#The Architect of Catastrophe

[wigster07]

Much love to the amazing and talented @somewillwin for doing this commission of Evil Kit for The Architect of Catastrophe. This scene is from Chapter 12 “Welcome Home Kit”.

[spybrarian]

Been upsetting myself a lot lately with @wigster07′s fic The Architect of Catastrophe so when a post full of doomy textposts crossed my dash there was nothing for it but to make these...

It’s a good fic but note the warnings on it!!

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

1968 [Chapter 6: Athena, Goddess Of Wisdom]

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 5.2k

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Here at the midway point in our journey—like Dante stumbling upon the gates of the Inferno—would it be the right moment to review what’s at stake? Let’s begin.

It’s the end of August. The delegates of the Democratic National Convention in Chicago officially vote to name Aemond the party’s presidential candidate. His ascension is aided by 10,000 antiwar demonstrators who flood into the city and threaten to set it ablaze if Hubert Humphrey is chosen instead. At the end—in his death rattle—Humphrey begs to be Aemond’s running mate, one last humiliation he cannot resist. Humphrey is denied. Eugene McCarthy, dignity intact, boards a commercial flight to his home state of Minnesota without looking back.

Aemond selects U.S. Ambassador to France, Sargent Shriver, to be his vice president. Shriver is a Kennedy by marriage—his wife, JFK’s younger sister Eunice, just founded the Special Olympics—and has previously headed the Office of Economic Opportunity, the Peace Corps, and the Chicago Board of Education. He also served as the architect of the president’s “War on Poverty” before distancing himself from the imploding Johnson administration. Shriver is not a concession to fence-sitting moderates or Southern Dixiecrats, but an embodiment of Aemond’s commitment to unapologetic progressivism. Richard Nixon spends the weekend campaigning in his native California, a gold vein of votes like the mines settlers rushed to in 1848. George Wallace announces that he will run as an Independent. Racists everywhere rejoice.

Phase III of the Tet Offensive is underway in Vietnam; 700 American soldiers have been killed this month alone. Riots break out in military prisons where the U.S. Army is keeping their deserters. The North Vietnamese refuse to allow Pope Paul VI to visit Hanoi on a peace mission. President Johnson calls both Aemond and Nixon to personally inform them of this latest evidence of the communists’ unwillingness to negotiate in good faith. Daeron and John McCain remain in Hỏa Lò Prison. The draft swallows men like the titan Cronus devoured his own children.

In Eastern Europe, the Russians are crushing pro-democracy protests in the largest military operation since World War II as half a million troops roll into Czechoslovakia. In Caswell County, North Carolina, the last remaining segregated school district in the nation is ordered by a federal judge to integrate after years of stalling. On the Fangataufa Atoll in the South Pacific, France becomes the fifth nation to successfully explode a hydrogen bomb. In Mexico City, 300,000 students gather to protest the authoritarian regime of President Diaz Ordaz. In Guatemala, American ambassador John Gordon Mein is murdered by a Marxist guerilla organization called the Rebel Armed Forces. In Columbus, Ohio, nine guards are held hostage during a prison riot; after 30 hours, they’re rescued by a SWAT team.

The latest issue of Life magazine brings worldwide attention to catastrophic industrial pollution in the Great Lakes. The first successful multiorgan transplant is carried out at Houston Methodist Hospital. The Beatles release Hey Jude, the best-selling single of 1968 in the U.S., U.K., Australia, and Canada. NASA’s Apollo lunar landing program plans to launch a crewed shuttle next year, just in time to fulfill John F. Kennedy’s 1962 promise to put a man on the moon “before the end of the decade.” If this is successful, the United States will win the Space Race and prove the superiority of capitalism. If it fails, the martyred astronauts will join all the other ghosts of this apocalyptic age, an epoch born under bad stars.

The night sky glows with the ancient debris of the Aurigid meteor shower. From down here on Earth, Jupiter is a radiant white gleam, visible with the naked eye and admired since humans were making cave paintings and Stonehenge. But Io is a mystery. With a telescope, she becomes a dust mote entrapped by Jupiter’s gravity; to the casual observer, she doesn’t exist at all.

~~~~~~~~~~

What was it like, that very first time? It’s strange to remember. You’re both different people now.

It’s May, 1966. You and Aemond are engaged, due to be married in three short weeks, and if you get pregnant then it’s no harm, no foul. In reality, it will end up taking you over a year to conceive, but no one knows that yet; you are living in the liminal space between what you imagine your life will be and the cold blade of the truth. Aemond has brought you to Asteria for the weekend, an increasingly common occurrence. The Targaryens—minus one, that holdout prodigal son, always glowering from behind swigs of rum and clouds of smoke—have already begun to treat you like a member of the family. The flock of Alopekis yap excitedly and lick your shins. Eudoxia learns your favorite snacks so she can have them ready when you arrive.

One night Aemond takes your hand and leads you to Helaena’s garden, darkness turned to twilight in the artificial luminance of the main house. You can hear distant voices, chatter and laughter, and the Beatles’ Rubber Soul spinning on the record player in the living room like a black hole, gravity that not even light can escape when it is wrenched over the event horizon.

You’re giggling as Aemond pulls you along, faster and faster, weaving through pathways lined with roses and sunflowers and butterfly bushes. Your high heels sink into soft, fertile earth; the air in your lungs is cool and infinite. “Where are we going?”

And Aemond grins back at you as he replies: “To Olympus.”

In the circle of hedges guarded by thirteen gods of stone, Aemond unzips your modest pink sundress and slips your heels off your feet, kneeling like he’s proposing to you again. When you are bare and secretless, he draws you down onto the grass and opens you, claims you, fills you to the brim as the crystalline water of the fountain patters and Zeus hurls his lightning bolts, an eternal storm, unending war. It’s intense in a way it never was with your first boyfriend, a sweet polite boy who talked about feminist theory and followed his enlightened conscience all the way to Vietnam. This isn’t just a pleasant way to pass a Friday night, something to look forward to between differential equations textbooks and calculus proofs. With Aemond it’s a ritual; it’s something so overpowering it almost scares you.

“Aphrodite,” Aemond murmurs against your throat, and when you try to get on top he stops you, pins you to the ground, thrusts hard and deep, and you try not to moan too loudly as you surrender, his weight on you like a prophesy. This is how he wants you. This is where you belong.

Has someone ever stitched you to their side, pushing the needle through your skin again and again as the fabric latticework takes shape, until their blood spills into your veins and your antibodies can no longer tell the difference? He makes you think you’ve forgotten who you were before. He makes you want to believe in things the world taught you were myths.

But that was over two years ago. Now Aemond is not your spellbinding almost-stranger of a fiancé—shrouded in just the right amount of mystery—but your husband, the father of your dead child, the presidential candidate. You miss when he was a mirage. You miss what it felt like to get high on the idea of him, each taste a hit, each touch a rush of toxins to the bloodstream.

Seven weeks after your emergency c-section, you are healing. Your belly no longer aches, your bleeding stops, you can rejoin the living in this last gasp of summer. Ludwika takes you shopping and you pick out new swimsuits; you’ve gone up a size since the baby, and it shows no signs of vanishing. In the fitting room, Ludwika chain-smokes Camel cigarettes and claps when you show her each outfit, ordering you to spin around, telling you that there’s nothing like Oleg Cassini back in Poland. You plan to buy three swimsuits. Ludwika insists you get five. She pays with Otto’s American Express.

That afternoon at home in your blue bedroom, you get changed to join the rest of the family down by the pool, your first swim since Ari was born. You choose Ludwika’s favorite: a dreamy turquoise two-piece with flowing transparent fabric that drapes your midsection. You can still see the dark vertical line of where the doctors stitched you closed. Now you and Aemond match; he got his scar on the floor of the Breakers Hotel in Palm Beach, you earned yours at Mount Sinai Hospital in Manhattan. There are gold chains on your wrist and looped around your neck. Warm sunlight and ocean wind pours in through the open windows.

Aemond appears in the doorway and you turn to show him, proud of how you’ve pulled yourself together, how this past year hasn’t put you in an asylum. His right eye catches on your scar and stays there for a long time. Then at last he says: “You don’t have something else to wear?”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s Labor Day, and Asteria has been descended upon by guests invited to celebrate Aemond’s nomination. The dining room table is overflowing with champagne, Agiorgitiko wine, platters of mini spanakopitas, lamb gyros, pita bread with hummus and tzatziki, feta cheese and cured meats, grilled octopus, baklava, and kourabiethes. Eudoxia is rushing around sweeping up crumbs and shooing tipsy visitors away from antique vases shipped here from Greece. Aemond’s celebrity endorsers include Sammy Davis Jr., Sonny and Cher, Andy Williams, Bobby Darin, Warren Beatty, Shirley MacLaine, Claudine Longet, and a number of politicians; but the most notable attendee is President Lyndon Baines Johnson, shadowed by Secret Service agents. He won’t be making any surprise appearances on the campaign trail for Aemond—in the present political climate, he would be more of a liability than an asset—but he has travelled to Long Beach Island tonight to offer his well-wishes. From the record player thrums Jimi Hendrix’s All Along The Watchtower.

When you finish getting ready and arrive downstairs, you spot Aegon: slouching in a velvet chair over a century old, hair shagging in his eyes, sipping something out of a chipped mug he clasps with both hands, flirting with a bubbly early-twenties campaign staffer. Aegon smiles and waves when he sees you. You wave back. And you think: When did he become the person I look for when I walk into a room?

Now Aemond is beside you in a blue suit—beaming, confident, his glass eye in place, a hand resting on your waist—and Aegon isn’t smiling anymore. He takes a gulp of what is almost certainly straight rum from his mug and returns his attention to the campaign staffer, his lady of the hour. You picture him undressing her on his shag carpet and feel disorienting, violent envy like a bullet.

Viserys is already fast asleep upstairs, but the rest of the family is out en masse to charm the invitees and pose for photographs. Alicent, Helaena, and Mimi—trying very hard to act sober, blinking too often—are chit-chatting with the other political wives. Otto is complaining about something to Criston; Criston is pretending to listen as he stares at Alicent. Ludwika is smoking her Camels and talking to several young journalists who are ogling her, enraptured. Fosco and Sargent Shriver are entertaining a group of guests with a boisterous, lighthearted debate on the merits of Italian versus French cuisine, though they agree that both are superior to Greek. The nannies have brought the eight children to be paraded around before bedtime. All Cosmo wants to do is clutch your hand and “help” you navigate around the living room, warning you not to step on the small, weaving Alopekis. When Mimi attempts to steal her youngest son away, he ignores her, and as she begins to make a scene you rebuke her with a harsh glare. Mimi retreats meekly. She has never argued with you, not once in over two years. You speak for Aemond, and Aemond is a god.

As the children are herded off to their beds by the nannies, Bobby Kennedy—presently serving as a New York senator despite residing primarily on his family’s compound in Massachusetts—approaches to congratulate Aemond. His wife Ethel is a tiny, nasally, scrappy but not terribly bright woman, five months pregnant with her eleventh child, and you have to get away from her like a hand pulled from a hot stove.

“You know, I was considering running,” Bobby says to Aemond, chuckling, good-natured. “But when I saw you get in the race, I thought better of it! Maybe I’ll give it a go in ’76, huh?”

“Hey, kid, what a tough year you’ve had,” Ethel tells you, patting your forearm. You can’t tear your eyes from her small belly. She has ten living children already. I couldn’t keep one. What kind of sense does that make? “We’re real sorry for your trouble, aren’t we, Bobby?”

Now he is nodding somberly. “We are. We sure are. We’ve been praying for you both.”

Aemond is thanking them, sounding touched but entirely collected. You manage some hurried response and then excuse yourself. Your hands are shaking as you cross the room, not really seeing it. You walk right into Lady Bird Johnson. She takes pity on you; she seems to perceive how rattled you are. “Oh Lyndon, look, it’s just who we were hoping to speak to! The next first lady of the United States. And how beautiful you are, just radiant. How do you keep your hair so perfect? That glamorous updo. You never have a single strand out of place.” Lady Bird lays a palm tenderly on your bare shoulder. She has an unusual, angular face, but a wise sort of compassion that only comes from suffering. Her husband is an unrepentant serial cheater. “I’ll make you a list of everything you need to know about the White House. All the quirks of the property, and the hidden gems too!”

“You’re so kind. We’ll see what happens in November…”

“Good evening, ma’am,” President Johnson says, smiling warmly. He’s an ugly man, but there’s something hypnotic that lives inside him and shines through his eyes like the blaze of a lighthouse. He pulls you in through the dark, through the storm; he promises you answers to questions you haven’t thought of yet. LBJ is 6’4 and known for bullying his political adversaries with the so-called “Johnson Treatment”; he leans in and makes rapid-fire demands until they forget he’s not allowed to hit them. “I have to tell you frankly, I don’t envy anyone who inherits that den of rattlesnakes in Washington D.C.”

“Lyndon, don’t frighten her,” Lady Bird scolds fondly.

“Everyone thinks they know what to do about Vietnam,” LBJ plods onwards. “But it’s a damned if you do, damned if you don’t clusterfuck. If you keep fighting, they call you a murderer. But if you pull the troops out and South Vietnam falls to the communists, every single man lost was for nothing, and you think the families will stand for that? Their kid in a body bag, or his legs blown off, or his brain scrambled? There’s no easy answer. It’s a goddamn bitch of a quagmire.”

Lady Bird offers you a sympathetic smirk. Sorry about all this unpleasantness, she means. When he gets himself worked up, I can’t stop him. But you find yourself feeling sorry for President Johnson. It will be difficult for him to learn how to fade into disgraced obscurity after once being so omnipotent, so beloved. Reinvention hurts like hell: fevers raging, bones mending, healing flesh that itches so ferociously you want to claw it off.

LBJ gives Lady Bird a look, quick but meaningful. She acquiesces. This has happened a thousand times before. “It was so nice talking to you, dear,” she tells you, then crosses the living room to pay her respects to Alicent.

The president steps closer, looming, towering. The Johnson Treatment?? you think, but no; he isn’t trying to intimidate you. He’s just curious.

“Do you know what Aemond’s plan is for ‘Nam?” LBJ asks, eyes urgent, voice low. “I’m sure he has one. He’s sworn to end the draft as soon as he gets into office, but how is he going to make sure the South Vietnamese can fend off the North themselves? We’re trying to train the bastards, but if we left they’d fold in months. It would be the first war the U.S. ever lost. Does he understand that?”

“He doesn’t really discuss it with me.” That’s true; you know his policies, but only because they are a constant subject of conversation within the family, something you all breathe like oxygen.

“We can’t let Nixon win,” LBJ continues. “It’s mass suicide to leave the country in his hands. The man can’t hold his liquor anymore, getting robbed by Kennedy in ’60 broke something in him. He gets sloshed and shoves his aids around, makes up conspiracies in his head. He’s a paranoid little prick. He’ll surveille the American people. He’ll launch a nuke at Moscow.”

You honestly don’t know what he expects you to say. “I’ll pass the message along to Aemond.”

“People love you, Mrs. Targaryen.” LBJ watching you closely. “Believe it or not, they used to love me too. But I still remember how to play the game. You’re the only reason Aemond is leading the polls in Florida. You can get him other states too. Jack needed Jackie. Aemond needs you. And you’ve had tragedies, and that’s a damn shame. But don’t you miss an opportunity. You take every disappointment, every fucked up cruelty of life and find a way to make it work for you. You pin it to your chest like a goddamn medal. Every single scar makes you look more mortal to those people going to the ballot box in November. You want them to be able to see themselves in you. It helps the mansions and the millions go down smoother.”

“President Johnson!” Aegon says as he saunters over, huge mocking grin. He thumps a closed fist against the Texan’s broad chest; the Secret Service agents standing ten feet away observe this sternly. “How thoughtful of you to be here, taking time out of your busy schedule, squeezing us in between war crimes.”

“The mayor of Trenton,” LBJ jabs.

“The butcher of Saigon.”

Now the president is no longer amused. “You’ve never accomplished anything in your whole damn life, son. Your obituary will be the size of a postage stamp. I’m looking forward to reading it someday soon.” He leaves, rejoining Lady Bird at the opposite end of the room.

You frown at Aegon, disapproving. You’re dressed in a sparkling, royal blue gown that Aemond chose. “That was unnecessary.”

Aegon is wearing an ill-fitting green shirt—half the buttons undone—khaki pants, and tan moccasins. “I just did you a favor.”

“What happened to your new girlfriend? Shouldn’t she be getting railed in your basement right now? Did she have a prior commitment? Did she have a spelling test to study for? Those can be tricky, such complex words. Juvenile. Inappropriate. Infidelity.”

“You know what he brags about?” Aegon says, meaning LBJ. “That he’s fucked more women by accident than John F. Kennedy ever did on purpose.”

“That sounds…logistically challenging.”

“He’s a lech. He’s a freak. He tells everyone on Capitol Hill how big his cock is. He takes it out and swings it around during meetings.”

“And that’s all far less than admirable, but he’s not going to do something like that around me.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he’s not an idiot,” you say impatiently. “He was perfectly civil. And I was getting interesting advice.”

Aegon rolls his eyes, exasperated. “Yeah, okay, I’m sorry I crashed your cute little pep talk with Lyndon Johnson, the most hated man on the planet.”

“I guess you can’t stop Aemond from touching me, so you have to terrorize LBJ instead.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Aegon hisses, and his venom stuns you. And now you’re both trapped: you loosed the arrow, he proved you hit the mark. He’s flushing a deep, mortified red. Your guts are twisting with remorse.

“Aegon, wait, I didn’t mean—”

He whirls and storms off, shoving his way through the crowd. People glare at him as they clutch their glasses and plates, sighing in that What else do you expect from the worthless son? sort of way. You’re still gaping blankly at the place where Aegon stood when Aemond finds you, snakes a hand around the back of your neck, and whispers through the painstakingly-arranged wisps of hair that fall around your ear: “Follow me.”

It’s not a question. It’s a command. You trail him through the living room, into the foyer, and through the front door, not knowing what he wants. Outside the moon is a sliver; the light from the main house makes the stars hard to see. “Aemond, you’ll never believe the conversation I just had with LBJ. He really unloaded, I think the stress is driving him insane. I have to tell you what he said about—”

“Later.” And this is jarring; Aemond doesn’t put anything before strategy. He grabs your hand as he turns into Helaena’s garden, and only then do you understand what he wants. Instinctively, your legs lock up and your feet stop moving. Aemond tugs you onward. He wants it to be like the very first time. He intends to start over with you, the dawning of a new age in the dead of night.

Hidden in the circle of hedges, he takes your face roughly in his hands and kisses you, drinks you down like a vampire, consumes you like wildfire. But your skull echoes with panic. I don’t want him touching me. I don’t want another child with him. “Aemond…”

He doesn’t hear you, or acts like he doesn’t, or mistakes it for a murmur of desire, or chooses to believe it is. He has you down on the grass under the vengeful gaze of Zeus, the fountain splashing, the sounds of the house a low foreign drone. He yanks off your panties, but he doesn’t want you naked like he always did before. He pushes the hem of your shimmering cobalt gown up to your hips and unbuckles his trousers. And you realize as he’s touching you, as he’s easing himself into you: He doesn’t want to have to look at my scar.

You can’t ignore him, you can’t pretend it’s not happening. He’s too big for that. It’s a biting fullness that demands to be felt. So you kiss him back, and knot your fingers in his short hair like you used to, and try to remember the things you always said to him before. And when Aemond is too absorbed to notice, you look away from him, from the statue of Zeus, and peer up into the stone face of Athena instead: the goddess who never married and who knows the answer to every question.

“I love you,” Aemond says when it’s over, marveling at the slopes of your face in the dim ethereal light. “Everything will be right again soon. Everything will be perfect.”

You conjure up a smile and nod like you believe him.

“What did LBJ say?”

“Can I tell you later tonight? After the party, maybe? I just need a few minutes.”

“Of course.” And now Aemond pretends to be patient. He buckles his belt and returns to the main house, his blood coursing with the possibilities only you can make real, his skin damp with your sweat.

For a while—ten minutes, twenty minutes—you lie there on the cool grass wondering what it was like for all those mortals and nymphs, being pinned down by Zeus and then having Hera try to kill them afterwards, raising ill-fated reviled bastards they couldn’t help but love. What is heaven if the realm of the immortals is so cruel? Why does the god of justice seem so immune to it?

When at last you rise and walk back towards the house, you find Mimi at the edge of the garden. She’s on her knees and retching into a rose bush; she’s cut her face on the thorns, but she hasn’t noticed yet. She’s groaning; she seems lost.

You reach for her, gripping her bony shoulders. “Mimi, here, let’s get you upstairs…”

“No,” she blubbers, tears streaming down her scratched cheeks. “Just go away. Leave me.”

“Mimi—”

“No!” she roars, a mournful hemorrhage as she slaps your hands until you release her.

“You don’t have to be this way,” you tell her, distraught. “You can give up drinking. We’ll help you, me and Fosco and Ludwika. You can start over. You can be healthy and present again, you can live a real life.”

Mimi stares up at you, her grey eyes glassy and bloodshot but with a vicious, piercing honesty. “My husband hates me. My kids don’t know I exist. What the hell do I have to be sober for?”

You weren’t expecting this. You don’t know what to say. “We can help make the world better.”

“The world would be better without me in it.”

Then Mimi curls up on the grass under the rose bush, and stays there until you return with Fosco to drag her upstairs to her empty bed.

~~~~~~~~~~

The next afternoon, you’re lying on a lounge chair by the pool. Tomorrow the family will leave Asteria and embark upon a vigorous campaign schedule that will continue, with very few breaks, until Election Day on Tuesday, November 5th. The children are splashing and shrieking in the pool with Fosco, but you aren’t looking at them. You’re staring across the sun-drenched emerald lawn at the Atlantic Ocean. You’re envisioning all the bones and splinters of sunken ships that must litter the silt of the abyss; you’re thinking that it’s a graveyard with no headstones, no memory. Your swimsuit is a red one-piece. Your eyes are shielded by large black Ray Bans aviator sunglasses. Your gaze flicks up to the cloudless blue sky, where all the stars and planets are invisible.

Jupiter has nearly a hundred moons; the largest four were discovered by Galileo in 1610. Europa is a smooth white cosmic marble with a crust of ice, beautiful, immaculate. Ganymede, the largest moon in our solar system and the only satellite with its own magnetic field, is rumored to have a vast underground saltwater ocean that may contain life. Callisto is dark and indomitable, riddled with impact craters; because of her dynamic atmosphere and location beyond Jupiter’s radiation belts, she is considered the best location for possible future crewed missions to the Jovian system. But Io is a wasteland. She has no water and no oxygen. Her only children are 400 active volcanoes, sulfur plumes and lava flows, mountains of silicate rock higher than Mount Everest, cataclysmic earthquakes as her crust slips around on a mantle of magma. Her daily radiation levels are 36 times the lethal limit for humans. If Hades had a home in our corner of the galaxy, it would be Io. She glows ruby and gold with barren apocalyptic fury. You can feel yourself turning poisonous like she is. You can feel your skin splitting open as the lava spills out.

Aegon trots out of the house—red swim trunks, cheap red plastic sunglasses, no shirt, a beach towel slung around his neck, flip flops—and kicks your chair. “Get up. We’re going sailing.”

“I don’t want to talk to anybody.”

“Great, because I’m not asking you to talk. I’m telling you to get in my boat.”

You don’t reply. You don’t think you can without your voice cracking. Aegon crouches down beside your chair and pushes your sunglasses up into your Brigitte Bardot-inspired hair so he can see your face. Your eyes are pink, wet, desperately sad. Deep troubled grooves appear in his forehead as he studies you. Gently, wordlessly, he pats your cheek twice and lowers your sunglasses back over your eyes. Then he stands up again and offers you his hand.

“Let’s go,” Aegon says, softly this time. You take his hand and follow him down to the boathouse.

Five vessels are currently kept there. Aegon’s sailboat is a 25-foot Wianno Senior sloop, just roomy enough for a few passengers. He’s had it since long before you married into the Targaryen family. It is white with hand-painted gold accents; the name Sunfyre adorns the stern. He unmoors the boat, pushes it out into the open water, and raises the sails.

You glide eastbound over the glittering crests of waves, slowly at first, then faster as the sails catch the wind. Aegon has one hand on the rudder, the other grasping the ropes. And the farther you get from shore, the smaller Asteria seems, and the Targaryen family, and the presidential election, and the United States itself. Now all that exists is this boat: you, Aegon, the squawking gulls, the school of mackerel, the ocean. The sun beats down; the breeze rips strands of your hair free. The battery-powered record player is blasting White Room by Cream. When you are far enough from land that no journalists would be able to get a photo, Aegon takes two joints and his Zippo out of the pocket of his swim trunks. He puts both joints between his lips, lights them, and passes you one. Then he stretches out beside you on the deck, gazing up at the September sky.

You ask as your muscles unravel and your thoughts turn light and easy to share: “Why did you bring me out here?”

“So you can drown yourself,” Aegon says, and you both laugh. “Nah. I used to go sailing all the time when I was a teenager. It always made me feel better. It was the only place where I could really be alone.”

You consider the math. “Wow. You haven’t been a teenager since before I was in kindergarten.”

“It’s weird to think about. You don’t seem that young.”

“Thanks, I guess. You don’t seem that old.”

“Maybe we’re meeting in the middle.” He inhales deeply and then exhales in a rush of smoke. “What do you think, should I get an earring?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“It might shock Otto so bad it kills him.”

“I’ll get two.” And then Aegon says: “It’s not cool for you to mock me.”

You are dismayed; you didn’t mean to hurt him. “I wasn’t.”

“Yes, you were. You were mocking me. You mocked me about the receipt under my ashtray, and then you mocked me again last night. I’m up for a lot of things, but I can’t handle that. Okay?”

“Okay.” You turn your head so you can see him: shaggy blonde hair, stubble, perpetual sunburn, the softness of his belly and his chest, flesh you long to vanish into like rain through parched earth. “Aegon?”

He looks over at you. “Io?”

“I don’t want Aemond to touch me either.”

He’s surprised; not by what you feel, but because you’ve said it aloud, a treason like Prometheus giving mankind the gift of fire. “What are we gonna do about it?”

If you were the goddess of wisdom, maybe you’d know.

[fuckyeahmarxismleninism]

Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine:

What is happening in northern Gaza is the most heinous chapter of genocide in modern times

What is happening in northern Gaza is the most horrific chapter of genocide in modern times, as the zionist war machine continues to bomb entire residential blocks on the heads of children, women, and the elderly, besiege all hospitals, prevent the entry of food aid, and wage an unprecedented war of starvation and thirst.

The major war crimes being committed against our people in the Gaza Strip, especially in the north, are being carried out with the green light from the U.S. The criminal U.S. administration continues to obscure the horrific massacres being committed in northern Gaza, issuing a hypocritical narrative that downplays the indescribable catastrophes taking place there.

The U.S. administration, which provides the zionist war machine with weapons and political cover, consistently proves that it is a direct partner in these crimes and bears full responsibility for these brutal massacres.

The international community continues its disgraceful silence, issuing weak statements that do not reflect the scale of the atrocities committed, while Arab regimes stand by watching the massacre, unable even to utter a word of truth or take a position, however weak.

This silence and Arab betrayal is a blatant historical treason against our people and the people of the region, and it will remain a stain of shame on these complicit regimes and all who turned their backs on the tragedy and suffering of Gaza.

We are at a critical historical moment that requires the free people of the world to immediately act to stop this genocide and not remain trapped by empty diplomatic illusions or criminal American lies, propagated by the architect of massacres and their sponsor, U.S. Secretary of State and war criminal Blinken.

The blood of our people will not forgive anyone who has faltered, conspired, or evaded responsibility. These massacres against our people in Gaza will not go unanswered as long as there is a resistance that is present, enduring, and knows no defeat or retreat.

The Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine

Central Media Office

October 23, 2024

[morphids]

Enmies to lovers hange zoe

Pls🤗🤗

the worst neighbour, hange zoë

i love enemies to lovers, it’s probably my fave trope of all time—ty anon <3

nonbinary, they/them hange.

summary: hange moves in next door and ruins your peace, until a storm forces you together.

warnings: not many so idk storms?? very sfw—a bit silly and fluffy really, minus some suggestive themes throughout, and a heavy makeout sesh at the end. poc friendly!! weed smoking- stoner!hange. r has autism but its not an integral part of the story. hange is also a lil mentally unwell.

wc: 5.7k of pure yap, enjoy.

—

When you first moved into your own place, away from the helicopters that are your stringent and unpleasant parents, you were so relieved that you could've levitated. Thinking you'd finally have a safe haven of your own. To decorate, eat, dress and generally live life on your own terms. Bills be damned! It was that - for maybe a few weeks? Until you spotted the 'For Sale' sign on the lawn of the semi-detached connected to your own. When exactly did that get put up?

Internally groaning, you already were catastrophizing— what if it's a family with five kids and two twin newborns? What if they're a crazy dog person and the dogs bark every hour and set each other off? What if it's a group of college kids who party every night?

So imagine your relief when you see a single van pull up, and only one, very tall individual lifting boxes into the building attached to yours. Quite an attractive person, at that. Hair messily pulled back, glasses framing their face, clad in a tank top underneath an oversized blazer and some loose pants. You had been stalking observing the new arrival through the gaps in your blinds. Praying that your silhouette wasn't spotted from the outside. I mean, look.. we all have to be wary of our surroundings, right? Lest there be a creep move in next door and you're none the wiser.

A few hours later, the big van outside had already left its spot on the side. There was a knock at your front door, revealing the very hot neighbour on the other side, holding a plate of some homemade stew.

You made your introductions, Hange was incredibly friendly, you couldn't deny, a wide smile stretched on their lips as they almost pushed the stew into your hands, saying, "I read that this is a good way to greet new neighbours!" It was a short, courteous greeting. You both returned to your homes soon after. You wanted to kiss the stars that you got so lucky with a pleasant hot neighbour. The stew ended up being delicious, by the way, saving you the effort of cooking your own dinner for the night.

That relief very quickly dissipated once you realised just how loud Hange was. It drove you insane. If you were maybe four years younger, you probably wouldn't have minded so much, but as a working adult with a regular 9-5, you found yourself seething at how incredibly absurd it was. You had no idea what Hange did, mind you, and you cursed the architect's firstborn for connecting your bedroom wall to Hange's. It was as if you lived next door to a busy night cafe, the buzzing whir of what you'd assumed was a stupidly designed, industrial-sized coffee machine. Grounding coffee beans together, followed by bangs of metal against the counter as they'd dumped the old ones into the trash. The walls were so unbelievably thin you could almost feel their exact movements. Every night. At three in the damn morning. Who drinks coffee that late?

The whirring seemed to vibrate through the entire structure of the house, reverberating through the walls as you laid your head against your pillow. You had taken to banging against the wall as revenge once, not so nicely letting them know they were keeping you up. Crashing out by yourself in the solitude of your bedroom. If there had been cameras installed you would've looked so unhinged and probably been sectioned to a ward to live out the rest of your days. A part of you was so aggravated that being sectioned felt like it would be a gentle kindness. You tried getting ear plugs—didn't help. The noise-cancelling headphones that you used when you were experiencing sensory overload? Nope, didn't help, it was like it was in between the walls vibrating your floor, even if you couldn't hear most of it, you still felt it.

After a few nights of not so passive-aggressive banging against the wall, Hange seemed to get the hint. Well, that and perhaps also the way you glared at them when you made your way back into your house after your shift. You weren't the greatest at verbal confrontation, you'd probably rather die than actually go and confront them in person. So, the nastiest glare you could muster was enough. Hange had been mowing their lawn, white tank top tight against their well-sculpted torso as their built arms glided the lawnmower over the grass. Lifting their hand up to wave at you as you ignored their advance for a conversation, scoffing as you quickly entered your house. At least they weren't cutting grass at night, too.

Not to mention the smell of weed that travelled through the walls, almost thickening the air with a haze. Look, you didn't care what people did in their spare time, wasn't like you were gonna call the cops over a joint but... Hange had already pissed you off so much, to the point where this was just a rotting cherry on top of your least favourite cake. It clung to your clothes, for god's sake! You wouldn't have even noticed if it wasn't for one of your coworkers cheerily asking you if you were holding any because they hadn't smoked in a while, creating a very awkward, "I.. don't smoke?" on your part and an even more awkward realisation from your shocked co-worker. Embarrassed that they had accidentally outed themselves to someone who could potentially report them to the bosses. You would never, but they didn't know that.

That night, you got home and washed all your laundry, deciding to keep them in a different room where the smoke remnants didn't reach, not wanting to go through a similar situation with someone else another time.

Did I mention that they were apparently a guitar player, too? It's just hit after hit. Strumming strings late into the night and you wondered how someone could have so much nocturnal energy. They weren't unskilled, in all honesty, they were just incredibly annoying.

Fortunately, the coffee machine incidents had ceased. The relief returned as you settled yourself for the first good night's sleep in three weeks, finally feeling well-rested the next morning as you got ready for work. You should've known it wouldn't last long, though. How naive of you to think your neighbour would become reasonable overnight. This time, at around midnight, you heard drilling and the subsequent falling of wood against the floor. Perhaps Hange was doing it out of spite, unpleased with your glares every afternoon. You hadn't exactly been the nicest, but it wasn't like it was unjustified. This had been building up for almost a whole month, you had grown sleep-deprived and irritable, disgustingly moody.

Huffing to yourself, you lifted your body up off the seducing comfort of your bed. Throwing on a jumper that had been left discarded on the chair, and some slides. Mentally amping yourself for what you were about to do, trying to script how you were going to politely yell at them and burst all your inner feelings about their inconsideration.

You rapped a fist at their front door, noticing how the lights were on in each room through the window. There was silence at first, then you spotted the silhouette coming closer to the door. Revealing Hange, with a dark green woollen cardigan hanging off their slender shoulders, grey sweatpants that didn't quite cover their toned midriff. Hange puffed on a joint, leaning their weight against the doorframe.

"Wha-"

“I swear to god, if you make more noise at night, ‘m gonna set your house on fire.”

Well, you hadn't quite scripted that particular sentence. Apparently, arson had been on your mind! Great, now you look insane and actively threatened your neighbour!

Hange's eyes widened, shock falling over their features as their mouth opened and closed.

"But...wouldn't that burn yours, too?" They half joked, half didn't. At your lack of response, and clearly unimpressed face, Hange sighed, continuing.

"Alright, I'm sorry, but you don't need to be such a bitch about it," They brought the joint to their plump lips again, trapped between their ringed thumb and index finger, huffing on it before blowing it out, directly in your face. You would've kept staring at Hange's nice hands as they gracefully held the joint, if you hadn't just been disrespected by the amount of smoke that invaded your nose, and been called a bitch added on top of that. You were stunned into silence  for a solid moment before your anger reignited, scoffing at their audacity.

"Are you serious?"

"It's not been that bad..."

"Again—are you serious?!"

Hange didn't answer, looking at you blankly, which doubly pissed you off even more.

"You've kept me awake for the past month! Are you aware that people need sleep or d'you just not care?"

Hange ignored the pangs of guilt, although not really wanting to explain their inner workings to a pretty stranger. Initially, Hange thought there'd be a good friendship built upon that first meeting, it'd been cordial— thinking you were a cute, inviting person, even thought they lucked out with a pretty neighbour right next door. Unfortunately, Hange quickly realised you both definitely weren't on the same page as they felt the wrath of your glares every afternoon. Maybe they were more oblivious than they thought.

Hange didn't truly realise the walls were so thin and you heard everything, honestly they thought your banging on the wall had been… something else entirely. In hindsight, they now felt a bit silly with the realisation that it was a painfully obvious noise complaint—but it's not like they didn't have their reasons.

"Relax, man," Hange sighed, lifting themself off the doorframe and reached their arm out to offer you some joint, "You need some of this,"

Unbelievable, you gaped. Honestly, if you had to sit on a court stand to explain what happened next, you'd say you blacked out. Before you could even stop yourself, you plucked the lit joint from their fingers and let it fall down on the floor, making sure to aim for the small pool of water collected on the pavement from the rainfall earlier that day. Situation was made worse by the small hiss as the water murdered the flame, effectively soaking and ruining the entire zoot. You would've felt bad, realising they must've only sparked it a short while ago, as there was a considerable amount left— but if this was your one crime against a plethora of theirs, then so be it.

"Was there any need—"

"You're a dick, you know that?"

"I'm a dick? That was a peace offering 'n you thre-"

"Fuck your peace offering, keeping it down is the best gift you could ever give me."

Hange’s brows tilted up in mild amusement, blended with a healthy amount of irritation. That was the remainder of their stash, the very last zoot that they had saved until all their tasks were done, and no dealer would be active this time of night.

Hange studied you for a moment, your arms crossed and viscerally annoyed— your lips curved to the side as you blew out a single strand of hair away from your face that kept falling into your eyes. Undoubtedly, adding to your frustration. Still cute, they thought, even though you did just absolutely desecrate their last zoot. Hange paralleled your body language, folding their own arms up to match yours.

Now, Hange definitely knew better than to say something like this, knew this had a 99% chance of making the situation worse. Yet, could they help it? Evidently not. Words slipping from their lips before they could withhold it.

"Yes, mama."

Silence.

At their words, Hange's amusement grew as the hardness in your face fell. You seemed to be going through all the different stages of grief. Trying to mask the evident flustering that overtook your features, caught off guard by the sudden switch up of energy that hung in the vacant space between you. Hange would've regretted it, would've expected you to curse them out even more— deserved it, even, had it not been for the softening of your voice and the confusion glazing over your eyes. They could've sworn there was something else lurking in there, something subtly dangerous.

"I-I, you—"

"Won't do it again, dear," Hange muttered, ceasing, "You have my word,"

Hange seemed to have a proclivity for stressing you out, it seems. A crooked smile etched on the corner of their lips as they watched you, deep, brown eyes boring into yours— almost challenging.

"Right—well, I'm...gonna go home now,"

"Alright, then."

Stepping down from their front porch, you let out the breath trapped in your ribs. You had been geared up for a confrontation, not that. What the hell even was that? Hange's voice broke out from within the silence again, in almost a mockery of friendly neighbourhood conduct.

“Always lovely seeing you,”

—

From that point, the noise had considerably decreased. You were thankful that at least something positive came from that conversation. Though, it didn't exactly simmer the annoyance lingering in your heart for Hange. You thought they were an incredibly inconsiderate asshole. Yes, they may have stopped the noise, but you couldn't simply forgive and forget the way they spoke to you. Arrogant and disrespectful. Not to mention the cocky way they ended the conversation, you hated that you had faltered at their words. Cursing yourself for your lack of a quick response and staring at them dumbly. The grudge had remained, no hatchet buried. Even if they did look like that.

You were currently all wrapped up in your fuzzy blanket, burrito style as you layered up on fabrics. The weather had been harsher than most this winter—we have the rich and wealthy to thank for shitting all over the planet and ruining the climate. Winds had been howling, trees shaking trying to stand firm against its force as you threw on the local news on your television.

You managed to catch the late part of an announcement.

"—severe weather warning, as dangerous winds from the storm expected to strike around the area. It is advised that people stay inside their homes, charge their devices and stock up on canned food. Single-person households are heavily advised to house together during this time, to account for any potential casualties—"

The television cut out with a soft click, as the lights and electricals in your house switched off simultaneously, leaving you in total darkness. If there was ever any way to freak someone out, this would definitely do it. You gaped through your window at the heavily falling rain as it splattered against the glass. Shit.

Sighing, you blindly made your way to the drawers in your kitchen. You were a bit of a candle enthusiast, so at least you had some way of illumination. Lighting the wick with some matches, you filled the darkness with a candle in each corner. It was a bit of a haunting vibe, but you could manage for the night. What was worrying you more, was the way your phone was almost out of charge. You thought of a lot of things for times like these, yet a portable charger always seemed to evade you. It was one of those, i'll buy one next time, except next time never came.

Your thoughts went to Hange, you were both considered single-person households. Perhaps, it would be safer to band together. Maybe they have a portable on hand. Battling yourself, you considered the consequences of making your way over to Hange's, asking if they had any charge to spare. Would that be embarrassing? Technically, it's for safety, humans have an evolutionary tendency to stay together in times of crisis— it's the smart thing to do. Yet, you couldn't bite back the pain of succumbing first, they might use it against you. You made your peace with the fact that if life was a survival of the fittest, you likely wouldn't make it very far.

A decision seemed to be conveniently made for you, though, as a quick repetition of knocks blasted on your door. More eagerly than you'd like to admit, you stood and answered.

Hange was stood shivering, totally drenched in the five seconds that it took to travel from their door to yours, the rain had clearly won the fight. Glasses splashed with raindrops. Their slackened hair was sticking on their forehead and cheeks, no doubt lost the fight against the wind, too.

"You can say no, but can I borrow a blanket? Turns out houses get cold with no central heating,"

You bit back a chuckle, they were just now realising that?

Hange was stood pathetically at your door, the contrast of their drenched figure against your completely dry one, was almost funny. The expression plastered over their face wasn't, though, dark eyes held a seriousness you hadn't seen in them before. Almost fearful.

"I have a few you can take."

"Thank you,"

Hange took the cue to enter your space, feeling a sense of safety with the candles brightening up the room. Grabbing some from a pile on the arm of your couch, you handed them over. Hange gratefully taking them from your grasp as they made excruciatingly slow steps towards the door. They didn't want to go back into a dark house, embarrassingly unprepared for a situation like this, they hadn't anticipated buying some candles— heck, not even one blanket.

Noticing how slowly they were walking, you spoke,

"You could dry yourself off here? Maybe get warm again before you leave?"

A look of hope flashed across Hange's eyes, as you continued, trying to blurt the invitation out into the air as quickly as you could.

"The government says that.. single occupant households should stay together—so it's the smarter choice, anyway, really."

"Well.. if the government says so, right?"

"Right! Who are we to disagree..." You say this like you ever believed the government. No one needs to know the truth, definitely not Hange. It's not that you particularly fearful of storms, but the announcement had spooked you.

There was something intuitively nipping at your gut, that there was more to Hange coming over in such a panic for just a blanket. You didn't press it.

Snuggling into the plush fabric of your couch, right in the comfortable corner, you motioned your head to indicate that Hange could also take a seat. Seeing the awkward, stiff way they were stood against the wall in your living room, even made you feel uncomfortable.

Thunder cracked in the atmosphere, booming outside as the sky lit up briefly. You didn't miss the way Hange's shoulders jerked up before they hurriedly made their way to sit down, placing a fair distance between your bodies. As one would with someone they had an altercation with only a few weeks before.

"You alright?" You couldn't help but ask, feeling like an energy absorbing rock with how obviously uncomfortable Hange was. They grabbed the pillow they had sat on and nuzzled it between their legs, wrapping their arms around the soft fabric, fiddling their fingers around the cotton tag.

"Yup.."

Heavy silence filled the air amidst the thunder and rain, the wind filling the gaps in between.

Droplets of water dripped from Hange's loose strands of hair, splashing on the pillow, leaving wet blobs seeping into the dry.

"I'll get you some dry clothes,"

"You don't have t—"

"No arguing, I'm not letting someone get hypothermia in my house."

Hange nodded, their attention back to the tag in their hands.

You quickly came back from your room with a change of clothes. Hange being slightly taller than you, you weren't sure what was best for them, or what they'd feel comfortable in. Opting for a long pair of loose shorts you usually wore for working out, and an oversized tee with a faded Hello Kitty print in the middle.

"Here, I'll leave you to get changed."

"Wait!" There was that panic again, "Could you, uh, maybe, stay? You can just turn around or something.." Their voice lowering into a whisper as they muttered the last part.

Slightly odd, you thought, but you silently nodded and turned yourself around to give Hange some privacy. Only facing them again once they gave you a 'Okay, I'm done,"

"They alright for you?"

"Yeah—thank you, they're perfect,"

Nodding again, you placed yourself back on the couch, where Hange was already comfortably placed, legs crossed with a blanket thrown over. They looked pretty cute with your Hello Kitty shirt on, cozied in your living room, perhaps it was the warm flickers of candlelight on their skin.

The air was a little awkward, neither of you quite knowing how to interact with each other. Hange was antsy, shaking their leg beside you, causing the couch to slightly rock with their movements. They seemed to catch themself doing it and ceased the movements, glancing up at you to check if they had annoyed you with the rocking. They hadn’t.

"You've been really kind to me," they muttered, "Thanks,"

"Crazy what a good night's sleep does to someone's psyche," You joked, trying to lighten the mood, hoping it came across the way you intended.

Hange cringed at your words, face twisting, "I am sorry about that, I really didn't think the walls were that thin,"

You chuckled, looking down and plucking the balls of fluff that wear and tear does to a blanket, "It's alright, I appreciate that you stopped."

"Just a little confused why you came here, though, when you dislike me so much," Thinking about the way they called you a bitch, at the ease with which it escaped their tongue, perhaps you were acting like one and it was deserved, but you couldn't deny that it struck a nerve. Hange gulped, looking down at the wooden flooring, raising a hand to scratch at the nape of their neck.

"I don't dislike you," They answered,

"You called me a bitch." You stated, straight-forwardly, wanting to clear the air and actually communicate like an adult should, instead of running from confrontation like you usually do.

"I did, and I'm sorry for that, too." Hange didn't meet your eyes, sighing, "You were right about the noise, calling you that was uncalled for."

"Thank you," You let out a breath, a weight lifting from your shoulders, "I'm sorry about your throwing your zoot in the water,"

Hange laughed, rubbing their face at the memory, "I get it, I'd probably have done the same, so, y'know."

"So we good?"

"Yeah," Hange chuckled, "We're good."

Hange reached into the wet pocket of their damp jacket, left in a pile on the floor, feeling around for something.

"It might be too soon—I don't wanna ruin your hospitality and you can say no, but can I light up? I-it helps me calm down,"

You did consider saying no, perhaps in any other circumstance you probably would've. If Hange hadn't been so visibly on edge, their shaking leg and twitching shoulders with each crack of thunder, you would've said no. Yet, with the meekness in their voice and bashful look in their eyes, you couldn't find it in yourself to.

"Yeah, go ahead," You weren't sure what to make of the feeling in your stomach when Hange's eyes glimmered up at you at your response, "I don't have an ashtray, but I'll get you an old cup,"

Hange eagerly thanked you and pulled out a small tin from their pocket. Pulling out paper and some card to roll the contents ground inside of a grinder.

Sitting back down, placing the cup on the coffee table, you watched as they rolled the bud into the paper, folding it neatly into a tight cone with nimble, lean fingers. You couldn't look away as they brought the sticky part to their mouth, tongue poking out to lick at the residue to glue the paper down. You glanced away quickly as Hange caught your gaze, breaking eye contact as a wave of shame hitting you like you'd been caught doing something bad.

Clearing your throat, you took a look at your phone, checking the time, 9:08p.m with only 3% left on the battery. Great, you dropped it back into the couch, looks like you won't get much use out of that tonight. At least you were off work the following day, the weather deemed so bad that forms of transport were stopped, halting most workplaces.

Hange hesitantly brought the lighter up to meet the tip of the joint tucked between their lips, looking up at you as if to check if you had suddenly changed your mind before they sparked it. That's kinda sweet, you thought, that even with your permission, they still double checked.

Feeling satisfied that you didn't change your mind, Hange lit the joint, inhaling a few drags before releasing it out into your room. The thick smoke whirling in the air. They rested their head against the back of the couch. Allowing you to gaze upon their neck and the small exposed part of their collarbone poking out underneath the shirt collar.

Hange seemed to feel your eyes on them, tilting their head slightly to meet your gaze again with a curious expression.

"You wanna try?" Thinking that's why you had been staring.

"Uhm— I've never done it before," You rasped, truthfully you've never been against it, but living with your hard-ass parents, you'd had a pretty straight edge life, doing things most teenagers do whilst they grow their own— drinking with your friends in a park, clubbing when you were of age. The opportunity for a smoke hadn't ever come up, so you just didn't really think about it.

"No pressure, but the offer's there if you want,"

You nodded, mulling over it. Maybe you'd like to try, after all. It probably felt nicer than being drunk and messy.

"Maybe a little?"

"You sure?" Hange hummed, the zoot clearly taking effect, they were more relaxed, less jittery.

"Yeah, just don't laugh at me if I cough,"

"Oh, you definitely will cough," Hange chuckled, "But that happens to everyone, so, 's alright."

Hange passed the joint over to you, carefully placing it between your fingers so it doesn't get dropped on the couch, and ruin your blankets.

You looked at it for a minute, bringing it closer to your mouth, "Do I just breathe it normally?"

"Pretty much, just make sure you hold it in your lungs for a sec,"

So you did, pulling air through the roach as the weight of smoke hit the back of your throat. You tried to follow their instructions, holding it in for a few seconds before you couldn't anymore, letting out the smoke into the room with a few coughs. Hange muttered a gentle, there you go, saying that's how you know you did it right, before passing you some water.

"Ouch," You grumbled, feeling a hot wave in your chest and a slight burn at your throat, "It tastes like ass,"

Hange laughed, wholeheartedly amused at your baby lungs, "It does."

It didn't deter you enough, though, taking another drag and managing to hold it without coughing this time. You saw a proud look on Hange's face, that's it, they said, you blamed the weed for making your stomach twist at their praising words.

After a few hits, you began feeling lighter, joining Hange with your head rested on the couch. Hange looked at you, the white of your eyes bloodshot as they glimmered with the candlelight. You looked pretty, eyelashes curled upwards, casting shadows on the lids as you blinked up at them.

"You never answered my question," You hummed, fiddling with the blanket, rolling it into shapes. Hange took off their glasses, the weight of them becoming uncomfortable so they placed them on the coffee table.

"What question?"

"Why you came here, you were...scared." Your question was tentative, not wanting to ruin the amiable mood.

Hange took a second to answer, choosing to puff on the remaining amount of joint instead of answering straight away, plugging it against the ceramic cup to make sure it was dead.

"I'm—uh," a pause, "imscaredofthedark." They mumbled, timid voice coming out like they were speaking underwater. So barely audible, you couldn't hear a damn thing.

"Huh?"

"I'm... scared of the dark, okay? Storms, too, i-it freaks me out." Hange shyly huffed, crossing their arms over their torso, avoiding eye contact like the plague. Even in the minimal lighting, you could see the embarrassment tainting their cheeks.

"Oh."

There was a taut awkwardness that hung in the air at their admission, and you found yourself feeling slightly bad for them. Unsure of what to say back, not wanting to make them feel worse.

"Look—'s not a big deal, okay? But.. the darkness and the howling winds, thunder—together, doesn't help..." Hange tried to save themselves, try to make it seem like they hadn't been close to quaking in the pitch black rooms of their house. Their electric bill each month was ludicrously high, lights in the hall or the bathroom staying on each hour of the night until the sun finally came out enough to shine through the windows each morning. Their bedroom always illuminated with lamps and decorative Christmas lights all year round. Hange and their parents thought they'd grow out of it as an adult. That didn't end up being the case.

"Okay," You breathed out, "Well, I've got a lot of candles." You pointed at the flickering wicks placed in each corner of the room. "So we're not totally in the dark, thankfully."

Another momentary pause, Hange hadn't responded, so you added, "It's not embarrassing, you know?"

"Yeah—thanks."

"Is that you're always up at night?" That had been bothering you for a while, surely it wasn't healthy for someone to stay up so late each night. You wondered how often they slept.

"A little," The muttered, covering their mouth with a loose part of the blanket, "I've had insomnia since I was a kid, and frequent night terrors, doesn't mix the best, I guess." They chuckled.

"So I try to keep myself busy at night with tasks, drink coffee, anything to stop from falling asleep and have another one. Most people grow out of it—I just…didn't."

You hummed, the admission making you feel bad for having such a one-sided problem with Hange the last couple of months. You wouldn't have been so angry if you had known there was more to it.

Placing your palm over the back of their hand, you squeezed, Hange looked at you, the blanket shield falling down to their chest as they lifted their head, revealing their face to you once again.

"I'm sorry, I wouldn't have been such a bitch if I knew,"

"'s okay, I didn't exactly tell you, so."

You smiled at them, and attempt to be reassuring and maybe even comforting, Hange's lips quipped up, and you looked at each other longer than usual. Hange flickered their gaze to your lips, then back up to your eyes. You felt yourself doing the same. Chest growing heavy as the air fell tender, yet apprehensive.   Hesitation outweighing want, as you realised how close you both were. Barely inches in between, lips almost meeting.

You wondered how a friendship with Hange would've developed had it not been for the mess in between. The attraction to them was undeniable, you were intrigued as soon as you set eyes on them the day they moved in.

"I really wanna kiss you," You muttered, a fleeting moment of boldness, glancing down to their lips again, they just looked so kissable. 

"What are you waiting for, then?" The corners of their lips breaking into a soft smirk, challenging you to do it first.

"Fuck," You bit the bullet, fingers threading the hair at the back of their head as you brought your heads closer, connecting your lips together. Hange sprung into action, grabbing the back of your neck closer and humming with satisfaction into the kiss.

Lips melded against each other, you sighed as you felt how soft they were. Soft and plump. Tugging at their hair, you gently nipped Hange's bottom lip, jutting it out slightly, swiping your tongue against the reddened skin. Taking the hint, Hange's mouth split open, allowing you access to enter. Hange groaned as warm tongues connected, breathing heavily at the sensation.

Pulling the blankets off—they didn't need the extra heat anymore—their hands then wrapped around the supple skin of your thighs, placing you into a straddle over their lap as they held your sides firmly. Fingers digging into your skin as you placed kisses below their ear to the bottom of their throat, their head tilted back. Hange shivered at the contact, skin raising into goosebumps as your lips touched, soft moans from their lips with their eyes shut.

Hange lifted their head, chasing your lips to meet once more, one hand placed tight at your hips, the other coming up to rub the back of your neck. Kissing Hange was delightful, you discovered, finding that you would do this forever if it was physically possible. Eventually, your lips disconnected, forehead resting against forehead as you both breathed heavily, catching breath.

Hange gazed up at you, eyes almost doe and full of mirth. Holding on to every ounce of restraint they carried in their veins, to stop themself from acting impulsively and taking you right there. You were in a similar way, but you pecked their lips again, before nuzzling your head into the crook of their neck. A silent agreement that you both should stop, perhaps do things the right way instead of acting on instinct. Sighing as Hange wrapped their strong arms around your waist, pressing a kiss into your shoulder.

You stayed like that for a while, enjoying each other's embrace until you found yourself slipping into a sleep, the weed had suddenly made you feel tired and sleep was the only way out. You mumbled a quiet, "Sorry.." before falling asleep on them. Hange chuckled as they realised they were trapped in place until you moved, but it didn't matter too much as the thought of sleep was growing more enticing.

After a few minutes, Hange fell asleep, too, arms still wrapped around you—the storm was still raging on, thunder still thundering, but it was the first night in years Hange slept without a nightmare.

—-

AHHHH anyway— hope u guys enjoyed <3

[calirph]

𝐀𝐌𝐀𝐙𝐎𝐍'𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐏𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐐𝐔𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒. all these sentences come from amazon's the rings of power, some from season one and season two. pleas echange names, locations and pronouns as you see fit.

A burden shared may be halved or doubled, depending on the heart that receives it.

Save your tears for our enemies, for they do not know what they have begun.

The way of the faithful is to commit to pay the price, even when the cost is not known.

I have said it already. A hundred times over, in every way but words.

Let us say that all is as you fear, and this enemy is out there somewhere, lying in wait. Do you truly believe seeking him out will satisfy you?

If you are wrong, will you lead more Elves to die in far-off lands? To convince yourself you have done enough, how many more statues would you add to this path? 

Only in the Blessed Realm can that which is broken in you be healed. Go there. 

 Can we turn back now? There's 110 things out here that could kill us.

You know the rules. We're not supposed to be out this far.

These Orcs were meddling with the powers of the Unseen World. Some dark sorcery of old. But what was their purpose?

I've told you. Countless times. Elves have forests to protect. Dwarves, their mines. Men, their fields of grain. Even trees have to worry about the soil beneath their roots.

Are you just going to stand there, breathing like an Orc?

It is said the wine of victory is sweetest for those in whose bitter trials it has fermented.

He is about to embark on a new project. One of singular importance. And we've decided that you will be working with him.

I am grateful you have not known evil as I have. But you have not seen what I have seen.

Lindon receives you with grace.

I am not some courtier to be placated by idle flattery. I demand to speak with the King directly.

 You have made that plain. So I will be equally plain. 

Only twice in known history has a pairing between Elves and humans even been attempted. And on each occasion, it ended in tragedy. It ended in death.

The people of Hordern were known for having been especially strong in their loyalty to Morgoth.

She has passed beyond my sight. Galadriel was so certain her search should continue.

It is hard to see what is right when friendship and duty are mingled.

First the big people, now the stars. Eyes open when they should be sleeping. Almost like... like they're watching for something.

There Can Be No Trust Between Hammer And Rock.

Everyone, Each Of Us, Needs To Decide Who We Shall Be.

Beauty Has Great Power To Heal The Soul.

Hope Is Never Mere, Even When It Is Meager.

There Is No Secret Worth Concealing With Deception.

He worms his way inside your mind and the rest of him slithers in.

Once the deceiver obtains a being’s trust he gains the ability to sculpt their very thoughts.

Every soul in the seen or unseen world will know that it was you who was the architect of their demise.

At this moment…. the great tale of our age is being written.

In choosing to wear those rings you have all become his collaborators.

To try and cheat death might lead to an even greater catastrophe.

 Every soul in Middle-earth is in peril. Will you abandon them to their doom?

Promise me, Elrond, you will not stop until he is destroyed.

When the darkness falls there are always some who rise forth and shine.

Ours was no chance meeting. Not fate. Nor destiny. Ours was the work of something greater.

Choose not the path of fear, but that of faith.

One thing we can do better than any creature in all Middle-earth… We stay true to each other, with our hearts even bigger than our feet.

You have fought long enough, Galadriel. Put up your sword.

Find The Light, And The Shadow Will Not Find You.

Light endures and is mightier than strength. For in its presence, all darkness must flee.

I was in your place once, in the eldest of the Elder Days. Thirteen of us were chosen to be blessed of Morgoth’s hand, with the promise of power. A new birth. 

Because rather than rest in glory, I chose to seek out the very enemy responsible for your suffering.

When all other senses sleep, the eye of hope is first to awaken, last to shut.

Many that live deserve death. And some that die deserve life. Can you give it to them?

Give me the nine.

[utilitycaster]

Ok I'm probably going to regret reinventing 17th century European religious philosophy here but:

Ludinus's issue with the gods as stated to Imogen and Fearne (and I will state right now that we know he was lying or deliberately misleading at points in that conversation so I don't exactly take him at his word, but let's assume he does mean this) is that they did not prevent the Calamity. I have the following questions.

Does he have any loyalty/feelings about the Titans given that they would have killed all the people in the era of the Schism, ie, the gods averted that Calamity? My guess is no, which means that whole avenue of discussing the Titans was something of a dead end.

How should Calamity have been averted? The Prime Deities during the Age of Arcanum largely let people do what they wanted, which is what led to one of those mortals releasing the Betrayer Gods. Should the gods have struck down Vespin Chloras before he actually did anything, Minority Report style? Can the gods even predict based on the actions of a single individual or small group, because my guess is they can't, particularly since within the current stream of gameplay they absolutely cannot [ie, the reason the Changebringer can't tell FCG to stay or run is because Matt Mercer is the Changebringer and he doesn't know how people will roll; you do need to consider the medium here]. But if they could: so you think they should strike down mortals on the basis of thoughtcrimes? Or control them? In that case, why is Aeor a problem? There's a lot you can argue is justified once you permit the gods to override free will and kill people over mere potential for catastrophe.

On that note, Laerryn both was an unwitting architect of the Calamity (shorted on energy and then killed the Tree of Names, which served as a core planar defense system) but also averted the worst of it. Did the lives she saved by preventing the rise of Rau'shan and Ka'Mort outweigh the lives she took by destroying the Tree of Names? How should the gods have reacted?

Should, perhaps, the gods have all sealed themselves away earlier - perhaps post-Schism? If so, then the issue isn't the Divine Gate, now is it? Should the gods intervene or not intervene? Should they remove themselves or no? It feels like the issue isn't that they distanced themselves so that they can do less in the world, particularly if you wish to kill them, but that you really want to fucking kill them and they made that somewhat more difficult.

How do we know the gods (for example) didn't save Laudna? She was hanged and she's still alive; Morri would probably count this as saving her and I don't see the same desire to wipe out all Archfey. [real talk I find most discussion of Laudna specifically to be...incomprehensibly ignorant in its refusal to acknowledge that everything about it is player agency related, whether it's the story that the cast played out for Vox Machina or the decisions Marisha specifically made in creating the character, ie, do you think Matt should have said "well you can't play a Hollow One because that would mean the gods didn't save you" not to mention the fact that again, we are playing this within a game system where the existence Deus Ex Machina would in fact fucking suck ass; but even setting aside those reasons why this argument is stupid, it's still stupid. It's like a layer cake of stupid.] Again: do you want more intervention or less? Killing them guarantees less.

I'm assuming the problem with the Calamity is the vast loss of life, in which case, what's the math on how many people have been killed by the Vanguard or Imperium in the pursuit of unleashing Predathos? How many more will die?

If the release of Predathos doesn't result in the immediate demise of all the gods, and the Divine Gate is down, why isn't this a recipe for Calamity 2? What was the motivation for killing the gods again?

Should we kill mortal diviners who do not do all within their power to stop terrible things that may come to pass? If the issue is that some people have power without working for it, why haven't we killed all the sorcerers?

Should we be listening to a single word from someone who consumes random fey to live longer, and that's just the start of the CVS receipt of atrocities?

Is there a point where one's deeply held beliefs due to one's own personal trauma become invalidated due to one's actions as a result of that trauma? If so, why is the limit for Orym "is okay with killing people who are trying, directly, to kill you (which, frankly, isn't even a trauma response, that's just called not wanting to die, which I highly recommend as a personal philosophy), and gets upset when people defend those knowingly collaborating with his family's murderers" and the limit for Vanguard generals "family abandonment/just. buckets of murder of innocents./child soldier recruitment in multiple different contexts/eating fey as biohacking/destroying an entire city and the surrounding forest for hundreds of years (ongoing)/imperialism in multiple different contexts/I was going to make a gallows humor joke about how while neither exist in-world they've violated the Geneva Convention AND the IRB for testing on human subjects multiple times over but actually those both are in fact written in a lot of the same blood/probably some others that I'm forgetting"

[televised-uhhh-nerdistry]

currently thinking about how ages ago my friend sent me a long-ass explanation about why saltburn is an adaptation of the myth involving theseus, the minotaur, and the labyrinth.

nobody asked but here’s some of the fun proof that exists of this:

first and foremost, icarus, the boy who flew too close to the sun. during the party scene, it is evident that felix symbolises this poor ill-fated youth, and the symbolism here is potent. he flew too close to finding out what oliver truly is. he discovered something he shouldn’t have, and dressing him up in icarus cosplay is the perfect showcase for his fate and his mistakes. it’s also brilliant in terms of what icarus actually did to “deserve” death. realistically, he was told not to go too high or too low, but in actuality, such cryptic instructions were difficult to follow mid-flight, and it resulted in catastrophe. felix is trying to navigate the responsibilities of being a good friend with his baggage as someone in a family of rich pricks. it’s hard, and in flying too far away from his background, he “flew too close to the sun” and discovered things he shouldn’t have. as a small nod to further the icarus imagery, felix’s body is discovered under bright and direct sunlight as he lays motionless in his winged costume.

secondly, saltburn is in the center of a labyrinth. the labyrinth lore runs deep in this movie, because not only does the labyrinth function as symbolism, it has lore that runs adjacent to the lore of the actual labyrinth. in theseus and the minotaur, the labyrinth is a construct of greek architect and inventor daedalus, who was conscripted by king minos to create the maze. in saltburn, the labyrinth is constructed upon special request from james catton, the owner of the estate, and a very wealthy man (almost like a modern day king).

the labyrinth (in the original myth) is dangerous to all characters that reside within it. it keeps all in within a chance for escape, and those that get close die tragically. in saltburn, the labyrinth functions as an ode to the ways in which riches and fame poison those that reside in the walls, keeping them locked within its dangerous talons, or in this case, cleanly trimmed hedges. it’s suburbia on a larger and more internal scale. even those that do not have riches themselves, namely farleigh and annabel, do everything they can to remain on the estate and in the good graces of those on the property with immense money. it affects how they act and how they are expected to act. farleigh, as a good example, is very stuck on the particulars of rich people’s behaviour. as mentioned above, those that try to leave the maze die tragically, and icarus is a prime example. felix, in his attempt to be better than the riches of the estate socially allow, flies too close to a possible escape from the confines of the labyrinth and is murdered as a result.

in the story of the labyrinth, it is unsolvable, unless you are clever and quick witted (manipulative), which theseus luckily is. the same is true for oliver. oliver, like theseus, gets into the heads of multiple characters, manipulating his way to the top of the food chain. the scene where oliver views the wooden counterprt of the maze through the head office in the estate, he is told that he shouldn’t be there, and a sense of ominous foreboding takes place. we feel that he has seen something that will change him. however, i believe this is simply symbolism for the fact that oliver has figured out the secret to the maze: a secret that he, an outsider and a poorer, less sociable man should not be aware of, as he is a representation of theseus, a character who has no right being king.

thirdly, oliver is juxtaposed with imagery if the minotaur during the party scene, and though this costume doubles as a reference to the changeling in a midsummer night’s dream, it is still highly important. in the original myth, people are sacrificed to the minotaur on a yearly basis. at first, felix fits the profile for the minotaur: a rich, wealthy man in a labyrinth who is regularly described as going through friends the way a young boy would go through toys. it is also true that the minotaur has often been seen as a controversial figure, one that begs the question “is a monster just a tormented creature fated to behave according to the will of the gods?”. felix’s behaviour, or namely, his attempted deviancy from the behaviour he is expected to show, is a major prt of his character arch. we expect oliver to be the victim of felix’s behaviour exactly because of this. but he isn’t. an easy explanation is that oliver is the minotaur, going through the family members as though they were victims in a maze. however, oliver is NOT the minotaur, as the myth is a lot more complex than the minotaur being the bad guy. despite what we expect, director emily fennel is leaning into the concept that the minotaur’s storyline is that of fate versus free will. the minotaur is cursed by the gods to fall into certain patterns and to be punished for its behaviour, despite it doing exactly what was expected. felix attempts to deviate from what is expected, but ultimately he fits in well with the rich and social, and his death is a punishment at the hands of a sort-of theseus who believes he is more deserving. rather, oliver is also seen to be theseus, who famously invaded the maze, manipulated its dwellers in order to navigate it, killed the minotaur, and then manipulated his way into becoming king as a result. sound familiar? it is because of this that the imagery of oliver as the changeling is particularly important. the horns can be evocative of the minotaur, offering us a red herring, where he is truly disguised as the opposite. it’s a fake out.

fourthly, king minos (owner of the labyrinth) did not die directly at the hands of theseus, he did eventually meet his downfall and was boiled to death in a bath. james catton, head of the estate, dies of a supposed suicide, also not directly by oliver’s hands, but still implicitly connected to the events of the story, much like king minos’ death.

the lore in this film is incredible, and though emily fennel has not said that the film is an adaptation of greek myth, the parallels are deliciously undeniable. saltburn is fascinating, and truly one of the best films of 2023. there is so much stuff jam packed into it, and it’s one of those films that takes a few watches to fully grasp its depth. i love it!

[peonysgreenhouse]

presentable. (kaveh x reader)

summary: you help kaveh do his hair after he oversleeps.

tags: kaveh x gn!reader, just fluff!

You find him fast asleep at his architect's desk, neck craned at such an uncomfortable angle you wonder how long he had been awake before drifting off.

"Kaveh." You call, quietly, as not to startle him awake. When he doesn't stir, you creep closer, putting a hand on his shoulder and gently shaking him. "Kaveh, you have a meeting soon, you need to wake up."

When he wakes, he does so slowly, the middle of his sketch paper sticking to his cheek as he raises his head from the desk. He groans, blinking slowly against the light from the window, then tilts his head towards you.

Kaveh's face scrunches up when he does so, and it seems he notices two things at once. One, that his choice of nap location has smudged his precious work, and two that he now has a horrible pain in his neck. He groans once again and stands up, huffing.

"I can't believe I fell asleep like this!" He throws up his arms and starts rifling through his clothing chest. "I don't even remember being tired, it's like I finished the working drawings and then I passed out."

You look down at the top sheet and see what looks to be a floor plan, with lots of text in the margins and mathematic symbols you don't quite understand. It gives you a headache just looking at it.

"This is for the lighthouse renovations, right?"

"Right." He answers, shucking off his old shirt and putting a new one on. He shakes out his hair, and then turns to you. "Do you know what time it is? It's not past midday, is it?"

You figure you shouldn't mention how some of the graphite from his paper had imprinted on his cheek. "Ah, well, it's just a little past twelve."

Kaveh curses, striding angrily across the room into the bathroom, angrily muttering to himself. He curses again when he sees his reflection, and starts scrubbing at his face.

"I can do your hair, if you want." You offer, trying to keep him from catastrophizing further. Kaveh continues scrubbing until the pencil markings rub off onto his hands, then leans against the sink.

"...That would be nice." He says, quietly. "I'm already going to be late, might as well be presentable."

You laugh to yourself; you think that sleep-ruffled Kaveh was still more handsome than anyone else in Teyvat. You grab his wrist and tug him back to his architect desk so he could sit, and work on taking out the feathers, the hairpins, the braids in his hair.

Kaveh looks over his working drawings one last time, content to let you brush out his hair with your fingers. He tries not to shiver when you scratch lightly against his scalp.

"Do you want me to style it like you usually do?" You ask, starting to separate the strands for a braid.

Kaveh shrugs. "Whatever looks best. I trust you."

"So I can put it up?"

"Of course." Kaveh takes your hand and brings it up to his lips, kissing your knuckles softly. "Like I said, I trust you."

Your heart flutters at his honesty; you feel you might never get used to it. You braid the small section you had started on and gather his hair into a ponytail. His hair had gotten long since you last messed with it.

You tie it off with a hairband, and move around him to brush his bangs out of his eyes. His cheeks pink at the contact.

"Handsome, as always." You say, content, as you stick his feather behind his ear. "You ready to go now?"

"I've decided that I need to change one little thing." He leans back in his chair, tilting his head back to look at you. Kaveh winces as it pulls the strain from earlier.

"Kaveh, you're already late." You playfully chide.

"I know, I know." He leans forward, grabbing a pencil and tapping it to his lips. "But I'm telling you this is going to be worth the extra minutes. If my employer is passionate about this project, they'll understand."

You sigh. You know in your heart that his employer would most likely not understand, but you couldn't tell him that. You can't help but admire his never-ending optimism for hoping that one day, he'd meet an employer who cared for the art of architecture as much as he did.

"I'll come and drag you out in fifteen, then, alright?"

Kaveh is already so engrossed in his work that you're sure he doesn't hear you. You shake your head, laughing, placing a quick kiss to his hair before leaving him to his work.

You said fifteen, but you'd give him twenty. Art can't be rushed but sometimes it needs to be nudged gently towards the finish line.

[omi-papus]

What to me strikes as the most impactful part of the Hope speech is the fact that Al-An dosent entierly need it. The player is not once given the impresion that Al-An has any intention of giving up. Hes even shown being offended by the idea in the deleted voice lines. But there is always this feeling that he is running purely on the obligations to continue. Of not being able to concive of stopping because what would become of him?

A few times I might have mentioned the fact that Al-An hasnt always been Al-An. Actually Al-An has only really existed at all for a very short time. There has been the part of the network that seems to be handy good at science, but all that Al-An is has been born out of crisis. Even before his disconection, he was set as the sole lead researcher of the cure for Karaah, that might have been the first time he was ever truly singled out as unique. Not one of ten thousand voices but a leader, an authority. An authority that failed. Hes a head researcher that couldnt complete his research.

He was then the one who disobeyed the collective orders. Not the networks decision but his. And subsequently the one at fault for the destruction of the laboratory and the release of the disease into the planet. These are framed not as the actions of the architects but of an individual, and he clearly belives this too. He blames only himself.

And then he was Human seed code-Almanac, a single string, alone, unable to do barely anything, and ridden with guilt, nostalgia and petrifying fear.

Al-An is a collection the worst of him. Born in times of crisis, cemented in catastrophic failure, and given a name in isolation.

Within the character we see in game there is both the collective and there is Al-An. His actions throughout the game are what is left of the collective, of the architects mission. The task of procuring a cure for the Karaah and bringing it home. A task that is inherent and unquestionable reguardless of the method. One that at no point left him. Al-An is all the rest. The bundle of autism that tries to do a sarcasm to get back at his human host, who finds the idea of being put inside a fish disturbing, who is full of guilt and terrified of being alone forever.

The mission of the architects was never going to stop. Whats left of the collectives objective is unshakable in the face of all odds. Al-An on the other hand can break. Al-An might not survive the fallout of his actions. The cure would be brought to the homeworld, and then it will be done. Mission acomplished. But then all that will be left is Al-An. He will be the one who will miss the sounds of his people, he will be the one who has to face extinction on his own if he is the last one. And Al-An cant do that. Not alone.

And Robin obviously dosent make this overly complicated distinction. She dosent know that the will of the architects will drag his corpse for as long as it has to to acomplish its goals. Because Robin dosent know the collectives will. Robin only know that pesky englishman sounding alien that bullies her about her joints.

Al-An had never been reached out to with kindness before. Al-An had never been aknowledged in the way that Robin does. In that scene, we see the first time Al-An has been told that he is worthy of any type of positivity. That he deserves some peace of mind while he completes his mission. That he dosent deserve to agonize over his fate when hes busy fighting for a better future.

On a surface level, Robin is telling him to not give up. But really when she tells him to have hope, she is telling the vulnerable, guilt ridden person behind the voice that he deserves to feel ok. That he gets to look forward to being with his family again, instead of dreading finding them dead. That he gets to be enthusiastic about finally getting home. That he can imagine his planet prospering and the sounds of the network as vibrant as ever.

Hes being told that he deserves that. That Al-An, disgraces scientis Al-An, gets to make it through this too. Al-An isnt just his failures but also all the reasons why he dosent just have to, but wants to save his people. Al-An is the one that misses the networks thrum, Al-An is the one that is afraid of loosing everything they worked for, Al-An is the one who remembers the Torloque parades and the pets they used to keep. Al-An is his feelings and his dreams. And those dont deserve to die either. Because in that moment, Robin heard Al-An starting to slip. And Al-An contrary to the collectives will does need to be told that. He would have died if he allowed himself to suffer through that distructive dispair alone. Left a husk of himself driven only by the singular instincs to finish a job.

“Have hope” means “You dont have to suffer through this. You dont have to neglect and emotionally hurt yourself in order to succeed. All the things that make you you, good and bad, are important, and deserve happyness.”

Hope, is a coping mechanism designed for people after all.

[litrpgburrito]

The Seattle Stacks

[Lore surrounding a version of Seattle where magic and technology collide]

In the shadow of the Space Needle, amidst the verdant sprawl of what was once a bustling Seattle park, lies the Seattle Stacks. A haphazard skyline of motor homes, each one a relic of a bygone era, now stacked atop one another in a defiant monument to survival. The Stacks are more than just a neighborhood; they are a sanctuary for the misfits, the mages, and the machinists of a world where the lines between technology and magic have blurred into obscurity.

The story of the Seattle Stacks begins with the Great Convergence, an event that fused the realms of the arcane and the engineered. Magic, once thought to be the stuff of legend, flowed into the world like a tidal wave, crashing against the shores of reality. Technology, which had reached its zenith, suddenly found itself infused with this new, wild energy. The results were both wondrous and catastrophic.

In the aftermath, society reformed in unexpected ways. The Stacks emerged as a community for those who sought to blend the old with the new. Here, enchanters worked alongside engineers to fortify their homes against the elements and the creatures that roamed the wilds beyond. Poles and bars, imbued with spells of strength, held the precarious towers of homes aloft. Chains enchanted with protective wards clinked in the wind, a symphony of security for the inhabitants.

The heart of the Stacks was its people. Each tower, a small neighborhood unto itself, thrived on the cooperation of its residents. From the cyber-witches who wove spells into neon lights, giving them a life of their own, to the gearhead sorcerers who conjured mechanical familiars from spare parts and sheer will, the community was a tapestry of innovation and tradition.

At the center of it all stood the Emerald Tower, the first and tallest stack. It was here that the leaders of the Stacks convened, a council of the wise that guided the community through the challenges of their new world. They were the keepers of lore, the architects of the Stacks' future, and the bridge between the mystical and the mechanical.

As the sun sets, casting long shadows over the Stacks, the neon lights flicker to life, painting the sky with vibrant hues. The air hums with the energy of a hundred spells, and the scent of sizzling circuits mingles with the earthy aroma of the park's ancient trees. The Seattle Stacks stand as a beacon of hope, a testament to the resilience of humanity, and a reminder that even in a world divided, there is a place for unity—in the stacks where magic and machine coexist in harmony.

[wigster07]

Tanthamoretober Day 22/23 Prompts: Kissing in the Rain & Soft/Tenderness

A surprise extended epilogue for Tanthamoretober.  Dedicated to @spybrarian

The Architect of Catastrophe - Chapter 25 - Silver85 - Willow (TV 2022) [Archive of Our Own]

[spybrarian]

Chapters: 1/1 Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Jade Claymore/Kit Tanthalos Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Rebuilding, Healing, A little heartache, A little cheese but no actual cheese, many kisses

Prompt: Home and family (found or otherwise)

Summary:

The deluge shows no sign of stopping. It lasts for days, but then, perhaps it needs to. The earth in the Immemorial City has been thirsty for a long, long time.

There’s a lot to wash away.

OR

Set directly after the end of The Architect of Catastrophe, Kit wrestles with the concept of her future.

[dev1rus]

This is an idea I was cooking up with friends that I'm putting out there.

As a fan of the IDEA of Matrix: Resurrections and a happier ending, as American audiences tend to enjoy more (I did not as I am a sad European), I just thought the movie could have been more enjoyable in the concept so this is an idea.

Matrix: Reincarnation

Let's say with the power of lore the matrix was rebooted, some catastrophe in Zion with a new architect from the little amounts left, the Matrix is replugged but the coding remains.

Whole new cast, give new actors a chance (as much as I LOVE the og cast they are old, let them rest) and carry out the whole memory thing that way.

Have a new Neo, Trinity, Morpheus, Smith, Cypher, Mouse etc etc. have the events play out in a way with the mindset of "how can we improve the original and keep it new without just feeling like a remake?"

Go off of the story of a new Oracle having the knowledge of the past events, but not being able to directly inform the reincarnated versions of how to play out their games correctly. Neo knows this happened before, how can he change it? How can he unlock potential FASTER? How can Morpheus find him quicker? How can Smith become free more efficiently?

The Oracle is aware of sacrifice, Neo will have to sacrifice himself, Smith will have to be deleted to unlock his freedom.

Have a rat race of who can get what they want quicker? Smith won't want to die, it's against his programming. Neo won't want to combat Smith because he's been told something could happen, Trinity and Morpheus are stuck trying to help but ultimately knowing their destinies are so much different- "you can't intervene with the inevitable".

Flashback scenes to the originals, emphasize the concept of Deja Vu in the Matrix but be so deadset on the fact humanity must win, but the desire for freedom will lead to destruction.

[mariacallous]

In April, when a group of pro-Palestinian activists pressured Florence’s city hall to have the local honorary Israeli consul resign, they also took aim at a politician, Sara Funaro, who was running for mayor.

“We’re sorry that we haven’t heard one word of condemnation of the Israeli government’s behavior from Marco Carrai,” the honorary consul, the activists said. “Just as striking is the silence of Councilor Funaro, who has actually wished this person well in his work.”

Funaro didn’t respond — and doesn’t appear to have publicly addressed the statement at all. Two months later, she won the mayoral election, becoming the first woman and first Jew to lead the city known as the birthplace of the Italian Renaissance.

The April petition incident reflects how Funaro, 48, has navigated being a Jewish politician in Italy.

She has expressed support for Israel, talked about what led her to embrace Judaism as an adult and, after Hamas’ Oct. 7, 2023, attack on Israel, received police protection due to antisemitic attacks.

But she also has not placed Judaism or Israel at the center of her career, instead trying to respond to hate against her with a poker face and framing her public persona around her family’s deep roots in the Tuscan city.

“When you put yourself out there in the context of an electoral campaign as mayor, you know that someone will try to exploit certain things against you,” Funaro told Corriere della Sera, a leading Italian newspaper, after facing antisemitic invective last year on social media. “It happened also in the past. I have always responded with great peace of mind.”

Funaro, who declined the Jewish Telegraphic Agency’s request for an interview, comes from a family that has taken leading roles in Florence’s politics as well as its Jewish community.

The Jewish community was mentioned in writing as far back as the 14th century, according to its website. Today the city has around 1,000 Jews among a total population of more than 350,000, and a grand synagogue famous for its late 19th-century Moorish Revival architecture. Funaro’s father, an architect by profession, serves as president of the Opera del Tempio Ebraico di Firenze, a not-for-profit organization established to maintain the synagogue.

Funaro’s mother, a Catholic, is the daughter of Piero Bargellini, a centrist who served as the mayor of Florence in the 1960s. His term is best known for the catastrophic 1966 flood of the Arno River, which killed dozens and devastated the city and many of its artworks. He later served as an Italian senator.

Funaro was born and raised in Florence, where she studied psychology at the local Università di Firenze. When she was 20, she started working with children with disabilities, and shortly afterward, she became an educator in a care home for psychiatric patients.

Funaro says she and her brother were raised without any formal religion. But two decades ago, during a stint working with underprivileged children in Brazil, she decided to formally convert to Judaism. Italy’s official Jewish communities, like traditional Jewish movements globally, adhere to the standard that only those born to a Jewish mother are Jewish, but Funaro told the Corriere della Sera, “In reality I didn’t have a conversion: I embraced Judaism.”

“Both my dad and mom had a very strong religiosity, but they understood it was a very important individual choice,” she recalled in an interview with the paper. “Growing up, I began studying Torah and Talmud. I held long conversations with the rabbi. At 26, during my experience in Brazil among needy children, I made my decision.”

Funaro has remained involved in the city’s Jewish community, attending synagogue on holidays, said Ugo Caffaz, a friend of her father. “She studied for many years to get converted; she really wanted it,” he said.

She first ran for City Council under the leadership of the center-left mayoral candidate, and future Italian prime minister, Matteo Renzi. She lost, but won a seat five years later with the center-left Democratic Party, and was reelected in 2019.

In the council, Mayor Dario Nardella tapped her to lead efforts concerning welfare, housing,integration and the advancement of women. She’s focused her political career on making Florence more inclusive, supporting the underprivileged, and fostering diversity. She has made a point of attending the city’s Pride parade and helped establish Florence’s first mosque.

She has also spoken up against antisemitism, denouncing the use of yellow stars, a symbol of the Holocaust, by anti-vaccine protesters during the COVID-19 pandemic. In 2022, she criticized an event organized by two far-left Florence municipal council members whose posters described Israel as an apartheid state.

“Florence has always been a city of peace and dialogue and does not tolerate divisive messages that incite hatred,” she said at the time. “Putting up posters in the city stating that Israel is an apartheid state is not acceptable.”

In the summer of 2023, she was the subject of an antisemitic attack on social media. An Instagram user called her a “Zionist to the bone” and a lobbyist for Israel. Later, Funaro received death threats, and according to Corriere della Sera, the Italian authorities assigned her police protection beginning in October 2023, the month of the Hamas attack on Israel.

The 2023 Instagram post drew condemnation from Nardella, who called it “mean and revolting,” and added, “Sara is a strong and intelligent woman, and I am sure she isn’t intimidated by these insulting attacks.”

Like the leader of the Italian Democratic Party, Elly Schlein, who also has a Jewish father, Funaro has said she “absolutely” supports the two-state solution, which would see a Palestinian state established alongside Israel. “Anyone who has been to Israel and Palestine realizes that the only possibility of resolving this conflict is a recognition of the peoples, identities and cultures of belonging,” she told Corriere della Sera in July.

In the days following Hamas’ Oct. 7, 2023, attack on Israel, she said, “We need to keep living in the day-to-day, as we have always done,” a message she said she heard from local and national Jewish leaders as well. She added, “I think that’s the right spirit, of course with a view to the concern and the pain from what has happened.”

As in the rest of Italy and globally, antisemitism spiked in Florence following the Oct. 7 attack.

“Some Jewish kids were bullied at school, there have been antisemitic insults against people as they were leaving the synagogue, graffiti, and some unpleasant situations in the university,” said Enrico Fink, president of the Jewish Community of Florence. “At the same time, we have always felt supported by the authorities who increased security at Jewish sites.”

Funaro’s Jewish identity, or her position on Israel, was not a focus of this year’s campaign and did not stir controversy, despite the April petition criticizing her. She has continued to shy away from weighing in on the issue while in office, including declining to comment after the Florence City Council’s vote, just days before the first anniversary of Oct. 7, to urge Italy to recognize the state of Palestine.

Agnese Pini, the editor-in-chief of Florence’s newspaper La Nazione, said Florentine voters do not see their new mayor in terms of her religion.

“I think that if anything, for the people of Florence, Funaro is the heir of [her grandfather] Bargellini, I do not think that her religion played a role in her election, neither positively nor negatively,” Pini said. “Like many others, she received attention from internet trolls, but more for being a woman than for being Jewish.”

But Fink said that in the post-Oct. 7 world, Funaro’s election is a positive sign for the local Jewish community.

“I know Sara very well, and I believe she is a good person and capable politician,” he said. “She has always taken pride in her identity and history, the Jewish and the non-Jewish parts, and in Florence, everyone knows it, so there was no reason for further discussing the topic during her campaign.”

Funaro campaigned under the slogan “Florence in the plural – Many ideas, one city.” Her 89-page platform focused on fostering equality, security, sustainability and welfare, including proposals such as a minimum wage for city employees, keeping public daycares and elementary schools open until 6:30 p.m. to help parents, stationing police in a public park with high crime rates and increasing the number of affordable apartments in the city.

Pini said she would not be surprised to see Funaro entering the national political arena someday.

“Serving as the mayor of Florence opens up many opportunities,” said Pini. “All Florence mayors went on doing something at the national or international level. If Funaro decides to pursue this path, she will definitely have a good chance of succeeding.”

In the meantime, the mayor told the Corriere della Sera that she is not scared, despite the attacks against her. “I have always felt safe in my city,” she said.

[probablyasocialecologist]

Violence is the condition of possibility for the struggle unfolding in and around Gaza and the other parts of occupied Palestine right now. It will always be, until and unless the colonial condition that brought us to where we now stand is changed once and for all.

Arnon Sofer, the University of Haifa demographer widely credited as the architect of Ariel Sharon’s plan to withdraw Israeli forces from Gaza, surround the coastal strip, and cut it off from the outside world, recognized this when he drew up his plan in the mid-2000s. “When 2.5 million people live in a closed-off Gaza, it’s going to be a human catastrophe,” Sofer told an interviewer in the Jerusalem Post in 2004.

Those people will become even bigger animals than they are today, with the aid of an insane fundamentalist Islam. The pressure at the border will be awful. It’s going to be a terrible war. So, if we want to remain alive, we will have to kill and kill and kill. All day, every day.

[...]

Strangely enough, though, the inhuman darkness of this vision also contains within it the very glimmering of the only long-term solution to the Zionist conflict with the Palestinians. Sofer himself saw this from the beginning. The point of all the killing he called for, after all, is not just killing for the sake of killing: It is killing to preserve the nature and identity of the state conducting the killing—the state for which, since 1948, killing (along with ethnic cleansing, home demolition, torture, and apartheid) has been an existential premise. According to Sofer himself, this policy has one objective only: “It guarantees a Zionist-Jewish state with an overwhelming majority of Jews.” To be clear then: According to one of its own most zealous planners and architects—these are his words, after all, not mine—the maintenance of a “Zionist-Jewish” state fundamentally requires the killing of Palestinians.

[...]

To end the violence permanently, the settler-colonial and apartheid state must be transformed into a democratic state that treats all its citizens equally. Our Western governments have pledged every ounce of their effort and resources to maintain that system of apartheid and exclusion, with all the violence that it entails. But that’s what they did up until the very last possible moment when the world confronted the last apartheid state before this one—and in the end, even the Western media, and ultimately the Western governments, changed their tune.