#and surprise others is capitalism and the politics of desirability

[wizzard890]

Hello! I'm someone who really enjoys makeup, but has recently in the past few years begun to view makeup and the makeup industry more broadly as something that is really detrimental to women. You seem to be in somewhat of the same position, and I admire your thoughts, so I was curious how you reconcile those positions or if you feel the need to reconcile them at all? Please ignore this ask if it's intrusive or weird lol

You can't reconcile them. You really can't. The beauty industry exists to churn out propaganda, inventing flaws and offering us fixes for a price, before moving on to the new (usually opposite, so you don't already have the tools) trend.

I'm in my thirties, I've seen the beauty industry turn into a nightmarish hydra that I never could have imagined as a teenager. The speed with which people create and zero in on new physical nitpicks, the ubiquity of filters and plastic surgery, that skincare (literally unless you have a specific ailment, a soft cleanser and nothing else will do you just fine) has become a lunatic self-flagellation in the name of some kind of nebulous Purity, just the endless chasing and chasing and chasing of that new thing that new miracle bottle, whatever will finally make you less disgusting for living in a human body. It's rancid. But it’s always been like this. Just slower.

And it's important to be intellectually honest about all this. The reason we think we look better with our lips a certain color, or our skin being a certain texture is because beauty culture has spent hundreds of years and trillions of dollars rotting our brains. None of this is real. You know that you find the people you love the most attractive when they're comfortable and bare faced and being themselves. Contour would change literally nothing about your feelings in that moment.

I enjoy makeup. I like gold eyeliner and deep berry lipsticks and a stain of blush. Why? Because I also have brain rot, and think I look Better with it on. You can't dismantle the entire wretched apparatus on your own, but you can be clear with yourself about why you believe what you believe. As my wife pointed out when I talked to her about this ask, even saying "I just like to decorate my face" doesn't hold water. You don't know what you natively like to do with your face, when it comes to beauty. You've spent your whole life marinating in propaganda. It gets into everything.

Due to my Ancient Years, I am no longer expected to be Young And Hot, which means I don't put on makeup on to run errands, and I don't feel like a full face is necessary to see friends or get dinner on a weeknight. I've started trying to treat makeup like I'd treat a pair of high heels: sometimes it's nice to feel dressed up, and in some environments heels are part of the dress code. Sometimes you wear heels to show your partner that you put in extra effort for them, or to make sure someone knows you took an occasion seriously.

Tellingly, heels also exist to fix a "failure" in your appearance.

It's like finding smoking sexy. Smoking kills you, unambiguously. And yet....it's hard not to feel like you'd be cooler if you had a cigarette in your hand. No one is immune to the manipulations of propaganda. But it is propaganda, plain and simple, and we shouldn't twist ourselves in knots to defend the lies it tells us, or try to make them ~praxis~. Beauty culture is exactly the same.

[drac-kool-aid]

Seward's bone deep desire to run away from the asylum is not exactly surprising. There have been a lot of really good meta posts about how the return of Van Helsing into his life is the turning point where we see the caring and good side of him and how we can interpret his life as a student in Amersterdam as one of freedom and happiness. How he is part of the tragedy of manners, how strict social expectations allow Dracula to persist, and how they only exacerbate the unhappiness of the characters.

And I think the tragedy of Seward is that, really, he should not be the head of an asylum. It's a job that brings him no joy, and he's BAD at it. We can all recognize that if your first reaction to going back to work is "What if I just leave it all." That isn't a healthy work environment.

Now, in the modern day, the ability to pick and choose a work environment, even to leave one that is damaging your mental health, is a privilege. (IT SHOULDNT BE, but it is). And, although it is definitely reaching crisis levels in modern times, major changes in your career have almost always been difficult (unless you are really rich, or a particular brand of academic in the 17th-18th century, or both).

Seward can't just leave and become a surgeon. To give up the lofty position of "Head of an Asylum" would be unthinkable in the 1890s, especially for a reason like "Being here is basically turning me into the Joker." Like, how would Seward explain that in polite society? Would they accept that reasoning? Would they create salacious gossip if they didn't? Can Seward leave his position without losing a great amount of social capital?

Probably not.

His rise to head of an asylum, as many have pointed out, was meteoric, to say the least. It has afforded him status and respect and also left him deeply, deeply fucked up. And he can't leave!

I think his desperate attempts to quantify Renfield's behaviors into a new mental illness are telling in this regard. Maybe he is too used to having to meet some sort of expectation, and now he thinks this is the logical next step (It's NOT, but I digress). The feeling of having to keep performing above expectations, grasping at straws to do so, and subsequently burning oneself out (as well as others around you) and engaging in unethical practices? Idk. It sounds like something that would happen today. (tbh there are probably a ton of Sewards out there today, as there are still systemic problems within the mental health system that allow for the dehumanizing and abuse of patients).

It doesn't excuse his behavior. Nothing he does to Renfield is excusable, but I think it does explain some of the *why*. He isn't just cruel for cruelty's sake.

So, tldr I guess: I think reading Seward as someone who got stuck on a career path that he realized was unfufilling and that he ends up hating. Social conventions restrict him from just quitting without and a (socially acceptable) good reason to do so, and a lifetime of being regarded as one of the smartest people in the room means he can not allow himself to fail. Unfortunately, this also means he can not admit when his actions or his ideas are wrong when it comes to his job.

(But he can show that uncertainty FOR Lucy, and TO Arthur and Van Helsing, which speaks his trust and love for them)

[moontrinemars]

TENTH LORD IN MARS NAKSHATRAS

Thanks for your patience in waiting for the next part of the series - I’m glad you guys are interested. As always, recorded for my own benefit, published for yours. General disclaimer is in my bio. Credit to KRSchannel for inspiring this post.

Find your 10th lord here, and find your 10th lord’s nakshatra here.

The 10th house rules our life’s honor. It represents the services we perform for society as well as the reputation we earn as a result. It is associated with the father and the career because traditionally, this is where both our standing in society and the role we performed in society would come from - inherited through the father’s family line. However, in our contemporary world, this isn’t always the case, which is why it’s important to know the grander themes at play.

The three Mars-ruled nakshatras are Mrigashira, Chitra, and Dhanistha.

Mars is a planetary object that represents motivation, force of will, and personal drive. It is the pursuit of pleasure and the incurring of wrath. While Venus rules earthly and rational matters, such as the aesthetic of beauty and the value of wealth, Mars rules our desires which are primal and sublime. He is impulse, passion, giving us strength and making us vulnerable simultaneously. He is also fear and terror. More than any traditional planet, Mars is tied to the cycle and the transformation of life and death, as the ruler of the 1st and 8th house. His impact is severe, earnest, and compelling, and is escaped by no one.

DO YOU HAVE YOUR 10TH LORD IN A MARS-RULED NAKSHATRA? THAT MEANS YOU…

Mick Jagger, Ryan Reynolds, and Bob Marley all have their tenth lords in Mars ruled nakshatras. Mick's is in Mrigashira, Ryan's is in Chitra, and Marley's is in Dhanistha.

… HAVE A PUBLIC PERSONA MOST SHAPED AND DEFINED BY YOUR IMPULSES, INDIVIDUALITY, AND INDEPENDENCE.

Those born with this placement usually find themselves at odds with the rest of society. Though they don't necessarily fail to fit in with the culture of their time, they tend to let their gut instincts dictate the way they engage with it and this results in distinct and memorable individuals who stand out from the crowd, and cause waves with just their personalities and the effect they have on others. Thus, they may be capable of contributing to massive culture shifts. However, they're also liable to let their impulses lead them to scandal and enmity.

Mars is a chthonic planet, and so it's no surprise we see it ruling the lord of the house of status and legacy in many of the most famous and widely mourned celebrities but that doesn't make this a death sentence for the influential. More than anything, fame in tangent with this placement signifies someone who inspires controversy, not with their choices or behaviors, but in their possessing fame at all. Other people will argue over the legitimacy of whatever talent, beauty, act, or positive attribute to which their fame is attributed. Their fame may be cyclical, as may be the public's support or enmity towards them.

MORE ON THE SPECIFICS OF MRIGASHIRA, CHITRA, AND DHANISTHA BELOW!

IF MRIGASHIRA RULES THE TENTH LORD, YOU…

Bette Davis, Lord Byron, and Milo Ventimiglia all have their tenth lords in Mrigashira. Others with this placement are Louis Lumiere, Prince Philip, Claudia Schiffer, Babe Ruth, Christopher Lee, and George Lucas.

Find yourself constantly searching within your professional and public spaces for something more fulfilling than what you have.

Throw yourself into your work, and are eager to learn whatever you can to develop and improve your craft, or your social standing.

Communicate articulately about responsibilities and projects, as well as political beliefs and social causes that are important to you.

Network and establish your personality easily, as your work and your society inspire you to engage in debate consistently.

Have an eye for major trends and business opportunities, and can capitalize on them just as they take off, leading the charge.

AND YOU MAY FIND…

Pursuit, stalking, or cheating might be a pattern at your workplace.

Quickness is the key trait that defines your reputation: in casting judgement, responding to a crisis, and haste to get desired results.

Your work has you spending time in recreation-friendly spaces: parks, street markets, town squares, playgrounds, your home, etc.

Sensitivity to your surroundings makes you adept at resolving immediate problems involving authorities or a formal setting.

Over-sensitivity, whether to sensory experiences, to tone, or to social graces, can lead to overreactions that confuse people.

MRIGASHIRA is the Searching Star. Industries and career types favored are those involving art, expression, navigation, earth, textiles, animals, trends, sales, advertising, agriculture, telecommunications, occult studies, crafts, research, drama, and travel.

IF CHITRA RULES THE TENTH LORD, YOU…

Mary Tyler Moore, Kim Kardashian, and Cher all have their tenth lords in Chitra. Others with this placement are Leonard Cohen, Mika, Diego Rivera, Bette Midler, Cesare Borgia, John Mayer, Leonardo Dicaprio, Paul Williams, Emily Dickinson, and Queen Elizabeth I.

Find it easy to engage with coworkers and members of the public as equals, both to yourself and to one another.

Experience the most professional and political epiphanies when everyone else is asleep, especially at three to four in the morning.

Strategize and organize your workspace as well as career and public events with ease and poise, to the satisfaction of all.

Can be stingy and thrifty with professional funding, and turn a critical eye upon those who insist on lax public spending, even if as an individual you practice generosity and charity.

May experience jealousy, or just suspicion, toward coworkers, public figures, or others in your field who remind you of yourself.

AND YOU MAY FIND…

Legacies play a role in the way that your workplace or public persona operates, such as becoming or gaining an apprentice, but you may find it hard to get on with those who inherit your position.

Bright colors, flowers, and natural beauty dominate your place of work, or settings with these attributes empower you publicly.

Others treat you with dignity and respect your aesthetic potential, even following your lead with the way you dress for events.

A quick temper and sensitivity to presentation inspires you to challenge the views or choices of others preemptively.

Intense procrastination hinders you in moments of specific importance.

CHITRA is the Star of Opportunity. Industries and career types favored are those involving aesthetics, communication, specialized expertise, design, dynamics, narrative, creative production, quality inspection, force of personality, precision, and reconstruction.

IF DHANISTHA RULES THE TENTH LORD…

Billie Joe Armstrong, Paris Hilton, and Lauren Bacall all have their tenth lords in Dhanistha. Others with this placement are Carl Sagan, Greta Garbo, Walt Whitman, Antony Armstrong-Jones, King Louis XV, Anna May Wong, Sarah Hyland, Charles Manson, and Liza Goddard.

Are capable of making highly insightful observations about society due to your keen perception and intimate understanding of power.

Had aspirations and politics shaped by a pragmatic altruism from a young age, perhaps in response to a parent or authority figure.

Feel uncomfortable in and experience adversity from business partnerships, and any relationships which are too public-facing.

Attract status and fame, seek positions of dignity, and approach tasks with a sincere desire to produce something of high quality.

Have no qualms about lying to or manipulating others in order to get what you want - and there is a great deal that you want.

AND YOU MAY FIND…

Even accomplishments celebrated in the public sector or by your industry feel hollow to you; the answer may lie in volunteer work.

Gender discrimination affects your workplace, status, or politics.

Popularity among certain demographics and subcultures: namely, the wealthy, the young, the politically liberal, and the creative field.

Any siblings can be of aid to your career and public image, but associating with extended relations may be detrimental to either.

Your experiences with honor or power - that of your own or that of others - affect you on a deep, even spiritual, level.

DHANISTHA is the Star of Symphony. Industries and career types favored are those involving music, timing, rhythm, quality inspection, physical performance, group coordination, property, strategy, math and science, poetry, spirituality, creativity, engineering, and charity.

HOPE THIS WAS HELPFUL. AMOUNT OF REQUESTS MEANS WE’RE GOING OUT OF ORDER, BUT WE WILL ABSOLUTELY RETURN TO THE OTHERS LATER. FEEL FREE TO MESSAGE WITH QUESTIONS, THOUGHTS, OR IDEAS. PART 5 WILL FOCUS ON JUPITER-RULED 10TH LORD NAKSHATRAS NEXT! ♡

[probablyasocialecologist]

During these times, and in line with its long-standing exploitation of liberal identity politics, Israel has been weaponizing queer bodies to counter any support for Palestine and any critique of its settler-colonial project. Israelis (politicians, organizations, and “civilians”) have been mobilizing colonial dichotomies such as “civilized” and “barbaric,” “human” and “animal,” and other dehumanizing binaries as a discourse that legitimizes the attacks on Palestinians. Within this settler-colonial rhetoric, Israel seeks to garner and mobilize support from Western governments and liberal societies by portraying itself as a nation that respects freedom, diversity, and human rights, that is fighting a “monstrous” and oppressive society, illuminated clearly through the declaration of the Prime Minister of Israel “There is a struggle between the children of light and children of darkness, between humanity and law of the jungle.” While these blatantly racist genocidal declarations take the stage, activists in Palestine and internationally are being silenced, harassed, detained, criminalized, workers fired from their jobs, and students suspended from universities. International feminist and queer activists, in solidarity with Palestine, are facing attacks and harassment by Zionists under the premise that those who support Palestine will be “raped” and “beheaded” by Palestinians for merely being women and queers. Yet more often than not, rape and death are what Zionists wish upon queers and women who stand in solidarity with Palestine. Zionist fantasies of brutalized bodies do not surprise us, for we have experienced the reality of their manifestation on our skin and spirit. Yet they never seize to accelerate in their explicit vehemence. It becomes evermore absurd when such framings are constructed against Palestinian society, in light of countless testimonies, reports, and documentations of sexual violence Palestinians have been facing throughout Israel’s 75 years of military occupation. From the thousands of Palestinian prisoners, men and women, who are subject to sexual torture and rape since Israel’s inception to this very day, to daily and escalating settler violence against Palestinians in the West Bank, to Israeli “civilians” filming themselves torturing kidnapped Palestinians as a TikTok trend, and the most recent harrowing footage published on social media platforms by Israeli soldiers which document the lengths of torture and sexual abuse soldiers and settlers inflict on our bodies regardless of their sexual orientation and gender – all forms of violence, including sexual violence are systematically and structurally part of Zionist domination over Palestinian life. And yet Israeli society continues to weaponize queerness for the purposes of justifying war and colonial repression, as if their bombs, apartheid walls, guns, knives, and bulldozers are selective of who they harm based on sexuality and gender. We refuse the instrumentalization of our queerness, our bodies, and the violence we face as queer people to demonize and dehumanize our communities, especially in service of imperial and genocidal acts. We refuse that Palestinian sexuality and Palestinian attitudes towards diverse sexualities become parameters for assigning humanity to any colonized society. We deserve life because we are human, with the multitude of our imperfections, and not because of our proximity to colonial modes of liberal humanity. We refuse colonial and imperialist tactics that seek to alienate us from our society and alienate our society from us, on the basis of our queerness. We are fighting interconnected systems of oppression, including patriarchy and capitalism, and our dreams of autonomy, community, and liberation are inherently tied to our desire for self-determination. No queer liberation can be achieved with settler-colonization, and no queer solidarity can be fostered if it stands blind to the racialized, capitalist, fascist, and imperial structures that dominate us.

[rabidferretnightmares]

Bloodstained Confessions [Vampire!Diavolo x GN!Reader]

A/N: This fic is inspired by @another-lost-mc's glorious work (aka their Vampire!Diavolo x GN!reader fic that they posted nearly a month ago), which you can enjoy here! I recommend giving it a read if you're suffering from absolute and irreversible vampire brainrot like me. If you don't, there is always a long list of other splendid works to check out and read~

My goldfish brain saw the words 'Vampire!Diavolo', 'MC in a cage' and the general theme of dark and messed up stuff happening and ran with it. This fic was supposed to be short (everything that I write turns out longer than I expected), a one-shot (hahahaha yeah at this point I have enough plot twists and ideas for this to write an entire novel... 'easy' is not part of my dictionary by any stretch of the imagination)... and released way later (thanks crippling anxiety), accompanied by some other drafts that I still need to finish. But as always, I severely clowned on myself. No surprises here.

I don't know if I will continue writing it, it depends on my brain and if anyone's interested...which I highly doubt since the fic is more focused on the politics and dynamics between the characters than the romance part. But I digress.

word count: 2.8k

cw: nsfw, angst?, dark content, stereotypical vampire behavior, predator/prey dynamics, gn!MC, MC has a vampire kink and Dia is lovin' it, humans being sold, mentions of dismemberment/dismembered limbs and the sale of such, proofread, I probably forgot some warnings sorry please tell me and I will add them!

The heavy fabric of his expensive black velvet cloak quietly rustled as Diavolo swiftly made his way down the dingy, dimly lit alleyway.

Smells and noises that were entirely unfamiliar to him occupied his senses.

Maybe it was because Barbatos made it a point to always keep the castle clean and pleasantly smelling - vampire noses were on the more sensitive side after all, and one well-placed foul smell could ruin ones mood for the entire day -  or the entire night. Or maybe it was because he was currently roaming certain parts of the capital.

'Slums' or 'peasant's purgatory' is what some of the vampire lords would certainly call it.

The streets were littered with garbage and he had already kicked several tin cans and other trash while walking.

But Diavolo didn't care. It was his curiosity that had brought him here, after all.

Past the less fortunate quarters and outskirts of the city, straight into the parts that were nowhere to be found on any map - Any map you could get legally, that is.

The vampire prince pulled his hood down to cover more of his face as he entered the black market.

Barbatos would be furious if he knew that Diavolo snuck out to see a human auction with his own eyes - The exact thing he had declared illegal the second his father had left for him to rule.

He was of the opinion that for his domain to flourish in the long term, the vampires needed to get a grip on their primal desires and establish a stable and healthy relationship with the humans - auctioning them like exotic animals for the highest bidder to do with as they please certainly wasn't going to help sway the humans to consider a serious potential allyship with the vampires.

Diavolo knew that he needed to be patient in order to achieve a future as he envisioned it. Humans might be rather dim-witted at times, as well as certainly not as long-living as vampires, but they had an excellent memory and the troublesome habit of holding onto grudges for generations. His work was definitely cut out for him.

Especially with a good portion of his subjects refusing to obey his new rules, which led to the auctions being continued illegally.

Regardless of how many men and resources the prince poured into locating and crushing these auctions, new ones kept popping up in the blink of an eye. It was a pest to deal with, to be quite frank.

No one seemed to be able to figure out who was the responsible mastermind behind all of it, so the illegal auctions kept coming back like weeds whose roots you just couldn't get out of the ground.

That was precisely why Diavolo went out of his way to see one for himself. He had never been to any when they were still legal - He was the crown prince, after all. His food was fetched by servants and served to him on a silver platter. He didn't need to move a muscle.

Accordingly, his interactions with humans had been limited up until this point. They had always been nothing more than prey to him - and a limited, but vital resource that needed to be managed as he got more involved in the politics and ruling of his domain in recent years.

Maybe that was why he didn't share the unwillingness of his people to let the auctions be a thing of the past. He had even heard of vampires who got completely enthralled by humans and decided to keep them around - some went so far as to start relationships with them or even took them as mates.

The entire concept seemed so very foreign to him.

Diavolo never had strong emotions for any of the humans that had been put before him. Neither did any of them smell particularly good to the point where he would consider conserving them and not sucking them dry immediately. Keeping humans around for the fun of it didn't seem very appealing to him either.

All the humans that he had ever encountered had been terrified and it was practically impossible to lead a genuine conversation with them.

And keeping a human, who was in a constant state of panic and unable to form proper sentences around didn't have much entertainment value - at least to him.

But then again, how much of a conversation would they actually be able to have or how much entertainment could a human really provide?

Considering that the entire species still hadn't managed to escape their use as a food resource for vampires and very easy prey on top of that (and it had been several millennia at this point) didn't really speak for them having overall high intelligence in his opinion.

Diavolo followed the commotion and was led to a rundown theater.

As he pushed the aging oak doors open and entered the building, the noise immediately doubled in volume and he could hear the auctioneer on the stage banging her gavel three times as she announced another sale, her deep voice booming.

The prince closed the door and his gaze wandered across the room.

Considering that the auctions were illegal and even the simple act of attending one without buying anything was penalized draconically, the theater was nearly bursting at the seams with how many people were inside. While he wasn't the only one wearing a cloak trying to disguise his identity, it appeared that the majority of attendees seemed to feel comfortable, if not downright safe at the auction.

Diavolo furrowed his brows, very much displeased with what he saw unfolding in front of him.

That just went to show that the rules and penalties, as well as their overall execution were still too lax. He really needed to step it up if he wanted the auctions to stop anytime soon.

As he scanned the crowd he noticed a couple of familiar faces.

... Interesting.

Several members of his court were present and made no attempt to disguise their identity. That was certainly something to remember for later. He didn't spot Mephistopheles among them, thankfully, but that was about the only positive thing he was able to take from his little excursion so far.

Pushing the thought of who in his court was or wasn't going behind his back attending illegal auctions and even potentially buying humans aside, he found his attention drawn towards the rows of cages on the right side of the room, right next to the stage.

Nobody payed any attention to him as he made his way towards the cages to take a look at the humans that were up for auction today.

And what he saw was... just sad for the lack of a better word.

The smell of urine and sweat made him nauseous.

None of the cages were cleaned and every human was filthy beyond belief, some were missing a limb or even several limbs, some were seemingly passed out in their cages. Diavolo suspected that the sellers didn't bother feeding them.

As for the missing limbs - he spotted a stall nearby that sold human parts.

Apparently it was a common practice for buyers to sell off parts of their humans to make some money back. Others bought humans and entirely dismembered them to sell everything, usually after all their blood had already been drunk.

Different strokes for different folks. The saying that there was always someone who was willing to pay for whatever the good was certainly true. Vampires of a certain character were known to decorate their houses with human parts...or whatever else they did with them.

Diavolo shook his head in abhorrence. It surely wasn't for him.

He saw a human head as well as three separate fingers make their way across the counter and decided to ignore the morbid sales and instead focus on the cages with humans inside of them.

How anyone in their right mind would want to pay any money for these was beyond him.

All of them seemed to be in terrible condition and the fear and anxiety really soured their blood.

It was like choosing to drink out of a dirty, broken goblet.

The obvious neglect towards the humans seemed so unnecessarily cruel and avoidable to him.

But then again, it just showed how desperate the vampires were, letting the hunters and sellers get away with cashing in astronomical amounts of money in exchange for humans that looked like they would drop dead any second either way.

The ends of Diavolo's mouth curled up in disgust and he was glad that the hood concealed his face.

He had seen enough for tonight. Time to get back to the castle and inevitably get lectured by Barbatos for his unannounced and risky excursion, as well as ponder how to deal with the members of his court whom he had seen at the auction today.

Diavolo spun around with the intention to leave the theater, but stopped mid-motion, his nostrils flaring.

His nose had picked up a smell that was completely out of place.

It was barely noticeable in between the overwhelming stench of urine, sweat and fear, so much so that he thought he imagined it at first.

But he took another whiff and still smelled it.

Now curious, the prince followed the scent in order to locate it.

He ended up in front of a cage at the far end of the second row.

A human was huddled inside, eyeing him with big fearful eyes. They didn't look that much different from any other specimen of their race and weren't missing any limbs as far as he could tell.

And yet...

To confirm his suspicion, the knelt down to their height in order to inspect them intently.

"What's your name?" He made sure his fangs were visible when speaking.

"... MC."

To his surprise, the human actually answered. Although their voice was nearly inaudible in the midst of all the noise around them.

MC was staring at his fangs, transfixed.

The vampire prince nearly let out an amused laugh as he smelled it, now stronger than before.

Instead the corners of Diavolo's lips curled up to form an ironic smile when his nose caught the obvious scent of arousal floating in the air, coming from the human in front of him.

What a foolish little human.

Then he noticed the smell of their blood.

The ratio of arousal to fear was obviously off and it smelled way too sour for his liking, but the aroma nevertheless left his mouth watering.

It was delectable. He had never met any human with such irresistible blood.

Diavolo couldn't even imagine how absolutely delicious it would smell once they had calmed down, much less actually taste.

He resisted the overwhelming urge to lick his lips. A part of him couldn't even comprehend what he was smelling. There was no possible way anyone's blood could smell this good. But his nose certainly proved him wrong.

MC stared at him like a deer caught in headlights, waiting for him to make a move.

On a whim, the prince decided that he would take that human home today, no matter the cost.

What was that one saying the he had heard not too long ago?

You should keep it if it sparks joy...?

Something along those lines.

Well, while he didn't buy MC at the auction and therefore didn't own them, that was a trivial concern and a quick fix for him.

The prince was sure that this human would be able to provide entertainment for him - hours of fun and entertainment, judging by the aroma of their blood and the hint of arousal that he was still able to detect in the stuffy air of the theater.

"You'll be able to enjoy yourself very much once you get situated in your new home, MC. I promise to personally see to that."

MC made a little questioning noise.

Diavolo didn't react and got up, walking towards the stall that was handling the payments and keys for the humans that were auctioned off, though not before remembering the number on the plaque that was nailed to the top right of MC's cage.

The vampire prince walked past several cages with howling and screeching humans. They were were occasionally silenced by bored-looking guards threateningly bashing wooden staffs adorned with metal spikes on both ends against the metal bars.

Diavolo approached the indifferent balding vampire who was in charge of transacting the monetary part of the sales and handing out the keys to the buyers, apparent by the giant key ring on his belt that looked like it weighed about the same as a fully grown rhino - just judging by the sheer amount of keys that were on it.

The man didn't even look at him.

"What number?", he asked wholly unenthusiastically.

"Cage Number 68.", Diavolo immediately replied.

Well, that was easier than he expected.

The man didn't bother to answer and instead lifted up the key ring on his waist, listlessly flipping through the cluster of keys.

Suddenly, he stopped and furrowed his brows.

Swiftly pulling out a list from under his table, his index finger traced his way down on the paper until he found what he was looking for.

"Cage 68 is already sold and the new owner already payed and claimed the key. What do think you're doing, trying to steal someone else's property?"

Diavolo's mind started reeling.

MC was already sold?

That meant that their buyer could have already picked them up and disappeared off into the night with them with every second he was wasting here.

He was running out of time.

The vampire in front of him let out a pathetic little squeak as Diavolo picked him up by the collar of his shirt and brought him closer.

"Do you even know who you are speaking to? I am not one to be refused and you do better remembering that, lest you plan on dying a particularly gruesome death in the near future.", he hissed, baring his fangs threateningly.

The man's eyes widened as he recognized the person in front of him.

"M-m-my apologies, your majesty! I didn't mean to offend you! H-here, take the spare key for Cage 68! My humblest apologies!" He scrambled to get the spare key off his key ring and offered it to Diavolo with trembling hands.

The vampire prince wordlessly took the key and dropped the man, who fell to the floor like a wet sack of potatoes.

Diavolo spun around and hurriedly made his way back to MC.

To his relief, he found them sitting in their cage just like he had left them.

The prince swiftly unlocked the cage, left the key in and grabbed their arm to pull them out.

"We'll be going, then."

MC let out a little surprised squeak and stumbled out of the cage as best they could - considering the shackles around their ankles and wrists it turned out to be a rather undignified and slow exploit.

Diavolo huffed impatiently and simply picked them up, walking towards the exit. Goodness gracious, this human urgently needed a decent bath.

People were staring, but he didn't particularly care.

MC didn't talk until they had left the theater and Diavolo walked down the deserted streets back towards the city center.

"Where are we going? Who are you?"

"Patience. You'll find out soon enough."

Right now he was trying to figure out how to deal with at least three different problems at once while trying to not bump into anything.

"I... uh... You don't need to carry me. I can walk on my own if you open the shackles around my ankles."

Diavolo stopped and looked down at the human in his arms.

"You're not wearing any footwear and the streets are littered with garbage. Do you know what a mess it would be if you started bleeding right now out in the open because you cut your foot?"

"You're right. I'm sorry, I hadn't considered that."

He simply shook his head and continued walking.

Diavolo was already having immense trouble keeping his composure. The sheer smell of their blood threatened to overwhelm him at this close proximity.

Added to that, he now needed to figure out how to justify to Barbatos that he got a human from an illegal auction (that he went to without permission one might add) and that he planned on keeping said human. Not to mention that at least one person now knew that he had been at said auction. But the other option - Breaking the cage with his bare hands and causing a scene in the process - wouldn't have been any better.

Either way, it would be absolutely disastrous if his attendance of the auction became public knowledge.

divider used can be found here

[beguines]

The twist that makes tradlife a phenomenon of our times is that it also includes earnest criticisms of life under capitalism. Many tradlifers are young women who hate work and celebrate arrangements where men rescue their wives from the professional realm: "When my friend's mom first started dating her husband," one viral tweet reads, "he said 'Stay with me, marry me, and you’ll never have to work again.'" Only tradition can salvage love from modern indignities and the early-morning commute. Like a trapdoor, the idea swings open to reveal a baby-pink fantasy too fragile and nostalgic to be taken in the open air. Regular people preoccupied with bills, healthcare premiums, and rising rents will find much of the tradlife lifestyle to be out of reach. That paradox is what makes it such potent social media fare: tradlife is, at bottom, perpetuated by "influencers" who know how to make others feel desirous and frustrated in equal measure. It is a menacing advertisement jingle, for a product people may not want or be certain exists.

By describing the misery of work, tradlife ennobles itself. But as an ethos it also maintains a willful stupidity about modern capitalism's historic dependence on the family, a constitutive structure of capitalism, through which property, debt, and economic interest are all consolidated (it was Milton Friedman, after all, who wrote that "the ultimate operative unit in our society is the family"). As a concept, "the family" has worked even harder than "the individual" to overshadow our ethical obligations to other people. But few have use for notions of society anymore, defined as it is by unpredictability and fear of rising crime. We want only securitized intimacy—the happy assurance of a shared mortgage.

[. . .]

On a macro and micro level, then, tradlife proffers a purportedly risk-averse solution to the political challenges that patriarchy and sexism present. It guards women from most men and from public life. Meanwhile, the ideology itself shies away from present-day discontent, further withdrawing from the world it purports to wish to change. The family has long been an exclusive realm, where people hoard both interpersonal and economic resources. Yet tradlife overlooks this contradiction of its own supposed anti-capitalism, supplanting it with the sharp and flawless grid of a pixelated image. Regardless of its nostalgic Americana, tradlife's vision owes less to Norman Rockwell than Thomas Kinkade: the glitter is cold, and the insistence on perfection almost hysterical. Rockwell, even at his most idealized, still populated his work with people and their hijinks; he was interested in the capacity of individuals to surprise each other. Meanwhile, in its videos and photos of well-lit, private spaces, tradlife makes property rather than humans its central object. As in Kinkade's paintings, the house appears as a refuge from others.

Perhaps all contemporary relationships are attended by hierarchy, and tradlife is just more honest about the power differentials of intimacy. But feminism, at its best, has always pointed to the possibility that love could one day be different. It has maintained that we do not currently know the full range of its possibilities, because love between men and women has so far only happened within a narrow patch of unjust conditions. Tradlife seeks the certainty of formulaic relationships, but it hides from its purveyors the prospect that a different kind of society may have better, different formulas, or no formulas at all. What might marriage look like without the imperative of property? How might love be lived without the dramas of jealousy, pain, and insecurity that crowd a world in which public space and dignity are never fully shared?

[fanficapologist]

Of Dragons and Maelstroms

Themes and Warnings: slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood, violence, explicit language, sexual violence, period-typical misogyny, sexual themes, smut, tension, marriage, jealousy, pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, attempted sexual assault, breastfeeding, major character death, divergent timelines

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood/Game of Thrones characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Chapter Fifty-Six

After two days, the man known as Blood was captured, the head of little Jaehaerys in his satchel, yet there was no joy in this victory, for the air in the Red Keep and throughout King’s Landing remained heavy with grief and fear. The city itself seemed to shudder under the weight of the tragedy, and the news had spread like wildfire among the common people.

In the Red Keep, the once bustling halls echoed with a somber silence, the shadow of the heinous act looming over every corner. Maera, too, found herself entangled in a web of conflicting emotions. The reality of the horror that had unfolded left her grappling with a fear for the future, a fear that clung to her like a persistent specter. The atmosphere in the city mirrored the gloom within the castle walls. The streets whispered with the shared sorrow of the people, creating an eerie symphony of mourning.

Lord Otto Hightower's suggestion of placing Jaehaerys's body in the Sept for seven days, allowing both nobles and commoners to pay their respects, carried an undertone of political maneuvering. Maera couldn't shake the ambiguity surrounding the decision – was it a genuine desire to let the people mourn with House Targaryen, or a calculated move to publicly shame and condemn Rhaenyra's actions, further pushing the agenda that Aegon was indeed the rightful King?

The thought of witnessing Jaehaerys's body again, this time in the open for all to see, proved too much for Maera. The haunting image of that night lingered vividly in her mind, and the prospect of public mourning became a spectacle she could not bear to partake in. Choosing not to attend the Sept, she grappled with the internal conflict between personal grief and the political ramifications surrounding the tragedy.

The Greens had not yet retaliated over the death of the young Prince. When Maera had approached her father and asked if there was any update on this matter, Lord Jasper had stated no formal decision could be made without the King’s order or consent. It did not surprise Maera to hear that Aegon had sunk further into his cups since the death of his son, as opposed to being there for his wife and other children. She likened it to the distant dynamic she shared with her own father, Lord Jasper, where familial bonds remained strained, even if the desire for the best outcomes for their children lingered distantly in the background, unbeknownst to the offspring of the unapproachable fathers.

Aemond's emotional distance since Jaehaerys's passing weighed heavily on Maera. While she expected it, coping with both her own grief and his detachment proved challenging. Each night, Maera noticed Aemond's late arrival to bed, long after she had fallen asleep. Waking up frequently, she would feel his warm presence, his arm draped around her, and cling desperately to the fleeting connection. However, come morning, Aemond would vanish once again, leaving Maera grappling with the void of his absence.

Despite Aemond's physical presence in the Capital, symbolized by Vhagar on the beach, Maera felt he might as well have been miles away. Adding to her isolation, Maera found herself barred from seeing her dear friend Queen Helaena, who, in her struggles, had banned all visitors. Disturbing accounts from Maera’s spy, the laundry maid, revealed Helaena's distress, spending her days at the window, slipping into screaming fits. The Maester's visits were frequent, administering limited doses of milk of the poppy to soothe her anguish without harming the life growing within her.

Now that Jaehaerys was gone, the Realm expected Helaena to produce another male heir, and the members of the Small Council engaged in many conversations about the Queen’s health in order to produce another Targaryen Prince. A disgusting pressure for a mother in mourning, who could not even look at her remaining children due to the guilt she felt from that traumatic night.

Maera, a Wylde accustomed to the warmth of family and numerous siblings, felt a profound isolation in the unfamiliarity the chambers she shared with her husband. Frustrated by the monotonous confinement, Maera summoned her maid, Thena, yearning for a respite. She requested preparations for a walk in the Godswood, a small attempt to break free from the suffocating routine.

Draped in mourning attire, Maera was laced into a somber black dress, its high neckline adorned with embroidered golden dragons, a symbol of both her mourning and her place within the royal court. Sitting at her dressing table, Thena then began to braid Maera’s hair, intertwining the strands of brown and silver with intricate skill. Maera could see concern etched across her loyal maid’s face in the reflection of the mirror, knowing a string of questions would follow.

"I heard from the kitchen maids that you didn't eat breakfast, nor your dinner from last night, Princess," Thena voiced gently.

Maera sighed, "You know my appetite tends to wane during times of stress, Thena."

Thena, undeterred and beginning to pin the long braids back, replied, "I'm merely concerned for you. The castle has certainly been shaken by the death of the little Prince."

Maera clenched her jaw, discomfort evident in her solemn green eyes. "It is truly an awful tragedy," she acknowledged. What did not help Maera is that there seemed to be no escape. When exhaustion took over every night and she was forced to go to sleep, Maera was met with the same nightmare she always had. Not to only did she have to watch her mother perish, a devastating image all on its own. Now, in the background, a small headless body lay alone, cold and bloody on the stone floor.

After a pause, Maera opened up, "I see Jaehaerys every night. In my dreams. It is haunting to relive that experience constantly." She shook her head, as if attempting to remove them from her mind. Instead, memories of little Jaehaerys replaced the gory image, transporting her to a time that felt not so distant. It was as if the echoes of his laughter lingered among the leaves, a haunting melody of a joyous past.

The recollection of assisting Helaena in the birth of Jaehaerys and Jaehaera felt like a vivid tableau frozen in time. It was a day marked by anticipation and hope, a stark contrast to the current sorrow that enveloped Maera’s heart. During times when she wasn’t in Kings Landing, Helaena’s letters acted as windows into the twins’ world. The updates were like lifelines, each word painting a picture of Jaehaerys’ boldness and confidence that outshone his twin. The letters spoke of a little boy who walked sooner, his adventurous spirit giving Jaehaera the courage to explore the world alongside him. And now, within a blink, it was gone. Jaehaerys was gone.

Thena, finishing pinning the thick braids, placed a comforting hand on Maera's shoulder. “The world is a cruel place. War does not spare anyone, not even children,” the maid sighed, before reaching for a thick golden headpiece and delicately placing it on Maera’s head. The black mourning veil attached to it cascaded over Maera’s hair and neck like a shroud of mourning, creating a visual testament to the heavy heart she carried within.

“Grief is a heavy burden, and sharing it can lighten the load. I'm always here if you need to talk, Princess," Thena offered, the sincerity in her words reflecting the deep bond between maid and mistress, an alliance that Maera was thankful for in a place like Kings Landing.

The Godswood, once a sanctuary of serenity, now bore the weight of mourning since Jaehaerys' murder. The atmosphere, once alive with the whispers of wind through leaves and the chirping of birds, now held a heavy stillness. The ancient weirwood tree stood as a silent witness to the grief that echoed within its sacred space, it’s usually crimson leaves seeming duller than usual. The plants, once vibrant and full of life, now seemed to droop in empathy.

As Maera wandered through the winding paths, she found herself the sole inhabitant of this once-shared sanctuary, the silence was only broken by the soft crunch of her footsteps on the gravel path. Ser Arryk, her loyal protector, had offered his presence, but she insisted he stay stationed outside Aegon's rooms, where the King was guarded around the clock, given the recent incident.

Abruptly, the atmosphere shifted as a rainstorm swept through the Godswood. The rain descended with a gentle insistence, each droplet a soft lament against the hallowed silence. Normally finding comfort in the rain, its rhythmic patter echoing the familiar weather of her home in Rainwood, today it seemed to mirror the collective grief that enveloped her world.

With the rain intensifying by the minute, Maera hastened her steps, seeking refuge from the downpour. In her hurried search, she stumbled upon a small stone structure adorned with winding pillars. Its sturdy roof promised shelter, and she gratefully entered.

Inside, the Seven-Pointed star on the floor, meticulously patterned into the stone, caught her eye. It was a sacred symbol that seemed to offer a momentary respite from the storm both outside and within. A stone bench leant against the wall between two pillars and above it, a clear view of the Godswood, now cloaked in the gentle veil of rain.The rhythmic tapping of raindrops on the roof created a comforting melody, and through the arches, Maera could witness the dance of raindrops on the leaves of the ancient trees.

Kneeling before the bench, the rough surface beneath her knees grounding her, Maera clasped her hands fervently. The Seven-Pointed star on the floor seemed to connect her to the divine as she whispered her prayers, each plea a delicate breath escaping her lips. Her supplications sought comprehension for the violence that had befallen Jaehaerys, a plea for the ethereal care of his innocent soul. A heavy sigh carried the weight of her grief, anger, and fear, emotions entangled like the vines that adorned the Godswood.

Amidst her silent communion, the gravel outside crunched under familiar footsteps. The sound, like a delicate herald, indicated an approaching presence. The footsteps transitioned to the stone floor behind her, and Maera, caught in the vulnerability of her prayers, felt the weight of another's gaze upon her, a silent witness to her plea for answers in the face of inexplicable cruelty.

“Gaomagon ao pendagon pōnta rȳbagon īlva? Se Jaehossas, nyke nūmāzma?” Do you think they hear us? The Gods, I mean? The familiar purr of High Valyrian was a comforting sound amongst the rainfall.

Maera lifted her eyes and a mix of relief and uncertainty washed over her at the sight of Aemond standing over her in the sheltered space. Clad in a black cloak, he lowered the hood, revealing his straight silver hair cascading like a waterfall. His usual attire of black leathers adorned him, and the expressionless look on his sharply contoured face hinted at a stoic resolve. The atmosphere between them, however, felt strained and uneasy. The weight of grief hung heavily in the air, exacerbating the tension that had settled between them during the past week.

“Nyke daor unna. Issa pasābagon emagon issare pasābagon hen hēzīr.” I am not sure. My faith has been tested as of late, she replied, her voice carrying the weight of uncertainty. Rising to her feet, the skirts of Maera's black mourning dress rustled softly as she stood before her husband. She couldn't help but notice Aemond's tall form, his figure towering over her. The once-familiar presence now seemed distant, adding to the strained atmosphere that enveloped them.

Aemond's voice, when he finally spoke, cut through the silence like a chill wind. “Pār skoro syt gaomagon ao johegzi naejot jorepagon?”Then why do you continue to pray? His question seemed to lack empathy, the emptiness in his tone mirroring his own inner turmoil, and perhaps his own current struggles with his faith in the Gods. Despite Maera being aware of her husband’s coping mechanism to shut down during difficult times, facing the emotional void he presented proved challenging.

Taking is question personally, Maera replied with a tense jaw, “Kesrio syt lo konīr iksos gīda nykeā kelinītsos naejot maghagon lyks naejot Jaehaeys’ gīs, nyke jāhor gaomagon ziry.” Because if there is even a slight chance to bring peace to Jaehaerys’ soul, I will do it.

The One-Eyed Prince simply hummed in response, causing Maera to tear her gaze away from him to instead look ahead at the rain-kissed Godswood, the sacred surroundings offering a sanctuary from the tension that thickened the air. A heavy silence lingered, like a fog that refused to dissipate. The space between them, once filled with shared sorrows and understanding, now seemed fraught with an unfamiliar unease, leaving Maera and Aemond stood side by side, grappling with loss, faith, and the haunting specter of tragedy.

And yet through it all, an unanswered question remained. A question that Maera had avoided asking her husband due to fearing what the answer would be. But in the wake of Jaehaerys’ unthinkable fate, the dread of an answer seemed eclipsed by the horrors already endured.

With a stern countenance, Maera turned to Aemond, her green eyes widened with a mix of trepidation and determination. “Why did you do it?”

Aemond turned his face towards her, his eyebrow raised in a silent challenge. Frustration mounting, Maera pressed further, her words cutting through the air, “Lucerys. Why?”

A gruff response came, “You know why.”

Scoffing, Maera retorted, “I thought you said it was a fair exchange. Evidently not, considering you killed him.”

Aemond turned his body towards her, anger flickering in his eyes. “You do not know what it is till have a crime against you go unpunished. To be made a cripple, with one slice of a blade.”

Maera, her own anger rising, shot back, “Lucerys took something from me too: you! He took the boy I cared for away from me. And if he were anyone else, I would have killed him myself the minute you arrived back from Driftmark!” Pacing restlessly, her steps echoed the unease within. Quickened breaths betrayed the internal struggle, and her fists clenched and unclenched, mirroring the conflict that raged within her. Maera pressed on, her voice revealing her anguish. “But Lucerys was a Prince, and killing the son of an heir to the throne has dire consequences. Consequences that poor Jaehaerys paid for.”

Aemond, adept at masking his emotions, remained stood with a stoic facade at the words getting hurled at him. His face was a mask, revealing little of the turmoil within, his body language controlled. His unyielding composure clashed with Maera's expressive turmoil, each movement and expression contributing to the mounting tension.

A heavy silence settled in the Godswood, the rain creating a soft symphony as Aemond, after a pause, began to speak. His voice held an intensity that drew Maera's attention.“The bond between dragon and rider is not a simple one. It is one built on trust and a profound understanding of one another, a relationship that does not even need words to communicate.”

Maera, frustration etched on her face, couldn’t hold back her anger. “What in the Seven Hells are you talking about?”

Frowning at her interruption, Aemond implored, “Let me finish, Maera,” causing her to bite her impatient tongue and attempt to listen to his explanation, watching him skeptically.

“Yes,” he started, with a smug tilt of his head, “repaying the Strong bastard back for what he did would have been immensely satisfying. But I am no fool, I knew what the ramifications would be.”

Maera’s gaze narrowed but she listened on, torn between understanding the complexities of Aemond's motivations and grappling with the consequences that lingered in the shadows of their words. The rain, indifferent to the turmoil beneath the canopy of trees, continued its rhythmic dance, as if echoing the ebb and flow of their emotions.

Aemond paused, the weight of his words hanging in the air. “Dragons do not care for the intricacies of politics, nor the consequences of their actions.”

As realization slowly dawned on Maera, she watched him, the truth sinking in. Aemond continued, “Vhagar knows me better than most. Despite the control I maintain, deep down, I wanted Lucerys dead. And Vhagar delivered.”

Maera nodded, though her gaze turned away, grappling with the unsettling truth. Wrapping her arms around herself, she stated, “What’s done is done now.”

She remained beside her husband in silence, the relentless storm continued on, but the comfort of the rain could not soothe Maera’s growing concerns for her future. The murder of Jaehaerys, an unspeakable tragedy, cast a long shadow over her psyche, each raindrop a reminder of the tears she had shed for the innocent life lost. The ongoing war between the Blacks and the Greens added another layer of dread, the conflict threatening to engulf everything she held dear.

Worries for Helaena's fragile mental state intensified Maera's anxiety, the haunting image of her friend sitting by the window etched in her mind. The unpredictability of war left her in a constant state of unease, wondering about the safety of her family and herself. Fear gnawed at the edges of her thoughts, raising questions of what if she became a target, or worse, if her family faced the wrath of the turbulent times.

“What if it does not stop?” Maera asked aloud, the vulnerability in her voice causing Aemond to face her, a frown on his face as she continued. “What if the Blacks feel one death is not enough? What if I am in danger? My family?”Her green eyes, usually vibrant, now reflected the storm of emotions within, and her shoulders bore the tension of the fears she dared to voice.

Aemond’s response was not just words. With a determined resolve, he seized her face with both hands, tipping her head back to meet his fierce gaze. “You are my wife, Maera. I will not let any harm come to you.”

His thumb brush over her cheek as tears began streaming down Maera's face. "If they managed to get Jaehaerys, what is stopping them from trying again? And this time, killing the wife of the person who murdered Lucerys?"

A growl rumbled in Aemond's throat. "They are trying to break us, but they will not succeed. They will not break me, and they certainly will not break my wife. Do you understand?" he demanded.

In a silent acknowledgment, Maera nodded, her eyes momentarily cast downward. Aemond, refusing to let the fear linger, lifted her face once more. In a moment that transcended words, he pressed a hard, rough kiss to her lips. The intensity of the kiss served as a promise, a shared defiance against the fears that threatened to unravel them. As Aemond's nibbled on her bottom lip and began tasting the inside of her mouth, the passion between them intensified, a flame rekindled amidst the rain-soaked Godswood.

Maera, caught in the intensity of the moment, felt herself being gradually pushed back. The world around them blurred, the raindrops forming a hazy curtain as the kiss became a fervent exchange. The stone pillars of the garden structure loomed around them, and her back eventually met the unyielding surface. Against the cold stone, the heat of their shared passion persisted. He span Maera around so her face and chest were pressed against the pillar.

Aemond yanked the black mourning veil from her head, discarding it across the Seven-Pointed star floor buried his fingers in the roots of her hair, causing her head to tilt to the side. With better access, Aemond began to lick and suck at her neck, leaving blooms of red and purple markings in his wake, his strong hands settling on her rounded hips. He then pressed against her, and through the thick black skirts, Maera could still feel his long hard cock digging into her backside, becoming aware of his intentions.

“Aemond,” she breathed, stifling a moan as he bit her neck. “We can’t.”

“Be quiet,” the Prince spat at her, his voice low and commanding as he desperately bunched up the back of her skirts in order to gain access to her. Maera felt the fabric of her smallclothes being ripped and heard the remnants of them hitting the ground, the cold air hitting her now bare core, which was now slick with her arousal. The sound of the unbuckling of a belt hit her ears and before she could turn to look at him, Maera felt her husbands thick cock enter her fully, causing her to gasp. Filling her to the hilt, Maera welcomed the stretching feeling of being reunited with her husband in this way.

“Fuck, so wet for me. And I barely even touched you,” Aemond groaned as he began to rut into her deeply. Hanging onto the pillar for some form of support, Maera pushed her hips backwards, desperate to take in more of him as he fucked her against the stone. The Prince pressed his face to hers as he licked the shell of her ear, breathing heavily and quickly next to it, causing Maera to shudder with excitement. He then turned his attention to one of her hands which grasped at the stone wall, bringing it towards his face and sucking on two of her fingers, coating them with his saliva.

He then withdrew them from his mouth before whispering into her ear. “Touch yourself, Princess.”

Maera gasped at his demand, a blush tinting her face. “I cannot,” she whined in response whilst he continued to thrust into her harshly, embarrassed that he would ask to see her do such a thing. She yelped as he smacked her behind sharply, the stinging sensation acting almost as punishment for denying him.

“Do as your Prince commands,” he hissed, kissing along her jawline, making her lean her head back against his shoulder in pleasure, a silent plea for more.

Wanting to be a dutiful and obeying wife, Maera reached under her skirts and began to rub vigorous circles against her clit with her now wet fingers, her jaw falling open and her eyes squeezing shut at the ecstasy that began to build within her. Spurred on at the sight of her, Aemond began to pound harder into her, each time hitting that spongey spot deep within her core, causing her to moan loudly with pleasure. Thankfully, the rainstorm had continued in the background, muffling any noise that the pair made within the stone structure.

The nerves on her lower body were on high alert as she began to approach her peak, her walls clenching around the Prince, causing a deep “fuck” to leave his lips. The stone of the pillar scraped against Maera’s face, but she did not care as she teetered on the very edge of pleasure. And Aemond knew it.

“Yes, that’s it. Let go, let me feel you,” he purred, and that’s all it seemed to take. Maera’s eyes rolled into the back of her head as a warm wave of pleasure hit her, sending her mind reeling. As her cunt fluttered and squeezed around him, Aemond too felt his release, spilling his seed inside of her with a deep and guttural groan.

Small whimpers left her mouth as Maera’s breathing began to slow, coming down from her high. She felt Aemond lean against her, his forehead pressing against her shoulder. With a hiss, he withdrew his cock from her and she could feel his hot seed spilling down her leg, a feeling that was not unpleasant and made her smile with pride. As Maera let go of her skirts and smoothed them out, erasing any evidence of the encounter, she looked up at her husband, seeing that he had removed his cloak and was holding it up, so they could both find shelter beneath it.

“Let us go back inside,” he implored, a smug smile on lips. “It is getting too cold.”

“Thank the Gods then that I have you to keep me warm, husband,” Maera replied cheekily as she dove under the cloak beside him before the pair ran down the gravel path to return to their shared chambers.

Notes: Here, have some smut; it’s nearly Christmas after all 🤣

Tags: @blue-serendipity @watercolorskyy @marvelescvpe @manipulatixe @shesjustanothergeek

Thank you so much for reading! Comments, feedback, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated 🖤

[hc-geralt-23]

The Dragon and the Witcher: A Tale of Love and Destiny

Updated version

Each of my stories will be updated as as soon as i can

Chapter 1: The Convergence of Worlds

As the sun set over the vast plains of the Continent, Geralt of Rivia found himself on a seemingly ordinary contract – exterminating a pack of vicious monsters. However, a strange portal suddenly materialized before him, swallowing him whole. As Geralt fell through the swirling vortex, he could feel the very fabric of reality being twisted and torn around him.

When he regained his senses, Geralt discovered he was no longer in the world he knew. Instead, he found himself in the heart of Westeros, a land of dragons and noble houses, in a time long before the rise of the White Wolf. Confusion and curiosity filled his mind as he looked around, trying to make sense of his surroundings.

Just as he was about to wander off in search of answers, a voice called out from behind him, "Who are you, and what is your purpose here?" Geralt turned to see a group of armed guards approaching him with wary eyes.

Chapter 2: A Targaryen Discovery

In the capital city of King's Landing, meanwhile, the Targaryens were gathered to witness the birth of their newest member – a girl named Y/N, the firstborn child of Viserys and Amma. The child bore the unmistakable silver-haired beauty of her Targaryen ancestors, a rarity even among their family.

Unknown to even the wise maesters of Westeros, Y/N possessed a powerful magic inherited from her dragon-blooded lineage. Her mere presence had unknowingly opened the portals between realms, drawing Geralt and his destiny closer to the House of the Dragon.

As Y/N was presented to her parents, a soft glow seemed to emanate from her tiny form, capturing the attention of all who beheld her. A sense of awe and wonder filled the room, for it was clear to all that this child was destined for greatness.

Chapter 3: The Witcher and the Dragon Princess

As Geralt acclimated to his newfound surroundings, he soon came across the magnificent dragons housed within the Targaryen stronghold. His curiosity piqued, he ventured deeper inside the castle and stumbled upon Y/N practicing her archery, her silver locks gleaming in the moonlight.

Drawn to her beauty and grace, the Witcher cautiously approached the young Targaryen, his heart slowly awakening to emotions he had long buried. "You have impressive skills with a bow," Geralt remarked, admiring her precision.

Y/N turned to face the stranger, her eyes widening in surprise. "And who might you be?" she asked, her voice gentle yet tinged with curiosity.

"I am Geralt of Rivia, a Witcher from a distant land," he replied, his eyes locked with hers. "I find myself here by some twist of fate, drawn to your enchanting presence."

Chapter 4: Forbidden Love

Despite their growing affection for one another, Geralt and Y/N knew that pursuing a romance was riddled with complications. The Witcher hailed from a foreign land, and Y/N, a princess, carried the weight of her family's expectations. Their love seemed destined to remain a secret.

Days turned into weeks, and the bond between Geralt and Y/N deepened. They stole moments together, hidden away from prying eyes. Each stolen kiss, each whispered promise, only fueled their desire for a love that seemed both impossible and inevitable.

However, fate conspired against them as whispers of their clandestine meetings spread throughout the kingdom. While some viewed the union as an opportunity for an alliance, others saw it as a threat to their own ambitions. Geralt and Y/N found themselves caught in the crossfire of political games and power struggles.

Chapter 5: Trials and Tribulations

As tensions heightened, Geralt's unparalleled prowess with a blade became essential in protecting the woman he loved and her dragon-kin. Battles against rival houses and supernatural threats alike united Geralt and Y/N in their fight for survival.

Together, they faced countless trials and tribulations, their unbreakable bond serving as an anchor in the storm. Y/N's magical abilities proved invaluable, while Geralt's strength and agility proved essential in battles against monstrous foes.

Their shared experiences and the trust they built cemented their love, giving them the strength to face the countless obstacles thrown their way. In the darkest of times, they discovered that their individual strengths melded into a formidable force.

Chapter 6: The Prophecy Fulfilled

As the final battle between the rival houses loomed, a prophecy spoken by an ancient seer emerged, intertwining Geralt and Y/N's destinies. Only the union of a Witcher and a dragon-blooded Targaryen could end the cycle of chaos that haunted both realms.

Geralt, armed with his knowledge of monsters and the elixirs that enhanced his abilities, fought alongside Y/N, whose mastery of magic and command over dragons became pivotal to their success. Together, they harmonized their unique talents and shattered the chains of despair that threatened to consume their love.

Chapter 7: Union of Worlds

With their enemies vanquished and the realms once again at peace, Geralt and Y/N celebrated their triumph, the love between them blooming under the shared admiration of their respective worlds. They knew their love had defied fate, crossing boundaries to forge a unique bond between two realms.

Joined by their loyal companions, including the Targaryen dragons, Geralt and Y/N embarked on a new adventure – exploring the uncharted territories of their intertwined destinies. The worlds of The Witcher and House of the Dragon became forever linked, with love as their guiding light.

Epilogue: Infinite Paths

Though their journey would always be fraught with uncertainty and danger, Geralt and Y/N faced the unknown with unwavering determination and profound love. Their choice to defy the constraints of their respective worlds united them in a truly extraordinary tale, forever etched into the annals of history.

"The Dragon and the Witcher: A Tale of Love and Destiny" serves as a testament to the power of love, bridging the gaps between worlds and propelling two souls toward an everlasting bond. Through the sheer force of their will and the magic that bound them, Geralt and Y/N's love endured through the ages, inspiring generations yet to come.

[ultramaga]

Consumerism:

Blindly purchasing regardless of the value of the product or even how the purchaser is treated.

Customerism:

Customerism is mutual respect.

The customers have money and will take the money elsewhere if they are not provided respect.

Equally, the merchant has goods and services that are potentially desired by the customer, and can refuse them as well. If either side is abusive, the transaction is broken.

It is mutually beneficial to be polite even if you don't have to be, but it is also true that you can express dissatisfaction in a fair manner with a public review.

I think it is very revealing that Leftism demands the censorship of customers. They know Leftist products are innately inferior.

So instead of evaluating customer feedback, and then producing something better, they double down, denouncing customers as Russian bots and trolls.

The irony is when they listen instead, they have success.

The non woke ghostbusters sequel ignored the feminist story and just continued from the earlier material, resulting in profit.

Capitalism works.

Sonic the Hedgehog us another example. The fans were furious at his off model the character was. The studio listened, spent money and time redoing it, and had a success instead of blaming failure on trolls.

Top Gun Maverick is another example of customer respect. They didn't "update for a modern audience" - they didn't make the pilots black lesbians in wheelchairs fighting Patriarchy...

Whereas The Marvels woked like mad, relying on blind loyalty instead of a good production.

I just tried using the Tumblr search to find a gif, but it failed. Even Tumblrites didn't care about the movie despite at least four lesbians; one underage, poc, and Muslim; all of whom seemed involved with each other.

Oh, and a black man who had learned his place as the inferior of the white woman.

What a surprise that comic fans and mainstream audiences stayed away.

[dailyanarchistposts]

Chapter 1. Human Nature

Anarchism challenges the typical Western conception of human nature by envisioning societies built on cooperation, mutual aid, and solidarity between people, rather than competition and survival of the fittest.

Aren’t people naturally selfish?

Everybody has a sense of self-interest, and the capability to act in a selfish way at other people’s expense. But everyone also has a sense of the needs of those around them, and we are all capable of generous and selfless actions. Human survival depends on generosity. The next time someone tells you a communal, anarchistic society could not work because people are naturally selfish, tell him he should withhold food from his children pending payment, do nothing to help his parents have a dignified retirement, never donate to charities, and never help his neighbors or be kind to strangers unless he receives compensation. Would he be able to lead a fulfilling existence, taking the capitalist philosophy to its logical conclusions? Of course not. Even after hundreds of years of being suppressed, sharing and generosity remain vital to human existence. You don’t have to look to radical social movements to find examples of this. The United States may be, on a structural level, the most selfish nation in the world — it is the richest of “developed” countries, but has among the lowest life expectancies because the political culture would sooner let poor people die than give them healthcare and welfare. But even in the US it’s easy to find institutional examples of sharing that form an important part of the society. Libraries offer an interconnected network of millions of free books. PTA potlucks and neighborhood barbecues bring people together to share food and enjoy each other’s company. What examples of sharing might develop outside the restrictive bounds of state and capital?

Currency-based economies have only existed a few thousand years, and capitalism has only been around a few hundred years. The latter has proven to work quite miserably, leading to the greatest inequalities of wealth, the largest mass starvations, and the worst distribution systems in world history — though hats off, it’s produced a lot of wonderful gadgets. It might surprise people to learn how common other types of economies have been in earlier times, and how much they differed from capitalism.

One economy developed over and over by humans on every continent has been the gift economy. In this system, if people have more than they need of anything, they give it away. They don’t assign value, they don’t count debts. Everything you don’t use personally can be given as a gift to someone else, and by giving more gifts you inspire more generosity and strengthen the friendships that keep you swimming in gifts too. Many gift economies lasted for thousands of years, and proved much more effective at enabling all of the participants to meet their needs. Capitalism may have drastically increased productivity, but to what end? On one side of your typical capitalist city someone is starving to death while on the other side someone is eating caviar.

Western economists and political scientists initially assumed that many of these gift economies were actually barter economies: proto-capitalist exchange systems lacking an efficient currency: “I’ll give you one sheep for twenty loaves of bread.” In general, this is not how these societies described themselves. Later, anthropologists who went to live in such societies and were able to shed their cultural biases showed people in Europe that many of these were indeed gift economies, in which people intentionally kept no tally of who owed what to whom so as to foster a society of generosity and sharing.

What these anthropologists may not have known is that gift economies have never been totally suppressed in the West; in fact they surfaced frequently within rebellious movements. Anarchists in the US today also exemplify the desire for relationships based on generosity and the guarantee that everyone’s needs will be met. In a number of towns and cities, anarchists hold Really Really Free Markets — essentially, flea markets without prices. People bring goods they have made or things they don’t need anymore and give them away for free to passersby or other participants. Or, they share useful skills with one another. In one free market in North Carolina, every month:

two hundred or more people from all walks of life gather at the commons in the center of our town. They bring everything from jewelry to firewood to give away, and take whatever they want. There are booths offering bicycle repair, hairstyling, even tarot readings. People leave with full-size bed frames and old computers; if they don’t have a vehicle to transport them, volunteer drivers are available. No money changes hands, no one haggles over the comparative worth of items or services, nobody is ashamed about being in need. Contrary to government ordinances, no fee is paid for the use of this public space, nor is anyone “in charge.” Sometimes a marching band appears; sometimes a puppetry troupe performs, or people line up to take a swing at a piñata. Games and conversations take place around the periphery, and everyone has a plate of warm food and a bag of free groceries. Banners hang from branches and rafters proclaiming “FOR THE COMMONS, NOT LANDLORDS OR BUREAUCRACY” and “NI JEFES, NI FRONTERAS” and a king-size blanket is spread with radical reading material, but these aren’t essential to the event — this is a social institution, not a demonstration. Thanks to our monthly ‘Free Markets, everyone in our town has a working reference point for anarchist economics. Life is a little easier for those of us with low or no income, and relationships develop in a space in which social class and financial means are at least temporarily irrelevant.[2]

The traditional society of the Semai, in Malaya, is based on gift-giving rather than bartering. We could not find any accounts of their society recorded by the Semai themselves, but they explained how it worked to Robert Dentan, a Western anthropologist who lived with them for a time. Dentan writes that the “system by which the Semai distribute food and services is one of the most significant ways in which members of a community are knit together... Semai economic exchanges are more like Christmas exchanges than like commercial exchanges.”[3] It was considered “punan,” or taboo, for members of Semai society to calculate the value of gifts given or received. Other commonly held rules of etiquette included the duty to share whatever they had that they did not immediately need, and the duty to share with guests and anyone who asked. It was punan not to share or to refuse a request, but also to ask for more than someone could give.

Many other societies have also distributed and exchanged surpluses as gifts. Aside from the social cohesion and joy that is gained from sharing with your community without greedily keeping accounts, a gift economy can also be justified in terms of personal interests. Often, a person cannot consume what they produce all by themselves. The meat from a day’s hunt will go bad before you can eat it all. A tool, like a saw, will lay unused most of the time if it is the property of a single person. It makes more sense to give away most of the meat or share your saw with your neighbors, because you are ensuring that in the future they will give extra food to you and share their tools with you — thus ensuring that you have access to more food and a wider range of tools, and you and your neighbors become richer without having to exploit anybody.

From what we know, however, members of gift economies would probably not justify their actions with arguments of calculated self-interest, but with moral reasoning, explaining sharing as the right thing to do. After all, an economic surplus is the result of a certain way of looking at the world: it is a social choice and not a material certainty. Societies must choose, over time, to work more than they need to, to quantify value, or to only consume the minimum required for their survival and to surrender all the rest of their produce to a common storehouse controlled by a class of leaders. Even if a hunting party or a group of gatherers gets lucky and brings home a huge amount of food, there is no surplus if they consider it normal to share it with everyone else, glut themselves with a big feast, or invite a neighboring community to party until all the food is eaten. It’s certainly more fun that way than measuring out pounds of food and calculating what percentage we earned.

As for loafers, even if people do not calculate the value of gifts and keep a balance sheet, they will notice if someone consistently refuses to share or contribute to the group, violating the customs of the society and the sense of mutual aid. Gradually, such people will damage their relationships, and miss out on some of the nicer benefits of living in a society. It seems that in all known gift economies, even the laziest of people were never refused food — in stark contrast to capitalism — but feeding a few loafers is an insignificant drain on a society’s resources, especially when compared to pampering the voracious elite of our society. And losing this tiny amount of resources is far preferable to losing our compassion and letting people starve to death. In more extreme cases, if members of such a society were more aggressively parasitic, attempting to monopolize resources or force other people to work for them — in other words, acting like capitalists — they could be ostracized and even expelled from the society.

Some stateless societies have chiefs who play ritual roles, often related to giving gifts and spreading resources. In fact, the term “chief” can be deceptive because there have been so many different human societies that have had what the West classifies as “chiefs,” and in each society the role entailed something a little different. In many societies chiefs held no coercive power: their responsibility was to mediate disputes or conduct rituals, and they were expected to be more generous than anyone else. Ultimately they worked harder and had less personal wealth than others. One study found that a common reason for the people to depose or expel a chief was if the chief was not considered generous enough.[4]

[mariacallous]

It wasn’t long ago that most of the world was focusing on a U.S.-Saudi-Israeli “big Middle East deal.” The current climate of death, destruction, and the catastrophe that is unfolding before our eyes is a long way from the exuberance surrounding potential Saudi-Israeli normalization in the weeks and months prior to the war.

While some observers may be surprised by Hamas’s heinous Oct. 7 attacks and the eruption of a major war, others had long dreaded such an outbreak of violence. Due to the desperate desire of both Israel and the United States to see a normalization deal with Saudi Arabia, the unresolved and simmering Palestinian issue was largely ignored.

Both Israel and the United States had their respective reasons to push for normalization. For Washington, and in particular for President Joe Biden, being the broker of such a major deal would cement his legacy in history and provide a needed diplomatic talking point for the 2024 election campaign.

For Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu, having Saudi Arabia—the custodian of Islam’s two holiest sites—recognizing Israel would be a strategic victory. If Saudi Arabia agrees to normalize relations with Israel, there will be little else to pressure the Netanyahu government, or any future Israeli government, with to ensure significant concessions and facilitate a political settlement that ushers in security for both Palestinians and Israelis.

As soon as the war erupted, there was an ominous feeling that a humanitarian catastrophe was going to ensue. There was little doubt that Arab states would condemn Israel. What was less clear was how Arab states would use their leverage. The energy landscape has changed dramatically from 1973, and therefore, the “oil card” was not going to hold much sway today.

This then raises the question of how Saudi Arabia will use its leverage in this crisis. While oil is no longer an effective instrument of leverage over the United States and Israel, Riyadh does have some tools in its diplomatic arsenal that—if deployed properly—will give it a say in shaping the future of Israel and Palestine.

As the war continues, both Israel and the United States are losing credibility. Forcibly displacing refugees from their homes, and then cutting off humanitarian essentials, is hardly a way to gain any support, let alone legitimacy for a military campaign. As the humanitarian catastrophe grows, the United States is losing international credibility, not least in the Middle East. While it is unrealistic to see any Saudi action that could force Israel to stop its war in Gaza, Saudi Arabia is using its symbolic position as the guardian of Islam’s holiest sites against Israel.

Riyadh is leading a diplomatic effort designed to generate an international narrative that questions the legality of Israeli military aggression, and the U.S. diplomatic cover it is utilizing. Not only are the Saudi ruling elites rejecting the Israeli self-defense argument, but they are also going on the diplomatic offensive. Saudi Foreign Minister Faisal bin Farhan is leading a diplomatic committee mandated by the Arab League and Organization of Islamic Cooperation, to tour various international capitals and argue for an immediate cease-fire.

The committee’s first stop was in Beijing and then Moscow. This was a clear signal to Washington that Saudi Arabia has other options in this ever-evolving multipolar world. In addition, the committee’s presence in the United Nations and the constant proposals by the Arab-Islamic group are designed to keep diplomatic pressure on the United States, by highlighting it as an obstacle to a cease-fire.

The Saudis are also using an overlooked diplomatic tool: silence. Their outright refusal of any political discussion before a cease-fire is also generating pressure by disallowing Israel a clear political horizon after the campaign. As the Saudi foreign minister said last month: “What future is there to talk about when Gaza is being destroyed.”

The Saudi ruling elites have another reason to avoid any discussion about the “day after.” They believe entertaining this idea won’t help achieve a permanent cease-fire and could be seen as being complicit in giving the current Israeli campaign a tacit legitimacy that is missing. Riyadh has been there before.

In 2006, when the Hezbollah-Israel war erupted, the then-Saudi ruling elites had a pragmatic position that balanced criticism of both Israel and Hezbollah. Saudi Arabia stated at the time that while it supported pan Arab causes, a “distinction must be made between legitimate resistance and uncalculated adventures undertaken by elements inside [Lebanon] and those behind them.”

Given the measured response, and the general expectation of an outright condemnation of Israel, this dual criticism was interpreted as tacit sign of tolerance of Israel’s behavior. This is something that Riyadh wants to avoid today. It does not want to allow itself to be politicized for Israeli political ends. In other words, the Saudi ruling elites want to avoid being “spun.”

Netanyahu is often dubbed the “master of spin.” The Saudis know that if they initiate any political discussion about the day after, or even hypothesizing about future scenarios, this will certainly lend itself to Netanyahu’s spinning tendencies. One can see how Netanyahu spun medical assistance to Gaza by the United Arab Emirates as if the Emirati support had been based on Netanyahu’s request, and not a response to the dire medical crises ensuing there. Saudi Arabia has a good sense of how its actions and statements can be spun in a way that suggests the Saudis and Israelis are on the same page regarding the day after for Gaza, which is far from the reality.

Where Riyadh has real leverage is when it comes to financing. Israel will never match the financial capacity of Saudi Arabia and other Gulf Cooperation Council (GCC) states. Its economy is struggling, and according to a recent report by the Bank of Israel, it is losing $600 million a week during this campaign. The Israeli central bank has also suggested that the war costs from 2023 to 2025 will amount to some $53 billion.

This is precisely what gives Saudis, GCC states and Arab states leverage, as any reconstruction efforts can be used to nudge Israel toward a genuine peace process. Otherwise, it will only be a matter of time until the region finds itself in the same situation again—if not worse.

The Saudis have never been averse to financial support to the Palestinians. They have provided a great deal of that over the decades, and it does not look as if such support will subside soon. What the Saudis are averse to is rebuilding a decimated Gaza for the sake of Israeli security—especially given that Israel was the party that carried out the destruction.

There is currently wishful thinking in Israel and Washington that Saudi Arabia and other GCC states will pay the bill for Israel’s military campaign in Gaza. According to a leak to the Israeli press, Netanyahu reportedly told a parliament committee on Dec. 11 that “the first step in Gaza will be to defeat Hamas. After that, I believe that the United Arab Emirates and Saudi Arabia will support the rehabilitation of the Strip.”

To assume that Saudi Arabia and GCC states would readily agree to pay for the reconstruction of an inherited catastrophe, and then take responsibly for its security, reveals the naïve illusions entertained by many in Israel and the West. Western and Israeli discourses often depict the GCC states as irrational actors that spend first and think later—as if the GCC states’ only function in the world system is to throw money at other states’ problems. This is far from the reality. Nowadays, nothing in Saudi Arabia is spent unless it is deemed to be serving the kingdom’s interest; “Saudi Arabia first” is the principle that Saudi’s foreign policy is based on.

One of the difficulties of raising Saudi funds for reconstruction efforts is that Saudi Arabia itself is undergoing its own rebuilding process. Currently, the country has set itself a mammoth task of restructuring the state, building mega projects that are crucial to its Vision 2030 initiative, in the hope of eventually diversifying the Saudi economy away from oil to ensure the survivability of the state for generations to come. The Saudis do have the money, but it is for investing in Saudi Arabia’s future. Yet, this does not mean the Saudi ruling elites are not willing to invest in a future Palestinian state and contribute significantly to the rebuilding of its infrastructure.

The incentives for Saudi Arabia and other Arab states to contribute toward a reconstruction of Gaza can be increased if done right, within the right framework, with the right horizon, and with the right goals. Chief among these common goals is regional security, as this war has shown that the Palestinian issue is something that cannot be swept under the rug any longer.

This war also demonstrated the spillover risk—from the Lebanon-Israel border to Houthi attacks on international ships in the Red Sea off Yemen’s coast—it has the potential to destabilize the entire region. This regional risk can serve as leverage for the Saudis vis-à-vis Israel and as an incentive to pursue lasting peace.

“Regional prosperity” is a term commonly used by Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman. It is precisely this angle that one can see Saudi investment in the restructuring of Gaza but only as part of a political process with clear political horizons that seeks to resolve the core issues of this conflict. Saudi Arabia already has leverage over Israel by not offering normalization, but Riyadh leading a reconstruction effort only amplifies Saudi political leverage over Israel, as without functioning infrastructure in Gaza, security concerns for Israel will only increase.

Given the nature and complexity of this conflict, there is no single leader who can take charge but rather a few leaders who can influence the situation by using their respective leverage in a harmonized, coordinated process. To assume that Riyadh will take charge, notwithstanding the kingdom’s recent muscular foreign policy, is not likely.

The truth is that Saudi Arabia has always had a leading role in this conflict, but it preferred a leading-from-behind approach. This approach allowed it to use its diplomatic and symbolic weight without being on the political front line and potentially risking its strategic interests. The Saudi ruling elites came to the conclusion that they had mustered a great deal of political effort for a fruitless process and thus have never injected themselves into the intricacies of the Palestinian-Israeli final status negotiations.

The problem with the previous peace process is that it proved to be structurally doomed to fail, given the dramatic asymmetry in power between Palestinians, Israel, and its ardent defender in Washington. Before Riyadh steps up and shows greater assertiveness on this issue, the Saudi ruling elites need to see a clear political horizon and an improved structure to the peace process. At that point, they might use their considerable financial leverage to shape the outcome.

[dogsliampaynedoesntinstagram]

Your stance about politics, do you really think Taylor view on America’s politics is something you can relate to? Because for me, i live in Europe, and her politics is typical rich white girl politics and I don’t think that necessarily in a bad way. Just seen how she uses feminism when it benefits her not when it benefits other women.

So I think I look at politics quite differently from you in a few different ways. I don't think relatibility is important or even relevant when it comes to evaluating other people's politics.

I do disagree with Taylor politically. Her statement about the Equality Act was all about the problems it would create for business. I don't think that's about her identity - rich white women can and do hold a wide range of ideas. We disagree about capitalism (among other things - including the carceral state). That doesn't surprise me - my politics are radical and I expect to disagree with a lot of people.

I also disagree with you anon. I don't know what you mean when you say this: "Just seen how she uses feminism when it benefits her not when it benefits other women." It's not a framework that makes sense to me - either in general, or when talking about Taylor Swift.

Feminism is the collective struggle for liberation of all women. Meaningful politics isn't a charity project - but people coming together with a starting point of their desire to change their own oppression. The strongest politics starts from seeing your own oppression and the way your oppression is intertwined with other people's oppression and building bonds of solidarity on that basis.

If you're not talking about feminism as a political movement - but feminism as a set of ideas - then women using feminist ideas to make sense of their life is what is supposed to happen. That is very much the point.

Turning the way other women engage with feminism into yet another thing that women should be judged on doesn't fit with . If there are specific political actions that Taylor Swift has taken that you disagree with - then talk about that. I just don't have much time for casual and unserious dismissing people for engaging with feminism wrong - with no specifics. I think it ends up reinforcing, rather than resisting an individualised version of feminism, which I oppose.

[newstfionline]

Tuesday, May 21, 2024

The Israel-Hamas war is testing whether campuses are sacrosanct places for speech and protest (AP) “Where there is much desire to learn, there of necessity will be much arguing, much writing, many opinions; for opinion in good men is but knowledge in the making,” wrote poet John Milton, an alumnus of Cambridge University, in his 1644 treatise against censorship in publishing. “Give me the liberty to know, to utter, and to argue freely according to conscience, above all liberties.” That lofty principle has clashed with the stark reality of the Israel-Hamas war. Administrators on some campuses have called in local police to break up pro-Palestinian protesters demanding that their schools divest from Israel in demonstrations that Israel’s allies say are antisemitic and make campuses unsafe. From Columbia University in New York to the University of California, Los Angeles, thousands of students and faculty have been arrested in the past month. Historically, universities are supposed to govern—and police—themselves in exchange for their status as “something of a secular sacred ground,” said John Thelin, University of Kentucky College of Education professor emeritus and a historian of higher education. Calling in the police, as administrators did at Columbia, Dartmouth, UCLA and other schools, represents the “breakdown of both rights and responsibilities within the campus as a chartered academic institution and community,” he said.

‘We’ll See You at Your House’: Fear and Menace Are Transforming Politics (NYT) One Friday last month, Jamie Raskin, a Democratic congressman from Maryland, spent a chunk of his day in court securing a protective order. It was not his first. Mr. Raskin, who played a leading role in Donald J. Trump’s second impeachment hearing, said he received about 50 menacing calls, emails and letters every month that are turned over to the Capitol Police. His latest court visit was prompted by a man who showed up at his house and screamed in his face about the Covid-19 vaccine, Mr. Trump’s impeachment and gender-related surgeries. Mr. Raskin was far from the only government official staring down the uglier side of public service in America in recent weeks. Since late March, bomb threats closed libraries in Durham, N.C.; Reading, Mass.; and Lancaster, Pa., and suspended operations at a courthouse in Franklin County, Pa. In Bakersfield, Calif., an activist protesting the war in Gaza was arrested after telling City Council members: “We’ll see you at your house. We’ll murder you.”

Second Russian invasion of Kharkiv caught Ukraine unprepared (Washington Post) Russia’s new offensive across Ukraine’s northeastern border had been expected for months—yet it still surprised the Ukrainian soldiers stationed there to defend against it. After using drones to monitor how Moscow was steadily building up forces, on May 10, the morning of the attack, Ukraine’s 125th Territorial Defense Brigade lost all its video feeds due to Russian electronic jamming. Its Starlink devices failed. “We were left at a certain point completely blind,” said a drone unit commander in the brigade. Within days, the Russians had captured—for the second time—some 50 square miles of territory along the border, capitalizing on a moment of particular vulnerability for Ukraine’s military. Begrudgingly, Ukrainian troops admit that their enemy has gotten smarter and adapted.

Europe Wants to Build a Stronger Defense Industry, but Can’t Decide How (NYT) France and Germany’s recent agreement to develop a new multibillion-dollar battlefield tank together was hailed by the German defense minister, Boris Pistorius, as a “breakthrough” achievement. For seven years, political infighting, industrial rivalry and neglect had pooled like molasses around the project to build a next-generation tank, known as the Main Combat Ground System. Russia’s invasion of Ukraine jolted Europe out of complacency about military spending. After defense budgets were cut in the decades that followed the Soviet Union’s collapse, the war has reignited Europe’s efforts to build up its own military production capacity and near-empty arsenals. But the challenges that face Europe are about more than just money. Daunting political and logistical hurdles stand in the way of a more coordinated and efficient military machine. “Europe has 27 military industrial complexes, not just one,” said Max Bergmann, a program director at the Center for Strategic and International Studies in Washington. Each NATO member has its own defense establishment, culture, priorities and favored companies, and each government retains final say on what to buy.

UK to spend $12.7 billion on compensation in infected-blood scandal (Reuters) Britain will spend more than 10 billion pounds ($12.70 billion) compensating thousands of people who were treated with blood contaminated with HIV or hepatitis C in the 1970s and 1980s, the Sunday Times reported. The infected blood scandal is widely seen as one of the worst treatment disasters in the history of the state-funded National Health Service. An estimated 30,000 people were given contaminated blood, with about 3,000 of those believed to have died. Many more lives have been affected by disease and some of those infected have never been traced. Victims and their families are still calling for justice, compensation and answers over how it was allowed to happen despite warnings over the risks.

French security forces work to regain control of airport highway in violence-scorched New Caledonia (AP) Using armored vehicles and backhoes to shove aside charred barricades, French security forces worked Sunday to retake control of the highway to the international airport in violence-scorched New Caledonia, shuttered because of deadly unrest wracking the French Pacific archipelago where indigenous people have long sought independence from France. An eventual reopening of the Nouméa-La Tontouta airport to commercial flights could allow stranded tourists to escape the island where armed clashes, arson, looting and other mayhem have prompted France to impose a state of emergency.

For Iran, a helicopter crash at a difficult time (NYT) The deaths of President Ebrahim Raisi and Iran’s foreign minister leave the country without two influential leaders at a particularly tumultuous moment of international tension and domestic discontent, although analysts and regional officials expect little change in the direction of Iran’s foreign policy. Mr. Raisi, 63, and Foreign Minister Hossein Amir Abdollahian were killed on Sunday in a helicopter crash resulting from a “technical failure,” Iranian state news media reported. The death of Mr. Raisi, a conservative who crushed dissent and had been viewed as a possible successor to Mr.  Khamenei, occurred weeks after Tehran came close to open conflict with Israel and the United States. And looming over everything is the question of Iran’s nuclear program. Iran has produced nuclear fuel enriched to a level just short of what would be needed to produce several bombs. The authorities in Iran also face domestic anger, with many residents calling for an end to clerical rule. Corruption and international sanctions have ravaged the economy. In the last two years, the country has seen a domestic uprising, the Iranian currency plunging to a record low, water shortages intensified by climate change and the deadliest terrorist attack since the 1979 founding of the Islamic Republic.

War crimes prosecutor seeks arrest of Israeli and Hamas leaders, including Netanyahu (AP) The chief prosecutor of the world’s top war crimes court said Monday he is seeking arrest warrants for leaders of Israel and Hamas, including Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu, over actions taken during their seven-month war. While Netanyahu and his defense minister, Yoav Gallant, do not face imminent arrest, the announcement by the International Criminal Court’s chief prosecutor was a symbolic blow that deepened Israel’s isolation over the war in Gaza. Netanyahu and other Israeli leaders condemned the move as disgraceful and antisemitic. U.S. President Joe Biden also lambasted the prosecutor and supported Israel’s right to defend itself against Hamas. A panel of three judges will decide whether to issue the arrest warrants and allow a case to proceed. The judges typically take two months to make such decisions. Israel is not a member of the court, so even if the arrest warrants are issued, Netanyahu and Gallant do not face any immediate risk of prosecution.

Israel ‘is stuck inside Gaza’ as Palestinian suffering deepens (Washington Post) The war in Gaza rages on while Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu faces mounting pressure from abroad and within. White House national security adviser Jake Sullivan called on Netanyahu and other key Israeli officials in Jerusalem on Sunday, stressing the need for Netanyahu to agree to a “day after” plan for the Gaza Strip that he’s been long evading. As my colleagues reported, the Biden administration sees a strategic failure in Israel’s decision to invade the southernmost Gaza city of Rafah—a move long opposed by both Western governments and international humanitarian organizations—and fears Netanyahu’s current course “is not worth the cost in terms of human lives and destruction, cannot achieve its objective, and will ultimately undermine broader U.S. and Israeli goals in the Middle East.” Netanyahu has scoffed at calls for plotting peace while fighting the war, arguing that it distracts from fully defeating Hamas. Experts warn that may be an impossibility and Israel’s own security establishment is getting increasingly vocal in its frustrations with the prime minister’s prevarications. Israel Ziv, a retired major general who served as the head of the Israel Defense Forces Operations Division, said that earlier gains by the Israeli military have “evaporated” due to inadequate political planning for the postwar dispensation. “If you are working only militarily without any diplomatic solution, you’re inside this swamp,” he said. “Israel is stuck inside Gaza.” Meanwhile, the territory’s more than 2 million Palestinian residents are stuck in a humanitarian nightmare.

Gazans Flee Jabaliya as Israel’s Military Launches New Offensive (NYT) The northern town of Jabaliya had already come under fierce attacks from the Israeli military earlier in the war, killing many civilians and demolishing large parts of the suburb. So, as Israeli ground forces moved to other parts of the Gaza Strip and military strikes focused elsewhere, residents thought they had experienced their worst days. But last week, the Israeli military dropped leaflets again over Jabaliya, where tens of thousands of people are living, ordering them to leave as it prepared to launch a renewed offensive. “When the Israelis dropped the leaflets, people were terrified, especially given what they experienced previously,” said Iman Abu Jalhum, 23, who graduated from medical school two months before the war began and has been volunteering in hospitals treating the wounded. “We thought given that we have already been attacked that we were safe; the Israelis have already been here.” Soon after the leaflets dropped, so too did the bombs, she said. Ms. Abu Jalhum, her 16-year-old sister and her parents fled their home under bombardment. She only had time to throw a few items of clothing into a bag and put on her prayer shawl.

South Africa’s top court rules former President Zuma cannot stand in election over criminal record (AP) Former South African President Jacob Zuma was disqualified Monday from standing in a national election next week because of a previous criminal conviction, a decision by the country’s highest court that’s bound to raise political tensions ahead of a pivotal vote. The Constitutional Court said that a section of the constitution disqualifying people from standing for office if they’ve been sentenced to more than 12 months in prison without the option of a fine does apply to the 82-year-old Zuma. Zuma was sentenced to 15 months in prison in 2021 by the Constitutional Court for contempt for refusing to testify at a judicial inquiry into government corruption.

[enigmaticexplorer]

I Yearn, and so I Fear - Part III - Chapter XVII

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General Summary. Nearly a year since the Galactic Empire’s rise to power, Kazi Ennari is trying to survive. But her routine is interrupted—and life upended—when she’s forced to cohabitate with former Imperial soldiers. Clone soldiers. 

Pairing. Commander Wolffe x female!OC

General Warnings. Canon-typical violence and assault, familial struggles, terminal disease, bigotry, explicit sexual content, death. This story deals with heavy content. If you’re easily triggered, please do not read. For a more comprehensive list of tags, click here.

Fic Rating. E (explicit)/18+/Minors DNI.

Chapter Word Count. 5.6K

Beta. @starstofillmydream

"If we want the rewards of being loved, we have to submit to the mortifying ordeal of being known." – Tim Kreider

25 Yelona

Mistrust was rampant among the locals of Hollow’s Town. Harried expressions, quickened paces, wary looks. Even the groups of parents outside Hollow’s Schooling One were quieter, more strained. Darted eyes and guarded comments spoke of their suspicion. 

A people who prided themselves on their steadfast loyalty were starting to doubt one another.

It began with the executions. 

Three workers in the Security Institute—two men and a woman—were charged of espionage and intentional fearmongering. They were executed in the capital. Kazi, along with hundreds of other government employees, was forced to watch. 

The attempt to exert control over Eluca’s disgruntled population didn’t surprise her. The easiest way to ruin centuries’ worth of loyalty—the easiest way to destroy a people’s faith in one another—was to subtly turn them against their neighbors. 

The executions were the first step. Questions of who outed the three perpetrators whispered among the locals.

Who could people trust? 

Who would die next?

As horrific as the Empire was, its leaders knew how to play politics. And how to secure the control they desired. Eluca was only one of its many victims. 

From the bench she and Carinthia sat upon, Kazi assessed their surroundings. A childless swing drifted in the wind; parents stood apart from one another, staring at Hollow’s Schooling One’s doors as they waited for school to end. The shade from the building shielded her and Carinthia from most eyes.

“Were they members of the network?” Kazi asked quietly.

“They were under different leadership,” Carinthia said. The diplomatic approach in her tone matched her casual appearance. They could be discussing the weather for all the emotion Carinthia displayed. “Allies of the network, but, technically, not ours.”

The technicality did nothing to assuage the uncertainties wrestling in her stomach.

After another sweep of the empty playground, Kazi scrubbed her arm. “I thought Fehr was going to meet me.”

“She and Bash were called to a meeting.” Carinthia hesitated. “Command was caught unaware by the Empire’s arrival. They’re reassessing other planets where they have a stronger presence.”

Kazi loosed a bitter laugh. “Why aren’t they trying to get their members off Eluca? Don’t our lives matter?”

Icy blue eyes met hers, narrowed in reproach. “We all knew the risks when we accepted our jobs.”

“So that’s it?” She fisted her hands in her lap. “We keep working for the network? Even though the Empire is here?”

Dismissal exaggerated Carinthia’s shrug. “We have even more reason to see things through.” 

At her belligerent scoff, Carinthia threw her a warning look, mustering a pleasant smile for any observers. A smile that stretched the skin across her cheeks unnaturally. Now that Kazi was looking closer, Carinthia seemed bonier. Unhealthily thinner. 

“I need an update on the past week,” Carinthia said. “What have you seen? How is the Empire behaving? Has the magistrate contacted you?”

Gritting her teeth, Kazi leaned back against the school’s wall, the stone cool through her clothes. 

Too much had happened within a short amount of time. Her kiss with Wolffe. The men’s immediate departure. Days of long hours spent with Imperial officers. Her sleep was disturbed, and her work exhausting, and the unknown of the Empire’s arrival stressful. It was all piling on her shoulders. A net of worries and unease digging into her skin and dragging her down.

“What’s going to happen?” Daria had asked the night the Empire arrived. Her sister’s eyes were wide; the hand clasping the front pieces of her robe shook. 

For a moment, Kazi was too shocked by Daria’s reaction to respond. 

Sometimes she forgot Daria had lived through the Purge. Sometimes she forgot Daria had run through the streets of Ceaia’s capital. Sometimes she forgot Daria had crammed into a tight, dark compartment alongside her as their oxygen slowly dissipated. 

Sometimes she forgot Daria, too, had thought they wouldn’t make it, her muttered prayers echoes of the ones in Kazi’s mind.

“The Empire’s here, but we’re okay,” Kazi said. Doubt pursed Daria’s mouth and Kazi gripped her sister’s hand. “Cody’s informant said the Empire is here to take over the mines—they’ve been doing this for months. Eluca wasn’t a random choice.”

“This isn’t a second Purge?” Daria whispered.

“No.” The bookcase swung forward, revealing Wolffe and Cody outfitted in their armor, bags hung from their shoulders. Kazi swallowed, returning her attention to Daria. “We’re going to be okay. I promise.”

The relief in Daria’s face, the trust in the squeeze of her hand, furthered Kazi’s disquiet. She could only hope her assumptions—and Cody’s information—proved true. 

A few minutes later and Wolffe stood before her, his gaze hard and searching. Promise lined the lowness of his tone as he murmured, “We’ll talk when I return.”

The brush of a knuckle to her cheek, a lingering look from the doorway, and then Wolffe and Cody were gone, set to meet another clone, Rex, to assess the threat of the Empire’s arrival. 

Fox and Nova had stayed behind. A surprise considering Fox’s initial demand to go with the other two commanders. Whatever Wolffe had said to him in private—whatever Wolffe had said to convince him to stay—was a mystery to Kazi. 

Wolffe’s departure—his sudden absence after such a…vulnerable moment—bothered her late into the night. A cramp in her chest she couldn’t ease, no matter how hard she rubbed at it. 

She could comm him. But…she wouldn’t. No matter what happened between them, if anything, she knew she never would. A relic of fear from—

Well, it didn’t matter. 

Wolffe and Cody left Eluca just in time. Frequencies were jammed the following day. The spaceports closed—all interplanetary and intraplanetary travel was prohibited—and remained closed for two more days. Only after the third day did the comm tower reopen. 

Each night for the last four days, Kazi had updated Fox and Nova with news from the Security Institute. 

Their conversations lasted late into the night, the early hours of evening dedicated to dinner, though the table felt more spacious without Wolffe and Cody. Her information was minimal, and the Imperial officers infiltrating the Institute’s forces were tight-lipped. They expected their orders to be obeyed without question or hesitation. But Fox and Nova listened to her updates regardless. Quiet and intent. 

“They need minerals,” Nova mused, setting aside his quilt. Its design was clearer: an amber expanse with black lines stamped into columns. A memorial, Kazi guessed. “But there are dozens of other planets they already control.”

“A specific mineral, then,” Fox said.

“Eluca’s mines aren’t special,” Kazi said. “You can find doonium and hfredium almost anywhere.”

“Mineral shortage,” Fox offered.

Nova shook his head. “We would know about it.”

“Doonium and hfredium are used for spaceship construction.” Fox scratched his chin with his stylus, the book he was writing in abandoned the moment Kazi entered the sunroom. “The military could be contracting new Star Destroyers.”

“Could be.” Nova didn’t look convinced. “Or a weapon.”

Kazi frowned. “What weapon would the Empire need? They already control most of the galaxy.”

“You should be asking,” Fox said darkly, “what weapon does the Empire need to maintain its control?”

Their musings led to repetitive conversations and headaches. Nothing more. 

“Magistrate Aro has been busy,” Kazi informed Carinthia, sliding her hands beneath her thighs. “We had a ceremony welcoming Imperial overlords. Afterwards, he told me I’ll be receiving more data to continue my research on clone disappearances. That was it.”

Carinthia nodded thoughtfully. “Your job will be even more important now. You’ll have access to Imperial codes and data that we can use—”

“No.” 

“No?” Carinthia repeated, an edge to her tone.

“Do you even hear yourself?” Kazi glared her incredulity. “You want me to access Imperial data and codes. Do you know how much of a risk that is? This isn’t some simple-minded government, Carinthia. This is the fucking Empire.”

“I’m well aware of who we’re dealing with. Mind your features.”

Forcing her shoulders to relax, Kazi neutralized her expression. But her heart was beating faster; fear, cold and oily, slithered beneath her skin. She pressed her fingers into the metal of the bench. Pressed them hard enough the pain dulled some of her mounting malaise.

“You’re in a position we can capitalize on,” Carinthia said calmly. 

“I’m not taking this risk,” Kazi replied just as calmly. “I have a youngling and a sister I’m responsible for. I won’t risk their lives for your network.”

Glancing at the sky, Carinthia eyed the gathering clouds. “So long as the Empire remains in power, your family isn’t safe.”

“And how can I protect them if I’m in Imperial custody?” Kazi demanded. “Or dead?” 

“It’s better to live under slavery, then?”

“Of course not.” She levelled Carinthia with a reproving scowl. “But I have people who need me. I can’t abandon them for a cause that’s unorganized and lacking genuine leadership. A cause that doesn’t even have a cohesive goal.”

Carinthia waved a dismissive hand. “We have a goal: to reinstate the Republic.”

“Not everyone subscribes to that goal. The rebellion is too vast and disorganized. It’s ineffectual.”

“It will organize. It will become an effective opponent that will threaten the Empire’s authority. We simply need people to do their jobs—”

“I won’t do this,” Kazi said firmly. “You may be called to a higher purpose in this rebellion, but I’m not. I’m doing what I can with what I have. That will have to be enough.”

“If every person in this galaxy thinks along those lines, the Empire will reign forever.” Carinthia’s smile was patronizing. “You will do as ordered—”

“I’ll do what I can. But I won’t unnecessarily risk my life.” She held Carinthia’s glare. “Anyway, according to your negotiations with the men, they approve the work I’m given. I’ll leave it up to them.”

Carinthia laughed. “Are you so naïve to believe the clones have any power against the network?”

“Threaten the men, Carinthia,” Kazi said slowly, harshly, “and your network will regret it.”

“They’re not a concern of ours.”

“Not them.” Kazi surveyed the woman beside her, her fellow rebel. “You forget that I have information. Information that can cause serious damage.”

Disdain curled Carinthia’s upper lip. “You would risk all that we have built for the lives of a few men?”

“Betray them, hurt them, do anything that endangers them”—she paused, her voice deceptively soft—“and you’ll find out.”

The school bell hummed; the front doors opened. Younglings of various ages ran out. 

Usually the students would sprint for the playground, their parents busied by conversations while they hefted their child’s packs. Today, like the three days before, the playground remained empty. Parents ushered their children to parked aircars or hurried toward the neighborhood paths. 

Kazi stood and scanned the front doors for Neyti. Beside her, Carinthia regained her feet, wiping a hand down her dark, ratted trousers. 

“I didn’t expect this from you,” Carinthia murmured, her gaze sharper than an icepick. 

“You’re interfering with my family.” Kazi arched an eyebrow. “What did you expect?”

“I thought you, of all people, would understand the need for vengeance,” Carinthia said disbelievingly. “Your planet—your people—were murdered by the Empire, and yet you choose to do nothing. You’re lucky to even have a choice.”

“Don’t bring my people into this,” Kazi snapped. “I’m doing what I think is best for my kid and my sister. You, of all people, should understand that.”

Startled, Carinthia stumbled back a step, her face paling. More younglings emerged from the school and she lifted her chin, her lips pursing. “Passivity will get us all killed.”

“It’s a good thing we have people like you,” Kazi murmured sarcastically, “willing to sacrifice themselves.”

“It’s for the greater good.”

“That may be so, but the greater good for Neyti is my being alive. The greater good for my sister is me.”

“You’re a coward,” Carinthia spat.

“If it’s cowardly to choose them over the rebellion”—Kazi shrugged—“then I can bear that.”

They observed one another for a long moment. Sniffing, Carinthia turned on her heel and striding away. Her perfunctory gait and inconspicuous clothing allowed her to blend into the crowd. Another ant among the anthill. 

A flutter of pastel pink caught her attention and Kazi waved at Neyti. The little girl broke into a smile, waving shyly, and then faced the girl beside her, offering her a flimsisheet. Kazi’s eyes widened as she recognized the girl. It was Steiner. The girl who once shared her cookie with Neyti. 

Steiner accepted the flimsi and mimed something to Neyti. Neyti nodded and—

Kazi blinked. Her eyes narrowed. She could have sworn…well, she could have sworn she saw Neyti’s mouth moving. Just a glimpse. Ephemeral in its unconfirmed existence. 

The moment passed and Steiner strolled toward the closest walkway. Neither of her parents were present. Odd since Heracli always retrieved her. 

Shaking the thought away, Kazi smiled as Neyti hurried over.

“Good day?” Kazi asked.

Neyti nodded, grabbing her hand. It was new—the hand holding—and Kazi squeezed Neyti’s fingers a little tighter, swinging their arms as they started for the aircar. 

The temperature cooled; the clouds swarmed the sun, their darkness a quick exhale, snuffing Eluca of light.

Once they were far enough away from prying ears, Kazi said gently, “We have therapy today.” 

An unhappy glower pinched Neyti’s face and she reached for her necklace, fiddling with the dragon pendant. 

Kazi offered her a consoling smile. “I know. But I was thinking we could go hiking tonight after dinner. We could even stargaze.”  

They both had tomorrow off, from work and school, and Kazi thought it only fair that Neyti could stay up past her bedtime. And she surmised stargazing would distract the girl from Wolffe and Cody’s absence. She added, “Mr. Nova said you can use his telescope.”

Neyti’s eyes widened. She nodded eagerly. 

Chuckling, Kazi gripped Neyti’s hand tighter and increased their pace, a drizzle speckling their hair and clothes. But in the silence between woman and youngling, the silence before the encroaching storm, Kazi found herself repeating the conversation with Carinthia. Repeating Carinthia’s accusations. 

Your planet—your people—were murdered by the Empire, and yet you choose to do nothing.

If every person in this galaxy thinks along those lines, the Empire will reign forever.

People were suffering, and the Empire was growing, and the rebel network was one of the few oppositions resisting the Empire’s steady expansion. 

The network wasn’t true opposition, though. Not yet. The rebels believed, over time, the network would strengthen and expand. A flame catching, spreading. That its fury would burn across the galaxy and destroy everything the Empire upheld.

However, Kazi understood politics. She knew a behemoth—militaristically adept and politically cutthroat—was resilient. It would take years and thousands, if not millions, billions, of lives to achieve. 

Sacrifice, both willing and involuntary, was required.

And rebellion didn’t guarantee freedom, or safety, or peace. 

Who knew if the replacement government would dismantle the Empire’s malfeasance. 

Who knew if the network’s leaders would serve the people better. 

Who knew if the network’s leadership could resist the corruption of power. The corruption so easily overlooked, a cancerous cell that seemed unharmful until it was too late, its destruction irreversible. Unmendable. 

Politics was a game, rebellion its gamble. 

Was it her moral duty to sacrifice herself in an attempt to strengthen a possible opposition to the Empire? 

Was it selfish of her to want to live? 

Was it pathetic and reprehensible of her to choose life under the Empire rather than outright defy it?

A squeeze in her palm pulled her away from her musings and she glanced down at Neyti. A tiny frown wrinkled the little girl’s eyebrows. 

“I’m okay,” Kazi said, mustering a small smile. 

Neyti considered her for a moment and then leaned into her, resting her forehead against Kazi’s hip, her eyes closing. And as Kazi rested a hand atop Neyti’s hair, she knew she was a coward for wanting to preserve her life. 

But, if it meant providing Neyti a semblance of normality, then she didn’t care. 

She’d been running the majority of her life, anyway. What difference did it make now?

Hushed voices tickled her mind.

Music, an unintentional harmony to the quiet whispers, hummed. 

Her eyelashes fluttered.

Moonlight, soft and soporific, caressed the living area, a slumbering entity encouraging her to sleep.

Shadows, friendly tonight, swathed a figure at the end of the couch. 

Through half-opened eyes, Kazi watched Wolffe. 

He was scooping Neyti into his arms, his movements slow, cautious as he tucked an arm beneath Neyti’s legs and the other beneath her shoulders. Neyti mumbled in her sleep and Wolffe tensed. Kazi stilled, too, holding her breath.

Quieting, Neyti relaxed and burrowed her face into Wolffe’s chest. He breathed a relieved exhale. Lifting Neyti from the couch, he strode for the staircase; the old steps’ sneaky creaks seemed to respect his hard-earned stealth. 

The moment the upstairs shadows claimed him, Kazi pushed herself to a seated position, glancing at the chrono. It was only a few minutes past midnight. She and Neyti must have fallen asleep during the holofilm, but Daria—

“Your sister went to her room.”

Tensing, Kazi settled her attention on Fox. One of the few detriments of cohabiting with soldiers: they were all skilled in stealth. 

Lounged in the cushioned chair he’d claimed at the beginning of the film, Fox concentrated on the piece of wood in his hand. The point of his knife slid along a wide curve. A shaving collapsed in his lap. 

“Cody went with her—”

“Okay.” 

Ignoring his amused silence, Kazi rubbed the bleariness from her eyes, shifting beneath the blanket she could have sworn Neyti was using throughout the film. 

“Thank you, by the way,” she said, motioning to the wood figurine. “I think Neyti will like it.”

Fox assessed his carving. “You gonna tell me why it’s so important?” 

“It’s tradition.” Fox threw her a bland look and she shrugged, yawning. “The carvings mean something different to each person. For some, the dragons represent adventure. For others, power. And even others, they represent prosperity or luck.”

Working a part of the dragon’s nose, Fox asked, “And for you?”

The slow stroke of the knife elongated the dragon’s snout, bringing forth an old memory: the day her father and mother took her to the Carver. 

The Carver was an older man, his skin darker than a stormy night and his beard frothy white. His eyes were gentle, twinkling with a thousand stories, and while his smile was peaceful, the lines on his face spoke of countless ventures at sea. 

He asked for her favorite myth. Sheepishly, she told him it was the story of Vaeloria, the dragon who first walked Ceaia’s land. For a long time, the Carver considered her, black eyes like the galaxy above, and then he winked. 

A week passed. 

Little Kazi returned to the Carver one last time. Expecting a replica of Vaeloria, she was shocked when the Carver placed a dragon—mid-flight, its hide a glittering black—into her outstretched hands. She recognized the dragon immediately. 

“The dragon is a creature of solitude,” the Carver told her. She stroked a finger along the dragon’s spine. “It spends hours amongst the stars, searching for one thing. Do you know what that is?”

Little Kazi shook her head.

The Carver tapped her dragon’s head knowingly. “Companionship.”

After all these years, Kazi never learned why the Carver bestowed on her the female dragon from the myth of the Dancing Dragons. And she never learned how he knew she was lying about Vaeloria. Then again, the Carvers were suspected mystics, seers of the galaxy’s wonders incomprehensible to most. 

Playing with a loose string from the gray sweater she was knitting before she fell asleep, Kazi stared at the dragon in Fox’s hands. 

“They represent protection. Security,” she said. A small smile hollowed her teeth. “Companionship.”

Another stroke of the knife, this time along the dragon’s jaw. “Have you reconsidered leaving?”

“We can’t.” The conversation was banal, by this point, and Kazi fought the urge to roll her eyes. Instead, she folded the sweater in her lap, setting it on the floor. Her knitting needles hid the sweater’s motif. “Nothing has changed: Daria still needs a healer, and her medicine is too expensive to outsource. And Neyti is finally starting to adjust to life here. I can’t upend everything.”

She hadn’t bothered mentioning Neyti’s adoption application to Fox and Nova when they first discussed the men’s proposal. Not to mention the headache she would endure starting anew on some other backwater planet. 

“It doesn’t matter, anyway,” she said, ignoring Fox’s probing look. The look that claimed she was deflecting, lying about her real reasoning. “The Empire is everywhere.” 

Silence lapsed between them, and Kazi took advantage of the time, observing Fox’s work. Dedicated accuracy steadied his hand with each line he carved. Intense concentration stitched his brows together. It was the forced apathy in his features, though, that made her straighten. Her mouth dried. 

“You’re thinking about leaving,” she said, aghast.

The last few nights, when the conversation returned to the topic, the men hadn’t revealed their own plans. In hindsight, she was stupid to not consider the possibility. Or maybe it was foolish naivete—a pathetic hope they wouldn’t leave. Wolffe wouldn’t leave.

Fox rotated the piece of wood. “The Empire’s here. The spaceports and travel lanes close without warning. Frequencies are jammed without our knowledge. Eluca’s no longer a secure place.”

“Nowhere is safe. Really.” At Fox’s lack of response, she pursed her lips, squeezing the blanket. “You told me you want to settle down.”

“I did.” Fox eyed his carving. “But my brothers will always come first.”

“Your brothers are grown men capable of making decisions that concern their own lives.” She kept her voice quiet, composed, feigning nonchalance, even as her throat constricted. “Maybe you should consider being selfish, for once.”

Stilling, Fox lifted his gaze to hers. “Are you trying to convince yourself that?”

Unease breathed against the base of her spine, and she straightened. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I want my brothers to be happy.” Seriousness flattened his mouth, harshened his gaze, and then he pushed himself to his feet, looking her over. “Don’t hurt him.”

Quiet footfalls overlapped; the bookcase hissed open; it snapped shut; other footfalls neared and Kazi remained seated, waiting.

Wolffe rounded the couch and collapsed into its cushions. Exhaustion clung to his body: bruises beneath his eyes, deep lines harrying his forehead, an invisible weight slouching his shoulders. 

Kazi tilted her head to the side, studying him. “You’re debating if you should leave.” 

Wolffe frowned. Mismatched eyes met hers. “Do you think we should?”

“That’s not my decision to make,” she said tightly.

“I’m asking for your opinion.” Wolffe extended an arm behind the couch. Tentatively, he brushed aside a braid, his thumb stroking the nape of her neck. The touch was soft, gentle. A comfort she wanted to lean into—a comfort she refused. He asked, “Do you?”

She wanted him to stay. She wanted to be selfish and ask him to stay. 

But it wasn’t fair of her, and it wasn’t right, because she was far too attached and he deserved so much.

“That’s a decision for you and your brothers,” she said, rubbing at her chest. His thumb skimmed the side of her neck, so light and warm. Her eyelashes fluttered and she swallowed. “They’re the ones whose safety could be compromised.”

Wolffe scoffed. “I want to know what you think. Should we stay, Ennari?”

“It’s not my decision to make,” she repeated staunchly. “You have to do what you think is right, regardless of my opinion.”

The intensity of his stare was far too calculating, and the caress of his thumb to her neck far too intimate, and she wanted to pull away. She wanted to run far, far away. 

Because the longer he surveyed her, the more her heart started to shrivel at the logic behind Fox’s reasoning, and the more her insides started to wither at the possibility of losing Wolffe, and the more she wanted to ask him to stay. 

Wolffe rolled his shoulders back. “I meant everything I said that night. All of it.”

Yearning, so quiet and gentle, glowed within her. A tentative glow brushing the walls she had constructed for so many years; a warm glow seeping between the cracks that had evaded her. Cracks that existed because of the man seated beside her. 

“Tell me what you want,” Wolffe murmured. He leaned closer. His voice was lower, raspier as he said, “Tell me what you want from me.”

“I don’t want you to leave,” she whispered. The yearning grew, intangible yet persistent, unable—unwilling—to be ignored or locked away. “And I know I shouldn’t say that, and that I have no right to even want it, but the thought of you leaving…”

Looking away, Kazi gritted her teeth, massaging her chest. This was complicated, and she hated these feelings, and it was far easier to deflect. To place blame elsewhere rather than endure her emotions. 

“I don’t want to be some hookup, Wolffe.” She smiled grimly. “I don’t know if that’s what you expected from me, but it’s not something I’m interested in being.”

“I’m not looking for a hookup.” Reproach hardened his tone and she winced. “I’ve made my intentions obvious—” 

“I don’t know what this is between us,” she said. It was a pathetic display—a desperate plea for honesty and explanation and logic because she didn’t understand, and she didn’t want to make assumptions, and she wanted to be with him, but only if he wanted to be with her. “What do you want?”

For a time, Wolffe stared at her, hesitation working his jaw, a phantom stroke caressing her earlobe before returning to her neck. He cleared his throat. 

“I told you: I want to try things,” he said. His throat bobbed. “We can call it…courting.”

The reference to their conversation at the Harvest Festival, the reference to her culture, made her chuckle. And smile. And she settled deeper into the couch, amused.

However, Wolffe had grown rigid. A guarded expression shuttered his features and stiffened his shoulders. Her amusement subsided and she blinked, her face warming. “You’re being serious.”

“I was.” Two fingers tapped his thigh and he sighed. “I wanted to respect your culture.”

“I appreciate that,” she said quickly. “But courtship is…serious. There are expectations of permanency, and it’s not some word you can throw around. At least not in Ceaian culture.” 

In Reformist tradition, a courtship always ended in marriage. It was expected. Demanded. Wolffe didn’t know this, and while Kazi appreciated his consideration of her culture, the word was inaccurate to describe their situation. They were friends, and they were trying something new, and he could hardly make a decision on them—on her—this early. It was ridiculous to even consider.

“Some people think it’s archaic,” she added. 

Wolffe regarded her, his expression inscrutable. Scrubbing his jaw, he leaned back into the cushions. 

“Then choose a word you like,” he said tiredly. “I don’t care, so long as we’re together.”

A nod was her sole response, and Kazi glanced upstairs. Toward one of the closed doors.

“I’m worried about Neyti,” she admitted quietly, even though the rooms upstairs were soundproof.

They were in a precarious situation, and the consequences of their actions could be catastrophic for Neyti. The little girl trusted Wolffe. Cared for him. But what happened when Kazi and Wolffe separated? Would Wolffe…leave? His absence could destroy the normalcy and the confidence Neyti had grown over the last few months.

“We won’t tell her,” Wolffe said. The calm assuredness in his tone bordered amusement. “It’ll be our secret.”

“What about Daria?” Kazi shifted her attention to the second closed door upstairs. “I don’t want her to think…”

“No one else needs to be involved,” Wolffe said. “This is between you and me. The others can go fuck themselves.”

“Your brothers—”

“Will mind their own business.” 

“Your missions—”

“Will continue as normal.” Another light touch to her earlobe. “But I’m taking a step back. I will make time for you.”

“What about the Empire?” she whispered.

A muscle flexed in his jaw. “We’ll figure things out.”

He said it with such aplomb it was hard not to believe him. Hard not to trust him. But that meant—

“You’re not leaving?” she said, searching his gaze.

“It was never a question.”

“But Fox said—”

“Fox says things to test people’s reactions.” A fond chuckle succeeded his eye roll. “You’re hard to read. And he doesn’t like it. Which is why he talks to you.”

Kazi frowned at the bookcase. “I thought he talked to me because I’m a good conversationalist.” 

Wolffe barked a sharp laugh, mirth lightening the fatigue lining his features. And gods, his slight grin, the crinkles around his eyes, the way his thumb skimmed beneath her jawline, was enough to stifle her offense. Beneath the moonlight, at ease, he looked like he belonged in an oil painting—a preservation of man’s resilience.  

“Fox likes having information available,” Wolffe said, sobering. “You’re private. It stresses him out.”

“The same could be said about you.” Kazi moved her hand to his forearm, her fingers playing with the rolled sleeves of his shirt. “You like solving problems. Having things figured out. Do I stress you out?”

He ran his tongue along his teeth. “I don’t mind it.”

Quietly laughing, Kazi shifted her attention to his hand. Traced the lines of his palm. Examined old scars. The tension she’d ignored, the tension arcing from her thighs to her neck, finally settled. As if his reassurance was a rare balm her soul required. 

The revelation was unnerving and she frowned, chewing the inside of her cheek. She wasn’t supposed to rely on others for reassurance, or comfort, or…anything else. This effect he had on her was unusual, a feeling almost forgotten. 

It reminded her of her childhood. 

Those days when she and Daria were best friends who could rely on one another. The comfort of the ocean beyond her bedroom windows. The contentment of strolling the shore in the early morning. The sheer life she experienced out at sea, the wind in her hair and the breeze salty.

“You didn’t tell me it was your birth day.”

Kazi stilled. “How did you know?”

“Daria.” Wolffe shrugged unapologetically at her exasperated sigh, twisting his hand in hers. Carefully, slowly lacing their fingers together. “It’s today. Yeah?”

“Yes,” she said. Resting her head against the back of the couch, she stared at the ceiling. “But we call it life day. Bit of a misnomer, considering the galactic holiday.”

A low chuckle rumbled from Wolffe, and his fingers twitched around hers. Like he wanted to hold her tighter but feared he would crush her bones. “Why didn’t you tell me?” 

The forced casualness in his tone made her grimace, and Kazi pressed her thigh against his. A consolation attempt. Maybe even an apology. It was late, and she was tired, and logic had abandoned her long ago, so she wasn’t entirely sure.

“I haven’t celebrated it in years. And I don’t like to,” she said. “Life day has always been a reminder that I’m getting older—it’s not something I like to dwell on.”

Wolffe cocked his head to the side. “You look good for your age.” 

Shaking her head, Kazi laughed, smiling at his half-grin.  

After a moment, though, curiosity replaced his teasing countenance, and, gently, he asked, “What’s wrong with aging?” 

“There’s nothing wrong with it,” she said, dropping her gaze to their hands. Her thumb grazed his, unhurried in its intent. “But…age has always been a signifier of things I was supposed to accomplish.” 

Proposal. Marriage. House. Children. 

“I stopped caring about those things,” she continued, “but each life day still feels like a doomsday clock. Like I haven’t achieved anything of significance and I’m falling behind.” She peered into his face. The blue moonlight scumbled his cybernetic eye. “Do you…celebrate birth days?” 

“No. But I consider aging an achievement.” Wolffe flattened the back of her palm to his thigh. His eyes sought hers. Soft with understanding. Soft with regret. “I lost a lot of men. Many who wanted to survive the War. I…owe it to them to appreciate this.”  

Wolffe tilted his head back, his gaze swallowing hers. In the silence that followed, the music still humming, she scrutinized him: open exhaustion, cautious calculation, reticent desire. 

Did her own face betray the warfare of her thoughts? The whispers of doubt, the pangs of longing, the breaths of fear.

“Kazi.” Wolffe nudged her with his thigh, and she straightened. “We’re going to take things slow and see where they lead.” He hesitated. His fingers loosened and then clenched around hers. “I need you to trust me.”

A wall existed. 

Fortified after so many years, it protected her self. Protected the little girl she had disappointed for so long.

The wall the glow of yearning kept brushing, a steady hand pressed against the cold exterior, like it would, eventually, burn its way through. 

Its warmth was unthreatening; its goal, though, was anything but.

And yet the glow was so kind, so gentle, and she knew, within the dark, damp pits of herself she kept locked away, that she was damning herself as she said, “I do.” 

Masterlist | Chapter 16 | Chapter 18

A/N: Next chapter release – May 16th

Welcome back and peep the new header :) In case you hadn't realized, each Part has its own. Anyway, we're in the final half! If you're curious, I'm finishing up editing chapters 26-30 and then I'll be finishing the last two, so we're on a clear path forward. That being said, I will be taking off most of June as I'll be on vacation. More of that to come later, though. For now, I hope you enjoy.

Also, it's been one year (May 1st) since I started writing the first draft of this story. It's hard for me to wrap my head around! But thank you for joining me on this journey. I appreciate you all.

Tag: @ulchabhangorm

[renaissanceclassics]

Up From Slavery: Part 7

of 18 parts. Chapter VI. Black Race And Red Race

During the year that I spent in Washington, and for some little time before this, there had been considerable agitation in the state of West Virginia over the question of moving the capital of the state from Wheeling to some other central point. As a result of this, the Legislature designated three cities to be voted upon by the citizens of the state as the permanent seat of government.

Among these cities was Charleston, only five miles from Malden, my home. At the close of my school year in Washington I was very pleasantly surprised to receive, from a committee of three white people in Charleston, an invitation to canvass the state in the interests of that city. This invitation I accepted, and spent nearly three months in speaking in various parts of the state. Charleston was successful in winning the prize, and is now the permanent seat of government.

The reputation that I made as a speaker during this campaign induced a number of persons to make an earnest effort to get me to enter political life, but I refused, still believing that I could find other service which would prove of more permanent value to my race. Even then I had a strong feeling that what our people most needed was to get a foundation in education, industry, and property, and for this I felt that they could better afford to strive than for political preferment. As for my individual self, it appeared to me to be reasonably certain that I could succeed in political life, but I had a feeling that it would be a rather selfish kind of success—individual success at the cost of failing to do my duty in assisting in laying a foundation for the masses.

At this period in the progress of our race a very large proportion of the young men who went to school or to college did so with the expressed determination to prepare themselves to be great lawyers, or Congressmen, and many of the women planned to become music teachers; but I had a reasonably fixed idea, even at that early period in my life, that there was a need for something to be done to prepare the way for successful lawyers, Congressmen, and music teachers.

I felt that the conditions were a good deal like those of an old coloured man, during the days of slavery, who wanted to learn how to play on the guitar. In his desire to take guitar lessons he applied to one of his young masters to teach him, but the young man, not having much faith in the ability of the slave to master the guitar at his age, sought to discourage him by telling him: "Uncle Jake, I will give you guitar lessons; but, Jake, I will have to charge you three dollars for the first lesson, two dollars for the second lesson, and one dollar for the third lesson. But I will charge you only twenty-five cents for the last lesson."

Uncle Jake answered: "All right, boss, I hires you on dem terms. But, boss! I wants yer to be sure an' give me dat las' lesson first."

Soon after my work in connection with the removal of the capital was finished, I received an invitation which gave me great joy and which at the same time was a very pleasant surprise. This was a letter from General Armstrong, inviting me to return to Hampton at the next Commencement to deliver what was called the "post-graduate address." This was an honour which I had not dreamed of receiving. With much care I prepared the best address that I was capable of. I chose for my subject "The Force That Wins."

As I returned to Hampton for the purpose of delivering this address, I went over much of the same ground—now, however, covered entirely by railroad—that I had traversed nearly six years before, when I first sought entrance into Hampton Institute as a student. Now I was able to ride the whole distance in the train. I was constantly contrasting this with my first journey to Hampton. I think I may say, without seeming egotism, that it is seldom that five years have wrought such a change in the life and aspirations of an individual.

At Hampton I received a warm welcome from teachers and students. I found that during my absence from Hampton the institute each year had been getting closer to the real needs and conditions of our people; that the industrial teaching, as well as that of the academic department, had greatly improved. The plan of the school was not modelled after that of any other institution then in existence, but every improvement was made under the magnificent leadership of General Armstrong solely with the view of meeting and helping the needs of our people as they presented themselves at the time. Too often, it seems to me, in missionary and educational work among underdeveloped races, people yield to the temptation of doing that which was done a hundred years before, or is being done in other communities a thousand miles away. The temptation often is to run each individual through a certain educational mould, regardless of the condition of the subject or the end to be accomplished. This was not so at Hampton Institute.

The address which I delivered on Commencement Day seems to have pleased every one, and many kind and encouraging words were spoken to me regarding it. Soon after my return to my home in West Virginia, where I had planned to continue teaching, I was again surprised to receive a letter from General Armstrong, asking me to return to Hampton partly as a teacher and partly to pursue some supplementary studies. This was in the summer of 1879. Soon after I began my first teaching in West Virginia I had picked out four of the brightest and most promising of my pupils, in addition to my two brothers, to whom I have already referred, and had given them special attention, with the view of having them go to Hampton. They had gone there, and in each case the teachers had found them so well prepared that they entered advanced classes. This fact, it seems, led to my being called back to Hampton as a teacher. One of the young men that I sent to Hampton in this way is now Dr. Samuel E. Courtney, a successful physician in Boston, and a member of the School Board of that city.

About this time the experiment was being tried for the first time, by General Armstrong, of educating Indians at Hampton. Few people then had any confidence in the ability of the Indians to receive education and to profit by it. General Armstrong was anxious to try the experiment systematically on a large scale. He secured from the reservations in the Western states over one hundred wild and for the most part perfectly ignorant Indians, the greater proportion of whom were young men. The special work which the General desired me to do was to be a sort of "house father" to the Indian young men—that is, I was to live in the building with them and have the charge of their discipline, clothing, rooms, and so on. This was a very tempting offer, but I had become so much absorbed in my work in West Virginia that I dreaded to give it up. However, I tore myself away from it. I did not know how to refuse to perform any service that General Armstrong desired of me.

On going to Hampton, I took up my residence in a building with about seventy-five Indian youths. I was the only person in the building who was not a member of their race. At first I had a good deal of doubt about my ability to succeed. I knew that the average Indian felt himself above the white man, and, of course, he felt himself far above the Negro, largely on account of the fact of the Negro having submitted to slavery—a thing which the Indian would never do. The Indians, in the Indian Territory, owned a large number of slaves during the days of slavery. Aside from this, there was a general feeling that the attempt to educate and civilize the red men at Hampton would be a failure. All this made me proceed very cautiously, for I felt keenly the great responsibility. But I was determined to succeed. It was not long before I had the complete confidence of the Indians, and not only this, but I think I am safe in saying that I had their love and respect. I found that they were about like any other human beings; that they responded to kind treatment and resented ill-treatment. They were continually planning to do something that would add to my happiness and comfort. The things that they disliked most, I think, were to have their long hair cut, to give up wearing their blankets, and to cease smoking; but no white American ever thinks that any other race is wholly civilized until he wears the white man's clothes, eats the white man's food, speaks the white man's language, and professes the white man's religion.

When the difficulty of learning the English language was subtracted, I found that in the matter of learning trades and in mastering academic studies there was little difference between the coloured and Indian students. It was a constant delight to me to note the interest which the coloured students took in trying to help the Indians in every way possible. There were a few of the coloured students who felt that the Indians ought not to be admitted to Hampton, but these were in the minority. Whenever they were asked to do so, the Negro students gladly took the Indians as room-mates, in order that they might teach them to speak English and to acquire civilized habits.

I have often wondered if there was a white institution in this country whose students would have welcomed the incoming of more than a hundred companions of another race in the cordial way that these black students at Hampton welcomed the red ones. How often I have wanted to say to white students that they lift themselves up in proportion as they help to lift others, and the more unfortunate the race, and the lower in the scale of civilization, the more does one raise one's self by giving the assistance.

This reminds me of a conversation which I once had with the Hon. Frederick Douglass. At one time Mr. Douglass was travelling in the state of Pennsylvania, and was forced, on account of his colour, to ride in the baggage-car, in spite of the fact that he had paid the same price for his passage that the other passengers had paid. When some of the white passengers went into the baggage-car to console Mr. Douglass, and one of them said to him: "I am sorry, Mr. Douglass, that you have been degraded in this manner," Mr. Douglass straightened himself up on the box upon which he was sitting, and replied: "They cannot degrade Frederick Douglass. The soul that is within me no man can degrade. I am not the one that is being degraded on account of this treatment, but those who are inflicting it upon me."

In one part of the country, where the law demands the separation of the races on the railroad trains, I saw at one time a rather amusing instance which showed how difficult it sometimes is to know where the black begins and the white ends.

There was a man who was well known in his community as a Negro, but who was so white that even an expert would have hard work to classify him as a black man. This man was riding in the part of the train set aside for the coloured passengers. When the train conductor reached him, he showed at once that he was perplexed. If the man was a Negro, the conductor did not want to send him to the white people's coach; at the same time, if he was a white man, the conductor did not want to insult him by asking him if he was a Negro. The official looked him over carefully, examining his hair, eyes, nose, and hands, but still seemed puzzled. Finally, to solve the difficulty, he stooped over and peeped at the man's feet. When I saw the conductor examining the feet of the man in question, I said to myself, "That will settle it;" and so it did, for the trainman promptly decided that the passenger was a Negro, and let him remain where he was. I congratulated myself that my race was fortunate in not losing one of its members.

My experience has been that the time to test a true gentleman is to observe him when he is in contact with individuals of a race that is less fortunate than his own. This is illustrated in no better way than by observing the conduct of the old-school type of Southern gentleman when he is in contact with his former slaves or their descendants.

An example of what I mean is shown in a story told of George Washington, who, meeting a coloured man in the road once, who politely lifted his hat, lifted his own in return. Some of his white friends who saw the incident criticised Washington for his action. In reply to their criticism George Washington said: "Do you suppose that I am going to permit a poor, ignorant, coloured man to be more polite than I am?"

While I was in charge of the Indian boys at Hampton, I had one or two experiences which illustrate the curious workings of caste in America. One of the Indian boys was taken ill, and it became my duty to take him to Washington, deliver him over to the Secretary of the Interior, and get a receipt for him, in order that he might be returned to his Western reservation. At that time I was rather ignorant of the ways of the world. During my journey to Washington, on a steamboat, when the bell rang for dinner, I was careful to wait and not enter the dining room until after the greater part of the passengers had finished their meal. Then, with my charge, I went to the dining saloon. The man in charge politely informed me that the Indian could be served, but that I could not. I never could understand how he knew just where to draw the colour line, since the Indian and I were of about the same complexion. The steward, however, seemed to be an expert in this manner. I had been directed by the authorities at Hampton to stop at a certain hotel in Washington with my charge, but when I went to this hotel the clerk stated that he would be glad to receive the Indian into the house, but said that he could not accommodate me.

An illustration of something of this same feeling came under my observation afterward. I happened to find myself in a town in which so much excitement and indignation were being expressed that it seemed likely for a time that there would be a lynching. The occasion of the trouble was that a dark-skinned man had stopped at the local hotel. Investigation, however, developed the fact that this individual was a citizen of Morocco, and that while travelling in this country he spoke the English language. As soon as it was learned that he was not an American Negro, all the signs of indignation disappeared. The man who was the innocent cause of the excitement, though, found it prudent after that not to speak English.

At the end of my first year with the Indians there came another opening for me at Hampton, which, as I look back over my life now, seems to have come providentially, to help to prepare me for my work at Tuskegee later. General Armstrong had found out that there was quite a number of young coloured men and women who were intensely in earnest in wishing to get an education, but who were prevented from entering Hampton Institute because they were too poor to be able to pay any portion of the cost of their board, or even to supply themselves with books. He conceived the idea of starting a night-school in connection with the Institute, into which a limited number of the most promising of these young men and women would be received, on condition that they were to work for ten hours during the day, and attend school for two hours at night. They were to be paid something above the cost of their board for their work. The greater part of their earnings was to be reserved in the school's treasury as a fund to be drawn on to pay their board when they had become students in the day-school, after they had spent one or two years in the night-school. In this way they would obtain a start in their books and a knowledge of some trade or industry, in addition to the other far-reaching benefits of the institution.

General Armstrong asked me to take charge of the night-school, and I did so. At the beginning of this school there were about twelve strong, earnest men and women who entered the class. During the day the greater part of the young men worked in the school's sawmill, and the young women worked in the laundry. The work was not easy in either place, but in all my teaching I never taught pupils who gave me much genuine satisfaction as these did. They were good students, and mastered their work thoroughly. They were so much in earnest that only the ringing of the retiring-bell would make them stop studying, and often they would urge me to continue the lessons after the usual hour for going to bed had come.

These students showed so much earnestness, both in their hard work during the day, as well as in their application to their studies at night, that I gave them the name of "The Plucky Class"—a name which soon grew popular and spread throughout the institution. After a student had been in the night-school long enough to prove what was in him, I gave him a printed certificate which read something like this:—

"This is to certify that James Smith is a member of The Plucky Class of the Hampton Institute, and is in good and regular standing."

The students prized these certificates highly, and they added greatly to the popularity of the night-school. Within a few weeks this department had grown to such an extent that there were about twenty-five students in attendance. I have followed the course of many of these twenty-five men and women ever since then, and they are now holding important and useful positions in nearly every part of the South. The night-school at Hampton, which started with only twelve students, now numbers between three and four hundred, and is one of the permanent and most important features of the institution.

[selflessanatta]

The Traumatic Stress of American Capitalism, https://selflessanatta.com/the-traumatic-stress-of-american-capitalism/

New Post has been published on https://selflessanatta.com/the-traumatic-stress-of-american-capitalism/

The Traumatic Stress of American Capitalism

We all pay a steep emotional price for the benefits we obtain from our capitalist system.

A dog-eat-dog world

Modern economic theory tells us that each person acting through their own selfish desire animates the “invisible hand” of the market. Apparently, this is considered a good thing.

Economists would have us believe that nobody acts out of kindness or the desire to help others, or their actions are so small and insignificant that their activities can be ignored.

All goodness occurs either by chance or because collective selfish behavior somehow produces a desirable end state—at least for the most greedy and powerful.

Whenever anyone challenges these assumptions, they are roundly criticized as foolish idealists, ignorant fools, or losers who can’t compete. Capitalism is portrayed as the only alternative, an attitude eagerly embraced by those who believe they benefit from the system more than others.

The Decline of Organized Labor Power

Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels wrote the Communist Manifesto that outlined the goals of organized labor in its fight against the interests of exploitative capitalists. Even now, almost two centuries later, the interests of those who provide money are still at odds with those who provide labor.

Up through the 1970s in many parts of the world, organized labor was a dominant political force, and increases in productivity were more evenly distributed between labor and capital. Labor won many political battles, and most of the laws that still exist to protect labor came from this era.

As organized labor’s power declined, the interests of capital gained the upper hand, and over the last 40 years or more, workers have endured the slow erosion of rights and privileges gained in the previous era.

The result of this decline in labor power has been an increased stress endured by labor at all levels.

The Stress of Capitalism on Labor

Capitalists want a desperate workforce willing to provide labor at subsistence levels. Further, capitalists want laborers to feel a sense of gratitude toward the capitalists who exploit them, as if any job is better than no job.

If a potential worker believes they must take a job at whatever pay is available or face starvation and homelessness, they will feel a sense of desperation—and the stress that goes along with it.

A desperate labor pool benefits the capitalist in two ways. First, capitalists obtain labor at the lowest possible cost. Second, capitalists won’t be required to pay for social safety nets through taxation or inflation (diminishment of the value of their wealth).

Therefore, social safety nets that would alleviate the stress of workers by removing their fears of starvation or homelessness are universally opposed by capitalists, irrespective of the emotional price paid by workers.

Capitalism and compassion are completely incompatible.

Ordinarily, our political system would provide a check and balance on the interests of capitalists, and their cold-hearted compassionless avarice would be offset by a unified labor vote opposing them. That system no longer functions in the United States as the working class now tends to vote with capitalists.

High Wages Don’t Relieve Stress

Many studies have shown that working for less than a subsistence wage causes significant stress, which shouldn’t be surprising. Who would feel peaceful about working long hours and failing to make enough money to provide adequate food or shelter?

Historically, these studies showed that happiness increases up to the point of subsistence, but then flatlines after that. Higher income doesn’t tend to make people any happier. Why is that?

It’s basic human nature to chase after scarce resources. When pursuing basic needs which are lacked, that pursuit is life-and-death, so the stress is a necessary motivator. But as soon as someone obtains the resources they need for survival, or luxury for that matter, they immediately begin to worry about losing them.

In a capitalist system, nothing is assured. There is no entitlement. Whatever someone has they only get to keep as long as they keep working. The fear of losing what they have is palpable because it’s real.

The Least Stressed and Happiest Societies

As one might expect, the societies that consistently rank the best for low stress and higher levels of happiness are those with robust social safety nets. When a job loss will lead to starvation, homelessness and a lack of healthcare, workers are stressed; however, when adequate food, shelter, and healthcare is assured, stress levels decline.

It’s not complicated. Of course, capitalists don’t want to pay for social safety nets, and they want a desperate workforce, so every effort is made to resist them, most notably a nonstop propaganda campaign on right-wind media that demonizes all social safety nets.

The World Happiness Report evaluates societal happiness. The countries that consistently rank high in happiness and presumably lower in stress levels include:

Finland – Often ranked at the top due to its high levels of social support, trust in government, and personal freedom.

Denmark – Known for its strong sense of community, low levels of corruption, and high standard of living.

Switzerland – Scores high in health, economic stability, and community support.

Iceland – Has a strong social network and a high sense of community, even in remote areas.

Netherlands – Features a good balance between work and life, high levels of personal freedom, and supportive social networks.

Norway – Known for its high income levels, social security, and environmental quality.

Sweden – Scores well in terms of public services, environmental quality, and social support.

Luxembourg – Offers a high standard of living, strong social security, and a stable economy.

New Zealand – Praised for its sense of community, environmental beauty, and relatively low levels of stress.

Austria – Features high levels of well-being, good healthcare, and environmental quality.

These rankings can vary slightly depending on the source and the specific criteria used for measurement. The one common denominator in the last above is the strength of their social safety nets.

A Personal Journey

When I was just starting out in my career, I eagerly embraced right-wing rhetoric on personal responsibility and the virtue of hard work and competition. As I encountered situations where I needed to make decisions and undertake actions that benefitted the organization and its capitalist backers at the expense of others, I became disenchanted.

The first time I was called upon to fire someone, I knew the hardship it was going to cause them. It was emotionally difficult. I rationalized to myself that they will be better off in the long run, but given the lack of social safety nets, the short term was going to be brutal.

When faced with ethical dilemmas I was forced to choose between doing what I believed was right and feeding my family. Over the years, making difficult management decisions took its toll.

When my son was diagnosed with autism, my wife needed to stay at home to care for him, and for many years, we obtained no State aid. The responsibility for my family rested solely with me, and I had had lost employment for any extended period of time, my family would have become homeless and destitute in short order.

During the 2008 financial crisis, my industry was hit particularly hard. From 2007 to 2010, I had three jobs that were eliminated. Nobody was hired to replace me. Each time, I faced an existential threat to my family with no social safety net to provide any assistance or comfort. It was very stressful.

I managed to start an entrepreneurial enterprise that enabled me to make some fortuitous investments. In some regard, I lived the capitalist dream, pulling myself up by my own bootstraps. However, the emotional price I paid was enormous. If I hadn’t gotten lucky, I might not have survived.

What I Felt When I Won the Lottery

I won the lottery… sort of. I unexpectedly received a large monthly annuity that will comfortably support my family for life.

Read full story

A Post Capitalist Perspective

On an individual basis, I no longer feel the stress of our capitalist system. Between my investments and State aid, I now have the same financial security that every citizen of the European Socialist countries outlined above enjoys from birth.

Now that I no longer face the fear of destitution for myself and my family, I can attest to the fact that alleviating that stress is life changing.

One of the justifications that capitalists rely on to oppose social safety nets is that workers won’t have an incentive to work. That’s not the case.

It is true that social safety nets remove the incentive to work for less, which is what capitalists really want. I still work, and I enjoy it much more now that I don’t have the stress associated with it.

Prior to labor unions, the nineteenth century capitalists made workers put in 60+ hours per week. Labor unions reduced the work week to 40 hours by the 1970s, but in the years since, many have opted to work many more hours just to get by.

Without the need to work, I do work fewer hours, spending more time with my family. When work is purely by choice, a four-day workweek provides a live-work balance that is far less stressful. The benefits of personal satisfaction, societal contribution, and having extra spending money is plenty of incentive to work.

I don’t believe our current capitalist system or ruthless labor exploitation is a good one. Perhaps it delivers goods and services more efficiently, but even that is debatable. It certainly does not deliver peace of mind or happiness that justifies a few more consumer goods or enriching a few billionaires.

I hope the next generation finds better alternatives. Right now, they face low wages, high prices for basic goods, extractive monopolies, and the likelihood that they will be worse off than their parents. It’s a recipe for dramatic change.

~~wink~~

Anatta