#the will to survive against all the oppressive odds

[margaretqualleytruther]

“With electroshock, Cameron annihilated memory; with his isolation boxes, he annihilated sensory input. He was determined to force his patients to completely lose their sense of where they were in time and space. Realizing that some patients were keeping track of time of day based on their meals, Cameron ordered the kitchen to mix it all up, changing meal times and serving soup for breakfast and porridge for dinner. “By varying these intervals and by changing the menu from the expected time we were able to break up this structuring,” Cameron reported with satisfaction. Even so, he discovered that despite his best efforts, one patient had maintained a connection with the outside world by noting “the very faint rumble” of a plane that flew over the hospital every morning at nine.

To anyone familiar with the testimonies of torture survivors, this detail is a harrowing one. When prisoners are asked how they survived months or years of isolation and brutality, they often speak about hearing the ring of distant church bells, or the Muslim call to prayer, or children playing in a park nearby. When life is shrunk to the four walls of the prison cell, the rhythm “of these outside sounds becomes a kind of lifeline, proof that the prisoner is still human, that there is a world beyond torture. “Four times I heard the birds outside chirping with the rising sun—that’s how I know it was four days,” said one survivor of Uruguay’s last dictatorship, recalling a particularly brutal stretch of torture. The unidentified woman in the basement of the Allan Memorial Institute, straining to hear the engine of an airplane through a haze of darkness, drugs and electroshock, was not a patient in the care of a doctor; she was, for all intents and purposes, a prisoner undergoing torture.”

Excerpt from The Shock Doctrine by Naomi Klein

[slyandthefamilybook]

Why do people hate Jews? Simply put, because we're still here. Jews are one of the oldest continuously existing indigenous groups. We've survived persecution from such ancient empires as Assyria, Babylon, Egypt, Greece, and Rome. We've survived while their mighty walls crumbled to dust and their lives were lost to mythology. We've survived expulsions from practically every country in Europe, most of the countries in Central Asia, and even a few in Africa.

Everything we are is in defiance of every nation on Earth.

We pride ourselves on our communal spirit. We care for each other. We're self-sustaining. We ensure our own existence. Against all odds, we're still here, and we will still be here after whatever hardships we're currently facing. Our oppression has hardened our skin, reinforced our bones. You cannot kill us. Every time you try, it only makes us stronger

It's circular reasoning. People hate the Jews because it's been the thing to do for millennia. "109 countries can't be wrong!" They hate us because we've been hated, they oppress us because we've been oppressed. The irony is the more they try to kill us, the harder we'll fight for survival. The more they try to exterminate us, the more they guarantee our longevity. We will outlive them

[thesunisatangerine]

against all odds (to wait for you is all i can do) – part six

alexia putellas x photojournalist!reader

warnings: explicit descriptions of violence, blood, and death

(a/n in the tags) [parts: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve]

word count: 3.3k

You had to get out of there.

Tremors shook the ground as another shell made impact somewhere far to your right but it was close enough that the explosion left your ears ringing. You flattened your back further against the fallen wall behind you when you heard the unmistakeable sound of gunfire, the rubble that cut into your skin barely registered in your mind from the adrenaline that rushed through you. But the cacophony of noise amalgamated into something continuous, something malevolent and cruel; something that promised death in its wake. 

Bullets embedded themselves in a column, a wall, a body–everywhere–and fine pieces of debris flew and pelted against the exposed skin of your cheeks and against your helmet. Your eyes watered from the fine powder of pulverised cement and the oppressive heat, while your lungs were smothered by smoke and a choking stench–something like freshly-laid asphalt mixed with the distinct, rancid smell of burnt human flesh, sulphuric and sharp. 

Through lidded eyes you witnessed the depravity; the extent of humanity’s appetite for senseless destruction and anarchy. It was total chaos–no, it was worse than that: it was butchery and brutality at its finest; a type of hell on earth.

All around you were bodies upon bodies, men and women alike–children. Their faces, frozen and pallid, permanently bore imprints of terror and agony; their crooked fingers and still eyes fixated to the sky imploring in violent judgment–resentful and anguished in their silence–the unspoken question: 

Why?

Why? 

Why?

Everything overwhelmed you all at once: the sight and the smell made your stomach churn to no end. Even when you heaved the remnants of your stomach to the ground, the nausea remained, pulsing and gnawing.

Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, you brought your camera to your eye and you willed the shaking in your bones to still. 

You took a shot. 

Another round of bullets splattered to a nearby wall and this time, you threw yourself front-first to the ground and you felt the rhythm of your heart reverberating against the mud. And a sinking feeling hit you. You’d bore witness to many conflicts, faced mortal peril, and was familiar to death like it was an old friend. Each time you were in such a situation, hopelessness never got the better of you–it was like you’d always known you were going to make it out each time. 

This time it was different, you could feel it in your bones. You were going to die here and it wasn’t a matter of if, just when and how. 

But you had a job. If you were going to die, you would die being the mouthpiece for the ones who’d already been silenced–from their premature deaths or from the hand of the power meant to protect them or both–to show the world what they’d suffered, what they’d sacrificed.

With that in mind, you steeled yourself. You loaded your camera with another ring of film, fingers stiff from the cold and marred by blood and mud, and you captured the scene.

Repeat.

There were people screaming, running, clamouring for survival. As you moved with them, you kept an eye out for other survivors who needed help to get out of there. You scanned the faces for the familiar ones of Jones and Gilda but they were nowhere to be seen. You’d lost track of them after the initial explosion and the chaos that followed so the only thing you could do now was to look for them as you went and hope for their safety. 

Meter by meter, inch by inch, you moved slowly away from the direction of gunfire. You were farther ahead now but the gunners were still dangerously close, still close enough to be able to catch up to where you were if they continued their pursuit, so you remained crouched and cautious for any sound that could indicate danger. 

When you came across the rubble of a fallen building–freshly destroyed by artillery from the smoke that came from it–you heard a whimper. It startled you; the softness of the sound barely pierced through the ringing in your ear but when you peered under a slab of concrete braced by a rugged beam, you caught sight of a scene that shattered what was left of your heart.

In the shadows, big eyes that you could not mistaken belonged to a child shone with terror, a little girl that looked no more than ten years of age, her mouth partly open in fear. You could discern another person next to the child but they weren’t moving at all and from the blood smeared on the girl’s cheek, you had a sinking feeling that the other person was dead. 

Gunfire echoed somewhere behind you and you flinched at its closeness. How did they get so close so fast? You needed to get the both of you out of there. If you could save this child’s life then maybe, just maybe, your life was worth something after all. 

You raised both of your hands up and spoke gently, hoping the little girl would be able to understand that you were there to help as you stooped to fit through the gap. The child hesitated and receded further back into the rubble so you tried again as you inched closer to where the other person laid unresponsive, patient despite the ever-closing sound of shots being fired. 

You reached the other person–a woman–and when you placed two fingers against her pulsepoint and found no rhythm, you bit your quivering lip and looked at the child, chest heavy. And as if the little girl finally understood that you meant no harm, she inched towards you and placed her small hand in your open one. With a firm yet gentle grip on the girl, you guided the both of you out of the rubble.

Once outside, you carried the little girl behind a wall, heart breaking when you felt her shiver and at the fact that it took little effort carry to her for she weighed so little. And now with light and cover, you inspected the little girl.

To your relief, other than the trail of flaking blood that originated from the crown of her head and on her cheeks, the little girl looked like she didn’t sustain any other physical injuries. Satisfied for the time being you began to tend to her, gave her water and what little food you had on you, and then wiped away the blood.

After she finished, you detached the velcro of your bulletproof vest and unbuckled your helmet before you put them on the little girl. Then you hoisted the girl up on your back, leaving your camera dangling heavily on your chest.

You managed to sneak across the district without being noticed but you knew the danger was never far away. A little farther on, you began to recognise key landmarks that let you know you were close to the base you came from. So even when the muscles in your legs protested for you to rest, you pushed on.  

Not a moment later though did loud shots fill the air and immediately, you fell to the ground, feeling fine rubble and shrapnels cut into the side you landed on as you manoeuvred your body so that the child wouldn’t get hurt. The little girl cried out and adrenaline coursed through your veins, instinct driving you to keep the child safe so you pushed the two of you against a nearby wall, your back to the open space while you shielded the child with your body, her head safely caged between your arms and chest.

You craned your head over your shoulders to figure out where the shots were fired but then a feeling of lightness passed through you followed by a growing thickness at the back of your throat. You coughed, the force of it made you keel forward, and as you looked down you saw fresh blood splattered on the face of the girl, her eyes wide with horror as she looked up at you.

Then you felt it, a burning sensation that enveloped the entirety of your right side which left you cold. When you looked to your side your shirt clung to your skin, soaked with blood.

No. 

You sputtered again and you tried to breathe but the pain only intensified and instead of feeling relief, the act smothered you–it felt like you were drowning. Then everything began to blend together: the shapes lost their edges and some images doubled, but the light seemed to intensify on its own, swallowing all in its wake. Then you sagged forward and the ringing in you ears, too, blared unceasingly.

No.

You must… 

The child… 

Wait. 

Alexia–

“–are you okay?”

You started as Derek’s voice brought you from your reverie, your mind someplace else that you’d already forgotten but the feeling that you were missing something important lingered behind in the back of your mind.

“Huh?” 

“Honey, your brother’s been trying to get your attention for the past minute. Are you alright?” The familiar voice of your mom brought your focus to her. She sat at the head of the long table while Derek opposite you, and you found twin pairs of blue eyes looking at you with concern. Your mom stood, chair scraping against the tiled floor as she did and she made her way towards you. She put a palm over your forehead once she was close enough before she asked, “do you have a fever?”

“Mom, I’m fine. I’m just–” You began but suddenly, a wave of exhaustion came over you which left you cold. It was as if a sheet of ice was put over you and you felt the coldness cling to your bones, weighing you down as your body slowly began to freeze over. “I’m–I’m just tired. I think I’ll rest up now.” 

When you moved to stand, staggering slightly due to the weakness in your knees, Derek snatched your hands and clung to them, and you looked at him in alarm, eyes wide.

“Please, don’t. Don’t.” He said through gritted teeth, the corners of his mouth drooped low in a pained grimace, blue eyes glazed over and brows furrowed in a silent plea. 

His obsecration confused you and you were about to ask him why you shouldn’t rest if you felt tired when your mother placed a hand on your shoulder, her grip gentle yet firm. You turned to her and when you found her gaze, she wore the same expression as your brother. 

“You’re brother’s right, honey. Just–please, just stay with us for a bit more.” 

What was going on? Why weren’t they letting you go?

Another wave of fatigue doused over you but this time, pain erupted from your chest. So intense was it that it nearly made you keel over the table, nails digging into its hard surface as you tried to catch your breath but with each inhale the more it felt like you were running out of air.

“I’ll–I’ll join you in a bit. I just… I just need a nap.” You staggered to your feet, pulling your hands away from Derek’s grip with the remaining strength you had and brushed off your mom’s protest.

As you passed the full-body mirror just beside your bedroom door, you saw your reflection, haggard and pale, and with her were the familiar silhouettes of the people that haunted you… your mother and father. They stood there behind you–your mother to your right and your father to the left–but you only found an empty space where they stood when you whipped your head back to look for them.

So there you stood, rooted in front of the mirror as you soaked their images in but for some reason, your couldn’t quite discern their faces. They were blurred; it was as if someone had swiped their thumb over the freshly laid ink of their image and made their features indecipherable. 

Longing prompted you to reach out a hand to try and trace the lost edges of their faces but instead of meeting the mirror’s smooth surface like you expected, your fingers sank into the mirror like it was made of water. Quickly, in fear that it would hurt you, you retracted your hand and you watched in awe as the mirror image went still again, back to the reflection of yourself and your parents.

Then out of curiosity you plunged your hand again into the mirror and instead of feeling pain, you felt… nothing. The sensations in your hand in the mirror stopped as if it had ceased to exist completely. 

Would it soothe then the pain in your body if you stepped into it?

The thought tempted you and you stepped forward, ready to sink into this silver miracle, but something stopped you–a weight on your shoulder pulled you back from the mirror. You staggered backwards, caught off guard from the force of it, but when you looked back you found nobody however this time, when you returned your attention to the mirror, the reflection of your parents was gone. 

Emotions bubbled in your throat, bitter grief and burning confusion a familiar taste on your tongue. Where did they go? Why did they leave you? And as these questions filtered through your mind, another wave of exhaustion doused over you, its weight was unbearable. You needed relief, and soon.

You were ready to step into the mirror–into oblivion–but it wasn’t there anymore. In fact, everywhere you looked there was nothing, just negative space as if the light had dissolved all existence but you. You looked down and you saw your reflection on the still water you were apparently standing on. 

It was so still, so peaceful, and you feel so heavy. It would be easy to just sink into this blissful nothingness–this silence–after… that’s right, after having witnessed the revolting boil of humanity’s thirst for blood. Yes, that was it, the reason you were here: you were here to forget. 

The longer you stared into the water, the more your will to remain standing frayed. 

Not a moment later, you let yourself be plunged downwards into the cold water. Into nothingness. 

You woke with a start, breathing sharply as you did, the sensation of falling still with you and the memory of the dream you just had lingered. It was about… what was it?

When you opened your eyes, you found golden light and you squinted at the stream of the early sun that found its way through the gap between the heavy curtains. Your cheek was warm against Alexia’s bare back and you relished the way her muscles shifted beneath her skin as she breathed, still deep asleep. 

With her so close like this a sense of peace and calm washed over you, the kind that only Alexia’s presence could provide. You turned your head slightly and shifted closer to her, pressing a soft kiss on one of her shoulder blades before you nuzzled the nape of her neck where her scent was most prominent.

You sighed as you breathed her in.

“What are you up to back there?” Alexia’s voice, rough and heavy from slumber, met your ears and the question elicited a small laugh from you.

“Nothing. Just getting comfortable.”

Alexia hummed then she murmured, “come here.”

You moved as she began to turn and disappointment filled you from the separation but when she pulled you into her embrace after she settled on her back, the disappointment quickly faded away. And when she kissed you, soft and languid, everything melted away except for the tender warmth of Alexia’s lips.

You were content.

Suddenly, a gnawing feeling seeped into the edges of your mind and, little by little by little, apprehension filled you. There was something you’d forgotten, somewhere you needed to be.

You pulled away from Alexia’s lips. “What time is it?”

“Don’t go.”

Her answer jarred you. You lifted yourself up on your elbow and considered Alexia, confused as to why she would say such a thing. She knew you had to go. How could you not go? Where else could you possibly be? So you asked her as much.

“No, you don’t have to. Please.” Alexia placed a hand on your cheek, her eyes glassy. You sighed, turned your cheek away from her touch, and extricated yourself from her warm embrace. You stood at the foot of the bed and regarded Alexia again who was now sitting up, the sheets pooled around her waist, her chest bare, shoulders hunched forward as she looked at you. You only shook your head before you went into the en suite bathroom to get ready.

Once you got in the shower you, unsurprisingly, thought of Alexia and your confusion returned twofold. Why was she making this difficult? She knew you had to go. You already told her… 

At that thought, you frowned as you tried to remember. When did you tell her? Why did you need to leave? The questions were beginning to make your head hurt so you left the shower, wrapped yourself in a towel and headed to the closet. In there, you found your stack of simple white clothes. You picked a white shirt and a matching pair of jeans and you made your way to the bedroom door. 

As you passed by the bed, you saw Alexia just as you left her and from where you stood, you saw how small she looked. And those eyes… they shone with something you could only name as plea, the tears in them now in danger of falling. 

Your chest ached and so did your head. 

You shook your head and made your way to Alexia, pressed an apologetic kiss against her temples, then you moved to the door.

You opened it and an abyss greeted you, a world of no outlines, shape nor colour, just a brilliant white that called to you. Its pull was magnetic, like a tide that wanted to sweep you away, but there was something keeping you in place, an invisible tether and it was anchored to the woman sitting in your bed.

“Please, don’t go.”

You had one foot out of the door when Alexia spoke with such gentleness you couldn’t do anything but look over your shoulder. The sight of her crying made the pounding in your temples unbearable and the pain in your chest blazed anew, excruciating and cruel. The world blurred and warmth slipped down your cheeks. 

Why were you crying? Why was this difficult? You had to leave, you were about to miss something important.

“Alexia, why?” You sobbed, clutching your chest. It hurt.

She was out of the bed now, right beside you, and she reached out and cupped your face with one hand, the other went to your hand on the door handle. Her touch that used to soothe you, that used to bring you peace and clam, sent pain to every nerve in your body. You gasped, your chest was in danger of bursting and your knees lost their strength. And then you remembered why you needed to leave: you needed this pain to disappear; you had to get better.

Finally, your knees buckled under your weight but Alexia was there to catch you, her body strong and firm, and oh, so warm.

“Alexia, please let me go,” you sobbed into her arms. 

Everything hurt. But she held you, unyielding.

“Stay. Please, stay with me,” she whispered in your ear and the words were followed by another wave of pain. This time, you screamed in agony and clawed at Alexia’s shoulders to get yourself away but still, she didn’t budge.

“I got you. I got you. I got you,” she repeated as every nerve in your body screamed at you. Everything coalesced into a singular, never-ending noise but Alexia’s voice pierced through the veil like a silver lining, a life line that you held onto as you were washed away into an ocean of light.

[max-nolastname]

types of story that different black sails characters think they're in:

jack: typical underdog overcoming unbeatable odds story; he is the main character and the show is 100% about him and his joseph campbell hero's journey. he is like achilles seeking eternal glory. he is also like gilgamesh, seeking immortality because he's afraid of death

flint: one of those fairytale retelling stories from the villain's pov; he is the fire-breathing dragon/big bad wolf/wicked witch that his village has ostracized, chased out of his home with pitchforks and torches because they feared him and what he is and what he stands for. he knows that in another show, a more popular show, the story would be told from the pov of the villagers about the dangers that lie beyond the village walls and into the forest...but this is HIS show and in HIS show HE is the one that survived the villagers not the other way around and HE is the one that has been wronged and he WILL see them pay for it

miranda: at first she thinks she is the witty and cunning heroine of a regency period romance novel. she is critical of high society and it's archaic and sexist traditions, turns her nose up at the institution of marriage and yet against all odds finds a true partner in thomas. she thinks herself happier and smarter than her peers, for finding a way to explore her sexuality freely and still keep her high status. she is caught in a whirlwind romance with a handsome naval officer and well....then her story turns into a tragedy and a decade caught in lifeless loveless joyless limbo where she is sidelined into the background of someone else's story

max: overly aware that she is in A Story and that she is Not The Main Character; the spotlight is never on her, she will never take centre stage. in fact, she is in the wings, or perhaps watching the show from the back of the theatre as the stage manager, setting the scene and directing others to pull ropes, shine lights, open and close the curtains so that other actors can strut and fret their way around the stage

billy: revenge quest story! thinks he is the good guy, there to protect his friends and get revenge on the tyrant who killed his father. gains some genre awareness and realizes that he is not, in fact, the main character, but rather a side character caught in a romance between his captain and quartermaster and if he really wants to survive he's really gotta break them up

madi: a story of hope told around a campfire, passed on from generation to generation so people don't forget about the time that an island of maroons stood up to a seemingly eternal and unbeatable empire. some days, it's a cautionary tale, on how volatile solidarity can be with divisions like class, race and gender .... or how revolution necessitates violence that people who are comfortable in their oppression rather not pay... but no empire lasts forever and nothing is inevitable. the story sticks in the hearts and minds of future revolutionaries and someday someone somewhere will pick up the torch and continue the fight

season 1 walrus crew: workplace comedy

silver: [redacted]

[starlightervarda]

So

As someone who has cried at ruins, art and temples my ancestors left behind, at how I can't read or speak our own native language, and how what remains of that is in a liturgical language used in secret by an oppressed religious minority...Butchered Tongue has me in my feelings.

It's so hard to love yourself as you are when the people that had your face have been defaced, demonized and disregarded. Not just by the people that invaded us and imposed their language, culture and religion on us for centuries, but by your own people. Not much survived the centuries of brutal colonialism and religious fanaticism, and even if you had a grace period where more began to appreciate what your ancestors left behind, the push against it, to distance yourself and identify more with the invader's culture and even their ethnicity because they are 'right' by decree of religion, is depressing.

It doesn't help that we now have foreigners holding our artifacts in their museums, and pushing insane narratives about aliens building our monuments. Then there are Americans constantly making claims to our ancestry due to racist conspiracy theories, saying horrific shit about how we're the descendants of invaders and that they are the true heirs despite constant proof otherwise. What's worse is having that narrative supported by the most powerful media in the world, casting anyone but us to play us.

They fetishize our aesthetic, our history, our mythology, our land, but hate those that spawned from it.

The only time I like my face is when I recognize it in the likeness left behind in busts, statues and wall paintings. In reconstructions of mummies that have my skin, hair, eyes and nose. Things that are viewed as ugly now and erased through straighteners, bleaching creams and surgeries so we can look more like the foreigners that invaded us, whether they came from Western Europe or Western Asia.

I may look like them, but I'll never know what they truly sounded like, what they did on day-to-day basis, how they worshipped our native gods, what songs they sang or what they called their grandparents.

So many of us are stuck speaking someone else's language, now matter how nativised that dialect has become, and practicing their religion, even revering the very people that broke in and destroyed everything in their wake to impose their version of everything as 'saviours'.

I wish we were taught our native languages in school, that they were never demonized, and punished into dying. That there were huge movements to preserve what we still have that's uniquely ours, but the more time passes, the less people care. All we have left are names of historical figures, gods and the odd town or city that has been misheard into something else over time.

To all my siblings in lost cultures, demonized history and butchered tongues, I hope we hold on to what we have left.

[galedekarios]

You don't have to ship it, but they do have their similarities—enough that it really isn’t any two white dudes shoved together (unlike one pale elf and another wood elf are). Their personalities, alignments, and histories make them very different people, but some of their goals, struggles, hobbies, motives, requirements, and unpopular moral opinions align in ways that they don't with other origins. I think what similarities they do have are the reason why they butt heads at first, and why Gale later on softens up to Astarion as he becomes more comfortable with himself. They check a lot of the requirements for mirror characters, and it's a ship that's at its best when people hone in on that rather than using it to write out their yaoi punching bag Gale x perfect pained princess Astarion fantasies.

i was debating not answering this because this isn't really something of a debate for me or something that i will change my opinion on.

they share the same levels of surface similarities with everyone else in the roster, if you truly want to put your mind to it.

my point is not "don't ship" or "ship", my point is these sorts of shallow parallels can be drawn between any and all of them. it doesn't translate to them being "made for each other" or "written for each other" or being "narrative foils" or "mirrors".

some of their goals? which ones exactly? getting rid of the tadpole? regaining agency? learning to live the life they feel they lost? again, that's something all of them share.

what struggles? overcoming an oppressive relationship? again, that's something all of them share.

what hobbies do they share? reading? because they share the same reading animation despite ast*rion never talking about books?

what motives? motives for what?

what requirements? consuming something? karlach needs infernal iron in order to survive.

what unpopular moral opinions? about what? in which respect?

people mistake where gale's "unpopular moral opinions" come from in opposition to ast*rion's: in the beginning, they come from pragmatism and being smart enough to recognise that the group is facing a seemingly unwinnable battle against an unknown entity that is controlling an entire army to later finding out it's a legendary elder brain with a macguffin on its head. it's not about hubris nor is it about being unhinged or selfish. it's pragmatism against insourmantable odds and it's selflessness by act iii that makes him offer his sacrifice even if you have convinced him to live. if we are speaking about the crown, the boat scene beats you over the head with it stemming from gale's loss of faith in m*stra and wanting to be better than her in order to help - themselves and others.

they don't check "requirements for mirror characters" in any way that the others do not. i could take any and all of these "mirrors" and apply them to every other companion in the game if that is the level of "depth" we are using.

if we look past the shallow parallels you can draw for basically all of them, we see gale shooting down ast*rion's manipulation tactics right away ("i do enjoy our walks together. don't you, gale?" "uh sure. in silence."). we see their different approaches to what the journey throws at them. gale enjoys helping people, for no gain at all, and diplomatic solutions (arabella, mirkon, mayrina, zevlor, etc.), he needs someone who is on his side, someone who is willing to accept him for who he is. gale is genuinely good-hearted and kind. that is why they butt heads early on. not because they are similar. in opposition to that, ast*rion delights in cruelty. he is so needlessly and often. towards those in need, towards children, towards animals. he is out for no one but himself. he shows little emphathy to anyone, with the exception of himself always ("the problem with what cazador has done is that he did it to me.").

ast*rion in particular is often downright cruel and degrading to people around him, he's cruel and degrading to gale, to the problems he faces and who he is as a person (just a few examples from the top of my head):

from the moment when gale reveals his backstory ("why isn't this netherese jack in a box a blip on the horizon already?") to the mystra reveal (being more focused on what it means re: controlling the cult than gale's impending death), and his casual dismissal of who gale is as a person at every other turn ("i don't care what's in every mind flayer colony, gale - nobody does. except you.").

are k*rlach and gale foils because they share a bomb in their chest?

are sh*dowheart and gale foils because they share religious trauma?

are w*ll and gale foils because they share having a relationship with an incredible power imbalance with a female entity?

are h*lsin and gale foils because they both have a library?

are w*ll and gale foils because they have their tents set up next to each other in act i?

to wrap it up: they are completely incompatible to me.

they are "mirrors" or "foils" in the same way that karlach and gale are. or gale and wyll. or gale and shadowheart: at the most there are parallels you can draw that are tenuous at best and shallow at worst. the broad same general narrative structure doesn't create narrative foils.

i've tried to engage with this ship to see what people are doing with it and the relationship usually starts in the same way over and over again in a way that gale's character a disservice.

gale isn't someone who cares about physical attractiveness, nor is he someone who is into one night stands or sleeping with someone for the sake of it. ast*rion's entire romance set up hinges on the fact that you are being manipulated by him, sex and attraction as a springboard. gale's entire romance set up hinges on the fact that you accept him as he is. it's a slow burn. mystra's missive forces his hand into confessing early and sharing himself with you in what time is left to him - sex is a component of a greater whole.

gale also isn't someone to just take insults or abuse or dismissal and then still run after said someone to have a relationship.

i'm not even going to touch on the 'dubcon' aspect i've also seen a lot of forcing 'favours' from gale because he needs magical artefacts because that's a whole different can of worms.

again: this is not a don't ship post. you are free to ship what you want. this is solely a this relationship doesn't work for me, much less as narrative foils, post, and i have seen nothing that would convince me otherwise in the game or from the people who do like this ship.

[sidekickjoey]

You're On Your Own, Kid (You Can Face This)

Graphics & writing by: @sidekickjoey Beta: @steddieasitgoes Art by: @ja0netholmes/@bittlebarnes & @danadaria Part of @steddiebang 2023

Set at the end of the Summer of '86, Steve Harrington finds himself left behind by the narrative, literally and figuratively. It seems as if everyone around him is preparing to go off to college and move on with their lives while he, still processing the past, is stuck at Family Video. He has no degree, no goals, and (seemingly) no one to love. Insert Eddie Munson, the boy he saved, offering him a way forward he never before thought possible. Battling surfacing feelings, more-than-difficult parents, and his own self-sabotaging ways, Steve will decide whether he's willing to let his bleak future consume him, or if he'll finally take the leap and carve out the future he really wants - with who he really wants.

Chapter 1/10 - Summer Went Away (preview below the cut)

There’s no instruction manual for surviving in a post-apocalyptic world. 

It's probably because people are not expected to make it out of an apocalypse alive enough to need one. The word ‘apocalypse’ by its very definition alludes to a complete and final destruction no one can survive. It does not speak of life finding a way or going against all odds to stop horrible disasters from occurring. No, it points to an ending — a damning, bleak, and unsurmountable ending for all involved. 

Even apocalyptic movies, for all the hope of a brighter future they bring to their audiences, leave a lot to be desired regarding what happens next. Most of their endings require their leading characters to leave their home worlds to survive, to move on as wounded strangers in a foreign land. They do this among creatures who have no idea what they went through and why they did what they did in the past, just that they survived, and audiences all clap along accepting they've finally reached their 'happy ending.' 

They survived, after all. That was what everyone wanted! The rest can be sorted out later, after the screen fades to black and the final battles all become distant memories. Enjoying the relief of their characters being alive is more important than dealing with the grittier, darker details of what its aftermath means for them, anyway. 

Steve Harrington had once loved those kinds of movies. 

He didn’t stumble upon them often, too busy with baseball or basketball or a pretty date to sit for a full show. When he did though, they captivated him. They showed him a world in which even the most dire of circumstances could eventually work themselves out in the end. Happy endings could exist for anyone. As a boy who felt rather smothered by an oppressive father and the weight of expectations on him going into high school, it was a comforting concept. It was also incredibly naive.  

Steve stopped being naive in November of 1983. 

[homonationalist]

At present, it is standard among practically all communities to fête the family as a bastion of relative safety from state persecution and market coercion, and as a space for nurturing subordinated cultural practices, languages, and traditions. But this is not enough of a reason to spare the family. Frustratedly, Hazel Carby stressed the fact (for the benefit of her white sisters) that many racially, economically, and patriarchally oppressed people cleave proudly and fervently to the family. She was right; nevertheless, as Kathi Weeks puts it: “the model of the nuclear family that has served subordinated groups as a fence against the state, society and capital is the very same white, settler, bourgeois, heterosexual, and patriarchal institution that was imposed by the state, society, and capital on the formerly enslaved, indigenous peoples, and waves of immigrants, all of whom continue to be at once in need of its meagre protections and marginalized by its legacies and prescriptions” (emphasis mine). The family is a shield that human beings have taken up, quite rightly, to survive a war. If we cannot countenance ever putting down that shield, perhaps we have forgotten that the war does not have to go on forever.

This is why Paul Gilroy remarked in his 1993 essay “It’s A Family Affair,” “even the best of this discourse of the familialization of politics is still a problem.” Gilroy is grappling with the reality that, in the United Kingdom as in the United States, the state’s constant disrespect of the Black home and transgression of Black households’ boundaries, as well as its disproportionate removal of Black children into the foster-care industry, understandably inspires an urgent anti-racist politics of “familialization” in defense of Black families. Both the British and American netherworlds of supposedly “broken” homes (milieus that are then exoticized, and seen as efflorescing creatively against all odds), have posed an obstinate threat to the legitimacy of the family regime simply by existing, Gilroy suggests. The paradox is that the “broken” remnant sustains the bourgeois regime insofar as it supplies the culture, inspiration, and oftentimes the surrogate care labor that allows the white household to imagine itself as whole. As a dialectician, “I want to have it both ways,” writes Gilroy, closing out his essay. “I want to be able to valorize what we can recover, but also to cite the disastrous consequences that follow when the family supplies the only symbols of political agency we can find in the culture and the only object upon which that agency can be seen to operate. Let us remind ourselves that there are other possibilities.

There are other possibilities! Traces of the desire for them can be found in Toni Cade (later Toni Cade Bambara)’s anthology The Black Woman, published in America in 1970, not long after the publication of the US labor secretariat’s “Moynihan report,” The Negro Family: The Case for National Action. The open season on the Black Matriarch was in full swing. And certainly not all of the anthology’s feminists, in their valiant effort to beat back societal anti-maternal sentiment (matrophobia) and the hatred of Black women specifically (more recently known as “misogynoir”), make the additional step of criticizing familism within their Black communities. But one or two contributors do flatly reject the notion that the family could ever be a part of Black (collective human) liberation. Kay Lindsey, in her piece “The Black Woman as a Woman,” lays out her analysis that: “If all white institutions with the exception of the family were destroyed, the state could also rise again, but Black rather than white.” In other words: the only way to ensure the destruction of the patriarchal state is for the institution of the family to be destroyed. “And I mean destroyed,” echoes the feminist women’s health center representative Pat Parker in 1980, in a speech she delivered at ¡Basta! Women’s Conference on Imperialism and Third World War in Oakland, California. Parker speaks in the name of The Black Women’s Revolutionary Council, among other organizations, and her wide- ranging statement (which addresses imperialism, the Klan, and movement- building) purposively ends with the family: “As long as women are bound by the nuclear family structure we cannot effectively move toward revolution. And if women don’t move, it will not happen.” The left, along with women especially of the upper and middle classes, “must give up ... undying loyalty to the nuclear family,” Parker charges. It is “the basic unit of capitalism and in order for us to move to revolution it has to be destroyed.”

Forty years later, the British writer Lola Olufemi is among those reminding us that there are other possibilities: “abolishing the family...” she tweets, “that’s light work. You’re crying over whether or not Engels said it when it’s been focal to black studies/black feminism for decades.” For Olufemi as for Parker and Lindsey, abolishing marriage, private property, white supremacy, and capitalism are projects that cannot be disentangled from one another. She is no lone voice, either. Annie Olaloku-Teriba, a British scholar of “Blackness” in theory and history, is another contemporary exponent of the rich Black family-abolitionist tradition Olufemi names. In 2021, Olaloku-Teriba surprised and unsettled some of her followers by publishing a thread animated by a commitment to the overthrow of “familial relations” as a key goal of her antipatriarchal socialism. These posts point to the striking absence of the child from contemporary theorizations of patriarchal domesticity, and criticize radicals’ reluctance to call mothers who “violently discipline [Black] boys into masculinity” patriarchal. “The adult/child relation is as central to patriarchy as ‘man’/‘woman,’” Olaloku-Teriba affirms: “The domination of the boy by the woman is a very routine and potent expression of patriarchal power.” These observations reopen horizons. What would it mean for Black caregivers (of all genders) not to fear the absence of family in the lives of Black children? What would it mean not to need the Black family?

Sophie Lewis in “Abolish Which Family?” from Abolish the Family: A Manifesto for Care and Liberation, 2022.

[doctorprofessorsong]

Destiel Fic Recs

It's that time of year where nobody knows what day it is or how they got there, so why not hide from your family/boss to read Destiel fics. And friends, this last list of 2022 may be the best so far.

The Leap by FriendofCarlotta @friendofcarlotta (Explicit, 82k words)

I don't know how to explain the way 91W lit up my brain like one of those old electricity balls at Spencer's but I thought I would never have that experience again until this fic came along. It's a very different, much softer story, but this fic has the 91W vibes that make you want to crunch on your own bones (vintage gay sadness is the tag we live in here). Its so deeply rooted in a sense of place and time. Dean and Cas are so clearly and immediately bonded and kept apart by circumstance. The longing y'all. The way they can't help but fall in love at the risk of their lives and freedom. It's gorgeous.

The fic is set in post WWII occupied Berlin in a divided Germany just before the wall goes up. Cas is a closeted police officer in East Berlin, trying his best to survive under a brutal dictatorship in an environment in which reporting your neighbors is not just encouraged, but expected. Dean is an American-born mechanic residing in West Berlin. For both of them, falling in love with a man could mean arrest, prosecution, and worse.

But they can't help the instant attraction between them. Neither of them is ready to walk away from the hope of a future together, as impossible of a dream as that is.

Beyond the 91W vibes, the thing about this fic is that the canon parallels are just so beautiful. Cas is expected to comply with a rigid hierarchy and to obey absolutely. Dean is trying his best to find optimism for those around him, and he has an irresistible early seasons charm and brashness that makes you fall instantly in love with him. And while there is period homophobia and oppression in this fic, FriendofCarlotta also pulls so much queer joy into the story. A slice of gorgeous community built against all odds and euphoria at finding love and family and shelter in the most hostile of places.

This story made me ugly cry (a true feat) and it's one of those stories you finish and consider turning back to Chapter 1 and reading it all over again. Seriously. Go read it then yell at me about it.

The Law of Equivalent Exchange by awed_frog @awed-frog (Mature, 60k)

This is the fic you have to read in one sitting because you don't want to be crushed by a falling desk like in Mystery Spot and never see the ending. It is gorgeous in a way that I think may have irrevocably changed me. A testament to love and devotion that left me absolutely breathless.

Cas, Angel of Tears, is assigned to watch over the lives of two brothers, tied together and experiencing hundreds of lifetimes of sorrow and joy in preparation for some mysterious Heavenly plan. His mission is to watch over a green-eyed boy, to guide him into each next life. The human doesn't know, doesn't remember (mostly), but it's impossible to ignore the growing bond between them. Cas finds himself inexorably changed by watching the many lives he experiences.

This is a canon fic (and tbh if you don't know canon the middle is going to confuse you because it's a reimagining of canon events with this context). That means awed-frog has somehow managed to make the crunchy Destiel scenes even more heart wrenching (extra crispy?).

This fic had me crying by Chapter 2. It's just a beautiful sweeping epic. And it does have a soft and beautiful landing. I will be thinking about it for awhile.

Märchen by tiamatv (Mature, 93k)

Fairy tale princess Dean Winchester. That's the delightful headline for this really fun and inventive fic. Dean of Winchester is the eldest prince but he lacks magic, making his brother the heir. What else do you do with a spare but promise to marry him off for political reasons, in this case to Michael, an Angel from a neighboring kingdom who lent his swords to Winchester to defeat the demons.

But Dean isn't gonna be some kept pretty thing, so he shocks everyone by saying no. Michael won't marry Dean without his consent, but that term is used very loosely, as angels do. So Dean is locked in a tower full of monsters where he is cursed to remain until he consents or finds his true love.

It's a tale as old as time (yes I said that), but there are some delightfully fresh elements. From Charlie the dragon princess (marry me, Charlie) to a sentient carnivorous hedge, the quirky characters make this fic impossible to put down. There are also some delightful genre choices such as an omnipotent narrator that make this fic feel comforting yet fresh.

In the end, you will be rooting for the angel knight and his prince to slay their inner demons.

A Crash Course in Computer Safety by followthattardis @debatchery (Explicit, 29k)

I love a good fusion and as a fan of the show Chuck, this Chuck Destiel AU absolutely slaps. If you are unfamiliar with the show, it's still an absolutely fun ride. Dean is stuck working at a Best Buy rip off as essentially a member of the Geek Squad. His life is in shambles after his best friend got him expelled from Stanford and stole his girlfriend, but he's making due.

That is until a mysterious email from his ex best friend throws him into a world of intrigue. Suddenly he's got the CIA and the NSA breathing down his neck. Even worse, he has to pretend to be dating the scorching hot CIA operative as a cover.

The Destiel feels are surprisingly potent for a mash-up, and the story is paced so well you won't want to put it down. Bonus points for perfect use of Henriksen.

Buckle up and cue up Short Skirt-Long Jacket by Cake.

The Shadow in the Corner by MalMuses @malmuses (Explicit, 47k)

I don't know that there are many fic writers who excel so thoroughly at classic romance as MalMuses. Her fics bring such a fantastic mix of horny, humor and softness. This one is no exception.

A Victorian steampunk story, this one is set in an alternative timeline where magic is known and the MOL openly fight monsters. Dean aka the Red Hand is tasked with a special investigation - to solve why a monster seems to be targeting the head of the agency's little brother, Castiel.

There's a good bit if mystery and intrigue, but the the headline for me was the delightful way Dean and Cas were both very aware of this instant connection and slowly orbiting each other as gravity pulled them closer. There's a softness to their relationship and it's largely external angst that keeps them apart as long as they are, but you never doubt that they are entirely gone for one another. Yes they suffer from perpetual horniness around each other, but its also very clear they genuinely like each other in a way that melted my cold dead heart.

In the end, a fun read with an exceptionally satisfying ending.

4:08 to Tombstone by Zuzeca (Explicit, 20k)

Cas is a Seraph with a mission: to save Dean Winchester, to retrieve the Michael Sword from Hell. But Dean perceives Hell not as it is, but instead as the wild west. Thrown into a bisexual cowboy fantasy, Cas has to navigate a dangerous escape while protecting this beautiful soul from those who would destroy it.

This fic is an absolute treasure. Amazing trueform angel descriptions, some gorgeous treatment of Dean’s Hell trauma, and a poignant bond between Dean and Cas that makes it a really sweet read (though mind the tags it gets dark). Its a really fun and novel take on the escape from Hell.

All That Remains by DoctorProfessorSong (Mature, 16k)

I am going to be annoying and self-rec here but I just released a fic I am super proud of. It's bittersweet and emotional and I poured my grief and parts of my soul into it. The tags are daunting but I do think it ends in a satisfying and hopeful place.

The stabfest story examines a canon divergent world where Dean is turned into a demon by the MOC, and Cas is forced to kill him to free him. He has a plan to save Dean, but it fails and Dean makes a deal with the Shadow to escape the Empty. The same deal as Cas. What follows is a reinterpretation of canon where both of them are unable to speak the truth because they risk losing it all.

It's a story about love and loss and hope. And perhaps most importantly it's a story about faith, not as some cheap fix-all, but as something that you hold in your heart in the darkest places.

Tag list below the cut. Let me know if you want to be tagged in future lists.

@varlysca @naturallyathief @greatbigbuggerer @fandoms-and-things @cascodedtech @you-cant-spell-subtext-without @deanwasalwaysbi @fellshish @valleydean @raspberry-tooth @the15yearhatecrime

[yakool-foolio]

i'm really curious how you think Nagito Komaeda and Yuma Kokohead would interact

It can be said with certainty that Yuma (in his amnesiac state) would be very creeped out by Nagito's outwardly casual mindset toward the fatal misfortunes happening all around him. He's worried for the guy, don't get him wrong, but he also fears for his own safety if he were to hang around him more in an attempt to understand his mentality. Yuma's urge to solve mysteries keeps him highly aware of Nagito's brutal honesty. On the other end, Nagito is intrigued by Yuma's mysterious past, and is more than happy to let his luck and hidden smarts guide him to finding clues about his true identity. He's definitely onto something, but prefers to keep his cards close to his chest and instead passively help Yuma out with his own investigations. He drops hints every now and then as his way of assistance, accidentally (or purposefully, no one can really tell) spooking the little detective. As it goes with people similar to Yuma, he believes the trainee is a symbol of hope (along with the other NDA detectives), for surviving against all odds from the Amaterasu Express Massacres and continuing to seek the truth despite facing many oppressive forces.

[ohtobemare]

118 ➤ Terra Nova Commander Nathaniel Taylor x fem!OC

summary: "For them, it was just the blink of an eye. For us? 118 days." It's a long time to be alone with someone you barely know. 'Lotta days of wondering if this was it, the grandiose dream of Terra Nova they'd all been promised. But it's also a good chunk of time to change minds, to form new opinions. To give —your heart; ideas, your future —away. This is ground zero.

pairings: Commander Nathaniel Taylor x fem!OC

warnings: age gap, complete canon deviation/rewrite, Jurassic Park elements, a whole lot of made up futuristic tech, survival technique based on limited research, convenience marriage to lovers, messing with the Terra Nova timeline, age of the earth/sciencey opinions, conspiracy theories/government enemies.

0 | the befores ➤ “In the name of God, I, ….” 

Chem lights at war with the flicker of LEDs overhead spin the room, making the space feel more dreamlike than anything. Like a rough coma. World fades in and out of erratic color, moving as broken pulses of electricity attempt to carry functional light into abysmal, dank blackness. It’s cold in that humidity-ridden kind of way—cold that burrows into the bones, past sweat glands that seep with perspiration that would otherwise sparkle in the light of day. Trying to find the words for this moment, for the haze that’s set over this room—fever dream. Yes, that’s it. 

It’s feverish degrees here—something viral. Setting her on edge. Creeping through her facades, shifting the masks of power a committee and countless weeks of interview and preparations provide. They hardly prepare anyone for this. Is this how it’s supposed to be? Dark and humid, oppressive with the weight of a world of questions that doesn’t even seem fathomable. 

“....to be my lawfully permitted wife; to have….” 

A brush of fingers against the slick leather of her jacket lifts her gaze from the perfect over-under of old combat boots. Her favorites. Traveling companions of the last year, they’ve marched through countless miles of States of American concrete and soil. Chicago, more recently—wretched, disgusting metropolis that it is. Crawling with propaganda for the government's hedonistic vision of tomorrow. The blade of humanism, driven into the almost asystole heart of a once beautiful dream.

Her gaze finds the man, hand still statuesque on her shoulder. He doesn’t move, like she’s porcelain and could break. Maybe she is, because she feels stone cold and bone China-white, despite being riveted to this floor. If you can call it a floor more than a slab—sakrete that’s been lazily mixed with county efforts and resources. Blinking away condensating sweat that’s gathered in her lashes, the man’s  brow lifts. Maybe curiously, if he genuinely wanted to know where her mind had galloped to. But it’s a more worried look, one that’s watching the clock. Has other places to be. 

“....Miss McKinney? You still with us?” 

It’s an odd question. One she can’t readily find the heartbeat to answer. Instead, a small smirk tickles the corner of her mouth, threatening humor if the situation would’ve been appropriate. It wasn’t. Some backalley government holding squat could hardly warrant a snarl much less a smile, but if the weeks leading to this moment had proven anything—well. Nothing was what it seemed. 

The akimbo of confidence doesn’t flinch at her right. He hasn’t, not since being guided to this…this platform. He stood there, in combat blacks and a leather jacket the entire time, like a pillar. A fortress, even. Erected to support the dreams of a future scurrying to rewrite itself, on its last leg of hope. Shoulders down and back, gaze straightforward as if the future had already colored itself from the black and whites of the present. 

“Oh. Um–yes. Yes, thank you. Continue, sir.” 

But the akimbo frame of the man suddenly flinches, ever so slightly—lifts a foot, scuffing the rubbers of his combat boots against the wet sakrete beneath them. Watching as he returns to his motionless state, she manages to swallow a breath thick with nothingness—no words, no compliance, no spit. Looking back to the over-under of her laces, she notices his are the same. He ties his boots the same way—-tight over-under patterns in eye-hooks, the excess laces tied around the back of his leg. It’s an old trick, one from the almost-ancient way of living before everything became disposable. Replaceable, plastic. 

And when her eyes cut to his like a blade, she finds him staring at her from the corner of his eye. Down at her, really, because she’s shorter than he is. And he stands forever, almost. Like a giant. Goliath against David, stones aside and the Philistines coming up fast. For a moment, his eyes are dark and unreadable. Unsearchable. Until he shifts his shoulders a bit, settling into his akimbo stance. Hands folded in front of him, ever the soldier. 

His words hang in the air, unfulfilling. Mandatory. Government-issued, lest the good citizens of 2142 question the ethical implications no one would think, albeit care, to ask. Ringing in the air hollow, she’s not even sure she can remember even hearing him. She’d barely heard him speak in the weeks leading up the First, hadn’t even shaken his hand until this morning when he’d introduced himself. He was capable, sure. On paper. 

But staking her life–her future….

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It shouldn’t be. It was 2142. It was the First. 

She was a First. 

“…Your answer, Miss.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“I need your answer, ma’am. For the license.” 

Pounding in her chest reminds her she’s alive. It isn’t a good pounding, an exciting one. It’s one that’s horribly wrong. Screaming at her that this isn’t right. That it shouldn’t be like this—that this is 2142. Nobody actually cares, religions and personal affections aside. This isn’t the frontier, not anymore. Not yet.

Head spinning, knuckles brush against hers. Tenderly. It’s surprising and she starts, looking up into careful eyes weighing every motion; he’s moved to face her. All six foot something of him, hard lines and perfect posture. Reading her like a datapad. Every breath, like he can see through her ribs and into her chest. No wonder this is the man to lead them into tomorrow, into the future—his stare is like an anvil. Crushing, almost. But in a way that demands the truth, that makes her want to sing out every secret she’s ever burdened in the pulling stitches of her own resolve. 

His nod is punctuated. Final. His gaze darts to consider the man standing before them. Nodding once to him, he looks back to her. Waiting. His chin lifts, authoritatively. Impatiently, but he won’t move. And before she can even find her own tongue, his hand on her shoulder squeezes once. Twice. With compassion, empathy. 

“For Terra Nova,” his low voice is calm. Collected. Reeled in like a man with control and wisdom well beyond her years. “For the future, Miss McKinney.” 

And that hits harder than any of her own selfish negotiations. “Yes—” 

Don’t let this be a mistake. For the colony...for hope....

For tomorrow, 2142. 

“—this is my solemn vow." God help her if this is a mistake. There's nothing left.

He'd have it all. One man, one dream. One tomorrow.

"For Terra Nova. For tomorrow.” 

taglist: @cherrycola27 @thedroneranger @soulmates8 @chicomonks @books-are-escapes @sarahsmi13s @cassiemitchell @lovinglyeternal @bobby-r2d2-floyd @that-one-random-writer @horseshoegirl @lavenderbradshaw @bradleybeachbabe @roosters-girl @footprintsinthesxnd @chaoticassidy @roosterisdaddy36 @callsignharper @hisredheadedgoddess28 @ohgodnotagainn @moonchild-cupcake @aviatorobsessed @kmc1989 @imp-number-3 @your-local-crzy-lady @horserad-ish @bisexual-watermelons @mongoosesthings @gothidecorem @philcoulson-redtapeninja @itsgoghtime @kmc1989

[fromdathomirwithlove]

How strong are the Nightbrother's physically before and after their infusion with ichor?

Your ask implies what happened to Savage Opress in the aftermath of his Selection was a common practice but I don't think that's the case.

TW: Oppression (Nightsisters), violent death (Feral's)

Ventress and Talzin had a very specific agenda to get revenge against Dooku, and they needed a tool that would be powerful enough in the Force to be considered an acceptable offering by Sith/Dark Acolyte standards, but loyal to them, hence Savage's conditioning (which is why Feral's murder was the final test of Savage's devotion, because if he'd been in his full faculties, he wouldn't have snapped the neck of his beloved brother. Think about that for a second: Feral wasn't choked to death. His spine was broken one-handed. That's not an effortless death.)

I suspect that the Nightsisters aren't so generous unless it serves their ends specifically, because not only was Savage's size, strength, and speed bolstered, but he was also given an ichor-infused weapon (a pike made by some variety of conjuration), and presumably his armour was also enchanted (because it evanesced at the time of his death along with the changes made to his body.)

For the before and after aspect of your ask, things are going to get a bit more speculative from here out because of the details introduced by Ahsoka about the Witch Kingdom of the Dathomiri, and specifically what physiological differences exist between Dathomirian and Iridonian zabrak, and their consistencies.

To date I've assumed that there are similarities between the two species, as both Dathomirian and Iridonian zabrak are warrior cultures familiar to the often brutal conditions of their homeworlds, but Dathomirian zabrak also have the misfortune of suffering the harsh conditions of living beneath their oppressors. I think Nightbrothers were largely self-sustaining and share similar values with ancient warrior-centric civilizations (Sparta comes to mind, as two-second answers go, but this is a tangent) which might've influenced how they trained and fought and lived as a brotherhood.

Apart from the standard: faster, harder, more acrobatic, more resilient, more resistant to pain than humans, how much of that comes from biology and evolution and how much is a product of their aptitude to survive against all odds is up to you to hash out with the new information we're getting.

The tl;dr is that I think Nightbrothers were a hard people whose values allowed them to survive some pretty shitty conditions, but their circumstances didn't allow them to thrive, and there isn't a Nightsister out there who, with an instinct for maintaining the status quo, would give their power to the people they've enslaved.

I do think about what might happen if the Nightbrothers gained control over the ichor, though, specifically with the intention to do exactly what you're proposing, and more. I think about what it might be like if they could wield it. I think about insurgence and uprising, and overthrowing their oppressors. I think about how it might've allowed them to change the game, to take back their power.

I think about that a lot, actually.

[olderthannetfic]

Gotta say, as someone who is afrolatine who mostly hangs out in anime/manga/manhwa/BL/OI spaces, there's something really weird about the way that people in fandom engage with fantasy stories that have war, slavery, and oppression as backdrops. The stories themselves usually handle the subjects poorly, but the fandom jumps through hoops to justify characters' poor behaviors without considering context of how the real world works. Naruto and Villains Are Destined to Die fandoms handle it the worst I've seen in a long time.

Naruto's story is ultimately about a seemingly unremarkable guy who tells slaves that fate isn't real despite being a Child of Prophecy who goes around minimizing everyone's oppression from the fascist government because he, too, wants to lead the militaristic state, and it hurt his feelings that his "friend" who survived a genocide didn't validate Naruto's victim complex and wanted to change the fascist system while being an imperfect victim (even though Naruto continues to lie and spread misinfo about said genocide to protect the fascist state 10+ years later).

Then theres the VADTD fandom that treats a character (Eckles) as though he has the same level of agency as the main character and other love interests. "Eckles was lying to and manipulating Penelope the whole time to get her to like him 🤬." He's a slave. Of course he's going to lie to his master to avoid abuse or death when he's ranked even lower than a commoner in a classist hierarchy. "He betrayed her 🤬." He's a slave. They're not friends, and there's no such thing as a 'benevolent slave master.' He cannot 'betray' his master. That's not how it works. "Penelope offered him freedom, and he turned it down." You don't 'offer' freedom to a slave. You either give it or don't. She was attempting to emotionally manipulate him. He realized this, and responded in accordance with what he knew she wanted to hear... because he's a slave who doesn't want to die. "She gifted him a magical sword and expensive fur clothes, so she favored him despite him being ungrateful 🤬." A slave in a mink coat is still a slave. It also doesn't escape me that the male lead is the crowned prince, now a war hero, of the empire who gained his fame from his brutality against Eckles' people in the previous war that just ended maybe a few months prior to the story.

There's just something so odd about the ways in which people bend over backwards to justify imperialism and cruelty in stories just because the main characters are the ones who do it. I'm not completely sure if it's because the author's of the original works don't objectively see the undertones in what they wrote. or, maybe the fandoms are all just full of people who have victim complexes and project onto the main characters to make themselves feel better but don't see how their statements make others like me iffy of their stances on real world topics, so we avoid them, which then fuels their self-imposed victimhood even more as they whine "why won't x people in x fandom talk to me?! Or befriend me?!". Like, you just spent a whole essay justifying slavery and genocide because the main character was sad; I don't want to be your friend lol. I'm in the SnK fandom too, and despite the false statements others spread about the story, at least the fandom talks about the characters and themes with more nuance.

--

I never made it past the first few volumes of Naruto, but I do think many of these canons encourage people to judge morality based on what made the lead sad or not. The longer the canon goes on, the greater the dissonance between that message and whatever subtext is inherent to the setting.

[semper-legens]

125. Nimona, by ND Stevenson

Owned: No, library Page count: 256 My summary: Notorious villain Ballister Blackheart wants to strike a blow at the Institution who failed him so many years ago. He's logical, precise, efficient...so when anarchic shapeshifter Nimona appears on the scene, he's thrown into disarray. When the pair of them discover an Institute conspiracy, they have to scramble to protect the world. But what else will they uncover in their search for the truth? And will they both survive it? My rating: 5/5 My commentary:

Nimona! After the movie came out, it seemed like a lot of people were suddenly getting back into Nimona, which I 100% endorse. I read this a while ago, it was (highly!) recommended by a friend, and I devoured it in one sitting, if memory holds. That was a good few years ago, though, and in the intervening time I had forgotten most of the story, so when I saw it drift through the library I couldn't resist picking it up for myself. And then going out and buying a copy. Turns out this book is really good, who knew?

I just love the dynamic between our two main characters here. Nimona is a spunky girl, naturally anti-authoritarian and punky, with a crude sense of humour and a tendency towards ruthlessness. She just appears to Ballister Blackheart, local Villain who is working to take down the oppressive Institution, who has a strict sense of justice and moral code. Naturally, despite their common goals, they are at odds as to method. Blackheart is exactly my favourite kind of character - an angsty man who is doing what he believes to be just and right despite the entire world being against him. Also he's totally in love with the Institute's Hero, Ambrosius Goldenloin. And Nimona is just anarchic and chaotic, totally willing to cut that Gordian knot and get down to brass tacks. She's really fun to read, and their dynamic as a pairing, with Blackheart slowly learning to like her and Nimona almost becoming more domestic in his presence, is very cute. Their arc is well-earned, and despite it being heartbreaking I really like that Nimona just straight-up disappears at the end. This isn't the kind of world where characters get neat happy endings tied up in a bow, and it would have felt disingenuous to include something like that. Nevertheless, the ending feels satisfying, and that's always great to see.

Meanwhile, the other reason this story is cool - it's very, very easy to read as a queer metaphor. See, Nimona's a shapeshifter, and doesn't really have a default form so much. She's a raging monster or dragon just as much as she's a cat, or a human. The fact that ND Stevenson is himself trans makes this way more interesting. Bodies being fluid, that identity shifting constantly and being perceived as monstrous by an oppressive authority, becoming the monster because that's all anyone has ever expected of you, the definitely-gay Ballister going from perceiving himself as a Villain to a Hero, Ballister being cast out because he's not as palatable a hero as the golden-haired Goldenloin, the Institute being the ones to break up Ballister and Goldenloin's relationship initially…there's so much going on here with gender and sexuality, and it's absolutely delicious. And yet, it's never preachy with it. The metaphor is present, and it's not particularly hidden, but it's never so explicit to feel glaring or out of place. It's very well-done, and I have to commend Stevenson for it!

Next up, back to 1800s America, and a Black community struggling to survive.

[lexsssu]

Vision (Daemon Targaryen)

Flufftober Day 25

TAGS: Daemon/Dragoness!Reader

He is three and twenty when his brother finally allows him to annul his fruitless marriage to Rhea Royce. The shackles of matrimony had left him hungry and wanting for warm flesh when his former wife was as cold and hard as stone, laying nearly as still as death during their wedding night.

It’s no surprise that he takes off on Caraxes after being twice-bested by Ser Criston Cole in the melee and joust, leaving him with no further reason to stay as he set off for the pillow houses of Lys.

For where better to stoke the embers of his youth that had dwindled beneath the oppression of his bronze bitch?

Caraxes lands at a field far enough from Lovely Lys (so as not to cause any panic and incite a riot), and as Daemon slips off the hulking back of his mount, his Targaryen-amethyst orbs catch sight of something just a small distance away.

Upon a shock of ivory tresses sat a crown of wildflowers, from colors such as cornflower blue to dandelion yellow, it all contrasted yet complemented the snowy strands.

He feels his heart lodge itself in his throat as he’s beholden to a fair maid of obvious Valyrian heritage, but it is not her blood that stokes the fire within his. Rather, simply being graced with her mere visage is enough for visions of silvery-white-haired babes to dance within his head.

And for the first time ever since he dreamed of one day securing the Iron Throne for himself, he did not see a king’s crown upon his brow but instead a crown of flowers.

Daemon takes his first steps, eager to know you and perhaps what sorcery you cast that had bewitched him so swiftly and easily that he can no longer even think back on the time before he knew of your existence.

When he is at a fair distance, he takes note of the wondrous gold that shines within the depths of your eyes and the pale white lush crescents that surround them and kiss your cheeks every time you blink. He feels like a madman so consumed with the need to hear your voice, to know your name, and to have your gaze solely on himself.

But then a large shadow appeared, and the sound of a mighty wingbeat snapped him out of his daze, head snapping up towards the source only to find coal-black scales and menacing green eyes rapidly descended.

Dread filled the Targaryen prince as his instincts had him tackling you away from where he perceived to be the Cannibal’s target. He has no time to relish the softness of your skin and body beneath his, not when the instinct to survive overridden all other thought processes.

Caraxes won’t be able to reach them in time, so he would have to distract the infamous Cannibal somehow until his own mount reached them. His sword hand instinctively gripped Dark Sister as the earth rumbled with the wild dragon’s footsteps as it landed.

“ Don’t. ”

It’s the first time he hears your voice, and it is as soft and melodic as he expected it to be. What he didn’t expect was for you to push him away gently with a hand so small and dainty that he could crush it in his own if he wanted.

But then you stand up, dusting off blades of grass that stuck to your odd but fine garments before walking straight toward the lumbering Cannibal.

“My lady—” Daemon’s plea dies down as he watches you place your hand upon the wild dragon’s snout, giving it a rub and then moving downwards to scratch at his chin.

Everything the prince knew about dragons, especially the Cannibal of all dragons, is thrown straight into the Narrow Sea as the creature’s tail…wags and thumps against the ground. For something as big as the Cannibal, its movements caused small tremors across the small clearing.

“He’s a good boy. He’s not going to hurt anyone.”

Daemon is completely and absolutely stumped.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

King’s Landing only receives a missive from Prince Daemon of his apparent nuptials all the way in Lys. The court learns that he’d found another descendant of Old Valyria, a maiden from Aurion’s line who’d conquered Lys, burned its magisters and slavers, and released its slaves.

However, word across the Narrow Sea arrives not long after that verifies the prince’s claims. The pair had settled into the grandest manse within the city, which now no longer relied on the selling and trading of flesh. The lady had seen to it that it would become a fully mercantile city-state, providing education to all, regardless of their backgrounds.

Former slaves and courtesans were also given a craft to learn and trade with, allowing them to acclimate as normal citizens of Lys, free to live their lives as they saw fit.

The news is both frightening and awing to hear.

Lys’ growing success and the union of Prince Daemon and his Valyrian conqueror wife alarmed much of the Small Council, particularly Lord Hightower. At his urging, Viserys I commanded his brother to return at once.

However, his command would not be heeded until 105 AC, when Lady Lucifiel would inevitably save the life of Queen Aemma and the newborn Prince Baelon.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Can’t you stay for longer?”

“We would love to stay longer, but if we do Lys might not be standing by the time we return. You know those Essosi, always trying to one-up each other and grabbing someone else’s territory when they already have a perfectly good city already. Honestly, if they keep knocking at our doors so frequently, we might as well conquer the rest of them just to get all the cities to get along. It’s like trying to play peacemaker with a bunch of children if you ask me…”

“Let’s save any talk of conquering the other city-states when we get back home, at the very least, my darling flower. Lest we spook the court any more than we already have when your lumbering beast decided to make its surprise grand entrance in front of the whole court.”

“Abraxas has never had venison or wild boar, so you can’t blame him for being a little bit curious over all the fuss that was happening during the hunt.”

Rhaenyra looked back and forth between her uncle and good aunt, stars practically shining in her eyes at all the words that spilled from your lips. Baby Endaemion babbled and clapped as he looked over at his older cousin, comfortable and very happy as you held him in your arms.

There’s truly nothing like the warmth of family.

[theconstitutionisgayculture]

Why do you stand with Israel?

Many reasons. One, I'm a nationalist at heart. I believe everyone deserves their own homeland and should have the ability to defend that homeland's borders against all invaders. The Jewish struggle to return home tugs at my heart.

Two, I sympathize with the Jewish people greatly. No other people have been oppressed and harassed everywhere they go, throughout nearly their entire history. And yet, despite all that, they persisted, thriving where they could, surviving when they had to, until they could finally return home, only to find themselves surrounded by countries that hate them and want to drive them into extinction. Which leads into

Three, I'm impressed by their ability to once again thrive when all the odds are stacked against them. They've won multiple wars that they shouldn't have, on paper, had even a shred of a chance of surviving. Against all odds, they've become one of the only stable, free countries in a part of the world where those things are insanely rare.

Four, Mossad is pretty bad ass, as far as government intelligence agencies are concerned.

You'll notice that I say "Jewish" and "people" and "they" a lot, and don't really mention Israel by name, or talk about the Israeli government beyond the Mossad bit. That's on purpose. Because Israel is its people, not its government. I can disagree with some of the things the government does, or has done, or tries to do, while still standing with the country and its people as a whole. Because Israel deserves to survive.