#BUT HE TOLERATES NO DISCRIMINATION

[theheadlessgroom]

@beatingheart-bride

For once in her life, Susannah Pace felt beautiful.

Shyly did she step out onto the front porch and into the full moonlight, light which caught the pale diamond-blue of her gown, making it glitter every step she took, drawing the eye to the gold accents that outlined the skirts, the sleeves, and the bodice of the gown, the last of these touched up by embroidered roses in a deep, romantic pink. Her black curls, normally untamable, were pulled back with a lovely blue bow, and her pale face, touched up with just a hint of makeup, was concealed behind an equally-pale mask, which gave her the appearance of a porcelain doll.

This was easily her most complex design to date: Hours were spent pouring over the pages of her mother's book of fables, studying every detail of Trembling's gowns, deciding which one she liked the best...the last of them seemed the best fit, and so the work began. Many hours were spent both before work, after work, and after spending time with Philippe working on it, perfecting every inch of it until finally, mercifully, it was ready, complimented by a plain pair of heels and some of her mother and grandmother's jewelry.

There was only one question-one that came from trembling, nervous lips as she lowered her mask, cheeks warm behind the makeup:

"Wh-What...what do you think?"

[oranberrie]

Ah the autistic experience of randomly remembering a situation from your childhood and realizing things

[pro-anomalocaris]

This also applies to mentally ill men* whose oppression is worsened by how men are seen as more dangerous.

(*Footnote before people argue with me: Every movie ever with an evil mentally ill male villain who must be killed to save the non-ill and therefore good at/for something protagonists has a direct line connecting it to yet another cop who kills a mentally ill man instead of talking to him and then claims he was 'armed and dangerous' or 'violent and threatening'.)

The more I think about it the more I suspect that a lot of the reason people are resistant to the concept of transandrophobia is that to accept it would make it harder to avoid reckoning with the way we treat men of color, and hell, POC in general.

I know part of it is just...a long-running misunderstanding of intersectionality as "the intersection of various axes of oppression, in which Privileged Identities are irrelevant or even take away from it" rather than "the intersection of all aspects of a person's identity to form a whole that may look very different from someone else who shares a singular trait, or unexpectedly similar to someone who doesn't", and thus reading the concept as "ACKSHUALLY it's WOMEN who oppress MEN and so WE'RE the ones with TWO Oppression Points, not those stupid and shallow and overprivileged trans women!"

But I cannot help but suspect that a lot of people really fucking don't WANT to break away from that misinterpretation because it would mean having to reckon SPECIFICALLY with how that misinterpretation has hurt POC. How it reinforces all the ideas that lead to the brutalization of MOC. How some "anti-racist" people on this site would absolutely have sided against Emmett Till had they lived in that time with the same mindset - that it's not a coincidence that the decline of Black tumblr became so sharp around the George Floyd protests. How they only care about how Black and brown women are masculinized and transvestigated so far as they can hold them up as "collateral damage" evidence of why we should leave white trans people alone.

And honestly, I HOPE that as this exclusionism wave dies down, it doesn't just come with the recognition of the risks that white transmascs face, or white transmascs claiming the increased risks of police brutality as their own struggle first and foremost; I want it to be a fucking leg-up to acknowledging the way gender intersects with MULTIPLE other factors INCLUDING RACE.

I know that "popping the bubble" - grappling with the fact that the way you've misunderstood something has hurt people - is painful. I get it. But you have to fucking do it because the alternative is "keep hurting other people."

[femconstellation]

i cant help but hate how men put on dresses and makeup and grew their hair out and said it made them women. and now they say they have it worse than actual women. they are men but say we oppress them when we are women. they invented a type of oppression and said it is one of the worst types of oppression (transmisogyny). They have consistently made themselves the victim and painted women as their number one oppressors and called us evil for having boundaries and not feeling comfortable with a group of men taking over our spaces and resources. Women have had such limited resources to help ourselves and this goes triple for women of color. And we are supposed to deal with this? and tolerate it? Just because they declared themselves the biggest victim doesn’t actually make them victims. They experienced some homophobia and a tiny bit of misplaced misogyny and said, “Yup! we have it worse than women” but when thousands of women say no, you don’t know what being a woman is like at all, we’re wrong? I don’t even know. I used to fight so hard for ‘trans women’ but it always irked me that a male who has experienced tons of privilege for his sex can say he rejects his sex and that makes him more disadvantaged than me. I don’t want this oppression, this discrimination, this misogyny. But they claim it with pride and mock us for not liking it. Ugh.

[aurum-stultus]

I've seen so many people going "Silco worked in the mines??" or "VANDER AND SILCO WORKED IN THE MINES!!" Yeah did y'all not...... watch the scene where Silco said Piltover made the Zaunites work in the mines...... The "The mines they had us in." scene where it's shown that his tolerance to unbreathable air was because he was forced to work in.. unbreathable air. I feel like people tend to forget that Silco is still a Zaunite. He might dress all fancy now, but it was already implied countless times that Vander's betrayal changed him for the worse. The Zaunites worked in the mines. Silco is a Zaunite. The Zaunites are oppressed. Silco is a Zaunite. The Zaunites are discriminated against. Silco is a Zaunite. And wealth doesn't even matter to Piltover if you're a Zaunite. The richest Zaunite is still the poorest Piltie.

[wakeup01]

buttslut

If you had asked Dante whether he would ever bottom, 1, he would probably punch you. And 2, he would insist that topping gays was just something 100% straight men like him did. And he’d say it with…well, with a ‘straight’ face. It was a display of superiority and power, an act to show people their place. He wouldn’t be seen dead bent over, presenting his rear. The mere idea disgusted him, a fact he made very clear when loudly talking to his recently made friend, Cris, inside the local inclusive night club.

An unlikely friendship that only came about from bumping into each other while Dante was taking selfies in the college bathrooms. Something of a regular past time, as Cris quickly learned. Even in a public place, Dante didn’t miss the opportunity to admire his own body, smirking as several gay guys around him turned to get a glimpse. Maybe that was the only real reason he agreed to come along. Then again, he was capable of being kindhearted, in his own special way.

“You see those pathetic ‘guys’ earlier? Practically begging to be shown what a real man can do.” Dante commented, chugging down the rest of his beer. Blatantly ignoring the warning hanging on the wall which stated ‘discrimination will not be tolerated’. Yes. Kind. In his *own* special way. “You get me?”

“Uh huh...” Cris sheepishly replied, trying to hold back a wince. Looking down with disappointment, his eyes tearing up slightly. Now definitely wasn’t a good time to reveal that he was actually trans. Maybe when the sun was about to implode, yes, that seemed like a more appropriate occasion.

Dante was a somewhat typical douchebag jock in most respects, keen to display his dominance and superior body to anyone with a hole to fill. A fuckstick with a guy - rather inconveniently, attached. Dante pushed out his perfectly sculpted chest and flexed his rippling muscles while he made his openly deriding remarks as a group passed him by. Deliberately yelling over the obnoxious club song that was blaring overhead. Cris merely laughed nervously, ashamed to admit his infatuation with Dante’s body - adjusting his trousers as his dick unconsciously rose to attention at Dante’s confident voice.

“Christ, your drink looks kinda fruity. You should try some of mine.” He lifts a glass and holds it out.

“Maybe later, do you want to go dance? I kinda dig this Charli…song.” Cris’ voice peters out at the expression shot in their direction. “Maybe not, huh.”

Unfortunately for Dante, the patrons and staff weren’t too keen on his ‘colourful’ choice of words, especially when starting to talk about ‘butt sluts’, as he put it. A bit of glitter blown in his direction was all that was needed to kickstart a change in perspective. Cris watched with wide eyes as he witnessed his toxic crush’s language and demeanour gradually adjust in front of him.

Dante attempted to brush away the glitter that somwhow got all over him. “The fu—fudge is this gay shi—shizzle!” Instead he only managed to spread it everywhere, speeding up the adjustments. Dante took another sip of beer and scrunched his nose up at the taste, pushing the drink aside. His stiff and once proud stature grew limp, hips swaying to the rhythm of the club music. The plethora of swears and insults softened into a series of enthusiastic lisps and giggles. His deep voice changing pitch one word at a time. “This soOOoong s—slaps, like, a totes banger!” Dante shouts out, to his friends amusement.

“But I thought you hated this—“

“Uhhhh, as if!” Dante’s whiney intonation quickly interjects, somewhat unbefitting of the muscled body it came from, his defined pecs still pushing out against the thin fabric of his tank top.

A warm insatiable itch caused Dante to absently remove his top and shorts, revealing a jockstrap cupping his bubbly rear - which quickly doubled in mass as it comically splayed out beneath him. A result of the rainbow glitter sticking to his sweaty body. The rest of him remained built like a tank, wide shoulders and thick thighs. A meaty chest glistening under the flickering lights of the club. He was so hot, but not just in appearance. The drunken stupor had fully gripped his easily manipulated mind. Everything around him suddenly seemed soo funny.

“Gawd, my butt’s, like, pretty big. Weird. Heehee.” Dante points out, turning slightly to show Cris, causing his cheeks to wobble. “Do girls even want big butts on guys?”

“Well…I…” Cris stammers, blushing bright red at the image of his ultra masculine friend shaking his butt while effeminately biting his lip.

“Like suuuper big and…” Internally Dante was unaware of his out of character behaviour, unquestioning as his brutish dominance was purged, replaced by adorably bratty submissiveness. He was the same old Dante deep down, just…happier. And sluttier. His body unconsciously began to gyrate to the heavy bass throbbing in his head. All he noticed was the growing need centred around his tight hole. His fingers cautiously touched the jiggly mound of flesh weighing him down from behind. Dante’s eyes filled with lust as he stared at his friend Cris, noting the sight of him and all the other hot men around him. A pleasurable sigh escapes his pursed lips.

“Big and…empty.”

A couple minutes of character growth later, members of staff arrived to offer Dante ‘vip status’ at the club. A program they had setup to deal with any ‘troublemakers’. Dante didn’t mind however, and agreed instantly. Cris followed as he got directed out the back door towards his new station, taking his position as a public relief hole. Leaning against the wall as the cool night air brushed against his bare skin. All the while he was incapable of keeping his hands off his rear, feeling it up without a second thought as onlookers watched. Dante simply nodded along dimly while the club’s manager explained that he was about to be fucked and used repeatedly to atone for his remarks. That once he has filled his quota, he and his twerkable bubble butt would become the club’s next permanent dancer.

Dante smiles and says “mmkay” while pushing his hands against the wall and widening his legs - staring blankly ahead. “Like this?” There was a little sign above his head that simply read ‘hole’ with an arrow pointing down. Just in case it wasn’t clear.

Cris made sure he was first in line to try out the new resident ‘butt slut’. He positions himself behind Dante, and struggles to hold back a laugh at the sight of the once bigoted jock willingly preparing to get dicked. He definitely liked him a lot more like this - the same muscled physique, but without the crude superiority complex. Their friendship was sure to hit new heights.

“Ready? Let me show you what a ‘real man’ can do.” Cris says with a newfound sense of confidence. Playfully, he spins Dante’s baseball cap around and places his hands across the himbo’s rear, parting his huge round cheeks to show off the cherry he was about to pop - before the rest of the club would inevitably leave him gaping.

“Mm.” Is all Dante can muster before Cris’s cock forcefully stretches him open and leaves him moaning like the natural cock hungry bottom he now was. “Don’t—don’t stawwwp babe!”

[malwaredykes]

well. here she is. miss Leigh Stasik.

trans woman. stubborn, incorrigible, eccentric. communist; she has leftist in-fighting with herself on the regular. a cannibal; she has no moral qualms about this, and its both a bit of a spiritual thing and a bit of a pragmatic thing. medic (not a doctor. no medical license). she knows for sure she had some kind of significant personality change from being shot in the head, but she doesn't remember what she was like exactly before it happened, it all became this kind of distant memory soup. shes originally from west new cali, but she grew very attached to the mojave. and has a lot of contempt for the ncr. She Will Serve Crack Before She Serves This Country. thank god the army discriminates against transsexuals etc. zero tolerance for the legion, obviously.

she firmly believes she is not nice, or kind, or compassionate, but instead her actions and her general sense of justice stem from her simply doing whats the most logical and objectively beneficial. it may be true to some extent, but she might also have a wee bit of ocd of the "i am a horrible person whos at all times like 2 seconds away from committing atrocities" variety.

shes a SCIENTIST. unofficially. she doesnt have a degree nor a chosen field of study. she makes her own hrt and other mysterious concoctions, including designer chems. which she claims she ingests injects etc not for recreational purposes, but to Enhance Her Powers And Possibilities. she reads old world books about psychology so she can manipulate people better. and makes weird contraptions and doohickeys while high. shes a HACKER of course and hacks terminals and systems for fun and just to see if she can.

her stats are out there due to implants and intense training, originally they were rather average. in-game she wears combat armor mk 2, but i see her having spruced it up like this. her main weapon is the ycs/186, the unique gauss rifle, but before that she used a modded plasma pistol. which she very much enjoyed the silly appearance of. because it was so small and with so much shit tacked on and she could just hold it in one hand like a mutated revolver like Hands up motherfucker bang bang bang lol. her melee weapon of choice is the machete gladius, but she's been training to be able to wield a thermic lance.

in my head the trajectory of her actions and the fate of the mojave that follows is different from what you can do with the game, because leigh could only go for The Secret Leftist Route Which Was Supposed To Be In The Game But We Were Robbed Of It.

boone was the first friend she made after leaving goodsprings and their relationship is particularly notable. they are Comrades, Siblings-In-Arms, Worsties (like besties but fucked up). theyve seen each other at their worst. they annoy each other on purpose. theyve had serious ideological clashes with each other and some ways in which boone perceives the world drive leigh absolutely nuts. they're ride or die for each other. theyre the kind of comfortable around each other where she'll be on the toilet and smoking a cig with the door open and talking to him, while he's naked sitting on the floor removing stitches from his leg. she's done surgery without anesthesia on him. he's projectile vomited blood on her from being poisoned by cazadores. she strongly encourages him to become a traitor to the ncr and to take part in the revolution and the formation of the new independent mojave alliance. somehow, it works on him in the end. shamefully they kinda like snuggling... boone bro come to bed man its nighty night man its beddy bye time.

shes in love with lily bowen. i havent decided yet whether she actually makes a move. but she thinks lily is sooooo dreamy. and shes right. if you dont think the enormous 203 year old blue mutant woman is dreamy thats your problem. outta her way

[dragonqueenbizawagi]

Uhh... So here's some rambling brainworms that turns onto a completely different topic, fair warning. I did not mean to get this far into a tangent but my mind just ran with it, so sorry in advance for derailing the post!

Well we know cats are liquid but ghosts are ectoplasm, so why can't his human form take a bit of a halfway between solid and plasma and be liquid like a cat? Give me liminal human-form Danny! Give me his two halves bleeding into each-other until both humans and ghosts find him unsettling! Give me ghosts finding him a bit too solid for them, like he doesn't float quite the same way. He floats like he's a solid object underwater, not made of flame, and the ghosts get creeped out by how - except for his tail - his body stays in the same form too regularly, whereas theirs bends and fluctuates like a dancing flame or rippling reflection even when they're relaxed and staying still. Of course, the ghosts aren't quite as creeped out as humans, since A. many of them used to be human and they're familiar with ghosts still trying to hold onto their human self image, and B. there are all sorts of ghosts with all sorts of odd appearances, why should they be intolerant of this strange halfa child? That would just be rude! If they can put up with Skulker and Technus' weirdly solid mech suits and everything else from that to dragon transformations and floating eyeballs, then who's going to comment on Danny's humanity? Of course, it still helps identify him as different, and sometimes in an unsettling way that they can't quite describe, but the most they're going to do is fight him about it because "Your face pissed me off, twerp." Most of the less aggressive ones will recognize it as their own internal bias and brush it off, because they're "rational enough to not punch someone just cause I don't like their appearance, jerk!"

Yeah, just thinking about Danny being liminal on both sides! And ghosts being tolerant, (well, still antagonistic maybe, but in a punch-everyone-equally way). Be nice to have some ghosts talking shit about human bigotry and maybe even a human hearing it and being like, 'Holy shit... Am I more of a monster than the literal monsters?' Unfortunately most actual assholes wouldn't accept criticism from, well, anyone (except maybe close friends and family, remember: you have influence over your inner circle in dictating what is considered acceptable behavior - use it wisely) but maybe someone who thinks of themselves as socially conscious or tolerant of other's differences like Sam might take a lesson to heart if a ghost said, "woah dude, that's fucked up, and I'm a literal monster". Although I have two scenarios of what kind of intolerance we're dealing with in this scenario. Originally I thought of it being people judging Danny's liminal traits as they start to emerge. In which case maybe a ghost sticks up for him like, "Kid, you see literal inhuman monsters in your town everyday, why should you care if your classmate has fangs. Heck, I think Phantom looks weirdly human but I'm not going to be a jerk about it. It's not any weirder than the floating eyeballs that run the ghost zone's government," "Ghosts have a government?" "Let's not get off track, dear."

Alternatively it's just regular intolerance over (insert flavor of marginalization here) and some ghosts just bitch about how humans are so judgemental and how once your a ghost you learn real quick how none of that matters so much as whether someone can beat you in a fight. "Not that I ever liked bigotry when I was alive but in the ghost zone it's clear that shit holds no weight. If you wanna be hateful you're just a bully, and while those do exist (in the form of pigs who's name rhymes with talker) most people learn to either get along or leave people alone. Everyone just wants to live their afterlife, ya know? Grudges can last a long time so why start any? Especially when a lot of folks have no problem punching a jerk for any rude comments, or just cause we feel like it. When most of the population has died traumatically, we're not to eager to spend our afterlife taking shit. Nothings worse than dying, right? So fuck it! Punch Nazis! What're they gonna do? Kill me? And take it from someone who died, kid, life's too short to waste time letting Nazi fucks run their mouths without consequence."

Also, I realize we already have a ghost character who hates bullies, Sidney! I would love to read him lecturing someone or even just giving a tired, "Really? Out of all the things you could care about you choose to care about this? I mean I know firsthand just how illogical discrimination can be but it still never ceases to amaze me how dumb bullies are. And humans in general! Your lives are so short, man, you don't need to spend it finding reasons to interact more with people you don't like. Just give it a rest, chum."

Honestly I did not realize how much I had to say on this and now I might actually write something for this (unless this rambling was enough to get it out of my system). Probably something along the lines of both ghosts and humans notice the changes as Danny's two halves start to bleed into each other, and while ghosts are accepting, humans teenagers? Not so much. And so some ghost overhears (I can't decide which yet, there's too many good choices) and either tears into them for it or just condescendingly comments on how intolerant humans are and how none of that matters much when you're dead. In fact I'll probably just copy my little speech from above and give it to Johnny or someone. Maybe Ember because then they'd value her opinion.

And whichever way I go with this (again- if I write it at all) I'll be sure to include Danny in a box. As a treat!

Classic “Danny sleeps in random and insane places” but now make it so these places are so incredibly cramped but he managed to contortionist himself into sleeping positions cuz squishy bones

Made solely cuz my mind kept saying “Danny in a box, what will he do?”

[linkedin-offficial]

grown up kid yoshi hc design because im so so so ill

first img text below cut :

older yoshi

molded by the friends he made on the thousand year door journey

ended up obtaining the catchphrase / speech quirk "punchout"

in the major league; has tried for the champion title before but hasn't gotten too far with that yet

(honestly isn't dead set on winning it, just wants to spar most of the time and finds that fun enough)

(mario) cares about his friends more than anything else, and feels no fear in asking them for help

(koops) very clumsy and covered in bandaids and bandages most of the time

(flurrie) cares about looks and sometimes uses body paint

(goombella) very knowledgeable and thinks before acting

(bobbery) explosive both mentally and physically

(vivian) kind and understanding outside of the ring, and will not tolerate discrimination of any kind

(ms. mowz) tries to outsmart his enemies in any way he can

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Gig apps trap reverse centaurs in Skinner boxes

Enshittification is the process by which digital platforms devour themselves: first they dangle goodies in front of end users. Once users are locked in, the goodies are taken away and dangled before business customers who supply goods to the users. Once those business customers are stuck on the platform, the goodies are clawed away and showered on the platform’s shareholders:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/01/21/potemkin-ai/#hey-guys

If you’d like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here’s a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/12/algorithmic-wage-discrimination/#fishers-of-men

Enshittification isn’t just another way of saying “fraud” or “price gouging” or “wage theft.” Enshittification is intrinsically digital, because moving all those goodies around requires the flexibility that only comes with a digital businesses. Jeff Bezos, grocer, can’t rapidly change the price of eggs at Whole Foods without an army of kids with pricing guns on roller-skates. Jeff Bezos, grocer, can change the price of eggs on Amazon Fresh just by twiddling a knob on the service’s back-end.

Twiddling is the key to enshittification: rapidly adjusting prices, conditions and offers. As with any shell game, the quickness of the hand deceives the eye. Tech monopolists aren’t smarter than the Gilded Age sociopaths who monopolized rail or coal — they use the same tricks as those monsters of history, but they do them faster and with computers:

https://doctorow.medium.com/twiddler-1b5c9690cce6

If Rockefeller wanted to crush a freight company, he couldn’t just click a mouse and lay down a pipeline that ran on the same route, and then click another mouse to make it go away when he was done. When Bezos wants to bankrupt Diapers.com — a company that refused to sell itself to Amazon — he just moved a slider so that diapers on Amazon were being sold below cost. Amazon lost $100m over three months, diapers.com went bankrupt, and every investor learned that competing with Amazon was a losing bet:

https://slate.com/technology/2013/10/amazon-book-how-jeff-bezos-went-thermonuclear-on-diapers-com.html

That’s the power of twiddling — but twiddling cuts both ways. The same flexibility that digital businesses enjoy is hypothetically available to workers and users. The airlines pioneered twiddling ticket prices, and that naturally gave rise to countertwiddling, in the form of comparison shopping sites that scraped the airlines’ sites to predict when tickets would be cheapest:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/27/knob-jockeys/#bros-be-twiddlin

The airlines — like all abusive businesses — refused to tolerate this. They were allowed to touch their knobs as much as they wanted — indeed, they couldn’t stop touching those knobs — but when we tried to twiddle back, that was “felony contempt of business model,” and the airlines sued:

https://www.cnbc.com/2014/12/30/airline-sues-man-for-founding-a-cheap-flights-website.html

And sued:

https://www.nytimes.com/2018/01/06/business/southwest-airlines-lawsuit-prices.html

Platforms don’t just hate it when end-users twiddle back — if anything they are even more aggressive when their business-users dare to twiddle. Take Para, an app that Doordash drivers used to get a peek at the wages offered for jobs before they accepted them — something that Doordash hid from its workers. Doordash ruthlessly attacked Para, saying that by letting drivers know how much they’d earn before they did the work, Para was violating the law:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2021/08/tech-rights-are-workers-rights-doordash-edition

Which law? Well, take your pick. The modern meaning of “IP” is “any law that lets me use the law to control my competitors, competition or customers.” Platforms use a mix of anticircumvention law, patent, copyright, contract, cybersecurity and other legal systems to weave together a thicket of rules that allow them to shut down rivals for their Felony Contempt of Business Model:

https://locusmag.com/2020/09/cory-doctorow-ip/

Enshittification relies on unlimited twiddling (by platforms), and a general prohibition on countertwiddling (by platform users). Enshittification is a form of fishing, in which bait is dangled before different groups of users and then nimbly withdrawn when they lunge for it. Twiddling puts the suppleness into the enshittifier’s fishing-rod, and a ban on countertwiddling weighs down platform users so they’re always a bit too slow to catch the bait.

Nowhere do we see twiddling’s impact more than in the “gig economy,” where workers are misclassified as independent contractors and put to work for an app that scripts their every move to the finest degree. When an app is your boss, you work for an employer who docks your pay for violating rules that you aren’t allowed to know — and where your attempts to learn those rules are constantly frustrated by the endless back-end twiddling that changes the rules faster than you can learn them.

As with every question of technology, the issue isn’t twiddling per se — it’s who does the twiddling and who gets twiddled. A worker armed with digital tools can play gig work employers off each other and force them to bid up the price of their labor; they can form co-ops with other workers that auto-refuse jobs that don’t pay enough, and use digital tools to organize to shift power from bosses to workers:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/12/02/not-what-it-does/#who-it-does-it-to

Take “reverse centaurs.” In AI research, a “centaur” is a human assisted by a machine that does more than either could do on their own. For example, a chess master and a chess program can play a better game together than either could play separately. A reverse centaur is a machine assisted by a human, where the machine is in charge and the human is a meat-puppet.

Think of Amazon warehouse workers wearing haptic location-aware wristbands that buzz at them continuously dictating where their hands must be; or Amazon drivers whose eye-movements are continuously tracked in order to penalize drivers who look in the “wrong” direction:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/02/17/reverse-centaur/#reverse-centaur

The difference between a centaur and a reverse centaur is the difference between a machine that makes your life better and a machine that makes your life worse so that your boss gets richer. Reverse centaurism is the 21st Century’s answer to Taylorism, the pseudoscience that saw white-coated “experts” subject workers to humiliating choreography down to the smallest movement of your fingertip:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/08/21/great-taylors-ghost/#solidarity-or-bust

While reverse centaurism was born in warehouses and other company-owned facilities, gig work let it make the leap into workers’ homes and cars. The 21st century has seen a return to the cottage industry — a form of production that once saw workers labor far from their bosses and thus beyond their control — but shriven of the autonomy and dignity that working from home once afforded:

https://doctorow.medium.com/gig-work-is-the-opposite-of-steampunk-463e2730ef0d

The rise and rise of bossware — which allows for remote surveillance of workers in their homes and cars — has turned “work from home” into “live at work.” Reverse centaurs can now be chickenized — a term from labor economics that describes how poultry farmers, who sell their birds to one of three vast poultry processors who have divided up the country like the Pope dividing up the “New World,” are uniquely exploited:

https://onezero.medium.com/revenge-of-the-chickenized-reverse-centaurs-b2e8d5cda826

A chickenized reverse centaur has it rough: they must pay for the machines they use to make money for their bosses, they must obey the orders of the app that controls their work, and they are denied any of the protections that a traditional worker might enjoy, even as they are prohibited from deploying digital self-help measures that let them twiddle back to bargain for a better wage.

All of this sets the stage for a phenomenon called algorithmic wage discrimination, in which two workers doing the same job under the same conditions will see radically different payouts for that work. These payouts are continuously tweaked in the background by an algorithm that tries to predict the minimum sum a worker will accept to remain available without payment, to ensure sufficient workers to pick up jobs as they arise.

This phenomenon — and proposed policy and labor solutions to it — is expertly analyzed in “On Algorithmic Wage Discrimination,” a superb paper by UC Law San Franciscos Veena Dubal:

https://papers.ssrn.com/sol3/papers.cfm?abstract_id=4331080

Dubal uses empirical data and enthnographic accounts from Uber drivers and other gig workers to explain how endless, self-directed twiddling allows gig companies pay workers less and pay themselves more. As @brianmerchant@mastodon.social explains in his LA Times article on Dubal’s research, the goal of the payment algorithm is to guess how often a given driver needs to receive fair compensation in order to keep them driving when the payments are unfair:

https://www.latimes.com/business/technology/story/2023-04-11/algorithmic-wage-discrimination

The algorithm combines nonconsensual dossiers compiled on individual drivers with population-scale data to seek an equilibrium between keeping drivers waiting, unpaid, for a job; and how much a driver needs to be paid for an individual job, in order to keep that driver from clocking out and doing something else. @ Here’s how that works. Sergio Avedian, a writer for The Rideshare Guy, ran an experiment with two brothers who both drove for Uber; one drove a Tesla and drove intermittently, the other brother rented a hybrid sedan and drove frequently. Sitting side-by-side with the brothers, Avedian showed how the brother with the Tesla was offered more for every trip:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UADTiL3S67I

Uber wants to lure intermittent drivers into becoming frequent drivers. Uber doesn’t pay for an oversupply of drivers, because it only pays drivers when they have a passenger in the car. Having drivers on call — but idle — is a way for Uber to shift the cost of maintaining a capacity cushion to its workers.

What’s more, what Uber charges customers is not based on how much it pays its workers. As Uber’s head of product explained: Uber uses “machine-learning techniques to estimate how much groups of customers are willing to shell out for a ride. Uber calculates riders’ propensity for paying a higher price for a particular route at a certain time of day. For instance, someone traveling from a wealthy neighborhood to another tony spot might be asked to pay more than another person heading to a poorer part of town, even if demand, traffic and distance are the same.”

https://qz.com/990131/uber-is-practicing-price-discrimination-economists-say-that-might-not-be-a-bad-thing/

Uber has historically described its business a pure supply-and-demand matching system, where a rush of demand for rides triggers surge pricing, which lures out drivers, which takes care of the demand. That’s not how it works today, and it’s unclear if it ever worked that way. Today, a driver who consults the rider version of the Uber app before accepting a job — to compare how much the rider is paying to how much they stand to earn — is booted off the app and denied further journeys.

Surging, instead, has become just another way to twiddle drivers. One of Dubal’s subjects, Derrick, describes how Uber uses fake surges to lure drivers to airports: “You go to the airport, once the lot get kind of full, then the surge go away.” Other drivers describe how they use groupchats to call out fake surges: “I’m in the Marina. It’s dead. Fake surge.”

That’s pure twiddling. Twiddling turns gamification into gamblification, where your labor buys you a spin on a roulette wheel in a rigged casino. As a driver called Melissa, who had doubled down on her availability to earn a $100 bonus awarded for clocking a certain number of rides, told Dubal, “When you get close to the bonus, the rides start trickling in more slowly…. And it makes sense. It’s really the type of shit that they can do when it’s okay to have a surplus labor force that is just sitting there that they don’t have to pay for.”

Wherever you find reverse-centaurs, you get this kind of gamblification, where the rules are twiddled continuously to make sure that the house always wins. As a contract driver Amazon reverse centaur told Lauren Gurley for Motherboard, “Amazon uses these cameras allegedly to make sure they have a safer driving workforce, but they’re actually using them not to pay delivery companies”:

https://www.vice.com/en/article/88npjv/amazons-ai-cameras-are-punishing-drivers-for-mistakes-they-didnt-make

Algorithmic wage discrimination is the robot overlord of our nightmares: its job is to relentlessly quest for vulnerabilities and exploit them. Drivers divide themselves into “ants” (drivers who take every job) and “pickers” (drivers who cherry-pick high-paying jobs). The algorithm’s job is ensuring that pickers get the plum assignments, not the ants, in the hopes of converting those pickers to app-dependent ants.

In my work on enshittification, I call this the “giant teddy bear” gambit. At every county fair, you’ll always spot some poor jerk carrying around a giant teddy-bear they “won” on the midway. But they didn’t win it — not by getting three balls in the peach-basket. Rather, the carny running the rigged game either chose not to operate the “scissor” that kicks balls out of the basket. Or, if the game is “honest” (that is, merely impossible to win, rather than gimmicked), the operator will make a too-good-to-refuse offer: “Get one ball in and I’ll give you this keychain. Win two keychains and I’ll let you trade them for this giant teddy bear.”

Carnies aren’t in the business of giving away giant teddy bears — rather, the gambit is an investment. Giving a mark a giant teddy bear to carry around the midway all day acts as a convincer, luring other marks to try to land three balls in the basket and win their own teddy bear.

In the same way, platforms like Uber distribute giant teddy bears to pickers, as a way of keeping the ants scurrying from job to job, and as a way of convincing the pickers to give up whatever work allows them to discriminate among Uber’s offers and hold out for the plum deals, whereupon then can be transmogrified into ants themselves.

Dubal describes the experience of Adil, a Syrian refugee who drives for Uber in the Bay Area. His colleagues are pickers, and showed him screenshots of how much they earned. Determined to get a share of that money, Adil became a model ant, driving two hours to San Francisco, driving three days straight, napping in his car, spending only one day per week with his family. The algorithm noticed that Adil needed the work, so it paid him less.

Adil responded the way the system predicted he would, by driving even more: “My friends they make it, so I keep going, maybe I can figure it out. It’s unsecure, and I don’t know how people they do it. I don’t know how I am doing it, but I have to. I mean, I don’t find another option. In a minute, if I find something else, oh man, I will be out immediately. I am a very patient person, that’s why I can continue.”

Another driver, Diego, told Dubal about how the winners of the giant teddy bears fell into the trap of thinking that they were “good at the app”: “Any time there’s some big shot getting high pay outs, they always shame everyone else and say you don’t know how to use the app. I think there’s secret PR campaigns going on that gives targeted payouts to select workers, and they just think it’s all them.”

That’s the power of twiddling: by hoarding all the flexibility offered by digital tools, the management at platforms can become centaurs, able to string along thousands of workers, while the workers are reverse-centaurs, puppeteered by the apps.

As the example of Adil shows, the algorithm doesn’t need to be very sophisticated in order to figure out which workers it can underpay. The system automates the kind of racial and gender discrimination that is formally illegal, but which is masked by the smokescreen of digitization. An employer who systematically paid women less than men, or Black people less than white people, would be liable to criminal and civil sanctions. But if an algorithm simply notices that people who have fewer job prospects drive more and will thus accept lower wages, that’s just “optimization,” not racism or sexism.

This is the key to understanding the AI hype bubble: when ghouls from multinational banks predict 13 trillion dollar markets for “AI,” what they mean is that digital tools will speed up the twiddling and other wage-suppression techniques to transfer $13T in value from workers and consumers to shareholders.

The American business lobby is relentlessly focused on the goal of reducing wages. That’s the force behind “free trade,” “right to work,” and other codewords for “paying workers less,” including “gig work.” Tech workers long saw themselves as above this fray, immune to labor exploitation because they worked for a noble profession that took care of its own.

But the epidemic of mass tech-worker layoffs, following on the heels of massive stock buybacks, has demonstrated that tech bosses are just like any other boss: willing to pay as little as they can get away with, and no more. Tech bosses are so comfortable with their market dominance and the lock-in of their customers that they are happy to turn out hundreds of thousands of skilled workers, convinced that the twiddling systems they’ve built are the kinds of self-licking ice-cream cones that are so simple even a manager can use them — no morlocks required.

The tech worker layoffs are best understood as an all-out war on tech worker morale, because that morale is the source of tech workers’ confidence and thus their demands for a larger share of the value generated by their labor. The current tech layoff template is very different from previous tech layoffs: today’s layoffs are taking place over a period of months, long after they are announced, and laid off tech worker is likely to be offered a months of paid post-layoff work, rather than severance. This means that tech workplaces are now haunted by the walking dead, workers who have been laid off but need to come into the office for months, even as the threat of layoffs looms over the heads of the workers who remain. As an old friend, recently laid off from Microsoft after decades of service, wrote to me, this is “a new arrow in the quiver of bringing tech workers to heel and ensuring that we’re properly thankful for the jobs we have (had?).”

Dubal is interested in more than analysis, she’s interested in action. She looks at the tactics already deployed by gig workers, who have not taken all this abuse lying down. Workers in the UK and EU organized through Worker Info Exchange and the App Drivers and Couriers Union have used the GDPR (the EU’s privacy law) to demand “algorithmic transparency,” as well as access to their data. In California, drivers hope to use similar provisions in the CCPA (a state privacy law) to do the same.

These efforts have borne fruit. When Cornell economists, led by Louis Hyman, published research (paid for by Uber) claiming that Uber drivers earned an average of $23/hour, it was data from these efforts that revealed the true average Uber driver’s wage was $9.74. Subsequent research in California found that Uber drivers’ wage fell to $6.22/hour after the passage of Prop 22, a worker misclassification law that gig companies spent $225m to pass, only to have the law struck down because of a careless drafting error:

https://www.latimes.com/california/newsletter/2021-08-23/proposition-22-lyft-uber-decision-essential-california

But Dubal is skeptical that data-coops and transparency will achieve transformative change and build real worker power. Knowing how the algorithm works is useful, but it doesn’t mean you can do anything about it, not least because the platform owners can keep touching their knobs, twiddling the payout schedule on their rigged slot-machines.

Data co-ops start from the proposition that “data extraction is an inevitable form of labor for which workers should be remunerated.” It makes on-the-job surveillance acceptable, provided that workers are compensated for the spying. But co-ops aren’t unions, and they don’t have the power to bargain for a fair price for that data, and coops themselves lack the vast resources — “to store, clean, and understand” — data.

Co-ops are also badly situated to understand the true value of the data that is extracted from their members: “Workers cannot know whether the data collected will, at the population level, violate the civil rights of others or amplifies their own social oppression.”

Instead, Dubal wants an outright, nonwaivable prohibition on algorithmic wage discrimination. Just make it illegal. If firms cannot use gambling mechanisms to control worker behavior through variable pay systems, they will have to find ways to maintain flexible workforces while paying their workforce predictable wages under an employment model. If a firm cannot manage wages through digitally-determined variable pay systems, then the firm is less likely to employ algorithmic management.”

In other words, rather than using market mechanisms too constrain platform twiddling, Dubal just wants to make certain kinds of twiddling illegal. This is a growing trend in legal scholarship. For example, the economist Ramsi Woodcock has proposed a ban on surge pricing as a per se violation of Section 1 of the Sherman Act:

https://ilr.law.uiowa.edu/print/volume-105-issue-4/the-efficient-queue-and-the-case-against-dynamic-pricing

Similarly, Dubal proposes that algorithmic wage discrimination violates another antitrust law: the Robinson-Patman Act, which “bans sellers from charging competing buyers different prices for the same commodity. Robinson-Patman enforcement was effectively halted under Reagan, kicking off a host of pathologies, like the rise of Walmart:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/03/27/walmarts-jackals/#cheater-sizes

I really liked Dubal’s legal reasoning and argument, and to it I would add a call to reinvigorate countertwiddling: reforming laws that get in the way of workers who want to reverse-engineer, spoof, and control the apps that currently control them. Adversarial interoperability (AKA competitive compatibility or comcom) is key tool for building worker power in an era of digital Taylorism:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2019/10/adversarial-interoperability

To see how that works, look to other jursidictions where workers have leapfrogged their European and American cousins, such as Indonesia, where gig workers and toolsmiths collaborate to make a whole suite of “tuyul apps,” which let them override the apps that gig companies expect them to use.

https://pluralistic.net/2021/07/08/tuyul-apps/#gojek

For example, ride-hailing companies won’t assign a train-station pickup to a driver unless they’re circling the station — which is incredibly dangerous during the congested moments after a train arrives. A tuyul app lets a driver park nearby and then spoof their phone’s GPS fix to the ridehailing company so that they appear to be right out front of the station.

In an ideal world, those workers would have a union, and be able to dictate the app’s functionality to their bosses. But workers shouldn’t have to wait for an ideal world: they don’t just need jam tomorrow — they need jam today. Tuyul apps, and apps like Para, which allow workers to extract more money under better working conditions, are a prelude to unionization and employer regulation, not a substitute for it.

Employers will not give workers one iota more power than they have to. Just look at the asymmetry between the regulation of union employees versus union busters. Under US law, employees of a union need to account for every single hour they work, every mile they drive, every location they visit, in public filings. Meanwhile, the union-busting industry — far larger and richer than unions — operate under a cloak of total secrecy, Workers aren’t even told which union busters their employers have hired — let alone get an accounting of how those union busters spend money, or how many of them are working undercover, pretending to be workers in order to sabotage the union.

Twiddling will only get an employer so far. Twiddling — like all “AI” — is based on analyzing the past to predict the future. The heuristics an algorithm creates to lure workers into their cars can’t account for rapid changes in the wider world, which is why companies who relied on “AI” scheduling apps (for example, to prevent their employees from logging enough hours to be entitled to benefits) were caught flatfooted by the Great Resignation.

Workers suddenly found themselves with bargaining power thanks to the departure of millions of workers — a mix of early retirees and workers who were killed or permanently disabled by covid — and they used that shortage to demand a larger share of the fruits of their labor. The outraged howls of the capital class at this development were telling: these companies are operated by the kinds of “capitalists” that MLK once identified, who want “socialism for the rich and rugged individualism for the poor.”

https://twitter.com/KaseyKlimes/status/821836823022354432/

There's only 5 days left in the Kickstarter campaign for the audiobook of my next novel, a post-cyberpunk anti-finance finance thriller about Silicon Valley scams called Red Team Blues. Amazon's Audible refuses to carry my audiobooks because they're DRM free, but crowdfunding makes them possible.

Image: Stephen Drake (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Analog_Test_Array_modular_synth_by_sduck409.jpg

CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/deed.en

 — 

Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

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Louis (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Chestnut_horse_head,_all_excited.jpg

CC BY-SA 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/deed.en

[Image ID: A complex mandala of knobs from a modular synth. In the foreground, limned in a blue electric halo, is a man in a hi-viz vest with the head of a horse. The horse's eyes have been replaced with the sinister red eyes of HAL9000 from Kubrick's '2001: A Space Odyssey.'"]

[jester-lover]

Batfam with a Desi! S/O

CWs: Fem! aligned reader discussions of discrimination, angst, spoilers, but overall fluff

AN: I'm desi and I rarely see desi! reader content out here, so I felt the need to deliver, would love feedback! Also, I'm very new to the Batfamily dynamic, so please don't think anything OOC is intentional.

Bruce

You’ve got to be a really smart person to catch his eye; when you’ve got him, he’s absolutely ensnared by you. Bruce worships the damn ground you walk on, and he respects your culture from the get-go.

As a businessman, he’s met people from all countries. He knows how to behave respectfully towards your family without much nagging. By that I mean, he’ll take his shoes off when he gets to your place.

You know those big gold bangles and accessories you’ve always wanted? You’ll get them. Bruce knows what an investment gold can be, and he’s insistent on only the best for you.

Desi culture is very family-oriented, and while at first, he’s a little put off by how close everyone is, he warms up to it. Your family adores him because they know he can take care of you, and he actually puts in effort to connect with your identity.

He encourages you to wear traditional clothes to every press event you attend, and whenever you’re at desi events together, he’ll wear a kurta too. Imagine going to a desi wedding with a billionaire in tow, and he starts throwing hundreds on the dance floor lol.

You worry about him regarding his double life, but he tries to keep the crime in Gotham away from you the best he can.

Dick

He’s so down bad about you his own teammates make fun of him for it.

Dick would see you doing something like oiling your hair and beg to try it out too, so now you oil his hair once weekly. He tells everyone it’s a secret, but they all know it got better as soon as he was with you.

He would love watching sappy old Bollywood/Tollywood movies with you; the plots and slang might be outdated, but he loves the ornateness of it all. Like he’s a sucker for good background and costume design.

Your family loves how much attention he pays to himself and his body, and he practically soaks in the adoration of any number of little cousins he can pick up and spin around at family functions.

Speaking of functions, you know he’s gonna be in the middle of the dance floor. Does he know even a single song or move? Absolutely he does not, but is he gonna try to replicate SRK from his heart? Yes, he is.

He might shed a little tear the first time he sees you in traditional clothes; you just look so pretty to him. He loves seeing you in lehengas and saris, especially the long, flowy fabric that makes you look like a princess to him.

Jason

I really don’t think your family would like him at first, but he’s committed to you, and he’s gonna be with you as long as you’ll have him. He’ll happily immerse himself in your culture and eventually gain their trust, albeit, hanging on a thread.

Similarly to Dick, he’ll ask for you to try oiling his hair, but he’d love oiling your hair too, helping you tend to it during slow days. 

While none of the other people here would be quiet in the face of you facing discrimination, Jason would be the most willing to cause equal or worse harm. God forbid someone acts rude or racist towards you; they will find their lives slowly falling apart around them. From flat tires to burnt-down houses, he will willingly cause misery for those who have upset you over something you couldn’t possibly control.

Loves to help you cook; seeing a dish come together makes him feel all domestic and giddy inside. Even if it’s something simple, like a cup of chai or basic daal, he loves the richness of the flavors and spice. His spice tolerance is also high, so you don’t need to make your shared meals blander.

Worrying about clothes is a little out of his general interest, but he loves how opulent your traditional clothes are, like the amount of attention to detail and elegance. He thinks you look pretty even after the event, shoes in hand and hair messy after dancing for hours. He’ll carry you to the car if you ask him.

On the topic of clothes, Jason would look so gorgeous in a silky black kurta; I just know it.

Tim

One of my favorite gora pakoras.

He’d love to visit your country of origin someday; warm weather, good food, meeting your extended family—it’s all great for him.

Loves desi sweets so much. His favorites are mostly kulfi and syrupy treats like gulab jamun, but he loves snacks like pakoras.

This is the boy you want to bring home; he’s smart, self-reliant, comes from money, and is willing to keep up with the various traditions we have. Tim will happily learn your language, even if just to greet people respectfully at events. Your desi mom will literally start telling you to act more like him.

He’ll get himself matching kurtas to your outfits if you want him to, even if he kind of just sits around at events. It's not that he doesn’t want to socialize; he’s just a little nervous.

Tim will watch all the Desi rom-coms you want with you, especially the musical ones; they’re his guilty pleasure.

Duke

He’s so sweet, genuinely such a good partner in general, but also so conscious of cultural and social differences. 

Duke Thomas would be the type of boyfriend who carries around extra safety pins whenever you’re in traditional clothes or bobby pins for your hair, just thoughtful in little but important ways.

Running around fighting crime really takes a lot out of a guy, so you know he’d love to eat some hearty food; I think his favorites would be biryani or anything similarly substantial. 

This is the boy who’d spend any spare hour he has listening to you ramble on about family drama that goes back three generations and spans 3 continents. He’ll even help you oil your hair while he’s at it; he’s pretty decent at massaging it into your scalp. 

His favorite clothes on you are the less gown-like desi clothes, like the Shalwar Kameez; Duke thinks you look absolutely adorable in a dupatta.

He adores you so much because of everything that makes you, you. That includes loving your culture.

Barbara

Barbara’s such an ideal girlfriend in any situation, but with a desi partner, she’d really adore exploring your culture with you.

Another one who’d love watching Bollywood/Tollywood movies with you, especially some of the newer ones by more obscure directors, focusing on women’s issues and other elements of modern Desi society.

She would help you do your makeup for formal events, and it will be locked down for the night. Imagine wearing matching lehengas with Barb; she’d look so stunning!

Warms up to your family pretty quickly; she loves sharing chai and biscuits in the morning with them, talking about all the happenings in the city.

Barbara loves desi jewelry; she’d adore it if you got her a piece. She loves seeing you in ornate matching sets, just decked out in glamour.

[fatkish]

Aisles and Class 1A x Fem Quirkless reader platonic hcs who’s cold, reserved, but still polite and nice to others. She’s a strict badass who’s also street smart and masters a bunch of weapons like throwing knives, guns, pole arms, etc, to replace her lack of a Quirk. One of the top students as well as the scariest girl in class as she gives it her all in class, sending anyone who challenges her to the infirmary anytime they fought her. Unlike Izuku, who at least grew up with a parent’s love, she had nobody and had to survive on the streets and illegal underground rings, earning many nasty scars that she hides behind her bandages and clothing which she always covers up with stuff like scarfs, gloves, even if it’s super hot out. She craves any love but backs down due to heavy discrimination, bullying, etc. hcs?

(So I’m gonna assume that Aisles is Aizawa because I don’t recall a character with that name. Also I’m gonna make the reader similar to Illumi Zoldyck from HxH)

Aizawa & Class 1A x Quirkless Reader

Growing up in the underground was harsh and brutal. In order to survive you had to be willing to do whatever it took

Whether it was stealing food, or fighting, you did anything that could increase the chances of your survival

Living on the streets, you grew up facing villains and thugs in the alleys, they would see you as an easy target so you had to learn to protect yourself

After years of fighting and being subjected to multiple quirks, you’ve built up a high resistance to physical pain. Not that you can’t feel pain, you just tolerate more of it better than others

You’ve learned various techniques and skills when it comes to fighting but you’re not just skilled with combat

Having no parents, you had to learn to cook for yourself and became somewhat skilled in the culinary arts

In order to make up for not having a quirk, you learned to wield every possible weapon and mastered the use of each

And in order to have money, you fought in illegal and legal underground fighting rings. These fights landed you plenty of scars to the point that you��re covered in them

You wear bandages and long clothing to hide the scars, however your choice of style can make you look suspicious

Due to growing up the way you did, you developed a rather cold and reserved personality but you maintained your manners and are very polite

You don’t really show a lot of emotion which can make people uncomfortable being around you, but you don’t really care

Originally, you weren’t going to go to highschool but you came across Aizawa one night when you were cornered by some thugs. He was about to step in when you seemingly appeared behind the thugs, then they all fell down unconscious. Aizawa thought you used a teleportation quirk. He understood that you were essentially homeless and had no family so he offered for you to stay with him for the night

As he began to understand your predicament, he was amazed at how quickly you picked up on things. You were incredibly smart and observant but that’s probably due to having lived on the streets

When Aizawa learned that you didn’t have a quirk he originally didn’t believe you. But after testing his quirk on you, he realized you were telling the truth

Aizawa actually gave you a recommendation to UA since he deeply believes that you would make a good hero

When you took the recommendation exam, you met Inasa who surprisingly quickly managed to worm his way past your walls and became your friend during the exam

After having passed the exam with flying colors you were given Inasa’s phone number since he learned you didn’t have a phone

Aizawa had later that day, bought you a phone for you to connect with the friends you would hopefully make

When school came around, Inasa had been coaching you on how to make friends, despite your cold personality you managed to befriend Izuku on the first day (more like he just didn’t have the balls to tell you you were scary)

You saw how Bakugou treated Izuku and you didn’t like how scared Izuku was so you decided to make an example out of Bakugou

During All Mights hero class, you were paired with Izuku and Uraraka. You followed Izuku and protected him from Bakugou. When Bakugou ignored All Might and used his stored up sweat, you decided that you had enough. You quickly went behind Bakugou and started to let loose on him, in the end, you accidentally sent him to recovery girl’s office since you didn’t know how to hold back

When Izuku saw this, he realized you weren’t that scary and you’re just not that good with social situations, he then took it upon himself to make you apart of the Dekusquad and you decided to keep hanging around him

Shoto and Momo have become some of your closer friends. Momo takes you shopping and loves to dress you up

Mineta, Koda and Aoyama are terrified of you. The girls all love that Mineta is too afraid to perv on you, so they use you as a shield to ward off Mineta

Kirishima and Ojiro are constantly asking you to spar with them as well as Bakugou. They don’t care that you can’t hold back most of your strength, the don’t care that sparring with you is a one way ticket to Recovery Girl, they admire your strength and they want to get stronger

When you’re relaxing, Shoto likes to hang around you since you both have the same cluelessness in the sense of social interactions

Although you have a hard time initiating affection, Aizawa makes sure you receive plenty of it whether it’s just a simple head pat or a small hug. Aizawa and Midoriya help you with learning how to express yourself since you’ve closed yourself off as a means to protect yourself

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

slightly different from the book rec asks but you mentioned Jamie loftus so… any non-fiction podcast recs?

wow the great news is that I am pretty much constantly listening to a nonfiction podcast of one kind or another so this is huge for me. here are some of my faves!

Betwixt the Sheets: The History of Sex, Scandal, and Society - joined by a rotating cast of guest experts, sex historian Kate Lister goes on a romp through history to learn all about the sexual norms and revolutions of yesteryear.

Black People Love Paramore - in episodes that follow the formate of "Black People Love X," host Sequoia Holmes interviews her guests about their passions for pop cultural niches where Black people are often underrepresented, overlooked, or excluded altogether. heavy focus on music, as the title suggests, but topics also include Tony Hawk, pet ownership, and a memorable episode about being a slut featuring Ify Nwadiwe.

Maintenance Phase - truly like the #1 pod I get hype for when new episodes go up. hosted by fat activist Aubrey Gordon and methodology queen Michael Hobbes, focused on investigating and debunking various health and wellness fads as well as fatphobic misconceptions.

Oh No, Ross and Carrie - ONRAC just ended after thirteen and a half years of investigating all kinds of claims about wellness, spirituality, and the paranormal, ranging from self-proclaimed faith healers to exorcists to alien sightings to pet psychics to the creationist Ark-themed theme park in Kentucky. they have a HUGE backlog, great for browsing.

The Sporkful - a short and sweet podcast hosted by pasta enthusiast Dan Pashman, with each episode focusing on a different question, trend, or event from the world of food. despite being a pretty lighthearted show Pashman is admirably unafraid to tackle the less savory side of food culture; I first became aware of the podcast when he scored a searing interview with Sohla El-Wahlly after the revelation of massive workplace discrimination at YouTube's former darling, BA Test Kitchen.

The Stacks - the only book podcast I can currently tolerate. host Traci Thomas chats with authors about their new fiction and nonfiction releases and hosts a monthly book club. very chill listening, but dangerous for your to-read list.

There Are No Girls on the Internet - host Bridget Todd dives deep into tech trends, online outrages, and misinformation moments across the web. for my money, TANGOTI's coverage of the fatalities at Travis Scott's 2021 Astroworld event and the ensuing satanic panic conspiracy theories were some of the absolute best reporting around the event. currently on hiatus, so you have plenty of time to raid the archives!

Vibe Check - poet Saeed Jones and journalists Zach Stafford and Sam Sanders discuss pop culture and politics, answer listener requests for advice, and generally queen out together. you want nuance? the girlies have Nuance. genuinely one of the warmest and kindest podcasts in my rotation.

[platinumshawnn]

A Union of Ice and Stone | Cregan Stark — pt i

prologue (prev) | pt ii (next)

Synopsis: “I hope to be able to establish a union between our houses, one between the East and North. Our fathers were friends in their youth, even closer in their later years…they would have wanted for us to be friends, too.”

Content Warning(s): adult language, mentions of blood, violence, and war; era related sexism and gender based harassment/discrimination, sexual content.

A/N: it’s here and I don’t even know what to tell yall 🤺

Word count: 8.3k

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 She had never met him. 

 She had heard the stories, of course, the whispers and telltale's of Stark men and their fierceness and  prowess in battle. She had heard stories as a girl of the young Cregan Stark, who had ascended to lordship at the tender age of ten-and-three and though his reign had been slow to come into effect after a lengthy power struggle against his uncle, he had risen fully to power just a few years later -- she had heard of his reputation as a stoic, stern man who was the very embodiment of Northernmen. 

Her father had spoken of him on several occasions in front of her to her brother, fascinated by him and the stories that followed his reign in the north. She recalled the roll of eyes her brother gave every time his name came up at the dinner table, eager to change the topic and deflect to something more worthy of his attention; anything that did not include the boy he had complained he was certain their father would have preferred as a son. Arrnold was never quite as gifted in swordsmanship and had never had a way with the horses -- he managed to just get by with a dagger, but not much else -- nor was he great with people and did not do well in positions of power as he was easily tipped into an internal battle between his pride and ego. It was not as though their father was disappointed in him, but Lysara assumed that just as any father would have preferred, he would have liked for him to share more similarities to that of the young Stark. 

 She had sank into the scalding hot water of her bath as soon as it was poured despite the outcry from her handmaiden who insisted she wait until it had cooled enough to her liking, wincing as she stepped into it and brushed her off; her skin reddening upon submerging into the water that reflected the flames of the fire that was carefully tended to by house staff to ensure the room was kept to a tolerable temperature. Every nerve stung and screamed for mercy as she had sunk in until the water lapped at her shoulders, her hair sticking to her spine as she had sat upright and scrubbed at her skin until she no longer could and cried out at how sensitive and raw every inch had become -- her face scrunched up and tossing the cloth out of the tub to the floor with a wet splosh. It was only once the water had grown cold did she remove herself, seeking her robes and allowing her handmaiden, Ophelia, to comb out her hair and braid it down her back; the long ends of her hair resting at the base of her spine. 

“My lady,” Ophelia gasped, her fingers gently touching her shoulder that peaked out from beneath the fabric of her robe as she sat in the stool in front of her, “What have you done to yourself?” She asked, her voice laced with concern. 

She did not reply, rather she frowned and brought a hand up quickly, touching to the same spot and wincing, “I…I suppose I was a bit heavy-handed.” She confessed, her voice quiet. 

She heard a soft ‘tsk’ of her tongue, grateful that despite her confinement, Jeyne had at least spared Ophelia's presence -- the only thing she had that tied her to the outside world two days later, “Shall I have the Maester bring firemilk to soothe them?” Ophelia asked, her voice soft and sweet. 

“You needn’t worry, Ophelia,” She assured, gently pushing her hand away when the girl attempted to scan the back of her neck by moving the smooth silk away, “It is only a little scratch…it will be fine in the morning.” 

“It is more than a scratch,” She stated, releasing the fabric, “here, disrobe— I can take a look, Ser Alfred can summon the maester…” “Please do not fret, Ophelia, it is fine,” She quickly said, pulling away from her abruptly and standing; her hand covering the back of her neck, “We mustn't give Lady Jeyne any more reason to worry than she already does.”

Her hand slid from her nape, resisting the urge to wince at how sensitive the skin had become and reaching for Ophelia’s hand with a tight smile, “I promise you I will be fine,” She quietly lied, “She has enough to deal with as is, yes?” 

Ophelia’s light eyes reflected her scepticism, narrowing and visibly still wary as she slowly nodded after a moment — she could see through her after several years of working one-on-one with Lysara; Ophelia knew her better than most. She knew when she was being sincere, and she knew when she was lying, not that she was any good at it — she knew how to pick up on the tone and the way she chewed the inside of her cheek, clenched her fists behind her back, and grit her teeth until it physically pained her whenever she was stressed; there was no hiding anything from her, Lysara knew that. However, Ophelia knew her limits and did not push. 

“Tell me, is Lord Stark still here?” Lysara asked, stepping closer and lowering her voice to a whisper. Her eyes darted towards the door while her chin lowered, where she knew one of Ser Herrold’s men was posted at all times — there seemed to be no hour where there wasn’t someone hovering over her these days, someone’s gaze on her. It was suffocating and slowly, with each passing day that she was confined to these walls, she found her sanity ticking away bit by bit, leaving only a thread remaining. 

Ophelia stuttered for a moment, her frown deepening, “I…I don’t think I am supposed to speak to you about that, my lady.” 

“By whose order?” 

Her eyes lowered, “Lady Jeyne…she worries it will only further distress you and add to your condition,” She explained, eyeing their conjoined hands. 

Her words resembled a rehearsed script, as though she had been specifically instructed on the matter in the event that she asked. She had to suppress the twitch of her eyebrow, feeling the little muscle beneath it beginning to give way to her annoyance as she brought her hand to gently massage it with a fingertip, “And what condition might that be?” She asked, drawing out the word for emphasis. 

Again, she stammered, evidently confused as it seemed to dawn on her that the gap had not been filled during her conversation with her Lady cousin, “I…I’m not sure, I suppose.” 

She forced another tight smile, “Ophelia, I appreciate your worry but you needn’t fret over me. I am not some delicate flower that needs protecting,” She reassured, her hand giving hers a gentle squeeze. The two women were quiet, the silence between them only filled by the faint sound of orders from men being barked across the court and the restless whinny of horses that trotted in with supply. Her eyes drifted towards the windows that had been left open to let some air in, a cool, spring breeze wafting through the room; a commodity she was grateful for as she drew in a deep breath and exhaled it, her shoulders rising and falling with that very breath. Her eyes closed briefly, releasing Ophelia’s hand to draw back toward herself. 

“Is there any truth to them?” She asked suddenly, her eyes lowering again and avoiding hers as though she feared she had overstepped as Lysara looked at her, “Were you with Gareth Royce?”

She blinked rapidly twice, hesitating, “He is merely a childhood friend,” She answered. 

Again, there was a look in her eye that suggested she knew the truth -- she knew she was lying, but was not bold enough to say anything more on the subject. Ophelia sighed, her shoulders slouching with the action and looking towards the door for a moment, “He is still here,” She admitted. 

“Your cousin has him set up in the west wing of the keep,” She quietly muttered, looking up at her, “He left yesterday before dawn with some men, I'm not sure for what…but he is due to return today. There have been meetings for the past two days regarding his presence.” 

She frowned, “Is there any word yet of his reason for coming?” 

She shook her head quickly, “Not yet, but I heard the young squire boy, Tommen, speaking…there has been word of Criston Cole’s men heading west, slaughtering lords and their men,” She explained, words rushed with anxiety, “I suppose he assumes if he threatens violence, it will turn support in favour of Aegon II. His men have been spotted near Rook’s Rest…” 

“Open the gates!” 

Her head whipped towards the window, the two women exchanging a look of wide eyes and a confused curiosity as they rushed towards the overlook — the gates creaked, echoing throughout the yard as they were slowly pulled open by the guards who stood post, the two women leaning over the ledge to watch from the balcony that overlooked. A few men stumbled in first on their horses, a series of shouts following them as they ordered their horses in thick accents that Lysara struggled to understand — she had heard the northernmen speak once before as a young girl but it had been several years since. She strained to catch a glimpse, bent at the waist and gripping the railing with a tight grip, scanning the men that poured through the gates. It felt as though there was more than ‘some’ men, but then again, her companion had not specific to the number — she watched the two dozen men come hurling through the gates, followed by the massive slab of a man who was enveloped in furs, his mouth moving in a low order that she was begging to hear. 

Her eyes narrowed, shielding her eyes from the sun that blurred her vision as she scanned the yards. She assumed as much that this was the man she’d heard whispers of throughout her childhood — that this was the imposing Warden of Winterfell, hardly a man grown but already possessing such power and influence it surprised her. 

He appeared much younger than she had envisioned. 

His horse moved forward a few more paces toward the front steps before halting, his hands raising in a sharp jerk on the reins to pull back as she suddenly noticed that he was greeted by the imposing presence of her cousin. Jeyne waited patiently, allowing him an opportunity to dismount before descending the stairs and approaching him. Her eyes had turned to focus on the large blade that was strapped to his back, swinging with each movement as he sauntered towards her, his hand coming up to steady it by the strap and coming to a halt in front of her cousin. The interaction was brief and tense despite his civilities to lower his head in a curt bow before exchanging what she assumed were short pleasantries of his journey and welcoming him back — it stunned her that despite the striking appearance that was hard to miss, Lysara did not understand how she had missed him the first time he arrived. 

She watched as they spoke, turning to sweep their gaze across the gardens that made up the front yards, Jeyne gesturing for him to follow her lead down the path and away from the doors — she leaned into the railing with her hip, turning to face them fully and lifting her chin, “We shouldn’t be here,” Ophelia suddenly said in a harsh whisper. 

“Just…one more moment,” she said, her head turning slightly to glance at the girl beside her. She looked down again, eyes following the path they took. 

He appeared as distant as ever, his expression blank and unreadable as he looked at her cousin briefly before turning to look ahead with disinterest; he did not look as though he wanted to be there, and under ideal circumstances, Lysara assumed he wouldn’t have been. His presence this far south perplexed her — the vale and the north had long shared similar values and beliefs, loyal to their oaths and how they served their people; but she saw little reason and could not conjure up any rational explanation that would bring him to their door — though the war had left the entire realm in stuck in a place of fear and uncertainty, forcing everyone’s hand into unusual positions that they normally would not have found themselves in. She could only imagine how warm he was underneath the thick layers of pelt this far south. 

 His head nodded in response to something Jeyne said, stopping then and facing her — his mouth moved again and if she strained enough, she could hear the low mutter, but his words still did not reach her, “I believe he has a son,” Ophelia quietly confessed, “a young tot.” 

“He’s married?” She asked, looking back at her. 

She hesitated, mouth pursing, “His wife died in childbirth, my lady.” 

She withdrew a sharp breath, lips parting and lifting her chin, “Oh…that’s rather unfortunate,” she muttered. 

She paused, an uncomfortable feeling settling over her at the news that she reeled from, her head turning reluctantly to look down again. His head moved to look right as they spoke, circling the garden and absentmindedly taking in the view and turning it into a one-sided conversation, while his attention focused on watching his men round up their horses, his gaze briefly glazing over some house staff that offered assistance. He looked out of place among the green of the vale. 

She could vaguely make out the purse of his mouth, a grimace-like smile as he nodded to a young maid who stepped out of their way, a basket in her hands filled to the brim with herbs. The girl’s head lowered as they passed, only lifting again to resume her brisk walk through the yard once they were a foot away and even then, her head turned to look back over her shoulder to give them a final glance. Lysara found it fascinating how easily he could draw attention to himself without even trying, muchless without being aware of it. She couldn’t blame them — the servants, the councilmen, who ogled him like he was some fascinating, yet terrifying creature — he truly was a sight to behold; the embodiment of Northerners, adorned in furs and self-assured as he carried himself with confidence. He seemed to exist in his own world, paying little mind to the one that surrounded him as his head turned to look ahead. 

She rocked back on her heels, pushing away from the window finally and retreating towards the step that approached the balcony a few feet behind them. Ophelia stood over her as she slowly sat on the floor, watching as she folded her hands into her lap and restlessly fidgeted with her fingers, picking at her nails — her hands clasped together, her eyes resting on a freckle between the knuckle of her forefinger and middle.  

Ophelia watched her cautiously before stepping closer, her voice gentle but firm, “My lady, you shouldn’t dwell on this,” She glanced between Lysara’s fidgeting hands and her downcast gaze, worry etching into her expression.

Lysara’s lips thinned, her thoughts in turmoil. Her mind should have been fixed on Gareth, on the risk she’d taken, sneaking off to meet him and defying her cousin's orders. But now, her attention drifted to the presence of Cregan Stark—the cold, stoic Warden of the North—whose sudden arrival cast a shadow over everything. His disinterest in the south was obvious, yet here he was. His mere existence raised questions that begged answers, and it gnawed at her more than she cared to admit.

She looked back at Ophelia, her voice steady but tight, “I know, but I want to understand why he is here,” Her gaze flickered toward the doors again that opened to the balcony, catching the glimpse of his broad shoulders as he moved out of view, his figure towering over Jeyne’s slight frame, “Does it not frighten you?” 

Ophelia shifted uneasily, her fingers twisting in the fabric of her skirts, "Perhaps it's for a matter of alliances," she ventured, lowering her voice, "The war has changed everything... people are seeking security where they can find it."

Lysara nodded slowly, her eyebrows arching with a dismissive flick, though the pit in her stomach told her there was more to it than just alliances. Her cousin was ambitious, calculating—and the way Jeyne had prevented her involvement in matters was something that left her both wary and furious. Lysara’s gut told her that whatever had brought Cregan Stark to the Eyrie was bigger than just a simple visit, a thought alone that made her nauseous with anxiety as she stood up; her hands brushing over her thighs and smoothing out the robe that fell to her ankles. 

“That does not answer my question,” She said, turning her head to look at her, “are you not frightened by this war? With your own brother already put to death in battle…”

Ophelia’s mouth had opened, ready to reply but hesitating, a pained look crossing her features. She sucked in a sharp breath, her eyes casting downwards as she seemed to weigh the question — she did not want to rehash old wounds, but rather, prove a point. His presence was not one to be taken lightly — however, her expression caused a wave of guilt to wash over her as she sighed, stepping toward her and dropping her hands to her sides, “I’m sorry, I do not mean to remind you of what has been lost and use your grief as a pawn of my own use,” she quietly said. 

Ophelia stilled, stiff as she forced a tight smile in her direction with glossy eyes, blinking rapidly to suppress the tears that welled in the corners of her eyes, “I know.” 

She did not know how to further express her apologies in a way that would mean something. She felt she had already stepped too far, in the direction of reopening a wound that had yet to heal, unintentionally inflicting her pain. Instead, she moved forward, taking a step to close the space between them and bringing her hands to her cheeks, a bold gesture as she held her face between her palms; her thumbs brushing her cheeks. Ophelia forced a pained smile, her gaze lowering as she leaned forward and pressed a light, comforting kiss to her right temple. 

She lingered there for a moment, only withdrawing as their silence was disturbed by the harsh, unwelcomed sound of her door slamming open suddenly. Her hands pulled back, still hung in the space that Ophelia created between them as she stepped back quickly, their heads both turning to find as Ser Herrold emerged from the doorway — his expression a look of confused wariness, his eyes landing on her outstretched hands. It was then that his expression morphed into something of disgust, a second young knight at his side, “By gods, what are you up to now?” He asked, walking forward and further into her room, his left hand at his sword on his waist, “Must you stain this Houses’ reputation further by fraternising with not one, but two traitorous commoners?” 

Ophelia stumbled back, Lysara’s head turning to watch as she steadied herself against the bench that knocked the back of her knees with a clatter. She tugged the robe around her to fix it as Ophelia quickly shuffled forward to use her body to shield hers, her back to her front as she moved in between them, “You really shouldn’t barge in on a lady as she dresses,” She snapped, dismissing his comment, “It’s rude and improper.” 

A second quiet handmaiden entered the room with her head down as she approached the two women, beginning to gather her dress and hold it up in front of her as an effort to providing her modesty despite the circumstances, “Hardly anything you haven’t already flaunted for all of the realm,” He spat. 

“You would do well to remember your place, Ser Herrold,” She shot back, hands tugging the robes off her shoulders and smoothing out her shift. The two women quickly worked to slide the dress over her head and on, anxiously glancing back towards the knight who had yet to remove himself from the confines of her room, “What do you want?” She snapped suddenly, growing increasingly uncomfortable with his presence. 

“Your cousin requested your presence for supper,” He finally said, his words stiff as though he was physically pained by the suggestion. 

“How kind,” She quipped, scoffing a bitter laugh. 

Ophelia worked to pull the dress down her legs, straightening the skirts and doing up the lace behind her neck as Lysara turned around and brushed a strand of hair from her eyes, “It is, considering the council would rather you be locked away for the rest of your life like your traitorous brother,” he explained, fist clenching at his side, “I among them.” 

The final comment had been a mutter — as though he meant to show some degree of restraint and quiet himself; as though he had remembered himself suddenly but it did not stop the improper gaze that bore into her shoulders, silent as she fumbled to fix the bust of her dress and adjust her hair down her spine, the two women at her feet fixing the dress around her feet. Her head turned to look at him from the corner of her eye. 

“Must you hover and watch everything I do?” 

“If you could be trusted, we would not be here,” He readily snapped, “I will be escorting you down to the hall to meet Lady Jeyne and Lord Stark.” 

She could feel the hair on the back of her neck rise at the idea, rigid as she hesitated in her movements as she gave one last tug on her neckline, “I’m sure one of your men could handle a single woman just fine,” She huffed, withdrawing from the coverage her women provided. She fixed her sleeves as she approached him, ready to brush past and out the door, but his hand found her upper arm and yanked her back towards his side, “I can walk just fine.”

Ophelia had attempted to follow at her heels but was stopped by his sharp stare, holding up his free hand at her, “Ah-ah, not you— you are to stay here.” 

They shared a brief look, Lysara’s head slowly turning to look up at him, “Do you think I would have you bolt off and lie to my men again?” He asked, his head lowering to speak so closely she flinched at the feeling of his breath on her neck, “I will not have you making false promises, seducing my men like the witch you are.”  

Of all the knights in the Eyrie, Lysara had found his presence to be the most unsettling — ever since she had been a child, she could recall memories of the utter terror he had instilled in her; terrified and cowering behind her father’s back whenever he had entered a room. She recalled a brief moment in her youth when she had felt comfortable with him, enough that as a child, she had almost considered him to be a friend — but in her adolescence, she had noticed a sudden shift. A new hostility that had appeared overnight, and suddenly he was no longer a sense of comfort, but rather something she tried her absolute best to avoid — she felt as though it was the opposite for him, however, seeking her out instead to look down upon her and belittle her at every turn or opportunity he could find the excuse of. And yet again, she found herself being manhandled by him, dragging her like a spoiled child on display through the halls as she was pulled out of the room quickly before she could even process the movement; her eyes anxiously glancing around her to watch as the house staff lowered their eyes as they passed. Her face burned in embarrassment as she grabbed her skirt to lift it out of her path, barely avoiding tripping over her own feet in attempt to keep up with his pace — despite her obvious struggle to match his pace, he jerked her forward when she fell behind a few steps too many, stumbling onto the first step of the stairs that descended towards the front entrance. 

She’d yet to see anyone of importance, neither her cousin nor the Lord Stark himself despite her prayers that one would appear before them in that moment and intervene like some saviour sent by the gods, her eyes briefly lifting from her feet to scan the entrance, lit by the midday sun that streamed in through the front doors. It would have been a beautiful day, with the soft breeze, and the gentle chirp of birds that filled the fields. Lysara would have spent her day in the yard, reading, and basking in the day until the early signs of dusk began to blanket the Eyrie — she would remain out of the way of the council and guards who hovered, away from trouble and otherwise distracted from the worrying thoughts about Gareth that had haunted her for two nights. But instead, she was forced towards the grand hall where the only noise was the soft hum of chatter between her cousin and the stranger she had only heard of through stories, their voices slipping under the doors as she caught her breath. 

The doors were soon opened upon her arrival, her head turning to look back towards the room that stood, towering before her, “My Lady,” Ser Herrold announced in greeting, releasing her arm with a subtle shove forward, “Lady Lysara, as you requested.”

Jeyne remained seated, staring at her with a slow blink, her expression blank. To her right, Cregan stood to greet her, hands planted against the table as they all fell silent. 

Lysara froze under her cousin’s gaze, heaving for air as her head quickly dipped with the curtsy she offered, her eyes pinned to the floor at the edge of her shoes, “Thank you, Ser Herrold,” Jeyne said after a beat, “Come, join us.” 

She turned to look behind her where the second knight who had been quiet stood, his eyes catching hers for a moment. His head lowered in a single subtle nod, averting his gaze. 

Her eyes timidly lifted back in front of her, standing upright and blinking rapidly. She could feel his eyes on her even without turning to face him, bearing into her as he sat back in his chair — Ser Herrold’s feet shuffled from behind her, following closely behind as she reluctantly entered and approached the seat closest to her cousin; the hair on the back of her neck prickling with anxiety as she let out a quiet sigh, each of his steps masking the sound of hers with the heavy clank of his armour, “Tell me, Lady Jeyne,” Cregan suddenly said, his voice a smooth, low rumble that was thick with accent, “Do your men make a habit of manhandling women like children do toys?” He asked, his index finger tapping against his chalice as his gaze had darted towards her.

Her gaze had followed their movements as Lysara approached, hearing as the knight came to an abrupt stop, “No,” She stiffly replied. Her hand lifted in a subtle wave to dismiss the knight who scowled, begrudgingly backing towards the furthest corner he could hide himself in, “Ser Herrold is just an overly cautious man.” 

She noted the evident edge to her tone, her eyes fixed on him with a narrowing of her eyes -- she wanted for her to see his behaviour and acknowledge it for what it was. See him for the bully he was and say something; offer some sort of punishment or scolding, but she was silent. Her mouth twitched, like words were on the tip of her tongue and threatening to breach the surface as her chin lifted, glancing between him and Lysara once -- somewhere, she knew she could have pieced it together. She could see something. But instead, she was silent and lowered her chin. 

Lysara looked over her shoulder as she leaned into her chair by her hands, sliding it out enough to slip into it and sit, her eyes finding the annoyed expression of the knight. Her attention only shifted at the sound of his chalice being set down from across the table after a slow sip, “He’s a funny way of showing it,” Cregan muttered. 

Her hands smoothed over the lap of her dress, allowing a servant to bring forward a flagon of wine and offering it to the cup in front of her — she nodded encouragingly as her nerves seem to ramp up, rearing its ugly head in her face as her stomach churned, the room silent aside from the sound of the drink being poured, “Thank you,” Lysara quietly said, dismissing the girl who had come forth. 

 “Lady Lysara has a history of sneaking off and getting herself into trouble, My Lord,” Ser Herrold said aloud. 

Her eyes lifted, her hands stuck to her lap as she met his gaze; a shade that resembled the stormy grey skies that hung over the Eyrie in the spring, his expression plain of any trace of emotion — utterly still as he stared across at her, unflinching and unwavering as his eyes flickered in the direction of the man who spoke. 

 “I was not speaking to you,” He said, his head turning just enough to crane his attention towards him with his sharp tone, looking at him from the corner of his eye. 

She felt a swell of self-satisfaction for once as his mouth snapped shut, stunned and humiliated as his face flushed, “My sincere apologies, my lord, I only meant…” 

“And yet you continue,” Cregan interrupted. 

Lysara reached for her cup, bringing it to her mouth to conceal the smile that threatened to make its appearance, smug as the guard cleared his throat and nodded with his head lowered, “She is a woman, not a war criminal, Ser Herrold.” 

She noted the subtle irritation in his voice as he reached towards his plate, picking a grape that had been placed there and plucking it from the dish — he eyed it for a moment, “Do you care for more wine, Lord Stark?” Jeyne asked, her right hand rising to wave forward the girl who hovered with the flagon, watching as she hurried forward readily to refill his cup. 

He dropped the grape back on the plate and covered his cup to stop her, his mouth pursing into something that could have resembled a stiff smile in the direction of the girl who meekly nodded and withdrew again. The silence that befell them again was one of tension that could have been cut through with a knife, her gaze darting to her cousin. She swallowed. 

“Lord Stark here was just telling me about his journey here,” Her cousin suddenly said, reaching for her knife and fork, beginning to cut into the duck on her plate. Her cousin shared a look with her, looking between her and the Lord who was quiet, her head slightly turning as a young servant boy brought forward a plate of duck for Lysara. 

“Might I too ask, to what do we owe the pleasure of your presence?” She softly asked, her voice hoarse as she absentmindedly picked at her nails in her lap. The thought of food was nauseating, her left hand lifting to cover her mouth for a moment, suppressing the shudder that fought to rip through her. 

“He marches towards the West I believe,” Jeyne answered. 

“Oh?” 

His gaze had flickered towards her cousin, mouth pressed into a thin line that was a telltale of his annoyance — irritated by the trend of speaking above or for him, “On behalf of the heir to the iron throne, Rhaenyra Targaryen— I have two thousand men who will soon go to battle under her command along the Lakeshore. I only mean to lead them there in three days' time,” he quietly explained, looking at her, “there they will meet the Kingmaker and his men, at which time I plan to return to Winterfell, where my duties are.” 

Lysara’s breath caught in her throat as she met Cregan's gaze, the weight of his words settling heavily between them. The room seemed to shrink, the tension building like the thick storm clouds gathering outside. Jeyne, ever composed, set down her utensils, a calculating look crossing her face.

“The Kingmaker,” Lysara repeated slowly, the name spoken with a mix of reverence and disdain, “You speak of Criston Cole, yes?”

Cregan nodded, his eyes still locked on hers, “Yes, my lady.”

Jeyne leaned back in her chair, her sharp eyes observing the subtle exchange between them. “And so you come to the Eyrie for what, Lord Stark? To gather more men? To seek counsel?”

Cregan’s gaze finally broke away from Lysara, shifting to Jeyne, “I come to ensure that the Vale remains loyal to its oaths. To remind House Arryn of its duty to the realm and to secure safe passage through your lands.”

Jeyne's lips curled into a faint smile, her tone measured, “The Vale is loyal, Lord Stark. You need not worry about that.”

Lysara dropped her hand to her lap, feeling the undercurrents of power play between them. She could sense Jeyne’s mind working, considering the implications of Cregan’s words. The Vale’s loyalty was unwavering, but it was not without its own interests.

“I trust that it is,” Cregan replied, his voice steady, though his eyes flicked back to Lysara, as if searching for something in her expression, “But it is not only loyalty that concerns me.”

Jeyne raised an eyebrow, “Oh? And what else?”

Her gaze lowered to the dish in front of her, the scent of its content wafting towards her nose as she let out a slow, steady breath through parted lips. In the edge of her vision, she watched as his hand clenched into a fist, relaxing after a moment, “You and I share commonalities — both in our loyalty to our houses’ and duties, the way we lead,” he said, words short and clipped, “I hope to be able to establish a union between our houses, one between the East and North, one that could benefit us both.” 

She reached out to collect her fork and knife as she listened, one ear attentive to his every word and slowly cutting into the meal in front of her. The pause in his statement prompted her to glance towards her cousin who had taken a break from her task, seemingly weighing his words. 

“Despite the circumstances of my visit, I hope that my presence is the first step in that very direction,” He added. 

Her gaze lingered, trying to gauge her reaction as she took a piece of the duck between her teeth, watching as the corner of her mouth twitched. She let out a short hum, forcing a thin smile in his direction and lifting her chin, a breath being exhaled through her nose as Jeyne gave him a nod, “We would be greatly honoured to be allied alongside your house, Lord Stark.” 

 · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

She had dreaded the moment supper was done — as soon as it was over, she knew she would be back within the walls of her room for however long, until things blew over and Jeyne had forgiven her, and finally allowed her to return to being a contributing member of society. She would go insane, memorising every crack in the wall, every chip in the floor, and only come out for the necessities. 

Dinner came and went quickly, silent enough that she could hear every drag of Jeyne’s utensils against the plate as she ate, setting her nerves on edge. Every so often, she caught a pair of eyes on her, grey and bored as he occasionally picked at the fruit on his plate — she assumed the only reason he stayed as long as he had was for the sake of respect and decency, only excusing himself once Jeyne was finished. 

She walked behind them, close on their heels as they departed the hall, her hands folded in front of her and flicking her attention between them. There was a low hum of discussion that passed between them, polite pleasantries regarding dinner and ensuring Cregan was comfortable with his accommodations; despite her cool demeanour, Jeyne never failed to play the hospitable host. She had taken after her father that way. Gracious enough to treat her guests with warmth and open arms, but cautious and calculated enough to always be a step ahead. 

“I do hope House Arryn is as much home to you as Winterfell while you are with us,” Jeyne said with a finality to her words, ceasing her walk as they neared the hall that split between the stairs to their wing and the west hall. Her hands clasped in front of her, “Should there be anything you require, please…I would like to see to it that you have everything you need.” 

His head turned to look down the hallway, giving her a slow nod in reply. Jeyne’s shoulder nudged hers as she let out a breath, turning to look at her and raising her eyebrows, “We will let you get settled then, Lord Stark. Lysara?” 

Her eyes flickered between him and her cousin once, watching as she was dismissed with a subtle tilt of her cousin’s head, Ser Herrold’s hand readily prepared to pull her back to her chambers — his fingers wrapped around her elbow as she gave a curt nod to her cousin. 

Cregan turned his head back, “Actually…” He said, his eyes falling to Herrold’s hand, “I was hoping Lady Lysara and I might go for a walk.” 

As his eyes lifted to meet hers, she noted the lack of room for objection as he spoke, his tone lacking something of suggestion and rather, an order that she felt no reason to argue against. She saw the look of confusion in her cousin’s eyes as she stepped away from Herrold’s grasp with a slow, drawn out breath, “Of course,” She replied. It was then that the thought crossed her mind to look at her cousin again, gathering her skirts and imploring her approval, “unless you require my presence, cousin…” Her words were slow and cautious, her voice soft as Cregan extended an elbow to her. 

Jeyne hesitated, her left eye twitching, “No, I do not.” 

She accepted his elbow, her hand sliding around it as she stepped toward him; the heat of Ser Herrold’s presence still radiating from behind her. She heard him step forward as Jeyne turned and began to ascend the stairs, while he instead followed her steps, Cregan’s head turning just enough to eye him from the corner of his eye, “We do not require a chaperone.” 

His mouth opened, prepared to argue, but silenced as Jeyne spoke from the stairs, “Ser Herrold,” She firmly called to him, “I think we shall see Lady Lysara and Lord Stark first thing in the morrow, yes?” 

She could see his annoyance, clear as ever in his face as he let out a huff, staring at the pair of them; though even she looked closely, in his eyes, she could see a twinkle of fear when he found Cregan’s cool gaze, wavering for a moment. Her male companion, in contrast, was calm and collected, unfazed as he held his stare for a moment before Ser Herrrold broke it by turning away. His feet carried him up the stairs ahead of Jeyne, her own softer ones following his after one last glance to Lysara, her stare sharp with an unspoken warning. 

A silence befell the hall as she retreated, her men at her side and following her up the stairs, giving them not one last look before they disappeared from view, leaving her alone in his presence. It was then that she finally exhaled a breath, a sigh of relief and relaxed, her head lowering to look down at her feet, “We do not have to go anywhere, if you do not wish it,” Cregan quietly stated. 

She looked up at him, startled by the softness of his voice, “If you would rather be abed, I will not force you to keep me company.” 

His eyes darted to look over her head and up the stairs where her cousin had retreated only moments earlier, before looking down at her again. She frowned in obvious confusion, “Do you not wish to walk?” 

His mouth twitched, the ghost of a smile at the left corner as his lips parted, a low breathy sound that resembled a laugh leaving him. His eyes lowered, “Only if you wish,” He said, lifting his gaze. 

“If you did not wish to walk, then what…” She asked, her voice drifting off, “what did you want?” 

“To be rid of Ser Herrold,” Cregan plainly admitted. 

Lysara blinked, digesting Cregan’s words. For a moment, her confusion melted into something warmer—an unexpected sense of freedom. Her hand remained loosely tucked around his arm as they stood there, the hall’s silence pressing down on them.

“You wanted to be rid of him?” she repeated, half in disbelief.

Cregan’s lips twitched again, a flicker of amusement, “Aye. His hovering becomes tiresome. I’d hoped for a moment without his shadow looming over us.”

Lysara’s gaze flicked toward the stairs where her cousin had disappeared. The subtle pulse of power in his voice caught her off guard, reminding her that Cregan Stark wasn’t just any northern lord. 

“I see,” she finally said, her voice steady, “Well, you’ve succeeded. Ser Herrold won’t trouble us tonight.”

There was a pause, heavy with unspoken thoughts. Lysara found herself searching Cregan’s expression, but his face remained impassive, save for the glint in his eyes. She felt the cool air settle around them, and the moment stretched longer than either expected.

“Shall we walk, then?” she asked, feeling the weight of his gaze on her.

Cregan inclined his head slightly, “Only if you wish, my lady.”

Lysara hesitated for a heartbeat, then nodded, gently tugging at his arm. Together, they turned and began to walk, their footsteps echoing softly in the empty corridor. The tension lingered in the air, but there was something else too—a quiet understanding, forged in the absence of prying eyes. The court was silent beyond the soft rustle of her skirts and the echo of his boots as they paced the halls, lit by the sinking sun that was slowly retreating behind the horizon, her eyes turned out over the fields that seemed to stretch on forever -- her mind had wandered in the silence, reflecting on the past few days, her fingers pressing into his forearm. 

She was grateful he did not force conversation, or feel the need to fill the space between them with meaningless conversation. For the first time in days, she was comforted by the silence that allowed her to sort through her thoughts without any unnecessary interruptions. 

Her thoughts wandered to Gareth, the image of his face burned into her memory as she forced him into the bush. His look of despair, helpless as he crouched and waited -- she wondered how long he was trapped in the bush before it was safe. Had he followed them? Or had he turned and sprinted back to his house as soon as it was clear? Had he tried to write to her since? Her injured ankle throbbed at the thought.

She hoped that he was safe at the very least. 

“I apologise if my visit has caused some tension between you and your lady cousin,” He stated. 

A cool breeze blew through the windows of the corridor, her mouth turning up in a melancholic smile as she turned her head away from him. Her right hand swung beside her side, brushing along the skirt of her dress as she let out a deep sigh, “It is not your presence, you need not apologise.” 

There was a pause in their conversation, his eyes following hers to the still yards, “I only mean to establish a union between our houses,” he continued, “our fathers were friends in their youth, even closer in their later years…they would have wanted for us to be friends, too.”

“Did you know my father well?” 

She turned to look up at him, watching as he gave a stiff nod, “I knew him enough to respect the man he was,” Cregan said, his voice low and thoughtful. “We met during a few councils, exchanged words on occasion… He spoke of you often.”

He paused, his eyes searching hers as if gauging how much to share, “But no, I did not know him well enough to claim a close bond. I only wish I had,” His tone softened.

She let out a laugh, a huff of air through her nose as she withdrew her hand from his elbow and planted her palms against the windowsill, leaning into it by her waist. Her chin lifted, breathing in the fresh air, any remaining tension that had settled into her bones melting away with the familiar sounds of the vale. Her head lowered after a moment, recalling the memories of her father and their many conversions— a lifetime of discussions and jokes they had shared. She tried to pick through the conversations over supper in which he spoke of the Lord Stark and his young son, “Were you close with my brother?” She suddenly asked. 

She heard a low chuckle, short and resembling a choked snort as he briefly looked away, his attention turning down the hall they had come from, “We…met briefly,” He replied, his voice quiet; turning to face the window she had placed herself in, mirroring her position to look outwards, “I would not say we were close, however.” 

She craned her head to look at him, trying to make sense of his reply and his tone— there was an edge to it she could not quite put her finger on, but it was clear to her nonetheless that he was not keen on the subject of her brother that piqued her curiosity. Her mouth opened, wanting to press further, but she settled on stopping herself before she overstepped.

 Cregan’s eyes shifted to scan the court they looked over, House Arryn’s high walls obstructing the view she knew was beyond the high walls that fenced them in — luscious fields of soft grass and beautiful flowers she’d loved picking as a girl on the other side of it. It was as though he sensed her eyes still on him, turning to look at her and raising his eyebrows, a moment passing between them that was filled by a comfortable quiet; filled only by the sounds of the bugs that chirped with life from the yards. 

There was a subtle shift in the air around them, suddenly aware of the little space that existed between them as her gaze reflexively lowered to his chest where her attention landed on the familiar sigil of his house. The outline of a wolf, proud and powerful. Cregan moved, a small and subtle action, as his right hand planted against the windowsill beside hers; the heat he naturally radiated felt against her skin, even through his gloves. Her breath hitched, clearing her throat as the air caught there, nearly choking her. 

“You know, he spoke very highly of you,” Lysara admitted, redirecting their attention as she withdrew her left hand from alongside his to rest against her ribs, cradling her side. 

“Your father?”

She looked up again, offering him a polite smile, “I think he always hoped my brother would share your likeness,” She said, pausing before speaking again, “Arrnold didn’t take to swordsmanship.” 

There was a hint of a smile, a glint of amusement in his eyes as he gave another small nod, “I do recall.” 

Again, she noticed, there was a hint of his knowing of her brother. She blinked, “How…” 

“My lady,” A young voice interrupted, greeting them. She turned away from the window, stepping away from his side and finding the guard who she quickly recognised from earlier. The young guard who stood a few feet back, bowing his head as he then seemed to notice Cregan’s presence, “My lord…I apologise for my intrusion.” 

He had been present with Ser Herrold in his task to drag her to supper. She stiffened, awaiting his next words, “A letter has arrived by raven,” he explained, Lysara’s confusion evident as he stepped forward and presented her with a neatly rolled scroll, struggling to recognise the gold seal that closed it. 

“Who is it from?” She asked, eyeing it. 

The guard looked behind her, looking at Cregan who idly stood by, hesitating to answer. His words were slow and quiet, low enough that even she could hardly hear him, “I…do not know, my lady.” 

She let out an annoyed sigh, breaking the seal and beginning to seek out any identifying details. Her gaze darted up one last time as the guard began to retreat, his stare lowering from hers as she narrowed her eyes at him; she looked over her shoulder at Cregan who had turned to face her, witnessing the interaction with a shared look of scepticism. She moved slowly, unravelling the parchment to reveal the letter inside, allowing the guard to leave with no interference, her head inclined to the side as her eyes scanned the messily scrawled writing. 

Lysara,

My love.

I am safe, hidden beyond reach. Meet me in two days' time at midnight, where the trees meet the stream. I must see you. 

GR

TAGLIST: @beebeechaos

[mariacallous]

The politicization of transgender children in the US is one of the most astounding coups of propaganda and organized animus in recent history. Rarely has so much attention and rage been directed at such a minuscule number of people, and more rarely, still, have those people been the most vulnerable and blameless among us: kids and teens.

The first state to pass a ban on transition-related care for minors was Arkansas, in April 2021; less than four years later, more than half of states have such a ban on the books. In 2016, North Carolina lost an estimated $3.76bn in revenue following boycotts after they passed a law banning trans people, including transgender students, from using appropriate restrooms in public facilities; now, 14 states have such bathroom bans on the books, and the boycotts have receded.

These changes in public attitudes towards trans youth – from a broad if imperfect sentiment of tolerance to a widespread and politically weaponized attitude of hostility toward a small minority of kids – did not emerge by accident. It was the product of a deliberate, conscious effort to radicalize large swaths of the United States, and significant chunks of state policy, into a hostility towards a few children.

That effort seems set to bear fruit now, at the US supreme court, in US v Skrmetti, a lawsuit brought by the ACLU and the Biden Department of Justice challenging Tennessee’s HB1, a sweeping ban on transition-related care for minors that was passed in 2023. The law prohibits any puberty blockers or hormones from being prescribed for the purposes of gender transition, but it does not prohibit these medications from being prescribed for any non-transition-related purpose. A minor can be prescribed puberty blockers, for instance, if their doctor believes they are experiencing early onset, or “precocious”, puberty; they cannot be prescribed puberty blockers to delay the onset of a puberty that may change their bodies in ways they do not desire for gender identity-related reasons.

That means, too, that a child assigned male at birth could access, say, testosterone treatment, but a child assigned female at birth could not. In oral arguments on Wednesday, solicitor general Elizabeth Prelogar and Chase Strangio of the ACLU – the first trans attorney to argue before the supreme court – explained that this was a straightforward case of sex discrimination, and hence needed to be subjected to a heightened standard of judicial review under the 14th amendment’s equal protection clause.

It will not be. A majority of the court’s conservatives seemed poised to uphold the ban on transgender healthcare, though for a variety of different reasons. Brett Kavanaugh made his usual mealy-mouthed paean to states’ rights, an argument he always makes in questions of federally guaranteed equality provisions, but not before extolling the hypothetical suffering of teenagers who may access gender-affirming care but then later come to regret it. (One wonders if there are any choices from his own adolescence that Brett Kavanaugh has come to regret.) Clarence Thomas and chief justice John Roberts, meanwhile, both advanced the idea that the physiological differences between male and female bodies could moot the equal protection clause’s reach, giving states broad leeway to regulate medicine in ways that would uphold gender hierarchy.

For his part, Samuel Alito also seemed interested in the idea that states might have a right to effect gender discrimination via their regulation of medicine. He repeatedly cited the 1974 case Geduldig v Aiello, in which the supreme court ruled that states could discriminate on the basis of pregnancy, and that pregnancy discrimination was not sex discrimination – because even though only female people become pregnant, not all of them are pregnant all of the time. (At the time, Congress found the outcome in Geduldig so egregious that it passed a law clarifying that pregnancy discrimination does count as sex discrimination for the purposes of federal civil rights law, and the precedent was largely mooted, but Alito’s controlling opinion in Dobbs has revived it.)

But Alito, true to form, did not confine his opining to the notion that discrimination against trans people does not count as sex-based discrimination: he went on to suggest that trans people are not quite real, peppering Strangio, in a scene that seemed intended to humiliate the trans attorney, with questions about whether trans identity was truly an “immutable” characteristic. For his part, Strangio responded with a dignity and respect that Alito’s line of questioning did not merit.

It was not the only low moment. James Matthew Rice, the Tennessee solicitor general who defended the ban in court, repeatedly compared gender affirming care with suicide, as well as to lobotomies and eugenics. During his time, justices Ketanji Brown Jackson and Sonia Sotomayor, with occasional assists from Elena Kagan, tried to chase Rice down on the inconsistencies in his own argument.

Tennessee claimed, after all, that the law did not discriminate on the basis of patients’ sex, but rather on the basis of the purpose of their treatment; when the liberal justices pointed out that this was a distinction without a difference, because the purpose of the treatment was dependent on the patients’ sex, Rice simply repeated his assertion that there was a difference, there, somewhere. Jackson, in particular, worked to get Rice to explain his position for some time. He declined to.

To call the Tennessee ban sex-neutral is laughable, almost insulting. The statute itself makes gender conformity its explicit justification in its text, saying that it aims to prohibit “sex inconsistent treatment”, or anything that “might encourage minors to become disdainful of their sex”. The law has long included sex role stereotyping within the purview of sex discrimination; Tennessee has sought to enforce sex roles, and sexed embodiment, with the force of the state. There is no good faith reading of the law that would allow it to withstand the scrutiny that the 14th amendment requires. But luckily for Tennessee, this is not a good faith court.

[pinep-ne]

Mmm. I usually don't get into fandom drama because sometimes it's really just a waste of energy. But TikTok's got some... interesting people. I've noticed a pattern and I hope I have a place to speak on it.

I'm kind of sick of non-Americans/Southerners being blatantly and willingly uneducated towards, or even just entirely ignoring the political+societal themes of rdr2. It's literally the game man. I just think sometimes they really don't feel the weight of the topics they're throwing around.

Why are you calling Charles a "redneck" in a failed attempt to call him another slur, neither of which were you aware were derogatory, nor did you think to educate yourself on the significance of?? And then when people called you out and educated you, you throw out a meager apology with the words "I'm sorry if I offended anyone."

And then proceed to half-ass a google search, post it, and further prove your stupidity by saying "redneck isn't a slur, it's a derogatory term for Americans" which yes, it is— towards white, southern, lower-class Americans, with actual history tied to it. It's still derogatory, and Charles isn't white. And THEN when confronted about it even more, you throw your hands up and say "I just can't make jokes I guess." Like it was never a joke in the first place dude. You're just being racist (and accidentally classist?) on account of your illiteracy.

And this one was just a wild argument I had the other day— why are you calling Micah's racist remarks "not as black and white as that"??? He quite literally says a derogatory term within the first ten minutes of the game. There's a whole four minute youtube video of his racist actions. Joking or not, or whether you think his intentions were to 'rile people up', it's still discriminatory. Racism is often, if not always, as black and white as that. (no pun intended /srs)

Thinking otherwise, I'm tempted to believe, is your own projection. It shows a lot that you'd stretch so far to continuously deny and defend a continuously emphasized theme, that directly affects the characters as it has directly affected real people. Hell, even if it was vaguer than that. How much tolerance are you privileged with to brush off and prance around something that irrevocably damaged entire communities for centuries. Just because it's fiction? 'Cause it's not real? Because "it doesn't affect anyone"?

They also said "He can't be racist! He works with POC!"

???

I'm all for liking and appreciating whatever character you want— I'm not gonna spend my time leading all those horses to water— but snatching and running with the veil of fiction to dissolve the connotations and gravity of a very real thing, simply depicted within a story, just so you can slobber all over your favorite character, it's just undoubtedly shallow and disrespectful to the history and media that you claim to comprehend. You can't just create lines to read between and pull the "have some media literacy" card when someone calls out that you really never had such power in the first place. Like I said, do whatever you want with a character, but at the very least acknowledge every single part of them instead of brushing it off.

Ah anywho. I'm not a POC myself but I am Southern. Racism is still very present here and I felt it'd be important to me to speak up about it. If anyone's got perspective to offer, or they'd like to correct me on anything, I'm open. I think my prose may be a little too flowery to have gotten every point and logistic across, so there's always a chance of misinterpretation. Just let me know!

*** Hh and disclaimers because I'm afraid of misunderstandings. I know racism exists in places outside of the U.S., but the game is placed in America. It's in the context of discrimination against American POC, that some non-Americans tend to poorly gauge the difference and weight of. In neither of these instances were the people from the U.S. And as another thing, this isn't to ignore the treatment other characters receive regarding their culture or country (Sean, Javier, Charles, etc.) by folk who are not a part of it. It's just ignorance. The cycle sickens me. I just think in general if you're going to consume historical fiction and you're going to discuss it, at least understand the historical part. Don't be blissful x