and pushed your body flat against the floor. The ache between your legs was barely more comfortable than a few moments ago. He grabbed a fistful of your hair and yanked you to the side, flipping you onto your back and pushing your knees to your shoulders. There was a sick look in his eyes that you tried to avoid, focused instead on arching your back away from the discomfort of the cold concrete that felt paralyzing.

He lined himself up with both your holes before leaning in, pushing swiftly when you tried to inch away. The way your body practically invited him back in made you wonder how much time had passed while you were knocked out before. Either he had repeatedly snuffed you out whenever you came to and had been fucking you for a while now, or he stretched your holes rough enough to accommodate him so easily. Whatever the case, you wished he was done soon. Having four arms meant he was able to firmly hold you down while continuing to please himself even if you tried to fend him off.

The need to break you kept him hard, kept him cumming inside you, across your body, time and time again, switching positions all throughout the ordeal while you gritted your teeth and took it. It wasn’t that you weren’t defeated, because you clearly were. However, Sukuna wasn’t satisfied yet because you hadn’t succumbed to behaving like a sheep. You weren’t crying in pain under him, or pleading for your life. What was the use? He wasn’t going to grant you anything and you’d like to keep the last shred of dignity you owned. This wasn’t something he came across often.

Sukuna now stood behind you, your breast pressed against the wall while he plowed into you from behind. Your knees buckled ever so often, heavy breathing also a sign you were worn out. The firm grip he had on you didn’t allow you to fall to the ground. Any pain you felt in your holes were now subdued, a great deal of slick contributed only by his cum. A sharp tug of your hair forced you to look at him from your peripheral. Sukuna tutted his teeth.

“I haven’t had this much fun in a while.”

You spit on the ground. “Fuck you, Sukuna.”

You recalled the hardship that brought you so far in life only to prove useless. What point was the fire in you when you’d never make it out of this eternal hell?

[creature-wizard]

What the Project Monarch alter programming conspiracy theory is (and what it's not)

When I talk about alter programming conspiracy theories, people often get confused as to what I mean, so I figured I'd write a post to clear things up.

First of all, I am not saying that DID systems can't be indoctrinated or conditioned the same way literally any other human being can be, or that abusive people would never try and manipulate or exploit specific alters. That's not what I'm saying at all.

What I am talking about is a set of alleged practices first described by a number of far right conspiracy theorists, who claimed that the CIA was operating a program called Project Monarch, which was allegedly part of Project MK-Ultra.

Now, the existence of Project MK-Ultra is very well-known. The CIA did in fact conduct unethical human experiments in an effort to actually practice mind control. However, it didn't work out because drugs and the human brain don't actually work the way they thought they did. It's worth noting that these experiments were in part fueled by a fear that Russians were already masters of mind control, because as far as they were concerned, communism had to be more than just a political ideology that was at odds with America's own capitalist system; it had to be something so evil that it could only be forced on people using the most diabolical of methods. They were terrified that American POWs were being turned into Manchurian agents, and they figured that if this a thing the Russians were doing, then they should try and take advantage of this, too. Again, Project MK-Ultra was horrible, but it didn't produce the results they wanted, because Manchurian agents are nothing more than the fever dream of a terrified western capitalist.

Meanwhile, there is no evidence that Project Monarch ever existed. None. Nada. Not a shred. Despite allegedly being practiced by thousands of people in all levels of society since at least the mid-20th century, not a single piece of primary literature or documentation has ever turned up. Keep this in mind going forward.

If you've never heard of Project Monarch before, here's the gist of this conspiracy theory: Supposedly, Nazi scientist Dr. Josef Mengele wasn't actually performing eugenics experiments, and the Holocaust wasn't actually about genocide at all. It was actually a cover for mind control experiments. After the war, Dr. Joseph Mengele was brought over to the US in Operation Paperclip, where he taught the CIA everything he knew. Project Monarch was established by the CIA in order to plant programmers and programmed slaves everywhere in society for the purpose of establishing the rule of the New World Order, which had supposedly controlled Nazi Germany and had now infiltrated the US government. Supposedly, one of the New World Order's big goals was to destroy American conservative Christianity, especially Protestantism. Literally anything that a white American Protestant hyperconservative would find objectionable was supposedly the work of the NWO.

The alleged practices conducted under Project Monarch were broadly labeled "trauma-based mind control," or TBMC. While some people today use this term to refer to any form of punitive conditioning, the term originally had a very specific meaning. Let's talk about how TBMC in its original context allegedly worked. The basic concept goes like this: a very young child (sometimes even a baby) will be put under brutal torture in order to force them into dissociation. If the procedure is successful, the victim's mind will split and form a number of completely blank alters. Somehow, the programmers know which blank alters are potentially useful for programming, and which aren't. Each usable alter will be programmed with a code or trigger that will allow programmers to access the alter (force it to front) later. Supposedly, the host alter will have no memory of any of this.

During each programming session, the victim will be tortured into a dissociative trance, and the desired alter will be accessed. At this point the alter will be taught (typically as traumatically as possible) whatever they're supposed to learn, like how to assassinate someone, how to do complex mathematics at superhuman levels, or how to pose as the perfect Christian housewife.

So theoretically, someone who's basically your regular churchgoing mom could be sent a greeting card with a picture of something like a cute little Scottish terrier, have her assassin alter triggered, and go kill some local politician with some futuristic piece of technology that makes it look like he just died of natural heart attack.

Allegedly, millions of people have been programmed like this, and the average Monarch slave has an average of 1000 alters. Meanwhile, the supposed symptoms of alter programming are so broad that just about anyone with any kind of trauma or mental health issue could be diagnosed with it, and there is nothing they could do to falsify it.

Again, there is literally no evidence that Monarch programming is real. Josef Mengele was not brought to the US in Operation Paperclip; he fled to South America and died in Brazil. The Nazis (including Mengele) were very much all about those eugenics, and claiming otherwise is laughable. Not a single group, institution, or individual has ever been found in possession of programmers' manuals, nor in possession of the codebooks and books of programming records that supposedly (and would have to, if this was really happening) exist out there. Not a single person claiming to be a deprogrammed slave has ever demonstrated any of the numerous skills they were supposedly trained to be hypercompentent in.

Additionally, once you start digging into the actual sources of this conspiracy theory, you start seeing the exact same tropes that feature in The Protocols of the Learned Elders of Zion and early modern witch hunt manuals. They've been given some updates to resonate with the fears of post-WWII American WASPs, but it's ultimately the same scapegoating and fearmongering that sent millions of people to their deaths.

It's obvious that most of the people who believe that Monarch programming exists haven't actually read works like Trance-Formation of America (1995) by Mark Philips and Cathy O'Brien, and They Know Not What They Do: Illustrated Guide To Monarch Mind Control (1995), The Illuminati Formula Used To Create A Total Undetectable Mind-Controlled Slave (1996), and Deeper Insights Into The Illuminati Formula (1997) by Fritz Springmeier and Cisco Wheeler. If they did, they'd be pretty hard-pressed to deny that these books are some of the most hateful garbage ever written. These books are chock full of xenophobia, racism, and a general hatred of anyone who isn't a hyperconservative Protestant. Pseudoscience and pseudohistory are rampant throughout, as are now-failed predictions about the alleged future plans of the New World Order.

Some people out there have asked me, "well, what about this other person talking about it?" I promise you, the stuff they are talking about ultimately comes from these books, which were published throughout the 1990's. This includes Unwelcome Ozian, whose books Chainless Slaves and Rules of Programming contain text that's straight-up copied from some of these books. People like Dr. Alison Miller and Dr. Ellen Lacter cite Svali, and Svali's own work describes the exact same NWO conspiracy theory as the works of Springmeier and Wheeler.

I encourage anyone who isn't likely to get triggered by talk of extreme violence (including sexual) to actually read these books so you can see for yourself just how bad they are. A huge part of the reason this conspiracy theory has so much traction is because few people actually know where it comes from, and just how completely ridiculous the whole damn thing is. Just about everything QAnon was on about is packed into these books.

And finally, while dissociative amnesia does indeed exist, we also have evidence that people can confabulate memories of events that never actually happened. Rock-solid evidence, in fact. This is literally what happens every time someone goes under hypnosis to try and remember a past life, and "remembers" a past life in the medieval period filled with anachronisms and historical misconceptions. If you'd like to see some extremely obvious examples of memory confabulation for yourself (some of which don't even involve hypnosis), you can click here and here.

(By the way, the terms "RAMCOA" and "OEA" were created by the ISSTD, for the purpose of making these types of conspiracy theories sound respectable within legitimate psychiatry.)

[eloquentcoconut]

Hello! I’d love to see a fic about Ace, Deuce and y/n having like a traumatic event that makes them all super attached to eachother and they’re almost constantly together and if one of them is away they all have different reactions like Ace gets super quiet, Deuce gets irritated easily and y/n getting super anxious. I’d really really love to see everyone’s reactions to this! Thank you so much!

Little Lies That Are Always On My Mind

Word Count: 2,349 words. 

TW: Bullying?

Synopsis: Ace, Deuce, and Y/N find themselves involved in a potionology accident of their own doing - surprise surprise. How are they going to sift through the lies and unravel the truth?  

Notes: I tried - y’all I really tried. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

“Endless Night, an ancient but once a popular sleeping potion that allowed for the creator to infiltrate their victim’s dreams in order to access their memories, a rudimentary truth serum in today’s standards and I am being liberal with the word truth.” Professor Crewel cracked his whip against his desk, startling some of the students awake.

“Pay attention pups! I won’t be asking again so nicely IF there is a next time.” Professor Crewel began to write upon the black board.

“Endless Night was not 100% guaranteed that it would even work against the victim. Should the victim wake, suspect they’re in a dream, or their disbelief was pushed too far the potions effects would be null and void.”   

“Ace, why aren’t you stirring?’ Y/N whispered to their partner, nudging his side.

Ace jabbed a finger to his left. “That’s not my task! That’s Loosey-Deucey’s!” 

“No? I haven’t touched that ladle once. I’ve been adding the ingredients.” Deuce defended himself, side stepping to show off his collection of canisters as proof. 

“I’ve already put some of them in though…’ Y/N trailed off.

“But that was my job?” Adeuce said simultaneously. 

Y/N sighed and rubbed their head exacerbated. Ace and Deuce were their closest friends, they enjoyed their shenanigans and company dearly, but when it came to schoolwork, Y/N would trade them to professor Crewel for one dog kibble.  

Y/N turned to the duo once more. “Alright well I’ve put a twinge of sage and dried mint.”

“I thought it said a PINCH of sage and mint.” Deuce picked up their potionology textbook and began skimming the list.

“No way. I put a pluck of sage and dried coriander, you two need glasses or better brains.” Ace scoffed.  

Unbeknownst to the trio, their arguing had drawn attention. 

With a fierce crack of his whip, professor Crewel marched over to them. “No barking during my lecture, naughty puppies! You are all to stay behind after class and clean the entire room. Perhaps that will help you three learn to follow directions obediently. Start over.” 

“Yes professor.” We said at once. 

“It's your guys’ fault though. I called dibs first.” Ace whispered.

“Can it Ace.” Deuce mumbled, cleaning off his island. 

“Yeah, get bent.” Y/N flipped off Ace, turning around to examine the potionology textbook.

Professor Crewel coughed, “As I was saying, there is no margin for error. Even just one drop over, and the results would be disastrous to say the least. Sleep poisoning, restless slumber syndrome, and perceived dream world are just some of the few DIRE consequences.” Professor Crewel shot Y/N, Deuce and Ace a stern look.

Whilst people were milling about, caught up in their own business, the unattended cauldron began to bubble and brew with renewed vigor. Pink shimmering liquid squeaked as a violet sweet-smelling bubble floated to the top.

“UH! I don’t think it's supposed to be doing THAT!” Ace ran around the pot, pulling on his friends’ lab coat sleeves. 

“What?!” Deuce flinched back upon witnessing the overflowing cerulean goo.

“Huh?” Y/N jumped back as red spark clouds circled over the potions head.

A puff of black smoke, reminiscent of campfire marshmallows enveloped the trio, ushering them into a fitful slumber. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───���─

 Y/N, Ace, and Deuce are nothing short of a miracle case. It's a marvel in itself that they were able to wake at all. At least, that's what the staff at the infirmary would tell themselves. They weren’t pleased in the slightest when they awoke one by one.

Disoriented, the trio was able to find comfort once spotting one another, but why did they wake up alone?

“Do you guys know what happened?” Y/N asked tentatively. 

Deuce rubbed the left side of his head and scrunched up his face as he recalled the memory. “...We… Our potion exploded?”

“For a dream potion, I find it odd I didn’t dream at all. Just a flash...” Ace trailed off, outstretching his own hands in front of himself, confirming their reality. 

“A flash of black. More like a blink. I don’t feel any different?” Y/N finished. 

A half bear half human violently yanked the privacy curtains. “If that’s all you're going to do is lie there and take up space, get out.” The head nurse scowled and quite literally chased them out. 

The trio were left stunned and lost. Standing outside the infirmary doors, they looked up at midnight blue sky, encrusted with diamonds. No one had informed them what had happened, and no one had waited for them. 

Ace checked his phone. It was still the same day, 0 messages. 

A fast-paced puff ball darted by their line of sight. Y/N tilted their head to the side. “I’ve never seen a black rabbit on the school grounds before.” 

“A black rabbit?” Deuce perked up, albeit cautiously.   

“Why are you bringing up rabbits?” Ace questioned, pocketing his phone as they walked.

“I just saw one, anyway it doesn’t matter.” Y/N waved it off. There is a forest nearby, it really isn’t so strange an animal could roam the grounds. “But isn’t it odd that not a single person reached out to us?”

“Maybe it wasn’t that serious?” Deuce attempted to comfort the duo, himself included.

“Still…” Y/N wasn’t convinced, and the looks on Ace and Deuce were confirmation. 

Ace looked around and asked, “can we stay over at Ramshackle tonight?” 

“Sure.” Y/N reassured. 

Deuce fretted over the knick knacks on his coat. “Don’t we need permission though… I don’t want to get into even more trouble.” 

“If our own classmates, peers, and dorm cannot even manage a ‘get well soon’ DM, I say screw them and let them figure it out.” Ace crossed his arms over his head in a relaxed pose but looked off to the side frowning. 

“...Yeah.” Deuce dropped his hands and continued his walk with more certainty. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The night was ordinary and serene. Y/N, Deuce, and Ace awoke one by one, did their morning routines and went off to class. No new messages, or a sense of urgency from the trio to check in with anyone.

And that’s where their peace ended, and their troubles started.

Entering homeroom, a wave of scrutiny washed over them. All eyes locked on their forms as they made their way to find empty seats.

“I guess that potion accident is water under the bridge. Or should I say goo under the desk?” Ace joked.  

Professor Crewel said nothing, letting out a scoff, and turning back to the board. 

Out of the corner of Ace’s eye, he noticed a poster of a bunny the color of midnight with deep set sapphire eyes. ‘That poster is new.’ He thought. ‘It's out of place in potionology, homeroom or any class at NRC…’

Ace whispered his findings to Y/N and Deuce. Before Deuce and Y/N could find the poster, professor Crewel had thrown a piece of chalk in Ace’s direction!

“Trappola! It has become apparent that you have learned nothing from yesterday’s incident about yapping - move to the other side of the classroom before I muzzle you!”

Professor Crewel was practically radiating anger, and everyone felt suppressed to say anything as Ace took his stuff and switched seats.  

Feeling the oppressive atmosphere, Ace could not find it in himself to make light of the situation and decided the best course of action would be to lay low until the whole thing blew over.  Even as his peers taunted him, Ace remained quiet, burning a hole through that off putting rabbit poster. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

History of Magic with professor Trein wasn’t any better. A cloud of tension followed the three into the sinfully boring classroom. 

Deuce clocked a noirette rabbit with ocean eyes resting in the plush cushion where Lucius usually slept. Deuce looked to Ace and Y/N in confusion as the pair let on as though they did not even see the rabbit. 

After a while of taking notes, the rabbit hopped over to Deuce and flung his pencil case off his desk. 

Deuce balked, Y/N and Ace looked bewildered at their friend’s sudden clumsiness, and all the other students turned their heads to the source of noise.

Professor Trein looked up from his papers and gave Deuce a stern look.

“I’m sorry professor! A rabbit-”

“None of your excuses.” Professor Trein returned to grading his papers. “See that another disruption doesn’t happen again.”

“What was that?” Y/N whispered to a flustered Deuce. 

“Didn’t you guys see that rabbit bat my stuff away?”

Ace shook his head. 

Deuce grumbled and returned to his studies. But the rabbit had returned. With a sly smile the rabbit tore out the history pages with its teeth out of Deuce’s textbook!

*riiiiiipp*

“STOP THAT!” Deuce shouted at the naughty rabbit.

Y/N and Ace looked concerned at whatever was affecting Deuce. The peanut gallery gave their two cents in the form of bitter comments or mocking laughter. 

Professor Trein scowled. “Spade, remove yourself from my classroom before I give you detention.”

“But professor-”

“NOW.”

With his head held low, Deuce left third period. 

Deuce wasn’t sure what else to do with his sudden free hour, so he stood outside the classroom waiting for the dismissal bell to toll. 

Other students gawked they passed by, whispering loudly about ‘once a delinquent always a delinquent.’ Or ‘watch out! If you look him in the eyes, he’ll throw something at you! Scary!’ 

Deuce started to sweat. ‘How would they know? Am I really that obvious? I’m not even good at fronting my ‘good boy’ persona?’ 

A few daring students made fun of Deuce until he snapped. Deuce had grown so irritated that he left and decided to wander around campus to blow off steam. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Returning to Heartslabyul after school, Y/N, Ace, and Deuce were met with opposition from Trey, Riddle, and Cater upon entering. Heartslabyul students gave them dirty looks as they passed by the group. 

Riddle was the first to speak, and rather harshly too. “How nice of the Night Raven College punk celebrities to grace our humble dormitory with their presence.” 

Ace crossed his arms. “We were literally in the infirmary from 1st period to midnight. Which any of you would know if you bothered to check on your underclassmen.” 

The micro celebs were met with fierce looks. Y/N watched as the black hare emerged from the rose hedge and ran towards the Heartslabyul higher ups. 

“That rabbit is back!” Y/N said to Deuce.

Deuce didn’t notice the rabbit but believed his friend anyways.  

The rabbit poked Cater’s leg. Cater turned his gaze to Y/N and asked, “so it’s true, you’re stealing other dorm members to fill up your own dorm.”

The bunny tapped Trey’s shoe. 

Trey crossed his arms and nodded. “You think you can get your way with everything just because you ‘helped’” Trey air quoted the word, “with a few overblots… Oh brother.”  

Y/N gave Cater, Trey, and their prefect a harsh look. “Where is this coming from? This seriously cannot be about yesterday’s potion accident…”

Y/N stopped and considered it. They didn’t have any dreams last night, nor did Ace or Deuce, and the actions of the ever-vanishing rabbit are making their school life needlessly difficult. While Y/N was musing over their thoughts, the dark rabbit swatted Riddle’s elbow and winked.

Riddle glared at Y/N. “Don’t act like you did anyone any favors. Not everything is about you Y/N. You literally brought up the overblots just for praise… Wow.” 

Deuce stepped in, “you guys brought up the overblots, not Y/N.” 

Cater eye rolled. “Puh-lease, Y/N is always acting like they're better than everyone. They’re just malding ‘cuz their lies finally caught up with them.” 

Trey added, “How many times does a coincidence need to happen before it's a pattern? I bet they’re causing the overblots to make themselves look good… Talk about messed up.” 

Y/N was upset to say the least but had no idea on how to even defend themselves against this weirdly one-sided beef. Y/N felt as though there was nothing they could do if people were this dedicated about misunderstanding them out of thin air. Their thoughts began to swirl together, lingering on ‘what ifs’ as their breath quickened. 

“You guys are jerks!” Ace had had enough. “Whatever is wrong with YOUR messed up heads, get over yourselves!”

As Ace took hold of Deuce’s and Y/N’s hand, exiting Heartslabyul Y/N made a connection.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

“You think we never actually woke up?” Ace’s eyebrows rose in alarm. 

Y/N nodded. “That rabbit, everyone else acting like actual villains but only with the things directly on our mind or what had just happened to us… It’s like a dream, isn’t it?”

“A twisted nightmare you mean.” Deuce rubbed the back of his neck tiredly. 

The day left the Ramshackle club emotionally defenseless. Dreading what would transpire the next day, and the foreseeable future if they could not escape.  

“It's no fun if you’re aware.” A little voice whined. 

!!!

The dream bunny made its appearance seamlessly materializing into existence.

“GAAHHH?!” 

Its coat gave off an iridescent glow as it breathed. Ace broke the stillness. 

“What do you gain from tormenting us?” He demanded.  

The dream bunny said nothing and gave a smug grin, "once you wake after tonight's slumber you’ll be returned to your waking world.” 

Promptly, the creature vanished in a cloud of fading sparkles. 

Y/N, Deuce, and Ace were left with little choice, they agreed it would be in their best interest to stay in Ramshackle and wait until they awoke the next day to leave. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

*COUGH! ACK!* 

Slowly one by one, Y/N, Ace and Deuce attempted to organize their thoughts as they awoke in the infirmary bed. Despite being snuggled in close, they were crowded by a mirage of concerned faces and a wave of questions. 

The three looked at one another, as if asking permission from one another to dare to voice their thoughts. They never did, swept up in the fussing and caring looks of their friends, even professor Crewel was present. 

Eventually when the fanfare settled down, and the three were permitted to leave, they left together to spend the night at Y/N’s dorm to discuss what in Twisted Wonderland they had been through. 

A black rabbit with blue eyes skidded past them. The trio had a wordless understanding wash over them.

‘If we’re together, we’ll always be fine.’