#and it’s a fair critique because it’s true

[angstics]

Where does this idea that mcr will make bad new music come from. I am not a total fan of everything they do (like i seriously actively dislike a number of post-ha gerard singles esp the tua ones). but i encourage an Attempt that fails than no attempt at all. as long as they do it in their way. be true to yourself.

i think being mean spirited about fob & green day and whoever else isnt fair. big words from a #hater. i am not primed to seriously engage with their work because i dont care -- but i know people who seriously connect to their new music. i sometimes Enjoy their new music. even while critiquing it heavily. and theyre still very much real people on stage, they seem to be enjoying themselves. that's enough. that isnt bad. i want mcr to try

[bharv]

Love how many of us seemingly thought Gale was gonna go for lichdom and found that unspeakably hot. Love that for us.

[awu-wangxuan]

this indian series called ray is one of the best things i've watched on netflix, it's so surprising how it went unnoticed despite being so amazing. ray is storytelling done in the most theatrical way, it's beautiful cinematography and especially, it's indian in the most soulful and essential way. absolutely LOVED it and would recommend it to anyone !!

[metamatar]

i have a question and sorry if it sounds incoherent. why is it so important to marxists to distinguish that marxism is not “moral” or “ideological”? i understand that marxism is grounded in historical materialism and that it aims to understand how existing structures and institutions function with the specific goal of abolishing them in favour of a marxist state, but when it comes to understanding how to move forward past capitalism, how can MLs claim that it’s entirely objective and scientific? isnt the fundamental purpose of marxism (abolishing the oppressor class and putting the proletariat in power) a subjective one, given that it to support that you need to believe that abolishing the oppressor class is desirable in the first place? how would ML “scientifically” help people decide where the line is drawn on subjects like the death penalty and incarceration if its committed by a communist party (given that the decision that the cost of killing/imprisoning people is worth the boon it would give in establishing a communist state is still based on subjective goals?)

i don't think modern marxists should claim they're not ideological. im sure some do, but imo the correct claim is marxism is not idealist. i think some of this confusion comes from a popperian view of science as "neutral" or "objective" outside of time. how the political economy affects the propagation of ideology and the process of science as practiced in reality is very standard marxist analysis now. some of the claim to objectivity is something that most people claim belongs to their favourite philosophical project see the rawlsian veil of ignorance in liberalism. marx is also writing in a world where theological and religious reasoning have a lot of primacy in philosophy and he is drawing a clean break from that by hewing to scientific characterisation of his methods.

idealism, in the kantian sense is a philosophy that argues that our ideals (about say, fairness, justice etc) inform how we organise society. marxism, as philosophical project develops in response to kant and hegel to argue that the political economic base, ie the productive relations of society actually inform superstructure of ideals. to quote marx in the preface to critique of political economy: "it is not the consciousness of men that determines their existence, but their social existence that determines their consciousness."

for clarity's sake the idea that changes in the mode of production (mostly due to technology) transform the relations of production which is the main driving force of history is historical materialism. the analysis of why existing structures and institutions must be abolished therefore has to be grounded in analysis where such structures are considered variously – unstable, internally contradictory etc. if you view historical materialism as true, your theory of change cannot be that you'll change the world because it is unfair (an idea.) you can view the world as unfair as a marxist and talk about it to propagate the necessity of your project but that doesn't actually give you a blueprint on how to change it.

capitalists are oppressors, but marxism doesn't view the problem in their oppressive or evil natures. capitalist economies demand even the most moral capitalist to exploit the proletariat. but! it is desirable to abolish there class relations not merely because they are unfair and exploitative but because these class relationships cause workers to develop class consciousness, recognise their power and abolish capitalism.

on your specific example, i don't think marxism can or should claim their are no moral dilemmas. historical materialism doesn't assert that there are no conflicting understandings of history. walter benjamin's theses on the philosophy of history is imo good reading here.

so i dont think your concern about why it's important for marxists to believe this makes sense, because this is what marxism is. if you don't find this convincing, you're not a marxist. you could be an anarchist, or a social democrat or a radical liberal.

[imagine-darksiders]

Eden's Heir, chapter 6.

Prison break.

Summary: You manage to get your hands on Vulgrim's precious artifact. War is nice to you in his own, strange way, and Strife is his usual self.

------------------------

War has never been one to hide his true motivations behind crooked smiles and sly glances. Their eldest, Death, used to say that of all the Nephilim to be born from the dust of angels and demons, War was always the most forthright. Abnormally so.

Even among his ilk, he was the odd-one-out. Too fair, too just, 'getting to be a little too much like those damned birds.'

Why? Because he doesn't care for lies? As if Angels can't be just as underhanded and amoral as demons. Still, those who threw critique his way usually ended up leaving sadder but wiser, and often sporting broken bones and a new gap between their teeth courtesy of either himself or Fury. Death was more the sort for dolling out verbal degradation, and Strife... Well, Strife wasn't around a lot when War was still a whelp.

Regardless, perhaps it's that very forthrightness that means it doesn’t concern War in the slightest to be staring at you as he is, nor that you’ve been casting several, perturbed glances up at the underside of his chin before snatching your eyes away again every few seconds, evidently rattled by his unwavering attention.

Conversely unashamed and indiscreet, War has absolutely no qualms about frowning down at the small human in his arms, regarding you as one would a piece of mildly interesting trivia he’s never encountered before but is determined to decipher.

Truly, you’re nothing at all like the humans he’s heard about.

Humans aren’t fighters. Eden was a historically peaceful place, the name itself synonymous with Paradise. And yet only moments ago, War had borne witness as one of its prior denizens pulled a tiny blade from out of nowhere, and with a feverous desperation carving lines into your face, you’d plunged that blade into the hand of the gumptious demon who snatched you up.

… Belatedly, War realises he’ll have to tell Strife to be more thorough the next time he goes snooping for hidden weapons.

Humans adapted well to their new home on Earth, faster than anybody thought they would. They’re sturdy and solidly built, well-defined in body, and often ungainly in how they carry and present themselves; perfectly suited to learn the pursuits of agriculture, crafting and gathering.

You, however, stand as a stark contradiction to your entire species.

You’re soft. Graceful in your extravagant raiment, but inarguably fragile, far more-so than your fellow human, which is saying something.

War has felt the jarring give of your skin under his blade.

Strife has not.

War has tested the pressure of his grasp on your limbs and found them astoundingly delicate.

… Strife has not.

It’s why his brother’s actions riled War so fiercely after throwing you across a Creator-forsaken pit of lava onto this stone platform. He’s not certain Strife quite grasps the magnitude of the situation, nor the implications of a human being here in the first place. For you to turn up in the Void, speaking Common, dressed like a pampered Seraphim… it raises a series of rather urgent questions.

But to even have a hope of getting them answered, he and Strife ideally need to keep you alive...

… If only he could figure out how to get that notion through his brother’s thick skull…

Blinking out of his musings, War sees you raise your eyes to peer up at him again, although in this instance, much to his unspoken surprise, you don’t look away. Whilst certainly anxious, there’s a spark of something else tangled within the labyrinthine strands of your unusual irises, something that nearly has an invisible thread tugging at one corner of his mouth.

At last, it seems you’ve rediscovered the same nerve that called you to defend yourself from the demon.

“Put me down,” you utter quietly in a voice that quavers with the effort of keeping it level. You even maintain bold eye contact as you say it.

Again, War almost has to admire your gumption to demand something of one of the Four...

Almost.

If he were a curious Nephilim like his brother, he would probably concede that, yes, there is something about you that invites fascination. Like a mystery that hasn’t yet revealed its secrets.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, merely holds your watery gaze expectantly until you either remember yourself and lower your eyes or-

“Please, put me down?”

And just like that, War’s unspoken admonition is knocked off its tracks.

He hadn’t been expecting… He thought you’d just…

… Oh.

In hindsight, he supposes it was rather foolish of him to expect a human to adhere to the same social rules as another species, and he has to remind himself that just because you’re still meeting his stare, you aren’t being deliberately provocative.

Just… naive.

But why would you know of his reputation? Or of the tall tales whispered by nervous, fledgeling angels who like to try and frighten each other with stories… Stories about what happens to those who are unlucky or unwise enough to look the Horseman, War, in his eye.

Your ‘please’ is foreign to him. He knows of its usage, of course, but to hear it spoken so liberally… It’s as though you assumed ‘please’ was what he was waiting for. Is offering it a human’s way of showing deference?

Curious…

“Ahem…”

The sound of a throat being cleared snaps through War’s thoughts like the crack of a whip.

Quick as a flash, the scowl that had been gradually lifting from his expression slams back into place, and he turns his heated glare onto Strife, who stands in front of him with his arms folded neatly across a silver chest and his helm cocked to one side, eyes narrowed accusingly.

“You done being greedy, or are you gonna share?”

War’s scoff, and your huff occur at the same time, leading the two of you to share a brief glance before the former gives his eyes an exaggerated roll and finally, finally obliges, lowering you to the ground as swiftly as he can while maintaining a strange air of caution that betrays how breakable he thinks you are.

Large, metal gauntlets slide out from underneath your legs, depositing you on a flat piece of stone that’s relatively clean of demon blood.

The very instant you’re free, you only hesitate long enough to squeak out a hurried ‘thanks!’ before tearing yourself away from the gauntlet that hovers behind you and stumble several paces off to the side, putting some much-needed distance between you and the Horsemen. You almost trip over the train of your dress in the process.

Clinging to your elbows, you have to stuff your teeth into your lower lip to stop the sound of despair bursting out through pursed lips.

Your legs may as well be replaced with toothpicks for all the support they’re giving you. Terrible possibilities have begun to swirl across the mire of your brain.

What if you hadn’t found your nail file in time…?

What if Strife had never returned your bag?

You shudder, overwhelmed by the feeling that you’ve landed on the right side of a coin-flip, by no other will than dumb-fucking-luck.

You’ve never come that close to certain death before. You never want to come that close again.

At your back, unseen, Strife gives you a fleeting once-over, only returning his eyes to your veil when he doesn’t spot any immediate damage.

With his typical flair for bad timing and inability to read a room, he stretches his mouth into a hidden, cocksure grin, gives an approving nod and declares, “You did good, kid.”

Giving a harsh sniff, you tip your head towards the ceiling and let out a sharp, brassy laugh, utterly devoid of humour.

“Good?” you echo, rounding on the Horseman, your lungs still feeling two sizes too small when you draw breath, “GOOD!? I could have died! I almost did!”

“Almost!” Strife parrots eagerly, venturing a few steps towards you and spreading his arms out wide, apparently unbothered by your brazen reproach, “You almost died. But you didn’t.”

“That isn’t reassuring, Strife!” you wail.

Shaking fingers lift to try and thread through your hair, only to meet the barrier of your veil. Thwarted, you let your arms flop bonelessly back down against your sides and curl your hands into fists. “I’m not…-!”

But the words won’t come. Instead, you fall silent, realising how redundant it would be to say, ‘I’m not like you,’ out loud.

Christ, what an understatement.

You’re not the type to look at an ‘almost death’ and consider it a triumph. It’s a nightmare. You want to avoid death! That’s the most human instinct of all.

You shouldn’t even be here. You’re not like these two larger-than-life beings from another world. You can’t shoot guns like a master marksman, you can’t swing a sword that’s longer than you are tall, and you certainly can’t make impossible jumps that seem to defy gravity itself.

Hell, you can’t even stand up to your own fiancé and his family…

Sullen, despondent, you allow the adrenaline to seep out of you like water from a leaky pail, leaving you with limbs that feel far too heavy, and a head that’s tired as death.

“I’ve got to get out of here,” you eventually murmur to yourself, resisting the urge to scrub at your eyes lest you spread mascara all over your face. Your heart thunders inside your chest, palms slick with the heat, but more so with the creep of dread that rises in your belly as you picture the demon’s rancid maw in your mind’s eye and grit your teeth, unable to quell the waves of anxiety crashing against you like breakers that pummel a rocky cliff.

All the while, Strife is busy trying to pluck a response from midair, racking his brain for reasons as to why you can’t just ‘get out of here.’

Then, to his surprise and your own, the silence is broken, and it’s War’s stoic voice that brings a pause to the hopelessness dragging your soul down into the pit of your stomach.

“That was a Slag Demon.”

Blinking, you knit your brows into a frown and lift your eyes to the Horseman’s hoodless face. “Excuse me?”

And War, evidently sincere in every aspect, assumes you didn’t hear him, and repeats himself. “That was a Slag Demon.”

Once again, your eyelids flutter in a series of rapid blinks. “Yeah, I… I heard you,” you reply falteringly, “I just-“

“That demon,” he cuts you off, sending you a pointed look, “was forged in the deepest blast furnaces of Hell. They’re deceptively fast, almost invulnerable, and notoriously hard to kill.”

When he falls silent and doesn’t continue for several moments, you shift your weight and awkwardly drawl out, “… Oh-kay~?”

What the Hell is he getting at?

The way he’s peering down at you is… odd, you decide. He still has that perpetual scowl on his face, but the eyes under his furrowed brow seem… brighter, somehow, not quite as piercing and disparaging as they were before.

You’re not sure you like it any better.

Appraising you for a few more seconds, War gives a solemn nod, and states, “You found a weakness. You used what you had at your disposal to gain the upper hand.” Then, after taking a brief moment to consider his next words, he must eventually deem you worthy of them because he averts his gaze and scowls off at the distant stalactites, grunting, “It was a good kill.”

… Your jaw nearly hits the ground.

And judging by the way Strife’s helmeted head snaps around to send a wide-eyed stare at his larger brother, you suppose War must not say this sort of thing very often.

Looking down at yourself, you take in the meringue wedding dress, the ruffled tulle and overall extravagance of your attire.

“But…” Your tongue darts out apprehensively to wet your lips, “But I didn’t even kill it.”

Turning away from you, War begins to march back over to the grate, stopping only long enough to retrieve his enormous sword from the ground.

He barely takes a second to mull over his next answer as he slings the blade into its proper place along his spine. “You created the opening that gave Strife a clear shot,” he tells you, coming to a halt above the iron bars set into the floor and twitching his head towards you, his profile obscured by long, ice-white hair, “It counts.”

And with that, he reaches up to thread large, metal fingers into his hood and flips the crimson fabric up and over his head, once again hiding his face in dark, familiar shadow.

For… quite some time, you’re left speechless, gawping at the back of War’s head, and reeling now from the near-death experience and the unexpected approval of one of the scariest men you’ve ever met. A glance down at your hands confirms they’re still shaking, fingers tight and rigid like the bones under your skin have locked up.

“…Well,” Strife chimes in, heaving his massive shoulders in a shrug, “Good thing I don’t mind sharing.”

Sauntering over to you, he lifts an arm as if he’s about to drape it across your back, but the moment you see him coming, you lurch into motion and start after his brother, following the path War had picked through the dead imps, all the while trying to avoid glancing down at their cold, dead eyes.

Only thrown for a moment, Strife is quick to recover, waltzing after you and continuing, “So! Big day. You killed your first demon, kind of. How d’you feel?”

Your mouth twists up into a grimace. “Like I’m going to pass out, throw up, have a heart attack then die. In that order.”

Which is eerily similar to how you felt walking up the steps to the church.

The panic is… well, it’s definitely still there. The threat of a downward spiral haunts the edge of your mind, always keeping itself in the periphery. But for now, War’s stoic assessment has apparently shocked you so much, it broke the nosedive you were about to take into a total fit of hopelessness.

The Horseman beside you barks out a laugh and takes a few loping steps until he’s swaggering along beside you, the heavy ‘clunk’ of his boots drowning out the ‘clicks’ of your heels. “Don’t worry, we’ll keep a closer eye on you, next time.”

“Next time?” you sputter, brows shooting up towards the top of your veil, “I-I am not planning on doing this again.”

“Eh.” With a dismissive waft of his hand, he replies, “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. Now c’mon! Sooner we get the artifact, the sooner we can be outta this heat.”

Well. You suppose you have to agree with him on that front.

The sudden clatter of metal skittering across the ground nearly has you jumping out of your shoes.

At your side, Strife jerks to a halt, his boot lifted halfway off the ground and his helm tipped down to search for the thing he’d inadvertently kicked with the toe of his sabatons. His keen eye latches onto it at once, and he utters a sound of intrigue at the back of his throat.

Following his gaze, you hone in on the little object that’s still skidding several paces away from you before it slides to a stop, laying small and shiny on the dark stone.

Stooping down, Strife reaches out a hand to gather the little object into his palm.

“Huh, guess it was knocked when I shot that big bastard...” he mutters, rising to his full height and unfurling each finger one by one, peering down at his prize, “I thought you didn’t have any weapons in there.”

Turning towards you, he holds up your bloodied nail-file as he jerks his chin at your bag.

Admittedly, you’re surprised to see it again, and even more surprised at the surge of gratitude that courses through you at the prospect of being reunited with something from the real world.

“Technically speaking,” you sniff, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, “A nail file isn’t a weapon.”

Bringing it close to his visor, Strife tilts his head and squints at it, humming dubiously as he runs the pad of his finger over the coarse metal, giving the end a testing tap.

“… It looks like a dagger,” he points out, “… A very small dagger.”

“Or a toothpick,” his brother grumbles up ahead.

“Well, it isn’t either of those things… It’s just something I use to keep my nails tidy…” At the incredulous glances you receive – one from Strife and one from War who deigns to cast you a bemused look over his shoulder – you breathe a weary sigh and thrust your hand out towards the former of the pair expectantly. “Look, can I just… have it back?”

In truth, you half expect him to refuse, whether to simply get a rise out of you or to mitigate your temptation to attack them with the nail file – not that you’d be so foolish.

So, when Strife extends an arm and holds your ‘weapon’ out towards you, you can’t help but let your jaw drop open in undisguised shock.

“Sure,” he says breezily, “I ain’t gonna keep it. More of a gun man, myself. And War’d be embarrassed to be seen with a blade this small.”

You don’t know whether you’re supposed to take offence to that or not.

“Here,” Strife offers again, lowering his upturned palm in the private hopes of coaxing you closer when you just continue to gape at his appendage, “Take it.”

Warily, you start inching your hand up towards his, keeping your eye on the silver helm and those piercing, golden eyes that drill right into you with attentive wonder.

Swallowing thickly, you dare to flick your gaze down to the nail-file, still sitting pretty at the centre of his palm… Up this close, you spot something that threatens to turn your stomach inside out.

“Ew! There’s blood all over it!” you exclaim, retracting your outstretched hand like he’s trying to give you a live snake.

Indeed, it isn’t the silvery metal that’s glinting in the firelight, but a coating of thick, shiny blood that’s already begun to dry on the file’s roughly-hewn surface.

Strife – who had given a start at your exclamation – pauses, then blinks and cocks his brow down at the offending blood sticking to your weapon.

“Oh, so-rry, Princess,” he chuckles, lifting the file to his cowl and wiping it several times against the fabric, smearing dark flakes of blood into the wool before he holds it out towards you again, “That better?”

Tipping your nose into the air, you give the file a thorough once over. Deeming it adequately clean, you at last reach up to pluck it from his grip, holding it gingerly between your thumb and forefinger. “Much. Thanks.”

You’ve turned away before you can see his eyes glow brighter, considerably pleased with himself.

By the time he stops sticking out his chest, you’ve already reached his brother, stopping a respectable distance away near the opposite side of the grate.

War doesn’t even spare you a cursory glance. Instead, he stands still and strong as a statue, his frost-blue eyes scrutinising the bars with rigid focus.

You don’t dare ask him why he hasn’t retrieved his ‘artifact’ yet.

“Hey, War. What’s the holdup?”

Apparently, you and Strife are on the same wavelength. How disconcerting.

A metal elbow suddenly brushes against your side as a titanic body disregards your own personal space and sidles up next to you, pulling a gasp from your lips that goes entirely ignored while Strife addresses his brother over the top of your head. “You gonna grab the artifact or what?”

Grumbling under his breath, War raises his eyes to fix his fellow Horseman with a stony scowl.

“The grate,” he retorts darkly, tossing a hand at the ground as if the answer should have already been obvious, “It’s locked.”

“Oh,” Strife answers flatly, though it isn’t long before he plants a decisive fist on his hip and declares, “Well, then we’ll just have to find the key…” Swivelling around in place, he casts an eye around the chamber and adds, “Maybe the demon had it?”

… You hate to point out the obvious, especially when you haven’t been invited to do so, but…

“Um… You mean the demon that just fell over the side?” you venture.

A thick, uncomfortable silence ensues, during which you’re sure you must have offended him somehow, because Strife’s body goes utterly motionless, and War huffs a breath through his nose.

“… I see your point,” the former concedes at last, and you realise he isn’t angry, just... bashful.

Another derisive sound escapes from the larger Horseman’s mouth, prompting Strife’s helm to snap towards his brother. “Well, you’re the strong one,” he gripes, “Just tear out the bars.”

Now it’s War’s turn to stop and ponder. He casts a sideways glance down at you, regarding you briefly from the shadow of his hood. By the time you’ve lifted your eyes to his face, he’s already turned away, cracking his neck with an audible ‘Pop!’

“Very well,” he rumbles.

It’s a little prideful of him – and Creator knows Death would expect better - yet War can’t help but wonder if you’ll be awed by a show of might. Maybe you’ll be afraid... Moreso than at present.

Pounding a fist into his gauntlet, he lowers his immense bulk down onto one knee and slides his fingers around the bars, rolling his shoulders as he prepares to demonstrate the raw, physical strength of the Red Ri-

“-Can’t you just… reach in and grab it?” you ask, cleanly derailing War’s train of thought and knocking the wind from his sails, “I mean, it looks small enough to fit through the bars, right?”

… Well, War supposes that’s a fair suggestion, but for one not-so-small problem.

Without turning to look at you, War simply holds up his gauntlet and flexes the metallic fingers into a fist.  “I would not get my knuckles through,” he states simply, bobbing his head sideways at his brother, “Nor would Strife.”

“Oh,” you falter, shrinking backwards and stuffing a canine into your bottom lip whilst the Horseman curls his hands around the bars once more.

“Um, why don’t I take a crack at it then?”

As soon as the words leave your mouth, you find yourself wishing you could snatch them out of the air and stuff them back behind your teeth.

Of all the fool things you could have said, why on Earth would you offer to put your hands anywhere near a stone that’s glowing like raw Uranium?

But it’s too late.

Strife has turned a thoughtful, wide-eyed gaze onto War, who returns it with the slightest parting of his brows.

“… Why didn’t we think of that?” Strife posits.

Before you can verbally – and physically – backtrack, War has already twisted his torso about and wrapped his colossal fist around your forearm, notably aiming for the one he hadn’t sliced open with his sword.

Warm metal engulfs your appendage all the way up to your elbow, and though you try to resist, he hardly seems to notice your efforts as he tugs you towards his side, then lowers his hand, leaving you with no choice but to follow its weight and drop to your knees in front of the grate, wincing as they bump against the hard stone beneath your dress.

“Here,” he says firmly, allowing you to snatch your arm back in favour of pointing his finger down at the glowing crystal, “Reach down and take it.”

Curling your hand into your chest, you give your head a shake and protest, “I can’t!”

“You just said you could!” Strife rebuffs.

That you did… “But-!” Wracking your brain, you add, “But what if it’s like… radioactive or something!?”

Visibly, the Horseman balks. “Ray-dee-oh… what?”

War’s eyes start to roll towards the ceiling as he listens to your back and forth with his brother, and he considers whether it would have been faster to rip the grate out of the stone after all.

You proposed a solution however, and in his frank opinion, you ought to stick by it.

The massive gauntlet enters your peripheral just as you open your mouth to shoot another argument up at Strife, but no sooner have the metal tips of War’s fingers ghosted across your arm than you wrench it away, whipping around to face him with startled eyes.

Hastily, you hold up your hands in surrender.

“Okay! Alright!” you acquiesce, “Jesus, just… give me a second…”

Flicking part of the veil over your shoulder, you lean forwards and brace yourself with one hand on a bar, lowering your torso down to stretch your other hand down and into the pit below, fingers blindly fishing around for the Vulgrim’s precious artifact.

When they brush against a warm, smooth surface, you can’t refrain from yelping and snatching your hand back as if it had moved.

The leathery smack of a gun being drawn from its holster reaches your ears.

“You okay?” Strife demands, shifting his weight restlessly.

Swallowing back your embarrassment, you nod and reply, “Uh, yeah, yeah. It’s just hot!”

“Hot enough to burn you?” War cuts in with a rough growl.

Biting the inside of your cheek, you brave another go, reaching down and brushing your fingertips hesitantly over the surface of the crystal. Though it is disconcertingly warm to the touch – no doubt from the ambient heat in the atmosphere – you realise with a third stroke that it isn’t anywhere near as hot as you feared it would be.

“No,” you sigh, only partially relieved.

The massive presences surrounding you relax slightly.

“Good,” Strife murmurs, raising his voice to add, “Can you get it loose?”

You can, as it turns out. Quite easily in fact. The crystal isn’t being held in any kind of clamp. To your mounting astonishment, it seems to simply float in midair.

“This is so freaky~,” you sing to yourself as you slide your palm down the long side of it, feeling for the pointed base and cupping your fingers around it with an audible gulp.

The whole crystal seems to buzz and hum under your touch, sending an eerie tingle racing up the length of your arm and raising the hairs all the way up to the back of your neck.

According to all sense and reason, this thing is nothing more than a pretty, pink crystal. But here, where sense and reason have been turned on their heads, pulled inside out and shaken up like a vodka martini, the thing in your hand is no more a mere crystal than the Horsemen are mere men.

Trying very hard to ignore how much the fluctuating thrum beneath your fingertips reminds you of a pulse, you clench your jaw tight, close your eyes, and pull… with a little too much force.

It’s lighter than you expected it to be. Nearly weightless. And it slips straight through the bars of its prison without even dinging against the sides.

Letting out an undignified bleat, you teeter backwards and land painfully on your backside, the crystal smacking against your bosom before falling from your trembling fingers and sliding safely into the soft, white fabric of your skirts.

Cracking your eyelids apart, you blink down at your lap, chest stuttering on a breath. “I… I got it?”

That was…decidedly easy…

Well, aside from almost getting eaten by a demon in your quest to find the damn thing.

The soft, pink glow of the crystal lights up your face as you peer down at it, glittering off your wedding dress and bathing the fabric folds in warmth.

“Wow,” you hear yourself whisper.

With cautious awe, your fingers wander towards it and slip gently around your rescued prize.

You’re so busy admiring the smooth, faultless lines that you don’t notice the shadow of a hand falling across your shoulders until War’s gauntlet has slid beneath your arm.

Aside from blurting out a squawk, you helplessly have to let yourself be lifted with unnerving ease onto your feet, still clutching the crystal close to your breast.

“Good job, kid,” Strife declares, slapping a palm on your back.

If War’s fingers hadn’t tightened around your arm at the moment, you’re sure you’d go tumbling over onto your face.

The force of the larger Horseman’s warning growl sends tremors through his gauntlet and down into the toes of your shoes, rattling the teeth in your skull.

Strife, pleasantly unfussed by his brother’s idle threat, leans over your shoulder as War releases you, and together, you all stare down at the crystal in your arms.

“Wonder what this thing’s worth to that soul-sucking ghoul,” Strife remarks after nobody breaks the quiet hush that’s fallen over you, as though he can’t bear to sit in silence for too long. Bringing his gauntlet up to rub at the chin of his helm, he thoughtfully adds, “We could always convince Vulgrim to throw in a little extra…”

At his suggestion, a tiny frown-line blooms to life between your brows. It is a very pretty gem… but while you know next to nothing about demons, you aren’t sure you like the idea of trying to bargain with one, not when your run-in with one of Vulgrim’s ilk had almost ended so disastrously.

You don’t know if it should come as a shock or not when War’s shoulders bristle moments later, and he bares his canines at Strife, his cavernous chest puffing up until you have to lean sideways to avoid getting jostled by it.

“The artifact, in exchange for information,” he snarls dangerously, “We will honour our agreement.”

‘Honour among Horsemen of the Apocalypse?’ you muse privately, ‘Wonders will never cease.’

Though only in War’s case, evidently. Strife just heaves an obnoxious sigh and tosses his helm back, “Ugh, you have no ambition… Why’ve you gotta be such a killjoy?”

War’s lips start to curl even further apart.

“So!” you quickly interrupt the broiling fracas, “We’ve got the… this thing-“ You shrug the crystal in your palms. “-H-how exactly do we get back?”

That, at least, gets the pair of bickering brothers to fall silent and pivot their attention from one another onto you. War’s expression is still as stony as ever, but you consider it a win that he looks marginally less murderous.

“Huh,” Strife says, “That’s a good question.”

Rumbling at the base of his throat, War grunts, "It would be prudent to find a way out of this realm as quickly as possible."

"Oh?" A mischievous glint sparks in his brother's keen gaze. "And here I thought you were.... warming up to the place."

Unbidden, a short puff of laughter is scoffed right off your tongue, more amused by how bad the joke was than the joke itself.

Either way, Strife's chest fills out proudly as his helm quirks towards you, one eyelid flashing closed behind the visor in a wink.

Oblivious, War just grumbles, "You know your humour escapes me."

And quick as a whip, Strife returns, "All humour escapes you."

Giving a brusque shake of his head, the larger Horseman decides it isn't worth getting into this argument for the umpteenth time. Turning his attention down to you and the crystal in your hands, he beckons with a gauntlet for you to step closer.

"Come. If we retrace our steps, we may be able to-"

You never get to hear the end of his sentence.

It isn’t that you’re particularly unlucky, you think… God, you hope. You’ve never thought yourself significant enough that the Universe would have it out for you personally, after all.

But when the ground suddenly disappears from under your feet in a blinding flash of vivid, blue light, and the deafening rush of air buffets your dress and boxes your eardrums, you can’t help wondering if you’ve somehow - in some unwitting way - slighted the powers that be, and now they’re playing their revenge card.

Which is a hassle for you, because you’ve had just about enough of portals and getting whisked off to places unknown for one day.

The last thing you see as you throw your head up and open your mouth to release a scream that’ll be sucked away with you as your atoms once again rearrange themselves to fit through a spatial rip, is Strife’s luminous, golden eyes flaring hotly like bursting stars – a direct contrast to the cool, ethereal blue of his brother’s, who’s own gaze opens up in surprise and, you think, alarm, one gauntlet outstretched in your direction.

And that’s all you manage to glimpse before the light overtakes you, and your body is yanked like a fish on a hook into the luminiferous aether.

[fun-k-board]

Hey, could I request Bi Han/Sub Zero romantic headcannons with a male reader who is his right hand man and childhood friend?

Bi-Han / Sub-Zero with a boyfriend who's his childhood friend

Note(s) : I'm gonna be honest, I don't really like him, but I want to try and be a better writer by writing about characters I don't like. Please, give me critiques on how I wrote him!

First of all, he was incredibly moody as a child already, not exactly of his own volition having a dad like his would ruin any kid, so if you can't handle people who are mean on purpose? You'd have a REALLY hard time getting along with him.

Bi-Han was always brooding, in the corner with a frown, he eats with a frown, sleeps frowning, talks to his brother's frowning, the only time he's ever smiling is either in private or when it's just him and Kuai Liang, but it doesn't happen that often any more after his dad died.

To befriend him, you'd either need to be a part of the Lin Kuei, either born into the clan, maybe the son of one of the lower Lin Kuei members, or found and taken in by the clan, or somehow be involved with one of the Lin Kuei's missions.

It's a long and slow process, but even just talking to him once a day will eventually gain a semblance of trust, it'll be hard to show it, and he mostly does by standing next to you and sometimes agreeing with you, but these things will take time.

By your teenage years, you two began training together, maybe he tends to be a little rougher than other Lin Kuei, and maybe he's broken your nose once, twice, possibly even thrice before, but he did apologise, eventually.

He would confide in you about troubles with his brothers, well, he insists that Smoke isn't a brother and more like a stray even though that's just not true, but Bi-Han would be awkward and reserved about talking with you.

He feels that this isn't your business, and not only that, he feels like you just... Wouldn't get it? While he understands you may have issues of your own, his situation is rather unique.

His troubles mainly consist of Kuai Liang and Tomas upholding tradition, Bi-Han believes that his brothers view tradition higher than him, and even though he's grandmaster, that they don't take his opinions into account.

Of course, this is ludicrous, his brothers follow his every word and typically offer little resistance, though, if you try to tell him that he will just storm off and claim he was right all along and that you don't understand. He'll eventually come to his senses and realise what you said was true, but, won't apologise.

If you agree with him, or at least say you do, he'll murmur a gruff complaint about his brother's and then you'll sit in silence for a while.

By the time MK1 rolls around, he's fairly jaded, he doesn't like talking to his own brothers, he dislikes them a fair amount actually, but he still loves them, or, at least he holds love in his heart for Kuai, he still hates Smoke.

Bi-Han doesn't know exactly what he feels for you, he knows it's not friendship, but at the same time, he's never really had friends before, so, he can't be sure. All he understands is that he values you, and more importantly, your opinion, if you disagree with him it may hurt his pride, but please, stay firm, he comes around eventually, only with you.

He wants to wait for something, that maybe proves you may love him, because when that rolls around, he can fully decide whether to act on his emotions or not.

You most likely accompany the trio to stop Shang Tsung, and you'll most likely be there when Bi-Han betrays the Lin Kuei. Obviously, you choose to stay with him, and, it breaks Smoke and Scorpions heart, they may not have known you too well, but, they knew you were one of the only things that would stop him from going down that path.

In a way, you both failed them that day.

Now, after proving your loyalty to him, you're basically his right hand man and oversee a lot of the clan, you train young and old recruits, you maintain a harsh schedule everybody is expected to follow, you help Bi-Han with whatever he needs, and sometimes need to force him to take a day off.

By the way, he won't let you say his actual name, you always have to either call him Sub-Zero or Grandmaster, depending on if you're on a mission or not, his name is personal to him, a core part of his identity, and, until you're closer, he feels awkward letting you call him Bi-Han.

During this, he becomes even more angry, even more distant, even with you, and it may take pushing, reminding him of your childhood spent together, for him to crack.

He won't come crying into your arms, he doesn't beg for forgiveness or want any, he just sits there, and begins to rant. He rants about how he feels like, if he was a better grandmaster, his brothers would have joined him, if he was a better grandmaster, maybe he wouldn't have joined Shang Tsung, and wouldn't have been tempted by his lies.

You hold a hand to his shoulder, and you confess, you tell him what you think about him, how you feel about his temptation into evil by Shang Tsung, and even though he doesn't want forgiveness, you give it.

And, with permission, you hold his hand. It's a small step, but, it's the most contact you two will have together for a long time.

Now, he gives you small smiles in private, nothing wide, but something so tiny it's hard to differentiate from not having an expression at all, he gives you some time off, more than he gives himself, anyway, and more importantly? He feels himself relaxed around you.

Telling a joke that would once make him scoff and walk away now makes him let out a gruff and amused noise, it's a mix between a laugh and breath of air, and he only does it for you.

Dinners with him are less awkward, when before you would sit in silence, hesitantly taking bites from food. You two now chat quietly about your day, each recruit, and sometimes about each other. You can actually enjoy the food and his presence.

He lets you call him Bi-Han now, not in public, but, when you two are alone, in a hallway, in your rooms, having dinner or breakfast privately, whichever situation calls for you two to be alone, he lets you call him by his name, and, it makes him feel vulnerable. It makes him feel loved.

He's always held your opinion in high regard, but now, it's honestly the only one that matters besides his own, and he does, silently, hope you aren't so tempted by power like he is.

Bi-Han may take longer to kiss or cuddle you than what most would consider normal, he loves you, he knows he does now, but, he's nervous, no, he's afraid. He knows he's a rough man, and he knows how uncaring and even violent he is and can come across as, so, naturally, he tries to avoid the subject. He doesn't want to do anything without your consent, but he's also far too afraid to ask.

It will take you to ask him, you'll need to make the first move, and when you do ask him for that first kiss, he gives you that small, hardly noticeable smile, and you both lean in, closing your eyes...

It's awkward. Maybe you know how to kiss, maybe you don't, but Bi-Han definitely doesn't, and, it shows. He feels slightly embarrassed at how lost he is, but, you two can learn together, and even just telling him, hey, maybe it wasn't the best, but, we can learn together, lifts his spirits an unnatural degree.

For the next week, the schedules become less strict for most Lin Kuei members, and any mess ups are met with less harsh, but still kind of harsh, punishments.

Kissing is basically ingrained into your schedule now, once in the morning on the cheek before breakfast, maybe once at lunch if it's a tough day, and always a peck on the lips at night before bed.

It takes less time to cuddle if you've already kissed before, sure, it still takes a bit long, but, so do most things with this man. Maybe it starts with holding his hand, or, sitting on his bed and talking about things, training gets hard sometimes, so perhaps you're just a bit tired.

You look up at him and quietly ask if you can just lay down for a while, or, maybe you just lay down yourself and wait for any objections, either way, he lets you lay down, and eventually, lays down next to you. Your hands hold each other tightly, your head is resting on his shoulder and it feels strangely perfect, despite how stiff his shoulders are.

This becomes semi natural in your schedule, but only after a long day, cuddling each other until you or him are on the brink of sleep, and then you return to your bed. You two still sleep in separate beds, that's just how he prefers things, no matter how much he trusts you, it's just more comfortable.

I'd recommend cuddling in summer, because, he's insanely cold and the winter is not at all suited for cuddle sessions between you two.

It takes a bit for you two to start calling each other 'boyfriend', not because Bi-Han doesn't consider you his lover, and therefore boyfriend, but because he sort of just assumes that kissing, cuddling, all of that, makes you together automatically, and, he doesn't like announcing his relationships.

It's not like he's embarrassed of you, he seriously isn't, but, you're the only person who sees the vulnerable side of him, and he prefers to keep it that way. None of the other Lin Kuei members, god forbid any one else, deserves to know your relationship with each other.

Dates are rare, extremely rare, you two have major responsibilities within the clan, and, Bi-Han doesn't trust anybody enough for them to run it while you two are away, so, the most date-like thing you'll experience is eating dinner together after every one has had theirs and left.

[gatheringbones]

[“Such groups suffer from a syndrome I call empowerment to the midline. We dedicate ourselves to empowering individuals, right up until the moment when someone actually begins to exercise power — defined simply as the ability to get what they want done. At that point, it’s as if they’ve stepped over an invisible line that separates the oppressed from the oppressors. Suddenly this person we’ve worked so hard to help find a voice becomes the person everyone wants to speak out against.

I also call this pattern empowerment to complain. We focus our nurturing and attention on anyone who takes the position of victim and complains about leadership. Anyone who takes action or sets direction is suspect. Unfortunately, this sort of empowerment is not very empowering. Nobody gets what they want, and often little or nothing gets done.

True empowerment implies action. Complaining is not enough. Taking action means taking responsibility — suggesting, offering solutions and doing the work to implement them. But in a group suffering from the empowerment to the midline syndrome, there’s no zone of action, no autonomy, no scope for creativity. The group may have done away with the inequalities of leaders and followers, of some people being the stars and others relegated to mere extras. But they’ve done so by preventing anyone from having the power to act.

Here are some of unspoken assumptions behind the empowerment to the midline syndrome in progressive and collaborative groups.

1. People who have extraordinary skills, experience, levels of commitment or other resources or who take on big responsibilities — call them leaders — are always suspect. They are fair game for attack. The result is that no one feels truly safe in the group. There is no trust. No one is able to train, to mentor or pass on skills.

2. Leaders should never receive extra benefits, perks or rewards beyond the joy of the work itself, or they are exploiting others. In collaborative groups, we are often reacting against a larger system of hierarchy, in which higher levels of responsibility confer marks of status and collateral powers. We don’t want to reproduce that sort of inequality. But we do want to allow people to earn fair rewards for their labors, marks of appreciation and respect. If a group continually sees its most experienced people drifting away or burning out, it may be a warning sign that this pattern is in force.

3. We must always sacrifice the needs, benefits and rewards of insiders to the needs of outsiders. Empowerment means always siding with the perceived victim or underdog. The group functions on power-under — people get their way by taking the position of victim. They gain social power, not by taking on responsibility, but by complaining about those who do. The complainers are not truly empowered to act, and those who do take action are undermined.

4. We refuse to acknowledge that people might have different levels of skill, experience, talent, commitment or responsibility, because to do so might affirm a hierarchy. The group is unable to make use of its members’ skills and talents. We can’t mentor and critique each other, we can’t assess what skills and forms of responsibility are needed or are operative in a group and we can’t set standards or hold one another accountable for meeting them.”]

starhawk, from the empowerment manual: a guide for collaborative groups, 2011

[susiephone]

while i find a lot of criticism of booktok and "booktok books" to be valid, a lot of it seems......very reminiscent of the anti-twilight stuff in the early 2010s. like specifically the parts that were like "TWILIGHT IS THE DEATH OF FEMINISM AND LITERACY" and "VAMPIRES AND BOOKS ARE RUINED FOREVER" and "THE ONLY PEOPLE WHO LIKE TWILIGHT ARE DUMB TEENAGE GIRLS WHO ARE DUMB AND DON'T KNOW ANY BETTER" rather than like. actual critiques of the books. and even some of the more valid claims would sort of position themselves as if teenage girls reading twilight can't tell fiction from reality. like i'm not saying you can't or shouldn't criticize popular books (i certainly have), or saying that it's not fun to rag on a book you hate (it sure as hell is). but treating a book you don't like getting popular (esp with teenagers) as the end of literacy and the publishing industry and good writing is just plain absurd.

like i'm not saying all these books are secretly masterpieces, or even that they're all good. i've read some shit booktok books, just like i read some shit YA books back in 2012. but weirdly, the world did not come to an end and good books are still getting published. many of those books provided me with genuine entertainment, solace, and community, even if in hindsight they weren't the best, and i don't think it's fair, kind, or logical to treat people like they're stupid for enjoying books like this. (not to mention, how many people really got into reading because of Generic YA Fantasy #45 or Fun Mindless Romance #207 or Pulply Trashy Sci-Fi #62? maybe they'll branch out into other types of literature, maybe not. but it's still good that they're reading.)

and, frankly, learning to recognize and critique genuinely problematic tropes and elements in these books has made me a better writer and more attentive and educated reader. sometimes being able to articulate why something is bad is important, and sometimes that requires actually reading the damn book. and i would say that goes double for books you enjoy but contain iffy elements - it's a lot easier to completely dismiss a book that's nothing but 500 red flags in a trenchcoat, but if you're in a place of "wow this book really spoke to me in x, y, z way and i really enjoyed it BUT a, b, c were really poorly handled," it gets trickier.

TL;DR: no, barnes and noble having a booktok table is not going to kill literature as we know it, and no, people enjoying a book you find overhyped and cringe doesn't mean they're all mindless sheep who can't enjoy True Literature. calm the fuck down.

[cosmics-beings]

I think another thing I like about starscream, yet hate that the fandom fails to acknowledge about starscream is that, a lot of his rotten personality and his nastiness comes from way before he meets megatron and way before he was a deception.

That’s not to say that a lot of the ways he acts doesn't mirror megatron and the mistreatment he went through. and that impacts how starscream heals, makes friends, etc., idw - like what megatron did still badly affects him and that's not something to be ignored, and it's still not fair that he doesn't get the same happiness megatron did.

But, I think that people do tend to act as if Starscream was perfect and uncorrupt before Megatron.

That's not true...starscream was also a rotten, manipulative and bad person before that. and a lot of that was in response to how he was treated and hating his own body/existence, and the caste system, etc. We see how a lot of people in transformers react to oppression and I think starscream is such an interesting case of someone who is so angry and furious at the system he was created in that he takes it out on others yet still fights for himself and only himself. It is sad, and it’s awful to see how his own existence and the caste system does destroy him, but I think its important to note and to understand to just see how oppressed people still have to fight through their own oppression and sometimes, because of that, because of the trauma they go through, turn rotten. And Starscream did terrible, sneaky, and awful things. He did shitty things to climb to the top and he hurt those around him, he hurt people he trusted him, and he was happy to be that way. No one made him evil, manipulative, or untrustworthy, he did that on his own.

I don’t like that a lot of the fandom tends to tie Starsream’s negative and problematic behavior and personality to megatron because it also takes away from a lot of growth, agency and discussion about starscream’s personality and why he is the way he is.

He wasn’t a perfect, innocent and shy person before he met megatron, or before he became a deception. He still did awful things and while becoming a deception was a way he could grow past the system that created him, he still did very much do so for power. Starscream was an ambitious yet a morally ambiguous person before megatron and he had to be to survive in his own mind. His life wasn’t perfect and happy before megatron, he was still fighting and he was still scheming to survive.

I really don’t like how people kind of take that away from him, and act like everything he does and every shitty way he acts is *because* of megatron. I know it’s not fun to have to admit that he wasn’t a good person before megatron met him, but I think it’s necessary to understand his character, and not a lot of people do. And when you don’t do that, you have people misinterpreting his character and being genuinely shocked when he does villainous things. Like for instance, sky bound starscream’s actions shock a lot of people because they don’t think that he is a villain - I remember a lot of ES critique is that earthspark starscream doesn’t need a redemption act- he just needs people to love and accept him. And I think you guys forgot that he was also a space fascist and enjoyed killing people on his own accord. And while megatron himself does impact how starscream acts and treats others - starscream still was an extremely problematic person eons before he met megatron.

I don’t think this negates just how badly Megatron’s treatment fucked him up, and made it so that it was difficult for him to form relationships even after, or find happiness. And I think that’s just something that cannot be ignored. But I also think starscream is more interesting as a character if the fandom acknowledged that he was this way before, that he wasn’t perfect or innocent, and that he reacted that way because he was unhappy with is life, his station, his caste, etc.

this also isn't a chance to come and try to excuse how megatron treated him, so pls don't do that on here.

[pennyserenade]

the devil hath power

pairing: coriolanus snow x f!reader, coriolanus snow x you, coriolanus snow x nameless reader (no use of y/n) rating: e (explicit, 18+) tags/warnings: talk of sex work (sometimes negatively), sex work, dubious consent, illusions of sex, talk of previous sexual acts, class differences, classism. word count: 4.4k summary: Coriolanus Snow catches up with an old acquaintance. Neither of them really recognizes the other, not in any way that matters, but that's just as well for the scion of the Plinth family fortune. Well, until the meeting takes a turn he hadn't expected it to. a/n: well. fiction is such a slippery slope sometimes. i in no way condone the actions of coriolanus snow, nor am i romanticizing him or what he would come to do later. i think he's a vile person. having said that, i wouldn't consider this a scathing, well-crafted critique of him, either. i wanted to explore this character, to see what made him tick by putting him in a situation where he has to confront issues he merely bumped into in the book/movie. there is a high possibility of a part 2.

part two | part three

She had not asked for Coriolanus’ name because she had not needed to. Tonight, when she had turned to look at him, she knew. His white locks had been made iridescent under the shine of the club lights and he had pressed an orderly hand to the crease of her elbow before leaning in and asking her about her services, but even beneath the cool facade of his professionalism, she knew. Even despite the fact that she hadn’t seen him since they were children, she knew. 

Illuminated in a soft hue now, Coriolanus looked sharp. He was not only angular, having retained the features of his youth, but honed in, acutely attuned to the surroundings in which she had taken him. Dressed in his Capital attire, he achieved the effect of looking both handsome and ever-important, even merely standing at the end of her bed, arms bowed behind him. His eyes, seas of piercing blue typically, were darker now, covered by the veil of orange thrown from her bedside lamp. He looked impossibly grown, so much older than even herself, the way adults had when she was a child. 

She would describe him as a statuesque beauty, with hair so blond it faired white--like stony marble under a wash of sunlight. He had bow lips, long lashes, but they were paired with a generous nose and hard, serious eyes, masculine twists meant to overrule how pretty he indeed was. He reminded her of the paintings of kings, standing ramrod straight, noble in essence as much as material. Beneath her gaze, he attempted to wear a face of careful neutrality, and it worked—aside from the occasional tic of his jaw.

The backsplash of her bedroom, which had smelled vaguely of mildew for a long time, and which was void of any real material excess, seemed to embarrass them both. She was not used to men like him—men who had a sense of themselves within these four walls. Seduction was easier when men were rendered stupid by their desire, but Coriolanus seemed neither possessed nor particularly interested in his. If he was aroused, the sleek design of his suit did much to conceal it. Given, she had not so much as taken off a single layer of clothing but then, most men were stumbling at the door frame of her apartment building, swelling from the mere anticipation of what she offered. But not Coriolanus. He studied her with a surgeon’s precision, clinical and measured.

His throat bopped and their lapse of silence, which had begun after she had escorted him out of the club, continued on, steady. She’d been with men like him before, many of them. They all had the designs of fortune and wealth written into their fates, had since they were born, but eventually it ran deeper, weaving into their accents, their dress, their stance, their occupations, their beliefs. Rumor had it that Coriolanus Snow had his sights on the presidency. She could see it to be true. Word of mouth had it that he was already what they called a Gamemaker’s assistant, and young one. Brilliant, tenacious, and perfectly angry. It was odd to see him as such, having remembered him as something of a precocious fawn—a white haired boy who sat quietly and absorbed the world through azure eyes when they were children. But then this was life. 

If wanted her to she'd praise him for the Games, tell him about the brilliance of his young mind for contriving such a sinister punishment for the little ruts of the Districts. She’d done it before. At first it had felt like selling a part of herself she had not been prepared to auction off, but it came to mean next to nothing, just another act. Like the men that entered her ruined home and laid her down despite the noxious fumes of an expired dream wafting around them, she felt as if this interaction did not count. As if it wasn’t real. They grunted and huffed and used her, but she used them, too. For money. For power. Sometimes even for pleasure—but very rarely. 

“Do you want me to undress?” she spoke demurely. 

His face contorted with a flash of distaste before it went back to cool indifference. She made a note of this. Vulgarity, directness—it was not his flavor. Maybe he liked Avox silence; men had such proclivities. The rich and powerful typically had wives who could play the part of the beautifully silent, but some of them still wanted it. 

He wetted the bottom of his lip. “I remember you.” 

“Yes. I studied with you,” she confessed. There was no point in lying.“As children. Not so much when we got older.”

“Right,” he nodded, “I knew you looked familiar.” 

He began to inspect the meager contents of her room. Everything felt anachronistic when he stood next to it, ugly and decrepit in comparison to his modern look. He picked up a music box she had been gifted as a child, his lips twitching into a grin as the ballerina began to twirl mechanically. For a moment he watched it, filling the entire room with the melodic sounds of her childhood. It was dream-like and bitter.

Did he remember what she had looked like back then? How the sleek red uniform fit her, or how the shiny Mary Janes on her feet were always polished, or how the ruffles of her white socks were perfect, never out of place? They’d all been so grandiose before the Dark Days, so conceited and pleasantly happy. And now—well. This. 

The lid of the box snapped shut. Over his shoulder Coriolanus said, “As I grow older, I’ve begun to find music terribly frivolous. I’m sure you can agree.” 

He continued to look, fingers poking around in trays of old jewelry, picking up compacts of makeup and smiling softly as he turned the items in his hands. “It’s like a museum,” he whispered. His eyes searched out for her. Something infinitely softer took hold of him for a moment. “This is what I remember from before…Incredible.” Then, almost instantly, a perceptible change: “Why, if you sell yourself to clients as rich as you do, do you live in squalor? Surely you don’t do what you do for fun?” 

The criticism latent in his tone made her defenses rise, but her resignation made her stronger; she sat up, stock straight, and looked at him through a narrowed gaze. This wasn’t the first time a man of his stature had done something like this. It was common at first. They snapped at her like she was the one who had guided them here, but eventually they accepted it for what it was, or they pretended it wasn’t anything at all. 

“Why are you here, Coriolanus?” she asked evenly. 

The compact was replaced on her table as he turned to face her fully. He smiled and somehow it was cruel because it belonged to him. “Because I want to know,” he answered, “how the other half lives.” 

Her lips twisted up. “The other half?” 

“Those who didn’t make it out of the Dark Days. Those who have resorted to—“ he swung his hand, motioning to the room, to her “—to this and other acts like it.” 

She turned to look out the window. Outside the Capital sparkled in the night; it was a city once again bustling with life, beautiful and ornate, no doubt at the bloom of its productivity. This view made everything seem worth it at times. “And your estimate?” she asked. 

“Not finished,” he answered plainly. 

Out of the corner of her eye she watched him shrug off his overcoat. He slung it over a wooden chair that sat by the door. 

“Sorry there’s no coat check; I’ve seemed to have left it in the past,” she taunted. 

He answered her sharpness with a look of haughty disdain.

“Bad customer service,” was the remark that carried over to her — a verbal tsk tsk. There was an impishness to it, too. Her inability to read him from moment to moment — or rather, the fact that she was constantly having to reanalyze him — was confounding. It discontented her. 

“Mr. Snow,” she began, but he interfered almost immediately. 

“Please — Coriolanus.” 

Her eyebrow rose. “Is that what you prefer?” 

He read between the lines, smirking. “It’s what you said before —it’s what you prefer.” A laugh, less wicked than the smile but not entirely void of it, sounded through the room. It was so goddamn rich, not velvet and warmth, but cold, calculated. Like the cool of gold on warm skin. “Believe it or not, I’m not here for the sake of illicit pleasure. I can’t say this particular occupation feels me with—“ He waved an absent hand “—joy, for lack of a better word.”

She breathed out through her nose. “Do let us not pretend that you don’t know the word lust. Arousal. Horny. You’re brilliant, aren’t you? Shouldn’t you know about these things?” 

His angular jaw ticked once more. “Whores are all so crass, aren’t they? The ignominy of being a body that someone can buy–doesn’t it make you sick?”

She scoffed. “You’re terribly repressed, given that you sought me out.” 

He shook his head, as if steadying himself. “I want to be President one day and I’m not so naive as to think what you do isn’t in demand—or that it will ever cease to be. Especially here.” His anger began to ebb as he continued. “People are crass; it’s human nature. We are all brutes, primal, ugly when it comes down to it. You watch the Games–you see” His took up his rigidity once more. “I want to learn about it, what you do. The ins, the outs.” 

She stared unblinkingly at him.“That information will cost–a good deal,” she said. 

A flicker of a smile twitched at his lips. “Everything does eventually. That is one thing I do admire about your occupation: it is purely transactional. Perhaps if love was half as simple as this, you wouldn’t have a job.”

“Perhaps not. But it isn’t.” 

“No,” he shook his head, “It’s certainly not.”

She smoothed out the fabric of her dress. “Why me? There’s many women who do what I do.”

The question incited him. She was beginning to pick up on the patterns of his erratic behavior; there was a flare in his eyes, a perceptible twinkle, and his eyebrows lifted slightly. And his lips—they twitched whenever he felt something strongly. “I watched you for a few weeks and I noticed that you were more clever than the other women. They were tactless, too obvious. But you—you played the game beautifully, like it was an art.” He seemed to smile to himself. “You dress Capital, you talk Capital. If you’re hungry, you don’t make it too obvious. You’ve gone into painstaking detail to ensure that you’re undetectable and people want you more for it.”

“So you picked me because I have manners?” 

She wanted to guffaw, to tell him no, but something told her not to. It was not fear as much as the slow drip of anticipation. He hovered near her like a predator getting ready to pounce, a glimmer of unnerving honesty shining in his darkened eyes, and she could see him now for all he was. But she could not understand him. This incited her. 

With the unwavering confidence of a young God, he lifted his chin up and said, “I picked you because I think you know better than most what it is to hunger. You remind me of myself in that way.”

Maybe this should’ve repulsed her most of all, to be put in a box so narrow, so utterly against how she viewed herself. But it didn’t; it made her comfortable, not pilant to wishes but more certain of her own. He’d done a fine job nitpicking her up until this point, but now she had the upper hand again. This was her domain, her game. 

The smug smile that grew on her lips was a mirror of his own. Without taking her eyes off of his, she rose to her knees on the bed and crawled to the end, the blue velvet of her dress pillowing around her knees, her waist. He was an avid watcher, seemingly holding his breath as her arms reached behind her and unzipped the dress. The fabric slipped down her arms, unveiling a creamy silk bra, so thin as to be transparent. 

“It’s new,” he spoke softly, surprised. He seemed to be questioning this. His eyes looked to hers for answers—or maybe they were trying not to look elsewhere, lest they find something they liked. 

“My home may be out of fashion but I am not,” she cooed. Charm. He wanted charm. She could see that plainly now. Coriolanus was a man who needed to be in control but he wanted to be seduced. He was just like the rest of them. 

Peeling off the rest of the cocktail dress, she bared to him the matching cream bottoms, which were just as sheer as the top. She knew what he could see: her mons pubis, the seductive patch of hair that promised more. And he looked, too. Of course he did. They all said they wouldn’t and then they did and this man, however brilliant he may be, however cool and calculated, was just like the rest of them. This simple fact thrilled her more than anything had in a long while. 

To think if life had gone the way it was supposed to, she might’ve married someone like him. Maybe it might have even been him. His family had come from what her mother would’ve referred to as “good stock” and his father Crassus had been a close acquaintance of her father’s. It seemed, however, that Crassus had prepared more adequately for his own children than her father had his. If she hadn’t contended with the fact so long ago, she might’ve hated Coriolanus based on the simple fact that he’d remained intact after the war and she hadn’t. 

“I won’t sleep with you for money,” he spoke up. His voice did not quiver but she could sense the weakness settling in.  

Her fingers tucked beneath the collar of his dress shirt. “And I won’t sleep with you for free,” she said in response. She leaned close to him, so close she could feel his breath on her face. “And moreover, to answer your question from earlier: there’s no ignominy to being a body for sale because it sells for an awful lot, Coriolanus. I’m wise with my money. I’m headed towards a staggering amount of wealth, and I’ve got good sense. You pegged me right, but you also got me terribly wrong.”

“This place—“ he began but she cut him off. 

“Is hollowed out and pathetic, I agree. But one day it won’t be, and when that day comes I won’t take people like you to it.” 

Another lip twitch. “How much?”

“For what?” She smoothed out the fabric, running her hands down his arms. 

“What you do—your services.” 

“It depends.”

He stiffened. “On what?”

“What they ask me to do. How long. Where. Who they are.”

His head hung before he came out with his next sentence.  “And for me, what would it cost?”

“What do you want?” 

“This is hypothetical,” he reminded her coolly. Placing his hands over hers and moving them, he attempted to sway them back to their uneven dynamic. She could feel the tremble in his hand as he did. 

“Hypothetically, what would you want?” she corrected. She sat her hands in her lap.  

“Tell me what you do.” 

“That’ll cost,” she reminded. 

Though he smiled, she could tell his patience with her was wearing. “I’ll pay anything,” he repeated. For  effect or perhaps for power he added, “And I do mean anything. If you want to once again take your rightful place amongst the people in the Capital, I’ll see to it.”

She licked her lips and considered him. “For a man who hates people like me, you’re sure forgiving.”

“Like I said, you remind me of myself.” He gripped her chin between his fingers and she gasped from the unexpected coldness of his flesh on hers, but did not flinch. His hold was not rough or commanding, but oddly familiar, almost affectionate. 

“When I was younger, there was this girl,” he began, staring down at her lips, “She was just someone in a dark alleyway that my friends had gotten me as a dare. We kissed and kissed, but it felt like nothing. It was just kissing—and that’s what I thought it was for a long time. It wasn’t particularly exciting, nothing to ruin yourself for. Then there was another girl.” His jaw set. “I’m sorry to say I loved this girl, to the point of destruction, to the point of foolishness. After her I understood why a man might seek girls like you out. I find it distasteful, but that’s what we are as a people. Stupid, primal. We want it all and we always have. That’s why the Districts came to be, and why they always will be.”

He let her go. She watched carefully as he stepped back and began his searching pace around her room once more. His movements carried more deliberation, and none of the objects kept his attention this time. She let him speak, let him run himself into whatever dark, myopic hole he was headed towards. 

“They like their cocks sucked,” he spoke with open vulgarity, almost as if delighting in the freedom of the word. He was like a school boy who tries out a naughty word for the first time and finds it fits in his youthful mouth too well; he’ll go his whole youth trying not to say it again around the adults. “I imagine rough too, and in impersonal positions, except for those few unexceptional men who have wives that don’t particularly like them or want them. Maybe they don’t even have wives, your men.” He laughed through his nose at the idea, and let himself get carried away in the broken world he made of these men. “Yes. You’ve got insecure men at your door, ones who are ashamed and pleading and they fuck you like you mean everything to them. They hate themselves and what they’ve done. Weak men who can’t cope with their power or their riches. I knew a man like that. He would’ve paid you billions. Would’ve asked you to marry him before you even touched him out of some imagined indenture he had to people like you.” 

Coriolanus smiled ruefully, but his voice was hard and bitter. “He was a goddamn fool. Not all are like that, though.” 

She caught his eyes in her old vanity. His eyebrows rose in question. She nodded, though not necessarily in agreement with anything he said. She wanted him to continue. 

“Sometimes you get men like me. Of course not exactly like me, but they aren’t the weaker of us. They’re strange, exotic, and think that whatever takes hold of them will ruin them one day so they’ve got to go to you. They can’t ask a Capital girl to do what they want. It depends on the upbringing, but I imagine these men have a wide selection of desires, some decidedly repulsive and some so wholesome, so mundane, you find them endearingly, or even irritatingly, prudish. For example, a man who likes to get on his knees and taste you.” 

Her mouth opened as if to speak, and he seemed to sense this imperceptible movement, turning around. She looked at him and he, back at her. “It’s not repulsive,” she said softly. “Nothing I let them do to me is ever repulsive. I have my boundaries.”

This seemed to excite him most of all. “Of course. Where’s the line, then?” 

“When they ask me to pretend to be a District girl. That one…your tribute—“

“Lucy Gray,” he whispered. If she didn’t know better, she’d think she heard reverence in his voice. Anguish. 

“Her. I got a lot of requests for a while.” 

She could not tell what went over him in that moment, only that it was overwhelming. He ran his hand through his hair and swallowed hard. “And you never did that?” he asked her, his tone almost accusatory. 

She was happy to answer honestly: “Never.”

He nodded, pacing the floor again. He was more manic, as if set off by this information. “Do they tell you secrets, these men?”

“Yes,” she answered simply. 

“Do you tell their secrets?” 

She shook her head once in answer. He was made of stone, total nothingness. “Not once. It’s why I’m so popular,” she added. He nodded. 

“Your favorite clients, what are they like?” This question seemed like a throwaway, one he asked because he couldn’t think straight. 

She frowned watching him. “They’re somewhere between the men you call weak and the ones you think are most like you. Some of them are young, about our age. There’s nothing wrong with them, not even what they ask for.”

He continued his pace. “And what do they ask for?”

“For normal sex, sometimes slow, sometimes fast. Sometimes they just want to kiss me. One of my favorites asked me about my life, this room, the hallway, the pictures no one ever seemed to notice. In turn told me about himself. He wanted normal conversation, a man and a woman speaking as if nothing in the world had ever gone wrong. He wanted to pretend, I guess.” She shrugged. She didn't remember his name, only that he was important in an insignificant way—at least that’s how he described it. She never saw him again. 

“What else?” Coriolanus began to slow. He chewed at his fingernails and remained vaguely distracted. 

“Another came in his pants, tasting of me, like you called it.” He wasn’t one of her favorites, but the vividness of it did what she wanted it to: Coriolanus appeared interested. He titled his head to the side, as if approving of the story. She was putting on a show for him. If he was more transparent she could imagine him asking for more like that. So she gave more. “And another wanted me to rub against him, clothed. He wanted me to sit in his lap and make myself orgasm. And another, he wanted to watch. Some men are like that. He stood where you are now and he touched himself as I spoke. And another touched himself while I touched myself. Though I guess you figure that might be crass.” 

His sleek suit did little to conceal what the last image inspired in him. A red tint gathered on his cheeks and he raised his hand. “That’ll be enough.” 

She stopped speaking. A seed had been planted, and this victory was hers even if she did nothing with it. How terrible this was for a composed Coriolanus Snow. His hand clutched at the bedpost and he looked at her then with unflinching distaste. And then it came: a wave of astounding want when the band of her thin bra slid down her arm. She reached out for him but he did not go. 

“Why?” he whispered. 

She looked up at him earnestly. “Why not?” she returned. 

Cupping her cheeks in the hollow of his hands, he leaned in and kissed her with a bruising intensity. No affection, no illusion. He kissed much like he did business: straight to the narrow point. It was the shortest minute of her life and yet also the longest. When he released her, he looked as he had before. Strong. Unwaveringly cool. His blue eyes shut her out and his freshly kissed lips did not even so much as twitch. But something had changed. 

“That’ll be enough,” he echoed again. He was trying to find strength in his convictions, but not doing very well with it. It was not often he found himself in the position of relenting his control, but where there was hunger, there was a divine need to quelch it, no matter the cost. And he did hunger: for knowledge, for desire, for her. How he despised the pang of it in his chest, no foreign object but an unwelcome visitor. 

His finger trailed down her neck to her shoulder. He took the strap of her bra between his hands and drew it down. She let him. The anticipation came back to her. He was like a game, something she would contend with later. It was like her job, like her position in life: things she dealt with one incremental step at the time until what was big felt little. This would not make her a bad person. 

She shimmed the fabric beneath her breast and he looked apathetic, almost as if she had driven him past the point of even frustration. But the bulge in his slacks grew. Pride swelled in her chest but she remained stoic, pliant, hoping against hope that he’d give in, do what a thousand men before him had done, if only she could convince him it was his doing. What a better way to learn what the Capital wanted than to experience it for yourself? She wanted to ravage him, to take from him his stubborn distaste, to make him into one of those pathetic, warbling men in his imaginings. One day you’ll be ruined by this. 

But sense came to him, bit by bit. He heaved a sigh, as if disappointed by some external factor that had forced his hand, and returned a silky strap to her shoulders. She watched, both surprised and confused. He smiled, but it was void of anything substantial as joy. Maybe there was defeat, but she wasn’t sure.

“I’ll be seeing you,” he said, stepping towards the door and towards his coat on the chair. She watched the muscles of his back ripple beneath his shirt as he slipped the red fabric back on, quietly astounded by the abrupt way he had changed track. 

“My money,” the words found her. 

He nodded his head, but did not turn. “You’ll get it,” he promised. His voice bounced off the door, hollow and thin. 

She eyed him carefully, waiting for him to open the door and escape out of it. She wanted him to. There was a certain cowardice to this action, too, something that she could cope with and he wouldn’t be able to. His hand went to the door, white on gold, and he clinched it. “Next time, the game will be different,” he said. 

And with those parting words, he was gone.  

[oblivionbladetd]

To put Lily's media illiteracy on blast I wanna break this down for everybody.

In order.

The sole positive- saying Marcille is a good character, while true, Lacks any qualifications that contextualize in what way. Notably in that three of the negatives of the show revolve solely around her. Which does contextualize that Lily's love of the character is remarkably shallow, or her hatred of the rest of the show remarkably petty.

The sole neutral- Episodic by itself is, yes, very neutral. Without any qualifications this is about as helpful as saying it's animated. You'd have to know that Lily hates episodic shows to know how this factors into the grade.

The many negatives-

Digimon level pacing is such a specifically vague statement. To understand what she means, know her point of reference is a 25 year old show that has an overall different tone, setting, age range, and story to Dungeon eats.so we're on some big brained or moon brained shit here.

The riff on the shows tone is weird because the show is a dark comedy. The intended experience is the huge contrast of it all. Like what?

The premise of the show is looking at the dungeon in terms of a food chain. The only way there would be a joke about the art quality of the food is if the rest of the show was rendered in Crayon scibbles.

Marcille is also an archetype at first. They all are. She is the snooty elf. They all gain more depth later, but this is not a debate here. The reason she was the butt of all the big jokes is complaining about a necessity of their trip for it's unorthodox nature despite explicitly signing up for it.

Death having consequences would basically destroy the tone and humor. Making the multi-day journey to save falin from permadeath into a bog standard revenge story.

Hey, this series has two sole jokes! Sarcasm aside it is a reductive view. Marrcile is at the butt of the bigger jokes because it's thematically appropriate. She is the most resistant to the reality of their situation. Not to mention that if the marrcile was the sole man in a group of women, the jokes would hit all the same. Not to mention that woe is evenly spread after the first couple episodes, I'd know I watched the whole show.

Lastly "elf torture cliche"? When has that been enough of a thing to be a cliche? I looked it's not even really a trope.

The, albeit very abridged, critique just screams the following, "I did not want to like this show, I have decided it was a waste of time before I even fired up Netflix." Right at dismissing Marcille's suffering as little more than torture of the female lead just because I had known that there wasn't even an attempt at any kind of fair play. It boils down to the show being hardly watchable because it isn't a totally different show, which as an opinion is actually super fuckin valid! Lily, by giving it a grade, claims an authority over it. An authority that equates to flunking a physics major over not being fond of their favorite color.

[aceof-stars]

Actually, “Feenie” Makes Perfect Sense as a Backstory for Phoenix (+ 3-1 Initial Thoughts)

I've decided to start a series where I record my thoughts and analysis as I play through the Ace Attorney games for the first time. I'll try to post these as soon as I finish a case so that my thoughts are fresh.

Phoenix Wright/"Feenie"

I've noticed critiques in this fandom that "Feenie" from Turnabout Memories is too different from Phoenix in the trilogy or that the backstory is poorly inserted. But, honestly I disagree. It's easy to treat Phoenix and Feenie as different people because of their different outfits and mannerisms, but I think the characterization is consistent (despite "Feenie" being exaggerated sometimes for comedic effect).

I've seen the fandom portray "Feenie" as a sweet pushover. But if anything, his belief is extremely stubborn and strong-willed. Phoenix believed in true love and fate which was why he accepts that necklace in the first place. He also never relents to Dahlia (or should I say Iris) when she asks for the necklace back.

He’s only able to be used and manipulated by Dahlia because his own goals and beliefs aligned with the facade she presented to him.

Phoenix literally shoves a guy so hard that he fell onto his back because he badmouthed Dahlia. I think one constant of Phoenix's character is that he cares too deeply and is protective over the people he loves.

There's also the part where Phoenix mocks Doug for being British? or wearing the British flag (I didn’t take a screenshot of it). “Feenie” is just as sassy and judgmental as Phoenix is. He might be a lot more naive and immature but he's still Phoenix.

Oh Phoenix... back when you believed in people saving you... before you bottled up your problems and refused to let anyone help you...

To be fair he is the defendant here but still. He doesn't ask for support after Edgeworth disappears, he doesn't ask for help at first when Maya is kidnapped.

I think, unfortunately, this incident with Dahlia is what kickstarted a lot of his trust and abandonment issues. His overwhelmingly strong belief and trust in Dahlia backfired in the worst way possible. It’s not a stretch that this made him too terrified of betrayal to open up to anyone in the trilogy.

So I know this is for comedic effect, but it’s also really good proof that Phoenix heavily idealizes the people he gets super attached to.

(Coughs in Edgeworth and Justice for All)

… I mean he’s not wrong! But he’s also being delusional

This is one of the first things Phoenix says after finding out he was betrayed. He doesn't spend much time acknowledging his feelings of hurt. He just goes into denial.

(COUGHS IN EDGEWORTH AND JUSTICE FOR ALL)

This is just further proof for me that Phoenix’s coping mechanisms are suppression and delusion.

And then Phoenix immediately he moves on to saving Edgeworth! He just shoves all that trauma aside to fixate on saving someone else... to cope by giving himself more control. Phoenix's savior complex stems from abandonment issues.

This trial doesn't give Phoenix the idea to save Edgeworth, it solidifies it.

After being reminded by Mia of his belief that a defense attorney saves people, Phoenix firmly sets himself on this path.

There it is. Phoenix says it himself... he suppressed these memories. That's why he never brought it up in the last two games. I know the real reason is because the creators didn’t plan it, but it also makes sense narratively.

I mean, Phoenix hides the class trial story until Turnabout Goodbyes. This man does not like to talk about his problems or trauma.

Mia Fey

Damn Mia is so brutal. Is this where Phoenix gets his sass from?

Mia is also not how I expected her to be. I mean whenever she gets channeled to help Phoenix out, she's in the role of the wise mentor. But here? She's a nervous wreck, cynical of romance, and full of trust issues.

Speaking of trust issues... I unfortunately did not take a screenshot of this but as soon as Mia finds out Phoenix has lying to her, she reacts very strongly with distrust. She also has to convince herself multiple times to trust in him again. Believing in people or trusting them doesn't seem to come easy to Mia. Which is super interesting because her advice is to always believe in your client. Maybe Mia eventually got used to trusting her clients but... she also never tells Phoenix about her investigation in Redd White. I don't think Mia is as trusting as she presents herself as.

[theoutcastrogue]

A copyright lawsuit filed by several major publishers puts the future of the Internet Archive's scan-and-lend library at risk. In a recent appeal, the non-profit organization argued that its solution is protected fair use and critical to preserving digital books. This position is shared by copyright scholars, the Authors Alliance, and other supporters now backing IA in court.

The Internet Archive (IA) is a non-profit organization that aims to preserve digital history for generations to come. The digital library is a staunch supporter of a free and open Internet and began meticulously archiving the web over a quarter century ago.

In addition to archiving the web, IA also operates a library that offers a broad collection of digital media, including books. Staying true to the centuries-old library concept, IA patrons can also borrow books that are scanned and digitized in-house.

Publishers vs. Internet Archive

The self-scanning service is different from the licensing deals other libraries enter into. Not all publishers are happy with IA’s approach which triggered a massive legal battle two years ago.

Publishers Hachette, HarperCollins, John Wiley, and Penguin Random House filed a lawsuit, equating IA’s controlled digital lending (CDL) operation to copyright infringement. Earlier this year a New York Federal court concluded that the library is indeed liable for copyright infringement.

The Court’s decision effectively put an end to IA’s self-scanning library, at least for books from the publishers in suit. However, IA is not letting this go without a fight and last week the non-profit filed its opening brief at the Second Circuit Court of Appeals, hoping to reverse the judgment.

Support from Authors Alliance

IA doesn’t stand alone in this legal battle. As the week progressed, several parties submitted amicus curiae briefs to the court supporting IA’s library. This includes the Authors Alliance.

The Authors Alliance represents thousands of members, including two Nobel Laureates, a Poet Laureate of the United States, and three MacArthur Fellows. All benefit from making their work available to a broad public.

If IA’s lending operation is outlawed, the authors fear that their books would become less accessible, allowing the major publishers to increase their power and control. The Alliance argues that the federal court failed to take the position of authors into account, focusing heavily on the publishers instead. However, the interests of these groups are not always aligned.

“Many authors strongly oppose the actions of the publishers in bringing this suit because they support libraries and their ability to innovate. Authors rely on libraries to reach readers and many are proud to have their works preserved and made available through libraries in service of the public.

“Because these publishers have such concentrated market power […], authors that want to reach wide audiences rarely have the negotiating power to retain sufficient control from publishers to independently authorize public access like that at issue here,” the Alliance adds.

This critique from the authors is not new. Hundreds of writers came out in support of IA’s digital book library at an earlier stage of this lawsuit, urging the publishers to drop their case. [...]

Copyright Scholars Back IA

In a separate amicus brief, several prominent legal and copyright scholars, many of whom hold professor titles, raise similar arguments. They believe that IA’s lending system is not that different from the physical libraries that are an integral part of culture.

“Libraries have always been free under copyright law to lend materials they own as they see fit. This is a feature of copyright law, not a bug,” the brief reads.

What is new here, is that publishers now assert full control over how their digital books are treated. Instead of allowing libraries to own copies, they have to license them, which makes it impossible to add them to the permanent archive.

“The major publishers refuse to sell digital books to libraries, forcing them to settle for restrictive licenses of digital content rather than genuine ownership. Moreover, publishers insist they can prevent libraries from scanning their lawfully purchased physical books and lending the resulting digital copies.” [...]

[tangibletechnomancy]

Neural Nets, Walled Gardens, and Positive Vibes Only

the crystal spire at the center of the techno-utopian walled garden

Anyone who knows or even just follows me knows that as much as I love neural nets, I'm far from being a fan of AI as a corporate fad. Despite this, I am willing to use big-name fad-chasing tools...sometimes, particularly on a free basis. My reasons for this are twofold:

Many people don't realize this, but these tools are more expensive for the companies to operate than they earn from increased interest in the technology. Using many of these free tools can, in fact, be the opposite of "support" at this time. Corporate AI is dying, use it to kill it faster!

You can't give a full, educated critique of something's flaws and failings without engaging with it yourself, and I fully intend to rip Dall-E 3, or more accurately the companies behind it, a whole new asshole - so I want it to be a fair, nuanced, and most importantly personally informed new asshole.

Now, much has already been said about the biases inherent to current AI models. This isn't a problem exclusive to closed-source corporate models; any model is only as good as its dataset, and it turns out that people across the whole wide internet are...pretty biased. Most major models right now, trained primarily on the English-language internet, present a very western point of view - treating young conventionally attractive white people as a default at best, and presenting blatantly misinformative stereotypes at worst. While awareness of the issue can turn it into a valuable tool to study those biases and how they intertwine, the marketing and hype around AI combined with the popular idea that computers can't possibly be biased tends to make it so they're likely to perpetuate them instead.

This problem only gets magnified when introduced to my mortal enemy-

If I never see this FUCKING dog again it will be too soon-

Content filters.

Theoretically, content filters exist to prevent some of the worst-faith uses of AI - deepfakes, true plagiarism and forgery, sexual exploitation, and more. In practice, many of them block anything that can be remotely construed as potentially sexual, violent, or even negative in any way. Frequently banned subjects include artistic nudity or even partial nudity, fight scenes, anything even remotely adjacent to horror, and still more.

The problems with this expand fractally.

While the belief that AI is capable of supplanting all other art forms, let alone should do so, is...far less widespread among its users than the more reactionary subset of its critics seem to believe (and in fact arguably less common among AI users than non-users in the first place; see again: you cannot give a full, educated critique of something's failings without engaging with it yourself), it's not nonexistent - and the business majors who have rarely if ever engaged with other forms of art, who make up a good percentage of the executives of these companies, often do fall on that side, or at least claim to in order to make more sales (but let's keep the lid on that can of worms for now).

When this ties to existing online censorship issues, such as a billionaire manchild taking over Twitter to "help humanity" (read: boost US far-right voices and promote and/or redefine hate speech), or arcane algorithms on TikTok determining what to boost and deboost leading to proliferation of neologisms to soften and obfuscate "sensitive" subjects (of which "unalive" is frequently considered emblematic), including such horrible, traumatizing things as...the existence of fat people, disabled people, and queer people (where the censorship is claimed to be for their benefit, no less!), the potential impact is apparent: while the end goal is impossible, in part because AI is not, in fact, capable of supplanting all other forms of art, what we're seeing is yet another part of a continuing, ever more aggressive push for sanitizing what kinds of ideas people can express at all, with the law looking to only make it worse rather than better through bills such as KOSA (which you can sign a petition against here).

And just like the other forms of censorship before and alongside it, AI content filtering targets the most vulnerable in society far more readily than it targets those looking to harm them. The filters have no idea what makes something an expression of a marginalized identity vs. what makes it a derogatory statement against that group, or an attempt at creating superficially safe-for-work fetish art - so, they frequently err on the side of removing anything uncertain. Boys in skirts and dresses are frequently blocked, presumably because they're taken for fetish art. Results of prompts about sadness or loneliness are frequently blocked, presumably because they may promote self harm, somehow. In my (admittedly limited) experiment, attempts at generating dark-skinned characters were blocked more frequently than attempts at generating light-skinned ones, presumably because the filter decided that it was racist to [checks notes] ...acknowledge that a character has a different skin tone than the default white characters it wanted to give me. Facial and limb differences are often either erased from results, or blocked presumably on suspicion of "violent content".

But note that I say "presumably" - the error message doesn't say on what grounds the detected images are "unsafe". Users are left only to speculate on what grounds we're being warned.

But what makes censorship of AI generated work even more alarming, in the context of the executive belief that it can render all other art forms obsolete, is that other forms of censorship only target where a person can say such earth-shaking, controversial things as "I am disabled and I like existing" or "I am happy being queer" or "mental health is important" or "I survived a violent crime" - you can be prevented from posting it on TikTok, but not from saying it to a friend next to you, let alone your therapist. AI content filtering, on the other hand, aims to prevent you from expressing it at all.

This becomes particularly alarming when you recall one of the most valuable use cases for AI generation: enabling disabled people to express themselves more clearly, or in new forms. Most people can find other workarounds in the form of more conventional, manual modes of expression, sure, but no amount of desperation can reverse hand paralysis that prevents a person from holding a pen, nor a traumatic brain injury or mental disability that blocks them from speaking or writing in a way that's easy to understand. And who is one of the most frequently censored groups? Disabled people.

So, my question to Bing and OpenAI is this: in what FUCKING universe is banning me from expressing my very existence "protecting" me?

Bad dog! Stop breaking my shit and get the FUCK out of my way!

Generated as a gift for a friend who was even more frustrated with that FUCKING dog than I was

All images - except the FUCKING dog - generated with Dall-E 3 via Bing Image Creator, under the Code of Ethics of Are We Art Yet?

[chaifootsteps]

(This ask is sort of delving into my experiences as one who lived in a Christian household but was exposed to some varying denominations/interpretations. So, heavy religious discussion, specifically Christianity.)

As someone who was raised in a Christian household, I believe Hazbin could've had a very interesting concept in critiquing some various interpretations and denominations, especially those more hateful/harmful. People disagree on many things, from small details to some things people regard as the fundamentals of Christianity.

All usually (and should since that's pretty much the whole thing about it lol) agree that Jesus is the savior and Son of God, but some may believe that the Trinity is the same thing but "takes on a different form at a specific time" or is "united but separated."

I've heard various things regarding salvation, from "once saved, always saved" to "Satan can pull you away if you let him, and that's your fault." I've heard "God will show mercy to little children and those who struggle with understanding the Word," and even "children of the unsaved are damned because their parents' sins make them sinful" or whatever.

I think the show would've benefited if it showed sort of the issues with some of the interpretations and how harmful some can be. Unfortunately, without even the *mention* of God or Jesus or any other higher figure (aside from jokes or gags), how can you truly critique it if you show Heaven and Hell?

The angels weren't the worst substitute, but the fact they don't even know what gets you to Heaven? Huh? If it was somehow like "Oh, the Word/message/view/whatever was corrupted" because of sin or whatever, that'd be something. But as it is... it just. Doesn't really feel like a critique of Christianity or the Abrahamic religions? I don't know.

Also... just having Lucifer being the 'quirky but well-meaning guy' isn't a very revolutionary take on the stories, lol.

I think that's one of the core failures of HH, of which there are many. It doesn't feel like a critique of Abrahamic religions, and in fairness it doesn't necessarily have to, but it also doesn't feel like a real critique of anything else. It's too scattered, incompetently written, and immature to work as an exploration of redemption, found family, sex trafficking, or abuse. It's just noises, colors, cursing, and rape jokes all the way down. It's completely without substance.

And it's true, "Lucifer was the good guy actually" is nothing fresh or revolutionary. It's about as done as anything pertaining to Hell can be.

[rainbowsky]

This is not a question, but a reflection. With this BF story, I thought a lot. And I think that as French, I don't have the same point of view. I was especially shocked by these words: “he must be educated”. France has a deep colonial past. and I thought: "we must educate these ignorant Chinese? but who are we to think that we are better and superior? we who today have so much hatred for them?" Each country has its point of view depending on his history. no need to respond if you don't want to. And thank you for your always respectful and thoughtful publications.

This is in reference to a previous post.

Bonjour lyndariell, j'espère que tu vas bien. ☺️

This is a perfect example of what I was saying about this being a very complex issue with a lot of different perspectives and angles.

In order to make sense of and come to terms with this issue we each need to find the right balance between upholding our own values and respecting the values of others. That's bound to be a tricky process because we're each coming from a different region, with different backgrounds, experiences and perspectives on the world.

Each of us will have a different degree of empathy and alignment toward one or more of the various stakeholders in the situation as well, based on our own experiences, interests and values.

In other words, it's complicated.

It is true that for some people, hearing so many white Westerners say that a Chinese man half a world away 'needs to be educated' on any topic might legitimately feel distasteful and wrong. There is this Western conceit that our values and way of life are superior and obviously correct, and that other nations are just 'behind us' in heading toward the same goals*.

*Although the same is also true going East to West.

It would be totally understandable if some people were to reject the Westerners' characterization of this issue and say that the choices that led to blackface being used in this film are not our choices to make. After all, the filmmakers are telling a Chinese story to a Chinese audience, and they know best how to go about that.

Fair enough. But...

Speaking of colonialism

While we're on the topic of colonialism shouldn't we also be talking about China and its role as a neocolonial power in Africa? As I said in my previous post, it's not really fair for us to look at things solely from our own perspective and in the context of the cultural environment we are in rather than considering the cultural environment this film was made in.

Have you heard of the Belt and Road Initiative? Actually you don't need to answer that question, because almost every turtle has definitely heard of it. GG sang a beautiful song in celebration of that initiative not that long ago, complete with a video highlighting some of the major projects involved.

I didn't post that video on my blog, but you can watch it here. All the bridges, trains and other infrastructure you can see in the video are projects from the Belt and Road Initiative; China investing across Asia, Africa and other regions to improve transport and trade (and to build on China's power globally).

I'm no @potteresque-ire, so I'm not going to break it all down in a meticulous, intelligent, well-cited masterpiece, but you can learn a bit more about it here. There are also countless online articles, papers, analyses, critiques, accolades, etc. from every possible angle out there if you want to dig deeper.

Some of the core strategy of the initiative involves proposing massive infrastructure projects in poor regions, loaning them the money to make the projects happen (loans in the billions), and stipulating that the contracts must be completed by Chinese companies. Resulting in countries with shiny new railways and hospitals built and paid for by the Chinese government and Chinese corporations, with these countries massively in debt to China for many decades to come and with deep trade ties to China.

Depending on who you ask, Belt and Road is either an exploitative, environmentally disastrous neocolonialist power/resource grab, or it's an innovative unifying effort to improve the lives and trade of its member nations.

I personally feel its a bit of both.

Whichever it is, it does have a very dark side. There have been many stories coming out of these regions, telling about slave-like working conditions and horrific abuse from the Chinese contractors toward their African workers. I made the mistake of researching this and let me just say that what I've seen cannot be unseen. There is a reason people make snide jokes about the "belt" in Belt and Road.

And that's just the Belt and Road Initiative. There are a lot of other Chinese individuals and companies going into regions across Africa to take advantage of the people and resources for their own monetary gain. I posted about one such example the other day.

So in considering imperialistic attitudes it's only fair to reflect on what it might mean for a Chinese person to wear an African ethnicity like a costume, in a country that is frequently racist toward Africans and which is thought by many to be exploiting African nations with a form of neocolonialist debt slavery.

Particularly when said costume leads to a massive increase in the amount of racist posts on Chinese social media, and with a tone of raucous mockery and disdain.

We should consider the impact of this film on Chinese attitudes toward Africa and Africans. Based on what I've seen on Weibo, in various articles and on international social media it seems like there is a strong colonialist 'white savior' narrative coming out of this film; glorifying China as swooping in and saving these helpless Africans.

Taken alongside the horrible racism of Chinese audience reactions to the blackface, I don't think looking at it through 'the other lens' gives us a prettier picture.

If the primary category of people who are not offended by this tends to be audiences who are reacting with racist mockery, then a deeper reflection needs to happen.

All that aside, DD isn't working in a vacuum. He has been actively cultivating an international audience and working closely with international brands. He doesn't have the luxury of ignoring Western values if he wants to continue down that path.

And let's not forget that the culture he's so enamoured of is black American culture. If he loves Western hip hop culture so much it would behoove him to better understand and support the people at the root of that culture. The people who literally made it possible for him to find and enjoy that culture.

DD is a good person at heart. I feel that participation in cultural harm is beneath his dignity, and not something he'd consciously choose to do if he had a better understanding of the impacts.

When it comes to culture clash and differences in values it's also important to remember that while everyone is free to make their own choices about what they say and do, so too is everyone else free to make their own choices about how to respond to what that person says and does.

DD is a massive star, so his behavior and choices go far beyond his own cultural environment. It's inevitable that some people are going to have different takes on it all.

And I don't feel like people are telling DD what to do, so much as they're talking about what he needs to do in order to maintain their support. They're drawing out the boundaries of what they deem acceptable as fans. From there everyone has their own choices to make, including DD.

My own position

Here's the thing: I've come under loud, vehement fire from black fans for not taking a strong enough stand on this issue, while some other fans feel I'm being too hard on DD. Now you're saying I should consider the colonialist angle and reflect on whether it's even appropriate for me to think DD has anything to learn.

I can only ever be myself, and speak and act from my own values. I will always think for myself and take my own positions, no matter how unpopular they are and no matter how harshly people attack me for it (and they have).

I am capable of holding multiple conflicting perspectives in my heart and feeling compassion for them all.

I empathize with black people who ***for fuck's sake!!*** have been so thoroughly fucked over on every level and in every possible way by people around them who just don't get it about racism. Who just don't get how deep and broad and far-reaching it is and about how soul-destroying it is to live in a world where this shit is normalized.

I can't even begin to imagine how hard it must be to be a black fan who loves DD and then see him in blackface, and then watch all the fans try to gloss over it as though it doesn't matter.

I empathize with Chinese fans who are in most cases probably not at all ill-intended, whose reactions came honestly even if they were jarring to Western fans, and who have mostly found this story and its telling both exciting and moving.

I empathize with diaspora fans who are having to deal with a whole bunch of sanctimonious lectures about who DD should be and what he should think, say and do.

I empathize with the filmmakers, who after all were probably just trying to give an accurate retelling of something that actually happened in real life.

I empathize with DD, who was likely doing what was requested of him and probably didn't realize that it would turn out to be so controversial or negatively impact so many people.

Anyone who can say with a straight face that they think DD would ever intentionally or knowingly do something that would be this controversial or that would be hurtful to so many of his fans can KMA. That's not the kind of person DD is at all.

Blackface is a huge deal here in the West, and even people in this region are constantly getting it wrong. How can we expect people in regions where it's not traditionally been a big deal to do better than people here who are steeped in awareness*?

*And before anyone says that cultural relativism is such that only people in the West really think blackface is wrong, why not try talking to some of the African fans who've been deeply upset by this?

This is what it is to live in the world. Life is complex, and people are messy. Like I said before; nothing is black and white. Everything is a million shades and hues. As much as people will try to oversimplify the issue and try to intimidate us into taking 'their side', or try to punish and attack us for not doing so, we can only ever live by our own conscience.

No matter how much pressure I come under to condemn one of the individuals or groups I listed above, I will refuse to do so. My conscience tells me to be compassionate and understanding to all of them, and that everyone is always doing their best.

I hope and believe that our differing opinions can coexist. We can disagree and still be friends, as long as we remain open to accepting one another, and as long as we respect each other's right to our own conscience and values.

Merci pour cet échange d'idées intéressant. 💛.