#effect of torturers on organisations

[terpia]

.

[fortheammonites]

Falling for scams does hurt people, actually

TW: Human trafficking, SA, torture, discussion of scam farms

I see a whole bunch of people arguing that they would rather risk giving to a scammer than ignore someone's gofundme. I also see people saying things like "I can't believe some sick people are profiteering off genocide" and like, me neither, but I feel like you guys really don't understand who actually runs these kinds of scams and what they are.

Scams of noticeable scale-- like scam asks being sent from hundreds of accounts to every user on Tumblr!-- are typically related to organised crime in poor countries, not Susan from Milwaukee who wants a new coat and has no scruples. People get trafficked by gangs to scam farms in Asia and Africa where they're worked to the bone and tortured trying to get idiots in wealthy countries to part with their money. Genocide profiteering is pretty much the least evil thing these people do.

Here's a UN article on it. Obvious warnings for content related to human trafficking and SA.

When you donate to a scammer, you fund these organisations and give them a reason to exist. It's possible some of the fundraisers are legit. I honestly find it unlikely given I'm not seeing any from any other countries where urgent fundraisers would seem to have great reason to exist but which haven't captured the same level of attention on Tumblr-- the number of Sudanese, Congolese, Ukrainian, Burmese or Uyghur fundraisers in my DMs is a fat 0. In any case, there are safer ways to help.

If you want to help (which is great!) you don't have to take the risk of paying for human trafficking. Donate to legitimate charities which have the resources to safely and effectively ensure the money and help is getting to the right people. Funding human trafficking rings in Myanmar is not a good risk to be taking while trying to help.

[sinlilith]

★ 彡 STRESS RELIEVER. ✧ MIGUEL O'HARA

oneshot ❥ you're struggling to keep your focus with the stress and miguel offers to ease that worry off you.

❥ tropes: modern + college au. afab reader + playboy miguel. ❥ content warning: explicit content (18+), finger f*cking, dirty talk. minors do not interact. ❥ extras: divider creds: cafekitsune. ❥ wc: 3,573

a/n. this is long overdue for someone who requested miguel to finger fuck reader as a stress relief. i aged reader and miguel to between 22-23 in this oneshot since they're college students. this fic is longer than intended but hey, we like to take it slow burn here.

Sometimes you contemplate why you put yourself in this kind of situation. 

You were aware that you have exams coming up in the next few weeks. But you were focused on making sure that you got your assignments done before the deadline. So it was natural for you to prioritise those. You wish you had paid more attention to the dates because just when you thought that you would have more time to revise, you didn’t. Leaving you with only three weeks until your exam. And now you’re struggling to get information into your head. 

“Fuck,” you mumble. The machine makes a soft drilling noise as it pours coffee into your mug. You rub your forehead with your hand as you wait for your drink to finish. Thinking about what topics you need to revise for the exam. Mentally planning how you would organise and plan yourself for another long session of studying. It’s going to be another long night.

When your drink is ready, you stride your way to the dining table where all your notes and books are set. With not enough desk space you have in your room, the dining table has turned into your second desk to accommodate all the reading materials and your laptop to work on. You strap yourself in your seat, ready for another torturous session of studying for the finals. 

All the caffeine from the coffee, tea and sugary energy drinks didn’t last long in your system. At first, you feel the buzz of the caffeine that helps you go through two hours of reading and answering mock questions without a proper break. You feel yourself pushing through, feeling motivated that you can do this. But then, the effects wear off, and now you’re struggling through short video clips on your laptop after two hours into your study session. 

Your mind battles. Reminding you about the consequences of you losing more time. But you can’t be bothered at the moment. You are convincing yourself that you deserve a break from studying for fifteen minutes which turned into a two-hour rest and procrastination. 

At this rate, you know that you won't get any studying done. You’re going to have to face the consequences of that but you can’t be bothered about it for now. Staring mindlessly at your laptop with headphones on as you watch a reality television adaption to pass the time. 

“Dios, you’re still here this late?” 

Your eyes look up from your laptop to find your roommate in the dining area. Miguel stands at the entrance in his black leather jacket, red shirt underneath and dark-coloured jeans. His black helmet rests on his left lip and it looks like he’s returned from wherever he went or did. You didn’t realise that he wasn’t in the house you both shared all this time. “When was the last time you looked at yourself in the mirror? You look shit.” 

“Thanks, Captain Obvious.” You say. Your relationship with Miguel O’Hara is rather tricky, to say the least. Sometimes, the two of you get along and have a decent conversation with each other about careers, and personal experiences and share similar interests. Though other times, it’s not necessary. It’s mostly when he would bring people over to the house and then take one girl up to his room. Having to hear moans from the girls he fucked and Miguel’s growls and dirty talks. 

It annoys you to no end, especially the one incident when you walked into the bathroom with him getting a blow job in the shower. It’s still his fault for not locking the bathroom or even putting a sign on the door to say that he’s busy getting pleased.  

Even after that, your subtle attraction for Miguel still resonates with you. 

You realise your mug is empty, another drink that is supposed to keep you going has gone to waste in your system. You can’t be bothered but you know that you’ve wasted time not studying when you’re supposed to. So, you get up from your seat, walk into the kitchen and do the same routine that you’ve done the past few weeks when you’re cramming for finals. Either make your coffee, or tea or grab an energy drink. The caffeine from the coffee is too much for you to handle at the moment and tea isn’t strong enough for you. So you settle for an energy drink where it’s in between enough caffeine to maybe help you go through for another three hours for now. 

“Are you thinking of studying again?” Miguel sounds a bit disbelieving, but not surprised. He’s now in the kitchen with you as you take your energy drink of choice for the night—or early morning. You don’t want to look at the time “There’s no point. You’re not going to remember anything at this rate.”

“Can we just… not do this?” You warn, holding your hand up as a sign for him to stop talking. Stop creating conversations that would lead to an argument because you know it would happen. Especially with your emotions all over the place.  

Miguel stares at you, his eyes roaming up and down. Not long after, his lips curl into a smirk. Leaning his side against the frame of the long, rectangular entrance arch. “You’re stressed out. Miss Perfect finally breaks down for finals.”  

A tired sigh escapes out of your mouth. You focus to proceed on opening up the can, hearing its fizziness before pouring it into your mug. “You could say that.” 

The kitchen falls into silence. What he says is certainly true and you feel that you brought this on yourself. You were off-tracked with your assignments and didn’t check the right exam dates. It’s an error on your part but you are trying to do your best to make it through another year of college without failing. At this point, you’re willing to accept a passing grade just to make it to another year.  

“I’ll study and keep you company,” Miguel declares. “Only to make sure you stay focused and get on track. No more messing around. Got that?” 

You blink, unprepared for his words. You’re not sure why he’s doing this to you but what he said made a rush of warmth fill your chest. Despite his words, you guess that he thinks it’s better to have someone to study with rather than doing it alone. But you don’t ask Miguel if that’s his intention, in case he decides to rethink his offer.

“Thank you.” 

Miguel unfolds his arms and lets it drop to his sides. His hands are in his pockets as he’s about to leave, but then he looks over his shoulder to you. “And also; nadie bebe su bebida energética de una taza.” He says before disappearing elsewhere. 

You blink and look down at the mug in your hand, guessing that Miguel is talking about how energy drinks are meant to drink from their can, and not from a mug. 

* * * * * 

You did manage to push yourself for another two hours before you came crashing again. 

“I can’t focus on anything else right now. My mind has gone blank.” You sigh, slumping on your seat. That’s another study session that failed.

“Hm,” Miguel responds. Focusing on his study materials. “I think you’ve studied too much. That’s why you’re burned out.” 

There is some truth to his words. You have been pushing yourself to the bone for this exam and now your mind is haywired. Everything feels numbing in your head. The feelings of exhaustion, guilt and unbotheredness are jumbled in you. 

“I’m just really stressed out. I want to do well on this exam but my brain just… can’t grasp anything that I’ve studied.” You say, sounding a little disheartened. “I can’t focus, I can’t concentrate.” 

Miguel couldn’t help but glance at you. Taking in the way you’re slumped in your seat and how hollow your eyes are, filled with fatigue and emptiness. You look stressed out. He wonders when was the last time you had rest – a proper break. Not the stupid Pomodoro breaks where you take five to ten minutes of break time before getting back to studying. 

He wonders when was the last time you had taken care of yourself? 

Miguel turns his attention to you when he hears you close one of your heavy books. You let out a sigh, “I can’t even relax without being so much on edge. Fuck.” 

He thinks you’re right as he sees the way your body tenses in stress and anxiety. Miguel’s expression stays unfazed though he does feel sympathy seeing you in such a state. “Hey, you should get some rest. Go to bed early or something.” 

“I will after I attempt to get this lesson done. Then, I’ll go to bed.” 

Miguel gives you a solemn look. Your determination is one of the things he admires about you. Your willingness to do whatever it takes to get your points across. It made you endearing in his eyes. But at the moment, it’s making you look stubborn and somewhat prideful. The last thing you need is a bad experience of burnout before your exam, and he knows that you know this as well deep down.

“Let me help you to relax,” 

“Huh?” You shoot him a confused look. As if he’s said something unusual to you. “Help me… relax? How do you plan on doing that?” 

Miguel nods, “You are tensed up and you’re not getting anything remembered in your head. Your mind can’t focus.”  

You raise a brow at him, unsure where your roommate is coming from. Miguel is right, you do need to take a proper break since your productivity is rather counterproductive. But his words still puzzle you about how he can help you relax. “And how do you plan on doing that, exactly?” You ask curiously. “What do you do to relax when you’re stressed out?” 

“You know, go to the gym. Take a walk, drive around.” Miguel says it casually. “Sometimes masturbating helps to wire your brain to relax.”

You stare at your roommate before burying your face in your hands with a groan. Not only is the suggestion embarrassing but you have to imagine Miguel playing with himself. How his hands would stroke his cock, hot and pulsing in the palm of his hands. Envisioning the grunted breaths and deep groans he makes. It isn’t as if you haven’t done that to yourself either, pleasuring yourself. You’ve done that on the nights where you could hear the headboard of his bed from his room moving as the girl Miguel brought for the night kept moaning. 

You shake your head, dismissing the thoughts immediately. Or try to. “I’m not in the right mindset to do that.” 

Miguel raises an eyebrow. “I’m not saying you should do it. I’m offering to do it. It’s on the table for you.” 

“What?” You stare at him in shock and confusion. You think you heard him wrong but from the unfazed look on his face, you know that he is serious about this. Serious about giving you an orgasm, or maybe multiple orgasms. Because you know from the women and girls he brings over to fuck, Miguel has them moaning more than three times. 

When you open up your mouth, you can hear yourself stammering your words. The thought of it is disgusting but at the same time, arouses you. “Miguel, I–” 

“Do you trust me?” He asks, his red eyes piercing into yours. Captivating you to stop talking. To stop denying the offer of pleasure. You give Miguel a look of uncertainty, unsure how to respond to his offer.

“What’s it gonna be?” Miguel asks. The corner of his mouth curves up to a tiny smirk. “No pressure, chica. I want you to think about it and let me know if you’re up for it or not.” 

Miguel goes back to reading his study notes with a neutral expression as if the conversation didn’t happen. He doesn’t look at you and the silence in the room speaks volumes. Leaving you to think about the offer. You’re not sure why he is even offering himself to give you pleasure. Miguel is your friend, for goodness sake. The guy is out of your league and he has been with other people, you know this. Is he doing this out of pity or could there be more to it? 

The two of you have lived together for three years of schooling, and have known each other for that long. He doesn’t give you attention in a lustful way or lustful like he does with other girls; the kind of interest in starting a sexual relationship with you. It’s a blessing in disguise yet at the same time, you want a connection more than just being his friend. 

You have a crush on Miguel but he doesn’t seem the type of guy who isn’t ready to commit to one person just yet. Especially when you’re both still young and exploring life ahead.  

“Okay,” you closed your book with a thud. You catch his eyes when you fully turn to talk to him. This idea is already as insane as it is, but you’re desperate to stop feeling like a lost cause about your exam. You just want to forget about your test for a few minutes. Maybe a couple of hours at most. “I’ll take up on your offer. What I’ve been doing is not working, and I need some sort of break before I go insane.” 

Miguel grins and then puts his reading materials away. You always think that he looks so handsome when he smiles. “Well then. Move your books and laptop aside and sit on the table for me.” Miguel looks at you when you stare at him. “It will be a lot nicer like that, trust me.” He adds. 

“Okay, I’ll get my stuff out of the way.” You say and begin picking up your books and laptop. Miguel does the same, putting his things away, then turns his attention to look at you. 

You’re sitting on the edge of the table, waiting for his next words. The beating of your heart thumping is the only thing you can hear as you watch Miguel. He stands in front of you in between your thighs. Tall, built and handsome. His red eyes look down on you as they shine under the lights in the dining area. 

You feel his hands on the sides of your waistband shorts, his fingers brushing against your clothed skin and hips. “May I?” Miguel asks as he looks at you. 

“Sure,” you say. You’re not one to be nervous around easily but your roommate seems to have that effect on you. When you lift your hips slightly, Miguel curls his fingers on the waistband and pulls down your shorts. Discarding your clothed item you notice that he’s taken off your panties too. “Miguel–” 

His stare made you pause, his red piercing eyes keep you quiet. You’ve always known what Miguel’s eyes are like but in this moment of what you’re letting him do to you, it stirs feelings in you. The gaze in his eyes is fiery in desire; so focused and enraptured. He looks at you in silence – keeping his eyes on you – as he slowly pulls down everything and discards it somewhere in the room. 

“Open your legs a little for me, pretty,” Miguel tells you. “Yes, that’s it.” 

The heat on your cheeks burns you as your heart thumps in your chest at how intimate and vulnerable the situation looks. Never in your dreams you would be in this situation, much less doing it with Miguel O’Hara.

 “It’s not too late to change your mind and tell me no.” He says. Standing between your legs, his calloused fingers on your inner right thigh. “I won’t hate you for it.” 

Your breathing is soft and steady. “Shouldn’t you have asked me that before you took my panties off?” You chuckled with a small smile. You feel a little more relaxed about what you and he are starting. 

Miguel grins, “I probably should have.” His expression becomes serious. “I’ll start slow.” 

You watch as he puts two fingers in his mouth with a gentle suck. When he pulls them out, his digits are glistened wet under the lights. Lubricated and wet against his tan skin. Miguel catches you dazing at him, his intense expression stays on you, as he brings his fingers between your thighs. They find themselves between your flaps, tracing your inner folds with his fingertips. 

“You’re already wet before I touch you.” Miguel hums in approval. “That’s good.” 

His fingers move slowly like he promised. You feel him gather your sleek arousal with a gentle swipe of his thumb and move up to the hood of your cunt. You moan softly when you feel Miguel play with your clit, circling and putting just the right pressure that has you tingling in sensation. Your hands grip on the edge of the table as you brace yourself. 

“Gosh, that feels nice.” You sigh. Your eyes are closed, indulging in the pleasure, finding your body relaxed and mind in tranquillity. Focusing on feeling his fingers touch and tease your folds and clit. Maybe this is what you truly need for a break from intense studying. 

“I like the look on your face,” Miguel tells you. You can picture the smirk from the tone of his voice. “This is just the beginning of your stress relief.” 

You didn’t get to open your eyes and ask him what he meant when you felt something push inside your cunt. Your walls are wet and warm, feeling one of Miguel’s digits sliding into your pussy with ease. It has you gasping and moaning softly, your back arches and hands gripping tightly onto the table edge. Miguel has his index finger in you and he slips in his middle finger, stretching your pussy open. His thumb is still circling your clit as his fingers thrust in and out of you. 

“Stay still, bonita.” His voice deeps, almost growling. “And don’t think. Just focus on the feeling of my fingers. Relax for me.” 

You can’t help but tighten around his fingers from the command. Hoping that he didn’t feel the way your clit throbs from his command. You never heard him speak like that before – maybe not to you – but it sounds hot. All you could focus on is the way his fingers rub and massage your pussy. 

You can tell that Miguel is certainly experienced with the way he can tease your vulva and play with your clit, letting your breathless sighs and moans guide him. It’s completely easy to forget about anything else but being finger fuck by the guy you liked. 

“Oh, oh.” You softly moan, putting the heels of your feet on the edge of the table. Your hands clutch onto his forearms as Miguel fingers you. It has your head spinning with the way he alternates between fingering and rubbing your slick folds. The pace is not fast or slow-- just perfect, as it eases you off and you forget about what you're stressed about in the first place. 

And when he pushes his fingers into your pussy, it has you tilting your head back in ecstasy, moaning his name, as you feel him going deeper.

"So tight around my fingers. You definitely need this." Miguel smirks, his breath warms your neck. “Need a good stretch, don’t you, bonita?” 

You groan as you feel him continuously plunge his digits in and out of you. Miguel doesn’t stick to one way to pleasure you; he would rub your wet folds, flicker your clit up and down and sideways with his thumb, and circle your little pearl. At the corner of your eye, you see the corner of his mouth curve up in a smirk when clutching onto his forearms for dear life. 

“Miguel,” you mewl. The knot in your lower belly tightens when he plunges his whole fingers into your slick pussy, thrusting them in and out. Your body moves in a sudden, forward thrust when Miguel continues to come hither inside your pussy, having his fingers rubbing your G-spot. He doesn’t stop to flicker and circle your throbbing clit and a sultry gasp catches in your throat as your thighs begin to quiver. “Oh, fuck!” 

“That’s it, beautiful. Oh, you really do need this, don’t you?” Miguel asks almost mockingly. You arch your back in his embrace and let out another moan, feeling his two fingers flicking inside your pussy walls. He knows exactly what he’s doing, drawing out more noises from you as your lower body still trembles, and your cum spilling out of your folds and onto his fingers. 

It feels as if Miguel is toying with you and pussy for a long time, even after being overstimulated and sensitive. He slows down his ministrant but still has his fingers gently rubbing circles on your clit and wet folds. You relax in his arm, head on his shoulder as you regain your senses from orgasm. All thoughts cleared up in your head and you couldn’t even remember what you were thinking or doing earlier before being finger-fucked. 

Miguel’s voice sounds a little raspy and distinct, still toying with your cunt, as he whispers:  “Wanna continue this elsewhere?” 

[swugarbunnyy]

♡ My ultimate anti binge and getting through fasts advice. The order doesnt mean smth is more or less important. Mwah.

1) Water. Even if u hear this a lot, water is what u literally going to need for this. And im talking about actually getting ur water in, through out the day and not randomly remembering to drink it at 10pm. It doesnt have to be a torture, it shouldnt be! Get urself a cute water bottle, add some ice if u like and take small sips.

2) Sleep. And in the best way possible, i mean that u can use sleep literally as a distraction, to pass the time. Whenever u feel like those food thoughts are becoming too much, get under ur covers and sleep it off. Many times i did that and woke up, not feeling hungry anymore. And also, sleep itself does really help with weightloss, u will also feel less tired through out the day if u get nice sleep ໒꒰ྀིっ˕ -｡꒱ྀི১

3) Mints! Chewing zero sugar mint gum is a must. If that becomes too boring for u u can try the zero sugar flavored ones, my fav is raspberry or watermelon. U can also try to brush ur teeth whenever u feel like binging or eating when u shouldnt. Having that mint feeling in ur mouth often makes u want to not ruin it.

4) Distractions. Choose smth to distract urself, smth that actually takes a lot of time and doesnt make u think about food. Theres so many things u could do instead of being so bored u feel like u have to eat. Has to be smth u enjoy doing, for me its usually cleaning/organising, not only my room but around the house, watching movies and shows, saving pins on pinterest, organising my phone, making wishlists, playing games, and my fav one - talking to ppl on the phone or irl, so i dont want to interrupt it and i wouldnt want them to hear/see me eating.

5) Motivation. U wont do it if ur not motivated. Keep urself aware of how u look, try on clothes that u havr and see which ones are too small, and use this to motivate urself to fit in them. Think about how different everything could be for u in a couple of months if u stay strong now, and compare the situations if u fail. Write a list of things ur doing this for. I personally like to also have a hidden th3nsp folder, and i go back to look at the photos everytime i feel unmotivated and weak.

6) Dont jump into a fast too quickly. For example, if u ate a lot one day, and u decide to start a fast right away, it can make u fail pretty fast. Try to slowly make ur body more used to it, eat 100-200 cals less each day and THEN prepare to start a fast. So many times i made that mistake - started a fast out of nowhere, and my body was just too shocked, so i was way more hungry.

7) Wear a lip product. This might not be the most helpful one, but its just a small tip that works for me. Choose a lip product, bonus points if its scented or has a minty, cooling effect, and wear it. It makes me not want to ruin my lips and i usually choose not to eat when i have it on. Best combination is mint gum and this!

8) Zero drinks. We all know this, so i wont write too much, but zero drinks are usually my choice when i feel like i need smth with flavor, but i dont want any calories in. U have many to choose from.

9) Choose volume eating on the days u eat - instead of eating smth very small that has 300 cals, eat more but with less calories. This way u will feel better, and most likely wont eat even more. (Salads and fruits are heaven sent in that situation.) Always look for smth to switch to a less fat version, it isnt as hard as it seems.

10) Be patient. This is hard for me cuz im such an impatient person and if i could, i would want everything the same hour i start. But why did i make this point? Because if it feels pointless, like its not working, working to slow, just wait a month. U would be shocked how much u can change in just a month.

11) Doing lighter exercise while fasting. Ur already doing enough by fasting, so on those days dont torture urself with very long heavy exercise, even tho ik its tempting, i used to do it, but i would just end up feeling super shaky. U can workout more on the days ur restricting.

12) Parents that force dinners on u - I used to struggle a lot with that. Im older now, so no one can rlly tell me what to do. But i say, if ur parents make u sit down and eat dinner with them, try to make it ur omad. Nothing is really ,,ruined", if u dont think it is and dont start eating even more after, of course.

13) Rewards 🎀 Not food! But u can always set a bunch of goals and reward urself for them, it feels way nicer to do when u have to wait for smth and work for it. Choose a gift for urself and get it when u achieve a specific weight. U can have smaller ones for the small goals and choose smth bigger/more expensive when u hit a bigger goal.

14) Buying one piece of clothing thats too small for u. I had one, even a couple, and it was the greatest motivation ever. It was with my own money, and i felt so pathetic for thinking its too much work for me to just push myself and finally fit into that tiny top.

15) Keeping a journal. I usually do that in my phone notes and lock it. It helps u, u can always look back at it, learn from ur past mistakes and prevent urself from making them again. It can also motivate u! For example i wrote i was unhappy on my bday party cuz i felt too big. That motivated me to look way better on the next one, luckily a long time before the event.

16) Keep one thing in ur head, always - Food is not going to run away, it will be here. The cake ur mom bought, is not the last one u will ever see again, same with ur fav snacks someone brought home. The only thing running away from u is the years u spend unhappy, cause u keep giving in.

Good ♡ Luck !

[felixora]

Anders discource

I forgot to post this here as well, lol

This kinda turned into a small essay…. Which is to be expected, it is Anders’ discourse after all.

This text is a personal view of the DA discourse, that is often summarized in fandom circles as “Was Anders right?”.

So let's start with this question: which is better, a peaceful or violent revolution? The answer is: both, depending on the severity of the situation.

I'm sorry to break your sweet dreams about “peace and love”, and “only peaceful revolution are justified” — but that's just delusional.

While I do believe that peaceful revolutions are the best outcome for both sides of conflict, more often than not they are impossible specifically due to unwillingness of the oppressors to seek true compromise. Because where the marginalized might achieve something slightly better for themselves, the oppressors lose the most important thing for them — they lose control.

And then the only thing that's left is a violent revolution. Or, well, death.

The rule of “turning the other cheek” does nothing but perpetuates further violence, when you're dealing with an oppressive regime. Because while the marginalized side often considers the middle ground with their oppressors (just for the sake of “making things better than before, while not risking the full annihilation by a stronger force”) the oppressors have only one in mind: “We want you fully gone, because you oppose our rule. You are a danger to us”.

The thing that I learned in past 10 years is that — ”Pacifism is a privilege”. And those who are oppressed don't have said privilege. They either fight or they die. Sometimes slowly (for ex. by assimilation), sometimes rapidly (in a massacre).

The thing that genuinely baffles me in the whole Anders' discourse, is the fact, that people forget or ignore that he for years tried to do the peaceful revolution. The Mage Underground was a way to get the mages from the dangerous environment, without engaging in the direct confrontation with the Templars. The manifestos on why mages should be free and letters to the Divine herself regarding the same issues that Circles pose — all of these are methods of peaceful resistance. 

Now, remind me again, did these actions have any effect on how Templars or the Chantry treated mages? Maybe they revaluated their stances, did a thorough investigation of the possible mistreatment of their charges?

Oh, yeah — IT DID NOTHING.

No, not even that — the things started to get worse and worse, actually. 

Any time the Grand Cleric “calmed things down” — the status quo remained. They didn't try to investigate the concerning situation in the Kirkwall Circle or any sort of rumours of abuses by the Templars. No, the Chantry for the most part closed their eyes to these rumours, and when the number of rebellious mages went up, the only thing they considered — was to organise a crusade (an Exalted March) against the Kirkwall. Nevermind, that most of the mages from the Circle and as fugitives were a faithful Andrastians, despite the conditions they were put through by the Chantry.

But of course, “the Chantry is just a religious organisation, it shouldn’t be targeted in such situations”...

So, back to the Templars — they didn't get their wish of cutting down all the mages under their care right there and then. But they sure as hell were allowed to continue to physically and psychologically torture, push mages to their breaking point, and commit any abuses they felt like doing to their charges.

In all of this, the Chantry poses as an enabler and the cause of the laws against mages in the first place. Not to mention that Chantry was responsible for the creation of the Templar Order, and they are subservient to the Divine.

By the 3rd act of the game we have a conformation, almost right away, that Meredith send a letter to the Divine requesting a Right of Annulment.

It's not anymore a question of “if the Divine will approve of this” — she might have said no, it's true. But our characters don't know that. They see the situation, where every peaceful attempt to reach a resolution was met with silence or threats of violence. With all due respect — only a fool hopes for the better and does nothing in such a situation.

This becomes a question of “when will it happen”.

When the oppressors say “I will murder you” you don't go “How about we talk”.

When you propose a dialogue and the opposing side says "No" over and over again, while continuing to tighten up the leash around your neck, the only right action is to fight back. If you fight — at least you have a chance of surviving. Otherwise, — it's death. Slow or quick, depends on the choice of the oppressors.

Another important thing, is that revolution doesn't happen on the shoulders of one person. It needs people. And those people need to believe that the idea has at least some chance to come true, they need to be inspired.

Inspiration not always comes through well-put speeches preaching kindness and unity.

It also can come through acts of violence, if said violence is turned against the oppressors. It shows, that they CAN BE BEATEN.

And Anders’ actions inspired people.

Anders tried his voice, he tried to reach the society in general with his arguments. That didn't work.

He tried to bring change with the Mage Underground, to recruit his friends (Hawke and the party) to join his active efforts of fundamentally changing things — that didn’t work as well. (while the friend group acts uninterested and uninvested in Anders’ righteous cause, Hawke might constantly and only suggest diplomatic solutions, which at the time were already useless and only maintained the status quo)

So the next closest thing is an act of violence against the Chantry — to show all those mages, who are still doubtful, who are scared, who think there is no hope — you can fight back and make it hurt.

What was called “compromise” from the Grand Cleric was maintaining the status quo, where mages in the Circle were still suffering the abuses, while the Templars simply weren't allowed to make them all Tranquil. 

How the fck is that a compromise?

If you didn’t get it already — I am a big supporter of action, when it comes to revolutions and fight against oppression. 

While acting is always a wild card (you have no idea, what reaction you might get from your oppressors, if you'll receive any support from “external forces”, if the luck will be on your side) — it always brings change. 

On the contrary, inaction — leaves your fate in the hands of the oppressor. They might be merciful, they might be cruel — what happens to you and your people in such situation depends solely on their wimps. In many cases — the status quo remains, nothing changes.

The Chantry personnel was part of the problem. For years, they did nothing to investigate possible misuse of power within the Circle, that obviously perpetuated further and further rise of temper among mages. 

They stayed silent on the issues of Ferelden refugees, leaving them to fend for themselves in the slums (while obviously holding significant part of the influence in the city). 

They obviously took part in less than peaceful instalment and fight against neighbouring religions (see Mother Petrice and the Qun). 

And, returning to the topic of mages, they perpetuated as part of their official teachings demonisation of mages as a whole, purposely ostracizing them from society and creating an impossible conditions to fight against. Their word was the law. And even if the mage had a compelling argument for their case — without even a bit of approval from the Chantry, they wouldn't have a chance of bending the society to their side.

So, the Chantry is just as guilty.

Another thing that needs to be considered in this topic are the casualties among civilians as a result of Anders’ violent protest. Because in the aftermath of the explosion there was 100% injured or dead among civilians. One might argue that they are just as gullible, turning a blind eye to the obvious misdeeds by the Templars and apathetic response by the Chantry (all it takes for evil to fester, is for good man to stay silent, after all) — but that still doesn't make their deaths rightful or expendable. 

Anders had to make a choice — either them, or the mages. 

They are the collateral damage of this conflict. One, that could have been prevented, if the oppressive side agreed to at least a compromise with the oppressed. But they didn’t.

And as a result, Anders had to take actions to unsure at least some fighting chance for his people, for the mages. The sad thing for me, personally, is that he will be the one to live with the burden of this choice, and not the personnel of the Chantry or the Templars, as they didn’t consider themselves guilty. 

The other side of this story could have ended with Anders staying silent, Meredith putting into motion the Right of Annulment and then the Chantry sweeping what happened under the rug (which had a high chance of turning the story to the path, where revolution among mages happened decades later or even didn’t happen at all). 

And that would have been the consequences of his choice as well, though a much worse option if we're considering that Anders made it the purpose of his life to bring change to the system and protect his fellow mages.

Another thing that is often brought in discussion is that Anders should have chose the Gallows as his target. In this scenario, there would have still been casualties among the civilians (consider the debris falling from the sky), as well as guaranteed deaths among the mages and tranquil (all were located in the Gallows). Anders wanted to give them a fighting chance, not kill them right away.

So selecting the Chantry as his target to shift the general power balance in the conflict and send a message to both the institution and mages across Thedas — is absolutely logical.

Other thing that makes no sense — is the lack of mages who actively sided with Anders' actions while remaining on the defence against Templars (not that weird shit about creating 2nd Tevinter in the Hinterlands)

Because that's how it went with revolution in my country. We have some people who regret the revolution (even now), we have those who are apathetic to it, and we have those who believe in it wholeheartedly.

People died for their beliefs in this revolution, and both them and those who advocated for a more proactive approach and survived were idolised by numerous people afterwards. 

Some rightfully so, some less. But it still happened. 

They are considered heroes, EVEN THOUGH we also had an invasion of part of our country from our neighbour as a result of this revolution. And in latter years, we are now defending ourselves from a full-scale invasion from the same oppressive force that was largely responsible for the reasons we had a revolution all those years ago.

The majority of people in my country would still, without a doubt tell you, that the revolution and the subsequent violent fight for our future was the right course of action. Even now, knowing how things turned out for us.

Because it brought change. It gave us hope that we can be that force of change.

So when the DA tells us, that there were barely any mages, or relatives of mages who were taken from their families, who considered Anders' actions justified and idolised him into this heroic persona — I call bullshit on that. 

That's simply not how things turn out in these sorts of situations.

Many held grudges not only against Templars, but the Chantry as a whole. Many spend their lives in hiding or locked away from their loved ones. The voices of many were never heard, no matter who they appealed to — and then comes this mage, who dealt an irreparable blow against the authority of the Chantry, who challenged their rule and told everyone “the time for compromise has passed, it is time to fight”.

Are you telling me people won't idolise that?  Span a ton of rumours and legends around his figure? 

I highly doubt that.

I have genuine criticism of Anders as a character — his racist towards elves views are hard to miss. The occasional misogyny (if we're taking Awakening into consideration as well) is also present. All of that can be explained by the upbringing in the Circle and under the Chantry, but it is NOT an excuse, and these are genuine flaws of his personality.

That being said, you don't have to be a perfect victim for your suffering to be acknowledged, related to and your fight against oppression to be supported.

“Oppression” is not an achievement, that you unlock only after reaching certain standards. 

It simply exists.And not only you can fight it, but you must.

[paddockbunny]

“Finally”

Summary: Joining Quadrant was an easy decision but what took longer was admitting you had started having feelings for none other than Lando Norris Rating: 16+ but check triggers just in case. Pairing : Lando Norris x Reader Word Count : 1,613. Trigger Warnings : 16+, nothing much apart from longing, angst, kissing, alcohol drinking, adult language Gif Owner : @mclarenslandonorris 🥰💞 Authors Note : Just a little short one-shot ✌🏼

It was in the car. It was the touch of his hand on your bare thigh as you climbed into the seat next to him that did it. It was such a simple, innocent thing and yet as a result, you couldn’t stop thinking about him all night.

All of these months - eight to be exact - had passed like a total blur. All of the streams, the laughs, the places you had visited as a group, they all began to blend into each other and yet it was the flickers of Lando in between them that always stood out the strongest. Race weekends, hanging out at his beautiful Monaco apartment, filming together amalgamated with how the corners of his eyes crinkled when he laughed, how his hoody smelled of him when he leant it to you, how his hands felt around your waist when you were on his team for some stupid game Max had made up. And you could admit it to yourself - but never out loud - that you found him hot. You had this burn inside of yourself for him and you were sure it wasn’t all in your head. That you observed all the signals he was giving that he was as much into you as you were to him, correctly. You saw how he looked at you. How while looking at you he would bite his bottom lip or he would make sure to be the one sitting beside you at dinner. How he would always be flinging you a compliment and make sure you were comfortable being involved with whatever was going on.

And as he returned into the booth he had organised for your group he made sure to slide in so he was flanking your side. His jean clad thigh pressed against your bare naked one and he angled himself to face you. You were sure he could see how quickly your heart was pounding in your chest. Your dress was so thin and so low cut that from his angle he had to be able to see the physical effect he had on you. And then as if he was torturing you further he leaned in closer toward you. His expensive cologne captured your senses. The subtle spicy, woody, musky tones all perfectly played off each other as they delicately danced off his skin.

“What are you drinking?” He had to shout to be heard above the music but it still sounded like a whisper to you. When you finally registered the words he had said your head turned off it’s own accord to look at him. Your eyes fleetingly betraying you and glimpsing at his lips first. No doubt giving away the fact you were thinking about them if all those trashy teenage magazines with quizzes in them you consumed as a teen were to be believed. You forced your eyes up to match his and you finally told him your drink of choice was an amaretto sour. “What does that taste like?” You knew Lando’s proclivity not to like the taste of alcohol but also knew of his quest to find a drink he actually did like the taste of enough to make it his regular order. You motioned to your drink and moved it closer to him. The fact his lips were going to touch the same straw you were drinking from made a little knot form way down in the pit of your stomach. And maybe it was just because it was him but you felt like it was quite an intimate thing to do. You observed him lift the glass from the table and raise it toward his mouth. His lips sealing around the short black plastic straw almost had you on the edge but when his cheeks hollowed out as he sucked in order to get the sweet taste of the liquid in the glass your mind almost malfunctioned completely. “Hmm….how have I never had this before. It’s amazing!” He exclaimed and took another sip before nodding and confirming the statement he made moments before. “Is it the one?” You asked with a smile playing innocently on your lips. Hoping you (of all people) had been the one to help him find the drink he liked most.

“Yeah, you’re the one.” He stated while looking at the drink and then before you could even properly register what he had said he smiled at the glass and took yet another sip. He really said “you’re the one” YOU! He said you!! Not “it” or “this drink” it was definitely “you”.

The earlier moment at the table had continued to replay itself constantly in your mind even though an hour or so had past since it happened. Lando was off behind the DJ booth with Martin and Max and you and the rest of the guys were dancing, drinking a bit more and enjoying your evening - at least you were trying too anyway. You and Ria were dancing with each other but the thought of Lando and what he had said earlier (plus how he touched your thigh in the car) kept circulating around and around your brain.

“Is this a zone out in the zone or a Lando Norris influenced zone out?” she shouted over the music and you shook your head and dramatically rolled your eyes. Ria had very quickly became one of your closest friends and she was very, very observant in the flirtatious dance you and Lando had been engaging in. “It’s a there’s nothing to talk about zone out…Im just having fun!” You smile coquettishly and right on queue you went to spin around and continue dancing when instantly you smacked straight into the solid form of someone’s body. Not someone. Not anyone. Lando.

For a second you panicked that he had somehow heard what Ria had said and what you had responded with but there was no way. The music was far too loud and club way too busy. He had this amused look on his face and as a baseline dropped you realised Lando’s hands were planted firmly around your waist. And suddenly you realised Lando seemed somewhat nervous. He leaned in to your ear. His hot breath caressing the sensitive flesh of your neck.

“I didn’t tell you how beautiful you look tonight.” You almost froze, sure you had misheard him but the look on his face as he pulled back a little told you your hearing was indeed fine and you didn’t have to go get it checked anytime soon. He called you beautiful. “You always look beautiful” he added and you suddenly felt like everyone else in the packed nightclub disappeared. The music seemed muffled and you felt like everything just stopped.

“Lando….” You could only manage his name before he cut you off. “I need….Fuck” he seemed nervous “I’ve been trying to do this for months. I’m just going to say it…” he took a large inhale of breath and suddenly blurted it out; “I fucking fancy you.” You weren’t breathing. You didn’t want the noise or your oxygen flow to interrupt the declaration he was clumsily making. “That makes me sound like I’m fourteen doesn’t it?” He laughed anxiously “what I’m trying to say is I want to take you out sometime, on a date, if you want too?”

And suddenly you were taken over by something otherworldly. You felt something bizarre grab hold of you and without saying a single word, your mouth was on his. You were so hungry for him that you didn’t care you were in the middle of a packed nightclub with people watching (with their phones armed and ready to take photos of the McLaren star necking with his Quadrant streamer friend). But his tongue glided effortlessly over yours and you felt his one of his hands on the small of your back and the other was in your hair, holding you in place while he kissed you back as if his life depended on it. You weren’t sure why you were surprised that as he continued - even allowing a deep moan to rumble up from inside of himself in what felt like appreciation - you realised what a good kisser he was. Then while you were lost in that thought you heard a loud, rowdy round of applause accompanied by wolf whistles and hollering. It was so close and so loud that the pair of you pulled away immediately. Only to find Max, Ria, Steve and the others all cheering like they were celebrating a goal at a football game.

“Fucking finally!” Max roared. Lando looked at you, which you gathered was to find out your reaction before he reacted himself, but you smiled broadly and he wrapped his arm around your shoulders and held you tightly against his body.

Once everyone calmed themselves down Lando turned back to you. “Seeing as we already know each other, we’ve had dinner together tones of times and already kissed does that mean we’re actually on date number four and we can get into the other fun stuff or?” You playfully swotted him in the chest “Calm down Romeo or you will start sounding that fourteen year old boy.” You mockingly scolded him but he stopped you dead by kissing you again and fuck, you could get used to Lando’s mouth of yours.

[ophthalmotropy]

what's happening in argentina?

I don't fault you for the broad question because I'd ask too, but I need you to know that as a non-smoker I've never felt so strongly the need for a cigarette as I did just now thinking about answering this question. But I'll do my best.

In November of last year, the country elected Javier Milei as president. He would swear into office the next month. Javier Milei is a self-identified anarcho-capitalist and libertarian, although he states he is a minarchist in the short term (meaning he thinks the only functions the State should serve are those of law enforcement: no public education, social development, market regulations, etc etc). Some of his most controversial campaign statements included projects to legalise the free and unregulated sale of organs, and, along with his vice-president Victoria Villarruel (who in her youth organised visits to Jorge Rafael Videla in prison), apologia for the 1976 military dictatorship by revindicating the theory of the two demons (fair warning that from what I skimmed that article is biased in favour of the theory) and casting into doubt the estimated 30.000 victims of state terrorism (torture, disappearance followed by death) (also warning that that article uses the name the military junta gave this process) during its duration.

Since he took over six months ago, the population's purchasing power has dropped by 38%, plunging millions of people below the line of poverty. In stark contrast to this, Milei has been travelling around the world using public funds to visit his ultraright idols; most notably, Trump, who is not the political leader of any country at the moment (making his trip to see him a personal visit and not a diplomatic one, thus invalidating his arguments for using our money to go there).

On the subject of diplomacy, his government has been swinging quite a lot of bats at hornets' nests, accusing China and Brazil of communism and insulting the wife of the president of Spain. All of this is an international relations nightmare that will take endless apologies to undo.

Another interesting resolution deregulates the operations of foreign companies, SPVs, and offshore companies (article in Spanish), with the stated goal of attracting investments. Those types of companies have historically been used to conceal illicit activity, so resolutions in that vein pave the way to effectively turn Argentina into a fiscal paradise. This isn't the only problem they pose (offshore companies don't pay taxes, so there'd be a loss in the public sector, for example), but it is the most worrying to me because they also eliminated restrictions for Sociedades de Acciones Simplificadas (simplified stock companies), most of which have historically been used to commit crimes among which is the drug trade. Once you have narcos in your country, there's no taking it back--Argentina would be at real risk of ceasing to exist as we know it.

This administration is also slashing public spending, resulting in some universities suspending their activities temporarily. They also failed to deliver oncological medicine, depriving cancer patients of assistance the state is obligated to provide. As a result of this, several people have died already. In this climate of extreme poverty, soup kitchens have been shutting down en masse due to the withdrawal of state funding, and laws that protected tenants' rights and regulated rent prices have been severely modified to the detriment of the tenants.

The violent decrease in public spending also resulted in thousands of state workers being fired overnight. The attack is especially centred on state organisations that promote the arts or whose purpose is to fight discrimination. On this subject, 10% of the transgender and travesti workers who had their positions guaranteed by the law were fired illegally, and government members are outspoken about their opposition to this law--which isn't surprising. Diana Mondino, the current chancellor, has compared same-sex marriage to "the right to having lice" while she held a position in Congress. Ricardo Bussi, a current legislator, compared homosexuality to disability in October 2023. Coming to this year, Francisco Sánchez, the Secretary of Religion, said that the laws protecting the right to abortions, divorce, and same-sex marriage "seek to pervert our children and damage society". Milei is also on record describing abortion as "homicide aggravated by the bond".

Also recently, Milei's biographer, Nicolás Márquez, gave a one-hour interview in which he characterised homosexuality as a disease, claiming that when the State "promotes homosexuality" (as it allegedly did before Milei came to power), it is aiding a "self-destructive" conduct, supporting these claims with unfounded statistics about the correlation between STIs and homosexuality; he also denied the existence of homophobia and described lesbians and gays as being "against nature". For the sake of full disclosure, I will say he explicitly freed Milei and his government of responsibility for his declarations--but I think it's really important to point out the kind of people and rhetorics this government is giving a platform to; after all, nobody knew Nicolás Márquez before he started writing for Milei. In approximately the same time frame, and in response to a horrific hate crime that resulted in the death of three lesbians, Manuel Adorni, the presidential spokesman, said that he "doesn't like" to talk about a hate crime because men suffer violence too--and he said this in a press conference.

I'm probably forgetting something important--so much has happened in the past months--but I hope this is enough to give you an impression of the changes our society is undergoing. Please let me know if you have follow-up questions. <3

[sequinsmile-x]

A Lot of Lonely Places

She used to be good at being alone. 

-x-

Hi friends,

Truly could not tell you where this came from. Opened my laptop, opened google docs and started writing and here we are.

I hope you enjoy it, and as always, let me know what you think <3

-x-

Words: 2.3k

Warnings: None

Read over on Ao3, or below the cut

She used to be good at being alone. 

She used to pride herself on it. Full of false bravado about how she excelled in her own company that was borne out of necessity, a side effect of her mother’s job that had left her with no other choice. She was good at being alone and she enjoyed it. She’d painted a lonely picture as a kid, something that had followed her into her teenage years and early adulthood. It was only in college, when she spent four years in one place - the longest she ever had - that she started to make stronger connections. Threads of convenience and coincidence that tied her and her friends together during that time, holding them close until drunken promises before graduation that they’d always have each other turned out to be lies. They’d drifted apart, seeing each other only at reunions and organised events, and she knew she wasn’t blameless. She hadn’t been great at keeping in contact, not entirely used to having people to stay in contact with. It was something that slipped away entirely when she’d joined Interpol, her work not something that allowed the connections she had once treasured. 

Even though she’d barely spent time alone when she was eventually with Ian, something he ensured by always having people around her, she’d felt lonely. At first, it had been drowned by the ever-present fear she’d be caught. That he’d see through her practised lies and kill her before she could call for backup. As that faded, as time made it clear he’d fallen for her charm and the skills she’d honed at a young age, the loneliness took over. The strange desire to hear someone call her by her actual name one that never quite went away. 

Returning to her actual life was overwhelming. She was suddenly surrounded by people who knew who she really was. Every single one of them telling her she’d done an excellent job before it was all classified, anything she’d done a secret to anyone who didn’t already know. It made the loneliness bone-deep, so much a part of her she wasn’t sure she’d ever be without it, but it also made it easier to pretend it never happened. To file it away into one of the boxes in her head, the lid of it liable to slip away whenever she heard an Irish accent or smelt expensive whisky and cigar smoke. 

When she joined the BAU, her sense of self pieced back together after her time as Lauren Reynolds, and a fake background typed out on a piece of paper, she wasn’t sure what she’d find. A small part of her hoped she would make friends, something that felt childish and misplaced after everything she’d seen and done, and even that had been dashed by some of the team's initial reaction to her. The mistrust she’d since learnt was a defence mechanism, particularly on Aaron’s part, more painful than she cared to admit even to herself. 

She never expected that she’d find a family, that she’d find people who felt like home. People she would, and eventually did, die for. It made the loneliness in Paris even sharper. Nights that would have once been spent drinking with JJ and Penelope, or watching kid's movies with Aaron and Jack, long and painful as she lived under a name they did not know. She treated the loneliness like a penance, something she deserved for the lies that had led her there, the choices she could never regret but wished hadn’t happened. She got used to it again. The loneliness. The silence that came with it.  She got used to it but every now and again it would weigh heavily on her chest, crushing it inwards until it became unbearable. Gasping sobs would steal the air from her lungs until she’d eventually cry herself to sleep, ready to be tortured by dreams of everything she had lost. 

When she came home, unsteady and unsure of her place in the life she’d built herself, she was overwhelmed again. Everyone’s desire to see her, to spend time with her they thought they’d never get again, almost too much to take. She’d sought out time on her own, would issue white lies that tasted bitter as she told her friends she was tired or had other plans just so she could sit on her couch alone, the television and radio off, the silence a comforting blanket as she tried to learn to be herself again. 

As time went on, she found her footing. Found her new place in her new life, the broken pieces of her old one at her feet no longer a tripping hazard, but the very thing she used as a foundation for what she had now. 

Loneliness became a thing of her past, something she knew she could thank Aaron, and by extension Jack, for. The day after their conversation on the jet, when she kept her side of the deal and admitted she was having a bad day, Aaron showed up at her apartment. He was casually dressed, or as casual as she’d ever seen him at the time in jeans and a polo shirt, and he said he was there to help her unpack. To this day, she had no idea how he knew she hadn’t unpacked, how he knew that her meagre belongings that hadn’t been sold on after she died were still in boxes. She’d let him in, too tired to argue with him, and she’d let him help without argument - something she now knew was a sign of just how much she trusted him even when she wasn’t sure she could trust herself. He’d turned her mood around that day, had arrived to her on the edge of a panic attack and left her laughing, her smile shining with adoration as he dryly told her about something Dave had done whilst she was away. 

He’d come back the following weekend, with Jack and breakfast from their favourite diner in tow, matching smiles on their faces as they told her they were there to cheer her up, and it had been a tradition ever since. Something that followed her and Aaron from friends to boyfriend and girlfriend and now husband and wife. 

She was never alone now and if she ever was, she was terrible at it. On the rare occasion she was in the house alone she’d struggle. She was used to Aaron’s laugh, or the low timbre of his voice that would travel even through closed doors. She was used to Jack’s excited chatter, or the sound of his video games or cartoons he loved. When it was just her, it was too quiet, something she’d try and counteract by turning on the television or simply calling her husband and asking him when he’d be home. She’d feel nothing short of absurd for it, and she knew a past version of herself would mock her for it, but she loved having him near. Loved the reassurance of his presence, and the only thing that stopped her from chastising herself for it was that she knew Aaron was the same. 

The team made fun of them for it. They’d gently tease them for how they would gravitate towards each other, never able to be too far away as if they felt unsteady if they were. In the same breath as they made fun of them their friends would tell them they were happy for them, that they both deserved what they had now.

___

She sighs contentedly as she wakes up, stretching her limbs as she rolls onto her back, a yawn escaping her as she reaches for her husband's side of the bed. She furrows her brows when she finds it empty, the sheets cold to the touch, and she sits up, her eyes flicking to the also empty bassinet on her side of the bed. A quick glance at the alarm clock, and the lack of daylight streaming in through the curtains, let her know it’s 3.35 am, that she’s likely been pulled from sleep by the cold emptiness of her bed as well as the dull ache starting to build in her breasts. 

Even though she knows that they’re safe, that Aaron will have taken their little girl downstairs to give her some more rare and precious sleep, she’s still met with momentary panic. It greets her like an old friend as it wraps its hand around her throat, stealing the breath from her lungs before she can reason with herself, memories of when she was alone and being hunted by the man who had killed her briefly overwhelming. She shakes her head and blows out a slow breath and she shoves the covers off her as she climbs out of bed. 

“Get it together, Emily,” she mumbles to herself, grabbing Aaron’s robe from the back of the bedroom door as she passes it, wrapping it around herself to warn off the slight chill in the air. 

She checks in on Jack on the way past, takes a moment to rearrange his bedding around him and kisses his forehead before she sneaks back out of his room, not wanting to wake him on a night when he’d somehow slept through his baby sister’s cries. She finds Aaron and the baby exactly where she knew she would, snuggled up on the couch together with only the light of a single lamp in the corner of the room illuminating them. She can’t help but smile as she walks into the living room, her chest aching with love at the sight of her little girl fast asleep on Aaron’s chest, her cheek squashed against his t-shirt and a line of drool visible even in the low light. 

“Can I join this party, or is it invite only?” She asks, careful to stay quiet, to not startle him or wake up their daughter. 

Aaron turns to look at her, his smile soft and sleepy, and he removes one hand from Violet’s back to tap the couch next to him, “You’re always invited,” he replies, just as quietly as he presses a kiss to the dark hair on the newborn’s head, “Right, Vi? Mommy can always join us.” 

Emily crosses the room and sits next to him, immediately snuggling into his side, sneaking under the blanket he had draped over his lap. She rests her head on his shoulder and reaches out to run her knuckles up and down Violet’s soft cheek. “Is she okay? You could have woken me up.” 

“She’s fine,” he says, turning his head to kiss her temple, smiling when she tilts her head to capture it, his lips slightly chapped against hers, “She was fussing, but I think she just wanted to cuddle,” he smiles as he pulls back, “Now I may lack the facilities to feed her, but I’ve got it on good authority I give amazing hugs,” his smile gets wider as she lovingly rolls her eyes, “So I thought I’d let you rest until she did need feeding.” 

Emily hums gratefully, kissing the corner of his mouth before she rests her temple against his cheek, unable to tear her gaze away from the sleeping baby, “Daddy really does give the best hugs, sweet girl,” she says, her words disappearing into a laugh as more drool lands on Aaron’s t-shirt, “Although, I used to be the only girl allowed to drool on him,” she strokes her daughter’s head, following the swirl of dark hair. It was the very first part of her that Emily had touched, encouraged to reach between her legs by her doctor and feel the top of her little girl’s head when labour was starting to feel like it was too much, “I guess I can share him with you though.” 

Aaron chuckles and wraps his arm around her, tugging her closer as he securely holds Violet close with one arm, “Did we wake you?”

Emily shakes her head, “No, I think it was because the bed was empty,” she mumbles, reaching for his hand and unhooking herself from under his arm so she can hug it to her chest, his hand sandwiched between both of hers as she tucks them under her chin, “I’m not good at sleeping alone anymore. You ruined me.” 

He raises an eyebrow at her and smiles, “I’m…sorry,” he says, his tone teasing and she squeezes his hand tighter. 

“As you should be,” she replies dryly, feeling sleepiness take over, the warmth of him and the sound of Violet’s breathing slowly pulling her under, “There’s only one way to make up for it.”

He kisses the top of her head and then hides his smile in her hairline, “Oh yeah, what’s that then?” 

“Sleeping next to me forever.” 

He chuckles “You drive a hard bargain, but I’m sure I can manage that,” he says, and she leans into him, his voice something that calmed her, something that pulled her in, “You should get some sleep, sweetheart.” 

She grumbles, trying to fight him on it even though it was a losing battle, “But you’ll be trapped here with both of us sleeping on you.” 

“There are much worse places to be trapped, Em,” he assures her, his words murmured against her forehead, “And Vi will wake us up soon anyway,” he kisses her forehead, “Get some sleep, and I’ll be here for you both.” 

She hums, no longer able to fight it, exhaustion and the comfort of him washing over her, “Love you.” 

The last thing she hears before she falls asleep is his reply, his I love you too whispered against her skin, and she knows that not only would she never be good at being alone again, but that she’d never have to be. 

[readyforevolution]

Carlota Lucumí was an African-born enslaved Cuban woman of Yoruba origin, who is known as the leader of the rebellion at the Triumvirato sugar plantation of 1843. Enslaved people suffered brutal treatment in this and other plantations throughout Cuba at the hands of Spanish slave masters. 

Alongside Fermina, another enslaved African woman from the plantation of Arcana, Carlota, was able to organise the Africans to rise up against their enslavers. On November 5, 1843, the Africans at Triumvirato rose in rebellion, burning down the house that had been used to torture slaves and forcing the owner of the plantation to flee.

The uprising had wide-ranging effects across space and time. Guerrilla attacks by Africans against slave masters increased in the region, leading to the freeing of enslaved Africans in other plantations. Moreover, the Cuban intervention in Angola against the racist South African apartheid regime and western backed UNITA and FNLA factions was codenamed 'Operation Carlota' in Carlota Lucumi's honour.

Forward to African Women Leaders!

Homeland or Death!

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[proudfreakmetarusonikku]

Something I love about Exile Arc is that it focuses heavily on emotional abuse as the most harrowing aspect of c!Tommy's experience.

Like, yes, the physical torture (both c!Tommy and c!Dream have referred to it as such) started pretty much immediately. c!Dream was always very physically abusive, frequently striking c!Tommy with weapons while he was defenceless and eventually hitting him to the point he didn’t react. And that’s horrific on its own, obviously, but what Exile really focuses on is the emotional and psychological harm done, and the escalating abuse there.

It starts off with c!Dream belittling c!Tommy's feelings and thoughts, and isolating him for large periods of time. As he visits Exile more- something he occasionally didn’t do early on- he started lovebombing c!Tommy heavily, something he did to a degree beforehand with gifts but would start doing emotionally. He began manipulating him to gain his trust, presenting the absence of abuse as proof of kindness and leading him to see himself as uniquely bad, then making him feel special by portraying himself as a saviour and a trustworthy adult figure who was there to help. He began gaslighting c!Tommy about serious events, like Mexican Dream's death, and would increasingly make c!Tommy out to be the offending party and himself the victim, making c!Tommy feel guilty and wrong and ashamed, like he was the toxic party in the situation. He intentionally isolated him, lying to him and others to deliberately lead people away from Logstedshire and to keep c!Tommy unwilling to accept any help when someone did show up. Whenever anyone did while c!Dream was around, he'd worsen his abuse and drag the other person into it without their knowledge, leading c!Tommy to associate visits from anyone but c!Dream with humiliation and pain. On that note, c!Dream was very much deliberately setting rules and organising things to make c!Tommy feel humiliated and ashamed of himself, like it was embarrassing to be the victim of abuse- with infantilising and dehumanising rules, c!Tommy was treated very much like the child he hated to be seen as. It left c!Tommy desperate for any sort of validation, which c!Dream provided by making himself out to be a martyr who was the only one who cared, and he'd lovebomb c!Tommy even further when he fell into that dependence, encouraging c!Tommy to- as c!Tommy describes it himself- lack free will and become a toy, puppet, and/or pet.

Emotional abuse is often downplayed, but it's one of the most damaging forms of abuse out there. It’s insidious, and the effects of it often never go away. Many abuse survivors consider emotional abuse to be the most traumatic parts of their experience due to this, but it’s so rarely depicted as such in media. Physical and sexual abuse are considered worse or more serious than emotional abuse (and even then they’re not treated with respect a lot of the time!), when it’s far more complicated and nuanced than that with each of them causing different but deeply damaging trauma. It’s genuinely very cathartic to see a depiction of abuse that really focuses on the psychological elements, along with other stuff that’s generally not covered by media as much (such as c!Tommy not being anywhere close to a perfect victim yet still being portrayed entirely as a victim who didn’t deserve his abuse at all, or the complex feelings towards his abuse he has), and it helped me process a lot of what personally happened to me. It might be a little fantastical in some areas, but in others it’s so realistic in ways I’ve never even seen before, and I think that’s awesome.

[cassiachloe]

These photos are 12 years old!

I feel continually shocked and pained by the extreme brutality I have endured. That the regime has continually raped me, tortured me, sexually trafficked me, used me as a slave, violated every essence of my life and being without consent, the deep harms inflicted on me, the psychological abuses, the physical abuses, the sexual abuse, the degradation of my essence at the hands of the British establishment and their allies. I cannot believe that human beings can be so cruel and ugly in all they have done to me.

After another event of torture occurred which I was accutely aware of but could not actively reach through accessable memory, the whole day following I could feel myself being easily pushed around. Corporate actors were used to nudge me (I call them the nudge brigade, others call it street theatre, organised stalking or harassment) and I observed myself being suggested to (and accidently submitting) on multiple occasions. Thankfully after noticing a few times the manipulation, I was able to regain a little control, but I could feel in myself the overall weakening of my free will and ability to resist.

L Ron Hubbard, who knows a thing or two about brainwashing, wrote a hilarious black propaganda piece (pretending to be a Soviet cheifof police) whereby he states:

"The stupidity of Western civilizations is best demostrated by the fact that they believe hypnotism is a thing of the mind, attention and a desire for unconsciousness. This is not true. Only when a person has been beaten, punished, and mercilessly hammered, can hypnotism be guaranteed upon him in its effectiveness. It is stated by Western authorities on hypnosis that only some 20% of people are susceptible to hypnotism. This statement is very intrue. Given enough punishment, all of the people in any time and place are susceptible to hypnotism. In other words, by adding force, hypnotism is made uniformly effective. Where unconsciousness could not be induced by simple concentration upon the hypnotist, unconsciousness can be induced by drugs, by blows, by electric shock, and by other means. And where unconsciousness cannot be induced so as to make an implantation or a hypnotic command effective, it is only neccessary to amputate the functioning portions of the animal man's brain to make him null and void and render him no longer a menace. Thus, we find that hypnotism is entirely effective."

A perfect summary of how to 'break' an individual - a term used to describe the abolition of a persons will and capacity through torture. Torture can be violent, shocking, painful, humiliating, traumatic and degrading through any means. Though, torture does not need to leave a scar, because the total purpose of torture is to break a Mind, not a body.

The tragedy is that the world becomes less beautiful - when you trample free will and a soul, the world gets poorer when essence is destroyed. I will keep fighting, they will not destroy me and I will hold them to account and expose their actions to the world.

[ben-marco]

i hope this question is okay.

ive seen multiple people say that its possible for tbmc to be done by one person, but ive seen people say that its impossible for tbmc to be done by one person because its under the umbrella of organised abuse and organised abuse needs at least 2 perpetrators working together.

ive never really understood why people say its impossible for it to be done by one person, as far as im away, tbmc is just the act of an abuser using torture / drugs / hypnosis to get the victim to a dissociative state, and then programming a certain command, belief, behaviour, etc into them. so i dont see why its impossible for it to be done by one person?

i just feel like its a little silly to have this hyper specific "rule" about tbmc, when a single abuser can probably to the things required for tbmc. it feels like people are just trying to police others experiences? like if a person says "ive gone through tbmc and have programmed alters as a response, but it was only my father who did the abuse as my parents are divorced and i dont live with my mother", and someone says "thats not possible" i feel like its undermining their lived experience?

unless im just misunderstanding what people mean when they say this or are misunderstanding how tbmc is done exactly, im not sure :(

The issue here is that programming is an extreme form of conditioning.

Conditioning to this extent inherently requires a high-control environment in order for it to be reinforced consistently enough to "stick". This means that programming, in order to be effective, requires:

A high degree of control over the child, the child's contacts, surroundings, and day-to-day life

Multiple perpetrators to maintain this degree of control

Frequent reinforcement of conditioned behaviors, beliefs, and self-states

My goal with this blog is not to "police" anyone's experiences, but it is my goal to dispel misinformation and misunderstanding.

[ukrfeminism]

4 minute read

Police tactics used against terrorists are being used to catch the 100 worst predators targeting women in London.

The Met said a system assessing 35,000 offenders reported each year for crimes against females was being used.

It follows a series of scandals and a review that found the force was racist, misogynist and homophobic.

Commissioner Sir Mark Rowley said: "It's taking the organised crime or terrorism approach to male predatory violence."

"If we go after them proactively, build a case against them, get them off the streets, that protects women and children in London, so that's an indicator of something more innovative, more front-footed, and how we reform how we police London", Sir Mark added.

The Cambridge Crime Harm Index (CCHI) is the first system that measures the seriousness of crime harm to victims, and not just the number of officially recorded crimes.

It gathers data on tens of thousands of men recently convicted of domestic assault, rape, sex offences, stalking, and harassment to rank the 100 who pose the highest risk to the public.

'Rebuild public trust'

Baroness Casey was appointed to review the force's culture and standards after the abduction, rape and murder of Sarah Everard by serving police officer Wayne Couzens, in 2021.

During the course of her review, another Met officer, David Carrick, was convicted of a series of rapes, sexual offences and torture of women.

Plans to overhaul the force, a £366 million two-year scheme dubbed A New Met for London, are being launched with visits to every borough in the English capital.

Bosses say there will be an increased emphasis on neighbourhood policing in a bid to rebuild public trust.

Some 240 officers out of the Met's total workforce of around 34,000 will be moved from central to local teams.

There are also plans to recruit 500 more community support officers (PCSOs) and an extra 565 people to work with teams investigating domestic abuse, sexual offences and child sexual abuse and exploitation.

Each borough will have at least one front counter open 24 hours a day under the proposals.

During austerity from 2010 onwards, local borough teams were cut so that between two and four boroughs were covered by one basic command unit.

Sir Mark, who previously said there were hundreds of officers in the Met who should have been kicked off the force, said bosses are "sacking and suspending more officers than ever before".

He added: "I've got a minority of my people I need to sort out, and we're doing that as rapidly and as quickly as we can do."

Mayor of London Sadiq Khan said: "Londoners will rightly judge this plan on actions not words, and I will be unflinching in holding the Met and the Commissioner to account and supporting him to deliver."

London's Victims' Commissioner Claire Waxman OBE said: "A New Met for London clearly sets out how the Met plans to turn around the force and deliver for Londoners, but there is no time to lose, as they need to quickly and effectively improve their support to the thousands of victims they interact with on a daily basis."

Analysis

Sonja Jessup, BBC London home affairs correspondent

Why hasn't this been done before? This approach - using data to try to target the most dangerous suspects more precisely - is already used to tackle terrorism and serious organised crime.

But there've been two significant changes.

The first is the increase in reports of rape and domestic abuse: police say the numbers are too big to manually identify which cases to prioritise and they need to find new crime fighting methods.

The second is about the pressure on the Met to take violence against women and girls more seriously. Campaigners have warned many victims have lost confidence in the force.

The Met hopes to restore that trust, but that will mean not only bringing more offenders to justice, but also demonstrating a change in its own culture, as a force criticised as "institutionally misogynist" by Baroness Casey.

[little-tyrant-gortash]

Oathbreaker

Pairing: fem!Tav x Enver Gortash, fem!Tav/Astarion

Tags: Emotional Manipulation, Manipulation, Manipulative Relationship, Paladin Tav (Baldur's Gate), Vaginal Sex, Penis In Vagina Sex, Drunk Sex, Unrequited Love, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Scars, Blood and Injury, Injury, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Pregnancy, Unplanned Pregnancy, Miscarriage, Torture, Psychological Torture, Implied/Referenced Torture

Word count: 1,691

Ao3 here.

Chapter 1.

Chapter 2.

Chapter 3.

Chapter 4.

Chapter 5.

Chapter 6.

Chapter 7.

Chapter 8.

Chapter 9.

Chapter 10.

Chapter 11.

Chapter 12.

Chapter 13. ⬇

Chapter 14.

Chapter 13: Innocence Lost

He should've expected things to go downhill. It couldn't be as easy as he imagined them to be, could they?

First of all, the way she screamed had a remarkable effect on him. Gortash quickly realised that the need to protect her went well beyond his sneaky little "safety measures"; he maneuvered so quickly around the office to check what was wrong that it was straight ridiculous. It was blind luck nobody saw it, and that she was too preoccupied with the pain in her feet to notice. But he couldn't blame her for that. The stench of burnt flesh made him crinkle his nose.

"Damn it!" He huffed, and he didn't even think, he picked her up, bridal style, to get the weight off of her feet. She clung to him for dear life in her agony, buried her face in his neck and sobbed loudly. "How can you be so clumsy?" He sighed as he started to walk through the workshop with her in his arms.

That was when the door burst open and revealed a very angry looking Shadowheart with her bright, silver hair. Gortash stopped in his tracks with a frown. The Steel Watchers should've stopped her-

"Your days are over!" She declared, looking every bit of feral as she summoned her spirit guardians – the green ones that would cause nasty necrotic damage to anything living they'd touch.

"Are you insane?!" Gortash yelled as he took a few steps back. "I have her right h-"

Organised chaos, was it? More like disorganised chaos. Most of the time he remembered where he left what, and he instinctively tiptoed over it in his workshop. Toolboxes, chests, pieces of armour. But Tav's injury and Shadowheart's sudden appearance shocked him enough that he couldn't remember fast enough that there was a chest just behind him – a chest he tripped over.

Falling backwards, all he could do was cursing out loud.

Hitting the ground wasn't that bad, actually. But when Tav fell right on him, she knocked the air out of him. There was an almost soft crack in his chest, then excruciating, horrible pain a second later.

"Oh shit", Shadowheart's voice was the first that made it through the ringing in his ears. Gortash's head was throbbing with murder. He kept Tav close, until she attempted to pull away and get up. "I'm so sorry, I didn't- I couldn't-"

"Heal me", Tav sobbed and remained sitting on the ground just beside him. "Please- it hurts- so much-"

"What the Hells happened?" Shadowheart made her way over to Tav, completely ignoring Gortash on the floor. Maybe she did that well. "I heard you scream-"

"Karlach's engine", Gortash groaned when Tav couldn't muster the words. "Her engine. Overheated. Melted… the pliers…"

Well, that broken rib really hurt. He barely could take a normal breath, let alone speak in complete sentences. I'm too old for this shit, he thought begrudgingly as he turned his head to look at Tav and Shadowheart. The latter dismissed the spirit guardians, and she already started to heal Tav's feet. The flesh knitted anew, making her accident a bad memory.

Good.

"You. Get. Out", Gortash groaned at Shadowheart, who stared back at him with a snarl.

"You don't order me around!" She spat back at him.

"Shadowheart-", Tav weakly protested.

"I knew you couldn't be trusted!"

"Shadowheart-"

"Is that your plan? Making us believe you're the good guy when you're attempting to kill us??"

"Shadowheart!! Enough!" Tav yelled. "He didn't do anything wrong! I held the fucking engine and I got too distracted, end of story!"

"Distracted by what?" Shadowheart asked with a raised brow. "He did it on purpose, didn't he?!"

Gortash also raised his brow. Really, what distracted her? Tav blushed and looked anywhere but at them. He didn't do anything out of the ordinary, just- oh.

"Ooh, Tav", he sighed – even if it was immensely painful –, a smile playing around his lips.

"You just be quiet", Tav huffed, taking her half burned boots off.

"You paid attention to what I was doing-"

Tav felt a rush of absolute fear when she realised he could expose her to Shadowheart.

"Gortash."

"What my hands were doing, to be precise- you got distracted by- my hands-"

Shadowheart looked like realisation dawned on her, then she made the realm's most disgusted face as she glanced at the flustered Tav. Who, in turn, angrily yanked her boots off and threw them to the far end of the room.

"Gortash! You're the absolute worst man alive on this gods damned planet!"

Tav pushed herself up to stand, thankfully, Shadowheart could heal her injuries in no time. Barefoot, she started to walk out of the door.

"Where do you think you're going?" Gortash ignored the throbbing, sharp pain in his chest.

"Out! I'm done!"

"You won't even take Karlach with you?"

Tav's bare feet stopped stomping on the floor of his workshop. Enver finally got up, too; he resisted the urge to touch his aching side. It wouldn't do any good if he had his hand over it, anyway. He'd felt this so many times, growing up. He'd survive it again.

"I have no doubts she'd attempt to kill me, too", Gortash continued, walking over to his desk to sit down on the chair. "And believe it or not, you and your merry little band still need me."

"He's right", Shadowheart's shoulders dropped, and offered him an apologetic look. "Sorry about- what I said."

"Consider it forgiven. Now, please. You, get out."

"We'll talk later", Shadowheart told Tav in a serious tone, and neither Gortash nor Tav had doubts that the silver haired warrior would definitely interrogate Tav about their relationship.

"One more thing", Gortash told Shadowheart, "how come you weren't stopped by my Steel Watchers?"

"Well, Gale kept them… busy", Shadowheart smiled at him before she left the workshop.

Gortash sat back down, a bit harder than he wanted to, and closed his eyes at the flash of sudden, excruciating pain that shot through his chest. Gale. He was crushing the name in his head with mortar and pestle. Gale. Gale. Gale. He's going to make an ornate bowl out of his wretched, thick skull, and he'll use his brain t-

"He probably destroyed half of your Steel Watchers", Tav mused without turning to look at him.

"Wonderful", Gortash groaned, and this time, he couldn't hide the agony from his voice.

He gritted his teeth when he saw Tav turned to look him in the eyes. She noticed. What was more, she seemed like she… cared? That she was… worried? Enver seemed to rapidly sink in his chair when she started to walk over to him.

"What's wrong?" She asked him, and he scoffed.

"Oh, nothing. I'm fine. Just pulled a muscle."

She stared at him for a long second before she stalked even closer, stopping between his chair and his desk. This way, she had her back to Karlach.

"You're lying", she deduced.

He stared back up at her, challengingly.

"And? What are you going to do about it?"

"I'll get the truth out of you."

"Oh?" Despite the pain he was in, he smiled at that. "And how are you planning to do that?"

"I'm asking first", she crossed her arms and leaned against his desk. "Why did you have to embarrass me?"

"She rather should know about the truth than think that I'm scheming to kill you, isn't that right?"

"I don't want them to know about us", Tav shook her head and looked away.

"I can't understand why", he mused playfully, "we're making a good team."

"Good team?" She echoed. "Have you been paying any attention to us? We're making each other worse."

"Worse is always better in my book", he smirked now, a bit darker than intended. Tav squirmed where she stood, his smile awakening something inside of her. "You can't even take your eyes off me, can you?"

"You're a pompous bastard full of himself, nothing more", Tav spat.

Gortash laughed quietly, but not for long. His voice died in his throat and he let out a ragged sigh as he leaned back in his chair again. Tav was watching him like a hawk.

"If you're injured", she muttered, "why won't you tell me?"

"Complaining about physical injuries is weakness, and I'm anything but weak."

Tav needed a few seconds to absorb that. Then, she cupped his cheeks in her fragile little hands.

"I don't want you to be in pain", she whispered softly, "please, tell me, how can I help?"

"If you say that little word again, I may just tell you", Gortash teased.

He was disguising just how deeply it cut him to know that she cared. That she didn't lie. Every second he spent with her, he learned more and more about her expressions, the way she said words, what she thought of things, and to know that she did not lie now – that she truly did not want him to be in pain – was new and utterly terrifying.

Because nobody ever cared. Nobody ever asked. Nobody wanted to make sure he was alright. All the lessons he learned during his life were that the strong crushes the weak, and he never wanted to be the weak one. He was forced to be; many, many times.

"Please, Enver."

His name sounded like dripping honey from her lips. He crumbled at her touch, at her voice. For a moment, he felt like a frightened child again.

And then, he felt enraged. Enraged that he couldn't find her sooner, enraged that he had to walk this lonely path alone for so long. But not anymore. She was here, and Hells, he won't ever let her go again.

"I never get tired of you saying my name", he whispered back, placing his hands over hers as he closed his eyes.

Tav half smiled and ever so gently pecked his forehead.

"What the everloving fuck?!"

Their hearts skipped a beat at the same time when they've heard Karlach's voice from the desk where they left her, and they both thought of the very same thing.

Shit.

[olet-lucernam]

A Hollow Promise [19] chapter iv, part iii

main tags : loki x original character, post-avengers 2012, canon divergence - post-thor: the dark world, canon-typical violence, mentions of torture

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summary: In the aftermath of the Battle of New York, the Avengers need a few days to build a transport device for the Tesseract. With the Helicarrier damaged and surveillance offline, SHIELD sends an asset to guard Loki in the interim: a young woman who sees the truth in all things, and cannot lie.

Even long presumed dead, her memories lost to her, Loki would know her anywhere.

And this changes things.

Some things last beyond infinity. And the universe is in love with chaos.

(Loki was never looking for redemption. It came as an unexpected side-effect.)

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chapter summary : astrid starts to get to work, right under shield’s watchful gaze.

recommended listening : angry woman, ashe

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[PREVIOUS] | [MASTERLIST] | [NEXT]

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The ascent was silent.

Natasha was accustomed to quiet. She had been claimed by it, shaped by it, as a stone by ocean currents. It was Clint who gravitated towards noise- circus kid, Tasha, he had shrugged once, with that glib slant of deflecting humour- and created it where he couldn't find it, chewing obnoxiously on a box of sugar-glazed cereal or rambling stream of consciousness observations about their fellow agents or surroundings. Meanwhile, Natasha found herself soaking in sound, like a velvet tapestry.

The asset seemed to be cut from the same cloth.

Over hundreds of hours, Alethia- the only name they had for her, even now, to Fury's tacit vexation- had proven to be a quiet soul. She spoke with purpose, eloquently and richly, proving equal to any of the modern cognoscenti, but refused to fill uncomfortable silences to the point of petty, adolescent obstinacy. Natasha knew that many other agents found it irksome, or unsettling, or interpreted it as an implicit insult- actually, Natasha wasn't convinced that they were wrong, on that count; the asset was as unsubtle in her general dislike and contempt for SHIELD as they were in their aversion to and mistrust of her- but personally, she found it refreshing.

And telling. It had been Natasha's first insight into her, a pinprick glimpse beyond her walls.

It had taken time, for anything else.

In the wake of the negotiations and naked threats to secure the asset, Natasha had been handed her next assignment, to run concurrent with external field missions. While unwilling to gamble SHIELD's security on uncertain odds, Director Fury had decided that it was worth trying to bring the girl in from the cold.

It was Natasha's task to acquire her.

Concealed below her surface, like a riptide, Natasha had reservations.

She wasn't naïve enough to voice her doubts. It was rarely advantageous to question or challenge Fury over clear, direct orders, at least without solid justification- Deputy Director Hill was one of the few who could afford to, given her role in the organisation- and Natasha had no reason to portray herself as anything less than competent, and unhesitatingly efficient. She had earned her place within SHIELD, and had no intention of jeopardising that stability over something trivial.

Still, the assignment was a departure from her usual body of work.

It was discussing it with her partner that had warmed her to it.

The girl was young- younger than Natasha had been, when Clint had bought her in- pretty, wickedly sharp as a good utility knife, with a temperament like high-carbon steel, and the outrageous self-assurance of someone just exceptional enough that the universe had yet to disabuse her of it. She wasn't looking for a way out; she hadn't come to them as a penitent on bruised knees, wasn't even remotely unsure about the path she walked, yet she had a quiet, righteous fire that sparked at unexpected times.

Sounds like there's enough there, Clint had observed, almost blithely. And kinda like you've made your mind up, Tash.

Natasha had been troubled to realise that he was right.

Well. In terms of practicality, she could work with virtue. It was simply a matter of redirecting it.

Natasha realised that she could mentor the girl- pull her out of the dark, give her a place and purpose, bring her to the side of angels, in the same way Clint had done for her.

Pay it forward. Balance the books. Wipe out the red.

- your ledger is dripping, it's gushing red-

It was weeks before Natasha coaxed her into something resembling a conversation. It was months before the asset initiated one. And she remained both transparent and unmalleable in her antipathy towards SHIELD, even after Natasha shared the story of her own recruitment, and of Clint's, and many of the sanitised, less ambiguous missions they had completed for SHIELD since.

Eventually, almost inevitably, relations mellowed.

Especially, Natasha acknowledged, in the wake of the paring knife incident.

The silences became more comfortable. Her laughter came a little less bitter, her moods a few shades sweeter. Alethia, previously so deliberately flat and unresponsive, had become easier to read.

Until now.

Natasha had expected silence. She had expected the asset to be angry, and for it to have burned like coals rather than wildfire and vitrified into a lethal grudge, because the asset was no fool, and from the moment that she had been sent down to the detention level she would have recognised everything that was left implied.

She's going to hate us, Natasha murmured to Clint, when they discovered the intended response to the surveillance issues around the detainment cell.

Cold necessity, Nat, he replied softly. His cadence was still a little stilted, oddly subdued despite the veneer of expressiveness, like an actor during the first table read of a new script. Look, she's seen what Loki is capable of. She won't want him getting out either.

Doesn't matter. The truth is, we don't know if she can handle it. But we're sending her in anyway. And she'll know that. Natasha dropped her head grimly. Months of progress, dead in the water.

Clint had paused. I'll call down, he said simply. To tell her. I'm a familiar voice, and I saw Loki working from up close. I know she can handle him. Let's let her hear that.

It was a thin hope, and one that Natasha would not rely on.

On being sent down to collect her, Natasha was still braced for the fallout.

She was not prepared for- whatever this was.

Instead of being primed into tension from holding against Loki, Alethia was- relaxed.

Leaning against the elevator wall, ankles and arms crossed, her head rested against the brushed steel- exposing her neck into a smooth, pronounced curve- hazel eyes eased closed. In contrast to the quiet, ravenous hunger that Natasha had identified in her from their first meeting, one that she had meant to discover the appetite behind, the asset seemed oddly- sated.

Natasha took a calculated risk, and broke the silence.

"How are you?"

The asset's head lifted- the brightness of her braided, pinned-up hair catching a ripple of light- and turned just enough to glance across at Natasha.

"Tired."

Mouth tensing, Natasha nodded carefully.

"And- are you okay?"

Her eyebrow arched.

Rather than sensing disdain, or acrimony, Natasha had the distinct feeling that the asset was laughing at her.

That, at least, was a familiar expression.

The elevator slowed, the doors opening.

The asset pushed off the wall, stepping out.

The passage beyond was broader than most aboard the Helicarrier- echoing the architecture of a modern naval vessel, the craft was structured into tightly-locked warrens of gunmetal grey, navigable only by previous knowledge or the non-intuitive section codes branded in templated, crisp yellow paint at every doorway. The lift had opened into a central thoroughfare, the passageway decanting out into the areas and access points serving as the Helicarrier's operational brainstem, a short curve from the bridge. Several paces ahead of Natasha, the asset walked swiftly past the uniformed guard and through the automated glass doors, the panels swinging aside noiselessly on their hinges.

In the days since the assault and Loki's recapture, the bridge had been restored to full functionality. The software damage had been mostly repaired, and the hardware damage had been largely cosmetic- dented metal and scorch marks, a few bullet holes and several cracked touch-displays, a handful of shattered overhead lights.

Other than these minor traces, and a few stray drops of blood yet to be caught by the cleaning crew, the command deck was once again a hive of restrained, carefully coordinated activity, like open-faced clockwork.

Beyond the gloss of the strategy table, the low halo of angled screens that served as the director's control helm stood empty. The bridge thrummed at full capacity, personnel working at their assigned terminals- either seated at the desks set into the curve of the internal wall, beneath the protrusion of the glass-faced gallery overhead, or at consoles fanning out from below the helm like benches in an amphitheatre, facing out towards the glass that plated the Helicarrier's bow. The entire command deck seemed to slope towards the observation windows, almost tipping the viewer out into the tranquil brightness of the troposphere.

Three broad aisles- one extending directly from the helm, the others curving from the steps leading down from the raised walkway- led in towards the panorama, and the raised plate at its centre.

It was there that Director Fury stood waiting, draped in his customary black leather duster coat, hands clasped at the base of his spine as he gazed out at the pearlescent ridges of the clouds, his silhouette carved like weathered, dark hardwood.

The asset approached without breaking stride, impervious to the shrewdly assessing stare from Hill as she passed her command helm. Hill glanced away from Sitwell's report, her gaze following the asset, before flicking back to Natasha.

Confirming her presence, Hill sent her a brief nod of acknowledgement, and asked Sitwell to confirm the projected timeline on Damage Control clearing the perimeter.

The asset halted just behind Fury's left shoulder, within the peripheral vision of his good eye.

"Alethia," Fury said without turning.

"Nicholas," she returned, her accent rendering the consonants classical and clear.

Coasting to a stop behind them, a few steps outside their immediate proximity, Natasha didn't particularly try to hide her amusement at the cloud of sour resignation that passed over Fury.

Clint had almost sprained his diaphragm laughing, when she had first told him that the asset addressed the director by his full, unaltered first name.

Like a disappointed mom, he had choked out through his mirth, ah- or, or like a kindergarten teacher- Ni- Nicholas, share your crayons with the other kids! Oh, man, tell me you'll get the footage of his face. Or Coulson- wait, does Coulson have it? Tasha, if you sent it to Coulson first, I'm gonna be so mad, this shit is hilarious-

Privately, Natasha was inclined to agree.

"Report." Fury commanded.

"Mission objective complete," the asset announced shortly, pivoting with a lift of her heels to face Natasha- a pre-emptive dismissal, as though she had the authority to cut the conversation short.

Irritation prickled through Fury, like a low crackle of static.

For once, however, Natasha was convinced that the asset wasn't deliberately needling him. The girl had been through enough over the past seventy-two hours; after three days, it was little wonder that the asset would want to escape any reminders of the alien prince, when even Natasha herself had been affected by him.

Natasha sent the asset a brief, sympathetic smile.

Staring out across the command centre, the asset either didn't see the gesture, or didn't care to reciprocate in front of the director.

"Then the Asgardians should be off-world within a couple of hours." Unfastening his grip, Fury stepped into a partial turn, aiming an astute stare at the back of asset's shoulders. "You talk to him much down there?"

Shifting her weight in place, torso slanting, the asset twisted to glance around at Fury, her expression faintly derisory.

If Natasha's conditioning had been anything short of brutally thorough, she might have tensed.

Between the fragmented audio, Clint's ability to read lips, and a conservative amount of educated guesswork, SHIELD had pieced together approximately two-thirds of the conversations between the asset and the captive demigod. Given her signature ability, whether or not she would answer honestly was not at issue. Rather, Fury would want to see how much detail she would offer, of her own will.

Natasha could only hope that the asset would be direct, for once.

"I was down there for three days," the asset stated dryly.

"Is that supposed to be a yes?"

"Is that supposed to be a question?"

Damn it, Alethia.

"So you talked to him?"

"Yes."

"About what?"

The asset's posture slacked, hip cocked and her smile subtly vicious.

"Nothing that you would want to hear."

Natasha didn't think that she was imagining the accusatory tint in her words.

"Try me," Fury challenged.

The asset sighed soundlessly.

"Literature." She spoke on her exhale, her intonation lilting, flicking a hand out carelessly. "Poetry. Philosophy. Ethics. World domination. Confectionary."

"Confectionary?" Fury straightened as he turned to face her, flatly incredulous. "You two were discussing dessert?"

"They don't have sugar on Asgard," she explained glibly, remaining in place, lifting one shoulder into a shrug. "No sugarcane. If they have sugar beet, they haven't discovered how to extract the sucrose yet. No cacao, either. They have honey, fruits, berries- Alfheim has an orchid similar to vanilla, and Vanaheim has cinnamon trees- Asgard cultivates some non-endemic florae in its glasshouses. Glasislund is the great glass garden of the royal palace. It's tended by Queen Frigga and her ladies. He told me that a great oak tree grows at its centre, named Glasis, whose foliage is like gold infused with forge-fire. In exchange, I told him about a few sweet dishes that we have here- semlor, payasam, mousse de maracuja, koeksister, honey-skein candy- ah, apparently Asgard has something almost identical to baklava? And- I think it's called maple taffy, in Canada. Molten maple syrup, frozen in clean snow-"

"He told you about Asgard?" Fury cut through her aimless meanderings. "About other worlds?"

"Mm, a little."

"Like what?"

"I just told you. No sugar, Glasislund, baklava-"

"Anything useful."

"Define useful."

Fury visibly tamped his exasperation down.

"What about those illusions," he redirected, "those- figures he had walking around the room today. They looked like Asgardians."

"Hm? Oh. He was playing out a few stories for me. Various misadventures from over the centuries. The kind of tales that found their way into mythology. Albeit a little- garbled."

Lashes lowering, the bloom of her wistful smile set a gentle glow filtering through her, like sunlight through silk. Set against the empyrean vault of blue skies and cirrostratus clouds, it made her beatific, as though she had stepped from the lead frame of a cathedral window.

For a rare moment, Alethia was rendered startlingly real, un-empty.

"He is- quite the storyteller. As expected."

Natasha saw the way that Fury subtly sharpened, speculation shifting into scrutiny.

"You liked talking to him?" He asked, deceptively mild.

Silently, Natasha sent a cautioning look towards the asset.

With a blink, her eyes finally met Fury.

"Yes."

блядь. Jaw working, Natasha dropped her gaze.

"When he wasn't spouting the usual limited, defeatist, nihilistic view that nothing matters, and that the universe is cruel, violent, and devoid of meaning, and that everything good is doomed to wither and die, and therefore caring is an exercise in futility and self-deception, he was an excellent conversationalist," she added lightly, brazenly unapologetic.

"Can't say I see it, myself," Fury said pithily.

"No, I'd imagine not."

Once again, Natasha could hear an implied insult.

"But he liked talking to you," he observed neutrally. "Enough to tell you stories of Asgard."

The asset smirked.

"I listened. Of course he liked talking to me."

Fury folded his arms across his chest, pensive.

"Did he tell you anything else?" He asked. "About Asgard? Or other worlds out there?"

The asset lifted her shoulders impertinently.

"Nothing about their views regarding Earth? Opinions, about what he did here?"

The asset paused at that.

"He implied that Odin would not be- excessively merciful, in his sentencing."

That caught Fury's attention, although it barely breached his surface, the lines of his face deepening almost imperceptibly.

"And what is the bar for excessive mercy on Asgard?"

"He said that Odin was unlikely to execute him," the asset said flatly. "It seems that all other options are on the table."

"And you judged Loki's word to be reliable?"

"I know when people are lying to me, Nicholas," the asset bit out, a ripple of resentment breaking in her tone even as her expression remained flat.

"And how often did Loki lie to you?"

"Scarcely. Remarkably enough. Although I suppose I should have expected it. A skilled liar knows how to make use of the truth, never mind a highly perceptive, well-read, eloquent liar."

"Perceptive. How so?"

"He took your measure within a few minutes, didn't he?"

Fury's eyes narrowed into a glare. The asset's eyes glimmered slightly with victory, turning the hazel richer.

"After a few moments of meeting me, he deduced that I do not particularly like you," she continued, "and that you do not particularly care for me. He also discerned that I am far more receptive when I am not being condescended to, underestimated, or ignored. Something tells me that he could sympathise."

The irritation in Fury's demeanour dispersed.

Natasha knew better than to regard it as a positive sign.

"You liked him," Fury restated with equanimity.

There was a dangerous weight behind the words.

"Yes," the asset admitted candidly. "I liked him."

She allowed the words to hang in the air, like the blade of a guillotine.

"I did not like his actions, though," she added blandly, breaking the tension. "I'm very fond of New York."

Natasha held back a seething exhale of frustration.

"But you understood him," Fury ventured further, casting the bait. "Even sympathised with him, in return."

The asset's smile welled like a near-transparent haze of flame, her gaze turning unseeing.

"Pleased to meet you," she sang softly, "hope you guess my name."

Natasha blinked, uncomprehending, but she saw Fury's jaw clench.

The asset laughed to herself, warming and deadly as swallowing hot coals.

"Would I sympathise with someone who wanted SHIELD to burn?" She wondered. Though almost a full head shorter than Fury, possessing barely a fraction of his bulk and precisely none of his intensive combat and espionage experience, the asset took a step forward and gazed up at him with a vicious, vengeful light. "Nicholas. This why I told you not to ask questions that you don't actually want answered."

Abruptly, Natasha remembered how Loki had pinned the asset to the glass of the cell by her throat.

She remembered how that asset hadn't flinched, even while balanced on the tips of her toes to keep herself from choking.

She remembered that the asset was not human.

The paring knife incident had arisen from a simple litmus test. It was a review, proof of progress, six months into her assignment. Natasha had laid the short blade down on the island counter, turning her back to fetch a bowl from the cupboards while feigning preoccupied chatter, waiting to see what the asset would do.

Most likely, Natasha thought, she would palm the knife and stash it. Better still if she didn't even touch it; the asset was sensible enough to see the rules for what they were, and play the game. Natasha didn't think that the asset was reckless enough to attack her with it, even with the intention to disarm rather than kill, but she was prepared to counter her if she did.

The asset had defied expectations.

Natasha hadn't expected the asset to turn the blade on her own neck.

She hadn't expected the incision to be so anatomically, improbably precise, slicing through her carotid artery.

She hadn't expected her blood to be gold.

Natasha was desensitised to blood. Butchery of the human body was as familiar as the grip of a gun in her palm, or the swipe of mascara on her lashes. But the jarring absence of red- and the shock of metallic, mythic, molten gold, spattering across the counters in the inimitable, stuttering pulse of arterial blood spray- had stalled her reflexes for a split second.

Shoving her forefingers and thumb into the narrow, alarmingly neat wound, pinching the nicked artery shut as she called for emergency medical assistance through her earpiece, the blood hadn't even smelled like blood, lacking that distinctive, clean, visceral copper-iron tang. The liquid gold slicking Natasha's hand had smelled of heat, like she had cut open the core of the sun.

SHIELD had taken samples for analysis, or tried to.

The blood evaporated like rubbing alcohol. Even a handful of hastily conducted field tests yielded inconclusive results, as though her blood wasn't blood, or even a vaguely similar biological fluid.

Ichor, one of the biomedical specialists had declared it, somewhere between mystified, delighted, and frustrated. We can't call it blood. This is not blood. We're calling it ichor. And whatever she is, she's not human.

Human enough, Natasha had wanted to say, a sunken dredge of shame hollowing in her gut, in a way that few things could.

As soon as the girl was discharged from the medical bay, healing cleanly around the stitches in her neck, Natasha had made an alteration to her schedule. Having established that the girl was a habitual early riser, Natasha collected her from her quarters each morning, and took her up to the roof of SHIELD's headquarters in New York, to watch the sun rise in the skies over Manhattan.

Fury soon discovered the unauthorised changes to the asset's access privileges.

I'm loosening her leash, Natasha had stated expressionlessly.

Sounds like you're not asking.

Her mouth tightened.

I'm not. She tried to kill herself, and she almost succeeded. That tells me we're doing something wrong.

Fury had stared at her for a long moment, before nodding.

Alright. She's your responsibility, Romanoff. You're her handler. Anything goes wrong, you're personally accountable.

Natasha had accepted the terms.

And her gamble had paid off.

At least until Fury had thrown the asset into a locked room with an alien demigod.

"I am aware that you do not agree with many of SHIELD's practices," Fury replied to the asset's taunt, voice raised clear and unruffled, striding in towards the heart of the command centre, "but the truth is that this organisation serves a crucial function. Recent events have proven the importance of what we do. There are countless threats, dangers that the world is unprepared to face, and unequipped to deal with. Until such a time that we are proven obsolete, we will persist in protecting Earth's best interests."

"Do you promise?" The asset asked, mockingly bright.

Fury ignored her. "I expect your official debrief by the end of the week. We're going to get you back to work on Project VERITAS, as soon as we can verify the status of our New York Headquarters-"

"I have a request."

Fury stilled, and Natasha glanced towards the asset with carefully veiled surprise.

"A request." Fury intoned monotonously.

"Mm-hm. You see, I do not recall there being a clause in our agreement, regarding my obligation to guard Asgardian warrior prince detainees without reinforcements," she noted coolly.

"You had backup," Fury answered. "Three rotating units just outside, twenty-four hours a-"

"And how prompt and effective their response was, when your prisoner had his hand around my throat."

Natasha did not feel guilty.

Such sentiment had been bled out of her long ago. She had assessed the situation pragmatically, as any SHIELD agent was required to, before making the decision not to intervene.

If Loki had wanted the asset dead, then it was already too late. Any rescue attempt made by the Alpha Team outside could result in Loki's escape at worst, or a dozen SHIELD agents dead at best. If the asset was killed, however, nothing would change. Loki would still be locked inside a cell designed to contain the Hulk, only with a fresh corpse for company.

It was simple arithmetic.

Natasha could, however, acknowledge that the asset's anger was justified.

"Those units were not there to protect me. They were there to protect everyone except me, in the event that I failed. And yet, despite this," the asset folded her arms, head cocking, "I am hardly asking for the keys to your dubious kingdom in return."

Fury considered the remark, before circling to face her.

"Then what are you asking for?"

The asset lifted her head.

"Give me Agent Barton."

Natasha blinked.

"Agent Barton," Fury echoed, carefully inscrutable. "Why?"

"VERITAS is almost in its beta testing phase. I want Barton as one of its primary test subjects, to confirm the biometric baseline."

"Why?"

"Why not?" The asset arched an eyebrow. "Do you need him elsewhere?"

The question was a blatant trap. Whichever way he answered, he would be offering her a point of attack, regardless of the truth.

Fury stepped around it.

"I'll take it under consideration."

"Excellent, can I go?" The asset asked in a single breath, sweeping her head aside as though prepared to ignore his answer.

Eye narrowing, Fury seemed to briefly consider correcting her show of attitude.

However, he appeared to come to the same conclusion as Natasha. Permitting her to snap and snarl like a hormonal teenager was harmless enough, especially compared to the alternative of her hoarding her resentment to herself, and allowing it to fester and spread, unseen and unmedicated.

Fury nodded slightly. "Romanoff will escort you back to your quarters."

"Romanoff will do as she pleases," the asset quipped, turning on her heel and cutting back through the bridge so swiftly that Natasha felt the whisk of disturbed air as she passed.

At a look from the director, Natasha wordlessly followed.

She caught up to the asset just as the lift doors slid closed. The asset did nothing to keep them open but, without glancing her way, stepped aside enough for Natasha to slip through.

As the elevator descended, silence fell between them once more.

This time, it was in the vein that Natasha had initially expected.

She exhaled silently, facing the elevator doors.

It was always difficult, after the asset met with Fury. She rarely returned from the encounters in a neutral or better mood than when she left, and it was usually left to Natasha to soothe the girl's ruffled feathers.

You would appear as a friend. As a balm. And I would cooperate-

Natasha shook off the involuntary recollection, packaging the smoothly parsing words and the smile like a filleting knife away in the back of her mind.

But it did make her wonder.

"You liked him," she murmured.

"Hmn."

The asset's only response was a disinterested, affirmative hum.

Natasha considered asking why- or subtly warning the girl against the seductive lure of darkness, how it would drag her in and take and grind her down and dispose of her shell when her bone marrow was hollowed out and devoured- but knowing how contrary the girl could be, and how maddeningly stubborn she apparently took pride in behaving, it wasn't worth it.

"Why did you ask for Clint?"

The question was softened in the veneer of faux vulnerability, concealing how dangerously close it cut to the truth.

Alethia would hear it. And whatever her character flaws may be, Natasha knew that she wasn't one to engage in cruelty without provocation.

She had called Natasha's partner by his full first name- Clinton- exactly once, and never again.

When she answered, her tone was neutral, and truthful.

"Because mind control is an unfamiliar concept even to SHIELD, and the entirety of its personnel will now be wary of Barton," the asset explained. "If something is amiss- something lingering in his head, or any inclinations of his own making- then I would notice."

"There's nothing to notice." Natasha said firmly. "Clint isn't a traitor, and I knocked Loki out of his head days ago-"

"You are acting as though I don't already know this."

Natasha blinked, at turned to look at her. "Then- why?"

The asset sent her a supremely disdainful look.

"Natalia, you are not this dense."

It took an embarrassingly long moment for it to click.

"It's for Clint. So that everyone else knows it too."

The asset lifted a shoulder and an eyebrow at her, as though it was obvious, before turning to face forward once more.

"Why?" Natasha asked numbly, flitting furiously through their past interactions, hunting for what she could have overlooked. A lack of cruelty was one thing. Tolerance and courtesy were another, and the asset had proven capable of offering it. But outright kindness- to the extent of spending valuable leverage over Fury- was something else.

The asset sighed, her posture dropping slightly with the rush of air that left her.

"Has it occurred to you, Natalia," she said, eyes closed, with weary, irritable, stalwart patience, "that my problem is not with you, or with Barton, or even with Fury- but with SHIELD itself?"

It hadn't. Natasha was acutely aware that the asset loathed SHIELD on an institutional level, deeply and fundamentally and with the conviction of a psychosis, but hadn't considered that the sentiments were limited, and that individual agents were intellectually divorced from the organisation somewhere in her mind.

"I have to say that you've never really given that impression," Natasha uttered dryly.

"Hm." The girl cocked her head, consideringly. "Alright. I suppose I haven't. But in my defence, if your interactions with me weren't perpetually qualified by your statuses as agents of SHIELD, I might have. Regardless, my point stands. While I may not like any of you, any personal sentiments, and my subjective taste in people, is- peripheral, to the greater issue."

Natasha was silent for a moment, attempting to settle this into the matrix of how the asset's mind worked.

"I'll admit," she ventured, "I was kind of under the impression that you hated me, for a while."

The asset gave a soft scoff.

"And how could I have hated Natasha Romanoff?" She said, almost amused. "She doesn't even exist."

Natasha tensed, in both confusion and at an odd twist of foreboding behind her abdomen.

"You think I don't exist?"

"I think," the asset stated calmly, "that Natasha Romanoff is a fiction. No more real than a reflection. A collection of behaviours, skills, and attitudes that are conducive to your survival within SHIELD, because it's easier to tell a lie if you believe it. And you feel the need to lie in part because, deep down, where you're barely capable of acknowledging it, you don't trust SHIELD as much as you want them- or yourself- to believe that you do. Because SHIELD is supposed to be your lodestar, and what does it mean if you don't trust it?"

Natasha's lungs felt tight.

The elevator halted, the doors opening.

The asset stepped directly onto threshold, and swivelled to face Natasha.

"And the other reason," she continued bloodlessly, "is because Natalia Romanova only has the barest idea of who she is. She never had the chance to learn, and decide. Between the Red Room, the KGB, SHIELD- between assassinations, and redemption-" Alethia paused, and her ruthless tranquillity subsided slightly. "When is it going to end?"

"When is what going to end?"

Natasha felt as though someone else had spoken, borrowing her mouth.

"The quest for redemption. Where does it end?"

The elevator doors started to close with a quiet clunk. Without breaking Natasha's gaze, the asset raised an open palm to shunt them back. She rested her hand against the edge of the wall as the door retreated, fingers curled loosely against the steel.

"When are you redeemed? When you're forgiven? Then who do you need to earn to the forgiveness of? There are some people who can't forgive you, some people who won't, some who shouldn't. What then? What makes you worthy of forgiveness? And can you ever be redeemed, without it? If not, how do you measure it? How do you quantify the debt, and repayment? How to you repay it, when there are things that cannot be undone, debts that there is no adequate payment for? When and where do you cross the line from bad person to good person? How do you know when it is finally enough? Who decides? Is it SHIELD? And why would they do that, when your quest for redemption serves them so well?"

"It might never be enough," Natasha said numbly, recalling something that Fury had said, when SHIELD had accepted her under a strict conditional basis.

It might never be enough, he had told her, his tone almost conversational, but with too much power to be anything but a stern warning, but you can do good here. The kind that lasts, and keeps the world from falling apart. If that's worth something to you, then I strongly suggest you take this deal. We'll put you to work. See if you can't wipe out some of that red-

"Exactly."

Natasha blinked. "What?"

"It might never be enough. Because forgiveness is a personal choice, and has nothing to do with redemption," she forged on, implacable, "and anyone who tells you the contrary believes in power, and of standing over others and using shame to control them, and of wearing morality like a sword instead of like naked skin."

She paused for the briefest heartbeat, then moved forward, taking Natasha's elbow, gazing so directly at her that Natasha wanted twist away, her throat tight.

"It's enough if you keep trying. Even if you slip, even if you make mistakes, even if you turn away, you can always turn back. That is enough. Do you understand? You don't need anything else. Not them. Not me. Just you. Understand?"

Natasha stared back, at the strangely golden tint to the asset's hazel irises, and nodded carefully.

"I understand," she said softly.

Almost instantly, the asset gave a sad, exasperated huff, and released her.

"No you don't," she said factually, brooking no counterargument. "Never mind. I didn't expect you to, really. Just think on it. And try to remember it, when things start to come apart." Her expression tensed, and she lifted her hand from the elevator doors to clamp it over her mouth, muffling a broad yawn. "Mn. I'm going to bed. Tell Fury to leave me alone."

Without another word, Alethia turned on her heel and strode away to her sleeping quarters- as though she hadn't, for a moment, hooked into Natasha's soul and dragged it out under her own paralysed gaze.

-

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[punks-never-die205]

"Imprissont " marine Anon here

This turned into way to long of an "ask" so please don't feel pressured to answer this.

Now I have this idear for a story in my head but I also have to mane Wips on my Computer to work on. (TW: Kidnapping, abuse, torture)

A really join marine girl (16~18) who was forced to join the marines (historically there used to be a lot of reasons how someone could be forced to join the marines, so I think someone having no other choice but to join isn't all to unlikely in the one piece world and makes for an interesting story)

She has to face the evil the marines do and struggles with her part in keeping this organisation going, while also faced with the fact that stuff like deserting might cause serious harm to the people she cares about and force her to life a life on the run.

But then her crew gets defeated by pirates who take her prisoner.

She has to life through literal hell, being enslaved and tortured for fun.

But then, while she is locked up in the captains quarters( so he as easy access the next time he feels like doing horrible things to her) she can hear a fight going on outside.

The thrill of the hope to be rescued, for this he'll to finally end

Only to realise that the attackers aren't marines.

They do not use the shouted orders she is used to, and there are way to little gunshots shots for it to be marines who mainly use rifles as weapons.

And then the early silence as the fight dies down, only for her to hear footsteps come closer that she doesn't recognise.

There is no place to really hide as the door is busted open, and she is face to face with Captain Kid. (who has both arms as this is pre-timeskip)

There is no way to hide, and most of her wounds and bruses on full display, as she cowers in a corner of the room.

But still, there is something to mark her as a marine. Maybe she was forced to wear the tattered remains of her unfirm. Maybe her captors tatood the marine symbol on her.

And so she has no hope of being rescued by these people.

And while the kidnpirates plunder the slowly tilting ship she realises that they'll very likely leave her to drown.

Just as she has accepted her fait while the last pirates exit the room, Killer drops the keys to her shackels in front of her.

She gets off the ship just in time and is later found and properly rescued by someone.

Years later, she is once again confronted by the Kid Pirates. Maybe she decided to live a quiet life somewhere, work as a shopkeeper, maybe she rejoined the marines but now secretly helps the revolutionary army.

And in that moment arises the opportunity to save Captain Kid, although it might have some consequences for her own safety, but she still does it. Because in her eyes she owers Killer something.

And so she tells him " Tell your first mate that now we are quid" before Kid leaves.

And only as she mutters those words does Kid realise why 6 seems so strangely familiar.

Because she is that marine girl from that very first pirate ship he and his crew beat. The one he argued with Killer about later on, for setting her free.

Urgh, the drama, the moral dilemma, the hurt, the pain...the twist of her turning from the saved to the saviour...I hope I'll someday find the time to write this story properly

xD I hope you do find the time to write it properly, because you've got a good and proper outline here and I love it =3

It could even go on to where Kid gets a chance to save 6 again, and that ends up being the start of her time on the crew. And from there, all the world's your oyster. But you could also effectively end it as is, and leave her to live her own life.