#Non existent invisible boundaries

[subconsciousmysteries]

Lana del Rey's exact wing (9w1 or 9w8) is torturing me. I see strong arguments for both. But I lean towards w1 after thinking it through properly.

Popularly everyone types her 9w8, probably because of the fallacy that 1s are all boring political types who hate art. Really 1 is the type that is MOST fixated on actualizing their ideals of beauty, so... yeah. That changes the game here completely.

I see w8 in her life choice to live Mad Max style and her constant focus on sex. Though that can all be explained away with her being an sx/sp. I see w1 in her prissiness, her extreme perfectionism towards her appearance and her highly stylized and polished music videos. Her focus on philosophy -- she got a degree in philosophy, few know this because it isn't really in her songs -- and also the tone of sarcasm as opposed to raw rage in most of her songs. She never overtly expresses her feelings of anger. But her songs are almost all sarcastically digging into the guy she is mad at by painting a pretty picture of how brutal and disrespectful of her (non-existent and invisible) boundaries he is. A w8 would be much more direct and also more minimalistic / ugly, less stylized than her. She has the 1-ish pursuit of perfect beauty

[mutable-manifestation]

The Heart of the Matter Ch. 6

Chapter 1 (Parts 1-3), Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5

So this took forever. The whole ‘hey dude ur dead btw’ convo fought me something fierce. I deleted like three versions. RIP

***

As soon as they clear the ground into open air, Danny flies them - invisible and intangible - straight to the heart of Gotham.

He could more than likely make it to the Fenton portal fast enough to avoid being traced beyond ‘somewhere in Illinois,’ but the point of running isn’t to escape.

He wants the Green Lantern to follow.

He isn’t sure about Batman and his allies, isn’t sure where he stands on the Anti-Ecto Acts or if he even knows they exist, given the GIW’s relentless efforts to keep what happened - what still sometimes happens - in Amity Park buried.

He’s less sure after seeing the surety with which they almost sent Jason away to….

He shakes his head.

If they could be convinced to help, all the better. If they truly cared for Jason they’d do a good enough job beating themselves up over it later.

Not that he wouldn’t still be sending them Jazz’s way to have a talk about respecting boundaries in non-emergency situations rather than steamrolling them just because an ally or friend sounds like they know what they’re doing.

But before all of that, he wants a chance to get Jason up to speed first.

And to get some ecto in the guy, but given the way his core feels, the betrayal-fest he just phased in on, and his somehow near-complete lack of knowledge about what he is, he doubts he’s going to just accept eating mysterious, neon, glowing sludge without an explanation.

He zips through a Malmart and snags a large hoodie and sweats - he’ll pay them back later - and ends the flight by landing them in the bathroom of a crowded coffee shop.

No one should notice the two of them appearing out of nowhere when there are so many other people to draw attention, and hopefully the crowd will deter the Lantern - and the Bats - from causing a scene.

Or at least, a scene beyond the one that would already be caused by their mere presence in the place.

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

Jason only takes his eyes off of Jordan when he’s jostled from a sudden drop. He looks up just in time to see batarangs sink into the wall just above space-ice-crown-guy’s head.

He follows their trajectory back to see Damian unsheathing his blades.

Nightwing and Black Bat are already airborne, and lunging towards them.

A strange sensation washes over him. Crown-guy doesn’t move this time, unbothered by the swinging limbs and grasping hands headed their way.

The pair pass right through them as if they aren’t even there.

Jason feels betrayed and furious and wrung out all at once; he just wants to leave.

And then they do, horrifying green baseball bat close behind as crown guy throws them straight at the ceiling.

They sink into-and-through the earth, and they’re in the sky far above the manor before Jason even has a chance to do more than take a shaky breath.

Then they’re heading for Gotham.

Wayne Manor is twelve miles from the city’s border.

They’re in the heart of Old Gotham inside two minutes - after stopping by an Upper West Side Malmart to…steal clothing?

He’d be concerned about Red Hood being seen flying around with some random meta - about being too much of an easy target in the open air, flying in a mostly straight line - but the two of them are barely visibly, mere outlines of twisted space, like the distorted air above the heat of a flame.

He can barely make himself out, and the people they paused right next to in the store had appeared to notice even less.

When they do stop, it’s in the bathroom of a crowded coffee shop that is - frankly miraculously - blessedly empty.

Crown guy gently but swiftly sets him on his feet - hand on his shoulder just until he’s steady - and shoves the stolen clothing into his chest with a simple ‘here’ before Jason has a chance to say anything.

Then a ring of light appears around his waist, splitting to slide both up and down like some kind of scanner.

Where it goes, crown guy changes.

His build, his facial structure, the cut of his hair - all the broad strokes stay the same. What changes are the details.

Lazarus green eyes are replaced by a vibrant blue that better matches the now-absent crown - it still feels a bit cool, standing near him, but he’s not sure he’d have noticed if he wasn’t looking for it.

Impossibly white hair becomes a deep black - now matching the unchanged eyebrows - and the ears curve where they’d once been pointed.

His skin is paler like this - like he’d spent most of his life indoors, hiding away from the sun - the freckles now a light tan. As though the colors had traded places.

He lands lightly on his feet as the transformation ends, standing just slightly shorter than Jason now that they’re on even ground, and his physique is lithe but muscular; a swimmer’s build.

His clothes are the starkest difference, in Jason’s opinion: otherworldly fabrics and colors swapped out for simple blue jeans and a contrastingly dark red shirt and shoes.

No sign of the cape.

No hint of that otherworldly glow.

Unless you count the sparkle in his eyes as he raises a pointed brow and coughs.

Jason mentally berates himself for staring so obviously. He knew how to be more subtle than that.

Outwardly, he points to his mask.

“Great plan with the clothes, no-more-crown-guy, but they won’t exactly cover this.”

The guy just smiles and shakes his head.

“It’s Danny,” he snorts. “And you can just shove the mask in a pocket or something. I already know who you are, Jason Todd.”

The guy - Danny - snaps his hands up in surrender the moment Jason reaches for one of his guns.

“Easy,” he says, voice still relaxed. Soothing. The aura of strength-safety-protection-calm unchanged. “You being Red Hood is none of my business. I’m not here for Red Hood, I’m here for Jason.”

“What, need an inside scoop for the next article on ‘Watching the Waynes?’ Or is this a ransom thing?” he sneers, hand firmly on his gun as he closes the distance to loom threateningly.

For all that he’s glad to be out of the batcave, that doesn’t mean this guy is an ally; he won’t be swayed by some meta emotional manipulation. Bringing them to such a crowded location could be as much a threat as it could a reassurance, given the knowledge of his vigilante nature - a building full of eyes to make Jason feel better?

Or a building full of hostages?

“No,” Danny denies calmly, matter-of-factly, expression unworried despite the sudden decrease in personal space. “Someone told me you were in danger, and I could help you, so I did. I can also help you with the fact that you’re starving-”

“I’m not-”

“-and I can tell you why you’re so scared of Green Lantern.”

Jason is very willing to hear him out at that. Maybe he shouldn't be. He wants to stay suspicious; he will stay cautious.

But....

He has to know.

He has to know what's going on before it drives him crazy.

Crazier, if you ask his 'family.'

And doesn't that just burn? How quick they'd been to ignore his feelings when he didn't have any concrete information to back them up. How it hadn't taken more than a promise of maybe help for them to trust Green Latern.

Help with something he'd already gotten mostly under control.

He knows it scared them; how much he'd changed when he came back. How long he'd spent letting his anger take the driver's seat.

But he died. And then he came back to find his killer was walking around fresh as a fucking daisy. Jason was entitled to a little anger, in his own humble opinion.

Maybe he'd gone a bit far, but things had finally started going back to normal. He'd almost started to forgive them for not avenging him. For replacing him. They'd even started working together again, more and more often with every passing day. Jason had worked on reigning in his anger instead of letting it take the reigns, controlling the Pit Rage instead of sinking into it.

It was a hard transition to make; hate cradles you, as they say. But he tried.

Maybe he had some relapses occasionally, some outbursts here and there, but he was making progress.

But they had been willing to throw him at the mercy of someone that terrified him for reasons he didn't understand the second they offered maybe a 'solution' to his 'green little problem.'

As if it wasn't mostly 'solved' already.

As if they hadn't been working on it for years now.

As if he wasn't capable of making his own damn decisions.

Mind made up, he takes breath, takes a step back, glances at the door - which he very quickly locks when he realizes how much they’ve been playing with fire - and drops the hand from his gun.

“Why bring us somewhere so crowded?”

“Your pals are less likely to attack us if we’re surrounded by civilians and not doing anything wrong. Plus, background noise. As long as we’re relatively quiet we’re unlikely to be overheard or bothered,” he answers, then points at the abandoned stolen clothing on the floor, a brow raised. “But if it’s all the same, I’d prefer to explain more when we’re not in a bathroom.”

Jason stares at him for another long moment.

Someone jiggles the handle and knocks.

“Fuck it.”

He throws on the baggy outfit, grateful for the drawstring - which is the only thing keeping the pants up - at least the excess fabric covers his shoes enough to be less obviously Not Normal (™).

He whips off the mask and shoves it in the pocket of the hoodie - which hits him upper-mid thigh.

Seriously.

‘This guy is pants at guessing sizes.’

It takes a lot of inner strength to avoid facepalming when he realizes his unintentional pun.

Once dressed, Danny wastes no time opening up the door to leave, and he follows him out and into the coffee line, ignoring the wide-eyed look on the face of the guy who’d knocked.

They grab coffee and snag an outside table - even more background noise with all the traffic, Danny explains as they sit.

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

“So, Danny. Who, exactly, sent you to ‘help’ me?” Jason asks, leaning back in his seat.

Danny snorts at the theatrics, taking a sip of his own drink before he answers.

“He didn’t send me, he just told me you were in danger. I’m here because I want to be. But his name is Clockwork, the ghost that watches over the timestream.”

Danny sighs.

“We probably don't have a lot of time before Greenie and the Furries catch up, and they’ll need to hear a lot of what I have to tell you,” he says. “But, the basic - and more personal - details which only you really need to know-” he holds up a finger “-my parents have always been obsessed with ghosts and made it their life’s mission to open a portal to the afterlife - which they call the ‘Ghost Zone.’”

A second finger joins the first.

“They succeeded when I was 14, except they didn’t manage to make it turn on because they miswired an emergency off-switch on the inside to have an accompanying ‘on’ button that needed to be activated before it would work.”

A third.

“A friend dared me to go in and I, being a dumb kid, did. Then promptly tripped and hit the on-button and got electrocuted half to death. I say ‘half’ because in the midst of me dying the portal turned on, and the ectoplasm bonded to my living DNA and reached a sort of balance. This turned me into a halfa - a being that is half-human and half-ghost. Half alive and half dead. A human form and a ghost form.”

A fourth, Danny studiously ignoring Jason’s bewildered blinking.

“Halfa’s, due to the nature of our existences, are exceedingly rare. The first that I know of was created in an accident 20 years ago. I was the second. The third was already a halfa when she was created, being a clone of me - long story. The fourth, that I know of,” Danny leans forward, fingers curling back over to leave the hand pointing at Jason. “Is you.”

Danny can see the roiling mix of confusion-comprehension-horror-denial-fear-anger building up in him - anger the one that appeared to be winning - so he rushes to explain, holding his hands up placatingly - deja-vu.

“Clockwork only told me about you, like, an hour ago. He told me about how you didn’t know you were a halfa, how there’s barely enough ambient ectoplasm in this city to sustain you, that what is here is kind of garbage, that you don’t know how to get more - or that you need more. Or what ecto is - it’s like carbon for ghosts, I guess? Like living people are made of carbon but food is too?”

He squints. Shrugs.

“Ghosts are made of ecto and need it to be healthy. As halfas, we need both. There’s a lot more to ‘how to be a halfa’ but that’s the most important thing right now given I can literally sense how ecto-deprived you are. Your ecto-signature is literally so weak I could almost mistake you for a blob ghost, which is incredibly not-healthy. I nabbed a thermos from my fridge on the way here, so like. I know it probably sounds sus and your experience with green liquids-” he notes Jason tense back toward anger from where he’d been moving into confusion territory “-is probably historically bad, but I promise it’s safe. I’ll even drink some myself to prove it if that helps.”

A beat.

“Green liquids.”

It’s not a question, but Danny answers anyway, reaching into his chest to pull out the thermos, ignoring the strangled noise Jason makes and the aborted movement from where he’d begun to stand before crashing back down and staring as he uncaps the cylinder and pours a little of the ectoplasm into the cap before sliding the rest towards him.

“Ectoplasm!” Danny chirps, downing his like a shot only to find Jason staring, mouth slightly open in horror.

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

Jason has known Danny for less than five minutes, and the guy has already said and done the most unhinged things Jason has ever seen anyone do.

In five. Minutes.

Here’s the thing; Jason hates everything he’s saying.

That Jason is still dead.

That he needs to start drinking lazarus water.

That there was some time guy out there stalking him (as if he needed another nosy bastard hanging over his shoulder. He was just starting to barely-kind of-sorta tolerate the ones he knew about).

That Danny died in his parents’ basement because they were experimenting with lazarus water.

Jason had barely begun to process the insane shit he said when the guy shoves his hand through his fucking chest.

For a moment, he was fully convinced he was going to rip out his heart or something.

Instead, he’d apparently just been using his chest cavity as a storage location for a thermos of lazarus water.

Ya know, as you fucking do.

In keeping with his general vibe of ‘one-insane-thing-after-another-without-pause’ he immediately pours himself a glass and downs it like a fucking shot.

It hasn’t even been 24 hours since this nightmare started and Jason thinks he might be going prematurely gray by now (no the white part does not count, he died when he was 15, Tim).

Finally, mercifully, the guy stops talking and/or doing things.

He closes his hanging jaw, noting the unchanged blue of the guys’ eyes.

Danny is still calm. In control. Unaffected by a bit of eau de lazarus.

Jason takes a steadying breath, bracing himself for the smell of decay and mildew and blood that the waters always carry with them…and gets something completely different.

His eyes snap down to the still-open thermos laid before him.

Looking closer, he notes the lack of bubbles. The color is the same, but the glow itself is somehow brighter. Softer.

It doesn’t smell like lazarus water.

It smells like chamomile tea. Like the lavender cookies Alfred used to make post-patrol sometimes, trying to incite them to go to bed sooner rather than staying up at all hours.

It smells delicious.

He can feel his mouth water, and his stomach growls loudly, suddenly.

He’d had that oatmeal less than two hours ago, but he suddenly feels like he hadn’t eaten at all.

He sips his coffee instead, staring down the container of pure temptation, straining against the urge to pick it up and chug.

Danny watches on, silent, patient. He looks hopeful, Jason thinks, but not expectant.

Not that he couldn’t just be a really good actor. And just because the lazarus water smells good doesn’t mean it’s safe. Doesn’t mean he should just go for it.

Even if it does smell like chamomile tea and lavender cookies.

Alfred’s lavender cookies.

Which he’d never been able to resist.

‘He drank some,’ Jason thinks as he picks up the thermos. ‘He’s still fine,’ he tells himself. ‘If he wanted to he could’ve just dropped me directly into one of the pits. If he wanted to hurt me he could’ve phased poison directly into my bloodstream, probably.’

The not-quite-lazarus water tastes just like it smells.

Jason wants to chug the whole canister, but he has enough self-control to take sips instead, letting the flavors play out on his tongue.

No hint of almonds.

No odd textures.

Just chamomile and lavender and bliss.

Three sips and a solid ten seconds in and he still feels fine - no feeling faint or frothing at the mouth. Instead, he feels lighter.

Warmer.

Calmer.

Ravenous.

He chugs the rest, tension leaving his body, nerves settling, the hunger he hadn’t known was there until the scent first hit him abating enough to be ignored.

He takes a moment to look at the empty cylinder and reflect on the fact that he just voluntarily drank lazarus water.

Except not really. Lazarus water is vile; even Danny had said the ‘ecto’ he’d encountered was 'garbage.'

'What, did Ra's forget to install a damn pool-filter or something???

He shakes the thought from his head and looks back at his…rescuer? Danny only looks relieved; noticeably more relaxed than the apparently false-calm he’d been projecting before.

Jason chews his lip in thought. Frowns.

“Okay. I have many questions, comments, and concerns about…everything that just happened, to be honest. But before anything else, I want answers about Green Lantern.”

Danny nods, expression grave.

“Let me tell you a story….”

***

Fun Fact: Ectoplasm smelling like wild stuff is fun, but also it’s everywhere in the zone. Ghosts have to live in it & smell it/smell like it all the time. Sooooo….

In this AU I’m going with: ecto smells like ranch 2 (lime & batteries) to humans bc they can’t process it properly.

To ghosts, ectoplasm smells like the thing they want the most at that moment. Right now, Jason wants home - as it was when it was safe - so the ecto smells like something that reminds him of that.

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

Next time: Back at the batcave! If that scene doesn’t stretch too long, also reunion! Or at least Jason pov of being pissed when they have the audacity to want to talk!

Tags!

@skulld3mort-1fan @kyrianclawraith @jesimilu @bleuyellow93 @ocearnawrites @undead-essence @violet-catsarelife @sunsetdew0101 @tsukihimeyfan @the-legal-shipper @spideypoolalways @mariendall @jesus-camp-the-sequel @jotaroslooseeyebrowhair @akikoyuii @mrowsters @do3y @aikoiya @joaniejustwokeup @wwwwyamd @fox-sama97

[nausicaaandhermouth]

The Revolutionist

(masterlist in progress)

pre-canon!silco x gn!reader [2.5k]

cw: implied/referenced suicidal ideation, implied/referenced depression

summary: at a particularly melancholy night that drives you to the heights, you meet a stranger in the shadows who coaxes you from the edge.

tags: pre-canon, sexual(?) tension, depression, suicidal ideation, undercity, smoking

a/n girl iono what this is, but here's to my first one shot (clinks glass) idk why i'm nervous (btw requests are open if you're interested)

From this dizzying height, the Undercity unfurls below. A tapestry of ethereal greens and golds, luminescence piercing through the murky haze—stark silhouettes of buildings jut upwards, defiant sentinels of black and grey amidst the swirling miasma. Its signature sickly green fog blankets the metropolis; coils around structures and seeps into every crevice, a suffocating embrace.

Your feet graze over the edge, toes curling over where solid ground gives way to a yawning abyss. The boundary between life and oblivion is razor-thin here. One small shift, imbalance, and gravity would claim you.

The wind whispers seductive promises of flight, tugging at your clothes, daring you to test the limits—it’s a heady mix of terror and exhilaration.

The precipice beckons, a siren call you’ve never heeded this far before. Each step tracked each loss that then etched into your very bones. First, it was your father, consumed by the blight. Almost expected. It was a degradation the Undercity-born was familiar with. Then, your sister, life snuffed out by an enforcer’s merciless fist. The brutes. Now, your mother, long adrift in her own ocean of grief. You’d become little more than ghosts haunting the same halls, the world’s greed carving an insurmountable chasm between you.

Logic screams that your presence here is madness. The need for comfort, for solace only another soul can provide, wars against reality. You long to bridge the gap, find someone’s warmth, spit out the bitter poison fed by the relentless suffering.

If not today, then tomorrow, or the day after—the world will take again. This grim lottery where Death deals the cards. Will it be the fist of an enforcer or the invisible killers that saturate every breath?

Are you really contemplating this?

“Bit dangerous, don’t you think?” a voice, velvet and silk, cuts blade-like through your contemplation.

Your body reacts before your mind can catch up. A jolt of surprise sends you teetering forward. Heart pounding, you stumble back from the edge.

Whirling around, you fix the intruder with a glare. His dark silhouette materialised a few feet away like some spectral apparition, leaning against the roof with an infuriating nonchalance. A cigar dangled between his fingers, wisp of smoke curling around his face.

His eyes, half-moons of disinterest, survey you with the casual indifference of someone observing an insect. It makes a look that makes your spine straighten, your earlier melancholy rapidly morphing into irritation.

“Sort of the point,” you spit back, words tasting of bitterness and bravado. You slide a step away, creating further distance between you and him. The roof suddenly feels too small. Who is he? What does he want? And more importantly, how dare he interrupt your affair with oblivion?

He responds with a half-shrug, somehow making it an eloquent gesture of his impassivity. Drawing a deep breath from his cigar, he exhales a cloud of smoke that hangs in the air like a tangible manifestation of your growing annoyance.

Your mind races and falters. Is he really just going to stand there? Not that you want to be stopped, but his nonchalance was… unsettling? A highly irregular response to finding someone conversing with non-existence. Though, the idea was not novel—a common fate for many under dwellers.

You turn back to face the sprawling cityscape, trying to ignore the insidious tendrils of smoke that start coiling around your senses. The question burns in your mind: What is he doing here? This moment was supposed to be yours alone. You hadn’t anticipated a witness for your last moments.

Unable to resist, you shoot him another glare, only to find him utterly disinterested in your turmoil. He’s busy scraping something off the underside of his boot, as if the grime of the city is more worthy of his attention than your life-or-death deliberation.

Frustration boils over, and your words escape you before you can stop them. “Are you just going to stand there?” the question cuts through the silence and he looks up, meeting you gaze with those half-drooped eyes.

His face remains a mask of calm, thoroughly unaffected by your hostility. It’s a further irritant how much your obvious displeasure slides off him.

“You want me to catch you, or something?” he drawls, tone a perfect blend of sarcasm and boredom that makes your blood even hotter.

His words hang between, a challenge and a dismissal all at once.

“What are you doing here?” you strike back, impatience sharpening your words.

He takes another languid drag from his cigar, smoke veiling his face. “What—can I not be?” his voice carries a hint of amusement as he pushes off from the wall. Each step towards you is a study in fluid grace, soft and languid. “Like you, I can appreciate Zaun’s skyline. Seems we just have a point of preference,”

He halts a few feet away, gaze drawn to the cityscape below. The proximity allows you to truly observe him for the first time, the details etching themselves into your memory with startling clarity.

His eyes, a stormy blue, almost grey when drenched behind mist. They’re set in a face that could have been chiselled from marble—all sharp angles and clean lines, giving him an almost shark-like profile. Long, dark hair is gathered into a careless bun at the nape of his neck, rebellious strands escaping to frame his face, softening the harsh edges ever so slightly.

A spark of gallows humour flickers to life within you, at last a defiant flame against the dark. “Ah,” you nod, wariness still evident in the tension of your shoulders while a sardonic smile curls your lips. “Planning a dive, too, are you?”

A huff escapes him—a sound that might charitably be called laughter, but falls short of genuine mirth.

Suddenly, the name snaps you back to reality. Zaun. The word carries with it its reputation and weight. So few people use the name that it stands more so for people that had “rebel” ideas rather than what it was created for. Your eyes narrow. “You’re one of those… revolutionists, huh?”

He turns to you, face still angled downward, but his gaze locks onto yours with an intensity that momentarily catches your air. You fumble for composure, scraping together the dregs of your wit.

“Nation of Zaun, children, brothers, sisters,” you intone, bobbing your head in mock-solemn gesture as you attempt to recall the group’s motto. The words taste foreign on your tongue, like reciting a prayer to a god you’ve never believed in.

His brow shifts slightly. “Is that mockery?” the question hangs, but not accusatory, rather tinged with a gentle curiosity that catches you off guard.

You shrug. “Sure is an idea,” you mutter, words running away before you can fully process them. You’ve never given it much thought before, too entrenched in the sorrow that’s dogged your family’s steps like perpetually wet shoes, leaving its trail of misery.

This time, he turns to face you fully, his complete attention zeroing in on you. It halts you momentarily, but you push through, averting your gaze as you continue.

“Idealistic. Hard-headed,” you pause, then look up to meet his eyes, your own gaze hardening. “Unrealistic,”

His head tilts slightly, reminiscent of a predator assessing its prey. “You don’t agree with us?”

You exhale sharply, a sound caught between a laugh and a sigh. The revolutionary ideals tumble around you head like a well-worn shopping list. Independence, rid of topside’s clutches, own leadership, own government. “No, I do,” you admit, surprising yourself. Your brows furrow, grappling with the contradiction between your words and your earlier mockery. “Just ballsy, I suppose. It’s never been done, uncharted waters and all that,”

He nods, absorbing your perspective with a thoughtfulness that makes something in you quiver as if in surrender. You find yourself studying his eyes, that stormy blue-grey gaze that seems to hold secrets of their own. They flicker with an inner light as he searches for his response, and you're struck by the intensity of his conviction.

“Then how are we ever to find new land?” he says finally, his voice low and resolute. The simple statement carries an undercurrent of determination that sends a shiver down your back.

“We seem to be surviving fine,” you say, your words dripping with trying humour, a brittle shield.

His response isn't the sad attempt at laughter. Instead, his brow quirks upward, a subtle gesture that feels like a probe into your very secrets. “Then what drove you here?”

You're caught off-balance. How did he read you so easily, peeling back your layers in mere moments? Your gaze darts away, then back to his piercing eyes, discomfort radiating from every pore. “That’s hardly your concern,” you attempt a smile, but it's a weak thing.

“But I can bet it’s one of the following,” he drawls, taking a long, deliberate drag from his cigar. The smoke curls around him like a living thing as he continues. “Lung blight from working in factories, lung blight from working in the mines, or a stray enforcer who got a little too… harsh,” the smoke drifts and drowns you both, swarming your heads in a little bubble.

You inhale, feeling the intoxicating tendrils crawl up into your head, a silent song of temporary escape. Your eyes fix on his cigar, mesmerised. Does it fuel his poetic responses and that maddeningly indifferent stare? You wonder, your hands rising of their own accord, reaching to pluck the cigar from his grasp.

You rest it between your lips, inhaling deeply. The acrid smoke fills your lungs, a familiar burn that grounds you in this surreal moment. With practised ease, you exhale, your tongue crafting perfect smoke rings that float lazily between you. They dissipate against his face, a ghostly caress that lingers.

Your lips twitch, suppressing a smile as his eyes bore into yours. Is he entertained? Infuriated? His face remains an impassive mask, giving nothing away.

“Been trying to learn that,” he says, gaze flickering between the cigar in your hand and your eyes. There's a hint of something else in his voice.

You shrug, aiming for nonchalance. You hope your demeanour mirrors his earlier bored facade. “It’s all the tongue,”

His eyebrow arches slightly. “Is that so?” he murmurs. “And here I thought it was about control,”

You take another drag, letting the smoke curl around your lips before speaking. “Control is part of it,” you concede, voice low. “But flexibility is key,”

He reaches for the cigar, fingers brushing yours as he takes it. “Show me,” he challenges, eyes never leaving yours.

You lean in, forcing your gaze to fixate on the smoke and its origin. Nothing else. “It’s all about the right pressure,” you pause, your breath a ghost drifting from you, as if absorbed by him. “Too much, and it falls apart. Too little, nothing happens at all,”

He inhales deeply, eyes latched onto yours, then attempts a ring. It’s clumsy, dissolving almost instantly. “Pitiful,” he huffs, frustration and amusement colouring him.

You can’t help but chuckle. “Close,”

As if instinctively, he rolls his eyes. “Don’t be kind,”

Is that a dare? Your brows twitch in brief process. You take the cigar back. “Relax your lips, circular,” your eyes fall to his mouth, mimicking yours subconsciously. “Bend your tongue down. Tip on the bottom of your mouth,”

“Mhm,” he hums.

You demonstrate, creating a perfect ring that quivers over his shoulder.

“I see,” he mutters, watching, mesmerised. Whether by the ring or your mouth, you don’t want to know.

Nodding, a slow smile spreads your lips. “Delicate,” you raise the cigar his way.

He takes it with his lips, hooking his fingers around and taking a long drag.

You find yourself captivated by his attempts at smoke rings. As he inhales, his eyes close, a moment of quiet concentration. They flutter open to witness his handiwork—thin, frail rings that dissipate quickly in the air. The corner of his mouth twitches, a hint of a smile breaking through his stoic facade.

He tries again a few times, clearly taken by this newfound skill. His presence has shifted, no longer infuriating but almost... playful.

Emboldened, you gather your courage and circle back to his earlier question. "All of the above," you say, your words herding his attention back to you. Your voice is steady, but there's an undercurrent of pain you couldn't quite strap back. “My dad worked in the mines, and my sister... she got in with the wrong crowd. Crossed some enforcers on the wrong day.”

His eyes soften, a wordless apology that's more than enough. You've never been one for overly expressed sympathies anyway.

“And mom's been showing…” your voice trails off as your mind drifts to your mother's face, the image of her becoming more gaunt with each passing month etched painfully in your memory. It's a familiar process, one you've seen play out in countless Undercity families. Someone's mother or father always showing signs of the blight. Now it's your turn to watch it unfold in your own home. “Declining,” you finish, the word heavy on your tongue.

The light atmosphere dissipates, replaced by a shared understanding of the Undercity's—no, Zaun's harsh realities. You stand there, smoke curling between you.

“It’s never easy, is it?” he says softly, words simple but sincere. He takes another drag of the cigar then offers it back to you. "But we endure," the tone seems to challenge your earlier actions—asking, are you still thinking about it?

You accept the cigar, fingers brushing his. With a long drag, you let the smoke fill your lungs before exhaling slowly. "Guess it's just what we Zaunites do, right?" you take a step away from the edge, nearing his side.

An amused smile finally tugs at his lips.

He was a stranger mere moments ago, and yet here you are, mixing tastes and sharing ideologies. Names seem almost irrelevant. Still, you offer yours, falling from your lips like a confession.

He repeats it, sounding entirely new as his voice wore each letter in that silk tone, escaping his mouth alongside whispers of smoke.

“Silco,” he gives back, the name igniting a spark of recognition that raises your brows as you return his cigar.

The name echoes in your mind, often whispered in the same breath as 'Vander'—the two faces of the revolution. The muscle and the voice of a movement that promised to reshape Zaun's future.

“Mm,” you murmur, your eyes tracing the contours of his face with newfound interest, drinking him in. Each line, each shadow takes on new significance as you piece together the man behind the name. “Not just a revolutionist. The revolutionist,”

A short laugh escapes him, a rare sound that seems to surprise even him. He brings the cigar to his lips, his eyes never leaving yours. There's a burning in his gaze that pins you in place, making you acutely aware of every breath.

He takes a deep drag, the ember glowing bright in the dim light of Zaun's eternal twilight. As he exhales, your attention is drawn inexorably to his mouth.

A more practised smoke ring emerges, expanding and drifting between you. It's a marked improvement from his earlier attempts, a physical manifestation of how quickly he learns, adapts. You find yourself wondering what other skills he might possess.

[saintsenara]

work in progress tag game

[post the names of all the files in your wip folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them and then either post a little snippet of it or tell them something about it.]

thank you so much for the tag, @midnightstargazer!

it's come at a great time - after a bit of a fallow period because life was life-ing and because of a fairly unpleasant fandom experience which rather sapped my energy for all of this, i am back to the grindstone cranking out those wips, and so there is quite a substantial list of things below for us to talk about...

ask away!

currently updating wips [what's happening next?]

one year in every ten

scylla and charybdis

subluxation - answered here [rodolphus lestrange/percy weasley]

the war of the roses

coming in 2024 - female character-centric

[lots of these are, unsurprisingly, for @ladiesofhpfest, but i'm also trying to commit to posting female-centric things outside of the boundaries of the fest. since - and this shocks me too - it turns out women exist all year round...]

alle perisches and passes

arachne - answered here [eileen prince character study]

cinnamon

eighth time's the charm - answered here [mrs zabini/lord voldemort. yes, really.]

game, set, and match - answered here [augusta longbottom/minerva mcgonagall]

gardener's question time - answered here [severus snape/andromeda tonks]

lullaby

metallurgy - answered here [tom riddle/myrtle warren the sequel]

mightier than any wizard living - answered here [female voldemort]

o magnum mysterium

second lover

tall tales and remarkable riddles - answered here [delphini's parent trap era. yes, really really.]

the riddle song

the secret history

wouldst thou like to live deliciously?

coming in 2024 - male-character centric

a general history of invisibility - answered here [barty crouch jr./lord voldemort]

alchemy

blood brothers - answered here [harry potter & tom riddle]

droit de seigneur

effraction

first do no harm - answered here [harry potter/lord voldemort]

my cares forgotten among the lilies

my sin

sand

taking your life would not satisfy me

and then some wips which are still in the planning stages

a world of wonders and catastrophes

and the eyes of the sleepers

embers

fortune favours the bold

i capture the castle

neither shall there be mourning

stella maris

the consolation of philosophy

the dreaming spires

the matchmaker

please feel free to send asks about any of the above!

[duckprintspress]

Celebrating the History of the Stonewall Riots

June 28th 2024 was the 55th anniversary of the Stonewall Riots in New York City, a turning point event often seen as the birth of the modern gay rights movement. To celebrate, we’ve assembled a short list of our favorite non-fiction books about queer activism – plus two websites that are good resources as well! The contributors to this list are Kelas, Meera S., E. C., Tris Lawrence, and three anonymous contributors.

-

And Then I Danced: Traveling the Road to LGBT Equality by Mark Segal

On December 11, 1973, Mark Segal disrupted a live broadcast of the CBS Evening News when he sat on the desk directly between the camera and news anchor Walter Cronkite, yelling, “Gays protest CBS prejudice ” He was wrestled to the studio floor by the stagehands on live national television, thus ending LGBT invisibility. But this one victory left many more battles to fight, and creativity was required to find a way to challenge stereotypes surrounding the LGBT community. Mark Segal’s job, as he saw it, was to show the nation who gay people are: our sons, daughters, fathers, and mothers.

Because of activists like Mark Segal, whose life work is dramatically detailed in this poignant and important memoir, today there are openly LGBT people working in the White House and throughout corporate America. An entire community of gay world citizens is now finding the voice that they need to become visible.

-

Whipping Girl: A Transsexual Woman on Sexism and the Scapegoating of Femininity by Julia Serano

A provocative manifesto, Whipping Girl tells the powerful story of Julia Serano, a transsexual woman whose supremely intelligent writing reflects her diverse background as a lesbian transgender activist and professional biologist. Serano shares her experiences and observations—both pre- and post-transition—to reveal the ways in which fear, suspicion, and dismissiveness toward femininity shape our societal attitudes toward trans women, as well as gender and sexuality as a whole.

Serano’s well-honed arguments stem from her ability to bridge the gap between the often-disparate biological and social perspectives on gender. She exposes how deep-rooted the cultural belief is that femininity is frivolous, weak, and passive, and how this “feminine” weakness exists only to attract and appease male desire.

In addition to debunking popular misconceptions about transsexuality, Serano makes the case that today’s feminists and transgender activist must work to embrace and empower femininity—in all of its wondrous forms.

-

Transgender Warriors: Making History from Joan of Arc to Dennis Rodman by Leslie Feinberg

In this fascinating, personal journey hrough history, Leslie Feinberg uncovers persuasive evidence that there have always been people who crossed the cultural boundaries of gender. Transgender Warriors is an eye-opening jaunt through the history of gender expression and a powerful testament to the rebellious spirit.

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Bi Any Other Name: Bisexual People Speak Out by Loraine Hutchins and Lani Ka’ahumanu

In this groundbreaking anthology, more than seventy women and men from all walks of life describe their lives as bisexuals in prose, poetry, art, and essays

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Queer Budapest, 1873–1961 by Anita Kurimay

By the dawn of the twentieth century, Budapest was a burgeoning cosmopolitan metropolis. Known at the time as the “Pearl of the Danube,” it boasted some of Europe’s most innovative architectural and cultural achievements, and its growing middle class was committed to advancing the city’s liberal politics and making it an intellectual and commercial crossroads between East and West. In addition, as historian Anita Kurimay reveals, fin-de-si cle Budapest was also famous for its boisterous public sexual culture, including a robust gay subculture. Queer Budapest is the riveting story of nonnormative sexualities in Hungary as they were understood, experienced, and policed between the birth of the capital as a unified metropolis in 1873 and the decriminalization of male homosexual acts in 1961.

Kurimay explores how and why a series of illiberal Hungarian regimes came to regulate but also tolerate and protect queer life. She also explains how the precarious coexistence between the illiberal state and queer community ended abruptly at the close of World War II. A stunning reappraisal of sexuality’s political implications, Queer Budapest recuperates queer communities as an integral part of Hungary’s–and Europe’s–modern incarnation.

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The Stonewall Reader by New York Public Library

June 28, 2019 marks the fiftieth anniversary of the Stonewall uprising, which is considered the most significant event in the gay liberation movement, and the catalyst for the modern fight for LGBTQ rights in the United States. Drawing from the New York Public Library’s archives, The Stonewall Reader is a collection of first accounts, diaries, periodic literature, and articles from LGBTQ magazines and newspapers that documented both the years leading up to and the years following the riots. Most importantly the anthology spotlights both iconic activists who were pivotal in the movement, such as Sylvia Rivera, co-founder of Street Transvestites Action Revolutionaries (STAR), as well as forgotten figures like Ernestine Eckstein, one of the few out, African American, lesbian activists in the 1960s. The anthology focuses on the events of 1969, the five years before, and the five years after. Jason Baumann, the NYPL coordinator of humanities and LGBTQ collections, has edited and introduced the volume to coincide with the NYPL exhibition he has curated on the Stonewall uprising and gay liberation movement of 1969.

-

Bonus – Two Great Websites:

Stonewall National Museum Archives & Library

Making Queer History

-

View this list, and our other queer non-fiction book recs, as a shelf on Goodreads!

See a book you need to own? Buy it through our affiliate shop on Bookshop.org!

[unbidden-yidden-deactivated20240]

Can you expand on "Personally, my ideal solution is that actually private property as we currently understand it wouldn't exist, and we would all each have rights and responsibilities to the land and the environment that were proportional, in which case this scenario wouldn't have happened in the first place."?

I'm just a little confused on what u mean I guess. Do u think all houses should be state owned? How do people have places to live under this I think I'm missing something

Also I promise this is in good faith I'm actually curious on how u think it should work

Look, I don't have a manifesto locked and loaded or anything, but the values I'm alluding to here are: (1) housing is a human right and our rules and social systems should be adjusted accordingly, and (2) the entire concept of "property" as we currently relate to it? Is kinda batshit.

The first one has been talked about at length by people smarter and more learned in that area than me, so I'm just going to talk about the latter.

For the latter, the first step is to question what it means to "own" something. Generally people use it to mean that you have the right to do anything (legal) that you want with it, and no one else gets a say. The only person with any legal rights here that can be enforced are the owner(s), and rarely are there other voices considered. The ability to be owned is a total negation of the owned-thing's interests and voice.

Now the obvious stomach-churning worst historical example of this is chattel slavery. Obviously we rejected that as a society, even if we now have other forms of slavery/forced labor. But think about how that idea hasn't truly gone away in the underlying attitudes that many adults (especially but far from exclusively parents) have towards children. Children rarely have rights and typically the most they can legally demand are protection. And even that is frequently sadly lacking in comparison to the "right" of a parent to see and raise their child with or without regard to the child's consent.

Wives also faced similar issues until very recently in history, and there are still plenty of men who feel strongly about their "ownership" rights over a particular woman's sexuality, domestic labor, reproduction, etc.

Why am I talking about the shitty ways in which people claim power over one another through the schema of property rights? Because we have progressed just enough as a society to understand how patently absurd it is to think you can truly "own" a person or any aspect of their being. (Usually.) Because most people can appreciate that other human beings also have voices and independent thoughts and desires from you. It's the far end extreme example of an idea that is, frankly, inherently rather absurd, and that's why I lay it as an outer boundary.

Some people have moved on to also understanding how absurd it is to think we own non-human animals as well. There are unfortunately people who will then use this to anthropomorphize animals and argue for animals rights, etc. which is not what I'm arguing here. But I don't think you can ever really own the totality of an animal - it is never going to be an object, without its own will or desires. Anyone who has had a pet or livestock understands this from experience.

But can the same thing be said about land? I would argue: Yeah, Actually. People think that land is not alive, but they are wrong. Any gardener can tell you otherwise. The dirt is positively teeming with life, even if it is invisible to the naked eye. All things that live there depend on the health of the land they live on. People do get the idea that you can't just separate the effects a dump or radioactive waste treatment facility with an invisible legal line, but they don't apply that same idea to everyday activities such as, for example, pesticides. You want to grow an organic garden in your backyard or set up beehive? Too bad, your neighbor wants to use Roundup on her begonias and your other neighbor can't stop mowing his lawn within an inch of its life.

So the idea that our land (and water, and air) usage is atomized and individual, subject to the whims of whatever owner happens to perchance buy it is absurd for environmental reasons, obviously. (American individualism is a disease.) But even moving beyond that - I really don't understand how anyone thinks that you can truly "own" land. If anything, we are creatures of it, owned by it, rather than the other way around. In the Hebrew Bible, the first human was Adam, which comes from the word for soil: adamah. We are the beings of the earth, and we are set up as caretakers, stewards of it. But even moving on from a spiritual justification for this belief, have you tried to control a piece of land? A house is a constant battle against time, weather, erosion, and tectonic shifts to keep it stable and functional. The land and its living soil and living waters and living wind will beat down all human efforts to the contrary and grow wild over them given enough time without human intervention. That is the nature of things. The land is alive and we owe it to ourselves, our neighbors (human and not), and the land itself to be in relationship with the land rather than deluding ourselves that we have dominion over it like some kind of mini-gods. And that is true for water and air as well - both also living and essential aspects of our world that we need to be in relationship with rather than continuing to take and take and take without giving anything back. And we're starting to see the bad effects that has on us; if we injure our natural environment and fail to care for it, our health will also suffer and the land will not be able to provide for us.

So I would just as soon see this absurd idea of owning land abolished and replaced with some sort of system of responsibility and accountability towards the land in partnership with the idea of providing shelter to all people.

Do I have any ideas about how to accomplish this from a culture shift or administrative perspective? Absolutely not. That's why it's an ideal rather than a practical answer.

[homebrewsno1asked4]

TOIRE no HANAKO-SAN

Toire no Hanako-san

Art by Cesar Barrantes!

Legends speak of a lonely and wrathful spirit that dwells in bathrooms: Toire no Hanako-San, or “Hanako-San of the Toilet” – a lingering spirit, a pale and off-putting little girl dressed in red. Hanako’s origins vary, but all accounts agree that she was the victim of a heinous crime; whether murdered or bullied into suicide, Hanako-san suffered a violent death in a school bathroom.

Sometimes, children challenge their classmates to try summoning Hanako-san. In this simple ritual, you enter the girls’ bathroom on the third floor of a school, knock three times on the third stall, and ask if Hanako-san is there. Results may vary, depending on Hanako-san’s mood

If you’re lucky and/or kind, Hanako-san will appear, but won’t harm you. Still a frightful experience, but don’t worry: you’ve caught Hanako in a good mood! Use this chance to ask her unusual questions, especially about bizarre local events. These sorts of questions are Hanako’s specialty.

If you’re not so lucky and she doesn’t like you, Hanako-san will appear as a three-headed lizard and eat you for invading her privacy. And if you’re especially unlucky, a bloody hand will appear and drag you to hell via the toilet.

“Easy! I just need to get Hanako-san to like me!” You can try. But Hanako-san knows exactly what kind of person you are the second you enter her domain. Even if Hanako thinks you’re okay, she’ll change her mind the moment she’s attacked.

If forced into an altercation – if she’s trying to scare people off and they won’t leave – Hanako-san will trap her prey in her bathroom realm, whittle them down in her monstrous form, then try to drag the offenders into the drains as fast as possible.

Though Hanako-san prefers to terrorize rather than fight, she’ll fight to the re-death because of her undead compulsion and a desire to actually die.

Hanako-san can appear in any school bathroom, but she isn’t able to leave the bathroom. How can this be? Hanako-san leads a cursed existence; she can open the bathroom door, but it just leads to another bathroom.

Hanako-san’s presence resonates with the bathroom where she resides, thinning the boundaries between our world and the next, transforming all the pipes in her current domain into portals to the netherworld.

Toire no Hanako-San

Small (or large in Lizard form) undead, lawful neutral

Armor Class 12 (16 in Lizard Form)

Hit Points 90 (12d6 + 48)

Speed 25 ft., swim 30 ft.

STR 6(-2) DEX 14(+2) CON 18(+4) INT 9(0) WIS 10(0) CHA 15(+2)

Saving Throws Dex +4, Cha +5

Skills Arcana +6, Athletics +1, Insight +6, Intimidation +5, Sleight of Hand +4, Stealth +4

Damage Resistances cold, non-magic physical damage

Damage Immunities necrotic, poison

Condition Immunities exhaustion, poisoned, unconscious

Senses passive Perception 10, realmsense

Languages Common

Challenge 5 (1800 XP)

Proficiency Bonus +3

-

Innate Spellcasting. Hanako-san's innate spellcasting ability is Charisma (spell save DC 14, +6 to hit with spell attacks). She can innately cast the following spells, requiring no components.

At will: invisibility, prestidigitation (both Child form only)

3/day: misty step

Drain-Dwelling Physiology. In both forms, Hanako-san can move through and occupy a space as narrow as 4 inches wide without squeezing. Also, Hanako-san is constantly affected by the spell freedom of movement.

Frightful Encounter. Any humanoid that starts its turn within 30 feet of Hanako-san must make a DC 13 Wisdom saving throw. On a failed save, the creature is frightened for 1 minute. A creature can repeat the saving throw at the end of each of its turns, with disadvantage if Hanako-san is within line of sight, ending the effect on itself on a success. If a creature's saving throw is successful or the effect ends for it, the creature is immune to Frightful Encounter for the next 24 hours.

Mistrusting. Hanako-san has advantage on saves against charm effects.

Realmsense. Hanako-san knows the location and alignment of any creature that enters her lair. Also provides Hanako-san with expertise in Insight (included in Skills).

Transitive Space. Hanako-san can travel to any other bathroom in the material plane through a drain or toilet, or the bathroom door. If Hanako-san uses the door, creatures can follow her if they manage to catch the door before it closes.

Unusual Nature. Hanako-san doesn’t age; nor does she need to sleep, eat, drink, or breathe.

Weird Knowledge. Hanako-san has expertise in Arcana (included in Skills).

Actions

Multiattack (Lizard Form Only). In her standard/Child form, Hanako-san only makes one Deathly Touch attack, but she can also use Drag to Hell if it’s available. In Lizard form, she has three attacks - any combination of the attacks below.

Bite (Lizard Form Only). Melee Attack: +8 to hit, reach 5 ft., 1 target. Hit: 8 (1d6 + 5) piercing damage. DC 13 Athletics or Acrobatics vs. grappled. Next turn, attempts to Swallow. Hanako-san can grapple up to three creatures at a time in this way, but can only have one creature Swallowed at a time. If all three mouths are occupied, Hanako-san can’t use Bite.

Claw (Lizard Form Only). Melee Attack: +8 to hit, reach 5 ft., 1 target. Hit: 7 (1d4 + 5) slashing damage plus 4 (1d8) necrotic damage.

Deathly Touch (Child Form Only). Melee Attack: +5 to hit, reach 5 ft., 1 target. Hit: 5 (1d10) cold damage and 5 (1d10) necrotic damage.

Swallow (Lizard Form Only). Hanako-san swallows one of the creatures in her mouths. The swallowed creature is blinded and restrained, it has total cover against attacks and other effects outside Hanako-san, and it takes 7 (2d6) necrotic damage at the start of each of Hanako-san’s turns. A creature reduced to 0 hit points in this way stops taking necrotic damage and becomes stable.

Hanako-san can have only one target swallowed at a time. While Hanako-san isn't incapacitated, she can regurgitate the creature at any time (no action required) in a space within 5 feet of her. The creature exits prone. If Hanako-san dies, she likewise regurgitates the swallowed creature.

If a character escapes from Hanako-san after she’s reverted to her child form, they come out shrunken per the reduce spell.

Tail Lash (Lizard Form Only). Melee Attack: +8 to hit, reach 10 ft., 1 target. Hit: 7 (1d4 + 5) bludgeoning damage.

Drag to Hell (Recharge 5-6). A grotesquely long and soggy arm with too many joints emerges from a nearby drain and attempts to drag you into the netherworld.

Automatic hit, reach is anywhere in Hanako-san’s lair. 1 target. Hit: 9 (2d8) bludgeoning damage in the hand’s crushing grip. The target must succeed on a DC 13 Athletics or Acrobatics check. On a success, the target takes half damage. On a failure, the target takes full damage and is grappled; consider them restrained.

At the top of Hanako-san’s next turn, the grappled target can repeat the skill check. If the player fails this check again, the hand drags the player halfway into the toilet. 

Repeat the check a third time on Hanako-san’s next turn. If the grappled character fails this third check, the hand drags them down the toilet (dealing 36 (8d8) more bludgeoning damage as they’re squished through the pipes) and into any unsavory plane of Hanako-san’s choosing (typically one of the Lower Planes). If this character dies in transit, their soul is stuck in this destination plane and can’t escape unless they’re resurrected.

If you deal 12 damage to the hand in one round, it will let go of the grappled character. Damaging the hand also damages Hanako-san.

Hanako-san can have active arms equal to the number of drains in her lair (typically 2d4, unless she’s taken up residence in a very large bathroom); she just can’t summon a new arm until she’s successfully recharged.

Bonus Actions

Shapechange. Hanako-san can use her bonus action to morph into a towering three-headed lizard or into her standard form, a dead child. In Lizard form, Hanako’s Strength becomes 20, her AC becomes 16, and her size becomes Large, but otherwise her statistics stay the same. Updated damage stats are included in all attacks. Any equipment Hanako-san is wearing or carrying melds into her lizard form. Hanako-san reverts to her child form before fading away if she dies.

Reactions

Door Slam. When another creature enters a space within five feet of a door in her lair, Hanako-san can use her reaction to slam the door shut and lock it. Until Hanako-san dispels this effect or leaves to inhabit another bathroom, this door is affected as arcane lock. This ability works for any door in her lair: stalls, exits, closets, etc.

[broomsticks]

If you were “mature for their age” you might have been parentified. Parentification is when a child is made to fill an adult role.

This is an “invisible” trauma that has life long impact.

HERE’S WHY: 🧵

Parentification is an extremely common family dynamic where children are expected to: manage their parents emotions or issues (most common is marital problems), take care of the home & siblings on a regular basis, or act as a peer to a parent.

Many parents aren’t aware they’re doing this for several reasons:

1. They were parentified themselves

2. They’re overwhelmed & lack support

3. They don’t know/understand the language & culture so they depend on their children

Parentified children are treated as adults. They’re not seen as children who are emotionally developing & need emotional support to find their sense of self.

They’re seen as adult peers who are able to navigate crisis and any family issue.

Children adapt quickly to this role. They learn they must betray their own needs, desires, & emotions to keep the connection to a parent.

Many children feel a fierce sense of loyalty to the parent thats parentifying them.

They want to fix, rescue, & protect that parent. It’s a true role reversal.

This can be confusing because while they play a key role in the family: no one checks into see how they feel, or what they think.

Their emotional world is ignored.

Boundaries don’t exist.

The child learns to manage adult emotions. And doesn’t have the chance to understand their own inner world.

The result: a codependent view of love.

Adults who’ve been parentified have been conditioned (since childhood) to ignore how they feel. And to prioritize the needs of others.

They tend to find adult relationships where they: try to fix, rescue, or enable. Just as they did as children.

They struggle to understand what they actually feel, what they actually think, and what they actually need.

Parentified adults also feel a deep feeling of being misunderstood, of not being considered, and deep loneliness.

Many fill this void with constant “busyness”— always on call for other people’s crisis or issues. This feels their familiar childhood need to feel wanted.

The most important step in healing is learning to set boundaries.

Of course, this will also be the most difficult because:

1. Boundaries were non existent

2. Self worth comes through other people

3. Enmeshment (lack of boundaries) feels like closeness— though it’s superficial.

Working through the guilt of setting boundaries, meeting their own needs, & clearly speaking their own limits is challenging.

It will also be very healing— it’s self recovery.

[agirldying]

There’s a part of me that wants to explain the whole story of what he did to me but I don’t have the energy rn, I’ll probably do it another day

My assailant has autism, it’s the main reason that he got away with everything he did and it hurts because he has forever left a stain on the way I view autistic people and I hate it I can’t even stim in a similar way to him without thinking about him. They kept telling me that he didn’t know any better why the fuck didn’t you teach him better you knew it was happening you knew it was getting worse and he was getting more inappropriate with touching and you didn’t fucking care and I have so much anger towards him but I don’t know how much of it is ‘justified’ because I’ll never be inside his head and know exactly what he thought was happening I’ll never know what justification he had for his actions and he has irreversibly fucked with the way I perceive things and most days I can’t tell if I want to beat him into a pulp or worship the ground he walks on and I just wish someone had properly listened to me when I got assaulted and handled it accordingly instead of leaving me in 7 months of hell in which I was trapped in a portable with him, getting harassed regularly and turning to self harm and splitting another alter who’s sole job was to take the pain for the rest of us even though he is the sweetest person I know

Everyone spent so much time focusing on his perspective and I just wish that even just once they had considered mine

I hope you’re doing well, thanks for giving me a space that I feel safe in ❤️

-s

Hi s,

I'm sorry about what happened. It sounds like your assailant not only used autism as a crutch to abuse you, but so did the people around him. You felt not only disrespected but invisible and non-existent because your boundaries were routinely violated and nobody seemed to care. And because of this, it even caused you to split. Nobody deserves to go through that.

I know you probably know this but there is no justification for abuse, not even autism. I understand how this experience has affected how you feel around other autistics, perhaps even made some elements of autism triggering for you. But please consider that you and I, as autistics, are aware that autism should never be used as an excuse to abuse someone, and most other autistics would (and should) agree.

I had a similar issue with pwDID after my abuser (...faked it, he faked it okay) to deflect blame after taking advantage of me. I think something that connects that experience to this is how it can be really touchy to object to the shield that their disorder can often create around them. Like "how dare you hold this poor little meow meow accountable for his actions?! he's (insert disorder here) he doesn't know any better!1!" But so that experience gave me the wrong idea about pwDID, which is why I proceeded to do a ton of research and interview various systems, at which point I learned a lot about how my abuser used that disorder for his own advantage. And now as a questioning system, it's a little rough to explore my own mind knowing what happened, which I think also connects to how stimming can be triggering for you now.

I also just want to say that your anger is justified regardless of his motives or mindset. I know it's always frustrating not knowing what was going through your abuser's head, but at the end of the day, his intent is less important than his impact. He may have "meant well" or whatever, but he still caused you pain and suffering either way, and it doesn't erase that fact.

Hope I could help. You know I'm always here if you need anything, or if you have any comments about this!

[jonathankatwhatever]

It’s 19 Sept 2024, and the visions were intense this morning. I’m trying to filter the math. It’s interesting, that concept of filter because it means you catch it on one side or let it through to the other side. In other words, filtering requires 2, which means it rests on Halving, which rests on the compression and reduction of 2:1, as Triangular rotates so to the Observer there is a 1-0Segment, with the 3rd End either invisible or rendered as a point behind and coming up to the Observer as a midline. That’s how Halving enters all phenomena: you can see the fD. On your Observer line, whether that’s literally you or some group - was thinking about something called photonic group delay as applicable - the inversion is to that 3rd End because you are the 3rd End coming at you from the 1-0Segment.

Remember: this is phrased in 1Space, and thus in infinities, which means they occur as long as there’s minimal space, which gets to the minimal length, energy, etc. at the Planck scale. I don’t want to get off track, but the idea is that physical distance is always there even when one is literally inside the other because there is always Boundary between D3-4 existences. I keep thinking of cannibals, but I’m not sure if that’s a counter example because then it’s the survivor having a Boundary and the physical Thing disappearing but until then that eaten Thing exists in its Boundary. Even if you’re connecting the tiny bits under a label. If it can be processed … that’s gsProcess.

Alrighty. Having trouble getting to the images. Key point in there was the Observer line is that which renders 2:1.

This is starting to come together, but I’m not sure how it comes out. I’m noticing all my flaws, like my head itches, my right arm feels remote, the pressure on one side is more, all the out of alignment items which come to notice. The itching draws attention to an area, which is why sometimes scratching the opposite side helps; it balances the attention demands, whatever is firing.

The idea is that when we CR a 1-0Segment or a 1Segment, which is an End with an n counted other End, meaning it’s non-specified but is of course n-1. So, the images said that we take a bT and CR each edge, and we then connect to another bT to make one of the 3fD available, and that makes 4 of these CR’d segments on the outside and 2 in the middle, laid over each other.

This led to a lot. I believe we’ve done this work before, which should help me get it out. Since we treat a bT as a D3 object in 1Space, then we have D6 with obvious D5’s in the overlapped CR’d segments, which we can treat as spinning or motivated in the opposite directions. This also generates the Irreducibles because that orthogonal state maximizes the group distance, if that’s the way to say it. I mean that if we treat this as pure Boundary, then we have a single End labeled Start on one side and End on the other, except reading the other way it is also Start and End, so they have two labels. But that means they’re the same End entangled to some degree of identity over the End. Irreducible shifts the dislocation from the invisible Attachment where the loops run in opposite directions. Remember: this is how we get a double helix.

That dislocation extends over the segment, which becomes the complex plane map in which we see Boundary run above and below the x or xK axis. Then the orthogonal y or yK axis is the balance between in either direction. And both. Same as elsewhere in the generation of grid squares.

Did not intend to go down that road. I’m still working out the implications of the eye image. One is that it means the overlapping sides is correct. The old idea was that the right half of an fD belonged to the left side, etc. I think we called this SlideOver. You can see why: a structure Attaches at the tangent point to the Boundary, and that slides over the 1-0Segment to the far End which is tangent the other way. So it penetrates not to the heart, but to the far side, which maps to the inner side of a basic 2T communicative model.

That is, say we have 2 T and we represent those as off screen to the left and to the right. They thus can be focused at the Ends of an fD. We can of course extend left and right to be whatever swirls about, meaning we encapsulate the CR of the dividing segment in another CR. That fits to the Hexagonal: we are connecting the centers of 2 Hexagons as representing 2 Things.

These 2T each, as an End have the same structure as any other T, so there’s another CR, this time scaled to the size of the End, literally the Boundary of an End, which is one reason why we talk about units.

So the tip of the bT slides along the line, which is drawn by or at the Irreducible, which also means it constructs in gs as it goes. It reaches the far End, and that far End has another side, which here we can call inner because it relates to the Attached structure, and whatever is in that Attached structure expresses as the inner at that End. That of course means the tip of the bT both slides around the End and moves across it to form the identification.

The inherent movement around Boundary reflects as iterations becoming odds and probability. That is, because Boundary is always Between, which is fundamental in the creation of existence in D3-4//4-3, then you get iterations. And these can be symmetries or whatever.

I glimpsed the image again. Frustrating. So close to it. Oh right, we were making circles. And we had up to 6 of them. We have the obvious 4 and the 2 in the middle. The image kept showing that 3 of them combine with a 4th, and that simple process maps to D3-4. That then means D4-3 maps as 4 dropping one. I can see D5 as hands. I can see D6 as containing the potential which reduces to D3-4//D4-3.

An underlying point, however, is that this describes a Thing made of 2T, so the switching of sides maps to switching internally. This applies to me but also to any interaction I have with another Thing.

That was very difficult to say. Seriously hard. Constructing D-structure using the CR of 1-0Segments.

I’m seeing the flail. So we have a D1, which is an End and the flail, go up to the inner side of Boundary, which is why it can be measured physically sometimes but not always and why we can argue about what’s in or out. Even in super slo-mo.

So D2 draws the 2nd End. We had dimensionality come from CR, which can be mutual, one round the other, or both around a center. You can see directionality in the potential CR’s.

Let’s say it must reduce to D3. I think the answer is that the 2 together make D3-4//4-3 and thus D3 is always created no matter which of the 2. Which occurs because it’s both. Duh. I don’t know why I didn’t see that before. Flicker states.

Now I need a break.

[solardick]

G is the Grail, the Void from which all things are given and into which all things eventually go. It is the Ground from which we mysteriously grow, the invisible Source. It is the Letter of the Throat. Its bottom is too deep to be seen. Its light is reflected. Its glances sidelong. B begins the process; D checks it; and G is the process itself ongoing. More often than not, English experiences imbalance with respect to Giving and Getting in the face of this vast and invisible place. It either gets greedy, filling itself with gunk and goo and gaudy garbage. A third of G reflects too much of something where it doesn't really belong. And another third reflects not enough where it's desperately needed: it is gaunt, gloomy, grumbling, the grave, the gallows. But there remains a set of words which reflect a very specific sense of balance and a grandeur which is not to be found anywhere else in the English language: Goodness, Gladness, the Grace of God.

V is smooth and vibratory energy which is channelled from within a container (vase) through a very narrow opening (veil, valve) outward (view, vista). Unlike the stopped labials B and P, there is no barrier implicit in V. It runs along a continuum, but it is very far toward one end. Its labial bias is felt in this way. It veers to one side. It avoids the impediments. As with all the fricatives, we are in the midst of an ongoing process in V which does not begin at any point as it does in B and P, nor is interrupted in midstream as with D, nor is directed anywhere specific as with T, nor is gathered or collected anywhere as in G and K. B stands still and supports from below. P stands still and props things up from the side. But V runs alongside in unending service, the vassal, the valet. And V is judgemental. It thinks in terms of virtue and vice. When P errs, it errs on the side of conservatism, for it is unvoiced. It is prudish, picky and preachy. V like B is voiced and errs from excess. Whereas B's transgressions are merely behavioral, V's are of the essence. B is bad. It breaks the societal boundaries and regulations, but V in its worst incarnation is inherently evil. It's not merely the baddie, the bully, the bitch. It is the villain, the vixen, the viper. B may be beautiful, but V is virtuous. It is the Virgin who does not give rise to the world once and for all in the Big Bang of B, but who gives it and lives it ongoing. Since V is voiced, the living is not yet frozen into life. It is not in the realm of form like its unvoiced counterpart F. It is the living verb.

-Margaret Magnus-

У Него - Oo NyeVo

У него - he has/had/will have

“Nevo” is a masculine subject.

A play on tarot cards bring these letters to the final judgement, strength/fortitude, lover(s), god/hierophant/church/conscience, and the star. The vowels are not counted here for they do not fall into the consonant category of letters. Though on, the personal vote of selected images which havent failed as of yet to meet satisfactory pictoral definition, equals out the the marseilles fool card, which may be equalled to the petulant fool, and the Oo death card from one of the version of the etteila decks. Bridging the distant non-existant to the material plain. As a sort of prophecy.

Numbers may be added, which i am still experimenting, with layerings, as number 4 and number 22. Which added equals the magical number 26, by the english standard alphabet, to completion. Subtracted equals out to 18. The howling tarot moon. And card letter R, as the tarot’s temperance. Which also is the reflected symbol of the russian letter Я, the last letter of the russian alphabet, holding the definition of I.-> One, self, me.

As with all things, the Japanese dragon/serpent is a mixture of animals, all blended together and isn’t necesarally a positive portent card. The dove may be replaced by a croh. Which would be this images “shadow” side, or reversed image. And all the structure beneath would be set ablaze. Place in the sky, the home of pure chaos.

The contrast with the letter Z being a female. And the letter Я would be a male. The counterpart of temperance. Representing the self owned “divine” masculine.

The other curiosity by contrast between the qwerty and jcuzen type sets is that death is the first key on the qwerty. The last of of physical being. An dthe Я as the first key on the jcuzen set. Is the last last imagr of the russian cyrilic alphabet. Which needs to be distuiguished as there are multiple cyrilic sets of alphabets. But none are as relavent as in russian in thr “american” culture.

I, went over a little bit about my proper spelling of the word Croh, without the letter W. for the notion is reversed in reality. As ones consistly insults thr croh by mispronouncing its name. As is shown by the lapse in logic in the spelling of bow and bow. Though both fallow thr same structure in form as a bow will bow when tightened. But a crow wont crow it kaws. If that makes any sense. When one says hello krahs one starts speaking its language. Since the howling moon card is the letter W. removing its power by detaching it from the croh. Changes a source of its power. No longer in the moon card as heavily influenced by bad tidings. And when a woman’s menstration cycles starts it wouldnt be so castrating to the male. “Oh, she’s bleeding again. Damn, but im horny.”

The “homo” erotic is embedded in the vary language one uses. Why is prostate so similar to prostrate and pro-state as is menstruation is to castration? When the only difference between all three is the letter R? Temperance. Shown performing something that shouldn’t be so by the very laws of nature? Can one guess which way the water is flowing? Is it up or is it down. And why is it related to sex and erotisicm in both cases?

And to fallow this notion is the russian letter О. Very much like in english it varies in its pronunciation. As there are seemingly missing letters. And the russian O isnt so far off from an A. It varies by word. These choices of card images reflect all of this. As the blind fool is connected to the etteila chosen Oo death card. Which is fitting and still giving room to the ltgbq community as a rather queer looking card image. At face value. But all of this os only so, for the hyper sexualism of modern day “america.” Where libertism over extends itself unchencked and unballanced as is supported by addiction and the pass me down inheritance by “spychic” or habitual associations.

To cooberate this is the rediculousness of Donald trump as american president. Playing the dumb fool while pressing for extremist conservatism in the northern liberal states. At the same time emmidiatly prior as Putin invade ukraine with the same conservatist attitude towards reclaiming lost land? And the media priming of years prior in associating russia as red flagged soviet communists.

Oh, and whats the differnece between putin have so many years in political office as is the trudo family in Canadian politics? Its nit so differnet from a monarchy passing the crown down as the family inherentance, considering they can hold office indefinatally.

One may continue on pressing associations. With relevance to the ГV card with number 26. The 26th letter of the russian Cyrillic alphabet is Ш -sh. And the 18th letter of the russian Cyrillic alphabet being P-r. Considering there is no equalivant form of the english letter W in russian, which helps explain their accent, Ш is the immediate association an english speaker will come to. Fallowed secondly by the letter E. and the russian P, the english/latin hanged man is pronounced as the letter R. Temperance. Which is a Sun card by literal association and not merely imaginal. Not much else needs to be spoken here to make a seamless association to the pictorial definition of card ГV. Based on a perfect balanve between the sun and the moon by heavenly, celestial bodies. Which is a major compliment to the feminine body fully reflecting a radiant sun. As is lunch time a break from the hassle and towards rejuvenation.

Though curious by history that the russian don’t have a W moon card. And the fact that they lost the “race” in reaching the moon and writting their name on it.

😮‍💨 hoax!

So.. what did one come to? RV? PR? W-sh? What is missing here? Don’t need the vowel i to decern a wish for union.

The word простите in russian (prostitye) means sorry. I am sorry.

Guess that’s it. Later. Y’all.

[citsrp]

The World of The Gifted

In the year 2024, the world is a complex and ever-evolving place, shaped by the emergence of superpowered individuals (the Gifted). These extraordinary individuals possess a wide range of abilities, from telekinesis and elemental manipulation to mind-reading and invisibility. The existence of the Gifted has brought both wonder and fear to society, leading to a new era of uncertainty and intrigue. As the government fights to hide the truth from her people forces are pushing to do the opposite.

Boston: The Cradle of Education and Innovation:

Boston, often referred to as the "Cradle of Education," remains a vibrant hub for intellectual pursuits and technological advancements. It is home to several prestigious universities and research institutions, including Harvard and MIT, where both Gifted(secretly) and non-Gifted individuals gather to push the boundaries of human knowledge.

Eclipse P.I., a team of gifted investigators, operates from Boston, offering their services to those in need within the Gifted community.

Ouroboros, A secret organization with a mysterious origin and a mission to achieve balance between gifted and ungifted individuals through any means necessary. All hidden within a casino.

The city has a thriving Gifted community, with many Gifted individuals seeking to further their education and harness their powers responsibly. Helix Academy, a renowned boarding school for Gifted teens and children, stands as a beacon of hope and guidance, offering specialized education and support.

New York City: The Epicenter of Superpowered Activity

New York City, with its iconic skyline and diverse population, is the epicenter of superpowered activity. It serves as the headquarters for Kim Entertainment, a conglomerate at the forefront of the entertainment industry. Gifted individuals are drawn to the city's opportunities, whether in entertainment, technology, or activism.

The city is also home to one of the many branches of Lightwell Printing Company, although on the outside it looks like your local Kinkos, this is a company that is secretly committed to protecting the rights and safety of the Gifted.

Nestled in the outskirts of New York City, Westwood Sanatorium stands as a unique institution, hidden behind a façade of tranquility and care. This sprawling facility, built on the very land where Oakbrook Asylum once stood, is a sanctuary for the mentally troubled, both Gifted and non-Gifted.

Washington D.C.: The Center of Power and Intrigue

Washington D.C., the nation's capital, is a city of power and intrigue. It is home to government agencies, including those that deal with Gifted-related matters and conceal them from the public. The government's attempts to regulate and control the Gifted population have led to tensions and conflicts, with Phantom Order seeking to resist these efforts.

Lightwell Printing Company maintains a branch in Washington D.C., working discreetly to protect the rights and interests of the Gifted while keeping a watchful eye on government activities that may impact their community.

The city also houses the hidden headquarters of the Phantom Order, a formidable villain faction that aims to change the fate of the Gifted through any means necessary.

[chilloutnow]

Are we Trees? No. But it's funny to ask.

For people, time is like a tree's rings. Extending outward from a starting point, until an invisible, undetectable, non-interior edge of existence is felt. The point at which we will stop growing and prepare to die, boundaries of the tree's bark. Only when the tree is felled can one see all of the beauty and symmetry in the series of rings on the stump. What does all of this mean? Nothing. Humans are capable of creating meaning out of nothingness: a similarity between accepting life and a stump. If I can create meaning out of nonsense, however shoddy it was, it means that you can too. So go out, and spew nonsense! That's all this is anyways. For the most part.

[tumovs]

"Unlocking the Invisible: Pioneering the Future of Banking and FinTech"

Banking On Invisibility - Envisioning The Next-Generation Of Financial Products, Services and Paradigms

In the not-so-distant past, banks adorned prime locations along bustling streets. Today, their prominence is wavering, and a future looms where they might vanish even from our phone screens. Financial services are seamlessly intertwining with technology and various industries, almost fading into invisibility.

While the demise of traditional banking has been a recurring topic among pundits, the ascent of digital finance has unquestionably chipped away at the once-familiar brick-and-mortar bank. Yet, could digital finance merely serve as a transient bridge to a truly revolutionary era?

Open Banking has empowered diverse brands to embody financial institutions, seamlessly integrating loans, payments, payroll, and more into their existing offerings. The ongoing surge of consumer tech innovation merges the physical and digital realms in our daily lives, enabling us to transact effortlessly without fixating on the financial dimension. Departing a store, our purchases are automatically tallied and deducted; our smart devices autonomously place orders and process payments. Our bank accounts evolve into intelligent, automated allies, optimizing our savings journey.

Financial services, a traditionally conservative industry, are subject to rigorous regulation. While change may be gradual, its impact ripples across sectors, given money's fundamental role. This metamorphosis heralds fresh revenue avenues beyond finance's confines, catalyzing transformative repercussions.

Alternative operational models and revenue streams are sprouting across the financial landscape. Next-gen banking paradigms foretell an array of innovative products and services tailored for a world where industry boundaries blur or fade away.

The automotive industry's evolution from "car" to "mobility" exemplifies this shift, extending value chains beyond physical products and fostering broader interpretation. As financial and non-financial sectors intermingle, banking gains the ability to subtly infiltrate the subconscious, steering evolving customer expectations and novel competitive dynamics.

To thrive in this invisible landscape, banks must fathom customer needs, habits, and aspirations. Financial professionals must conjure the dual magic of becoming both unseen and all-seeing. An entirely novel form of finance beckons on the horizon—one abstract, seamless, and intrinsically interconnected.

#InvisibleFinance #FutureBanking #TechInnovation #FinancialEvolution #CustomerCentric #SeamlessTransactions #InnovationFrontiers #Innovation #Fintech #Banking #OpenBanking #OpenFinance #EmbeddedFinance #OpenAPIs #BaaS #BaaP #FinancialServices #CoreBanking #Payments #SaaS

[kenyatta]

Machinic enslavement consists in mobilizing and modulating the pre-individual, pre-cognitive and pre-verbal components of subjectivity, causing affects, perceptions and sensations as yet unindividuated or unassigned to a subject, etc. to function like the cogs and components in a machine. While subjection concerns social selves or global persons, those highly manipulable, molar, subjective representations, “machinic enslavement connects infrapersonal, infrasocial elements thanks to a molecular economy of desire which is far more difficult to maintain within stratified social relationships”, and these are the elements that mobilize individuated subjects. Machinic enslavement is therefore not the same thing as social subjection. If the latter appeals to the molar, individuated dimension of a subjectivity, the former activates its molecular, pre-individual, pre-verbal, pre-social dimension. In machinic enslavement, we are no longer television users, “subjects” who relate to it as an external object. In machinic enslavement, we are connected to the television and we function as components of the televisual device, as its input/output elements, its simple relays, facilitating and/or blocking the transmission of information, communication and signs. In machinic enslavement, we literally form one single body with the machine. Machinic enslavement operates by making no distinction between the “human” and the non human, between subject and object, sentient and intelligible. Social subjection regards individuals and machines as entirely self-contained entities (the subject and the object) and establishes insurmountable boundaries between them. Machinic enslavement, by contrast, considers individuals and machines as open multiplicities. The individual and the machine are sets of elements, affects, organs, flux and functions, all of which operate on the same level and which cannot be articulated as binary oppositions: subject/object, human/non-human, sentient/intelligible. The functions, organs, and strengths of man are connected with certain functions, organs and strengths of the technical machine and together they constitute an arrangement. According to Guattari, there is a “living” aspect, an enunciative capacity, a store of possibles that exist in the machine, which can only be found if one is situated in this machinic dimension. The machine is not just the totality of its parts, all the elements of which it is composed. “It is capable of self-organization, feedback and is self-referential, even in its mechanical state” (p. 71). It has power: the power to set creative processes in motion. Thus, strange as it might appear to traditional ways of thinking in the West, “subjectivity” finds itself simultaneously on the side of the subject and on the side of the object. Capitalism derives its great power from these two devices, which operate as two sides of the same coin. But it is machinic enslavement which endows capitalism with a sort of omnipotence, since it permeates the roles, functions and meanings by which individuals both recognize each other and are alienated from each other. It is through machinic enslavement that capital succeeds in activating the perceptual functions, the affects, the unconscious behaviours, the pre-verbal, pre-individual dynamic and its intensive, atemporal, aspatial, asignificant components. It is through these mechanisms that capital assumes control of the charge of desire carried by humanity. This aspect of the reality of capitalist “production” remains invisible for the most part. Even the definition of transindividuals doesn’t quite capture it; we ought really to talk about transmachinics, about relations operating simultaneously on this side of the social and individual dimension and also beyond it. This is what Deleuze and Guattari mean when they refer to machinic time, to a machinic added value, to machinic production. In any event, it is on this basis that there is accumulation, production of value and exploitation. This “invisible” side of capitalist production is the most important aspect and is, paradoxically, the aspect which is never taken into consideration when accounting value, the one which eludes measure.

The Machine | transversal texts

[promiseiwillwrite]

Responsibility

Tonight, critters and creatures, I am going to word vomit on this topic, because I am unpacking emotional processing. This is a mental health/diversity post. It will get Magical and Political. If you don't like that sort of mixed drink, keep scrolling.

For those of you who choose to be here for that, this story starts well past the middle. The other day, I had a full blown PTSD freak out, and I crashed through more than a year's worth of work trying to un-guilt myself like it was tissue paper.

I have to start there, because it is only from there that nuance even exists, and any of this can be understood by me rationally at all.

I am writing this out because I am really struggling with guilt surrounding my personal boundaries, and I feel like it is very important that I break it.

I once had an idea of responsibility that was born from abuse. In this framework, I was not the only party capable of being responsible, but it was mildly better in my mind when the abuser hooked into me instead of someone else. But abuse teaches you obsessively think mean things about yourself, your worth, and how you should be treated by others. Furthermore, according to this framework, once you accepted responsibility/(were found guilty by tribunal) you were ETERNALLY responsible, (I.E. guilty, at fault, culpable, condemned, reprehensible) because repair did not exist. This made you an available target for abuse at any time. Remember that awful thing you did? Well, Every time I scream at you, we're going to be re-hashing how Bad that was.

Understanding the nuances surrounding the word "responsibility" has been very difficult for me. I have been trying to take responsibility for Years. For Everyone. FROM everyone. I have tried to be responsible in every way that you Can be, whether that was necessarily appropriate for me to do or not. Guilt has factored hugely in my worldview, and I compulsively seek self improvement to this day, after a collective of more than 5 years in therapy.

Right now, I am struggling with where it actually stops.

Because I have learned enough to know that "responsibility as eternal guilt" is probably just an abusive extreme programmed into my mind that needs to be pried out with a screwdriver, I have been trying to see if I can approach the idea from a less extreme angle.

The idea of Ownership, and what that means has helped some. I can understand the idea of emotional investment, and likewise, seeking beneficial action as a means of actively making amends.

I have also started to understand that there is some non-zero value to doing inner work to change your thoughts, and your word use and your actions to ensure that you don't do (insert bad thing here) ever again. My impression on this point is that it depends both on whatever the bad thing is, who you wronged, and how personal the whole thing is.

Some things aren't actionable in immediately obvious ways. Some things you really have to do work to make them actionable. Other times, an apology and acknowledgement might really actually mean something, provided actions reflect change going forward. Provided that trust being re-built is genuinely desirable to the parties involved.

In the context of trying to build and reinforce boundaries, all this is well and good... but trauma fucking sucks, and no amount of calm, rational accountability and transparency erase the mortification that comes up when I react to people like they are my abuser.

I know I am responsible for my actions, and my emotions.

But god this makes me feel so helpless.

And I know that over time, this has happened Many times. There are friends I have lost, and people I have cared for that I have taught that I am not a safe person to say "no" to. Because sometimes I can engage like an adult. And other times I come apart at like a molded burlap sack. And I punish myself visibly and invisibly for Weeks because I misinterpreted a voice pitch, or something equally innocuous. And When I see myself do this, it makes me want to withdraw, so I don't fuck with other people. (punishmentpunishmentpunishment)

And god help me, I know this is wrong. I don't Want to be an unsafe person. I am trying to stop reading into subtext. I am trying to not misinterpret silence. I am trying not to bring a bad faith interpretation to every social interaction.

But old habits die hard.

It has meant a lot of crushing fear that I have had to look in the eye and say "I am ignoring you".

and it still wins at least half the time.

I know that is progress. And I know sometimes progress feels like a hangover on a hot morning.

I spend a lot of time sorry.

But I am really trying to say that less.