#ideology askew

[shadows-and-starlight]

hey, its been a few years, are you still in the business of arbitrarily deciding strangers secretly arent the gender they say they are based on no information about them outside of stereotypes youve ascribed to them?

No, I don't decide their gender any more than they decide their gender. A woman is an adult human female, and a man is an adult human male. To try and define it otherwise (saying women feel like this, act more like that, or have those interests) now that is based in stereotypes, and that is the basis of trans ideology.

Being a woman is a biological reality. It's descriptive, not prescriptive. We are sexually dimorphic and no hormones, makeup, or even surgery will change that. And people being uncomfortable with their bodies is something askew in their own head. The remedy isn't strangers playing pretend with them, nor is removing healthy organs to treat mental discomfort.

If you're an old mutual, know that I hold no ill will with you. I once bought into that regressive gender ideology too. My messages are open, but even if you don't, I'd at least say listen to a few detransitioners stories. They were big believers too, but there is more to the story.

[lenaschin]

History Redesigned: The Great (2020)

What is the koinos kosmos (common world) and mutually assumed knowledge the series shares with viewers? 

The Great (2020) surrounds Catherine the Great’s rise to power as the first and longest reigning female Empress of Imperial Russia; we follow her marriage to Russia’s Emperor Peter III, an abusive cheater whose rule was authoritative and harsh. The series pulls us into the the historically well known “koinos kosmos” of 18th century Russia; the teaser's warm, flower-filled visuals (of Germany, prior to Catherine's departure), contrasts with the opening scene, in which Catherine--pale and rosy-cheeked--rides through her new, dark, cold, and blue-toned home in a royally embroidered carriage, after which "RUSSIA" appears on screen. That night, warm tones highlight Russian culture through an immersion in the drunken, music and sex-filled world of the court; the show hints at the "koinos kosmos" through a clear portrayal of the world's political (monarchic, harsh), behavioral (heteronormative, hegemonic) and stylistic (18th century clothing, etc.) attributes. The series assumes our shared knowledge of 18th century Russia's monarchic political state in addition to Catherine the Great's role in female history; without this knowledge, the alteration of history isn't clear, as the narrative cuts out 17 years of their tortorous marriage and instead, begins Catherine's murderous plot in the first episode.

How does the series depict cultural hybridity through the alerted history’s role in reflecting and reshaping cultural assumptions? 

The series represents cultural hybridity through Catherine’s prominently illustrated love of knowledge, focus on female education, and desire for sexual pleasure (rather than male-oriented sex), which revert assumptions of the passive 18th century woman. Much of Catherine’s enlightenment and motivation to fight for power stems from her love of books, all of which surround European philosophies from outside of the temporally dominant cultural norms. Her cultural divergence is actualized through, for example, her sexual openness, as depicted in the first episode. She recites a detailed, poetic description of how the first 'night' with one's husband should be romantic, slow, and mutually pleasurable. This is contrasted by the actual occurrence; he walks in and quickly does the deed while talking to a friend (also in the room) about hunting, and leaves without pleasuring her. Her immediate distance from the culturally dominant gender norms foreshadows her future implementation of international ideas in Russian culture, such as women's education.

How does the series depict the power of understanding world-creation? 

Catherine’s initial attempts at happiness by making change within the boundaries of the current world are undermined by Peter; she organizes a school for young women and he literally burns it down. In alignment with her love of reading, she begins to view the narrative of her world as almost fictional–something to be created, rather than accepted–and steps into action. In this way, the show highlights the oppressive structure (the hegemony, represented by Peter) that “grimly governed” Catherine’s as ideological rather than static, or "impregnable," as described by Thrall. She describes her rise to power: “Destiny didn’t do it. I did it." The power of knowledge helped her create a world that not only suited her, but was hers.

In what ways do formulations of the past, present, and future engage with prospective realities of what might have been and what might be in the series’ alerted history?

The series’ formulation of the past is set “askew” from our assumptions of one reality through the presence of fictitious characters who represent modern-day perspectives (Catherine's mad) in addition to real-life characters who have been adjusted to represent similar views; the latter are characters who "might-have-been," and therefore entertain the idea of multiple possible realities. For example, Orlo’s character is loosely based off of a historically respected military leader, but The Great depicts him as someone (literally and physically) small, whose difference from the others’ focus on sex, alcohol, and violence resulted in his mistreatment. However, this characterization actually aids in the show’s message surrounding the malleability of the past, present, and future, as Orlo's character poses the decisions of the present in relation to how they might affect the future. He focuses on past mistakes to highlight that, to avoid a certain future, the present must change. For example, he notes that Peter's last military strategy resulted in 1800 unnecessary deaths, and suggests that because of this, Peter should accept strategic changes to avoid a future recurrence. This rare clap-back leaves Peter in awe, and even though he defensively denies this, the Court's momentary consideration of Orlo's idea brings up the question--what would be reality had this one decision changed? (How do our past, present, and future interplay?)

How do multiple realities or contemplations of multiple realities merge with questions of authenticity?

The authenticity of our known ‘historical’ reality, in which Catherine’s life was dominated by Peter for over 17 years, is challenged by The Great’s introduction of a parallel reality in which her power is more quickly realized. Although Peter actually became Emperor 17 years after their marriage, and then ruled for 6 months before being overthrown, the show portrays him as Emperor before their marriage. This immediately frames historical ideas of ‘authentically’ masculine power as “open to debate,” as Peter’s immaturity is heightened through the power he holds as Emperor (rather than being a normal annoying, but avoidable teenager). Peter’s contrast with his ‘historical’ role as emperor (a title of strength and leadership) makes us consider typical “antiquities,” such as unquestioned male dominance throughout history, as “fake” and ideological.

#oxyspeculativetv @theuncannyprofessoro

[thescreaminghat]

tired and thinking too much about things in my mind askew but also suddenly wondering what annerose was supposed to represent in reinhard’s entire worldview. even though she’s been freed from the tower she must exist only as the proof of reinhard’s noble act: without him she would be living among the vengeful and gluttonous nobles, unlike now, where she is still living with the same trappings of royalty but it’s ok because the people don’t have bad ideologies i guess. was she even a person before reinhard’s career really began to take off. every time she’s on screen it feels like we’re looking at the madonna, some otherworldly presence unspoiled by the grime of human history (prime example is when hilda first meets annerose in her secluded cottage, the place is so romanticized it feels unreal, even unnatural). and the stiltedness i think comes from the fact that we know that none of this is true. annerose was essentially sold into being the emperor’s concubine. in its most literal sense she isn’t a virgin, isn’t some “untouched, innocent” woman who must not know of the world’s wrongs, because she’s lived through them already. perhaps her otherworldliness comes from her compassion, her moral virtues, her devotion to her brother. but would anything have changed if she had died instead of kircheis. was her grace and kindness so central to guiding reinhard’s character that her living being would have successfully overshadowed any impact that would have accompanied her death. yet even with the benefit of hindsight the narrative/narrator never truly speculates on the other half of it. because ultimately annerose exists as a concept---the justification used by “good” and “just” rulers, the sanitation of individual trauma to turn history into an epic. the longevity of reinhard’s reign in the narrative sense is premised upon the purity of his intention. what if annerose hadn’t been a victim “in the right way,” choosing anger as her reason to encourage reinhard instead of the mute graciousness superimposed by the narrative. does it even matter if the results are the same---the framing suggests that “yes, it does matter,” because the optics of saving a damsel are vastly different from saving a witch, even if they experience the same injustices. imagine the prince dying, not from the illness plot screwdriver purposefully used to remove him when he has fulfilled his purpose in the story, but because he chose to do the “right” thing for the “wrong” reasons. 

[thistransient]

I definitely give our teacher a hard time in class about her outdated ideology, or when she cites wildly incorrect statistics and stereotypes, but I have prided myself on having the self-restraint not to say anything directly offensive during "make your own sentence" activities. Today she was tormenting us with a particularly boring construction (we all know how to use the word "time", please move on) when someone else had the audacity to put forth "The happiest time for me is when the bell rings for the end of class!"

Our teacher did respond "If you put it that way, 老師 will feel a little sad" and my classmate replied "Oh, it's just an example!" (which may or may not have been a dig at her telling us if we don't like the class content we need to ignore it because "it's just an example", a clear riposte to my written complaint about her distinct lack of tactfulness). I felt a bit bad when she came in Tuesday acting a little dejected with hair askew, making a small but valiant effort to be more engaging, but by Wednesday things were back to usual and my brain felt fit to melt out my ears again. One more day! Then on to the devil we don't know...

I have to sign up for another (3 month) semester to get my student ARC, and while looking into it also came to the unfortunate realisation that, while I could've sworn up and down that students can work part time after 6 months, this apparently applies only for uni students, and language students have to wait a year. Kinda puts a cramp in my plans, especially considering I've been having machinations about grad school but the window for Spring 2023 applications has definitely closed already. I had also thought it'd be possible to process a proper sponsored work visa in-country because of the covid border closure, but even that I'm unsure about now. However, they do say something about necessity being the mother of invention, so maybe this will motivate me to...get creative.

[rightofgodhood]

056. a police station in the middle of the night .

Prompt - @birkincured

His sunglasses have long since been shed, folded neatly aside at the corner of his desk. The scratching of pen to paper was all that filled the office, another stack of reports to review, a bundle of new cases in the works. 

Albert had never been particularly... Good with children per say, an admission he was perfectly comfortable with making. However, it came as an utter inconvenience when William became obsessed with the idea that he in fact was, even going so far to anoint Wesker as ‘babysitter’ for his darling daughter. No matter the amount of times he combated this title, it always fell on deaf ears. 

What particularly grated on his nerves, and evidently on the last thread of his tolerance, was when William had the gull to give him this task when he was working. Swamped in his own meticulous act of balancing the role of Captain with double agent, in an effort to please the higher ups, and their pretentious ideologies. 

This would be the last time, he swore to himself, if not for the hundredth time. 

At the very least, Sherry was remarkably quiet, always well behaved and out of the way as he tended to his countless duties. A notepad and an array of colorful pens enough to occupy her in the meantime. It was then he stole a moment for himself, a glance spared her way as he took his break. Only to find her fast asleep upon the hard tiled floor. Notepad abandoned, pen askew within a small hand.

Silence reigned over the small space for a long moment, the ice in blue eyes seeming to thaw, strangely soft. How she managed to fall asleep like that is beyond him, but the ground was no place for a little girl to rest. A shame he did not notice sooner.

It didn't take long for him to quietly make his exit, stepping passed her with careful steps, the station thankfully barren at this hour. 

No one would question why the Captain would be moving one of the sectionals to the S.T.A.R.S office, nor would they see him delicately scoop up Sherry, and lie her upon the cushioned surface. Her drawings and hard work saved in the drawer of his desk, until they depart for the night. However, for now, his coat would be laid over her prone form, before he would return back to his work. 

[maciek-jozefowicz]

[76] “Building Blocks” — Charcoal Block, Charcoals group (Procreate app, iPad, Apple Pencil). One-point perspective can be repetitive and boring. Raphael uses it in his fresco “School of Athens” to establish Aristotle and Plato as the focal point (the vanishing point is near them) of the painting. While the architecture is beautifully detailed and rendered, the image contradicts itself. Aristotle and Plato represent two different schools of philosophy, but one-point perspective, with a single vanishing point, imply something single and unified.

But then, we can interpret this seeming contradiction as expressing diversity of thought within a single, unified Athenian culture. The painting is meant to express the vast intellectual variousness (the people in the painting) in the city-state of eternal stability (the architecture in the painting). Raphael’s paintings are the work of sunny idealism. (Most of the sunny in ancient Athens, I suspect, came from the climate.) That’s one reason that his popularity has fluctuated. Sunny idealism comes and goes, like wars and bloody revolutions.

For me, metaphorically (and anthropomorphically), one-point perspective symbolizes one-point of view, a mindset. If I think of buildings as people, then a cityscape drawn with one-point perspective is a group portrait in which everyone’s mind aligns to a single ideology, their views directed to the same vanishing point. This expresses cohesion and uniformity and order. And creative and intellectual stasis. (The Ancient Greek intellectual vigor eventually turned mushy, as did their bodies and spirit. And came the Romans…)

This drawing, at first, may seem to be in one-point perspective, until you look closer and realize that the two main buildings have two different vanishing points. The building on the right foreground is askew to the dominant perspective which is carried by the building on the left and the street which this building helps to define. (This disjunction in perspective creates subtle tension in the drawing, giving it more interest by making the composition more dynamic.) The two buildings symbolize two different mindsets, which are further differentiated by the use of light and dark and the symbolic meaning that these tones carry.

[aspenforest732]

Mortem ad Wrens Chapter 17: For the Freedom of Those Our Nation Denies

Summary:

tw: scars, trafficking mention, gang involvement, domestic violence shelter, abuse mention, unhoused, spousal abuse mention, muzzle adjacent device Stain from afar and rescue race

Notes:

Me: Akira’s never had a stable adult in their life, have they Akira: there’s the gang! Me: eeeeh ‘text’ JSL Text thoughts

As they geared up for the third day’s evening patrol, Akira kept trying to adjust their capture weapon, something causing it to sit askew. After a moment of trying to undo a lump, they directed it to unravel and saw a small lizard napping in it. Grinning, Akira took a picture of it and sent it to their class group chat and Lizzaro once Taishiro happily gave them her number. Akira scooped the lizard off the scarf, being careful to detangle its tiny claws, and set it on their now-empty costume case.

An hour into patrol, everyone’s phone sounded an alarm as Hosu was attacked. Akira blanched and quickly texted the class group chat, “Those in or going to Hosu, stay safe. Don’t do anything illegal.”

Shoto liked their message, but they weren’t expecting Ida to see it for a while. It’s the thought that counts, right?

“Any friends in Hosu?” Taishiro asked gently.

‘Mini Ingenium’s interning there, and it looks like Shoto is heading there with Endeavor,’

“We’re too far out to send people, but the backup evening team will be ready to deploy if they need more people that badly.”

Akira nodded and put their phone away, hoping their classmates would follow protocol for once. Mortis helped a cat down from a tree, letting the poor thing ride in their capture scarf as they carefully climbed back down. Fat Gum discretely took a picture, chuckling at Mortis’ half-hearted glare that was tempered by the cat nuzzling under against the mottled scar across their throat.

“Nejire is also responding in Hosu with Ryukyu,” Suneater said as the group quietly patrolled. Even Fat Gum only tried to lighten the mood a couple times, keeping an eye on the HN for updates.

Half an hour later, Mortis’ phone vibrated. They immediately paused with a roll halfway to their mouth and pulled it out. ‘Deku’s caught up in something, and it looks like mini Ingenium is at the same location.’

Fat Gum sent out a Hero Network alert with what little information they had, two interns either separated from their mentors or with injured mentors in an alleyway. Mortis quickly messaged the group that the alert had been sent to the Hero Network and pinged Shoto in case he hadn’t seen it yet.

The trio waited tensely by the sushi shop as Endeavor and Manual added themselves as responders along with a few of the flame hero’s sidekicks. The minutes ticked by until it was marked as resolved with no casualties but two students moderately injured, one pro and one student severely injured, and Stain severely injured in custody.

Akira sighed in relief and frustration, ‘I’d bet my savings mini Ingenium got there first, and Deku swooped in to help. He wouldn’t have targeted Manual, so Native is probably the injured pro.’

“Native? What makes you say that?” Fat Gum asked.

‘There is a list compiled by people with similar ideologies to Stain of people who need to be taken down in some way. Native is on there for racism, multiple counts of assault, and helping to cover up crimes against indigenous people.’ At Fat Gum’s confusion, Mortis gave their theory on why Ingenium was attacked and not killed.

The three went back to a quiet but tense patrol as it seemed everyone was waiting on news from Hosu. Towards the end of their shift, Fat Gum took the group a little off their patrol route and smiled at Akira’s confused head tilt. “On Wednesdays, I like to check on the battered spouse and community shelters. No matter how much we promote education and therapy for abuse, there are a few who slip through the cracks.”

‘And the community shelters?’ Mortis asked. ‘Are they just a nicer term for unhoused shelters?’

Suneater smiled slightly, “No, anyone from the community or who ends up here can have a place to stay with warm meals, education, and a counselor. The shelters have an emergency foster license they can employ at their discretion, and since we implemented those, we’ve found runaways or abuse victims are more likely to reach out when something’s wrong.”

Fat Gum let one of the intake people take them on a tour of the battered spouse shelter. As they spoke with some of the staff in each wing, a few residents would occasionally approach who had an issue with services. Some were also curious about Akira as his newest, albeit temporary, addition to the agency.

As the tour was wrapping up in the birthing person ward, Akira hesitantly asked, ‘Do you have any protections in place for spouses of pro heroes or villains?’

“Why yes, we have a Tinker on staff who has a support license to help protect the building against most quirk-based attacks. We also have evacuation plans in case the facility is attacked.”

The community shelter left Mortis wishing they had something like it in Musutafu. While the warehouses were protected, a place where you could continue education, not have to worry about your next meal, and start saving money would have made a world of difference when Mortis arrived. They found themself easily talking with the kids, encouraging their dreams and letting them share their interests. The adults still made them a little wary, visually and subtly verbally checking the kids for abuse, but they all seemed to be thriving as best they could in the circumstances.

Eventually heading back to the agency, Mortis signed, ‘Thank you. If U.A. wasn’t so far away, I would wish I stopped here instead of going to Musutafu.’

A few days later, Mortis slipped into base, giving an exhausted smile to Au as they made their way to the back. Most people were making deliveries or deals or sleeping, so Mortis took silent steps until they were just outside Boss’ door, knocking for the first time in ages.

“Mortis, good to have you back. How was the internship?”

‘Good, Fat Gum updated my nutrition plan, and I’m working on a new skill. Unclear yet whether it’ll help on this side of my life, but we’ll see. Also, Fat Gum and Sun Eater are aware of my situation and are willing to help with and recruit for Plan A.’

“Unexpected but noted. Are they aware of us?”

‘Not by name, but they are aware I’m in a gang. With how quickly Fat Gum figured out my bio family, I doubt it’ll take him long to find out which gang I’m in if he decides to look into it.’

“Will they be a problem?” Boss groaned.

‘No, they work with gangs in Esuha, albeit with a tighter leash.’ Akira took a steadying breath, script set in their head. ‘I want to go on security duty. The new nutrition plan is going to take two and a half times what I’m currently making off deliveries. I know we’re still down people since the USJ incident, and I can be the shadow cloak or overwatch. I can intercept Eraser Head and draw off other heroes-’

“Done. Just stay out of the line of fire unless the muscle gives you the signal.”

Akira grinned, ‘Thanks, Boss. If everything goes well for once, you’ll be looking for someone new around October. Also, I’m gonna need to use the kitchen for a couple hours once a week.’

The next day in class, everyone was sharing their internships, and Akira resisted rolling their eyes at the trio saying Endeavor saved them. Riiight, definitely not a cover story. Bakugo seemed pretty happy in his own way with Mirko’s internship, and Kaminari seemed hyped for the alternate way of thinking Present Mic worked on with them. Akira was surprised by his admission of thinking Stain was cool, at least for his drive, and they carefully scanned the room for agreement, only to find disdain towards Kaminari and concern towards Ida. Shinso looked a little disappointed but mostly an emotion Akira couldn’t quite place.

Shinso’s capture scarf was now comfortably settled around his neck, and Akira grinned at the aesthetic choice. ‘Some hell course, huh? You look even more like Eraser now,’ they teased. Shinso just looked smug and nuzzled the fabric, drawing a laugh out of Akira and Koda.

Tokoyami was brooding more than usual, so Akira doodled a few stick figure Hawks getting doused in water and other pranks they’d heard of during homeroom. After passing it to Tokoyami during the break, Akira grinned at his small smile.

As the group made their way to Gym Gamma for rescue training, Akira kept glancing at Shinso’s new addition to his costume. Catching their eye, Akira signed, ‘Are you really okay with that?’

Shinso’s hands ghosted over their half mask as understanding sparked in his eyes. ‘It’s the most effective way to help advance my quirk, and Loud Cockatoo worked with me on the design and structure to avoid triggering. I need a lot of practice with the settings and with mimicking inflections, but yeah. I’m okay.’

Akira nodded hesitantly, worry still gnawing at the back of their mind over the muzzle-like contraption.

After Midoriya’s surprising demonstration of control, Akira went in the second rescue group for heroics with Jiro, Tokoyami, Shoto, and Shinso. Akira immediately heard the sharp tinkling of Shoto’s ice and warped onto the nearest building, surveying the terrain a moment before darting across the pipes. They could just make out Shinso in the distance using their capture weapon and Tokoyami using Dark Shadow’s hover to assist with larger jumps over top. Without an easy way to the canopy, Akira almost felt bad for Jiro being restricted to the ground.

Tokoyami, Akira, and Shoto were neck and neck, steps sure and quirks propelling them forward. Just as the twinkling stopped and Shoto activated his left side to propel the last few meters, Akira tapped All Might on the shoulder as they made their clone lose its footing. They winced as Tokoyami dove to catch them, only to dispel it with the force.

As the others caught up, Shoto bewildered, Tokoyami and Dark Shadow glared at Akira. “Don’t scare us like that! Give a warning next time.”

Akira smirked sheepishly, ‘If I warned you, you could’ve pulled ahead. I’ve been working on continued motion.’

Shinso lit up as they arrived. “You actually got it? That’s great!” But it wasn’t Shinso’s voice. It almost sounded like Tokoyami, but something was distinctly off.

‘That… I see what you’re going for, but you need a little more edge and intone.’

“How long have you been standing here?” All Might asked, handing the sash to Akira.

‘About 30 seconds before I tapped you. I’m still working on clone control.’ Akira signed as Anii interpreted, although they could tell All Might was starting to catch more of their signs in the moment.

Anii added to Akira, ‘You did good, kid.’

Jiro finally jogged up, looking pissed. “Of course, I got paired with aerial people. Who won?”

“I’m not aerial,” Shoto looked mildly confused.

“Yeah, but you might as well be with your ice,” Jiro snapped.

‘To answer your question, I won.’

Jiro scowled and stalked back to the class as the other four shrugged and made their way back, too.

“Are your clones new?” Shoto asked.

‘No, but how they work is. Fat Gum and Sun Eater helped me figure out how to direct them during my internship. Fine motor control and number of clones is still an issue, but that’ll come with time.’

Notes:

What’s the purpose of the lizard? None, I just thought it’d be cute. It’ll probably make an appearance in that collection of short stories. I used a random number generator to get the second rescue group based on the seating chart and immediately got three of the four members of Mad Banquet XD Also here's the first fanart I did of Akira! Technically they'd have their yellow contacts in, but I wanted to draw their cool eyes. Akira helping cat Next week things start heating up :D

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

[ultrajaphunter]

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Who is the top secret US document leaker Jack Teixeira?Story by Joshua Askew • 6h ago

FBI officers have arrested Jack Teixeira in connection with an embarrassing leak of top-secret US intelligence documents, which has kicked up quite the storm. But who is he? 

And what do we know about him? Jack Douglas Teixeira, 21, served in the Massachusetts Air National Guard. He was an first class airman detailed to an Air Force intelligence unit, having only graduated from high school in 2020. 

That such a junior member of staff had access to highly classified information has raised eyebrows, with some suggesting it points to wider security flaws within the US government's security structures. Originally from North Dighton, Massachusetts, Teixeira was a member of a private online group which posted about video games, religious themes, guns and memes. Some of which were racist, according to AP. Under the pseudonym "OG", Teixeira is believed to have shared many documents in the "Thug Shaker Central" group, which had a few dozen members. From here it spread across the internet, reaching Russian Telegram channels, and then Western media. Members of the international group were reportedly asked to disclose his identity.

Classified document leak will 'lead to death', warns Pentagon

Teixeira — whose family has a history of serving in the armed forces — opposed many of the US government's goals and denounced the military “since it was run by the elite politicians,” AP quoted a person close to the matter as saying.

“He expressed regret (about) joining a lot,” they said. “He even said he'd kick my ass if I thought about joining,” the anonymous acquaintance said.

Related video: 

FBI arrests man for US intelligence leaks (Reuters)

Air National Guard over the leaks online of classified US

Reuters FBI arrests man for US intelligence leaks

cbc.caU.S. reservist arrested over Pentagon leak2:39

France 24Pentagon leaks: US arrests 21-year-old National Guardsman Jack Teixeira1:34

Global NewsWho was the U.S. military member arrested over Pentagon leaks?3:21

The person did not believe Teixeira leaked the documents to undermine the US government or for an ideological reason. Still, the fallout has been significant, with Washington saying earlier in the week that national security was at risk. He faces charges under the Espionage Act, which carries up to 20 years imprisonment. Aerial footage of Jack Teixeira's arrest. -/AFP or licensors© Provided by Euronews Another member of the chatroom described Teixeira as a young, charismatic gun enthusiast. 

Others said he was older than most of the group of mostly teenagers and was eager to impress them. At work, he was a "cyber transport systems specialist" or essentially an IT specialist responsible for military communications networks, including their cabling and hubs. He had a higher level of security clearance than most because he was tasked with ensuring protection for the network, a defence official told AP. Using various online monikers, such as Tex Killed You and The Excalibur Effect, the 21-year-old previously shared written versions of the classified documents in the chatroom. 

However, no-one reportedly noticed, causing him to become frustrated.

Western special forces on the ground in Ukraine, shows leaked documents

Things were racketed up a gear when he began publishing photos. "He got upset, and he said on multiple occasions, if you guys aren't going to interact with them [the files], I'm going to stop sending them," another unidentified group member told the Washington Post. Another group member offered a theory to the Washington Post on why Teixeira shared the material. "This guy was a Christian, anti-war, just wanted to inform some of his friends about what's going on," he told The New York Times. Soldiers fresh out of high school who went to fight in Iraq and Afghanistan have in the past used top-secret intelligence and programmes to target adversaries. Teixeira's record does not suggest any overseas deployment.

[thejdw81]

Listening to conspiracy theorists talk about the same things you read.

[jayteacups]

All Too Familiar

In a twisted turn of events, you, Levi’s lover, take the bullet.

Pairing: Levi Ackerman x GN!Reader

Genre & warnings: Angst, hurt no comfort, mentions of canon-typical violence, gore and descriptions of blood, language, major character death. Attack on Titan S4 Pt1 spoilers ahead. Reader is a Squad Leader, and Levi’s spouse. 

Word count: 2.4k

A/N: first angst piece on here whoop whoop (also I wrote this without having rewatched the episode that this is based on, so the events might not 100% match the episode’s script, but hey we’re here for a good(?) time not a long time) (also just in time for the new season hehe)

Your heart pounds mercilessly in your chest as you tug yourself up onto the ship’s deck, body aching, ears still ringing with the boom of thunder and the screams of the dogs you’d downed. 

“Squad Leader Ackerman, check.” You hear Floch say, and your squad titters with relief. You nod at them, giving your recruits a once-over: hair askew, a few scrapes and bruises, blood spatters across their uniform. Ultimately unharmed. Good, you think to yourself, but the restless churning of your stomach does not cease.

As more and more Scouts hoist themselves up onto the ship, you quickly catch up with a few other soldiers on what had happened. Mikasa had made it on deck with Eren, Armin had successfully taken out the port and navy, Jean, Sasha and a few other soldiers faced the Cart Titan, Connie had gotten a good few kills in unassisted…

You frown and staunchly power through the mild queasiness, remembering the sweet, bright-eyed cadets these soldiers had once been. Days long gone. “What about Captain Levi?” You dare to ask, blood roaring in your ears. Zeke was an unpredictable, unexplainable variable—who knew what shit he’d try to pull? After all, you’d only survived Shiganshina because you were never there in the first place—you’d been severely injured in the cavern fight against Kenny’s Anti-Personnel Squad, and had not yet been cleared to join the Scouts to retake Maria. 

“His part of the plan was successful. He’s got the Beast Titan held captive in the next room over,” the soldier explains, and he does not comment on the shuddery sigh of relief that escapes you. Though Levi’s the strongest of you all, you’ve never quite been able to rid yourself of the fear that threatened to choke you every time the two of you were separated in an expedition. 

As you check back in on Jean, who seems rather troubled at just how easily the Scouts had raided Liberio, the chatter suddenly rises into an uproar.

You flinch. As Floch triumphantly declares Eldia’s victory, you exchange looks with Jean, who’s expression grows increasingly perturbed. 

How could anybody glorify this? If Levi was here instead of dealing with Zeke and Eren, he would put an end to the rowdiness without a breath of hesitation. Yet your feet remain glued to the floor, voice stuck in your throat. 

Such ideologies would consume these soldiers whole, and you fear they were already past the point of no return. 

There is blood on all of our hands. It is nothing to be celebrated.

Sasha tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear, her usually buoyant features flattened by exhaustion and solemnness. She sighs audibly, shaking her head in agreement with you and Jean. Connie swallows, before reaching up to squeeze both of their shoulders, expressing his gratitude that they survived. 

The restlessness, the gnawing, all-consuming entity inside of you that only grew further distressed at Floch’s toast, snaps. You take a step towards the door. I need to see him. Now. 

But a hand lands on your shoulder, Sasha’s face suddenly pensive. “Squad Leader Ackerman, I hear something.”

Jean cocks his head, eyeing her for a moment before attempting to shout over the cheer of the other soldiers. Sasha blinks, eyes staring through space, her keen ears straining for the sound she had heard. 

“Huh,” she murmurs, “I don’t hear anything anymore…”

Instinct forces your mouth open, the Squad Leader in you helping Jean out. “Hey, listen to Commanding Officer Kirstein. Quiet down, save the celebrations for when we get back to the island.”

“Loosen up a bit, Squad Leader,” one of your own says with an easy grin, slinging an arm around your shoulders. Your heart sinks; not them, too. “We’re already way up in the air.”

Sasha exchanges glances with you. “It was probably nothing,” she mumbles apologetically. “I can still hear the thunder spears ringing in my ear. It could just be that.”

“Me too,” you admit. It should be fine; the attack had left Marley crippled; by the time they launched their airships to give chase, you would all be long gone. You need to check in on Hange and Levi, besides. It was about time—he’d get increasingly restless despite hearing the news that you made it back alright. Just like you, Levi needed to see you alive and well in front of him to truly believe it, and so you turn.

A thud echoes across the room, like the weight of a human body hitting the floor. 

You barely have time to entertain the thought of turning around before a loud bang follows. Pain lances through your chest, and suddenly all you can breathe and taste and feel is pain and blood.

———

“Captain Levi, Commander Hange.”

Levi tears his eyes away from the wretched animals sat in front of him. Jean stands, looking dishevelled, slightly pale. The man—no, still a boy in his eyes, they would always be children forced to bear a burden no child, no human should have to bear—is accompanied by two smaller figures. One timid-looking blond, one angry little brunette who reminds him a little too much of the boy that had rained destruction on Marley.

A never-ending cycle.

Levi pauses—Jean’s hands resting atop the children’s shoulders are stained with an all-too-familiar red. 

His blood chills. “What is it?”

Jean swallows, the bob of his Adam’s apple all too obvious. “These two, we believe them to be child conscripts. Warrior candidates. They snuck onto the ship using Lobov’s ODM gear, and…”

Levi clenches his jaw. How? What on earth happened? Fury, and something akin to fear, boils close under his skin. What had the Jaegers brought upon them? 

Levi dares to lock eyes with Hange, their good eye filled with fear and apprehension. 

“Speak, Jean.” They say, and Levi does not miss the almost-imperceptible waver in their voice.

The young commanding officer rasps, “the girl shot Squad Leader Ackerman. Medics are—”

Levi doesn’t let Jean finish before he pushes past him to the door, slamming it open. 

Crimson spills past the gaping hole in your chest, spills past your chapped, parted lips—lips Levi’s own is all too familiar with. Your face is ashen, body twitching weakly as the medics (plus Sasha) frantically work, tightly wrapping bandages and urgently communicating with one another. 

Dozens of eyes rise to meet his upon his arrival—but Levi does not care.

All he sees is you.

(All he has ever seen is you.)

He’s not sure how he made it from the door to your side, but the wooden floor is hard against his knees, your warm blood seeping through his uniform. 

Your name leaves his lips in a shaky whisper so quiet none could hear—other than you. 

Your eyelids flutter. “Hey.” You rasp, blood dribbling down your chin at the motion. Your body jerks limply, and a fountain of ruby red splashes onto Levi’s lap. He takes your hand, squeezes it tightly. You squeeze back with only a fraction of the force he knows you’re capable of. 

He bites back the urge to scream. Why? You, of all people, you, the light of his life… 

Why? 

You’re strong, so strong, your arms his safe place, your voice his guide, your smile his lifeline.

Why?

Levi’s eyes feel hot and wet, and he can barely breathe past the lump in his throat. 

No. 

Sasha whimpers. “See? Squad Leader, the Captain’s here, you gotta hang in there for him, alright?” 

You nod weakly, grunting as one medic ties the bandage tight against your skin. A wobbly smile graces your chapped lips, teeth stained pink.

“Guess… this is it, right, love?”

He shakes his head. His eyes burn, vision blurring until he sees nothing but a jumbled mess of browns and reds. He blinks to clear his eyes, and heat trails down his cheeks.

I should’ve been in here. I was done securing Zeke long ago. 

“Hang in there,” he repeats, blood roaring in his ears. “You… you’re not dying here. You’re not dying, you hear me?” Levi’s not sure who he’s trying to convince, but the words spill from him unabashedly. “Come on.”

You look up at him, eyes beginning to glaze over. 

“Don’t drift away,” he pleads, “stay with us.” 

Stay with me.

Not you too. You can’t leave me too. 

“C’mon, Squad Leader,” Sasha whispers in encouragement, “you’re gonna be ok. Don’t… don’t say goodbye, you’re ok. You’re ok. The medics are helping you, you’ll be alright.” In the periphery of Levi’s vision, he sees Connie and Jean usher the other soldiers back to give the medics room to work. 

“Is there any chance they’ll make it?” Jean asks one of the medics quietly, the question clearly not meant for Levi’s ears. It reaches them anyway. His free hand curls into a fist. 

You shake your head, thumb grazing against the back of Levi’s hand, so gentle—ever-so gentle. Your soft, loving touches soothe like none other, and this might very well be the last of them Levi will ever receive. “I’m sorry, Levi,” you rasp. His other hand reaches forward, pads of his fingers settling over your wrist. Your pulse flutters weakly, too weakly. 

“You’re not going to fucking die,” Levi grinds out. “I forbid it, I—damn it! We… you said you’d survive. You swore it—you can’t go back on your word. Please.”

Tears leak from your half-lidded eyes, mingling with the blood on your cheek. “I…”

“We’re… we were going to make it. We were going to fucking grow old together, I… you’re not giving up right now, you can’t.” 

A bloodied hand settles upon his cheek for a moment, streaking his skin with ruby red. “I wish I could’ve had it all with you, too.” 

Your wedding band is cold against his skin, like your fingers. At odds with the warmth he has always associated with you. 

“Sir,” one of the medics murmurs, “I don’t think we can—”

“Shit—keep going, damn it!” Levi yells louder than he’s ever yelled in his god-forsaken life, and the medics scramble to continue tending to you. 

“Maybe in the next life,” you whisper, the hand that was still enveloped in his growing more and more limp by the millisecond. 

“No—don’t fucking talk like that, don’t you dare!” Levi grips your hand tightly. “Keep your eyes open!”

I should’ve come out here sooner.

“No, don’t,” you choke, “don’t blame yourself. Don’t blame yourself for this, for any of it. Please—promise me, love.”

Ears ringing, he nods. He’ll agree to anything to appease you, if it’ll make you stay.

“Y-yeah. Yeah, I promise… come on, eyes open, keep them on me. Keep them on me, yeah?”

You’re fading fast, the light diminishing in your pupils, colour draining from your face hue by hue. Judging by the resignation on your face, you know it too—and it is within the silence that Levi can hear the shattering of his heart. With your remaining strength, you weakly push everyone away but Levi himself. 

It wasn’t supposed to end like this.

The medics’ hands slow to a stop. Levi’s breath catches in his throat. 

“Hold me one last time,” you plead.

He manoeuvres you into his lap—too light, too frail. Your weight on top of him is familiar, the way your face nuzzles his neck, the way you drop gentle kisses atop his shoulder—it is all achingly familiar, and he will never feel it again. 

You mumble against his collarbone, “I will love you in this life, and the next, until I find you and onwards past, to eternity.”

Levi’s eyes close, his trembling lips pressing against your forehead, not daring to look down. He can’t—he’ll break. “You fought well. I love you and I always will.” The three letters he has always been so hesitant to say spill easily from his lips as fast as the blood is gushing out of yours. He should’ve said it more often; maybe then you would stay. (He shouldn’t have been so afraid to love you in the light.)

You nod drowsily in acknowledgement, barely able to form words. Your lashes brush against the exposed part of his neck as you close your eyes. For the last time, he thinks, and this time does not deny it. 

You, another person Levi has failed. You, a fallen star, him, the scoundrel that has tainted every good thing that comes his way.

He trembles, holding you tight against him, feeling your chest rise and fall against his. 

Rise.

Fall. 

Rise.

You shudder. He whispers your name. 

Fall. 

He waits.

Rise, he wills it, but your chest stays still. 

The airship is silent, save for the whirring of the engine and the sound of his own shaky breathing.  The ringing in his ears grows, an unbearable tortured sound filling up every space in his body, drowning out all thoughts until there was nothing but pure agony. Distantly, somebody screams, audible yet not quite loud enough to cut through the fog of grief. Make it stop, he pleads. Perhaps it is him that is making that awful, awful sound, but he’s not sure. 

He only clutches on tighter to your broken form, body still warm, scarlet blood seeping all over and through his uniform. He doesn’t care that he’s filthy. He doesn’t care that every damn soldier on the airship can see him weeping out in the open.

You weren’t supposed to die. You didn’t deserve to; none of his fallen comrades have. 

Cradling you in his arms, he deliriously thinks that perhaps he is dreaming. You’ll shake him awake from the nightmare soon and hold him in your arms the way he’s holding you right now, whispering in that all too familiar croon: ‘no, baby, I’m safe and sound. Okay? Listen to my heartbeat.’

One hand splays against your chest. Underneath Levi’s shaking fingertips, your heart lies still.

The reprieve he’s waiting for doesn’t come. He’s not waking up.

This is real.

The sight of your broken body covered in red will be a sight he won’t ever escape. 

Oh, how he is sick of seeing red; a colour he is all too familiar with.

© 2022 jayteacups | do not repost, modify or claim as your own work

Masterlist

[justanobsessedfangirl]

Pompous Gits and Slytherins - Harry Potter Series Percy Weasley Imagine

Author’s Note: Ok, so I know technically no one asked for this. But I really couldn’t get this idea out of my head AND there was a Harry Potter marathon on TV today. I’m really not responsible for my actions, honestly. 

I’m open for requests! I’d love to hear anything you guys have to say :)

Masterlist

Word Count: 2k

The potion was turning brown.

“Pompous git,” you muttered, frantically trying to pierce a Sopophorous bean with a silver knife.

“You were supposed, 3, to already have the beans, 4, cut,” Percy Weasley insisted. He was holding the cauldron at an angle, counting out loud as he dropped wormwood essence into it. “5. Are you almost done? 6. 7.”

“It wouldn’t kill you to go slower.” You caught the bean as it tried to bounce off the cutting board.

“8. It might, actually. 9. If I get a poor grade on this, 10, I’ll--”

“You won’t have perfect NEWTs and then you’ll never become Minister of Magic.” Slamming the flat of the knife onto the bean, you crushed it, releasing a thick, green juice. “Everyone knows your plans, Percy.”

As Percy leveled the cauldron, you scraped the juice in, speeding up its slow crawl across the board.

“Everyone also makes fun of your plans,” you added as you picked up a beaker filled with water and chopped up Valerian roots. You handed it to Percy so he could measure out seven drops. Last Potions class he’d called you “heavy-handed,” so you had decided that adding drops was now his responsibility. While you would be angry if he messed it up, you couldn’t deny that you’d also feel smug.

He began pouring, the tips of his ears turning a red that rivaled his hair. “I don’t see why anyone would make fun of them.” His voice sounded far more confident than he seemed to feel.

“Because you act like you’re better than everyone. Don’t you know that’s a Slytherin thing?” You arched an eyebrow and adjusted your green tie.

Percy refused to look up as he set the beaker back down. He only scowled at the table.

You rolled your eyes, picking up the wooden spoon and beginning to stir the potion clockwise. Percy eyed your movements like a hawk. “That was a compliment,” you said.

“I don’t see how.”

You completed the tenth stir, now staring at a pale lilac mixture, and offered the spoon to Percy. He took it with his right hand and began to stir counterclockwise, quietly counting the seconds each stir took.

“There you go again, acting as though you’re better than everyone. There’s nothing wrong with being a Slytherin.”

Percy briefly peeked up from the potion, which was growing paler by the second, to shoot a pointed look at the table in front of yours. Kaden Shafiq, a Slytherin notorious for bullying anyone who wasn’t a pure-blood, was stirring his potion and sneering at the Hufflepuff girl beside him.

“He’s an anomaly,” you assured Percy.

Percy didn’t seem convinced.

You picked the silver knife back up and began cutting a Valerian root into square pieces. “Most of us don’t believe in his ideologies.” Feeling Percy’s heavy stare, you amended, “Well, some of us don’t.”

“I caught some third years making fun of Ron for being a Weasley just yesterday.”

You glanced up, but Percy was staring at the potion. His lips moved silently as he counted. You looked back down at the Valerian roots. “I take it he wasn’t being made fun of for having the red Weasley hair?”

Percy sniffed haughtily and pulled the spoon out. The potion was clear as water. “You know what they were saying.” Percy took one of the squares of Valerian root that you’d cut up and dropped it into the potion. “They were calling him a blood traitor.”

You dropped another square in. “That’s radical thinking. I don’t believe that and I don’t associate with those who do. My parents don’t even believe that, and you know how backwards old pure-bloods can be.”

Taking another square, Percy gave you a measured look, as though he was trying to see if you were lying. After a few seconds, he turned back to the cauldron and added the Valerian root, looking unsatisfied.

To be fair, that could have just been his normal face. His lips seemed to naturally form either a pout or a frown, and his eyes, hidden behind horn-rimmed glasses, always seemed judgmental.

You picked up more Valerian root and let it fall into the potion. “How many squares was that?”

Horrified, Percy whipped around to face you. “You weren’t counting?” His eyes were huge, his freckled skin pale.

You laughed. “I’m teasing, that was 5.” You added another square to the clear, bubbling potion. “Care to do the last piece?”

Percy shook his head, frowning as you dropped in the last square of Valerian root. As soon as you pulled back your hand, he began stirring the potion counterclockwise. He seemed so concentrated that you found yourself wracking your brain to come up with something to distract him. To your surprise, he spoke first, his voice formal. “What are your plans for after graduation?”

The smile you had at him speaking first died on your lips once you processed his question. Buying time, you waited until Percy completed the tenth stir, then handed him the beaker of Powdered Root of Asphodel, waited for him to finish pouring, took it back, set it down, and finally said, “My plans are spreading around the school like wildfire.”

Percy took the cauldron in his right hand and started to stir with his left. “I haven’t heard.”

Your lips quirked into a small smile. “Of course you haven’t.” You toyed with the silver knife, not wanting to see his face. “I’m betrothed.”

“Betrothed?” Percy nearly dropped the spoon. His cheeks flamed, only growing redder when you helped him steady the cauldron. “You’re 17.”

“Exactly. I’m finally old enough for my parents to act on the plans they made years ago. Keep stirring, Percy.”

He reluctantly complied. “Who is it?” Every word out of his mouth seemed to offend him. He wouldn’t stop staring at you.

Steeling yourself, you said, “Some pure-blood old enough to be my father.” You looked back down at the knife, ashamed to be admitting it, ashamed to be ashamed, ashamed to be doing any of this in front of Percy Weasley, of all people. Head Boy Percy. Going to be the Minister Percy. “He doesn’t even live in this country. He’s off in America. Have you been counting the stirs?”

“Counting the...damn!” Percy quickly pulled the spoon out and set the cauldron back on the desk. He ran a hand through his hair as he peered at the potion. When he finally pulled away, his face was bright red, his hair was a mess, and his glasses were askew.

You laughed.

He frowned. “If you’re going to America, where will you work? I guess you could Apparate or use the Floo Network to get to the Ministry, but you wouldn’t even be living here--”

“My work is done. I found a husband.” Your words were so bitter you could taste them. “Slytherins are ambitious, but for the girls that only means being ambitious with your marriage options.” You chuckled, devoid of humor. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe Slytherins are awful.”

“But...but...you’re...smart,” Percy said, not even gloating over you saying he was right. His compliment came out stilted and awkward, like his lips weren’t used to forming the words. “How can you not work in the Ministry?”

The conversation was becoming painful. It felt like something was wrapped around your chest and squeezing, but you refused to cry, refused to show any sign of weakness. You needed the upper hand again. “Oh, Percy, you shouldn’t compliment a girl so much. Someone might think you’re in love.”

Percy spluttered and you decided you quite liked how a blush looked painted across his cheeks. “You can’t say that! Especially not when you’re--you’re--”

“Betrothed? I think it’s the perfect time to say something like that. Merlin knows I won’t have any fun after the wedding.” You pretended to mull over that thought, even though you’d spent the past week worrying about just that. “Probably not during the wedding, either. My mother will plan the whole thing, using the groom’s money, of course, which means it will manage to be simultaneously extravagant and dull. Maybe I’ll invite those twin brothers of yours to make things more exciting. Don’t worry, you can come, too.”

Percy shook his head. His cheeks were slowly returning to their normal shade of pale. You could see his freckles again. “I’ll have to decline.” Puffing his chest slightly, he glanced at you out of the corner of his eye. “I’ll be working in the Ministry by then.”

He was looking for your approval, so you shook your head and sarcastically said, “Of course you will.” You checked your watch, eyed the cauldron, and dropped one last piece of Valerian root into it. The potion turned a pale pink.

You expected to hear a sigh of relief from Percy at the success, but instead, he said, “I will be in the Ministry.” He scowled as he ladled the potion into a flask to hand to Professor Snape. 

The bell rang. You slid your textbook into your bag and stood. “And I’ll be the Minister of Magic.”

With that, you left the classroom, hoping Percy wasn’t as hurt as he’d looked.  He started it. He didn’t have to rub his future in my face after I just admitted to having no future.

Even so, you felt off for the rest of the day. You bit back with more venom at your friends, you completed classes with a frown, and you snapped every time you heard someone gossiping about you. The mix of anger and guilt and anxiety only grew as the afternoon turned into evening, and it was time for you to do your duties as a prefect.

You knew who you would find waiting for you outside your common room.

Percy Weasley stuck out like a sore thumb in the dungeons. Sometimes you’d come out and make some teasing remark about that, but tonight you only nodded at him and began to walk.

Percy matched your pace. The air between you two was uncomfortable, the silence uneasy. You were climbing a set of stairs when Percy broke it. “Well,” he said, staring straight ahead, “are you going to apologize?”

“Why should I apologize? You’re the one who had to rub it in my face.”

Percy stopped in his tracks. “You’re not in the right here.”

You stopped too, crossing your arms and staring at him, fire brewing in your chest. Your fingers itched to grab your wand and hex him, to finally make him be quiet about his grand plans for the future. “Yes, I am. You’re not.”

Percy took a step forward. “All you Slytherins do is make fun of people for having goals. You’re supposed to be ambitious. You’re supposed to understand.”

You laughed. “We’re not the only ones making fun of you. Your brothers do it more than the rest of us combined.” He shifted his weight between his feet, but before he could speak, you said, “I don’t have a problem with your goals.”

He closed his mouth, watching curiously as you continued. Was that a glimmer of hope behind his glasses?

“I have a problem with your timing. You didn’t have to bring it up then. Not after...after I told you about what I’m doing.”

Any peace that might have been building was squashed.

Percy spun on his heel and began marching away. “I was hoping it would make you realize that you don’t have to settle for that.”

You glared and stormed after him. Grabbing his robes and pulling him back, you snarled, “You think I want to do this? I’d rather snap my wand!”

His eyes locked on yours. “So do something about it! You’re ambitious! You’re capable! You’re a Slytherin!”

And just like that, you were pulling him even closer, and your lips met in a clash of wills. His hands went to your waist. You didn’t realize you were backing up until you felt the stone wall behind you. Your heart beat furiously. One of your hands went to Percy’s face, felt the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips, then moved into his hair, pulling on his red curls. He kissed you harder.

Maybe that git Percy Weasley had a point. 

You were a Slytherin, after all. You could figure something out.

[ofspark]

𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐄

@gainsborro​ asked: “ there  is  absolutely  no  excuse  for  what  i’m  about  to  do ! ”

          "𝑺𝒕𝒐𝒑 𝒃𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒌𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔!" The words come on a bark. They erupt from the tip of a tongue too familiar with orders cast. Once a commanding officer, once a civil servant among masses too ignorant to understand the bed of lies made for them. A corrupt, systematic farce commandeered by a government ruling with fear instead of good. Focused on control rather than prosperity. The ideology still lays bitter across the flat of her tongue as she swallows down the construct of what once was. Instead, this ire built upon the back of she is repurposed to the haste willing her forthright. Lithe && lateral extremity winds toward flank if only so wrist might pivot && snag hold of ever trusted saber. && with the armament yanked from its scabbard, digits shift to therein activate its release && free the blade from within hollowed centrality. Once a rifle has now altered to the blade that sings proud amidst mentioned flank.            Lean form presents itself just ahead of dearest companion, eyes furrowed && upholding impending damnation to the obstacle beyond them. A glance askew shoulder’s curve sees eyes blessed by the sea befalling those of malachite. The tongue clicks, frustration dismissed for the sake of readiness && a willingness to destroy to survive. && so, when her eyes might befall the beast yonder, her voice now stilled from its prior aggravation comes at the posture taken.           Battle-born. “Get ready for a fight.”

[a-skirmish-of-wit-and-lit]

Book Review: The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood

One particular draw I've always felt towards speculative fiction is its ability to unsettle. To disquiet. How it's capable of disturbing the imagination and prickling the senses to the point where I, too, am trapped in the rippling current of possibility it presents. Where I, too, am caught in its subjugated web of strife and despair, of yearning and struggle, with characters who live in a world which is both alien and familiar to me in striking degrees.

Books in this genre can forcibly pitch me forward into a state of baited, this-could-happen, 'oh fuck, what if this really could happen' suspense that leaves me dangling and clutching at a tightrope with sweaty fingers as reality blurs with conjecture, and as conjecture becomes a plausible nightmare. What's more, I find they're usually able to accomplish this because of a slight conflagration of one or more previously simple (seemingly innocuous) practices or ideologies that have been pushed to the extreme.

All it takes is a spark. All such a book needs is for one flame of believability to take root, to catch the wick. Then it can incinerate the flimsy wall that's erected between what is and what could be with ease, so that all I'm fit to do is puzzle, wonder, think--ruminating over all that I know or thought I believed.

The Handmaid's Tale does all this and more. It takes speculative fiction to a new level. I say this because of the delicacy with which it's handled, because of the minced subtlety Atwood wields to construct a dystopia where women are objectified, oppressed, categorized, and silenced under the thumbs of male dominion.

Her worldbuilding may be called scant at first glance, gradual. It's without preamble or bombast, so there's not much expanse on the political how's, the why's. However, don't let this fool you because it's that quality in addition to Offred's measured, meditative, passive, internally-crying-and-screaming narration that allows you to understand that women in this society have been violated in body, stripped of their individualism, and shed free of their voices in every awful, conceivable way.

Self-expression, personal freedom--those things do not exist here. Not really. They have been siphoned away, placed high up on a shelf in a locked cupboard, just out of reach, where Justification after Justification have decreed them to be Out Of Use for all women. For all handmaids like Offred.

This is a horrific chilling tale, no doubt about it. Yet, what makes it so strangely dismaying for me has less to do with the reminiscent/recognizable aspects of present society (though the misogyny parallels are stark and glaring) and more to do with how this book's themes, its realities, slowly dig themselves beneath your skin. You cannot escape their clutches. They swat and scratch and scrape until you can do nothing else but trace their markings: paying them heed with your own thoughts, tears; your own blood.

With every turn of the page, you're reminded a little more of freedom's precious fragility. With each end to a chapter, you drift further into rational shock and chaotic sensibility. With every nurturing relationship, with each memory where happiness may have once reigned for the main character, you feel as if you're thrown into a hall of mirrors where things are distorted, askew, and angled in uncomfortable positions that you can hardly bear to process. The unbearableness of it all is what buries itself inside of you, slowly, until the echo of what could be is there to stay.

If you don't come away from this book half wanting, half perceiving, then you're a liar. This is not a story you forget. It stokes, it haunts. It whispers your name in the dark whenever you think you're done listening.

You simply cannot clap your hands over your ears, shut your eyes, or command yourself to believe that you will be no different after reading it. Because you will be.

"But who can remember pain, once it’s over? All that remains of it is a shadow, not in the mind even, in the flesh. Pain marks you, but too deep to see. Out of sight, out of mind."

4.5/5 stars

*You can follow me on Goodreads

[boonki]

Draco was not a dramatic man.

Sure, he’d given in to the stereotype over the years, laughing about it with his friends and letting them neatly label his erratic behaviors and eccentricities as such, and at times, had even leaned into it, getting away with actions and ideals because of this simple belief his friends had in him.

But the thing was, Draco was not, in fact, dramatic.

There was just a certain order to things. Things were meant to be the way they were meant to be. And as any civil and educated member of society, he trusted and upheld that those practices, ideologies, and traditions had meaning to them. That they gave way to a more poignant, established, and refined lifestyle.

Which was why, under no circumstances, he was making this man’s order.

“But,” the man practically sputtered, “I’m the customer.”

Draco hitched an eyebrow. “And I’m the owner, and I say absolutely not.”

The disbelief and uncertainty was almost comical, had it not been leading to his coffee shop’s financial decline. Well, not a fatal decline, given it was late into the evening and most of the seats were still occupied, surely assisted by the decline in weather and onset of exam week. But still, every dollar counted. To someone poorer than him, Draco speculated. But still, on principle.  

“But it’s what I want, and I’m paying you to do it.” The man pushed the money closer to Draco, as if bribery were going to suddenly peel away his sense of morality. He’d like to see this man try and break down Draco’s strict sense of self.

“You’re asking me to make you a latte with five shots of espresso and about half the bottle of vanilla to compensate. If you’re this desperate into your exams and are in need of a heart attack, I would recommend letting your marks come out and having things run their due course, no?”

Draco was impressed with this man’s persistence, if anything. His glasses hung crooked on his nose, drawing attention away from his rather startling green eyes, and Draco, though strongly disinclined to touching strangers, was fighting back the urge to smooth down his great tuft of hair. Instead, he feigned clearing a smudge off the face of the register.

“Fine.”

Draco looked up, quickly relaxing his face to veil the shock. His mouth pulled to the side, and he shifted his stance.

“So what’ll it be?”

“Just a latte then, I suppose.” The man, to his credit, didn’t look as frustrated as Draco was sure he felt.

Draco did end up putting an extra shot in, out of pity.

____

The night after, he was back.

“Okay, listen, I know it’s a bit unconventional, but I have not slept in weeks, and I need to pass this class. My friends like this place, so I can’t go elsewhere. Can I please have a five shot latte with extra vanilla syrup?” He was breathing a little harder than he should’ve been, impassioned by his short speech, his ragged flannel undulated with the rise and fall of the man’s sturdy-looking chest. Draco, although amused, was a hard man to crack.

“No.”

“Please.”

“Still no.”

The man pursed his lips, looking up at the sky. He turned on his heel, and back to his table, where his two friends, one a young woman with bushy hair and an air of efficiency, and the other looking hopelessly lost with his material, looked up at him, and then right at Draco. The young woman stood harshly, letting the legs of the chair scrape against the floor, drawing the attention of the nearby customers, and stalked over to the register.

She took a deep breath before talking. “Can I have a-”

Draco was doing his best not to smile. “No.”

She looked taken aback, eyebrows furrowing together. “But you haven’t even heard what I’m asking for.”

Draco gave her a level stare. “You’re going to ask for the drink that I won’t make your friend, and my answer is still no. It’s not even coffee at that point, just a stroke waiting to happen.”

“This has got to be illegal.” She stated, very matter-of-fact.

“If you can find the law, then I’ll follow it. Best of luck.” He countered.

She pursed her lips, letting out a sharp breath through her nose. “Fine. I will.”

He almost believed that she actually would, too.

____

The next time the man came, he came alone, and sat with his head buried in books for the better half of the night.

Draco was nearly intrigued. Why come here with no friends if he couldn’t even get his order?

The customers were fairly sparse tonight, and Draco was getting a bit tired of wiping down the same mugs and rinsing out the same milk pitchers. So, he decided to take a chance, deviate from himself for a bit. Just to see what would happen. Not because he wanted to. Naturally, he would never tell anyone about this, lest his reputation be completely ruined.

Five shots and half a bottle of vanilla it was, if that would allow him to sit across from this man and ask him what compels him to bring on his own early demise.

He made the drink, reeling with disgust the entire time, almost threw it out on two different occasions, but found himself placing it on the man’s table before Draco really had the time to figure out what he was going to say. He stood there, like a complete nitwit, while the man looked down at the cup and then back up at him.

“I’m Draco.” He said.

The man hesitated, uncertainty and confusion written clearly in the open mouth, cocked head, and wrinkled forehead. “Uh… Harry Potter.” He finally settled on.

Draco made a face he hoped came across as pleasant. “What are you studying for?”

Harry blinked at him, and then startled down to his textbooks, as if he forgot they were there. “Oh, uh, business.”

“Business, good.” Draco said, like a fucking idiot.

Harry nodded, just a small nod, and gave a flash of a smile that was really more polite than welcoming.

“Right. Well. Enjoy.”

Draco sauntered back to his counter, wanting to dissolve into the ground and melt right into hell. That was terrible. God, where did his wit go? He might as well close up shop and move locations.

Not that, under any circumstances, Draco was dramatic. This was a completely normal reaction to making a fucking buffoon of oneself in front of someone that might, objectively, be considered attractive.

____

“But  you made it last time!”

“No.”

“Then why did you make it in the first place?”

“You looked so pathetic, sitting there all alone. I was hoping the caffeine would make you do something worthwhile with yourself.”

Harry took a deep breath, the kind that is more a warning, a threat, than just a breath. “You know what? Fine. Okay. Just give me a regular vanilla latte then.”

Draco made his special drink, and said absolutely nothing of his own atrocities. God, who was he turning into?

“Here’s your latte.”

“Thanks for nothing.” Harry grumbled.

“Anytime, Potter.”

Draco watched the back of Harry as he walked away, watched his stupid sweater stretch over his broad shoulders. Maybe he should throw in some whip-cream next time.

___

“He fancies you, you know.” The bushy-haired friend was back, this time with a much more agreeable mood. She handed him her card, and he mindlessly swiped it through his machine.

Draco’s stomach muscles clenched. Why on earth would he do that?

“Why on earth would he do that?” He said, holding her card out between them.

She took it, and laughed. “I don’t know either, not to be rude," she added, after looking at his face, "but you should say something, I don’t think he will. He’ll just keep coming here and be miserable the whole time.”

“Hmm, that sounds like a personal problem.” It was an interesting development. He wasn’t quite sure what to do with the information.

He placed her coffee on the counter--"thank you"--and went back to wiping mugs, totally not purposefully avoiding looking over at his table, but rather… circumstantially always finding things to do that required the back wall.

Draco nearly-- nearly, because he’s fucking good at his job-- messed up the next drink that came through, and blamed it on the fact that he didn’t get much sleep the night before. Can insomnia cause a racing heart?

___

Draco was not a dramatic man.

He simply believed there was a way to do things properly, and that you couldn’t casually ask someone out over coffee at your own coffee shop. Things like this required dinner, maybe flowers, a candle or two, hair gel, and some confidence.

Which is how he found himself closing his shop early, turning the sign to Closed hours before he normally did, and waiting on his own front steps for nearly a fucking hour before the golden trio came trekking to his store, bags heavy and books in hand.

“What are you doing?” Harry asked, as if it wasn’t obvious Draco was waiting for someone. Harry’s scarf was hanging askew on his neck, and Draco wanted to stand up and fix it for him.

“Waiting, obviously.” Draco said, looking him dead in the eye, expression perfectly neutral.

“For…” Harry dragged out the 'r', leaving the question mark behind, waiting for Draco to finish the sentence.

“Well, you.”

Harry’s bushy-haired friend’s eyes widened, and she tugged the red-headed boy’s arm fervently, who looked altogether baffled. “We, uh, I actually need to run to the library quick. Bye, Harry!” The red-head sputtered a rather futile protest before being swept away. Draco was secretly grateful for her rather poor excuse.

“Wait--” Harry started, turning his head in between Draco and the now-vacant spot where his friends had previously stood.

Draco stood up, suddenly conscious of the empty space between them where a counter usually occupied. “If you can make it one night without studying, would you like to go to dinner?”

Harry’s eyebrows shot up on his forehead, just about reaching his daft mess of hair. He simply stood there, books in hand, scarf askew, breathing in the cold air as if Draco hadn’t said anything at all.

“Hello?” Draco tried again.

“Yes, I would… yes. Tonight?” Harry said.

“That was the plan.”

“Uh, okay. Sure. Where are we going?”

Draco smiled, just a turn up of one side of his mouth. “I know a place. You just can’t order anything stupid and ridiculous. And no coffee, god, you’re probably going to die of a heart attack.”

____

Draco was not a dramatic man, nor was he prone to making rushed decisions and leaping to conclusions.

He was methodical, careful, calculating, and did not take kindly to strangers invading his personal space. He valued his privacy, his sanctuary at home that was undisturbed by the outside world. He usually didn’t date, and would never consider adopting a pet. He liked being alone.

But he was pretty sure he was going to keep this man.

(And never, ever make him a five shot latte again, not if he wanted his boyfriend alive.)

[medicinenew]

“A-a monster. Its a monster!!!” such words leaving the tongues of such heinous criminals. She would laugh at their futility to run and hide while she followed. Two heads on the ground, both severed by swift precision from her blade. That sent the last one running to the presumed hideaway. If not for how noisy they were then maybe they could hide better, but she’d still drag their bodies out and butcher them. “What monster?! There’s no monsters here!” shouted one of them, a back was pressed against the door from the inside, that’s what her magical insight told her. So she approached the door, putting her hands against the feeble wood, and quickly pushed on it. On the other end, the bandits were left with a surprise, her hands reached forward and her arms grasped his body and began to squeeze his rib cage till the organs started to burst from the deadly pressure of her strength. The frightened yells were a clear way to signify they were in terror and soon that terror would end.

The mercenaries that had taken her never gave her much thought when they traveled from place to place. Feeding her was a minor priority, attending to her needs and wants was even less so. They still paid her mind, but that was never their main focus. It was always on the work, because they told her they were heroes, she believed them for what else could the people be who saved her? But such a life was not meant to last when he came. It was a retribution for all the terrible acts they did in the name of money and murder. A robed man with a deep voice and a terrifying presence, to approach was to show either bravery or stupidity. “For all that you have done, this is a reward that only filth deserves.” bodies were slammed into the nearby stone like dolls being tossed at a wall. Their bodies were broken weak and one of them almost called out to her for help. But what was a child to do to save a group of men? Still, without a thought in her head, she approached with a blade she could barely lift.

“Hmm?” he noticed her as she dragged the blade across the dirt. “What a disheveled child, almost skin and bones... I hope you aren’t planning to attack with me with that.” he could only pity the girl when she dashed to attack him, swinging the blade wildly while trying to get a hit in. But the only reward she received was the clanging of her blade against an invisible barrier, and with her strength quickly dwindling she fell and dropped the sword with a clatter. He was clearly above her in power and could do anything he wanted, even kill her if he so chose, but instead, he didn’t. “Do believe you can defeat someone like that? There’s no power behind your swing, you can hardly even stand with that blade. Hmph.” he reached into his robe and tossed her a loaf of bread. “Here, I don’t need it. Now, next time you try fighting me, strengthen yourself, nurture your body, and hone your skill with the blade. Perhaps you might have a chance then.” turning his back he wandered away from the camp, with that work done he had other places to be. But she never forgot, and ever since that day her morality had dipped low enough that her actions could never be heroic.

With a pool of blood beginning to form on the floor from the bandit’s mouth, she rammed open the door and stepped inside. “Now then... villains. Where is she?” the helmet glanced in their direction and their bodies shook with fear. “O... over there!” one pointed and she walked over to the door, opening it she saw the princess inside. Her dress seemed torn and dirtied, fabric was lying askew on the floor, and her eyes seemed puffy from crying.“ Hmph... princess, I’m here for you.” a knight in dirtied, bloodied armor, perhaps not the best impression, but she didn’t care. “Y-you are?” and with those words, it was enough to confirm it. But what was also confirmed, was the cowardice of the bandits, “You won’t be here for much longer!” one of them came at her with a blade, trying to attack while her back was turned, big mistake. Her reflexes were keen and she grabbed him by the head and slammed him into the wall. The strength really was monstrous, some might even say it was the power of a demon, but she never considered herself as such. “Here.” walking over to the woman she put her back to her and knelt down. “Wrap your arms around my neck, we’ll be leaving her shortly.” she nodded and did as the knight said.

Standing up, she started leaving while the last bandit trembled in the corner. “There is only one left... how sad.” she grinned under her helmet, removing her sword from its sheathe and swing the blade right down the center. That was the last time such a group would be found around those parts. With the knight leaving the cabin the princess had to  try not to scream out from witnessing such a gory sight. “That was... awful.” she said in a shaky voice, “That it was, but its over now.” along the way out from the forest she changed up how the princess was carried when her arms got too tired. The knight carried her the rest of the way back to town in her arms. Not a word was spoken except when the princess tried to start up idle chatter. “S-so... don’t I get to see the face of my hero?” the knight stopped and glanced, “the face? Do you want to see one you won’t remember?” she asked and the princess gave a slow nod. It was expectant to assume a beast of a man, but instead it was a woman. The helmet was dropped to the ground as the two returned, the princess finding awe in how beautiful her face was, even though her eyes... her eyes were not someone with a human mind.

“Are you surprised to see the face of your hero, princess?” such a strong woman, with unrelenting brutality when it came to violence. No mercy, no heart for those she killed. But even while there was that disconnect, the princess could feel a gentle nature stem from the way this knight touched the top of her head. “Yes... but I could not be more glad, to have been rescued by you, my hero.” it only affirmed her twisted ideology, that she was a hero, and any who stood in her way were villains. This was how it would always be.

[minervacasterly]

Real Life Horror (Bloody Tudors edition!): Anne Askew

Let’s play a game. Either you talk and give me the names of your accomplices, confess to the crimes you have been accused of, or you will be punished in ways that will become legendary, even in hell!

No, it’s not from a horror movie, it is from real life … or at least as it was many years ago when England was ruled by the Tudors. Because the Tudor age is an age that puts to shame everything we’ve seen on horror movies. It makes Jigsaw and Pinhead’s sick and twisted games look tame in comparison.

The Tudors don’t hold a monopoly on torture or religious martyrdom. Philip II of Spain had hundreds of men burned for heresy in a year. (Only a year!) Yet, the Tudors, ever being so popular, are the subject of this article because with so many dramas and books focusing on the glamorous side of their reign, their darker side gets overlooked.

Anne Askew was one of many religious martyrs during the Tudor era. She was a staunch Protestant who saw the world in black and white. Us vs them. You were either with her when it came to the ‘true faith’ or you were against her. The same thing that the Catholics believed of Protestants, the stauncher of the latter bunch believed of their opponents. It was an ideological rivalry from which there were no true winners. Those in the middle were wiser and often tried to convince those on either side to recant or to reach a compromise. At other times, when this didn’t work or the King didn’t feel like being so merciful, extreme methods were used to get a confession out of them.

Anne Askew was a devoted Evangelical who believed that the word of God should be taken literally, as was written in the bible. At the time of her arrest (April 10th, 1546), Henry VIII’s sixth and final consort, Kathryn Parr*, was suspected of heresy. For this, among other reasons, the prosecution intended to lay the entire book on Anne. After she was cross-examined, she was imprisoned again. On June 19th of that year, she was submitted to the rack. She was tortured so badly that her screams could be hear outside in the gardens where the Lieutenant’s wife and his daughter were walking. Anne’s knees and elbows were disjointed and if you think this was bad, it just got worse.

Angry that she had refused to give names, the torture continued until she nearly passed out. Finally, she was sentenced to death less than a month later on the 16th of July. She, along with John Lascelles John Addams, and Nicholas Belenian, were burned at the stake at Smithfield. Anne was still badly wounded from her torture that she had to be carried in a chair. Everyone present at her execution could tell she was in extreme pain. After her legs and arms were unbound, she was put on the pyre and the rest as they say is history …

*In spite of everything she went through, Anne NEVER gave her torturers the satisfaction of incriminating the Queen or any other fellow Protestant. Images: Woodcut of Anne Askew’s execution and Anne’s torture and execution from Showtime’s “The Tudors”.