#demand side economics

[liberalsarecool]

Government stimulus works.

Democratic policies work.

Republican supply side economics, their tax cuts, and their trickle down are all MASASIVE FAILURES. We have the proof.

Never forget, all the Democratic recovery plans and policies had zero Republican support and they all saved America. Not only that, Republicans predicted the recovery plans would not work.

Three strikes! Republicans caused the economic crisis, Republicans predicted the stimulus would not work, then they voted against the stimulus.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

February 1, 2024

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

FEB 2, 2024

One of the biggest stories of 2023 is that the U.S. economy grew faster than any other economy in the Group of 7 nations, made up of democratic countries with the world’s largest advanced economies. By a lot. The International Monetary Fund yesterday reported that the U.S. gross domestic product—the way countries estimate their productivity—grew by 2.5%, significantly higher than the GDP of the next country on the list: Japan, at 1.9%.

IMF economists predict U.S. growth next year of 2.1%, again, higher than all the other G7 countries. The Federal Reserve Bank of Atlanta projects growth of 4.2% in the first quarter of 2024.

Every time I write about the booming economy, people accurately point out that these numbers don’t necessarily reflect the experiences of everyone. But they have enormous political implications. 

President Joe Biden, Vice President Kamala Harris, Secretary of the Treasury Janet Yellen, and the Democrats embraced the idea that using the government to support ordinary Americans—those on the “demand” side of the economy—would nurture strong economic growth. Republicans have insisted since the 1980s that the way to expand the economy is the opposite: to invest in the “supply side,” investors who use their capital to build businesses. 

In the first two years of the Biden-Harris administration, while the Democrats had control of the House and Senate, they passed a range of laws to boost American manufacturing, rebuild infrastructure, protect consumers, and so on. They did so almost entirely with Democratic votes, as Republicans insisted that such investments would destroy growth, in part through inflation. 

Now that the laws are beginning to take effect, their results have proved that demand-side economic policies like those in place between 1933 and 1981, when President Ronald Reagan ushered in supply-side economics, work. Even inflation, which ran high, appears to have been driven by supply chain issues, as the administration said, and by “greedflation,” in which corporations raised prices far beyond cost increases, padding payouts for their shareholders.

The demonstration that the Democrats’ policies work has put Republicans in an awkward spot. Projects funded by the Infrastructure Investment and Jobs Act, also known as the Bipartisan Infrastructure Law, are so popular that Republicans are claiming credit for new projects or, as Representative Maria Elvira Salazar (R-FL) did on Sunday, claiming they don’t remember how they voted on the infrastructure measure and other popular bills like the CHIPS and Science Act (she voted no). When the infrastructure measure passed in 2021, just 13 House Republicans supported it. 

Today, Medicare sent its initial offers to the drug companies that manufacture the first ten drugs for which the government will negotiate prices under the Inflation Reduction Act, another hugely popular measure that passed without Republican votes. The Republicans have called for repealing this act, but their stance against what they have insisted is “socialized medicine” is showing signs of softening. In Politico yesterday, Megan Messerly noted that in three Republican-dominated states—Alabama, Georgia, and Mississippi—House speakers are saying they are now open to the idea of expanding healthcare through Medicaid expansion.

In another sign that some Republicans recognize that the Democrats’ economic policies are popular, the House last night passed bipartisan tax legislation that expanded the Child Tax Credit, which had expired last year after Senate Republicans refused to extend it. Democrats still provided most of the yea votes���188 to 169—and Republicans most of the nays—47 to 23—but, together with a tax cut for businesses in the bill, the measure was a rare bipartisan victory. If it passes the Senate, it is expected to lift at least half a million children out of poverty and help about 5 million more. 

But Republicans have a personnel problem as well as a policy problem. Since the 1980s, party leaders have maintained that the federal government needs to be slashed, and their determination to just say no has elevated lawmakers whose skill set features obstruction rather than the negotiation required to pass bills. Their goal is to stay in power to stop legislation from passing.

Yesterday, for example, Senator Chuck Grassley (R-IA), who sits on the Senate Finance Committee and used to chair it, told a reporter not to have too much faith that the child tax credit measure would pass the Senate, where Republicans can kill it with the filibuster. “Passing a tax bill that makes the president look good…means he could be reelected, and then we won’t extend the 2017 tax cuts,” Grassley said.

At the same time, the rise of right-wing media, which rewards extremism, has upended the relationship between lawmakers and voters. In CNN yesterday, Oliver Darcy explained that “the incentive structure in conservative politics has gone awry. The irresponsible and dishonest stars of the right-wing media kingdom are motivated by vastly different goals than those who are actually trying to advance conservative causes, get Republicans elected, and then ultimately govern in office.” 

Right-wing influencers want views and shares, which translate to more money and power, Darcy wrote. So they spread “increasingly outlandish, attention-grabbing junk,” and more established outlets tag along out of fear they will lose their audience. But those influencers and media hosts don’t have to govern, and the anger they generate in the base makes it hard for anyone else to, either. 

This dynamic has shown up dramatically in the House Republicans’ refusal to consider a proposed border measure on which a bipartisan group of senators had worked for four months because Trump and his extremist base turned against the idea—one that Republicans initially demanded. 

Since they took control of the House in 2023, House Republicans have been able to conduct almost no business as the extremists are essentially refusing to govern unless all their demands are met. Rather than lawmaking, they are passing extremist bills to signal to their base, holding hearings to push their talking points, and trying to find excuses to impeach the president and Secretary of Homeland Security Alejandro Mayorkas.

Yesterday the editorial board of the Wall Street Journal, which is firmly on the right, warned House Republicans that “Impeaching Mayorkas Achieves Nothing” other than “political symbolism,” and urged them to work to get a border bill passed. “Grandstanding is easier than governing, and Republicans have to decide whether to accomplish anything other than impeaching Democrats,” it said. 

Today in the Washington Post, Jennifer Rubin called the Republicans’ behavior “nihilism and performative politics.”

On CNN this morning, Representative Dan Goldman (D-NY) identified the increasing isolation of the MAGA Republicans from a democratic government. “Here we are both on immigration and now on this tax bill where President Biden and a bipartisan group of Congress are trying to actually solve problems for the American people,” Goldman said, “and Chuck Grassley, Donald Trump, Mike Johnson—they are trying to kill solutions just for political gain." 

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

[intelligentchristianlady]

If you have time for one long read this holiday weekend, make it this one.

[seat-safety-switch]

Quick: what's your favourite colour? Doesn't matter. Capitalism has conspired to eliminate it. Every car now is silver, grey, white, or black. Choice is the enemy of all free people. This improves resale value. Critically, this reduction in choice also reduces the chance that a dealership will end up with a, say, dark-blue(!) car that is totally unsellable except to the mentally ill. We gotta do our part for the dealerships, they're really hurting.

Cars used to have cool colours. For instance, I'm fairly sure that my '78 Volare was brown when it was new. You could also get it in tan, or what Plymouth audaciously called "Augusta green sunfire metallic." Daring stuff, but we had no idea that we were secretly bankrupting them. Back then, cars were ordered on demand, and you'd wait a few weeks before someone in a historically economically disadvantaged area of the USA finished spraying it with paint and put it on a train. No more of that nonsense.

That's why I joined up with a secret band of rebels. We don't want to put a name on our organization, mostly because none of us can agree on what it should be. Our job is to sneak into car dealership lots, and give the cars waiting there a high-quality paint job in extreme wacko colours like "orange" and "red." This, we believe, will eventually bankrupt the dealerships and hasten the fall of our corrupt order.

If that fails for some reason, and we are tortured to death by the politicians who obey those dealerships without question, there is a side benefit. That benefit is that we'll be able to see other cars in a snowstorm even if they forget to turn their headlights on. Is that grey blob over there a car or just another snow squall?

So when you show up to the dealership in the next couple weeks and notice that it suddenly looks a lot more colourful, you can thank us. Maybe just don't look too closely at the quality of the work. We're in a bit of a hurry, and sometimes Tapemaster Theodore doesn't do a really good job masking off the mirrors, handles, tires, and windows, so the paint gets places that it shouldn't. Hey, it's like the 1970s all over again.

[vicholas]

July 26, 2024

(...)With the Paris Games starting on July 26, Israel's killing of athletes and players in Gaza, along with its destruction of the enclave's sports facilities, has triggered mounting demands to disqualify Israel from the tournament as activists and spectators question the legitimacy of its participation.

Palestinian writers and sports commentators contend that Israel's Gaza onslaught, which has killed nearly 40,000 Palestinians, also represents an attempt to eliminate sports and athletic achievement.

"It's a genocide ... ethnic cleansing of the Palestinian people, and the attacks on athletes and sports in particular in the Gaza Strip are all very systematic attacks to obliterate and erase sports in the territory," Abubaker Abed, a Gaza-based sports journalist told Anadolu.

Israel's intentions go further than eliminating Gaza's current athletic capacity, according to writer and lecturer Abdaljawad Omar, who held that it was part of a concerted effort by Tel Aviv to undermine Palestinians' achievements in all areas, with sports being no exception.

"Israel systemically seeks to ensure that Palestinian accomplishments and potential in all realms remain dampened and always dwarfed by its own achievements.

"This applies to political, intellectual, economic, and literary fields, where historically, many talented and highly accomplished Palestinians have been targeted. Sports is no exception in this sense," he explained.  

The situation is "extremely worse" for athletes in Gaza, according to football journalist Abed, adding that many players have been killed in the territory.

According to the Palestinian Olympic Committee and Palestine Football Association, about 400 athletes have been killed since Oct. 7, with the football association noting that the war has claimed 245 players in that sport alone, including 69 children and 176 young men.

Some 33 scouts and 70 members of sports unions have also been killed.

According to the association, Israeli forces have also detained players, including 12 in the occupied West Bank.

Israel's attacks have killed several Olympians as well. Sixty-nine have been killed during Israel's ongoing assault, says the Palestinian Campaign for the Academic and Cultural Boycott of Israel, launched in 2004.  

Besides athletes, sports facilities also have not been spared. Dozens, including gyms, training halls, fields, and stadiums, have been damaged or destroyed since Oct. 7.

A total of 42 facilities have been leveled in Gaza, while seven were destroyed in the West Bank, says the Palestinian Football Association.

Abed pointed out how Israel has destroyed football schools, including the Al-Wahda Academy and the Champions Academy, which "was one of the most promising football projects" in Gaza.

He pointed out how Israel has eradicated talent in football, the most popular sport among Gaza's residents, leaving only one stadium, the Al-Dorra stadium, intact out of the enclave's 10.

Israeli forces have been seizing stadiums in Gaza and turning them into detention centers.

Human rights monitor Euro-Med highlights that the Israeli army turned the Yarmouk Stadium in Gaza City into a detention center "to hold and humiliate hundreds of Palestinians, including children, shown naked and stripped of their clothes in footage published by the Israeli media in December 2023."

A report by the group published in May indicates that facilities bulldozed and destroyed include "300 five-a-side courts, 22 swimming courts, 12 covered sports halls for basketball, volleyball, and handball, and six tennis stadiums.

"Twenty-eight sports and fitness centers have been targeted, damaged, and destroyed."  

Israel's offensive has also caused the death of prominent players in Gaza.

This includes Palestine's first-ever Olympian and flagbearer, Majed Abu Maraheel, who died due to kidney failure in a refugee camp in June.

The 61-year-old Olympic distance runner died as Israel's ongoing blockade of humanitarian assistance left many, including Maraheel, lacking medical treatment and facilities.

Maraheel had competed in the men's 10,000-meter race at the 1996 Atlanta Olympic Games.

In January, the Palestinian Olympic football team's coach Hani Al-Mossader was killed in an Israeli airstrike.

The same month, Nagham Abu Samra, a karate champion who was set to participate in the Paris Olympics, died in a hospital in Egypt after succumbing to her injuries.

She had been severely wounded by an Israeli attack that left her with head injuries and led to the amputation of one of her legs.

(...)With hours left until the Paris 2024 Games' opening ceremony, experts are still questioning the International Olympic Committee's (IOC) decision to keep Israel in the tournament.

"Athletes, whether footballers ... whatever the sport is, they don't belong to political factions ... they are targeted and are illegitimate targets for Israeli forces, and this is absolutely prohibited by all international laws and all FIFA regulations," says Abed.

He argued that Israel's actions show that it lacks the Olympic values of peace, tolerance, forgiveness, love, and sportsmanship.

"So, how could Israel even participate in the Olympics?" he asked.

Russia, meanwhile, has been banned from Olympic and FIFA tournaments after it launched its war on Ukraine in 2022, noted Abed, who maintained that Moscow's actions in that conflict were mild compared to the devastation Israel has caused in Gaza.

This "disgraceful stance," he asserts, revealed the hypocrisy of the IOC, as well as the world governing body for football.

The organizers of this year's Olympics have said their decision to keep Israel in the Games while upholding the ban on Russia and Belarus is due to Moscow's annexation of Ukrainian territory, while Tel Aviv has not formally seized territory in Gaza.

Fadi Quran, senior director at US-based rights group Avaaz, said the Olympics and the IOC's current leadership will be remembered for "turning a blind eye to a country committing what the ICJ ruled is a plausible genocide, and said is apartheid."

He was referring to a preliminary ruling by the International Court of Justice that recognized genocide as a plausible risk in Gaza. Israel stands accused of genocide at the top UN court, which in its latest ruling has ordered Tel Aviv to immediately halt its operation in the southern city of Rafah, where over a million Palestinians had sought refuge from the war before it was invaded on May 6.

Quran expects that athletes will protest Israel's presence at the Olympics and fans will boycott events where the Israeli flag is raised.

"Now that the IOC has refused to ban Israel, activists across the world will take action to ensure that the Paris Olympics are branded as the 'Apartheid Olympics,' or 'War Crime Olympics'," he said.

According to Abed, it will take a decade to revive sports in the Gaza Strip.

"The war on Gaza has changed everything. The war on Gaza has killed the dreams of many."

[pricetagged]

Idk how to label this. Wifehunter John?

The idea of possessive/obsessive John manipulating a situation and stealing a wife for himself struck me, so just coughing the idea up while I sneak away for a coffee before I actually have to start work in 20 mins 💖 entirely unedited, abrupt ending

________

For someone married to his job, he has put quite a bit of thought into what he is looking for in a wife. Namely, that she's already married.

His reasoning is threefold. He can admit to himself, firstly, that it satisfies his need for control. Competency. He's a busy man with a demanding job. Not quite retired yet, no time to build his own from scratch. With this, he gets a wife boxed up and ready-trained. Broken in.

Secondly, the need for control bleeds into his saviour complex. She'll need a shoulder to cry on, someone strong and capable to get her back on her feet. She'll be feeling a little fragile. Needy. Perfect.

And thirdly, it does something wild to his jealous, possessive streak. The idea of taking something precious, of breaking her bond to another man and tying it to him? Delicious. The idea that she used to be someone else's, that he has to imprint himself onto her knowing that in doing so he is erasing the imprint of another man? It has his teeth aching, grinding even as heat rises in his belly. Stirs at him.

The idea swirls lazily in the back of his mind, never quite finding the right time or right partner. He bats at it a few times, lazy cat playing with the notion, seeing how far it can stretch before it snaps. Eyes up pretty things everywhere he goes, glancing down at their left hands just to check, but nothing quite tugs on that string. Until one day it does when he's outfitting the security system at your house.

It's side work. Cash in hand, word of mouth. Something to keep him busy when on mandated leave. Something to keep in mind as his retirement from active duty creeps closer. And your husband is a real piece of work, all blustering braggadocio energy. Young buck, not knowing his place in the herd. Not knowing that he'd be better scratching his antlers off on a tree than going head-to-head with a gristled thing like John.

It's like John's energy, his presence in the house, sends alarm bells ringing in your husband's mind (Be the man. Don't back down. Puff up your chest and strut). And it plays so perfectly into John's hands because your young buck doesn't realise that what he's really doing is fawning. To John. (Look at me, be impressed by me!) He makes his biggest mistake in putting you down in front of him, trying to sidle up to John and create some kind of desperate camaraderie. Ordering you to bring tea to the men at work. Rolling his eyes at your attempts to talk, to ask questions about the work being done. Waving you off so he can stand and watch the proceedings. Like he could supervise. Like he has any clue what he's doing.

Only the promise of the long game keeps John from levelling him with a hard look, from calling him outblike he'd love to.

He hears you both in the in the other room, having swatted the young buck off like a particularly virulent pest. Noisy and bothersome. Not needed - or wanted- in this home. And entirely too stupid to realise that John wasn't being jocular in his dismissal.

You've been scribbling away for the past few days, something occupying your time, keeping you happy and hidden away in the kitchen.

"You're not serious, are you?"

"Well, yes," he hears the slight quaver in your voice before you find your footing. You've got at least a bit of spine. Good. "You said that I should find an occupation. Not just 'laze around the house playing housewife'. This is what I-"

"Oh come on, I didn't mean- You don't think that this is viable, do you?"

"Well... I love gardening. And I'm good at it. And there's no reason that it can't be more accessible for people, especially with the current economic-"

He cuts you off with a scoff. "Dear, just- I don't want you to be disappointed. I think you don't quite understand the time and effort this will take. And you know nothing of marketing, publishing. Why don't you put that away and start on dinner?"

And oh, isn't that delicious. He can taste it now, that idea that has been swirling. It's thick, almost tangible on his tongue. The tension in the house, the bitter lacryma of stifled tears. The slight acidity of words you left unsaid. It has his mouth watering, pupils dilating.

And when he's packing up that evening, tools and materials tucked in to the heavy workman's case, he swings by the kitchen on his way out. Catches the way something is jutting out slightly from the bin, lid slightly askew. When he pulls it out he realises it's some kind of notebook, carefully (lovingly) bound. Pictures pasted, mindmaps and notes and plans scribbled in the margins. Your gardening tips. Kitchen scraps, window boxes, rooftop plots. Urban gardening. It's deeply thoughtful, well researched.

A labour of love, lying in the rubbish.

Sweet, clever little thing. That just won't do.

He leaves your house with a little piece of you tucked away in his toolkit and a nice plan forming. He'll be back, of course, not quite finished with his work. He'd planted a few little links into the system he'd almost installed, projecting not just to the monitor in your home but also in his. Got to keep his eyes on you, keep you safe and cared for in ways that your useless husband can't.

Finding that book was a boon. He'd say it was divinely ordained if he believed in all that. It weighs heavy in his toolbox as he whistles out the door.

Now, how to get you alone and return it to you..

________________

This idea may have been done before? I'm not sure, sorry! I've seen a lot of possessive John floating around. Tagging @stellewriites because I said I would last time, and you've been so encouraging of my nonsense.

Anyway I've got like 4 long-form WIPs that I'm working on, so I may never actually write this one but thought I'd share since that image set I just reblogged made me feral 💖

[milkteabinniechan]

♡Lessons Learned - Hyunjin

MINORS DNI 18+ONLY MEMBERSHIP//M.LIST

pairing: tutor! Hyunjin x fem! reader

summary: if you fail this midterm, you're screwed. Thankfully, your counselor set you up with a tutor who's willing to help you out and he has a very interesting way of rewarding you whenever you answer a question right.

warnings: public sex, fingering, dom/sub dynamic, oral sex (f.rec)

Come on, Ace. You can do it.

You signed up for an introduction to economics class thinking it would be simple. It wasn't what you wanted to do, but you still needed the credit to graduate. You found the number of a tutor on the bulletin board in your common room and decided to give it a call.

“Yeah?” The voice on the other end sounded groggy and irritated.

“Hi! I saw your number and thought that maybe you could tut-”

“What time?” His voice spat at your ear.

“Oh! Uh, I'm free tomorrow afternoon. Does that work? Or we could-”

You were cut off again. He told you to meet him at the University library late afternoon tomorrow. Hwang Hyunjin. What a tool.

The next day you arrived at the library early. You wanted a table by the window and knew how coveted the seating could get. You placed your books around the table and tapped your pencil impatiently against your thigh. Hyunjin showed up exactly when he said he would. He wore glasses and a loose-fitting sweater vest over a short sleeved polo. His hair was messy and unkempt but you couldn't help but notice how incredible he smelled. Like vanilla and fresh cut cedarwood

The two of you met like that for days; with you showing up early and Hyunjin trying to explain the basics of economics. But you couldn't seem to grasp the concept. It was difficult to concentrate when he would lean in close to you, his breath tickling your ear as he spoke.

Come on, Ace. You can do it.

You would bite the eraser of your pencil anxiously. He has to know how gorgeous he was. He has to have girls chasing him all over campus. Sometimes when he would explain a formula or application, you could just stare at his mouth. You would watch his touch flick and bounce as he enunciated his words. Your thighs would squeeze together involuntarily at the thought of his touch moving and twisting around your mouth or your hardened sensitive nipples.

Come on, Ace. You can do it.

Every once and a while you would catch him staring at your breasts. Or he would catch you staring at his hands. More and more tension was building between the two of you without you getting any closer to understanding the assignments.

One day, Hyunjin leaned back in his seat, crossing one leg over the other.

"Well, let's do something a bit... different, shall we? How about we use a more practical application?”

You perked up in your chair and tilted your head curiously.

“What did you have in mind?”

Hyunjin grinned mischievously.

“How about we focus on the concept of supply and demand?” Hyunjin leaned in closer, lowering his voice.

"For instance, if I were to... touch you in places you wouldn't expect, how would you react? Would you push me away, or…?”

Your heart clenched in your chest and your hands gripped the edge of the table.

“I…I guess I don't know what I'd do.” You lied.

“Exactly, you don't know. And that's what makes it so interesting." Hyunjin reached out, gently brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

"Let's conduct a little experiment. I'll demonstrate the concept of supply and demand, and you can observe and react accordingly.”

Before you could answer him, Hyunjin stood up and walked over to your side of the table, kneeling down in front of you.

"Alright, let's start with the supply side of things.” He placed his hands on your knees and slowly started to push them apart.

"As the supply increases, the demand often increases as well.

You held your breath; quickly looking around the library to see if anyone else had noticed Hyunjin's new position in front of you. Hyunjin grinned wickedly as he continued to push your legs apart, moving his body between them.

"You're blushing. Your breathing is getting faster. See how the demand is rising?” He leaned in closer, his face just inches from yours.

You nod your head slowly, your entire body completely entranced with the feeling of his hands on your thighs. Hyunjin's grin grew wider, his hands continuing their exploration.

"Mmm, the demand is high, isn't it?" His hand slid up further, tracing the edge of your underwear.

"And what if I were to... slip my hand inside? Would you push me away or pull me closer?”

“Closer…” you whispered meekly.

Hyunjin’s hand slipped inside your underwear and his fingers made quick work of gently caressing your most intimate area. He let out a low, satisfied groan as he felt the slick excitement that was already leaking out of you. Hyunjin looked up at you, his grin wicked.

"Look at you... taking it so well. You're a natural, Ace." His fingers continued their rhythm, his pace quickening slightly.

"And now, what if I were to... curve my fingers just…”

He slowly slid his fingers in and out, his thumb gently rubbing that sensitive bundle of nerves as his middle finger curved and curled. Your walls clenched around his slender finger, your hand now clasped like a vice over your mouth.

Hyunjin smirked at your reaction.

"Found your sweet spot, haven't I?" His fingers continued to stroke that spot, his thumb still rubbing your swollen clit.

"And now, if I were to... lean down and lick you while my fingers are inside you…”

Your head shot up and you glared down at him, your face turning redder by the second.

“Here?! Now?!” You growled. You loved how he was making you feel but you had never done anything so public before.

"Yes, here." Hyunjin said firmly, his eyes locked onto yours.

"I'm going to lick your perfect pussy while I finger you, and you're going to let me, aren't you?"

Hyunjin leaned down, his mouth hovering over your clothed folds before pulling your underwear to the side and licking you in one long, sweeping motion.

You moaned softly into your hand. Your body was feeling like it was on fire. Every nerve ending has been activated and needed stimulation. You tried your best to stay still, to make it look like nothing was happening. To convey the facade that this gorgeous man wasn't absolutely devouring you inside a library. The silence around you was glaringly apparent as Hyunjin gently coaxed your clit into his mouth and gently sucked on it. His fingers continued to curl and stroke your needy insides, his other hand still holding your leg in place. He looked up at you, his eyes shining with desire as sucked and pulled hungrily at your slick folds.

"Look at you... so pretty…”

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[natsaffection]

I’m sorry if this is too much to ask

I recently went through a breakup with my girlfriend (recently as in last night) and I need some Natty fluff and comfort. For an idea reader and nat are bestfriends and have been through S.H.I.E.L.D for many years before Nat was promoted to an Avenger and reader was left behind as an agent.

Reader broke up with their relationship a day before Nat got home from a mission(clarification that nat n reader share apartments) injured and its just the two worrying about eachother to mindlessly cuddle and comfort eachother.

could add in soft sex for plot but ill let you decide the rest 😞✊

Held Together. | N.R

Warnings: friends brake up, injury

Word count: 2,3k

A/n: Hey you. I know this isn't going to help you much, and I definitely want to lend you my ear if you ever want to talk about things like this. I know how it feels, and I also know that saying it will get better doesn't exactly help. So please don't hesitate to write to me. 🩵

The first time you saw Natasha, you were both in the S.H.I.E.L.D. training facility, hidden deep within the confines of a classified location. The facility was stark, all concrete walls and fluorescent lighting, with the faint scent of sweat and determination lingering in the air. You were new, just another recruit with a mysterious past, handpicked for reasons that weren't fully explained to you. But then again, secrecy was the foundation of S.H.I.E.L.D., and you had learned quickly that questions were often better left unasked.

Natasha stood out immediately. Not just because of her striking red hair, which seemed to catch the light even in the dullest corners of the room, but because of the aura of quiet confidence she exuded. She moved with a precision that spoke of years of experience, each step deliberate, each movement economical. It was clear that she was in a league of her own. But it wasn’t her skill that drew you to her, it was the look in her eyes. Beneath the stoic mask, there was a flicker of something familiar, something you recognized in yourself. The guarded pain of someone who had seen too much, too soon. The training sessions were brutal. S.H.I.E.L.D. didn’t coddle its recruits, and you were pushed to your limits, physically and mentally. But every time you faltered, Natasha was there, a silent presence at your side, pushing you to keep going. She wasn’t the type to offer comforting words or a reassuring pat on the back, but her actions spoke louder than any words could. She trained with you, sparred with you, and when you were both covered in bruises and gasping for breath, she would sit with you in the quiet moments, a rare smile tugging at her lips.

Over time, what began as mutual respect grew into something deeper. You found yourself seeking her out, not just in training but outside of it. Late nights in the common room, nursing cups of coffee and talking about everything and nothing at all. You learned that Natasha wasn’t just a hardened spy. She was fiercely intelligent, with a dry wit that could cut through any tension. She had a past that she kept close to the vest, but in those quiet moments, she would let slip little pieces of herself, and you would do the same. It was during one of those late-night conversations that you both discovered just how much you had in common. You shared a dark sense of humor, born from lives that had demanded you grow up too fast. You both knew what it was like to be used as a tool, to have your choices stripped away, and to fight tooth and nail to reclaim some semblance of control.

The turning point in your friendship came during a mission in Prague. You had been sent in as backup for Natasha, who was deep undercover, trying to extract a high-value target from an enemy compound. The mission had gone south, bad intel, compromised routes, everything that could go wrong did. Natasha was pinned down, outgunned and outnumbered, and for a brief, heart-stopping moment, you thought you might lose her. But you didn’t hesitate. You stormed the compound, using every skill you had learned, every lesson drilled into you during those grueling training sessions. You fought your way to her, the two of you battling side by side, back to back, until you managed to extract the target and make your escape.

When you were safely back at the extraction point, covered in dust and blood, Natasha had turned to you, her eyes fierce with a mix of adrenaline and gratitude. She didn’t say anything, but the look she gave you was all you needed. From that moment on, you were partners in every sense of the word. There was an unspoken understanding between you..a bond forged in the heat of battle, one that neither of you questioned. Over the years, that bond only grew stronger. You became the team that everyone wanted on their mission, the pair that could get the job done no matter the odds. You were the calm to her storm, the steady hand that balanced her fierce determination. And she was your anchor, the one person you knew you could rely on, no matter what.

But it wasn’t all about the missions. There were moments of light in the darkness inside jokes that no one else understood, late-night movies when you both should have been sleeping, and the kind of trust that only came from knowing someone inside and out. You knew her favorite coffee order, the songs she hummed when she thought no one was listening, and the way she always checked her weapons twice before a mission, even when she didn’t need to. And she knew you, knew the nightmares that woke you in the middle of the night, the reason you kept your distance from most people, and the way you always carried that one memento from your past, a small token of a life you barely remembered. She never pushed, never pried, but her presence was a constant reassurance, a reminder that you weren’t alone in this world.

Then came the day when everything shifted. Natasha was summoned to Nick office a meeting that would change the course of both your lives. When she emerged, she looked different, as if a weight had been lifted off her shoulders, but there was something else too a distance, a sense of something slipping away. She told you about the Avengers, about the offer Fury had made. You could see the excitement in her eyes, the way her posture straightened as she spoke about it. And why wouldn’t she be excited? It was a chance to be part of something bigger, something that could change the world. You listened, nodded in all the right places, and when she asked what you thought, you plastered on a smile and told her how proud you were.

But inside, your heart ached. You knew that things would never be the same. You didn’t want to hold her back, didn’t want to be the reason she missed out on something extraordinary, but the thought of losing the connection you shared filled you with a dread you couldn’t shake. And slowly, that fear began to materialize.

As Natasha got more involved with the Avengers, the calls became less frequent, the visits even more so. You found yourself spending more time alone, throwing yourself into missions to drown out the loneliness. The once unbreakable bond you shared felt like it was fraying, the threads pulling apart one by one. The more you tried to reach out, the more distant she seemed, until one day, you realized that the Natasha you knew was almost a stranger to you now. She had new friends, new responsibilities, a new life. And where you once stood side by side, you were now watching from the sidelines, unsure of where you fit in her world anymore.

But the memories remained. Every time you walked past the training room, you could almost hear the echoes of your past conversations, the laughter that once filled the empty spaces. The ghost of what you had once had lingered, haunting you in the quiet moments. You didn’t know what the future held for you and Natasha, but one thing was certain: the bond you had shared was changing, evolving into something you couldn’t yet understand. And as much as it hurt, you knew that you had to find your place in this new reality, even if it meant doing it without her by your side.

The apartment felt too quiet, the silence oppressive as you sat on the edge of the bed, staring blankly at the empty walls. Your things were mostly packed, boxes lining the hallway, and the last remnants of your life here waiting to be sealed up and carried away. You had made your decision the day before, the weight of it still sitting heavily in your chest.

You had ended it. Ended the friendship, the partnership, the life you had built with Natasha. The pain of watching her drift further away into her new life as an Avenger had become too much to bear. Every day had been a reminder of how much you were losing her, and it had finally reached a breaking point. You couldn’t stand being the one left behind anymore, always wondering when or if things would go back to the way they were. So, you had left a note on the kitchen table, explaining as best you could, trying to make her understand why you needed to leave, why you couldn’t keep living in the shadow of her new world. You couldn’t bring yourself to say it to her face, not after everything you’d been through together, so you had written the words, packed your things, and left the apartment.

But now, sitting in the empty space you once called home, the reality of what you’d done settled in, and it hurt more than you could have imagined. You didn’t want to leave, didn’t want to give up on what you had with Natasha, but you didn’t see any other way to protect your heart from breaking further. It was supposed to be simple. You would leave, and Natasha would come back to an empty apartment, read the note, and understand. She’d move on, and so would you. That was the plan.

Except plans never go the way you expect them to.

The sound of the front door creaking open jolted you from your thoughts. Your heart stopped as you heard footsteps heavy, uneven. Natasha was back. You weren’t supposed to be here. You were supposed to be gone, far away, already beginning the process of moving on. But you couldn’t bring yourself to leave. Not yet. You stood up, feeling your heart race as you heard Natasha’s familiar footsteps drawing closer. When she finally appeared in the doorway, your breath caught in your throat. She looked exhausted, her skin pale, and there was a grimace on her face that she couldn’t quite hide.

But what really terrified you was the blood on her jacket and the way she was cradling her side as if trying to hold herself together. “Natasha..” you whispered, the word barely audible as the shock of seeing her like this hit you. Her eyes flicked up to meet yours, and for a moment, she just stared, as if trying to process that you were really there. “Y/n..?”

“You’re hurt.” you said, your voice trembling as you took a closer look. "It’s not as bad as it looks..” she replied, trying to offer a reassuring smile, but it faltered as she winced in pain. “Stop pretending.” you snapped, though your voice was laced more with worry than anger. “Why didn’t you go to the medbay?”

Natasha shook her head, letting out a strained sigh “I just..needed to come home.” she said softly, her eyes flickering around the room, taking in the packed boxes, the half-empty closet. “I thought you would be gone..?” The words hung in the air between you, heavy and filled with the tension of everything that had happened, everything that hadn’t been said.

“I was supposed to be..” you admitted. “Come here, let me help you with that.” She didn’t resist as you guided her to the bed, her breaths coming in shallow gasps as she tried to stay composed. You carefully unzipped her jacket, wincing at the sight of the blood-soaked bandages underneath. It wasn’t the worst injury you’d seen her with, but it was bad enough to make your hands shake as you reached for the first aid kit. She winced as you peeled the blood-soaked fabric away, revealing a nasty gash along her side. It wasn’t life-threatening, but it was deep enough to require stitches.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were hurt?” you asked, your voice thick with emotion as you began to clean the wound, trying to keep your hands steady. “I didn’t want you to worry..” Natasha replied, her voice barely above a whisper. “But I guess that plan didn’t work out too well.”

“Damn it, Natasha..” you muttered, blinking back tears as you worked. “You can’t just..you can’t just keep doing this. Keeping things from me. Pushing me away.”

“I wasn’t trying to push you away.” she said, her voice breaking slightly. “I just..I didn’t know how to handle all of this. You, the Avengers, everything. I thought I could balance it all, but I was wrong.” You paused, your breath hitching as the weight of her words settled over you. “Nat-” you started, but she cut you off.

“I read your note.” she said, her eyes glistening as she looked down at you. “I know why you left, and I can’t blame you. I’ve been so caught up in everything else that I forgot about the one person who’s always been there for me. And now I’m scared I’ve lost you.” Tears slipped down your cheeks as you finished dressing her wound, your hands lingering on her skin for a moment longer than necessary. “You haven’t lost me.” you whispered, your voice shaking. “But I can’t keep living like this, Natasha. It’s tearing me apart..”

She reached out, her hand trembling as she cupped your cheek, her thumb brushing away your tears. “I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice breaking. “I never wanted to hurt you.” You leaned into her touch, closing your eyes as the warmth of her hand seeped into your skin. “I know.” you whispered. “But things have to change. We can’t keep going like this.”

Natasha nodded, her own tears spilling over as she pulled you into a gentle embrace, her arms wrapping around you as if she was afraid to let go. You buried your face in her shoulder, the scent of her familiar, comforting even through the layers of blood and sweat. You both held on to each other as if it was the only thing keeping you grounded, the only thing keeping you from falling apart. For a long time, neither of you spoke. The silence was filled with the sound of your combined breaths, the rise and fall of your chests in sync, the steady beat of her heart against your ear. “I don’t want to lose you..” you whispered, your voice trembling with the weight of everything you hadn’t said.

“You won’t.” she promised, her voice filled with quiet determination. “I won’t let you.” There was a moment of silence, thick with unspoken emotions, and then, before you could second-guess yourself, you leaned in, pressing your lips softly to hers. The kiss was tender, hesitant, as if you were both afraid to break the fragile connection between you. But the moment your lips met, it was like something inside you both clicked into place, the distance and the pain melting away, replaced by the familiar warmth of being with each other. Natasha kissed you back, her lips moving slowly, carefully, as if savoring the moment. When you finally pulled away, you rested your forehead against hers, your breaths mingling in the small space between you.

“I’m sorry..” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “Shh..” Natasha murmured, her hand moving to the back of your neck, pulling you closer. “We’ll figure it out.” You nodded, unable to speak as you felt the tears slipping down your cheeks. Natasha gently wiped them away, her touch so soft it made your heart ache. You didn’t know what the future held for you both, but in this moment, with her arms around you and her lips still tingling from the kiss, you felt a glimmer of hope.

Carefully, you helped her lie down on the bed, her head resting on the pillow as you pulled the blanket over her. But before you could move away, Natasha caught your hand, her grip surprisingly strong despite her exhaustion. “Stay with me.” she whispered, her eyes pleading. You nodded, your heart swelling with emotion as you crawled into bed beside her. Natasha immediately curled into you, her head resting on your chest, her arm draped over your waist. You wrapped your arms around her, holding her close, as if you were afraid she might slip away if you let go.

The two of you lay there in silence, the only sound the soft rhythm of your breathing and the steady beat of your hearts. The tension, the hurt, the fear..it all seemed to fade away as you held each other, the warmth of her body against yours a balm to the wounds that had been festering between you for so long. You pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head, your fingers gently stroking her hair as she sighed contentedly against you. “I love you, Nat..” you whispered, the words slipping out before you could stop them. “I love you too.” she murmured, her voice filled with so much tenderness it made your heart ache. You tightened your hold on her, burying your face in her hair as you let the weight of the day finally slip away. For the first time in a long time, you felt a sense of peace, a sense of hope that maybe, just maybe, you could find your way back to each other. And as you both drifted off to sleep, wrapped up in each other’s arms, you knew that whatever challenges lay ahead, you would face them together.

[jozor-johai]

Sometimes I think it's underrated how much of Westeros we see during wartime. Amidst all of the discourse back and forth over whether the brutality of ASOIAF has a "realistic" basis in real-life feudal history, I think the fact that we're seeing Westeros in a very atypical and specific circumstance should not go overlooked, and I think in that regard there are parts that are "realistic" to modern history, let alone feudal.

For instance, in regards to the complaints about how many women are sex workers in ASOIAF—I think that has more to say about the nature of the wartime economy.

War breaks out; as a result, the regular economy halts. This is the result of various blockades, as well as from the workforce being redirected away from production and towards standing armies—fewer farms are being maintained, and fewer still are making it across wartime boundaries. Another side effect, then, is the trouble when this economic situation interacts with the practical existence of a standing army: massive amounts of young men, either single or separated from their families, drawing disproportionately on the limited resources of the farmland around them (which is being worked at a less-efficient rate than usual to begin with).

The army—comprised of young men—creates a demand for sex that interacts with the overflowing supply of young women without stable income (since this is an incredibly patriarchal society and the men in their lives have been taken away from work for military service). Without better jobs available, and with the market right there, these women turn to sex work, which syrockets. But of course they would, and of course it seems like every smallfolk woman we meet in ASOIAF is doing it: because people have to eat and feed their families, and the fields to plow have been burned by war, and the people who would work them have either been taken for military service or killed by war. It's exceedingly likely that sex work wasn't as widespread before the war so the increase in the need for sex workers represents the failing economy—consider the overabundance of sex workers in ACOK King's Landing, which was under a trade blockade from almost all fronts.

Then, the pendulum swings back the other direction: this is an unsustainable economy and an unsustainable way to live, so there is a reactionary religious response demanding a return to the way things were before (pre-war, in effect, but never separating this from the "social ills" that war results in). The women are blamed for their behavior, despite being demanded by the men around them and made necessary by the economy, and so this reactionary response leads to a religious condemnation of the "wanton" behavior of women.

The religious response in particular gains traction because organized religion offers several very meaningful things that otherwise solve these problems. We see from Septon Meribald toting his goods that the Faith offers charity to the starving. We see with the Sparrows, and personally with Lancel how the Faith offers a sense of meaning to those disenchanted by this strife. We see from the Sparrows and the rise of the High Sparrow how the organized religion of the Faith also offers a means of returning power to the disenfranchised.

So GRRM is achieving something unnervingly realistic here, showing what happens to local economies under wartime and the lingering horror that is left behind—a scenario that is still true of modern war, even if Americans don't have to see it personally. GRRM lived through Vietnam, and the influence is obvious in how the invading American military practiced rape and forced dubiously-consensual sex work onto the local economy.

It's also realistic how organized religion gains traction in scenarios where disenfranchised peoples need sources of hope and methods of organizing to regain what little power is available to them, and how organized religion can leverage a desire for better times into moral condemnation that fuels its rise to increasing levels of de jure power. It will be interesting to see in TWOW and beyond where the trajectory of the High Sparrow leads these people (and what that says about GRRM's observations and interpretations about modern historical parallels).

[metamatar]

ok. so. baby's first moral philosophy in war. moral consequentialism apparently demands not fighting any war where you don’t have as many weapons as the other side. but first of all that denies like? actual history especially because we have a history of so called unwinnable wars where under resourced sides beat more powerful ones, specifically in anti colonial contexts vietnam, algeria etc. there is a whole philosophy and history of tactics for the underdog which even dilettantes like me know. like you can do a careful analysis of palestinian firepower and conclude that now was not the right time, but you certainly cannot conclude that the time for palestine is never. if you choose to only fight when you can match in conventional firepower, you also lose the opportunity to economically weaken the powerful state. holding fire till you believe you can win every objective is a very short termist view. war is a long theater.

not all people who recognise the value of anti colonial liberation movements do it bc they're idealists who valorise the power of doing the right thing. conceding the possibility of winning before trying to win is conceding that the powerful only get more powerful and we should just leave them to it. sadly for you nietschzean freaks, history proved you false. why don't you advocate for the rights of kings?

[tanadrin]

I know there are only so many ways to phrase the insight "Tsar Nicholas II has no idea what he was doing" in a way that makes it interesting, but I do wonder what the endgame of Nicholas and the reactionaries really was in Russia in the 1900s and 1910s. Let's say he's right about everything: let's say orthodoxy, autocracy, and nationality can work as an ideology, that the Tsarist state isn't a creaking old half-rotted machine that has embarrassingly poor capacity (and stops abruptly above the local level relevant to 75% of the population), let's say all your loyal-but-reformist-ministers like Witte and Stolypin are wrong, conditions are fine, this agitation really is the pernicious influence of foreigners and Jews, and "true Russians" (whatever that means) really do love you.

You still got your ass kicked by the Japanese, you still rule a country which is embarrassingly poor given its size and population, your tiny middle class still has very little capital to invest in industry because all the surplus is getting hoovered up by your nobles and you, personally. Russia, as a military and economic engine to which your family's fortunes are irrevocably yoked (unless you abdicate and go into exile, which we all know you won't), is still well behind other European great powers, and the next big war you fight against a peer nation is going to go even worse than the one with Japan, if it happens in your backyard--which is inevitable, because you are playing great power politics like you are the German Kaiser, and not the Russian Tsar.

So what is your endgame? Stagnate forever? I guess this is demanding too much from a man who genuinely thought God was on his side, who was totally out of touch with the events of the day, and whose interest in the affairs of state far outstripped his understanding of those affairs. But there were a lot of reactionaries in Russia in those days, who seemed to share Nicholas's passion for stasis and autocracy. And no matter how many anti-semitic conspiracies you fund in occupied Poland, it's not gonna keep the Prussians at bay come 1914! And it's not like he didn't have a ton of loyal ministers who were 1000% on board with a strong monarchy and who also had clever ideas on how to improve state capacity and expand industry.

[mclalan]

Corp Zomphis, 2020s Design Speculation

I want to talk about Corp Memphis again— that corporate style of gangly, dead-eyed characters trapped in a neoliberal purgatory, posed between pot plants and spreadsheets.

I don't need to go too far into describing it. Heaven knows there are already so many takes on it that you're probably sick of hearing about it. However, I think a succinct description of it can be found at the end of that Wired magazine article from a few years back:

Wired: Corporate Memphis: The Tech Industry’s Favourite New Art Style

"But, despite all this, it may not be worth lamenting the immense reach of Corporate Memphis or the design possibilities we’ve been deprived of because of it. The style is, after all, simply a reflection of big tech, and how it has constructed a world with users on one side and executives on the other.

A more interesting and visually rich digital space would mean more than coming up with a new illustration style—it would require a change in how the tech economy is run. Until then, Corporate Memphis is likely to stick around, bendy arms and all."

This touches on why Corporate Memphis looks the way it does: it's a reflection of the material reality it's made in and the economic conditions it serves.

To work in a design job today often involves being a "multi-practitioner"— corp speak for a jack of all trades. You might have multiple platforms to manage, need to create a mix of media (motion graphics, branding, illustrations, etc.), and produce multiple pieces of content, all for some pointless product consumed by placated consumers.

And that’s all in a day's work, to be repeated the next. It's gruelling, unforgiving, mind-numbing work—especially if you take pride in what you do. Life doesn't become easier, but it does become bearable if the medium you're working in isn't fighting against you. A style that can work across platforms, can be easy enough for anyone in the department to use, but versatile enough to allow effort when there's time and money. It's homogeneous to the point where the messy, qualitative complications of art direction don't come into play. You can download a vector stock or make it in-house with relative ease and speed, and it looks good enough. The consumer, despite being fatigued by it all, seems to find it good enough. And that's what marks the style really: it's "good enough." It's a style linked to speed and practicality in the face of intense demand and pressure, low industry wages, accessible skills for entry levels, and high corporate barriers as everything's locked within Adobe's infrastructure.

But its strength as this homogeneous vector glob style, with its lack of any real individual identity, is also its biggest weakness. Although I'm sure some designers might enjoy working in this style, it's not really a style designed for creative individual expression. It's called "corporate" for a reason. If you want something different, you might be tempted to try freelancing...

Outside the corporate design department, you might think you're finally free to create in your own style, no longer having to work in that dreaded Corporate Memphis one anymore. But it’s hard enough to work in your own individual style under the best of circumstances. That's because the whole economy is based on the same structures of endless content production for algorithmically optimised consumption that allowed Corp Memphis to thrive, so you're still facing familiar obstacles—creating vast amounts of content, quickly, for wide and insatiable consumer audiences. So, in a way, we have this algorithm-enforced market of content, favouring those who have optimised their style to be better seen by it. It's no wonder Corporate Memphis has endured past its welcome.

However, despite all that, illustrators and artists still plod on. They end up making stuff, somehow navigating these systems— either playing them like a fiddle, outright rejecting them, or going accelerationist about it, like with something such as Corecore. Self-expression can take many forms, and that potential untapped capital value is tantalisingly mouthwatering to corporate capitalists.

Corp Memphis is optimised to a fault. It's too polished, too automated, and fits too well with the well-oiled design apparatus. Thus, it's developed a semiotics to reflect this—it's cheap and it's perceived as cheap. That's why an art director (typically) won’t just stick some Corp Memphis imagine on an album cover or use it to illustrate a particular lifestyle magazine. It wouldn't suit it, it's signalling the wrong stuff. Culture, art, ideas, aesthetics are reflected in work created by practitioners with an artistic vision, or that taps into what's going on in the present. And this is reflected in their art style, something Corp Memphis can't easily do, if at all.

That's why there's still a kind of fringe freelance industry with a speciality in design identity, otherwise known in the industry as "creatives", albeit small and closely gatekept by the likes of legacy institutions such as Goldsmiths and corporate industry leaders like The HudsonBec Group. If a corporation needs design to be spiced up with some kind of creative identity, it'll turn to these agencies or freelancers from this background rather than use Corp Memphis.

But the sad thing is how a corporation doesn't have total control over the process and thus can't control the value and pricing since they have to deal with hiring these pesky freelancers. But how does a corporation even know who to hire? With moodboards, of course! It’s easier to hire someone in-house with "good taste," who can simply curate hot practitioners to hire, like a dragon collecting .png gems. Although a corporation will try to get the best deal it can, these pesky freelancers can potentially negotiate a price for themselves, especially if they’re some big shot who holds a lot of cultural capital.

But another benefit of a moodboard is that it can be converted into a design guide. Simply share the sorts of designers and illustrators that a corporation dreams of hiring but with a cheaper designer, and ask if they can copy the desired style for less. Failing that, they can just outright steal the style anyway. If the creator is small enough, who cares?

But the value and cultural capital that corporations must seek outside their infrastructure, the very thing Corp Memphis cannot do, comes at the price of what Corp Memphis can do. Freelancers are annoying to corporations. They’re inconsistent, outside their remit, and expensive—since any level of lost capital is an expense. And worse of all, they don’t own them. Work made in-house in a corporation is completely theirs to be used forever, however they see fit. A freelance gig is limited to the contract, and typically you have to keep paying for different uses, or pay a lot if it’s expected to be used for something big.

How dare these skilled workers... sorry, freelancers, leverage themselves. If only we, the corporation, could control and treat the work of freelanced art direction like we do Corporate Memphis. Well, maybe we can—with AI.

AI is a whole can of worms of its own. But I will outline how AI shares a lot with Corp Memphis in terms of mechanics, but it's not "good enough" like Corp Memphis is in terms of its aesthetics.

Let's put it like this, if Corp Memphis is above a stock image, which is above clip art, which is above a farting Elsa asset-flip mobile game, then AI-generated images are below that, sharing the same disdainful semiotics of a YouTube thumbnail. AI renders are synonymous with trash, with viewers combing over images seeking out any sniff of AI to decry it. This is, of course, unfortunate for corporations, because AI is wonderfully cheap and efficient to produce. The problem with even "the best" AI is that it still reeks of AI, because it's trained on relatively limited data sets that are the wrong semiotics that corporations typically use and that their consumers are typically familiar with. It's not consistent with typical standards and trends. But even the AI art styles synonymous with AI are really that of unfortunate ArtStation artists whose work has been stolen, scraped, and trained into these models. But none of it is directed, follows trends, or should I say, reflects trends favoured by brands.

Design industry standard work is also bolstered by their industry standing. Their "credibility" sets them apart from, as Mark Zuckerberg puts it, the worthless creators and publishers who ‘overestimate their value’. Sure Zuckerberg might say design is worthless, but let's not forget that Facebook Alegria, the design language developed for Facebook by the mega studio Buck Design in 2017, pretty much started Corp Memphis! I don't know how much that would have cost Zuck, but given how huge Buck is, I don't know, close to $1 million if I had to speculate. So what Zuck is actually saying is you are worthless, without your titles and industry standing, and are ripe for the scrapping.

I still think it would appear crass to the wider public if someone as tactless as Zuck were to steal wholesale from something like It’s Nice That's list of featured artists, due to the "prestigious" tutelage and culture capital of such trendy practitioners. Good luck if you're on your own though.

There's also the issue of copyright. I've no idea how litigious David Rudnick is, maybe he wouldn't even mind, but perhaps it would be legally safer to just hire a copycat of him rather than train an AI on his work. There's no shortage of copycats of him after all, and they'd probably do a better job than AI anyway.

No, a corporation if it wants to avoid all this mess will instead use AI this way:

Step One: Moodboardism

Directed by their little Pinterest moodboards and Instagram saves, a corporation will find the next latest and strongest trend that they want to utilise, be it Y2K or whatever's current on the human ant colony-as-algorithm site, Carri Institute's aesthetics.

Step Two: The Sellout

Hire an on trend freelancer with a large sack of money marked with a dollar sign to do a year's worth of graphic content in a particular on trend style. This is all then fed into their in-house AI database model.

Step Three: Rise and Grind

It's then handed over to the in-house sweatshop graphic designers as the latest toolset that they have to use. They're now tasked with grinding out prompts in this trendy style with the consistency, efficiency, and speed once only achievable with Corp Memphis.

So congratulations, now we have AI that isn't generic Facebook shrimp Jesus trash; it'll be its own unique trash. And sure, perhaps some AI artefacts might come through, but that's what the in-house graphic designers are for— to Photoshop those fingers. The corp no longer needs to put up with some meddlesome expensive freelance art director, as the AI model is consistent enough that someone in-house can direct it, just like Corporate Memphis. And even then, if it still comes across as AI-ish, the hope is that for the general public, it's "good enough", just like Corp... You get the idea.

And this is possible because a freelancers' perceived autonomous strength as corporate mercenaries is also their biggest weakness. They think they can dance with the devil and win, making essentially veneers for capitalists, never once thinking the corporations will one day come to extract capital from them too. Corporate Memphis is never going to die; it's going to mutate into a corporate zombie... Corp Zomphis?

Why bother hiring individual skilled freelancers to do a job in a specific style when you have a year's worth of art, seeded by one of them, to prompt out your own "unique" designs in their style. It's more efficient and cheaper to approach design as a egragore hungry for its next feed, rather than pay for a single illustration. But you'll just have to trust me when I say that I'm not making this up; annual hires to train their own ai is genuinely what big corporation are doing.

But what about the industry, are they just gonna let it happen? I don't know. But I think freelancers don't typically see themselves as a working class, but instead as individualistic, competitive even, little businesses. This is why I think corps will be able to steamroll over freelance designers and illustrators with AI driven Corp Zomphis, because there's no solidarity amongst designers and illustrators, unlike US animators with their union and perception of themsleves as workers. If one freelancer rejects that devil deal to make the annual quantity of prompt feed for a corp, then the next hire will. I remember even hearing the AoI stressing how it wasn't a union, as if union was a dirty word. Instead its existence is to help one interface with their corporate client overlord. Well, soon enough that interfacing will be about betraying your industry freelance brethren to a corporate egragore, basically turning everything into a potential Corporate Memphis reskin. If Corporate Memphis is the design logic of the economy of the 2010s, then I wouldn't be surprised to see people nostalgic for it in the future, if the speculative 2020s model I've described turns out to be true.

[luxsky]

Acotar characters; "you're staring" "you're beautiful"

Summary: ACOTAR characters + Twitter trend "you're staring" "you're beautiful"

Warnings: Moderately inaccurate political economy information, I think that's it (let me know if I missed anything)

Author's Note: Okay, I had a lot of fun writing this, hope you enjoy!

Rhysand

Ruling a court comes with various responsibilities, including dealing with accounting. Deciding how much money goes into each aspect, where there will be investments or cuts, handling the demand for buying and selling prices, export profits, and import expenses – these are the matters a High Lord has to deal with.

And Rhysand hates it; he dislikes mathematics, numbers, and especially thinking about all the headaches that economics brings him. That's why, when we got married and he made me his High Lady to reign by his side, I volunteered to handle that part – the part he disliked but I enjoyed.

So, while Rhysand deals with the political aspects that don't interest me, I handle the ones that don't interest him. We often work together, despite having separate offices. We also have a shared one because, even though we sometimes prefer working alone, most of the time, we choose to work together, not only to spend time together but also to enjoy each other's company and deal with any situation requiring the other's opinion.

"I think we should invest more in the export of artistic materials," I say to him, standing on the plush rug in the office, papers scattered on the floor from where I was previously sitting. I've analyzed these two specific papers in my hands for several minutes, pacing back and forth until reaching this conclusion.

"Well, we could do that, but the demand would increase, and we'd have to invest in structures for mass production of materials," he murmurs in response, not lifting his head from his stack of papers, filled mostly with reports from spies and armies.

"Urgh, okay, let me look into that," I crouch down, sitting on my heels as I shuffle through the scattered papers on the floor, searching for specific ones.

I make a satisfied noise when I find what I need, also grabbing a pen and starting to scribble some calculations and values on a blank sheet. Information here, consequences there, trying to find the best way to expand the Night Court's export market.

Rhys's pen stops, and I glimpse a movement from the corner of my eye, but I'm too focused on what I'm writing. I search for another paper, Mother, I should start organizing myself better. I lean to reach it, using the values there to compare with the ones I noted down, another paper comes to my hand, and my head is filled with numbers, values, and variations.

At some point, my concentration begins to wane because I feel eyes piercing my side. Perhaps my partner is trying to hint that my murmurs are bothering him, or maybe he wants to say something and is waiting for the right moment.

I put the papers back on the floor and look at him. Contrary to what I imagined, he's leaning back in his chair, a smirk on his lips, and his arms crossed over his chest. He doesn't look away or say anything, so I make a face and go back to shuffling my papers, still feeling the burn of his gaze on me.

"Rhysand, love, you're staring," I murmur, starting to stack the papers I had spread all over the floor, attempting a fake organization. I hear the sound of his chair scraping on the floor, and I look up to see him in front of me, crouching to be at the same height as me.

The smile on his face grew. "You're beautiful, dear, especially when dealing with all this math," he murmurs, and his hands cup my cheeks, his thumb caressing my face.

"Well, someone has to do the hard work, don't they?" I reply playfully, mirroring his smile. Rhysand leans in, kissing my lips, then my nose, forehead, and finally my cheeks. He continues planting various kisses all over my face, and I'm laughing by the end when he pulls away, looking at me with a loving gaze.

My laughter slowly fades, but the smile remains on my face. "You're my clever and beautiful little thing, dear," he murmurs, planting a final, very slow kiss on my forehead.

Cassian

Waking up early is one of the things highlighted on my list of things I hate and prefer not to do. My routine has always been organized with the goal of waking up as late as possible without disrupting my responsibilities.

And this routine worked perfectly until Cassian and I started living together, and he decided that my routine was somewhat unhealthy, insisting that I should start the day with him. The problem is, my beloved partner has a bizarre predisposition to wake up very easily before the sun even thinks about rising. And he doesn't rest until he wakes me up too.

"Come on, babe, we still need to have breakfast before we start training," his voice muffled as my face is buried under two pillows and protected by a thick blanket. "If you don't get up soon, we'll be late."

"Cassian, how could we be late if the sun hasn't even woken up yet?" Irritation in my voice is palpable, but perhaps the pillows somehow contained that annoyance in their feathers because the Illyrian has the audacity to laugh, a loud laughter that comes from the depths of his chest.

Before I could curse him with every name I know, my blanket is abruptly pulled off my body. As I cling to the pillows, trying to prevent him from taking them away, I feel the mattress shifting and his weight being placed on me. Peeking under the pillow, his forearms are bracing on either side of my body, preventing his entire weight from resting on me. His wings are spread, and a few strands of his hair escape from the bun.

"Are you going to get up, or do I have to take these pillows away too?" His voice is pure amusement, and I'm sure he's wearing that typical smirk of his.

With a very dissatisfied sigh, I push the pillows up, removing them from my face. As I suspected, his smile is evident on his lips, Cassian's face hovering above mine, very close.

I make a face and poke his cheek with my finger. "You really have no fear of death, do you?" Despite my words, the irritation of being woken up so early is set aside for a moment. Cassian's face so close to mine erases any resentment I could have for him being a morning person.

"Not when it's this beautiful," his hand moves, pushing strands of hair away from my face, his features softening. His eyes travel across the expanse of my face, and he's so focused on tracing the contours of my cheeks with his finger that he doesn't realize he's been doing it for a few minutes.

"You're staring, General," I murmur, a playful smile forming on my lips as I see his eyes darken with the title used. His finger doesn't stop caressing my cheek, but his face descends a bit, his lips hovering a few inches from mine.

He whispers to me, his breath mixing with mine, "With a sight like this? You can't blame me." He doesn't wait a second after finishing the sentence to press our lips together, a warm and desire-filled kiss.

My hands grab his hair, and the bun easily unravels as I grip the strands, his mouth dancing over mine as our tongues connect and dance. When he breaks the kiss, it's only because we need to breathe, but he plants soft and quick kisses while stabilizing his breath, then descending and leaving a trail of wet kisses on my neck.

I bring his face up, looking into his eyes, the previous amusement replaced by lust. My arched eyebrow and mischievous smile draw his eyes back to my lips. Before he can kiss me again, I speak.

"I thought we were going to be late for training if I didn't get up soon." The amusement in my voice prompts an eye roll from him in response.

"Screw the training; my only commitment now is with your body." And his lips resume leaving trails of kisses, descending from my neck to my collarbone. Laughter escapes me as his wife reverberates throughout the room, Cassian focusing on kissing me everywhere.

Azriel

Azriel's lips passionately met mine, his hands gripping my waist, pulling me closer. I'm a complete mess; one of my hands supports me on his arm, while the other grabs his hair. My feet barely touch the ground, striving for height to reach his lips. His warm mouth against mine, our tongues entwining, he pulls back just enough to capture my lower lip between his teeth, causing delightful shivers.

His hand moves up to my neck; his thumb rests on my chin, tilting my face upward. His lips trail down, planting a kiss on my jaw and then on my neck. He lightly bites and kisses the spot that never fails to elicit sighs from me.

As he pulls away, I open my eyes, meeting his brown, sparkling eyes admiring my face. His hands cup my cheeks, a small smile playing on his lips. My lip throbs, feeling swollen, yet Azriel gazes at me with such devotion that all I can do is smile back, my heart racing as if it's the first time he's touched me this way. It isn't, but my body seems to forget that in the moment.

Azriel continues watching me, but my attention is momentarily diverted as a bright flash catches my peripheral vision. I turn my head, his hand moving from my cheek to hold mine as I observe stars falling from the sky. They start timidly, but as seconds pass, more appear, the sky glowing with the trails they leave behind.

I love this. I love the starfall, sharing the moment with my partner, and more than that, I love how he still hasn't taken his eyes off me, even though the brilliant sky is far more beautiful and interesting to watch.

"You're staring," I murmur, my eyes still fixed on the sky. Azriel wraps his arms around my shoulders from behind, his wings blocking the wind around us. He places a gentle kiss on the top of my head, then lowers his lips to my ear, whispering in response.

"You're so beautiful; it's hard not to look, my love." His voice in that tone is incredibly sensual, and the shadows dancing on my arms as I hold onto his bring a delightful sensation.

I don't respond with words; instead, I send all the love and warmth I can through the golden bond that connects us. My eyes remain fixed on the stars detaching from the sky above us, but I'm sure he's still trying to study any detail he hasn't memorized yet, even with our closeness.

Feyre

The sun warming my skin is a very welcome sensation, the fabric of the sheet that Feyre and I spread on the grass earlier is a bit disheveled, but I don't mind.

The comfortable silence we're in is filled with occasional sounds of pages turning in my book and the strokes Freyre makes on her canvas. I lie on my stomach, reading the new suspense novel my lovely partner gifted me a few days ago. The story is at a particularly tense point, a crucial revelation is imminent, and I can feel it.

This may have been one of the best ideas Feyre had in the last month. She was recently inspired to paint landscapes and planned an outdoor day. With all the shared love, she asked if I wanted to accompany her. We didn't go far, choosing a spot near the Sidra River. We arrived in the early afternoon and planned to stay until the sun gave way to the moon.

Despite wanting to continue reading, Feyre's gaze distracts me. Giving up on reading, I sit up, looking at her. From my angle, I can't see what she's painting very well, but the paints are still scattered around us, and she's still holding the brush, so I deduce she hasn't finished the painting.

"Baby, you're staring," I stretch, trying to see what she's painting, curious to see her progress, but she quickly pulls the canvas away from my view. The warmth that fills her cheeks as she looks away from me gives me a hint as to why she was staring at me.

A mischievous smile forms on my lips. I lean forward, innocently running the tip of my nail on her bare leg. "You know, when you said you wanted to paint the landscape, I didn't think you were referring to me."

She chuckles at the teasing, rolling her eyes as she mumbles something. She places the canvas in one of the paints, away from my sight, and turns to me, her hand reaching to grab mine. Her finger is smeared with paint, and as she runs it over me, I get stained with the hue she was using, but I don't complain.

"You're too beautiful; it's hard to capture you in a painting," she confesses to me. Her brown eyes meet mine, her freckles reflecting the sunlight and seeming to glow. It's ironic for Feyre to say this about me; the beauty she carries is otherworldly, yet I am the one challenging to be captured in paints.

"Pfft, you can turn anything into the most beautiful art, Fey," I roll my eyes at her, her hand drawing a pattern on mine gently. "But I can be your muse whenever you want. I don't mind how long it takes for you to finish your painting."

She smiles at my response. Her other hand, which previously held the brush, holds my face tenderly, and she stares at me for a few more seconds in silence, studying and analyzing my face, imprinting the details with her eyes and fingertips. When she finishes, she goes back to grab the canvas and the brush, speaking excitedly.

"Alright then, get into a comfortable position. This will probably take some time," she starts mixing colors and dipping them into the brush as I lean back, sitting in a more comfortable way.

When she resumes painting, I'm still laughing, and as the sun sets, giving way to the moon, she remains focused, alternating her gaze between me and the canvas, until she completes her masterpiece.

Nesta

In this, Nesta and I have developed a small tradition in our relationship. At least once a month, we go to any bookstore we choose at the moment, even if we don't plan to buy any books or have only bought a few days ago. We simply go, wander around the store, and talk – sometimes we browse through books on the shelves, other times we just observe. It doesn't matter much what we do in the bookstore; we just go.

That's why the day after I return from a political trip to the Day Court, Nesta wakes me up early. We have breakfast together, then leisurely stroll to a new bookstore that opened while I was away. The place is beautiful and cozy, the smell of books is relaxing, and Nesta's hand in mine brings a sense of comfort. We are almost at the back of the bookstore, in the erotic books section, when one of the covers catches my attention.

"Oh! Helion had this book in his library; I read it while I was there." I release Nesta's hand to pick up the book. The cover is as discreet as the title; at first glance, nothing would indicate the content inside this book, except for the category it belongs to.

I flip through the book, reading some random passages and recalling the story. A laugh escapes my throat as I turn to Nesta and show her one of the excerpts. "Look at this."

Nesta's eyebrow arches as she reads the passage I showed her. A quieter laugh, compared to mine, also escapes her, and her eyes meet mine as she says, "Well, it's a... uninteresting scene."

I nod, agreeing with her, and turn back to the shelf, running my finger over the covers. "I really didn't expect that while reading, although it makes sense when compared to the rest of the story." Then I briefly start recounting the story – how the main couple faced various challenges when together but always had a significant tension between them.

I pick up another book, turning the cover and reading its summary. It seems interesting. "Look, Nes, it's from that new author you were interested in. The story sounds good; it's about..."

When I turn to show her the book I found, she still has the previous book in her hands, open to the page I handed her. Her eyes stare at me with an affectionate gaze, causing my cheeks to flush with the attention she gives me, and I release a nervous giggle.

"Darling, you're staring at me," I murmur, shyness covering my voice. This seems to snap Nesta out of the trance she was in because she blinks, very slowly, and a mischievous smile forms on her lips – a smile that sends shivers down my spine.

She closes the book in her hands, takes the one in mine, and puts both back on the shelf, pulling me close to her. "You look too beautiful when you talk about the books you like," she murmurs, her lips nearing mine.

Her eyes burn with mischief, her hand moves up to my nape, pulling me closer, our lips inches apart. "Tell me more about the book, about all the books you read while you were away," her lips meet mine in the next moment.

Morrigan

Morrigan's dissatisfied murmurs filled my ears as I watched her argue with herself through the vanity mirror about the three dresses scattered on the bed. Smiling at her indecision, I resumed applying makeup, finishing the products on my eyes and cheeks, adding color and life to my face.

Digging into Mor's vanity drawer, I searched for a lipstick to complement the outfit I chose for the night. Once I found the perfect shade, I glanced back at the mirror.

Swiftly applying the lipstick, I examined my face—it was perfect and would be even more so when I put on the golden earring that matched Mor's. With that thought, I sought her reflection and found her staring at me through the mirror with a puzzled look, still undecided on her choice. Turning to face her, still seated on the stool, I raised my eyebrows at her pout, and she scrutinized me with puppy-dog eyes.

"You're staring, babe," I stood up, approaching the bed with the intention of helping her choose her outfit but was interrupted when she pulled me close, pressing her body against mine. Her eyes descended to the lips I had just painted, now adorned with a mischievous smile.

"You're beautiful; I can't help but look," I playfully rolled my eyes, accustomed to her flattery.

She brushed a strand of my hair back, clearing it from my face, and leaned forward, sealing our lips. I got lost in the kiss, engulfed in the passion she radiated. Our mouths moved in harmony; my hand held her face, preventing her from pulling away. We only broke the kiss because we needed air. As her lips moved far enough from mine for coherent thought, I noticed the color on hers.

She furrowed her brows, confused by my exasperated sigh. When I quickly distanced myself and walked back to the vanity, she became even more perplexed. Until I looked at myself in the mirror and realized the chaos my face had become—lipstick smeared everywhere, ruining the makeup I had done.

I groaned and turned to her, attempting to hide a laugh behind her fist, "Morrigan," I whined, "now I have to clean up and redo it."

She approached again, her hands running up my arms and stopping at the base of my neck, her fingertips playing with my hair. "Well, at least I'll have more time to decide what to wear," she chuckled loudly as I huffed indignantly.

[seat-safety-switch]

Some cars have a very loyal following. Mustangs, for example, are owned by people who really like Mustangs. You might not think that this kind of loyalty is unusual if you also own a Mustang. Consider the following: does Aunt Ethel get super frothy on the internet about her Hyundai Elantra?

You can find groups of folks for any car, thanks to the almighty oddball-collecting power of the internet. Only something special will produce the real perverts. Real perverts like my neighbour, who only drives Saturns. Hold on, my phone is ringing.

"Not just any Saturns," he wants me to add, because he has somehow sensed that I am talking about His Brand and wishes for me not to impugn his reputation with the Saturn fanboy squad, "only the real ones. No Ions."

In case you are unfamiliar, Saturn was a sub-brand created by GM to take the fight to the imports. Rather than make their existing cars better, they instead spent billions of dollars producing an entirely new series of cars that then competed with those cars. They were made out of beige plastic, had zingy four-banger engines, didn't immediately fall apart, and were therefore just different enough to give their owners a superiority complex. Uniqueness plus smugness: a winning combination for conspicuous consumption. If you own one Saturn, statistically you actually have seventeen. People got rid of their first Saturn, went back to the dealership, and bought an identical car when it was time to upgrade.

So what happened to Saturn? Well, they got boring. General Motors came back and demanded that they instead build the same car as everyone else, but with a different logo and fenders on it. Save costs by using all the same cheap-ass parts. Perhaps you are familiar with this technique from all the other cars that GM failed to defeat the import menace with. As soon as this happened, all the uniqueness came right out of the brand, and the frothing-at-the-mouth loyalists instead hoarded even more Golden Age econoboxes.

"Stop typing about the Ion so loudly," now barks Ted, who I think worked for the government at some point. He then went into a tirade about how it was actually the sub-prime housing crisis that destroyed Saturn, and how if only everyone would only use Saturns as currency, this could all have been avoided, but conveniently that model of economic theory would make Ted the Saturn Guy the new king of the world, so I hung up. I'd heard this theory presented many times on CNBC and I recommend you not give it any credence, either. Still, to be on the safe side, I think I should probably buy two or three SC2s.

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

Young Deity | Platonic Yandere Dōma x Toddler Reader

Prior Installments 1, 2,

“Papa, I made a bookway for you!”

“Oh? Why thank you (Y/n)! Did you pick these flowers all by yourself?”

You nodded, gleefully watching as your rainbow-eyed father lit up with excitement. Scooping you up into his cold embrace, kissing your chubby cheeks as you beamed with pride. He took the gaggle of flowers and motioned for one of your maids to get a vase for your gift. While you waited for your father’s attention to return to you, you looked at the various people bowing within the room. Letting your own rainbow-flashing eyes roam over those in the room, no one seemed to stick out to you except for a younger woman’s eyes disappearing with her bowing head. You said nothing as you looked up to your father whose annoyed stare bore into your face until you met his gaze. Once you did your father gave you a fanged smile before snuggling against your head; easily dismissing the crowd. 

“That will be all for today. Leave us.” 

“Thank you Dōma-sama!” “Thank you, oh great one!” 

You watched as they all filtered out, especially the woman with the bright eyes; with two other followers flanking her sides. She was odd to you but you thought nothing of it when you buried your face into the cloth of your father’s robes. 

“What is it my precious? What’s bothering you?”

“...not’ing Papa…I jus’ wanna see ya.”

“Awww but of course! You know I’ll leave everything for you!” The demon lifted your tiny body up high bringing you back to his chest as he addressed your armed maids. 

“What’s next on (Y/n)’s schedule?”

Yun spoke up bowing deeply as she spoke. “First they will be having lunch than their evening nap. After that, they will have their economic instruction and then–”

“That’s enough Yun we’re skipping schooling today.”

“Yes, Dōma-sama.” If she wanted to protest she gave no sign, instead waiting to be dismissed as her leader cradled you as he walked away. Holding you up with ease he put his ear to your tummy nodding to nothing as he heard your giggles vibrate. 

“Oh my? Is that a hungry tummy I hear? Is it really time for us to feed it already?”

He cooed as you giggled at his antics. All but familiar with the urgency he made his demands for your food. In no time at all various trays were prepared with smaller chopsticks in your hand you sat on your father’s lap as you dove into your meal. 

You missed the way Doma’s eyes darkened when you smiled to yourself cheeks full of your meal. But he quickly brightened once more as you eagerly agreed to hid question-not that he would have let you refuse.

“Hey precious, why doesn’t Papa feed you? All you’ll have to do is sit there and Papa will do the rest. Sounds good, right?”

“Okay!”

You sat comfortable in your father’s lap, letting your stomach weigh heavy as you let the spoon hover to your mouth with ample sizes. Dōma admired the little smile and the nonsensical tapping of your hands as you chewed on your food. He watched as your eyes began to droop and he had to prod at your lips for you to open them. When you no longer perked up to eat he hummed at the steady sound of your little breaths. Discarding the utensils and the tray of unfinished food he scooped you up leaving the conference room for your shared bedroom. Dōma didn’t need sleep but he would rather be slain then have you refuse to cuddle up to him as you fall asleep. Being the sole instigator of any emotions he refuses to let you sleep without him being there; whether its along with you or watching from afar. 

“...bright eyes…flow’r…”

Dōma’s rainbow gaze snapped to you as you mumbled in your sleep. It was something you did often but always with traits or names he recognized. Master was Muzan, Koku was Kokushibo, Soft lady was Daki, and you had plenty of other names you dubbed by those that you met. But bright-eyes was a new one. He fought the desire to tighten his hold on you. Wouldn't want you waking up or breaking your tiny little body. He planned to satiate the uncomfortable spike that the mere title brought him. Deciding it best to be patient for the time being.

“Bright eyes, huh? Well, I wonder what you're like?”

______________________________________________________________

“Oh great young one! It is an honor to happen upon your presence!” 

The voice of a woman had you looking up from your figurines, your maid on staff already standing guarded. It was the woman you had spotted bowing to your father, what caught your attention were her eyes. Brightly green, with olive skin she was like no one you’d ever seen before. That and your eyes seemed to go to her every time she was in the room. Black hair curved around her face held up by an intricate flower that matched her kimono. 

She bowed slowly letting her gaze rise up to look at you as you stared at the flower. Tilting your head at the sight, you spoke with intention.

“That flower is it…a Dahlia?”

The woman snapped up with a smile on her face as she hovered her hand over the flower.

“Hah~! Your young grace even knows this?! How wise and powerful of you~!”

You rubbed at your eyes, an irritation building up as you pushed away a thought. What’s a Dahlia? Nonetheless, you continued. Not like you couldn't anyway.

“Do you own a flower…shop?”

“Hmmhmm~! Back home my father has a plantation that farms many things, I’ve recently come to bring some of his flowers here!” 

She happily informed which immediately spawned another question but you had your own.

“Is that…heallf’y?”

“Excuse me, your grace?”

“Fer da plants, da ones dat bewong he’r?”

Your maid preened as you asked such an informed question. She and her nurse counterparts had recently informed you about the intricacies of ecosystems. Any normal child wouldn't have understood, most definitely, but you of course were above them in every which way! She couldn't be more proud. Unfortunately, the heiress didn’t feel the same, letting a shadow fall over her face. But as quickly as it came it was gone back to her beaming visage, or it would have been had it not been for her twitching eye. That question burned in your head forcing you to ask with an intensity that made her nervous.

“Have you ever had a flower called the blue-spider lily?”

She faltered returning to bowing as she apologizes, “N-no, your greatness! B-but I can find it I’m sure!” 

You gave a look of disappointment turning back to your figurines, where you found that you weren’t as hurt as before. You refused to think about it anymore instead looking to your caretaker to take you away. You didn’t want to talk to this woman anymore, attempting to move to your caretaker’s open arms.

“Wait! Your grace could you offer me your divine word?!--”

“L-let–”

The pull against your garbs was tight. You worried you'd lose them if she didn't stop.

“Please your grace! I’ve been having trouble with my business lately–”

“Pwease let–”

“--The donations! I can give greater if only you would–”

“Didn’t you hear them? They asked you to let them go.”

Dōma’s voice rang out with an audience of other followers watching in scorn. Your maid acted fast slapping the woman’s hand away from you. Everyone watched in silence as she stood frozen in place. Broken out of your stillness by the nudge from your maid, you ran to your father letting him scoop you into his arms to hold you close. 

“Yun, if you’d please.”

“Yes, great one.”

Your maid drew closer to her as Douma shielded your sight, turning away to walk to one of the many rooms meant for enlightenment. Over your father’s shoulder you peeked around to see the woman now in tears soon blocked by the followers gathering tightly around her. 

“It’s not a loss. she hasn’t been all that giving anyway.” Douma spoke in the empty room, letting you play with another set of figurines as he lounged about. 

“She…owns a fl’wr shop…” Douma snapped his gaze toward you, smiling pensively as he tilted his head.

“Oh is that so? Well I wonder…?” He left the question unfinished continuing the thought in his head as he thought of his master. He watched you fiercely rub your eyes with your little hands as you spoke in a low tone.

“She doesn’t know about it.” 

He smiled as he watched you sneeze before going back to playing with your figurines. Looking deeply into your own rainbow-shifting eyes he let out a dry laugh as he rubbed your head.

“Well isn’t that helpful?”

[jewish-sideblog]

I think there are a lot of reasons why BDS has never had any practical effect and why I think it never will. But the biggest reason, for me personally, is that they’re calling to boycott Standing Together.

Like. If you’re refusing to support the major Israeli organizations calling for peace and self determination for Palestinians? If you’re demanding that other people withhold their support for such an organization? Then you clearly care more about fucking over Israelis than you care about helping Palestinians.

Y’all. Israel has the most advanced and well-organized military in the region. The IDF has fought the entire Arab League at once, after being hit with surprise attacks from all sides, and won handily. It’s done that multiple times. Israel has the economic and military backing of nearly the entire Western world. Israel has nukes.

As a practical matter, Palestinian sovereignty in the former British Mandate must come with Israeli permission. The best way to achieve Israeli permission is to support peace organizations within Israel, and support Israeli voices in favor of peace. But if your goal is just to antagonize millions of people in a country with an elite military and nuclear weapons, including the people in that country who agree with you, you’re probably not gonna get what you want. Just sayin.