#display homes south east

[ceilidho]

I’ve been watching Spartacus with my dad and I must share with you the vision I had.

Gladiator 141 and the sweet little thing they got as a reward after a fight well fought.

this is very old:

Sometimes he spends as much as an hour staring at you through the bars of your cell. 

You haven’t yet worked up the nerve to say something to him. Not while he still wears the silver-plated galea that obscures most of his face. You can still see thin lips through the middle slit of his helmet, where the cheek plates don’t meet and the thin strip running down the bridge of his nose gives way to his philtrum, and the barest slivers of dark eyes. 

Apart from his helmet, he wears little else—sometimes the customary leather pteruge around his waist or a simple tunic belted at the waist. Nothing that would hinder his movements. It keeps the bulk of him on display. A prized fighter then, you surmise, as if the helmet weren’t enough to make that known. 

He still gleams bronze from his fights under the sun. Perhaps he’s counted at least a full hand’s worth this week alone. He comes to you sometimes after those very fights, still dripping sweat and prowling the length of your cell like one of the lions kept beneath the arena. You never know what to say to him then. There’s little you can do apart from curl up into yourself in the far corner of this cell you’ve come to know as a temporary home and eye him warily. 

It’s hard to reckon with the size of him. That’s what keeps you wary, watchful of him when he comes to keep you company for reasons unbeknownst to you. He hasn’t made them known yet, in any case. 

There isn’t an augur to warn you the day he chooses to speak. 

“Where'd they take you from, pretty bird?”

You flinch at the sound of his voice. It comes from the pure depths of him, Tartarus deep. You think it would take nine days for it to reach you, like a bronze anvil falling alongside it. In the days that he’s spent at your side, haunting the length of your cell like a sentry bound to his post, you’ve never once heard so much as a whisper.

His words take a moment to register. Across from you, he sits back on his haunches, thick thighs bunched up under the fan of his pteruge. It’s hard to tell how long he’s been there—the hallway outside your cell is relatively dark, the only windows being on the leftmost side of the building, near the door where he must have quietly slipped in. 

“East of here,” you answer hesitantly.

He hums, nods his head. Ruminates on your words. 

In truth, you can only guess—the village where you grew up, where you suckled at your mother’s teat and played with the other children in the glen surrounded by mountains jutting up from the earth and ochre yellow and green wildgrass, the fog sometimes sitting so low in the valley that you could lose yourself in it, is far from here. At least a month’s walk, perhaps more (you lost time along the way). Your feet are still blistered from the march back to Rome, legs still covered in sores and bruises; even now your cell is a poor comfort, the dirt floors harsh on your knees and shins, abrasive to the partially healed skin of your feet. 

You’ve never been very worldly though, never known more than the four walls around your bed. Perhaps the walk wasn’t nearly as long, as treacherous; maybe you came from the west instead, or the south. You can only guess. 

“I came from the north,” he says, breaking the silence again. That startles you somehow. The thought of him under the thumb of another feels inexplicably gut-wrenching; if a man with a virile, sweat-laden chest like his, arms corded with muscle that yours will never see in a thousand years, has been yoked to Rome’s chariot, what hope do you have? 

You wonder for a moment if he’ll tell you more, but he falls silent after that simple revelation. The weight of his gaze still pins you in place.

“…You’re a prisoner then?” you ask, considering briefly whether to say like I, before discarding the thought. Like I, like me. Are you too in a cage, like me?

It’s difficult to suppress the urge to ask him more, but you do. It does you no good to endear yourself to men that move and stare like beasts. There’s something malignant in him, you think, a rot burrowed in deep. You can feel it stir in you too when your eyes dip too low, halted by the muscles of his thighs and the thick slabs packing his arms. You’ve seen beasts copulate; you imagine he’d be much the same. 

He tilts his head, considering your words. Wolf-like, and you’ve seen wolves before. Though the ever-present helmet obstructs most of his face, the sharpness of his eyes pierces through. “They don’t put me in a cage anymore. What would you call that?”

Your chest collapses under his words. Hopes dashed. Does he go in the cage of his own accord then? Does he lock the door himself, deliver the key to the guard standing watch? You think people taken from their homes should see their plight in each other, but the gladiator before you doesn’t look at you like the two of you share a fate. 

“A slave?” you postulate, perhaps too boldly. Worry crawls inside the walls of your belly when his lips flatten, almost imperceptibly.

“Do I look like a slave to you?” he asks, and you can hear it this time. A gentle warning. A rebuke. A question that tells you all that you need to know about this man and how he sees the two of you. 

You remain silent, cowed under his stare and the tone of his voice. Perhaps he’s right, in a way; he’s not the one in the cage. He seems free to come and go as he pleases, his movements unrestricted. Unlike your own. You’ve hardly left this cell once since a faction of the legionaries left you at the gates of the city to be handled by those in charge, watching slave after slave made empticii, helpless, until finally you were dragged to the stand for viewing. 

You flinch when he grabs one of the bars of your cell, thick fingers coiling around the metal and overlapping easily. 

“What did they take you for, pretty bird?” His fingers tighten around the bar, knuckles whitening. “Every day I fight and yet they never offer you as a prize.”

The new scars on his body make sense then, fresh lacerations across his arms and legs that have multiplied by the days since he started visiting you. Why he gleams with fresh sweat every day, correlating with the fights you hear in the arena above you, the cacophonous chants and stamping feet. You can imagine him in front of a crowd frothing at the mouth for blood and gore. 

He comes stained in it sometimes. You hold your breath until he leaves on those days, reminded too much of your village in the aftermath of the plundering. 

“I don’t know,” you whisper, tucking your legs into your chest and trying to get as close to the wall behind you as possible. 

It’s the truth. No one tells you anything. No one told you what would happen when they ransacked your village and burnt it to ash, the bodies of everyone you’ve ever loved still burning char black in the tall grass, whittled down by the flames. No one told you what would happen after they dragged you back a thousand passus to a city scorched in white marble and stone and immaculate gold. They dragged you here and shut the door. 

He seems frustrated at your words, lips thinning like he has to hold back his rage.

“I’ll slaughter a hundred more if that’s your price,” he says, his helmet knocking into the bars with a rough clang and making you jump when he leans in. His chest lifts with his quickened breaths, working himself up at the thought of more bloodshed. “Then give you their hearts. No other man will take you. I’ll rend their limbs if another man tries. Make you taste their blood on my fingers and lap it up when I split you on my—”

Your heel skitters across the ground, digging a small groove into the dirt and scattering small rocks across the cell. “I don’t k-know what they intend—”

You stare at him when he rises back up to his feet, words dying on your tongue. Standing, he towers over you, shoulders rolling back to puff out his chest. 

“You wait, little bird. Flutter your wings. Soon you’ll see the sun.”

You can only imagine what he means. The thought of sunlight on your face fills you with dread for the first time in your life. 

He leaves without another word, heavy footsteps carrying him to the door until you hear him pry it open, sunlight streaming in for a second before it slams shut. The silence in the absence of him feels monstrous, gargantuan. 

All you can do is let out a shuddering breath.

[dustysalmon]

Eye of the Storm - Chapter 1

Pairing: Silco x Reader Rating: Explicit Warnings/Tags: graphic depiction of violence; slow burn; enemies to lovers, enforcer!reader Word count: 4.5k

Summary: After a chain of unexpected events, Jinx is arrested, and you find yourself in possession of the gemstone. On top of it all, you are forced into a reluctant alliance with Silco. What else could possibly go wrong?

Takes up at the end of episode 7.

Read on ao3 ⎜ Next chapter

It is not the first time your unit has been called to assist at the borders, although it’s been years since topside ordered a complete blockade.

The panic had been evident on the councillors faces during the meeting that preceded your affectation. They fear the escalation of violence after the bombing in the city center as well as the murder of several enforcers earlier this week. There have even been rumours of an organised rebellion rising from the undercity, ready to strike multiple strategic places in Piltover. But those are just that, rumours. You have heard other rumours. Apparently, whoever killed those enforcers also decided to drop by the safe holds of the Council and steal something. The authorities have been suspiciously secretive about the ordeal, but you have a feeling it has to do with hextech. And the Council, usually quick to shy away from firm countermeasures, has made the decision to take a stand a little too rashly for your taste. This, plus the sudden removal of Heimerdinger’s seat at the table… No, there is something else at stake here, something bigger and perhaps more preoccupying than they are letting on.

And so here you are, on the south east bridge, among dozens of other enforcers. They don’t seem too aware or concerned about the actual reason for their presence, but they certainly appear to enjoy roughing up a couple Zaunites just for the thrill of it. Within the span of two days, you have already sent eight of your officers home. Young hot shots, mostly here to see some action and prove themselves in front of their comrades. People who shouldn’t be in the force to begin with, but the enforcers’ body always has and will continue to accept just about anybody within their ranks. It was a cesspool of violent and morally lacking folks long before you arrived and will remain exactly that for years to come. 

The majority of the officers mobilised for the Council’s big display of power aren’t trained to handle riots anyway, that much is obvious, and the entire situation is bound to turn to shit eventually. Regardless, you have traded your rifle for a good old baton, and encouraged your men to do the same. The firearm is tightly secured at your back— you’re lenient, not stupid—but the rioters have been fairly docile since the first barricades were installed, armed with nothing more than cardboard signs and harmless smoke bombs. Hardly a challenge at all, not to mention, you would like to avoid needless mayhem if you can help it. Your superior, Warren, strongly disagrees. Well, superior in name only; the man barely has any field experience, hardly ever steps out of the comfort of Piltover; a textbook office rat. If you had to guess, you would say this is the first time he’s actually come face to face with Zaunites. He has never hidden his utter repulsion for the latter— he usually refers to them as trenchers— and this new assignment is a godsend. He would drown them all in the gutter if he had his way. Halas, the Sheriff’s position was swept right from under his nose by Marcus, equally hateful and ambitious at the time. The years have tamed him for sure, although you still find it hard to explain his complete one-eighty when it comes to dealing with the undercity. Once, he was determined to give them hell, back when he was just a rookie, always babbling on about how he would handle the "Zaunite problem", and offering solutions (if you can call them that) that would have met quite the success among the most monstrous tyrants. 

When his impromptu promotion was announced, you had expected him to take full advantage of his new position and act on his threats. In fact, you had expected something very much like the events unfolding before you right now: blockades, raids, random inspections, an obnoxious display of strength—the whole circus. But instead, most of the troops had retreated completely from Zaun, leaving the undercity in a situation reminiscent of when Vander was in charge. The streets had been left completely unmonitored, allowing numerous gangs to rise and breed terror in the underground. Any sense of community ceased to exist in the blink of an eye, quickly replaced with defiance, greed and violence. Funny thing, that it took one man, one figure to hold a whole city together. Take him out of the equation, and an entire city is lost. And then came Shimmer, the final step that made all hell break loose. 

You had often wondered whether a complete occupation would have made a difference. In a way, you had your answer now. It wouldn’t have changed a damn thing. The economy down there was frozen, leaving the poorest Zaunites in even worse conditions than before, if that was possible. Controlled chaos, that’s all this is. And the Council is probably looking at the current state of things and congratulating themselves on their good work. It has become routine lately, but once more you wonder what it is you’re doing here exactly.

In the cacophony you hear your name being called from the crowd and recognise a familiar face. Without a second thought, you strut towards the noisy crowd.

"I wouldn’t get too close if I were you." Warren says from behind you, eyeing the mob suspiciously. You offer him a snarky grin.

"What’s the matter, Warren, afraid of a couple sticks and stones?" You relish in the laughter that emanates from the group of enforcers surrounding him before Warren silences them with a death glare, his face red with both anger and embarrassment. When he turns back, probably to reprimand you, you’re already on the other side of the bridge. 

You walk past the last line of enforcers, the big ones, hidden behind their goggles and masks. Not necessarily the best intermediary for parlay or negotiations. You come face to face with an elder man, a fisherman’s hat screwed low on his head, just above his tired blue eyes. He hunches over the barricade towards you.

"How long is this gonna last? They just suspended all exportation of goods. We’re suffocating down here." He shouts, hands gesticulating in the air, but you can barely hear him over the racket.

"I know that, but my hands are tied here, Lou." You say apologetically. 

The economies of the upper and undercity are very much interdependent, even if that is mostly true one way more than the other, of course. Numerous Zaunites work on the other side of the stream, some fortunate and gifted kids have the opportunity to study in the University district. And while it is true that Piltovians prefer to rely on their own supplies and food, they import daily from the undercity, whether it be fish, brews, or local foodstuffs. 

Contrary to popular belief, it is not rare for topsiders to stoop to undercity level, although it is usually for more illicit activities. Shimmer consumption, human trafficking, money laundering, you name it. Needless to say that the blockade doesn’t impact topside nearly as much as it does Zaun. It makes no difference to Piltovians if it lasts for weeks, months, or possibly even years. But the undercity’s days would soon become numbered if the situation doesn’t evolve. 

A huge detonation is heard on the far side of the bridge and leaves your ears whistling for a few seconds. When you come to, there is a thick cloud of smoke rising from the same spot, but you can still make out the enforcers’ silhouettes as they charge into the protesters. Idiots. You barely have the time to turn back to Lou when another loud boom erupts. Then another. It’s really on now. You grab at the old man’s shoulder, a grave look on your face. 

"Go home, Lou. Now!" He doesn’t need to be told twice, still, you follow him with your eyes until he disappears from view. You realise only too late the tear gas canisters that have been thrown all around you. You reach for your mask but the gas is already stinging your nose and  assaulting your senses, it feels like your entire face is burning. Tears start to fall down your cheeks as you struggle to pull out your goggles. The gas has settled in your eyes now, and the  eyewear obviously won’t change that, but you can’t think clearly at the moment and put them on regardless as you start to pull back to your squad. In the distance, you can hear Warren shouting hysterically, asking for more gas, more pressure on the line, always more. He calls to you once you are back in the safe perimeter.

"Sticks and stones, huh?" He taunts you, and you can clearly imagine his stupid face mocking you behind the mask. 

"All of this for a bit of smoke?!" You refrain from calling him a dumbass in front of everyone else, although just barely, but you don’t even try to hide the anger and exasperation in your voice. He can launch disciplinary actions if he likes, this whole operation is already a complete disaster, and he will suffer the consequences too. You throw a quick look at the mess happening all around you. Utter panic among the protesters, untrained enforcers, and an incompetent chief. And people will wonder what could possibly have gone wrong. You sigh. On second thought, let Warren drag you in front of the Council if he wishes, you will have a lot of things to say.

You blink the last of the gas from your eyes and gather your thoughts. So the protests have gone up a notch after all, that much is true. But you remain convinced that the blockade is bad news for everyone. You grab the megaphone and clear your irritated throat as best as you can while your colleagues prepare to launch another charge. This will not be a quiet night after all.

Two hours, that’s all the time you get before you are unexpectedly called back for duty. You gulp down a can of hot soup, hop into a fresh blue uniform, and you’re out the door. For the first time, you are stationed on the main bridge, where you’ve heard things tend to be more heated. It is a last minute change, and very little information is given to you about your purpose here tonight, but it must be important if the Sheriff’s presence is any indication. Typically, back-up is hardly ever needed at night fall, most of the protesters leave at around 7 p.m. and come back at midday. So it is without surprise that you find the bridge perfectly calm and silent, with a large group of enforcers standing by. They seem to be waiting for something, or someone. You rapidly go over some procedures with your squad and dispatch them at key locations around the area before finding Marcus. 

"So, what’s this all about, Sheriff?" You truly loathe to call him that, but the man likes having his ego stroked every now and then. Might as well play the good cop card in order to squeeze what you can out of him. You’re met with a suspicious and frankly condescending look. Whatever information it is you’re asking for, it would seem it is above your pay grade.

"We’re meeting someone. Your team is here to make sure it all goes smoothly."

Not much to go with, but the gears are already spinning in your head. Could it be that the person responsible for the attacks and the break-in in Piltover had requested a face to face in order to calm things down; seeing as the situation had escalated today. A request for parlay, perhaps, or a negotiation. You lower your tone as your address Marcus again.

"This whole thing," you gesture at the barricades on the bridge, "it’s about Hextech, isn’t it.?" His eyes grow wide, and the way he freezes all but confirms your suspicions. For all his ability to play the Council like a fiddle, the man had always had always been terrible at concealing his emotions. 

"How’d you figure that out?" He asks seriously. You snort.

"A raid in the Council’s stronghold? Let’s just say I seriously doubt that whoever broke in came for Heimerdinger’s book collection." You say sarcastically.

Suddenly, the spotlights come to life, and a masked enforcer joins the two of you.

"They’re here, sir." Marcus nods and turns to you.

"Get behind the second line, and stay there unless ordered otherwise." You are about to protest but he is already moving forward with a small squad. The audacity, to call you here during your off-hours only to have you hang back and away from the main event. Regardless, you start to back up slowly, keeping attentive eyes fixed before you. In the distance, two figures emerge from the evening mist, progressing towards the roadblock. The enforcers take aim and start walking too, meeting them in the middle with Marcus flanking them. His hands are clasped behind his back, and he seems awfully relaxed despite the nagging tension in the air. 

You end up much further away than you would like, but orders are orders. You squint painfully in order to catch whatever you can from the exchange. The two silhouettes are clearer now, thanks to the powerful lights; a young boy and a woman, unarmed and without backup, at least none that you can see from your position. Your eyes focus on the boy, on his outfit more specifically, and it takes you about a second to connect the dots. The mask dangling from his hip, the bandana tied around his neck, the big flying board strapped to his back. A Firelight. And not just any member of the controversial gang, this one is none other than the leader, Ekko. And next to him is— no, that makes no sense—Kiramman? You blink a few times. Surely your sleep-depraved mind is playing tricks on you. But it is her, Caitlyn Kiramman, daughter of senior councillor Cassandra Kiramman, and a very promising enforcer who suddenly went rogue not even a week ago, or so the Sheriff insisted. 

An enforcer and a Firelight, quite the odd pairing indeed, especially since the latter have recently been designated as the prime suspects of the recent attacks that shook Piltover at the core. Even though as far as you are concerned, the accusation makes no sense. You have yet to see the so-called irrefutable evidence that has been found against them, evidence which has never been officially presented, but led to the blockade of the entire city regardless. 

It had always been your belief that the Enforcement body put too much effort in fighting the Firelights. The only trouble they cause is against the Eye of Zaun’s production of Shimmer, which topside should be grateful for; if anything, the Firelights are doing most of the work for them. True, they had attacked a shipment over the city not that long ago, but it was clear that Piltover was not their target. It is something you have been thinking about for a while now, this obsession with the Firelights, when crime and Shimmer are the true plagues and spreading like never before.

From the distance you see Marcus ordering his men to stand back as he moves forward to meet with Kiramman and Ekko. No matter how many times you turn the problem over in your head, you can’t make head or tail out of this alliance. Although you have a feeling this little night encounter will clarify a few points. The young boy pulls some sort of protective cylinder from behind him, although he seems reluctant to show what hides inside. He opens it eventually, leading Marcus to inch closer in order to inspect the goods. There’s a pause, the party gauges each other out in apparent uncomfortable silence. Whatever the Firelight boy revealed has definitely caught the Sheriff’s interest, although not enough to conclude a bargain it would seem. Marcus just stands there motionless, as if weighing his options. Kiramman is talking to him now, you can only assume she is pushing for some sort of deal, an exchange perhaps, intel for intel. Money? Surely Marcus wouldn’t… You suddenly stop all speculation and watch in complete shock as he pulls out his pistol and fires a single shot, square in the boy’s stomach. The latter collapses, forcefully projected backwards with the power of the point blank shot. 

Silence reigns on the bridge, save for a few crows cawing and flying away, the rest suspended in time, waiting. What the hell. 

Marcus is now aiming at a discomfited Caitlyn, a rare sight, and his men have started to move forward, getting in formation around the woman. They exchange words, but Marcus does most of the talking as Caitlyn looks too petrified to speak. Orders be damned, you leave the line of enforcers who are currently staring incredulously at each other, as shocked as you are. There’s a figure running towards the meeting point, it appears to be a woman, but you can barely make her out through the fog. What you can clearly see, however, is the swarm of small green lights flying at a rapid pace alongside her. Firelights. Hundreds of them, merging to the same location as if they had been summoned there. Then, the cloud of insects lingers above Marcus, Caitlyn and the group of enforcers before descending upon them. A small number reach past the center of the bridge, to you, and you reflexively bat them away. You’ve never liked insects, not from this close anyway, and certainly not in great numbers. Some enforcers hold out their gloved hands to allow the firelights to land, seemingly amused by the situation. Admittedly, it’s quite a pleasant distraction from what usually happens up there— or doesn’t happen. 

A tiny clicking sound emanates from all the bugs at once, like a detonation, and next thing you know, you are violently projected against the bridge’s bannister.

For the next minute or two, the only sound you hear is a numbing and constant whistling in your eardrum. You feel a hot liquid running slowly down the side of your temple, and your head is pounding like a jackhammer. Around you, bodies of enforcers lie limp on the ground in puddles of thick blood. You have seen your share of gruesome and violence, but can’t help the nausea that overtakes you as you scrawl through a sea of freshly detached limbs, the smell of copper filling your lungs. You reach an enforcer, one of the few still conscious. He is moaning in pain, mumbling incoherently as he holds up his arms, both severed at the wrist and forearm. Moans turn to screams as the realisation sinks in, you wonder if he knows his right leg is missing too.

As your hearing gradually comes back, you realise there is something going on at the centre of the bridge, where the explosions did the most damage. Gathering your strength and balance, you rise to your feet and progress towards it. More fighting it would seem. A shot rings in the air and lodges itself in a stone pillar just a couple feet away from you. You march on, unphased, a trembling hand hovering above your holster. You recognise the Firelight leader, who seems to have been untouched by the explosions, and facing him… Those long blue braids, that slender figure. Jinx. And the bombs all make sense now. There’s only one person in this city who would be capable of manufacturing such a weapon, and nobody makes anything go boom like Jinx does, all Enforcers learn that the hard way.

The two teens throw themselves at each other with a speed that makes the fight difficult to follow. Ekko quickly takes the upper hand, pinning the girl down with all his might. One, two, three hard punches square in the face, most people would have been knocked out cold by now, but Jinx struggles as best she can, until her body has nothing left to give. Ekko hovers over her, fist in the air, ready to strike one final blow to her blood-smeared face. But his hand hangs in the air, suspended in time, petrified. 

Your heart sinks at the disturbing spectacle unfolding before you. What leads two children to fight to the death and show such a level of animosity? You don’t have time to answer that question as another large detonation erupts at the exact place where Ekko and Jinx were fighting. 

The boy is the first to emerge, and it appears that the weapon got him good this time. He limps towards you and collapses in your arms. But the second he acknowledges your uniform, he starts struggling weakly against you, moaning in pain against your shoulder. The cries, however, have nothing to do with the physical pain. The stir from utter distress and despair. You don’t insist, and let him go gently, supporting him all the way. 

"You should go." You say as you hear the cavalry starting to make progress from the other side of the bridge. Took them long enough. Ekko, although his head is still pounding, manages a frown.

"Why?" 

"Your work is far from done, kid. Now get going." Your tone is firm enough to get the message across, but warm enough to convey that you care at least a little bit, and Ekko simply nods, peers at you one last time in mild confusion, before limping away through the fog.

A couple feet away, Jinx lies unmoving on the ground, and you pray that she isn’t dead as you approach and crouch beside her. Who knows what King of the underground would do if his protégé was to be taken away from him. The question is what would be obliterated first, Zaun or Piltover. Either way, there would be only ashes left on both sides. You let a sigh of relief escape as you feel a light pulse against the girl’s wrist. However, she needs medical attention, sooner rather than later. Her injuries look severe even to your untrained eyes and she has lost a lot of blood. As you let her arm down, her fingers relax, and a glowing round object rolls from her grasp. You do a double-take as you gape at it. It can’t be. The gemstone. The source of so many turmoils this past month just inches away from you, so shiny and out of place among the debris, as if daring you to take it. 

"Are you alright? Where’s the Sheriff?" You were so taken by the object that you completely missed the hurried footsteps behind you. As quickly and discreetly as possible, you shove the gemstone inside a compartment of your utility belt and turn to face the small group of enforcers gathered at the scene, Warren among them. A sigh of relief escapes you as there’s no trace of the Firelight leader. He had slipped away just in time.

"He did not make it." You say, rising to your feet. The men in uniform exchange incredulous looks. "Help me with the body." They must have missed the urgency in your tone because they remain unmoving, their eyes still taking in the bloodbath. "Come on, Teebo, put those big arms of yours to use." 

"She’s right, boys," Warren jumps in, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "We’ve been after her for weeks, and now we finally got somethin’ to show for. The Council will be pleased." He stands proudly, hands on his hips as two enforcers work to lift Jinx’s inert body of the ground. "Let’s see how the son of a bitch can manage without his prized pupil—" the sentence dies in his throat and he freezes, shoulders stiffening. He might as well have seen a ghost. "Speaking of the devil."

You've never actually met the Eye of Zaun. You've seen the murals of course, heard the stories, and encountered his goons more times than you can count. But most of all, you've witnessed the damage and destruction he’s caused in the undercity over the past few years— shimmer, gang violence, oppression of the chembarons, child labour. Now, he may not be directly responsible for that last one, but the man has hardly done anything to stop it. It's rampant. Spreading like a disease with no cure in sight. You are all too familiar with it.

As you stand a couple paces away from Silco himself, you finally understand the fear and dread he inspires in both zaunites and pilties alike. His entrance feels almost theatrical and dramatic in the mist. It is just him and two large henchmen…against dozens of armed enforcers. There's no chance, no world in which a fight would go his way. And yet, there isn’t a trace of doubt in his one good eye. He's ready to pounce, to fight to the death like a raging animal to retrieve the girl with blue hair. No one has ever looked at you this way before—with such pure, unfiltered hatred. And you’ve just met the guy.

You take one tentative step forward, but that’s as far as you. Silco’s gaze freezes you in place, and whatever you were about to say gets stuck in your throat.

"Let’s grab him too" Warren urges right from behind you, restless. 

"Those aren’t our orders," you say absently, your attention fixed on the one-eyed man.

"Are you kidding me? We could hit two big fucking birds with one stone. Right here! This could be huge for us."

"Don’t push your luck, Warren. We’ve got the girl. That’s the best bargaining chip we could hope for." That seems to get the point across, and Warren backs down.

"Get her back to the truck. This is a good day, gentlemen, a very good day!" He triumphs as he retreats with the rest of the squad. 

Silco takes a step forward, fists clenched at his side. One of his men grips Jinx’s makeshift mini-gun, finger on the trigger, odds be damned. You advance as well, hanging your rifle on your shoulder, hoping so erase any sign of hostility. If a gunfight was to break out now, Zaun would have to find itself a new leader, and the blue-haired girl would no doubt be caught in the crossfire. Silco, despite his anger and desire to kill everyone in sight to get to Jinx, seems to understand that. His shoulders relax, slowly lowering, and he motions for his men to step back. He remains firmly planted there, challenging you with a look—silent, but deadly. Your heart pounds so hard in your chest that you can hear it in your head. As you watch Silco disappear into the fog, just as he had emerged, you can’t help but wonder if you’ve just signed your own death warrant.

Thank you so much for reading, hope you enjoyed this chapter <3

Chapter 2 ⎜ Chapter 3

[nctsworld]

golden hour

✩‌ mark x reader | camping au | established relationship | smut | fluff | 2.1k

SUMMARY | in which you make love with mark in a tent during the golden hour. // part of the connection series

WARNINGS | sexual content, (lovey) pwp, unprotected sex, brief impregnation fetish (breeding kink), some praise kink, oral sex (m and f receiving)

RATING | explicit

AUTHOR'S NOTE | inspirations are (besides the connection teaser vid and pics) jvke's golden hour, mark's golden hour, and this picture i stumbled upon

TAGLIST | @neocitycafe @sehunniepot

NORTH

North is home, where you left behind for this short road trip down the coast of California with the love of your life. 

During this trip, home every night has temporarily been your two-person sized tent being dragged around to different campsites.

This stop is more arid than others, with many rocks and cacti surrounding the ecosystem rather than grass and trees. Because of that and it being an off-peak period in the beginning of spring, it is likely why this campsite has no one else besides the two of you.

Although it takes some time, Mark and you finally finish pitching the tent and setting up the inside around the late afternoon. At this point, you mutually decide to take advantage of the area's solitude.

North of your bodies is also where it all starts. 

Mark and you are lip-locked between initial smiles and giggles. The oncoming sunset's rays beam through the translucent tent, creating a natural, ethereal glow around each other's faces.

There's no hurry. Mark usually doesn't hurry his kissing with you; he likes to savour every moment he can—each groan exchanged, each dip of his tongue into your mouth, and each suck you grant to his plump bottom lip.

But at some point, kissing each other's lips just isn't enough to satiate your desires.

EAST

East is where everything rises. 

Passion ascends as his mouth swerves away from yours, and instead captures the right side of your neck. You gasp sharply, eyes fluttering due to the power of that one spot. It's overwhelming, so much that it makes your knees buckle. You're grateful you're sitting on the ground with your sleeping bags laid out comfortably to catch you at the ready.

You return the favour by kissing places that make him weak—the constellation of moles on his face and neck, that one particular section behind his right ear, and right above his clavicle.

He hotly moans in your ear, letting his hands take a mind of their own. Your waist, thighs, and ass are his to squeeze, his to grip roughly. In turn, your hands latch onto Mark's rugged frame and back, admiring the firmness and contours in each muscle. Then, you begin lifting up his white tee, feeling up his fit stomach.

And at this point, because you're now straddling him, you feel his rising desire blatantly against yours.

Clothes are tossed aside to an area of the tent. Mark, now only in his underwear, aids you in stripping every piece from you, except for your panties.

SOUTH

Without a doubt, the absolute sweetest things happen in the south. 

Mark roams downward your body as you lay flat, displayed beautifully in front of him. Your lover lives up to his name, marking you with gentle kisses over your goosebumped skin. It's due to the slight bite of the breeze that enters the tent.

The sun dives further into the horizon, and your being is now enveloped in the golden hour of the hues of red and gold meshing in the sky and radiating over the Earth.

When he reaches your breasts, he imparts small licks upon your hardened tips, along with kneading and thumbing them throughout. Arching your back, you shiver, more so from his aching teasing than the breeze.

Further south, he traverses and his mouth leaves love upon your stomach before he spreads your thighs apart. He lays on his abdomen, his legs positioned awkwardly as a result of the tent's size, but all the while manageable and comfortable enough to continue.

He snakes his arms around your legs, staring up at you with his shiny, starry eyes. Mark chastely kisses your inner thighs, revering the softness of your skin, then kisses you once over your soaked panties. With that mere move, it causes you to lift your hips up in want.

Impishly, he chuckles and pulls aside the fabric to give one slow, extended lick from your centre to your clit. You gasp at the sensation, but Mark is addicted to teasing you. After he drags your underwear off, he simply continues to innocently kisses your thighs. A whine expels from you as you're about to protest, but then he dives in without warning.

Dulcet whimpers fill the air besides the rustling of the tent and the occasional sound of faraway birds. Mark prides in himself in times like this, having you prettily on display and breaking you down. You're all his to have and to hold—all for him to drink and devour to his heart's content.

Not only does he skillfully lap his tongue against your folds, but he sinks it deep into you and thumbs your clit simultaneously. Your fingers' hold tighten onto his hair the more he plays and unfurls you at the seams.

Noticing your body being keyed up by your tight hair gripping and hip thrashing, he takes you to another plane when he slips two fingers in and tongues your bundle of nerves, scissoring you into madness.

After letting you come down from your high, he pulls away and runs a hand through his disheveled hair, giving you his signature tender smile with glistening lips before it quickly fades into a sinful smirk. Just like that, with one look and a couple of minutes to catch your breath, you're ready to have more fun.

Often in the confines of your bedroom, Mark likes to stand by the bed when he watches you take him into your pretty mouth. Due to the tent's spatial constraints, he's gotten used to shimmying off his boxers and opting to do a standing kneel on your sleeping bags instead.

He strokes himself, preparing for what's to come. Inching nearer in a cat-like position with your ass up in the air, you instinctively jut out your tongue, wetting your mouth at the ready, and fixate on his desire gracing you with its presence.

At first, you stroke with him with your hand on top of his, but then he eventually slips it away and lets you do your magic.

We're back to kissing, but all attention is on his length, from the base to the tip. You dab your tongue at his tip leaking with precum, evidently worked up from before. A dab becomes two, then three, and when his tip is wrapped by your mouth, Mark dispels a high-pitched moan. All of his entirety is quickly loved by you.

Amidst the head bobbing, you ensure to also swipe at the underside of his cock, licking at a particular vein that always entices you when you're on your knees for him.

At some point, he raises an arm behind his head while the other weaves through your hair. With his possession still in your mouth, you glance up at him. Although half-lidded, he stares back intently, maneuvering your hair out of your eyes and bunches the rest into a makeshift ponytail.

“Such a good girl,” he grunts, eyes still trained on you.

Although you would never disregard his praise, you don't need him to tell you you're doing well based on how he grasps harder at the root of your hair and from the trickling of choppy, higher moans that compete with your lewd slopping.

Since you don't want it to end just yet, you draw back soon after. Giving him a sugary fleeting kiss, you then go on all fours in front of him. Taking his sopping desire, all thanks to you, he rubs himself against your folds, then eases into you.

You cry out in pleasure, and adjust to his fullness inside of you. Mark goes at a measured pace—fast enough that it gets you to the edge quicker, but slow enough to make you feel all his inches. Out of habit, you press the back of your hand against your mouth, muffling yourself.

“Don’t hold yourself back, baby,” he murmurs. “We’re all alone out here.” 

You nod thoughtlessly and comply, dropping your hand. It's an uncommon feeling to let yourself go, but you relax and try your best. Your soft moans elevate and gain traction in volume with each movement against your body.

“That’s it,” Mark says, reaching forward to caress your hair and sliding his touch downward to the small of your back. “That’s my girl.” 

Preening in the praise, you moan gutturally in response. The deep sensations enrapture you, blooming to every point of your body. Exerting the pleasure, you fall face-forward into your pillow and bunch some of it beside your head.

He continues to pound into you, groaning, “Love it so much when you moan for me...” 

A few moments later, your lover pulls you up by the arms, bringing your body almost parallel to his and picks up the pace. In this position, it's not as buried, but it's still just as satisfying, being filled with his cock like this.

When he slows the pace down, he releases you, having you land on your arms again. Kissing your shoulder from behind, he pants beside your ear, “Do you wanna switch it up?” 

You shake your head. “Don’t care”—at an unexpected thrust, you gasp sharply—“just want you.” 

Turning your head to face him, he follows-up with an ardent kiss. Despite him holding you by your chin, it's more delicate than you expect, unlike the sex so far. Mark takes a few moments to remind you how, no matter how crude it can be, sex with him will always be laced with love.

The sunset continues to fade as he removes himself from you and lovingly pats your hips, signifying you to turn around. Facing him now, you spread your legs once again for him, and you giggle as he drags you closer to him in one smooth move. He grins with his hair sticking to his perspired forehead, and once again, he lines up with your centre before gliding into your perfection.

In tandem, both parties' eyes tremble at the sensation. He fills you deliciously; for him, you squeeze around him like a vice he never wants to detach from. Hands are dragging along everywhere on each other's skin. Lips crash into the other's, then his to your breasts and yours to his shoulder. You're soon tied chest to chest, hearts racing in synchronicity.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” Mark mumbles into your neck. “Love seeing you like this for me.” 

He lightly slaps the side of your thigh, causing you to moan further into his ear. Despite not wanting to, he opts to tear away from you. Readjusting your bodies, he draws you closer by a tight yank of your thigh, bottoming himself out in your crevice and uses his other hand to rub your clit.

He's on a mission to take you to the stars.

“Tell me when you’re close.” 

It doesn't take long for you to get there with how long this has been going on, nor with how skillful he is.

“Look at me, beautiful. Open your eyes,” he orders, his voice dripping with carnal assertiveness. “Look at me as I fill you up.”

You obey, snapping your eyes wide open, about to watch him come undone inside of you. You're transfixed on the point where you intersect, where he disappears so deeply in you.

But then, in a split second, you force yourself to stare down your love. Looking up at him, relishing in his pre-climactic image, you're on the verge of screaming, almost as if you're dying from the pleasure. His breathes come quicker, his facial features twisting. However, he dares not to shut his eyes, wanting to see you fulfill his command until the end of his surmise.

“That’s my good girl, such a good girl…” 

A beautiful low, drawn-out moan emits, and ecstasy permeates through the air, intermixed with the much needed cool breeze. Mark's hips jerk, then stiffen as he spills into you, painting your walls with his thick load.

WEST

And in the west, the sun finally sets almost to completion. The golden hour sinking away into the purple and pink hues of the spring sky. 

A sliver of the last light peeks through the tent's opening and lands directly over your face, the last of the golden hour saying hello and good-bye. 

With your respective sleeping bags covering some parts of your bare bodies, Mark tenderly swipes his thumb over your sun-touched cheek, admiring his angel of light that always leads him home. Just like Polaris in the night sky, you’ll always shine and guide his way back home.

You two eventually eat some prepackaged sandwiches for dinner in the comfort of your tent, but not until he kisses your temple and pulls you in for a tight hug, whispering sweet nothings and running his fingers through your hair until the sky becomes completely pitch black.

[kyitsya]

there is something so surreal in looking at destroyed russian military equipment on display and seeing messages written by ukrainians who had to flee their homes in the east and south.

u look at the rusted canon of a tank and u see “severodonetsk is ukraine,” “kherson,” and “this is for nikopol.” u look at a ravaged bmp and there’s “for kramatorsk,” and “this is for donetsk ♡” right on the plates of armor. there are countless messages scribbled on by people from all kinds of cities—big and small—who suffered russia’s wrath, and yet they still cement their cities’ names onto the russian metal to show that they are ukrainian and will remain ukrainian.

[scotianostra]

On October 16th 1516, Alexander Home, 3rd Lord Home and his brother William were executed in Edinburgh.

It's fair to say that those men who held the title Duke of Albany, have been involved in some of the most troublesome intrigue in our long history, the first one, a ruthless politician, was brother of King Robert III and was widely regarded as having caused the murder of his nephew, the Duke of Rothesay, this in turn forced the King to send the future James I to France in 1406, but was captured by pirates and "sold" to the English and held for 18 years, his ambitious uncle ruled as King in all but name until his death in 1420, when the next his son Murdoch, took over as Duke and regent, James I was eventually released in 1425 and Murdoch inevitably lost his head after being found guilty of treason.

Jump forward about 90 years and just after James IV died at Flodden, John Stewart, the latest Duke of Albany took over as Regent to James V was another of the boy Kings, I mentioned in my post earlier about James II.

Lord Home led his horsemen were part of the Scottish force that fought at Flodden, and was one of the few successful charges of that day, his men defeated the right wing of the English army, it's a pity other tactics went horribly wrong. As the battle progressed and the Scots were being slaughtered Lord Home fled the field, he did however stay on in Northumbria and attempted, unsuccessfully to to recapture the taken Scottish artillery some days later.

This story seems to be more about two men who disliked each other than anything else.

Although accepting Albany as Regent things started to go sour when the two had a meeting at Dumbarton Castle, where legend has it, Albany joked about Lord Home's small stature, quoting 'minuit praesentia famam' meaning 'the appearance doesn't live up to report.' Their relationship deteriorated and it seems Home tried to garner influence in England, possibly hoping to seek refuge there, sensing things were not going to end well with the new Regent.

In September 1515 Albany forcibly took Hume Castle, and ordered Home to meet him later that year at the Collegiate Church at Dunglass, where he was arrested and imprisoned at Edinburgh Castle. The keeper of the castle at the time was the Earl of Arran and Home's Brother in Law. Home persuaded Arran to escape with him and take up arms against Albany, they joined another rebel, the Earl of Angus in the Borders.

Moving North they attacked Glasgow capturing ammunition and throwing it down a well, they then headed east and to Dunbar, attacking the castle there and heading south again captured the Chief Herald, the Lord Lyon King of Arms at Coldstream holding him ransom for his mother who was a prisoner of one of Albany's lieutenants.

After offering a pardon, Albany invited Home and his brother William to Holyroodhouse, where he promptly arrested the pair, imprisoning then on the fortified island of Inchgarvie on The Firth of Forth.

Initially they were accused of the trumped charges of the murder of James IV at Flodden, then of failing to prevent English re-fortification at Norham Castle after the battle.

Finally he and William were charged with rebellion against Albany and beheaded, and their heads displayed on the gable of Edinburgh Tolbooth.

In the mid 1520's Albany was overthrown from the Scottish regency, and lived mainly in France until his death in 1536.

The pic is model of the Old Tolbooth exhibited in Edinburgh's Huntly House Museum. The execution platform can be seen projecting from the building. The second pic is a painting by Scottish artist Henry G. Duguid of the Tolbooth and St Giles.

[workersolidarity]

[ 📹 Scenes of chaos and horror as bodies lay sprawling in the streets after the Israeli occupation forces bombed civilians gathered in the Al-Sabra neighborhood, south of Gaza City, killing several Palestinian civilians and wounding far more as the Zionist entity's genocide continues in the Gaza Strip. ]

🇮🇱⚔️🇵🇸 🚀🏘️💥🚑 🚨

269 DAYS OF GENOCIDE IN GAZA: ISRAELI OFFICIALS LOSE THEIR MINDS AFTER DIRECTOR OF AL-SHIFA HOSPITAL RELEASED WITH 50 OTHERS FOLLOWING MONTHS OF TORTURE AND ABUSE, FUEL, MEDICAL SUPPLIES RUNNING OUT AS GAZA'S HOSPITALS FACE COLLAPSE, BOMBING AND SHELLING CONTINUES WITH ONGOING GENOCIDE

On 268th day of the Israeli occupation's ongoing special genocide operation in the Gaza Strip, the Israeli occupation forces (IOF) committed a total of 2 new massacres of Palestinian families, resulting in the deaths of no less than 23 Palestinian civilians, mostly women and children, while another 91 others were wounded over the previous 24-hours.

It should be noted that as a result of the constant Israeli bombardment of Gaza's healthcare system, infrastructure, residential and commercial buildings, local paramedic and civil defense crews are unable to recover countless hundreds, even thousands, of victims who remain trapped under the rubble, or who's bodies remain strewn across the streets of Gaza.

This leaves the official death toll vastly undercounted as Gaza's healthcare officials are unable to accurately tally those killed and maimed in this genocide, which must be kept in mind when considering the scale of the mass murder.

"Many prisoners were martyred in the interrogation basements, and we left behind thousands of detainees held by the occupation," Director of Al-Shifa Medical Complex, Muhammad Abu Salmiya, recounts his experiences in an Israeli prison following his release from administrative detention after being kidnapped by the Israeli occupation forces during their assault on Al-Shifa hospital in March of 2024.

According to Abu Salmiya, the average prisoner where he was being held lost somewhere around 30kg (66lbs) due to being denied food, in conjunction with near constant abuse by Zionist soldiers, doctors and nurses.

Speaking about his arrest, Abu Salmiya said that "The occupation did not bring any charges against me despite being tried three times. This means that they arrested me for political reasons," going on to add that "We were subjected to severe torture, and the occupation stormed the prisoners' cells and assaulted them on an almost daily basis."

The lack of attention from international institutions and non-governmental organizations (NGOs) was on full display as Israeli soldiers continued their abuse of Palestinian prisoners, described repeatedly in the local media by those released at various points since the October 7th attacks.

"We did not meet with lawyers, nor did any international institution[s] visit us," Al-Shifa's former director said.

Abu Salmiya was released on Monday morning alongside some 50 other Palestinian prisoners arrested since the start of the Israeli occupation's ongoing genocidal war in the Gaza Strip.

Faraj al-Samuni, one of the detainees released from the occupation's prisons, spoke with Palestinian public broadcaster, PalestineTV, describing the "tragic and unbearable conditions" endured by the Zionist entity's prisoners.

Al-Samuni said he was detained beginning on November 16th, kidnapped from his home in Al-Qarara, east of Khan Yunis, in the southern Gaza Strip, before being transferred to the Sde Teiman detention center in the Negev desert, a center known in media circles as "Israel's Guantanamo", where he was placed in a tent with roughly 30 other Palestinian prisoners.

Al-Samuni said that detainees were subjected to varying degrees of torture, abuse and regular assaults, in addition to suffering from diseases that he says have spread widely among the prisoners.

According to lawyer Khaled Muhajna, who visited his client held in the Sde Teiman detention center, the camp's administrators keep Palestinian detainees blindfolded 24-hours a day, while some prisoners were forced to have limbs amputated, and others had Israeli bullets removed from their bodies without anesthesia.

Since the October 7th Resistance attacks, at least 9'450 Palestinians have been detained by the Israeli occupation army from the occupied West Bank territories and occupied Al-Quds, while thousands of others have been kidnapped from the Gaza Strip, including children, and hundreds more have been detained inside the occupied Palestinian territories.

Immediately following the release of Palestinian prisoners, the Israeli fascist right-wing immediately lost their heads.

Writing in an Israeli government WhatsApp group, Fascist extremist leader, Itamar Ben-Gvir, wrote that "It's time to send the head of the Shin Bet home, he does what he wants."

"Releasing the director of the 'Shifa' hospital in Gaza, along with dozens of other terrorists, is security negligence. It is time for the Prime Minister to stop Gallant and the head of the Shin Bet from conducting an independent policy contrary to the position of the cabinet and the government," he added.

In the meantime, in more news on Monday, July 1st, Gaza's few remaining hospitals and healthcare centers are warning they will stop operating within the next 48 hours as desperately needed fuel is expected to run out, leaving hospital generators and oxygen stations disfunctional, according to a statement from Gaza's Health Ministry.

“This situation was expected … because the occupation has restricted the entry of fuel shipments as well as basic supplies such as medicine and food as part of its tight siege on the Strip,” the health ministry said of the situation, going on to add that fuel supplies had begun to run dry due to the harsh measures taken that restrict supplies of fuel, medicines and other medical supplies such as oxygen tanks.

The Ministry appealed to the international community, along with humanitarian organizations, asking them to intervene quickly to provide Gaza's hospitals and medical centers with fuel, electric generators and spare parts for maintenance, before the healthcare system in the Gaza Strip collapses completely.

Meanwhile, the Zionist occupation's war crimes continue unabated with the assistance of the United States, with violent bombing and artillery shelling raining hell down on top of residential homes and shelters across various areas of the Palestinian enclave.

Beginning on Sunday night, the Israeli occupation forces renewed their campaign of destruction, shelling the Al-Waha neighborhood of Beit Lahiya, in the northern Gaza Strip, killing two Palestinians, while two others were killed as a result of an occupation raid on the Al-Tuffah neighborhood, east of Gaza City.

Occupation warplanes also bombed a residential apartment in the Al-Sabra neighborhood of Gaza City, while Israeli armored bulldozers tore up and burned agricultural lands in the northern Gaza Strip.

At the same time, Zionist tanks and armored vehicles penetrated the project area, east of the city of Rafah, in the southern Gaza Strip, coinciding with intense artillery shelling as occupation bulldozers wrecked civilian homes in the Al-Shakoush area of the city.

Following that series of attacks, later on Sunday evening, occupation warplanes launched several raids targeting the Al-Sabra neighborhood, south of Gaza City, resulting in a number of casualties.

In just one of the raids, Zionist fighter jets bombed a gathering of civilians in the Al-Sabra neighborhood, which led to the deaths of several Palestinians and wounded a number of others.

Similarly, Israeli artillery detatchments shelled the Al-Shaboura Camp, in the vicinity of the Al-Awda Junction in central Rafah, south of Gaza.

Following the attack, an Israeli warplane bombed a house in the Sheikh Radwan neighborhood of Gaza City, resulting in the death of one civilian and wounding several others.

By dawn on Monday, with smoke billowing out from a number of buildings in Gaza City, the Israeli occupation forces bombed the area near the Islamic Complex Mosque in the Al-Sabra neighborhood, south of the city, wounding several Palestinians, while at the same time, Zionist artillery shelling pummeled the Al-Shujaiya neighborhood, east of the city.

The occupation army then used explosives to detonate a building in the Shakoush neighborhood, northwest of Rafah City, in the southern Gaza Strip.

Local sources are also reporting that Israeli artillery shelled the town of Al-Khuza'a, east of the city of Khan Yunis, in southern Gaza, killing a civilian and injuring several others who were transferred to the European Gaza Hospital in Khan Yunis.

Additionally, Zionist artillery detatchments shelled Al-Mansoura Street in the Al-Shujaiya neighborhood, east of Gaza City, as well as the areas northwest of the Nuseirat Camp in the central Gaza Strip.

Prior to publishing, Israeli occupation reconnaissance aircraft bombed a civilian vehicle east of the city of Khan Yunis, killing one Palestinian civilian and wounding a number of others.

According to reporting on the incident, an occupation reconnaissance plane bombed a vehicle in the central areas of the town of Bani Suhaila, injuring several people who were taken to the European Hospital in Khan Yunis.

As a result of the Israeli occupation's ongoing war of extermination in the Gaza Strip, the infinitely rising death toll now exceeds 37'900 Palestinians killed, including over 15'000 children and upwards of 10'000 women, while another 87'060 others have been wounded since the start of the current round of Zionist aggression, beginning with the events of October 7th, 2023.

July 1st, 2024.

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#videosource

@WorkerSolidarityNews

[eretzyisrael]

Over 240 Israelis and foreigners, from babies to octogenarians, were kidnapped to Gaza and have been held captive for a month in unknowable conditions, imprisoned by terrorist organizations.

The Red Cross hasn’t seen them.

Their pictures are being ripped off notice boards in the West by people shouting “Free Palestine.”

More than 120,000 Israelis have been ordered to abandon their homes, compelled to become internal refugees. Many have no homes to go back to. They’ve been burned to the ground.

Communities lie in ruins. Hundreds of thousands of Israelis have joined the ranks of the bereaved, the widowed, the orphaned, the broken, the traumatized, the terrified.

These unthinkable numbers, the unbearable loss, and the waves of sorrow and pain that they created stunned us at first. A vast blind rage grew within us, shaking the land from end to end. That anger shaped the first declaration of war, where one goal was defined: the total elimination of the Hamas regime.

And then many sobered up.  And the goal of the war was updated: The total elimination of the Hamas regime, and the return of all the hostages.

Can those two war goals be achieved? Which does the leadership define as more important? There is no answer.

Meanwhile, the air force bombards and the ground forces enter Gaza, and divide its north from its south. More of our soldiers are killed. Hundreds of thousands of Gazans populate tent camps in the south of the Strip.

On foreign TV channels, fresh reports of the ruins in Gaza push aside the atrocities perpetrated against us and further fuel anti-Israel demonstrations and displays of antisemitism in the Middle East, in Europe and in the United States. Jews worldwide report that they have never felt so threatened.

That is in the outside world. We in Israel cannot get past October 7.

The horrors of the outdoor rave where over 260 partygoers were massacred. The families huddling in safe rooms at home as the flames drew closer. The whispers on the telephone to Israeli TV reporters, to

[athena5898]

GAZA (PrR)(RNN) — Massacres by American weapons continue in the Gaza Strip, where 111 martyrs have ascended since dawn today, 70 of them in the besieged northern Gaza Strip.

The most notable of these massacres was the massacre (https://t.me/PalestineResist/68742) on the Ghabayen family home, where over 50 martyrs ascended after a 5-story building was bombed in Beit Lahia. 24 martyrs ascended in massacres in the central #Gaza Strip.

In a display of its brutality, the IOF carried out a drone strike against personnel transporting aid a few hours ago, resulting in the martyrdom of five (https://t.me/PalestineResist/68782) south of Khan Younis.

Since then, two brothers ascended as martyrs due to shelling in Gaza City, and a child was martyred east of Maghazi, in addition to numerous injuries. In Beit Lahia, quadcopters dropped bombs, wounding many people amidst a lack of civil defense and medical care. A martyr has also ascended in Rafah.

[shifterglitter]

My Waiting Rooms

The Hord

My first waiting room was inspired by the labyrinth, my love for friendly monsters and my need to live inside of a tree like a pixie.

The reason why I named this "The Hord" is because underneath the roots of my tree house is an elaborate cave system that I can access from my library. In those caves lives a Dragon that hordes all of my memories for current, past, and future lives. That dragon is a reflection of my Higher Self should I need any advice.

Around my tree house is a Labyrinth with serval moon doors, these are magical portals that can take me to any DR that I wish at any time.

Several agreeable monsters also call this waiting room their home and have designated territories.

I do have a non human mental health professional here that fits all my needs.

A few of my favorite parental figure characters of other medias also live here for any needed advice. Like Iroh and Genkai for example.

It has a different biome and mode of travel in each cardinal direction that leads to a different Waiting Room. This is the center of all my experiences and should I die in any of my other realities unexpectedly I would immediately shift here.

To the East there is a horse drawn carriage that goes though grasslands that will take you to Barbie's Mansion. To the south, between two forested mountains, there is a train that will bring you to the Dreamweaver station right outside Haven Village. To the West there is a bioluminescent beach with a yacht that will sail you to a Vacation Resort Island. To the North is a garage with a convertible Jeep prepared for your camping trip into the desert. Should you go far enough you will find yourself stopping at a gas station with strange burritos.

One day I'll post a map of everything.

Barbie's Creepy Dream House

Have any of you been to a Meow Wolf location yet? I have. I am obsessed with this string of immersive art experiences in the American south. I also have a wooden barbie doll house that my uncle made me when I was 8 that I am upcycling into a creepy display piece. This was the inspiration for my second waiting room.

In the fields, meadows, and marsh lands that surround the house I can find apparitions of ancestors and other loving entities on my spiritual team should I wish to speak with them directly.

Because I haven't finished the art project I have not solidified this WR, but I'll get to it in a few years.

The Haven

This inspired by the meditation series by The Honest Guys called Haven and Dreamweaver.

Important people (my core chosen family) in each of the realities I end up in will also be here with our collective memories together. This could be from one life as friends; or multiple, like my siblings. The souls here that have lived multiple lives with me can change their body to appear like any of their DR forms at will.

The soul of my "Kiss Me Again" lover lives here as my spouse in my English cottage with a thatched roof.

I often collaborate with my siblings and lover about who they want to be in my next DR, and who they want me to pull here for them to live an eternity with.

All of my past, present, and future pets live here.

Wii Sport Resort

I use to fucking love the Wii Sports games. SO yeah, I am going to play it forever. With tons of Mountain Dew.

And why not on an island with all my friends from every DR.

My OR biological family will also live here, but they will all be idealized healed versions of themselves.

This will have ALL Wii Sports games among other fun vacation activities, and PC Lounges were we can all play video games too.

Desert Skies

Inspired by a after death fictional audio drama podcast called Desert Skies.

I'm still working on the other details, but this will be a solo adventure of self discovery and processing the loss of each lived life.

*these are all waiting rooms because: they have no plot, are unaffected by time, every living thing is immortal, there are no bugs I dislike, no one ever gets dirty, or experiences any sort of discomfort/harm, we all always smell good, what every your want will appear upon your will of thinking it, you don't need to eat sleep or drink water if you don't want to, there are no ill effects to drugs, you can't get sick, and all of everyone's needs are provided for. There is no suffering of any kind.*

[fatehbaz]

Hey I thought you might appreciate a heads up that the yellow-legged hornet (Vespa velutina) has been spotted in Savannah, Georgia. 😞

Nice. Well, not nice news. But glad that you thought of me. Thank you.

(For other people who have yet to fully embrace and explore their innate love of hornets, this Vespa velutina hornet is originally from Southeast Asia. This creature is closely related to Vespa mandarinia, the creature derisively referred to in the US as "murder hornet" or "Asian giant hornet", originally from South/East Asia, which is now apparently established near in the Salish Sea region near Bellingham, Vancouver, and Nanaimo.)

Here's a look at where the giant hornets now live in North America, along with the distribution of some other large hornets which might be mistaken as Vespa manadrinia/velutina:

The map was originally published in 2022 in American Entomologist, displaying distribution range of (non-native) giant hornet; (non-native) European hornet; (native) southern yellowjacket; and (native) eastern cicada killer. The article also identifies a few few other species which might be mistaken for "murder hornets": great golden digger wasp, bald-faced hornet, German yellowjacket, red-legged cannibal fly, and pigeon horntail. (Available to read for free online; article title in the source/caption beneath the map.)

I've had many memorable encounters with large (native) bald-faced hornets in dense cedar-hemlock rainforest-y places. And coincidentally, the Pacific Northwest is also now apparently the North American home/homebase of Vespa mandarinia. So here are some other PNW wasps/hornets in comparison, from Oregon State University Extension Catalog (2022):

From 2020 research on potential dispersal of Vespa mandarinia over a couple of decades (not necessarily a good or realistic representation, not inevitable, kinda just "potential"):

Apparently Vespa mandarinia haven't yet been encountered outside of the general Vancouver area during targeted samples:

I know that you too are fond of wasps/hornets, and are aware of their popular demonization, the way that they're feared, etc. In July 2022, the Entomological Society of America put out an online resource thing that explains why they don't like the name "Asian giant hornet" for Vespa mandarinia and Vespa velutina, instead adopting "northern giant hornet" and "yellow-legged hornet" (which you called the creature, too!) because of the racialized/xenophobic implications. ("Northern Giant Hornet Common Name Toolkit" available at: entsoc.org/publications/common-names/northern-giant-hornet) They say: '"Murder hornet" unnecessarily invokes fear and violence, which impede accurate public understanding of the insect and its biology and behavior. While "Asian" on its own is a neutral descriptor, its association with a pest insect that inspires fear and is targeted for eradication may bolster anti-Asian sentiment in some people - at a time when hate crimes and discrimination against people of Asian descent in the United States are on the rise.'

Which, for me, brings to mind this recent book from Jeannie Shinozuka:

From the publisher's blurb: 'In the late nineteenth century, increasing traffic of transpacific plants, insects, and peoples raised fears of a “biological yellow peril” [...]. Over the next fifty years, these crossings transformed conceptions of race and migration, played a central role in the establishment of the US empire and its government agencies, and shaped the fields of horticulture, invasion biology, entomology, and plant pathology. [...] Shinozuka uncovers the emergence of biological nativism that fueled American imperialism and spurred anti-Asian racism that remains with us today. [...] She shows how the [...] panic about foreign species created a linguistic and conceptual arsenal for anti-immigration movements that flourished in the early twentieth century [...] that defined groups as bio-invasions to be regulated—or annihilated.'

A lot going on at that time with insects, empire, and xenophobia. In the 1890s, the British Empire was desperately searching for a way to halt malaria, and mosquitoes had just been discovered as vectors of malaria. And from Nobel prize podium lectures to popular media newspapers and academic journals, there was all kinds of talk about how "bacteria/viruses/insects are the greatest enemy of the Empire" and whatever. The US was also expanding in the Caribbean, Central America, Pacific islands towards East Asia, etc. Tropical plantations were proliferating, not just in Dutch Java or British India, but also in US administered Central America. And so insects were perceived not just as a threat to the human body of the British soldier or American administrator; insects were also a threat to profits, as insect pests threatened monoculture plantations and agriculture.

That same time period saw the US invasion of the Philippines and exports of products from the islands; the US annexation of Hawai'i, and elevating rivalry with Japan; the 1882 passage of the notorious Chinese Exclusion Act; US control of Cuba and Puerto Rico; expansion of US fruit corporations in Central America and US sugarcane plantations in Cuba/Hawai'i, where insect pests threatened plantation profits; the advent of "Yellow Peril" tropes and fear of invasion in science fiction literature; the detaining of half a million (mostly Chinese) people at the medical quarantine processing center that the US Public Health Service operated at Angel Island in San Francisco; and US insect extermination projects, mosquito control campaigns, and medical policing of local people in Cuba and the Panama Canal Zone (where US authorities detained local people for medical testing).

A lot to consider.

[mesetacadre]

your "no pasaran" posting reminded me of that DDR song about building the wall (the chorus has the phrase)

personally I think it fits in this case, but what do you think? (since the stakes were a bit different)

I haven't heard that song, but there are some key differences between the east/west germany split and the Spanish Civil War which must be pointed out.

As I said in the post, No Pasarán was originally popularized (not invented) for the purpose of the defense of Madrid. Early to mid autumn of 1936 was a very tense period, since the rebels still had the intertia and initiative from coming down from the northwest towards Madrid's east. The International Brigades, -specifically the 11th, 12th and 14th brigades [battalions Edgar André (German), Paris Commune (French and Belgian), Dabrowski (Polish, Hungarian, Yugoslav, Paraguayan), Garibaldi (Italian), and Thaelmann (German)]- played a crucial role in stopping the rebel advance on its tracks, in the early November battles in and around the Eastern Park and Central University Campus. In the outskirts of Madrid, the Brigades also had a decisive role in preventing the envelopment of the city via the south around the Jarama Valley, where the Dabrowski battalion took on most of the rebels' fight, including divisions of fascist Italy.

Even if the SCW was a war fought between the Spanish, the proletarian internationalism and zeal displayed by the brigades in the defense of Madrid gave No Pasarán an undeniable internationalist element. The fall of Madrid was prevented by the inexperienced but decided effort of tens of nationalities, risking not only their lives but their own safety in their home countries, since many punished the brigadiers who managed to return. Those brigadiers were overwhelmingly mere workers who understood the SCW was an opportunity to beat fascism, especially the German and Italian workers who saw in the attempted coup of July 18th what they had experienced in 1922 and 1933, these brigadiers understood that not letting the fascists pass was the first step in defeating them wholly. And they carried on their anti-fascism after Spain fell, providing resistance and guerillas across Europe with the experienced acquired in Spain.

The anti-fascist defense wall, as it was called within the DDR, also had the purpose of preventing the advance of fascist, reactionary or otherwise sabotaging forces within a divided country. But it did lack that element of internationalism, at least at the same level that the defense of Madrid had. I still think the slogan is appropriate in this context, but they aren't identical situations even if the general purpose rhymes with the defense of Madrid. It's not that the stakes were that different, as you say, since a failure to keep those reactionary elements would have ended in disaster, like it ended up happening, it was simply less explicit and a little bit less pressing of an issue in the DDR as it was in the SCW.

[path-of-grass-and-leaves]

Hidden Charm Casting Divination Board

So I've been playing around with charm casting and wanted to make myself a divination board. I didn't want to display it out in the open but I also didn't want to dig through my closet or drawers whenever I wanted to use it.

I decided to make it on the back of a canvas painting. The borders keep the charms in place and when it's not in use I just hang it back up on the wall. The only drawback is that the wood piece in the center does sort of get in the way so I'll have to keep that in mind during readings.

Charms that land closest to the black circle in the center are the most important information. Objects that border the wheel or land toward the edge are outside influences or less important information, depending on the reading. When a charm lands near the border of the canvas it is irrelevant information and should be ignored.

I also designed the wheel to look kind of like a compass and broke it up into quadrants: North (Air), South (Earth), East (Fire), and West (Water). Any charm landing in a specific quadrant will deal with that aspect of the subject/question.

To give a very over-simplified example, a charm landing in the south portion of the wheel will deal with responsibility, finances, the home, etc. West will relate to emotions, interpersonal relationships, and the subconscious. North would be communication, ideas, and travel. East would be passion, courage, and vitality. And so on.

I plan to use this board to experiment with personal readings, spirit work, and energy readings for objects.

[rotworld]

10: Motel Hell

(previous)

desperate to get out of nelton, you make a risky decision and find somewhere to stay along the road.

->contains gore, graphic description of corpses.

.

.

.

Home is west. Northwest now, so far away it feels like the edge of the world. 

You’ve tried to get there a few times. Every now and then, you’ll get lucky. The Drift will have mercy and you’ll end up so close you think you can taste it, the pull urgent but not so taut and uncomfortable. Somehow, it’s always eluded you. You get turned around, your inner compass spinning haywire. The road spits you out just east, too far north, not at all where you mean to go. Lost—that’s what you are. But you never feel that way until you try to find home.

And even if you ever reached it, would it be worth the trouble? Would anyone see you as kin, or would it be a town full of strangers? You don't try anymore. Home is best left abstract and distant.

Night is falling. The shadows grow. The sign seems to lunge through the fog, sudden and vicious. “DRIFT INN. NEXT EXIT.” It’s not close enough to spot off the highway, but you do see a spatter of streetlights and neon. Not enough for a town, just a small place between things for the unlucky and desperate. Anything is good enough for you now. The exit is an uphill zigzag, a silent intersection with a light that takes too long to change. 

You see two long gray slabs with red roofs. Nothing around but concrete and tufts of hardy grass growing in the cracks. The parking lot is sparsely occupied, a couple windows aglow behind drawn curtains. Still, you hesitate. Your recent misfortunes have left you somewhat wary. You consult your map. You’ll make the final push for the University tomorrow, get there by dusk. South, then east? Or start heading east now? For once, you find yourself hoping there’s no town in that vast distance, no unexpected detours. 

Something flits past the window as you’re planning your morning route. It’s gone when you look up but you were sure, for just a second—

And then you see it. Another, drifting silently into your windshield. Landing on the glass and melting to nothing. The sky is the color of a coming storm. Your heart starts to race. 

[NOW PLAYING ON THE RADIO: SATURDAY NIGHT BY THE MISFITS]

The automatic doors wheeze open. A single fluorescent tube buzzes overhead. The floor is grimy-looking tile and the walls are off-white. Nobody’s sitting behind the check-in desk. All you can hear is the whirr of an electric fan in the corner and a crackling radio on the counter.

A tiered shelf against the wall displays travel brochures coated in a fine layer of dust, advertising the orchards and public gardens of Green Valley. These must be old. There is no Green Valley anymore—it’s been called the Stillwoods since before you were born, although the occasional antique road sign marooned along the highway might still bear the old name.

The doors open again behind you. There’s a woman standing there, hands in the pockets of a gray peacoat. She’s wearing heels and her hair is meticulously pinned into a neat bun. 

She gives you a quick, appraising look. “Hey there,” she says. “Checking in?” You nod and she slips behind the check-in desk, noticeably keeping her distance and never turning her back towards you. She doesn’t give you a price or ask how you’ll pay, simply reaching for a room key off the back wall and setting it on the desk. You don’t think there was a courier sign on the door. Your visible apprehension makes her grin. “So…I don’t actually work here. But I saw you pull up and thought you might appreciate a hand. There’s four of us here tonight.”

You take the key, the plastic tag attached reading 108. “Is the place abandoned?” you ask. That wouldn’t surprise you. This motel was clearly attached to the Stillwoods once upon a time, but now it’s out here in the middle of nowhere. That happens sometimes, during a particularly violent shift or an anchorware malfunction. That’s how the University became its own city, too.

The woman makes a noncommittal sound. “Not exactly. At least, it wasn’t when I got here. It’s like this, see?” 

She leans back and turns the handle of the door behind the desk. As soon as it’s cracked open, the smell of blood comes rushing out. She opens it just far enough for you to glimpse the back room and the body inside: head so badly bludgeoned that you don’t realize it’s lying face-up for a while, jaw broken and wrenched open so wide the mouth is more like a gaping wound of teeth. There’s blood pooling on the floor and arterial sprays arcing on the walls. Fresh enough to drip. 

The woman yanks the door shut again. She looks unbothered, you think, unusually cheerful considering the situation. She adjusts her small, rectangular glasses on the bridge of her nose. “See what I mean? Kind of a mess. I’d have taken off by now if not for how the sky looks. Rather take my chances here than out in a Drift storm.” The snow is heavier already, a thin layer blanketing the pavement outside. “Anyway, wanna get settled in? 108’s right with the rest of us. Gotta keep an eye on each other, after all. Hard to say who’s a mimic and who’s not.” 

You frown. A mimic wouldn’t waste that much food.

The woman is friendly, at least, and endlessly talkative. She’s a University graduate. She’s been living in Splitrock Junction for the past few years, testing the water and soil for “intrusional particles,” but she’s looking for a career change. “Anchorware! That’s where the money’s at,” she tells you. “That’s the future of the Drift, you know. It’s caught on in all the major industries but it’ll get more affordable later. The lab where they build that stuff makes the University look Stone Age. God, if I could get my hands on some of that equipment…” 

You barely say a word as she leads you outside and across the parking lot to the adjacent building. Four rooms are occupied in a row, lights on, muffled voices coming through the doors. You walk up in time to catch part of a conversation—an argument, more accurately. They’re talking about mimics.

“So you’re telling me the one that’s see-through and foggy like frosted glass isn’t called a glass mimic?” 

“Glass mimics are literally made of glass, man. Or something kind of like it. It shatters if you hit it hard enough.” 

“Kind of like it? So they’re not actually made of glass. They don’t even resemble glass.” 

“I didn’t name them, okay?” 

The woman pauses to knock on 106. “We’ve got another,” she says. 

106 opens just slightly, the door halting on a chain lock. The face that peers out at you is obscured by a surgical mask and a pair of sunglasses. “Shit, Chatterbox made it back in one piece,” he mutters. “So either it left you alone or you’re the mimic.” The doors on either side of him creak open. A man pokes his head outside of 105, looking nonplussed. Nobody comes out of 107 but you hear a quiet huff, a quick exhale of laughter.

“Well, this is all of us,” the woman says. “We’re a little short on trust right now so you’ll have to settle for nicknames. That’s Newbie in 105. He’s from outside. Like, outside, you know?”

“Outside the Drift?” you ask, startled.

Newbie frowns. He’s blond and clean-shaven, wearing an open suit jacket and loosened tie. “Couldn’t we have picked our own nicknames? God, it’s freezing all of the sudden.” 

“This totally normal, not at all suspicious guy lurking in 106 is Glasses.” 

“Bite me,” Glasses snarls. “Half the mimics out here copy faces. You’re not getting mine.”

The woman rolls her eyes. “Shrug is in 107. He’s kinda quiet. Second most likely to be a mimic, if we’re making accusations.” 

107’s door opens slightly wider. The man standing there doesn’t show his face, keeping his head down and his hood up, hands stuffed in the pockets of an oversized sweater. He’s on the shorter side. “Hm,” he says, and shrugs.

“And I guess I’m Chatterbox.” The woman laughs. “I’m in 104. The walls are really, really thin, we mostly just yell at each other. Nobody else around so it’s not like we’re bothering anyone.” 

You unlock 108 and find a small, musty-smelling room. There’s stiff, crusty carpet, a single bed with sheets that feel like packing paper, and a closet-sized bathroom. You put your backpack on the bedside table and add the Drift Inn to your map.

“So what are we calling you, stranger?” Chatterbox yells. She’s right, the walls are really thin. Four rooms down and you can still hear her fairly clearly. 

“Courier,” you say back. 

The wind picks up outside, growing from a whisper to a vicious howl. You peek through your curtains and find your footsteps in the snow have nearly been filled in already as more blows across the motel parking lot. You scan the row of cars parked out front apprehensively. The one you saw in the blizzard was an SUV, you think. Silver. Hard to make out in the haze and all the white. You don’t see it out there now. You’d like to tell yourself that those two things can’t possibly be related, but there’s a corpse behind the check-in desk, beaten so badly the face barely looked human.

You don’t want to think about it. You let the curtains fall back into place and sit on the edge of the bed. “Newbie, you’re from outside the Drift?” you ask. “What made you decide to come here?”

You hear him clear his throat nervously. “I’m doing market research, you could say. There’s a lot of interest in developing the Drift, getting it connected to the rest of the world. You guys are missing out on a lot of things. Phones are only local, right, so you can’t call Prismville from the University. And mail takes forever since you don’t really have a reliable delivery service. Uh. No offense, I mean.” 

“Didn’t some outsider company already try getting a foothold here a while back?” That sounds like Glasses. “Like a decade ago or something. Putting all those cables in the ground, then acting surprised when they got fucked up after a couple shifts.” 

“Ohhh, that’s right! They started growing skin and then they all slithered off,” Chatterbox says.

“Is that what those are?” you ask. “I’ve seen those before. They’re farm pests, mostly. They really like eggs.” 

“Mhm,” Shrug adds.

“Can I ask about that? What’s up with the eggs?” Newbie says. “Why are they everywhere? I keep seeing people eat them raw, shell and all.” 

Chatterbox laughs. “So those aren’t actually eggs.” 

“You’re pulling my leg.” 

“No, I mean, they look just like eggs, right? So we call them eggs.”

“Oh, so these get called by what they look like, huh?”

“Okay, look, there are different kinds of shifts, right? Depending on how things are intersecting, or if they’re intersecting at all, and sometimes—”

The wind shrieks and the windows shake in their frames. Snow drifts under your door, melting on the carpet. Through the space beneath the curtains, all you see is white. “It’s getting bad out there,” Glasses says quietly.

“I, ah, thought the Drift didn’t get snow?” Newbie asks.

“It doesn’t,” Chatterbox says. “Unless the Road Ripper’s around.” 

There’s a pause. You’re holding your breath. Glasses is the first one to speak up again, scoffing, “That shit’s an urban legend. Nobody could live out on the road that long.”

“Hm,” Shrug agrees. Or maybe disagrees. You’re not sure.

“What if he doesn’t, though? What if he does come into town sometimes, drifts in and out before anyone realizes who he is?” Chatterbox insists. “It’d be easy. He could slip out with some couriers and nobody’d know. Maybe he is a courier.”

There’s another, longer pause. “Wh—really?” you say, incredulous. “I’m not a serial killer.”

Chatterbox makes a thoughtful sound. “Well, a serial killer would probably say that.” 

“I was the last one here! How could I have killed somebody?” 

“Not saying you did it, just saying maybe you should leave first in the morning,” Glasses mutters. 

The idea of falling asleep here unnerves you, but your car won’t be warm enough. You consider shoving a chair under the door. It’s flimsy, certainly nothing that’ll deter somebody hellbent on killing on you—somebody with the kind of strength you saw—but you’ll hear it fall over at least. You take a quick shower and crawl into bed, too tired to care how stiff the mattress is. The others are loud but the wind drowns them out after a while and the conversation dies down.

Maybe you won’t sleep, you think. You’ll just lay here on your side, facing the door and the windows. Listening for footsteps in the snow, or a car pulling up.  Just a few hours, you think, checking the clock. A few hours until dawn, at least. Maybe the blizzard will have moved on by then. You try to keep yourself moving, shaking your foot or tapping your fingers. The room is frigid, the heat barely able to keep up with the cold air seeping under the door, but exhaustion is slowly gaining on you. It becomes a struggle to keep your eyes open.

“…I heard that’s a thing he does,” Chatterbox is saying, sounding muffled and far away. “He picks somebody and follows them around for a while, but he lets them go a few times before he actually kills them. And it’s not like he just leaves other people alone, but that’s kind of different. It’s like he’s whetting his appetite or something. Picks off other people so can hold himself back from whoever his main target is. Maybe it’s a mimic thing? Do you think he shapeshifts? I had a friend back at University who specialized in mimics, I think some of them do similar stuff…”

Your eyelids flutter. Just a few hours, you remind yourself. A few hours and then…

You can’t breathe. 

It’s dark, a deeper black than night in every direction, and you can’t breathe. There’s something—something around your neck. Squeezing too tight. Wanting to split you open, wanting to tear into the soft flesh of your throat. It wants to, yet it never does. But even when it lets you go, uncoiling slowly, slinking out of sight, your lungs are on fire. You heave and you choke and you try to scream but you can’t get any air, can’t breathe. You can’t remember how.

There’s something in this darkness with you. You can’t see it but you can hear it breathing in deep, echoing sighs. You can sense its vastness, the crushing weight of its attention. You’re trying to run but your legs are weak and sluggish, flailing, going nowhere. The air ripples and it’s here, above and all around you. Silent. Observing. Your neck throbs where it touched you, skin tender and throbbing with your heartbeat, and still you can’t breathe. 

There is a dark moon above you. It’s a misshapen pearl, a silvery stone with a hole punched through its center. It’s growing as it sinks from the sky. It’s bigger than you, bigger than your car, so close you think you could reach out and touch it.

It blinks.

You gasp and jolt awake. It must be morning. Weak light trickles under the curtains. You’re cold, but not as cold as you were last night. The stench of blood is thick and cloying. Your door is open, the chair you wedged under it knocked aside. 

You sit up slowly. The room is red. Every breath draws in the smell of rust and rot. There’s hardly a surface in the room that hasn’t been spattered in gore. The walls are glistening with it. There are dark red puddles hardening into the carpet. The bedspread is soaked through beside you because there is a body there, posed atop the sheets as though it climbed into bed with you. It doesn’t have a face, just a head so badly bludgeoned that it could be a split pomegranate, soft and gooey and oozing chunks of meat through cracks in its skull. 

It’s wearing a peacoat, gray wool spattered with blotchy red stains. 

You scramble out of bed, lunging for your shoes. The carpet is so saturated it squishes wetly under your steps. There’s another body curled up at the foot of the bed in the same unsightly condition, intact except for the gristly paste where a head should be. Blood and brain matter spill across the floor in a pinkish smear, bits of vertebrae poking through the taut, torn flesh of the neck. Newbie’s tie is half-submerged in the slurry, tightened into an uncomfortably small knot.

The third corpse is propped up against the door, seated with its back against it. You shove it aside. You try not to look. But you see red, you see a scalp split apart and a broken shell of skull fragments underneath, little white slivers floating in a soupy clot. A gush of thick, partially coagulated fluid spurts out when it thunks against the ground in your haste to leave, dislodging the sunglasses folded neatly in its lap. 

The morning air is crisp. It’s just cold enough that some of the snow has stayed, the shallow layer left revealing the spotted prints of snowboots, a trail of blood, and smooth drag marks. Every door is wide open, a mess of red slush inside. The gruesome trail wanders out of your room and then rounds the corner, vanishing into a section of the parking lot you never thought to check. Nothing is parked there now but you still feel nauseous with fear.

Strangely, 107’s snow is clean. You notice as you’re leaving, starting your car, headlights flashing into the open rooms. Everything else is slick and splattered, dark red puddles frozen to the bed, except 107—the room right next to yours. The footprints, you notice, come out of that room clean. They go only in one direction; only leaving. 

You try desperately to remember Shrug’s face but you never saw it. He was careful, keeping his head angled down and his gaze lowered. Maybe it’s just hindsight, fear coloring your memories, but thinking back, you thought he might’ve had a small smile on his face when you looked at him.

(next)

[saintsenara]

Unhinged ships for you: Nagini/ the Basilisk ; Albus Dumbledore / Mrs. Cole ; Hagrid / Aragog. ; Snape / Vernon

cheers, anon. finally, some good fucking food.

nagini/the basilisk

which also got a separate shoutout of its own:

yes.

now, i want to be very clear that i am of the view that nagini is and has only ever been a snake - the tiresome orientalist backstory given for her in the fantastic beasts films is unwelcome in this house.

but nagini is also evidently not one of the two species of snake which is native to britain. the description of her in canon makes her sound like a reticulated python - albeit a reticulated python who is also venomous and fonder of biting than constricting - which means she would have come, were she born in the wild, from somewhere in south or south-east asia.

i very much like the idea of her having been captured from the wild for the exotic pet trade and having been transported thousands of miles from her homeland to the balkan coastline, ready to be sold in western europe, when she manages to escape from her cage and slither off to freedom. except - a stranger in a strange land - she's lost and afraid, and is therefore so very, very grateful to encounter an odd-looking man who can speak to her in her own language...

canon makes a lot of the fact that nagini is voldemort's only friend. the flip-side of this is that voldemort is her only friend too - and, while snakes aren't usually thought of as social creatures... maybe that's just what humans think because we've never actually asked.

we get flashes in canon which allow an author to flesh out nagini's inner life as quite lonely. she gets agitated when voldemort spends too long speaking english, or when the other death eaters are doing things and making noise which she doesn't understand. she doesn't like being back in a cage at the end of deathly hallows. she likes to feel useful - her describing her trip to see the prophecy as "important work" stands out to me, and i think it's lovely. her personal world is quite small - voldemort is not someone who gallivants around, and so she probably spends a lot of time behaving as she does at the start of goblet of fire: drifting around strange houses, homesick and half a world away from a life she once knew.

the basilisk, too, must be quite lonely. after all, if you were a cold-blooded creature, would you enjoy shivering in the dark under a school for a millennium? she too must be far from home - basilisks originate in greece, in canon, and i won't be pulled from the headcanon that slytherin [since salazar is a name from the iberian peninsula] arrives in britain from sunnier shores too.

i always like the idea of the basilisk being genuinely fond of the teenage voldemort - and their relationship mirroring the one his adult self has with nagini, with him popping down to the chamber for a chinwag - because he's presumably the first person she's spoken to in decades, the gaunts clearly having stopped [in the seven-book canon] sending their children to hogwarts as they became poorer and more isolated.

i am also wedded to the idea that basilisks pair-bond for life. but slytherin didn't realise this.

two lonely souls finding each other and making each other less lonely is my poison of choice. even when they're both snakes.

mrs cole/albus dumbledore

dumbledore immediately being willing to start day-drinking - while he's supposed to be working, no less - just because mrs cole displays a basic interest in the things he says has "desperate simp" written all over it.

i reckon he popped back to the orphanage a couple of times with flowers and whisked her off for a night at the pictures, while the assembled orphans gawked from the stairs.

it broke off because dumbledore is terrified of commitment - mrs cole tried to get him to make things official and he responded by wiping her memory [the ultimate ghosting]. despite what he will later tell harry, the real cause of his beef with the young voldemort is that he spends his first time at hogwarts trying to finagle them getting back together.

after all, being prepped to throw hands with an eleven-year-old would be pretty strange, wouldn't it albus?

unless that eleven-year-old was attempting to parent trap you...

rubeus hagrid/aragog

flopping, i'm afraid.

aragog's plausibly into it - he properly gasses up hagrid to harry and ron - but i don't think hagrid's going for it. not because he's not inclined towards a bit of monster-fucking but because he finds aragog - who is generally described in canon using the word "fretful" - to be a bit of fun sponge.

that's why he hooks aragog up with mosag. it makes him feel less guilty...

vernon dursley/severus snape

jesus christ this would be messy...

i think they might end up in some begrudging hate sex following a bit of arguing over whether snape's technique with a wand is more impressive than vernon's knowledge of how to properly wield a drill, and then their mutual loathing of harry sustains them through round two.

but that's it.

vernon's love for his solidly middle-class life is going to turn snape into a trotskyite, and vernon's taste in men is towards authoritative hotties with earrings - which is why him being canonically willing to risk it all for kingsley will never not send me - rather than scrawny goths.

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Anonymous

Published: Feb 8, 2023

• An anonymous student speaks out about transgender ideology in her school  • The student, aged 14, attends a state secondary school in South-East England • Claimed teachers say Lady Macbeth non-binary and girls wear breast binders

She’s 14 and attends a co-educational state secondary in South-East England — where she says one in ten children in her year identifies as trans or non-binary. After becoming increasingly upset by the school’s acceptance of transgender ideology, this female student has decided to expose the truth about life in an ongoing culture war.

The other day, I went to the school office to get a new copy of the timetable. The teacher I spoke to used ‘they/them’ pronouns about me, asking another member of staff, ‘they have lost their timetable, can they have a new one?’

He knows me really well and it’s clear that I’m a girl. I felt furious he didn’t just say ‘she’. But it’s not just the odd teacher here or there; I am regularly asked if I am in the process of transitioning.

There is a gender-neutral uniform policy at school and lots of the girls wear trousers. Those of us that do are often asked if we are transgender, especially if we have short hair, as I do.

The fact a girl likes playing video games, or doesn’t like feminine clothes or make-up is enough to be seen as potentially trans. When my mum complained about me being called ‘they’, the teacher apologised but explained he was being cautious in case I was transitioning. He said the teachers are treading on eggshells, scared of being labelled transphobic.

It feels like trans is all anyone talks about. The library has a section devoted to LGBTQQIA+ books and there is a display for Pride in the school entrance, with rainbow flags and words and terms such as ‘non-binary‘, ‘polysexual’, ‘demiboy’, ‘demigirl’ and ‘pansexual’. These words come up in lessons, too. I’m now in Year 10, and the other day a girl in my English class asked if the Greek god Zeus was a man or a woman and the teacher replied that Zeus could have ‘identified as non-binary’.

More recently another teacher said Lady Macbeth was ‘neither a man nor a woman’. I think most parents will have no clue this is what their kids are being taught.

So I’m glad the Education Secretary Gillian Keegan is set to tell schools they must be more open about their handling of trans issues. I would be too scared to say this at school, though. I would lose my friends if I did, as they’re completely intolerant of anything they think is transphobic.

That’s what made me decide to speak out here — without giving my real name.

When I started at my secondary school four years ago, I didn’t even know what ‘transgender’ meant. It hadn’t been talked about in primary school or at home. But within days, we were told by a teacher in our PSHE (personal, social, health and economic education) class that we would be seen as ‘transphobic’ if we used any of the ‘offensive words’ from a long list, which included ‘gender bender’ and ‘butch’.

I had no idea what transphobic meant, but I could tell it was definitely something I didn’t want to be seen as. At that age, when you are told something at school you just believe it. We trusted that what the teachers told us was true. 

But I did ask my mum about it later. She is a feminist and is critical of students being dictated to. She said that often it depends how you use words — that people within queer communities have used ‘gender bender’ as a positive way to describe themselves and that ‘butch’ is used by lesbians to describe other lesbians who are quite masculine in appearance.

While still in my first year, 11-year-old girls in my class began asking to be called ‘he’ or ‘them’.

Soon afterwards a number of others were doing the same. It felt as if they joined in because it meant they were seen as cool.

You get special treatment if you say you are trans or non-binary and suddenly become the centre of attention when you ‘come out’.

As soon as a girl says she is a boy, her name is changed on the school register and students are told to use their chosen boy’s name.

Now, out of 200 students in my year, at least 20 say they’re trans — almost all are girls claiming to be boys or non-binary. Although there is one boy saying he’s a girl, this really is largely about girls saying they are boys. The kids in my year don’t say they are lesbian or gay, because those words are thought to be an insult.

There is a straight boy going out with a straight girl who says she is trans, so he now has to say that he’s bisexual. It’s often said by my schoolmates that trans girls are ‘better’ girls than ‘other girls’. I find this insulting. But the teachers don’t take any action even if they do hear conversations like this.

Recently, I was watching a news item with friends about the changes to the Gender Recognition Act in Scotland and every time a guest on the programme said, ‘this is a threat to sex-based rights’, my friends were sneering and laughing. It made me feel as though girls have no rights and are not respected in my school.

There is constant talk of transphobia and bigotry and many of the students who say they are trans constantly talk about being ‘victims’, with anyone who isn’t trans being the perpetrator.

Coming out as a lesbian or gay doesn’t have the same effect, but barely any students do, in my experience.

My friend Kelley* was ‘affirmed’ [accepted without question] as a boy in Year 7. She has serious mental health issues and is regularly off school as she self-harms.

Kelley socially transitioned without any teacher challenging her. She has a new name and can now use the boys’ changing rooms. All my friends pretty much believe in ‘gender identity’. Girls and boys are referred to by teachers and students as ‘assigned female at birth’ or ‘assigned male at birth’. This is shortened to AFAB and AMAB.

There is also confusing language such as the word for being attracted to non-binary people, ‘skoliosexual’. I find it ridiculous — but can’t say that.

There is a lot of breast-binding going on, too, but we don’t know who might be on puberty blockers because no one talks about that. One trans-identified girl wants to get a breast binder, but was complaining that her parents would not want her to.

I joined the Equalities Club because I believe in equal rights for all, then found it was impossible to talk about any group, other than trans people, that was discriminated against. There’s a rule against wearing badges in school but some students wear trans flag and pronoun badges and nobody tells them off.

Recently, a group of us were watching Prime Minister’s Questions and when MPs talked about maternity care, using the terms ‘birthing partner’ and ‘non-birthing partner’, I wondered out loud why they didn’t just say ‘mother’.

I was told off by a friend who said that not everyone with a cervix is a woman. I didn’t want to disagree because I knew what would happen — I would be publicly humiliated.

Until now, I’ve just gone along with most of it. But there are some things I can’t leave alone. For example, I really like J. K. Rowling but she was called a ‘TERF’ (Trans-Exclusionary Radical Feminist) by a friend, who said she was heartbroken to hear that J.K. was ‘anti-trans’.

I asked in what way J.K. was transphobic but this friend couldn’t give me an answer, she just said: ‘I hope all TERFS drop dead.’ I was shocked by her anger.

There have also been violent comments on social media towards ‘transphobes’ with students from the school threatening to strangle them.

That’s why I’m writing this piece anonymously, although I believe I should be able to say these things without fear of attack. I want adults to know what it’s really like in schools like mine now.

*Names have been changed.

==

This confusion, this uncertainty isn't a bug of Queer Theory, it's the explicitly stated intent. When nobody can trust anything about the world, they can't know whether to oppress you or to give you the privileges associated with being an oppressor. No more "systemic" oppression. One of the big problems is that this constantly questioning your own perceptions is a tactic of Malignant Narcissistic Personality Disorder. It's no wonder it attracts narcissists.

https://segm.org/England-ends-gender-affirming-care

The new NHS guidance recognizes social transition as a form of psychosocial intervention and not a neutral act, as it may have significant effects on psychological functioning. The NHS strongly discourages social transition in children, and clarifies that social transition in adolescents should only be pursued in order to alleviate or prevent clinically-significant distress or significant impairment in social functioning, and following an explicit informed consent process.

It's Psych 101 that affirmation solidifies belief, because it wires the amygdala to accept the belief as reality. If you keep telling someone "yes, you are a victim, the world is out to get you," they'll become helpless and incapable. If a therapist actually recommended affirmation therapy for those with anorexia nervosa - "if you think you're overweight, you must be, since you're the expert on you. In fact, you could probably even stand to lose a few more lbs" - we'd know they were incompetent and dangerous.

https://cutdowntree.substack.com/i/54708841/metaphysics-of-marginalization

If those who are born Black or disabled are the chosen, trans people are the converts who have voluntarily accepted Marginalization. They choose to suffer more from their involuntary embodiment. Because of this, they become virtuous. They are saved.

[scotianostra]

Coldingham Priory was founded on 21st June 1098.

Coldingham Priory was a house of Benedictine monks. It lies on the south-east coast of Scotland, in the village of Coldingham, Berwickshire. Coldingham Priory was founded in the reign of David I of Scotland, although his older brother and predecessor King Edgar of Scotland had granted the land of Coldingham to the Church of Durham in 1098 so he gets the official credit for founding it and a church was constructed by him and presented in 1100.

The first prior of Coldingham is on record by the year 1147, although it is likely that the foundation was much earlier. The earlier Columban Abbey founded by St. Æbbe sometime circa 640 AD. Although the monastery was largely destroyed by Oliver Cromwell in 1648, there are still extant remains of the priory. The choir of which forms the present parish church of Coldingham, and is serviced by the Church of Scotland. The model shows how extensive the abbey was in Medieval times, although for me it lacks the grandiose that the border abbeys at Dryburgh, Melrose and Kelso have.

Having said that I the reconstruction doesn’t do it justice, as you can see in the ruinous 18th century drawing they have not incorporated the tower in the model, a shocking omission in my opinion.

The choir is a substantial rectangular building with a fine interior, now used as the parish church. The nave was a massive building with aisles and filled much of what is now the graveyard but is mostly gone, and there was a large tower, rising to 90 foot over the crossing. Some of the domestic buildings are very ruinous but have been cleared and landscaped, and carved fragments and gravestones are on display as well as a transept arch.

As with all the border towns an abbeys it had a turbulent history, the priory was sacked in 1216, 1419 and 1542 by the English, besieged by the Scots in 1544, then attacked again by the English. Mary, Queen of Scots, stayed here in 1566. An ‘abbey place’ is mentioned in 1621, presumably a residence in the priory, but much of the building was damaged by Cromwell’s forces in 1648 (or 1650) after a two-day siege with cannon. The large central tower collapsed in the middle of the 18th century.

The lands of the priory had gone to the Homes after the Reformation, then to the Stewarts, then later to the Homes again, while the choir of the priory was (and is) used as the parish church (Priory Church).

The grand tower collapsed in 1770, apparently revealing the cadaver of a lady who had been sealed up in the walls, and the remains of the church were renovated in the 1850s and 1950s. There are many interesting memorials in the extensive graveyard and pleasant walks around the scenic village. There is a fine beach at Coldingham Bay.

I don't think you get the sheer scale of the Priory until you see something like Andrew Sparatts mock up gif of how it could have looked, as in the animation.

There’s a great timeline of the abbey here

https://www.coldinghamparish.co.uk/.../COLDINGHAM-PRIORY...