#elite paternalism

[tabl3]

More techert, maybe...?

prolly not what you meant since it's mostly angst lol

also kinda in reply to @lab-trash bc on ao3 the asked for an origin story for how they got together (I might write smth too, idk yet)

Basically: After Mighty Med s2, Megahertz was a hero. he promised to remain as such. but old habits die hard, and he regressed many times to his villainous ways. every time he swore it'd never happen again, but lo and behold, it did. he didn't think it really affected anyone, didn't think they really gave enough shits about him to genuinely care

[russia-libertaire]

"The combination of moral and scientific certainty helps explain the stridency, intolerance, and self-righteousness with which Chernyshevsky promoted his ideas. It also explains the blend of democratic collectivism and elitist paternalism that characterized these ideas. For while extolling service to the community as the path to personal self-fulfillment, Chernyshevsky portrayed an elite that served society largely by shaping it in accordance with the elite's own view of social justice. As a result, Chernyshevsky's ideas contained the potential for authoritarianism as well as liberation."

Michael Katz and William Wagner's introduction to What Is to Be Done?, by Nikolai Chernyshevsky

[bookofbonbon]

I really love you keep him there/christmas kiss! you mention that it’s common theme amongst polite capitol society children to have known each other their entire lives, did this also include sejanus when he arrived in the capitol? and was she friends with him? 🥺

you'll never belong - coriolanus snow.

Pairings/Characters: Coriolanus Snow x Reader. Sejanus Plinth. Arachne Crane.

Word Count: 1.1k+.

Apart of: You Keep Him There. Christmas Kiss - however, these can absolutely all be read as stand alones.

A/N: I know this wasn't a request but, it does answer your question and it's an opportunity to introduce one of the reasons why she doesn't 'like' Coriolanus. Also, military family = her mother's side; blizzards = father's side (murdoch is paternal grandfather).

Heavensbee Hall buzzes with excitement, every available standing and sitting space filled with Academy faculty, graduates and their parents, bar yours - not that it mattered to you. For the last ten years, July 4th has been a high priority and exceptionally busy day for your family with your parents always personally overseeing the network’s airing of the Reaping for each District - not even your graduation could take priority over that. Not that you’d expect it to either, you had barely scraped a pass; it was with the help of one person that you were graduating at all, one person you were currently looking for and had finally spotted in the corner with his parents. 

You quickly tell your grandparents, “I’ll be back.” 

But before you can step away from them, you’re immediately stopped by them - the pair acting as eyes and ears for your parents. You didn’t blame your parents for the precaution and if it had been up to you, you wouldn’t have been here at all but, instead with them. Unfortunately for you however, they had asserted that you were to attend your graduation and remain present for the entire ceremony - no exceptions. They’d even gone so far as to inform your Aunt to keep an eye out for you since she’d be present as a guest of honour. 

“Where are you going?” your grandfather asks gruffly. 

You nod towards Sejanus Plinth and show him the medium-sized gift box in your hand.

“I need to give this to him.”

There’s a look of disdain mixed with suspicion in his eyes as he looks to where you nod, at the Plinth’s, then back at you until finally he relents but, not without a warning to remain in his sight. 

You want to roll your eyes, your mother knew what she was doing when she sicked her military parents on you. 

Weaving through several bodies to get to him, you catch bits and pieces of conversations here and there. Only one catches your attention however, involving your three elite cohort - the topic bringing you to a halt. 

“... I don’t like him, Arachne. I tolerate him. He’s district.”

“No need to guess who the three of you are talking about,” you interrupt Coriolanus, Arachne and Festus. 

“Well, well, well,” Arachne drawls with her nasally voice. “So nice of you to actually show but, shouldn’t you be in the Academy Rouge? You certainly didn’t place in the top 24.”

“You know it’s funny you mention that, Arachne, because Murdoch actually offered to buy me your place in the top 24 but, out of the kindness of my heart, I told my grandfather, no.”

Thick tension fills the air, Arachne’s red painted lips dropping into a scowl, furthermore when you lean in close and remind her of her place. 

“Never forget, Arachne - truth doesn’t matter, only perception and I control the narrative, always,” you smile, saccharine. “Not you.” 

You want to roll your eyes at the stubborn look of hidden terror on her face. As if you’d actually do anything to the detriment of any of them - Murdoch had successfully hammered unwavering allegiance to this little group here - The Old Guard of the Elite - into you but, still... they could use a little reminding every now and then of their place. 

Stifled laughter from both boys breaks the tension and you divert your attention to them, specifically Coriolanus; your eyes immediately finding the red rose pinned to his waistcoat, the smallest of thorns still present on its stalk.

“A rose,” you touch the stalk gently. “So, very fitting of you. Beautiful to look at but harmful if you touch.”

You allow the thorn to prick your finger, a little bulb of blood blossoming on the tip. You hold your finger up to show him.

“A shame that not everyone knows this,” you tell him disdainfully.

Recognition flashes in his eye, you’re talking about Sejanus - you excuse yourself from the group, carrying onto your final destination who was already headed your way but not to you.

“Hey,” Sejanus greets you with a small smile when you plant yourself in his path. 

You bypass the greetings, “where are you going?”

You already know where he’s going and you’re not surprised when he tells you - to Coriolanus - but, you asked as a courtesy.

“Why?”

“There’s something I need to tell him before the ceremony starts.” 

“There’s no need to talk in code, I already know about the Plinth Prize or should I say lack thereof.”

Sejanus looks at you puzzled but, before he can ask how you know, you provide him with the answer. 

“You all seem to forget who my Aunt is, she’s the one who told me.” 

Recognition becomes Sejanus and he nods in understanding. 

“Hey, listen.” You step closer to him. “You should really stop hanging out with Coriolanus.”

“And why is that?”

“He’s not your friend.”

This makes him laugh, “oh and you are?”

“Compared to him? Absolutely I am. Sejanus, you could have all the money in the world and it will never make them- him like you.”

Sejanus bristles at your words, becoming defensive - you don’t mean to hurt him but, you do. 

“Thank you for pointing out the obvious,” he tells you bitterly. “As if I needed another reminder that I’ll never belong here.” 

You roll your eyes, “I’m not trying to remind you that you don’t belong here, I’m trying to tell you that they don’t care about you. Coriolanus Snow does not care about you.” 

“And how exactly would you know that when you only care about yourself?” he snaps at you. "He has been the only person who has ever been my fri-"

“Well then you are as stupid as you are willful, Sejanus Plinth because Coriolanus Snow only cares about Coriolanus Snow,” you cut him off.

Irritation seeps into your voice because what he said wasn’t true about Coriolanus or about you.

You were fiercely protective of those you care for and love - your military grandfather said it would be your downfall - and right now, despite your unwavering allegiance to the Old Guard, you were stupidly trying to protect him. 

“He’s going to get you into trouble or worse- but you know what? What do I care, right? So, whatever- here.” you shove the box into his hand. “My thanks for your help.” 

You don’t give him time to process, swiftly turning and walking away once you feel his hands take hold of the medium-sized gift box - baked goods from District 2. 

That would be the last conversation you’d had with Sejanus Plinth before he was hanged for treason in District 12 only two months later. 

You’d hardly known him and yet you cared for him; his death still hurt.

The truth of Sejanus's death would find you eventually, haunting your relationship with Coriolanus; unable to completely trust him.

-

Can you guess where the Blizzard family has made their wealth?

-

All fics are my own work - I have not posted my work anywhere else.

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters/places mentioned above.

Do not copy. Do not translate. Do not repost.

bookofbonbon 2023. All rights reserved.

[bitchiswild]

Winter Ball

Kim Minjeong x F! Reader

Warnings: fluff

Word Count: 3.5k

A/n: ❄️🎻🪩

₊˚✧𑁍.ೃ࿔*:･

The Winter Ball, an event steeped in opulence and prestige, stands as the pinnacle of the year's social calendar. Within its glittering halls, destinies intertwine, where chance encounters spark romances and hearts both unite and fracture. This illustrious affair owes its existence to the esteemed Kim Seok, a titan among elites, who christened the gala in honor of his beloved daughter, Kim Minjeong, affectionately known as Winter.

Beyond its facade of elegance and grandeur, the Winter Ball is a nexus of strategic alliances and lucrative sponsorships, where business dealings are as commonplace as swirling waltzes and whispered confessions. Yet, amid the clinking glasses and shimmering gowns, there exists an unwritten expectation, one fervently held by Kim Seok himself. With each meticulously planned Winter Ball, he harbors a silent hope—a hope that his daughter, Winter, might find love amidst the enchanting splendor.

Winter, however, is a vision of independence and conviction. Echoing her father's unyielding spirit, she rebuffs the allure of romantic entanglements with a steadfast declaration: "I have no need for such entrapments. Love is a fallacy." Yet, despite her protestations, Kim Seok discerns a familiar skepticism in her words, a reflection of his own past reservations before fate introduced him to the love of his life—Winter's mother.

In the depths of his heart, Kim Seok yearns for Winter to experience the transformative power of love, much as he did. With an ardent wish that transcends the gilded confines of the Winter Ball, he quietly prays for the serendipitous arrival of the one who will awaken his daughter's belief in love, just as it was once awakened within him.

As the anticipation mounts and the chandeliers cast their ethereal glow upon the revelers, Kim Seok watches over the festivities, his paternal gaze holding a silent plea to the stars: that Winter, his cherished daughter, may find within this glittering celebration the key to unlock the guarded chambers of her heart.

~~~

Winters POV

I let out a resigned sigh, my eyes scanning the elegantly adorned room filled with twirling couples lost in their own romantic reverie. Amidst the enchanting melodies and graceful waltzes, I stood on the periphery, a silent observer of a spectacle that failed to captivate my convictions. Love, in my view, was a frivolous pursuit—an enigmatic dance of emotions I had no desire to partake in. Love at first sight? Ridiculous.

"Minjeong!" Jimin's voice interrupted my musings, drawing my attention to my ever-optimistic best friend. She flashed a knowing smile, her eyes twinkling with a certainty that often accompanied her unwavering faith in matters of the heart.

"You're always so dismissive about love, but mark my words, one day you'll see. It'll all make sense," she remarked, her tone laced with a playful certainty that mirrored her perpetual optimism.

I couldn't help but scoff. "You say that as if it's some inevitable epiphany waiting to happen."

Jimin chuckled, her laughter carrying a hint of affectionate exasperation. "Trust me, Minjeong. Once you experience it, your perspective will shift entirely. Love won't seem like a waste of time anymore."

Her words lingered in the air as she sauntered away, disappearing into the crowd with her partner, leaving me to ponder her unwavering belief in the inexplicable magic of love.

Despite my protestations, I couldn't shake off the echo of her words. Was there a kernel of truth in her confident assertions? Could love truly transform one's outlook, turning what I deemed as frivolous into something profound and meaningful?

As the music swelled and the enchantment of the Winter Ball continued to weave its spell around the room, I found myself caught in a fleeting moment of contemplation. Perhaps, just perhaps, amidst the sea of skeptics, cynics, and believers alike, there existed a truth waiting to reveal itself—a truth about love that I had yet to uncover.

As I made my way towards the refreshments, a subtle shift in the atmosphere caught my attention. A figure, graceful and poised, mirrored my steps toward the drink table. Her presence, almost magnetic, tugged at my senses, and for a fleeting moment, the room seemed to shrink, centering around this enigmatic stranger.

"Sorry, am I in your way?" Her gentle voice broke the spell, drawing me from my reverie. I shook my head, startled by the sudden rush of emotions that stirred within me. "N-No, you're not. It's okay," I managed to stutter out, my heart thundering in my chest.

She giggled, her laughter a melody that resonated through the air, and in that moment, it felt like I was enveloped in pure bliss. Was this the inexplicable sensation Jimin spoke of—the rush of emotions, the rapid heartbeat, all in the presence of a stranger? Could this be the much-dismissed notion of love at first sight?

Summoning an ounce of courage I hadn't known I possessed, I extended my hand towards her. "My name's Minjeong. What's yours?" The words stumbled out, coated in a mix of nerves and excitement.

The girl turned toward me, her eyes sparkling with an unspoken allure. "Y/n," she replied, taking my hand in hers. "Nice to meet you, Minjeong. But I've got to get going; my friends are waiting for me. I'll see you on the dance floor?" Her words lingered in the air, a question tinged with a hint of anticipation.

I could only nod dumbly, lost momentarily in the radiance of her smile. As she giggled and gracefully departed, I felt a rush of relief flood through me. It was as if the weight of the moment lifted as she left my vicinity. Gathering my composure, I hurriedly made my way through the crowd, seeking out Jimin amidst the throng of revelers.

"Jimin!" I called out, scanning the crowd for my ever-supportive best friend. Spotting her animatedly conversing with a group nearby, I navigated through the sea of dancers and socialites, eager to share the whirlwind of emotions coursing through me.

"Minjeong, there you are!" Jimin's eyes lit up as she noticed me approaching, her expression expectant. "Did you find yourself a drink?"

I chuckled, trying to compose myself after the unexpected encounter. "Yeah, but more importantly, Jimin, I just had the most...unexpected moment."

Jimin arched an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. "Oh? Do tell!"

I recounted the brief yet intense interaction with Y/n, the rush of emotions, and the lingering sensation of having stumbled upon something inexplicably enchanting.

Jimin's grin widened with each word, a silent acknowledgment dancing in her eyes. "Minjeong, could it be? Love at first sight?"

I hesitated, grappling with the idea I'd dismissed moments before. "I don't know, Jimin. It sounds so cliché, doesn't it? But there was something about her... It was different."

Jimin's laughter bubbled forth. "Welcome to the club, Minjeong! Looks like someone's heart might be softening after all."

I rolled my eyes playfully but couldn't deny the fluttering feeling in my chest, a strange mix of nervousness and excitement at the thought of seeing Y/n again.

"Will you go dance with her?" Jimin nudged, her gaze filled with encouragement.

"I-I think so," I stammered, surprised by my own resolve. "I hope I see her there."

With Jimin's teasing encouragement and the memory of Y/n's smile lingering in my mind, I found myself swaying to the music, unable to shake off the lingering anticipation of a potential reunion.

As the night progressed and the melodies intertwined with laughter and whispers, I couldn't help but steal glances around the room, hoping for another glimpse of Y/n amidst the swirling crowd.

Time had passed, and there was no sight of Y/n. Faint disappointment settled in as I made my way back to the bar, hoping to find solace in another drink. Yet, to my surprise, there she was, standing next to a guy who seemed to be making her visibly uncomfortable.

My steps faltered as I approached the bar, the familiar sight of Y/n amidst an uncomfortable interaction stopping me in my tracks. A knot formed in my stomach, an instinctive urge to intervene surging within me.

Y/n stood there, her expression strained, a polite yet uneasy smile plastered on her face. Beside her loomed a guy, his demeanor exuding an unsettling sense of entitlement. His persistent attempts at conversation were met with Y/n's subtle but visible discomfort.

"I'm sorry, am I interrupting something?" I questioned, my voice poised but carrying an underlying concern.

Y/n's eyes widened in surprise, a hint of relief flickering across her face. "Minjeong! I'm so glad you're here," she responded, her voice tinged with gratitude.

I turned my attention to the guy beside her, offering a friendly yet assertive smile. "Hi there! I'm Minjeong. Sorry to interrupt, but Y/n and I have some catching up to do, right?"

The guy glanced between us, seemingly taken aback but sensing the shift in the atmosphere, he excused himself with a half-hearted smile and sauntered away.

Y/n exhaled a breath she seemed to have been holding, offering me a grateful smile. "Thank you, Minjeong. That was...unexpected."

I shrugged, trying to downplay the gravity of the situation. "No problem. Looked like you needed a rescue."

As the tension dissipated, Y/n's gaze met mine, a silent understanding passing between us. The brief yet charged moment solidified something unspoken, a connection forming in the wake of an unexpected rescue.

"Hey, let's grab that drink together," I suggested, hoping to offer some reprieve from the uncomfortable encounter.

Y/n's smile widened, a genuine spark returning to her eyes. "I'd like that."

As we moved towards the bar, the weight of the encounter fading into the background, a newfound sense of camaraderie and intrigue filled the space between us.

The ambient glow of the Winter Ball seemed to dim in the wake of the burgeoning connection between Y/n and me. We settled at a quieter corner of the bustling venue, cocooned in our own world, amid the gentle hum of conversations and the occasional tinkling of glasses.

"So, Minjeong," Y/n began, her voice a melodic invitation to unravel the layers of our mutual acquaintance. "What brings you to the Winter Ball?"

I shared anecdotes about attending with Karina, my father's insistence on finding love for me at these events, and my own skepticism about the enchantment of love.

"And what about you, Y/n?" I inquired, eager to reciprocate the sharing. "How did you end up here?"

She laughed softly, the sound like a symphony in the midst of the ball's elegance. "Honestly, I was dragged here by a friend. Not much of a fan of these extravagant affairs myself."

As we conversed, the conversation flowed effortlessly, each exchange peeling away the layers of initial awkwardness. We discovered shared interests, from music preferences to our views on the complexities of life. There was a comfortable rhythm to our interaction, a natural chemistry that seemed to bridge any gap between us.

Time ceased to exist as we exchanged stories, laughter, and thoughts. The once-imposing Winter Ball now felt like an intimate setting, our dialogue weaving an invisible thread between us, binding our newfound connection.

The night wore on, the music shifting from lively tunes to mellower melodies, yet our conversation continued, unhurried and unreserved. Amidst the glamour and opulence of the ball, a genuine connection had blossomed—a serendipitous encounter that defied the confines of the grand event.

As the evening drew to a close and the final strains of music echoed through the hall, I realized that amidst the sea of faces and fleeting encounters, I had found an unexpected and cherished connection in Y/n.

Our exchange continued, weaving a tapestry of shared experiences and aspirations. As the night unfolded its secrets, we found ourselves drawn to the idea that chance encounters often held the most unforeseen treasures.

Eventually, the allure of the wintry night beckoned, and Y/n suggested we step outside to catch a breath of fresh air. The grand doors opened, leading us to the quiet serenity of the winter landscape outside.

A hushed blanket of snow had begun to descend, painting the night in a soft, ethereal glow. The air was crisp, and the gentle flakes danced around us, adding a touch of enchantment to the already magical evening.

Y/n and I stood side by side, gazing at the mesmerizing sight before us. The snowflakes twirled in the air, creating a tranquil scene that felt straight out of a storybook.

"It's beautiful," I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper, not wanting to disturb the tranquility of the moment.

Y/n nodded in agreement, her eyes reflecting the soft glimmer of the falling snow. "It really is. There's something so serene about snowfall, isn't there?"

We stood there, amidst the quiet elegance of the wintry night, sharing a moment that transcended the grandeur of the Winter Ball. The snowflakes continued their graceful descent, enveloping us in a cocoon of tranquility and wonder.

In that peaceful solitude, our conversation took on a more introspective tone. We spoke of dreams, aspirations, and the inexplicable beauty found in the simplest of moments—a shared understanding that seemed to deepen the connection between us.

As the snow continued to cascade from the heavens, we exchanged quiet smiles, a silent acknowledgment of the rare beauty of this shared moment. For in the delicate dance of snowflakes and the whispers of our conversation, something special had bloomed between us.

As the delicate snowflakes continued their graceful descent, an unspoken warmth enveloped us in a cocoon of shared moments and unspoken sentiments. I turned to Y/n, a genuine sincerity coloring my words.

"I really enjoy your company, Y/n," I expressed, my voice carrying the weight of truth and vulnerability.

Her eyes sparkled with a reflective radiance, mirroring the sentiment. "I enjoy your company too, Minjeong," she replied, her smile a testament to the comfort found in our connection.

We stood there, side by side, witnessing the tranquil spectacle of the first snowfall. The silence between us was filled with unspoken words, an uncharted territory of emotions and possibilities.

"You know what they say about the first snow," I remarked, breaking the tranquil silence between us.

Y/n turned to me, curiosity gleaming in her eyes. "No, what is it?" she asked, her voice soft and attentive.

"It's where you make a wish, and they say it might just come true," I explained, a tinge of wistfulness in my tone.

"Make a wish, Minjeong," she encouraged gently, her eyes filled with a gentle encouragement that urged me to embrace the moment.

I let out a sigh, the weight of my wish settling in my chest. "I wish to take you out on a date," I confessed, the words slipping out, carrying the earnestness of my feelings.

In the tranquil serenity of the wintry night, with snowflakes twirling around us like silent witnesses, I dared to voice a longing that had quietly blossomed within me.

Y/n's gaze held mine, her eyes reflecting a myriad of emotions. Her soft smile echoed the silent understanding that had grown between us, a shared connection woven in the magical embrace of the first snow.

As the snowfall continued its gentle descent, a subtle chill began to permeate the air. I noticed Y/n subtly shivering, the cold seeping through the elegant attire she wore for the ball.

"You're getting cold, aren't you?" I asked, concern lacing my words as I observed her discomfort.

Y/n nodded, a faint blush gracing her cheeks. "A little, yes."

Without hesitation, I slipped off my own warm sweater, a comforting shield against the wintry chill, and offered it to her. "Here, take this. It's warmer," I insisted, my voice carrying both concern and a hint of bashfulness.

Y/n's eyes widened in surprise at the gesture, her gaze meeting mine in a mix of gratitude and astonishment. "Minjeong, I couldn't—"

"Please," I urged gently, my smile attempting to ease any reservations she might have. "I want you to be warm."

After a brief moment of hesitation, Y/n accepted the sweater, wrapping it around herself with a grateful smile. "Thank you, Minjeong. You're too kind."

The exchange brought an unexpected warmth to the wintry night—not just from the shared gesture but from the growing connection and the unspoken promise that hung between us.

With Y/n now shielded from the biting cold, our shared moment continued, the snowflakes descending around us in a silent ballet. The act of offering my sweater felt like a bridge between us, forging an unspoken closeness that transcended the physical warmth it provided.

As we stood there, enveloped in the beauty of the snowfall and the quiet understanding that bound us, the promise of a forthcoming date lingered in the air, an anticipation that added an extra layer of magic to the Winter Ball's enchanting allure.

The clock struck midnight, signaling the end of the enchanting evening. Reluctantly, I walked Y/n to her car, the weight of impending separation casting a shadow over our otherwise uplifting interaction.

"Here's my number. Text me about the date plan; I'm looking forward to it," Y/n said, her smile radiant with anticipation, as she handed me a slip of paper bearing her contact information.

My bashfulness emerged, rendering me momentarily speechless. "I'm excited too. I'll be sure to text you. Just get home safe, alright?" I replied softly, hoping to mask the fluttering nerves within me.

Y/n's smile widened, and in that moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. Her gentle kiss on my cheek felt like a jolt of electricity, sending my heart into a frenzy. For an instant, I felt as though I might lose my footing, caught in the unexpected rush of emotions.

"Good night, Minjeong," she whispered, her words carrying a softness that reverberated through me.

I stood there, watching her car depart, a whirlwind of emotions swirling within me. Placing a hand over my heart, I attempted to steady the rapid beating within my chest, the lingering sensation of her kiss lingering like an echo.

Before I could collect my thoughts, Karina came bounding towards me, brimming with excitement. "Oh my gosh, I saw everything! Minjeong is head over heels, everyone!" she exclaimed with uncontainable enthusiasm.

I stood there, Karina's excited proclamation ringing in my ears, a mix of bewilderment and anticipation coursing through me. Her words echoed a truth I had vehemently denied for so long—love had never held a place in my beliefs.

But as I stood there, my hand unconsciously lingering on the spot where Y/n's kiss had landed, a revelation dawned upon me. I had once deemed love a frivolous notion, dismissing it as a mere illusion. Yet, in this whirlwind encounter, I found myself yearning for something I never thought I'd desire.

The Winter Ball had unveiled a world of possibilities I had stubbornly ignored, and in the lingering warmth of Y/n's presence, my heart had stirred with unfamiliar emotions. What had begun as skepticism had morphed into an eager anticipation for what lay ahead—a date that held the promise of something genuine and heartfelt.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, I found myself eagerly awaiting the prospect of love—a concept I once rejected but now, with each flutter of my heart, embraced with open arms.

Years cascaded by in a beautiful tapestry woven with shared moments, laughter, and a love that surpassed every doubt. Y/n and I stood side by side, a testament to the transformative power of love, as we returned to the Winter Ball each year.

My father's beaming smile was a reflection of his joy as he witnessed the love that had bloomed between Y/n and me. The Winter Ball, once a place of skepticism and uncertainty for me, now held a cherished significance—a testament to our enduring bond and the promise of a love that had weathered the test of time.

With each passing holiday season, Y/n and I found ourselves wrapped in the warmth of each other's presence. The Winter Ball had become more than just an extravagant event; it was a celebration of our love story—a reminder of the serendipity that had brought us together and the countless memories we continued to create.

The twinkling lights, the elegant dances, and the festive atmosphere held a deeper meaning now—a symbol of our shared journey, a testament to the enduring love that had blossomed amidst the enchantment of that first Winter Ball.

As we danced under the glittering lights, surrounded by the echoes of laughter and the whispers of timeless promises, I couldn't help but feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude for the unexpected turns that had led me to find the love of my life.

Every holiday season was now a cherished opportunity—a chance to revel in the love that had transformed my beliefs, turning skepticism into an unwavering certainty that love, indeed, was the most powerful magic of all.

₊˚✧𑁍.ೃ࿔*:･

[crow-aeris]

So i’ve been thinking (shocking, really) about the world building for my reverse robins wingfic.

ike, sure, it’s a little fic and ppl prolly won’t notice, but i just cant help but speculate.

in this au, everyone is born with wings unless afflicted with a certain illness, disease, or genetic defect that leaves you with no avian traits (which is the excuse the kents use).

but how would having wings influence the infrastructure? well, i’m glad you asked! cities are more compact because there isn’t really as big a need for transportation unless you’re an aves that’s just not built for long-distance travels like various passeriformes birds.

planes still exist, but they’re utilized by the avians who aren’t able to fly long distances. avians who have wings like albatrosses or terns or other soaring birds would probably require licenses to do their annual migrations and travels- same applies to regualr migritory species like ducks and geese- where the instinct remains despite not needing to migrate.

of course, with the constant migration through countries, i think there would be more mixing of races and ethnicities especially within the migratory bird communities, so there would probably be less overall hostilities.

now, there will still be discriminatory and hateful ideals, and some are shown in my fics. For example, Gotham’s elites are mostly made up of raptors and birds of prey like eagles, kites, kestrels, hawks, falcons, ospreys, owls, etc- birds who actively hunt down mammalian or lizards for prey (in the real world i mean), that is because of displays of powers. Scavengers like condors, vultures, buzzards, are regarded lower on the social ladder but not as low as perching birds and song birds simply because of their ability to have sustained flight.

like i mentioned briefly, songbirds and perching birds (passerines) are regarded lowly in general due to their “weak demeanor” and overall flashiness, which gives them the reputation of being only suitable to work in brothels and such regardless of gender (but especially dudes where the aves species exhibits sexual dimorphism, eg. cardinals, peacocks, golden pheasants, etc.)

there are definitely some exceptions, being corvids. some cultures have corvids as villans, whereas others may portray corvids as intelligent and charming.

now, we arrive to genetics. im still not 100% sure how i want the phenotype of an avian to be passed down. so far, it’s mainly just sons are the same aves as their fathers (like thomas wayne, bruce, and damian are all harpy eagles, but martha wayne was a kingfisher and talia is an imperial eagle), but im not sure abt daughters. genetics is messy, but i think i’ve managed to sertle on a 50/50 chance of being born either the same aves as their mother, or their paternal grandmother. like if damian had been born with xx instead of xy chromosomes, then he’d either have been an imperial eagle like talia, or a kingfisher like martha wayne. intersex people exist too, and i think their wings would be a blend between both their mother and father’s.

now for the the supers and the other metas:

as mentioned previously, the kents claim that their adopted son had a genetic disorder that basically prevented him from growing wings (or just left him in a state similar to humans before they were all “cursed” by a diety to have wings, or whatever. in the dcu, that probably woulnd’t even be too far fetched), so clark lacked a major social component to his childhood. without wings and a tail, others would have a harder time reading his emotions, seeing as these appendages are crucial in nonverbal communication between avians, and that gives clark a leg up in reading other people, but having them not understanding what he’s thinking.

now with jon and kon, they have two VERY different situations. for jon, since his paternal side is wings-free, i just gave him lois’s ave- western kingbird- instead of making him no-winged. kon, on the other hand was a test-tube baby, so it was a toss-up on whether he’d get lex luthor’s purple martin wings, or clark’s no-wings since they’re both guys. I think kon would’ve enjoyed wings, so i gave him the purple martin wings. Plus, they’re pretty much invulnerable, and their wings are no different.

diana and the other ppl from themyscira wouldn’t have wings since they aren’t human, and same applies to the other jl members who aren’t humans.

on a wholly separate note: the lazarus pits. here, not only does it give you white streaks in your hair, it’ll bleach out your feathers. so liek if a peacock was thrown into the pit, not only would they die and come back manic, their feathers would make them look like piebald, or have different markings or white ticking.

anyways, that’s the end of my long post, and i hope yall enjoyed listening to me speculate and talk about birds and my silly little guys!!

[paganimagevault]

Miscellaneous Hungarian archaeological items from the migration era, from the Urals to the Carpathians 9th-10th C. CE. Sources can be found on my blog, link at bottom.

The Magyars, as a nation, seem to have originated in the region of the Urals and Volga and their original territory covered a large amount of what is European Russia today. This region was known as Magna Hungaria or Ancient Hungary in the Middle Ages. In the 13th century Christian monks tried unsuccessfully to convert the Pagan inhabitants of Ancient Hungary, who they noted spoke the same language as the Hungarians in the Carpathian Basin (will post more on this later). Now genetics show they were related too. Some of the Hungarians in the Carpathian region were found to be direct family members of these Uralic-based Hungarians according to this genetic study below. I grabbed some highlights of genetics article here and included some archaeological image finds:

"Two recent articles have investigated the Y-haplogroup variability of Hungarian conquerors describing the conqueror’s elite population as heterogenous, with significant proportion of European, Finno-Permic, Caucasian and Siberian (or East Eurasian) paternal lineages. Fóthi et al. have claimed that the Hungarian conquerors originated from three distant sources: Inner Asia (Lake Baikal – Altai Mountains), Western Siberia – Southern Urals (Finno-Ugric peoples) and the Black Sea – Northern Caucasus (Northern Caucasian Turks, Alans, and Eastern Europeans). Both studies pointed out the presence of the Y-haplogroup N-Z1936 (also known as N3a4-Z1936 under N-Tat/M46), which is frequent among Finno-Ugric speaking peoples.

...The genetic connection of Uyelgi cemetery in the Trans-Ural and 10th century Hungarian conquerors in the Carpathian Basin is supposed by close maternal relationships of the following individuals: Uyelgi3 from Kurgan 28 of the youngest horizon and three Hungarian conquerors from Karos II cemetery have identical U4d2 mitogenome haplotype (Supplementary Fig. S4p). Furthermore, the mtDNA A12a lineage of Hconq3 (30-40 years old woman from Harta cemetery dated to the first half of 10th century AD) is an ancestor of the mtDNA lineage of Uyelgi7 (from Kurgan 30 of the youngest horizon of the cemetery) based on the A12a haplogroup tree (see Supplementary Fig. S4a).

The mentioned graves from Uylegi show the characteristic of the Srostki culture, where the gilt silver mounts with plant ornaments were typical, and which was disseminated from the Siberian Minusinsk Depression and the Altai region through the Baraba Steppe and North-Kazakhstan to the Trans-Ural region (Fig. 1).

The connection of Uyelgi cemetery and Hungarian conquerors is visible on the N1a1a1a1a branch of the tree of haplogroup N1a1 too, that was prevalent among the ancient Hungarians (Fig. 5). Here seven Hungarian conqueror samples from cemeteries Kenézlő-Fazekaszug, Orosháza-Görbicstanya and Karos-Eperjesszög clustered together on one branch, while the five Uyelgi samples from the earliest and latest horizons are located together next to this branch.

Majority of Uyelgi males belonged to Y chromosome haplogroup N, and according to combined STR, SNP and Network analyses they belong to the same subclade within N-M46 (also known as N-tat and N1a1-M46 in ISOGG 14.255). N-M46 nowadays is a geographically widely distributed paternal lineage from East of Siberia to Scandinavia. One of its subclades is N-Z1936 (also known as N3a4 and N1a1a1a1a2 in ISOGG 14.255), which is prominent among Uralic speaking populations, probably originated from the Ural region as well and mainly distributed from the West of Ural Mountains to Scandinavia (Finland). Seven samples of Uyelgi site most probably belong to N-Y24365 (also known as N-B545 and N1a1a1a1a2a1c2 in ISOGG 14.255) under N-Z1936, a specific subclade that can be found almost exclusively in todays’ Tatarstan, Bashkortostan and Hungary (ISOGG, Yfull)."

-Early Medieval Genetic Data from Ural Region Evaluated in the Light of Archaeological Evidence of Ancient Hungarians

[ploompkin]

@faerunsbest As promised, my headcanons for Tilses and Zevlor:

Tilses is one of those people who has always known what she wants to be when she grows up. She joins the Hellrider equivalent of the cadets as soon as she’s of age (I think that would be 16, but maybe it would even be younger, like 14?) and is the most hardworking out of all her peers. Like I imagine young Zevlor was, she has a strong sense of justice and a lot of faith that if she puts in the work and is ‘good enough’, then she’ll be able to help bring a good name to her tiefling people.

She’s a strong warrior but lacks refinement in her skill (obviously, she’s only young), and yet graduated from cadets top of her class. For that reason I think she’d immediately start working relatively close to Zevlor, maybe placed in one of his elite soldier’s care as a sort of apprentice kind of thing- so she quickly gets access to the inner circle of the Hellriders. The inner circle however, is full of older soldiers who grew up together, and is a far cry from the younger soldiers that she had just been training with a few months prior. She feels totally out of place and a little overwhelmed, and while her mentor tries to be kind to her… yeah.

That’s where our dear commander comes in! He immediately takes an interest in Tilly, because he sees his younger self in her and both admires that, and wants to protect the hope and ideals he knows she has. So. When he sees her sitting alone one evening, he just… wanders over and comes to sit with her. She’s very surprised, and kind of intimidated- because this is the commander of the Hellriders for Gods sake- the man whom she and the other cadets looked up to while they trained. (HC that at this point Zevlor has been a commander for near a decade). But then they just talk, and the conversation flows. She feels comfortable with him! For the first time, she starts to feel like a proper Hellrider.

The next time the inner circle are hanging out, she actually comes to sit with them— and beats them all at cards. (Whether or not they let her win is up for debate). Zevlor is so proud (affectionate dad!)

I think Zevlor probably, like many of the other Hellriders, only took temporary lovers and didn’t settle down. Being a Hellrider is for life, is the phrase commonly tossed around, which makes me think soldiers usually completely commit to their careers and have little time for anything else. Now he’s older though, he’s starting to wish he had a family of his own… so he comes to feel paternally towards Tilly very quickly because of that. Of course, she’s not his kid and he knows that, she’s his subordinate soldier and he forces himself to remember that and not soften his orders- but when they’re not on duty he’s noticeably sweeter with her than the others.

Then Avernus happens. The elite soldier originally responsible for overseeing Tilses as a new soldier is killed, leaving her floundering a bit— and so (unofficially) Zevlor takes over that role as her mentor. Because they’re in constant danger in the hells Tilly and another of the elites also take up the role as Zevlor’s body guards while he’s frantically trying to manage their forces in the face of more devils and imps than he ever thought any of them would ever face in their entire lifetimes. Their friendship deepens as a result, and they frequently fight by one another’s side, so they’re very in sync as well. Tilses very rapidly improves as a soldier because of all the combat experience, and very soon instead of just ‘the newbie’ she’s one of Zev’s most reliable swords.

Elturel eventually returns from Avernus, and… well, you know what happens. I feel like although Zevlor presents himself as resigned about it, I think he’s a lot more angry about getting exiled from his home city and the Hellriders than he lets on. Who wouldn’t be?! It’s just that he’s keeping it together for his fellow tiefling exiles, soldier and civilian alike. But the absolute disdain in his voice when he says to Tilses, “just Zevlor, Tilly. We’re civilians now, remember?” his voice was SO sour. That makes me think she’s one of the few people who get to see his true emotions (in moderation, anyway- he’s still very reserved even with friends- and he’s especially conscientious that she’s young and shouldn’t be shouldering the burdens of an older man). The way he actually filed his name and rank off his sword as well. He must have been both seething and upset as well as ashamed. What worse fate for a dedicated Hellrider, one whom has sworn to serve for life, to be kicked out?

As I put in a previous post, I think Tilses is greatly upset for herself, but even more so for Zevlor. He’s just this amazing person in her eyes, and he’s done so much for his people. How could this happen to him? She really struggles to accept it- refuses to even try at first, because it’s so wrong. It’s only when Zevlor himself snaps and tells her to stop calling him commander that the reality sinks in. And it’s awful.

Jumping ahead a bit, Tilly is both the person most absolutely heartbroken over Zevlor’s ‘betrayal’, and also the first one who decides there must have been more to it than met the eye. She’d track him down in Baldurs Gate (she survives, she definitely survives, nothing bad happened to her la la la can’t hear you) if he didn’t show, and before he can say a word she gives him the most crushing hug and tells him how much she missed him while trying not to cry. Zevlor does cry and breaks down in apologies, but she’s having none of it. She has a similar heart to him, so can guess the shame and grief he must be feeling. She reassures him, it wasn’t his fault, he’s still worthy, and he always will be in her eyes (maybe followed up with a little— platonic, very platonic— kiss on the cheek as well).

Does she fight in the final fight against the Brain…? Hmmmm I’m not sure. I can see Zevlor ordering her to stay behind because he’s terrified of losing her, but I doubt she’d take that lying down. Yeah, nah, if Zevlor is called into the battle, my girl is joining in that fight whether he gives his approval or not.

Because I like happy endings, they both survive the fight and after… they move in together. Why not? Whatever remaining blood family they had they probably lost in Avernus or along the road, and they’re both hurting and understand each other’s wounds. Zevlor would get a cottage on the outskirts of the city I think, away from the crowds, but close enough for Tilly to walk in for her job in the City Watch. He retires, and spends his time growing their own food and reading and just in general trying to process everything that’s happened. They live relatively simply, so the money from Tilses’ job is plenty to support them.

Tav probably visits them both quite frequently, which is when a romance sparks if you’re into that. Tilly would tease Zevlor about it constantly, but she’d be such a good wingwoman lol. She’s not letting the matter rest either until he confesses- or Tav beats him to it- and she’d be so proud when he does.

[stargazing-sapphire2]

Elias Walker II

Full Name: Elias Henry Walker II

Date of Birth: May 5th, 2028, Dover Air Force Base, Delaware

Nationality: American

Age: Newborn (2028), 2 years old (2030)

Family / Relatives:

David "Hesh" Walker (Father, Alive)

Elizabeth "Beth" Ashford (Mother, Alive)

Helena Walker (Younger sister, Alive)

Logan Walker (Paternal uncle, Alive)

Evangeline "Eva" Ashford (Maternal aunt, Alive)

Henry Ashford (Maternal grandfather, Alive)

Helena Rorke (Maternal grandmother, Deceased)

Elias "Scarecrow" Walker (Paternal grandfather, Deceased)

Katherine Walsh (Paternal grandmother, Deceased)

Gabriel Rorke (Maternal grand uncle, Alive)

Arabella Walker (Paternal 1st cousin once removed, Alive)

Thomas Merrick (Godfather, Alive)

Appearance:

*Hair color: Sandy blonde

*Eye color: Green

*Height: N/A

*Scars/Beauty marks/Blemishes: N/A

Basic information:

Elias was born on May 4th, 2028 in the remains of the Dover Air Base, to David Walker and Elizabeth Ashford; both members of the United States Army and the elite squadron Task Force STALKER, colloquially known as the Ghosts. He was named after both of his grandfathers, Elias T. Walker and Henry Ashford, the latter of whom is the current acting commander of the Ghosts after Elias Sr.'s death.

At the time of his birth, the United States was still at war with the Federation. Due to this and the disappearance and hunt for his uncle Logan, both of his parents could not spend as much time with him due to their duties, so he was often left in the care of his grandfather and aunt, although both Hesh and Beth spent as much time with their young son as they could. Despite this, the day of his birth was somewhat troubling for his mother, as it had been on the 17th anniversary of her own mother's death. However, this fact alone caused Beth to cling even tighter to her little son.

Elias is a quiet, yet curious little boy; always wanting to explore the world around him, although he can be quite rambunctious and mischievous as well. At a young age, he has no concept of death or the conflict his family and their friends are embroiled in, but all he is ever told is "Mommy and Daddy go out and fight the bad guys to keep you safe, but we love you more than anything". This allowed the boy to grow attached to his parents' hip, and he would always wait for them to come back in their absence.

[billspotts]

“You are the product of the Venezuelan elite, and you don’t understand the revolution.” A classmate said that to me during my first year of college in Maryland in 2021, during our Nonviolence and Liberation class. These comments, although not new to me, always stung. Each time I heard them, I was reminded that my perspective as a Venezuelan refugee didn’t align with the prevailing narrative in the room. It was as if my lived experiences didn’t matter if they didn’t fit the ideological frame of those around me.

Every day while walking through campus, I passed two posters with images of Chávez—one declaring, “The revolution will not be televised,” and the other “Que siga la revolución.” These posters, plastered on the walls of a liberal arts college in the United States, were a daily reminder of the ideological battles I was fighting alone. Despite my repeated efforts to have them removed, I was told they were protected by free speech and had educational value. While my peers saw them as symbols of resistance or anti-imperialism, I saw them as painful reminders of the suffering my family and I had endured. It became clear that many of the people around me were romanticizing a revolution that, in reality, had brought nothing but hardship to those it was meant to uplift.

I lacked a heavy accent, came from a college-educated, white-collar family, and was enrolled in a private liberal arts college. None of this fits their image of what a refugee is to be. 

To them, I wasn’t a person who had fled political persecution—I was a privileged outsider, speaking from a place of right-wing indoctrination. Every time I tried to share my experiences, my voice was dismissed, often with the suggestion that I had been brainwashed by anti-left propaganda. It was frustrating, especially having personally witnessed the devastation caused by a government that, while promoting the ideals of socialism and revolution, systematically dismantled democratic institutions and plunged millions into poverty.

Another vivid memory from my college days was when a professor casually remarked, “You shouldn’t really complain about the dining hall. Didn’t you grow up without food in Venezuela?” I was left speechless, exhausted from constantly having to explain the complexities behind my homeland’s collapse– complexities often dismissed by the oversimplified argument that U.S. sanctions were responsible for Venezuela’s shortages, migration crisis, and lack of necessities. However, I left Venezuela long before Trump’s 2019 sanctions, having lived through the 2014 crisis when market lines stretched for kilometers, medical supplies were scarce, and corruption was rampant at every level of government. Blaming U.S. policies alone for Venezuela’s downfall overlooked years of internal mismanagement and growing authoritarianism.

I often found myself in a lonely battle—not only educating my peers on the harsh realities on the ground but also challenging professors who romanticized revolution and liberation, views rooted in theory but far removed from lived experience. 

I chose my small college because of its active student organizing and political activism. However, my time at Goucher College was overshadowed by the reality that opinions not immediately aligned with the left or deviating from the narrative that “everything on the left is good” were often dismissed. I spent significant time and energy explaining and defending the reality I had left behind, sometimes making me question my experiences. I was disappointed and further isolated by the lack of openness or willingness to discuss the dictatorship, not just from my American peers but in general. The ideological rigidity I faced in college mirrored the fractured society I had left in Venezuela, where strict political adherence divided families and destroyed friendships. 

This experience extends beyond my college as prominent left-wing figures like Bernie Sanders have hesitated to outright condemn Maduro’s dictatorship while advocating for free elections. This reluctance reflects a broader struggle within left-leaning politicians to confront authoritarianism from ideologically sympathetic regimes. Many hesitate to denounce authoritarian actions within left-wing governments because doing so undermines their narratives of social justice, anti-imperialism, and equality. In Venezuela’s case, Chávez’s Bolivarian Revolution was initially seen as a hopeful alternative to neoliberalism and U.S. interventionism; as Maduro’s oppressive regime intensified, it challenged their belief that left-wing regimes inherently represent the people’s interests, complicating the narrative that right-wing governments are the sole oppressors.

Figures like Sanders, who have built their platforms on anti-imperialism and opposition to the U.S.-backed regime change, fear that taking too firm a position against Maduro could inadvertently lend support to interventions they oppose. 

This has led to a form of rhetorical tightrope walking��where there is a clear condemnation of the lack of democratic processes but a reluctance to call out Maduro’s government in the stark terms applied to other authoritarian regimes.

The Venezuelan crisis is not just about sanctions or foreign intervention; it’s a complex story of corruption, political repression, and economic collapse. And yet, many preferred to see it through the simplistic lens of an American-backed coup, as if Venezuelans themselves are incapable of recognizing the failures of their government. This dismissal of Venezuelans’ capacity to understand and navigate their own political and social realities is yet another manifestation of a form of paternalism that centers the U.S. in a narrative that is not, and should not be, about them. Revealing a deeply ingrained bias, where people from the Global South are viewed as passive actors in their own lives, reliant on external powers, particularly the U.S., to “correct” their course or provide solutions. 

At this new juncture in Venezuelan politics and history, the narrative of foreign interference continues to thrive. Protests organized by Venezuelan expatriates in major U.S. cities, calling attention to the electoral fraud committed by Maduro and his terror campaign as well as demanding recognition of Edmundo González as the rightful president-elect of Venezuela, are often met with American counter-protests. These counter-protesters, echoing Gonzalez ‘s victory a U.S. intervention, hold signs and chant old slogans like “Hands off Venezuela.”  The assumption that Venezuelans need Americans to define their struggles or guide their revolutions is rooted in a condescending worldview that strips them of their agency and dignity. The mass exodus of Venezuelans, now one of the largest migration crises in the Western Hemisphere, stands as a powerful testament to the disillusionment and despair caused by years of authoritarian rule, not external interference. Such narratives fail to acknowledge the intelligence and determination of those who continue to fight for a better future.

For Venezuelans, the reality of living under an authoritarian regime is not about political theory or ideological purity—it’s about survival.

My experiences in college made me steadfast in my resolve. I am Venezuelan; I lived through the horrors of the Chávez and Maduro regimes and I fled to the United States seeking a better life. While I acknowledge the privilege that allowed me to do so, that privilege neither erases nor minimizes my suffering, nor did it shield me from living in fear while in Venezuela. That I survived, along with the mental scars carried by myself and the 8 million Venezuelans in exile, are not up for debate.

It is my belief that when ideological loyalty surpasses empathy, humanity is lost. We cannot let political beliefs blind us to the suffering of others, especially when that suffering is happening so close to home. To dismiss it isn’t just a lack of compassion—it’s willful ignorance. And those who claim to understand “the revolution” better than those who lived through its devastation are not only out of touch—they’re complicit. Blinded by their arrogance, they refuse to see the truth, choosing self-righteousness over justice, and in doing so, they betray the very humanity they claim to defend.

[fatehbaz]

[T]he political philosophy underlying Westphalian, modern sovereignty [...], foundations of the modern state, [...] [was at least partially formed] in relation to plantations. [...] [P]lantations [are] [...] laboratories to bring together environmental and labor dimensions [...], through racialized and coerced labor. [...] [T]he planters and managers who engineered the ordering and disciplining of these [...] [ecological] worlds also sustained [...] [p]lantations [by] [...] disciplining (and policing the boundaries of) humans and “nature” [...]. The durability and extensibility of plantations, as the central locus of antiblack violence and death, have been tracked most especially in the contemporary United States’ prison archipelago and segregated urban areas [...], [including] “skewed life chances, limited access to health [...], premature death, incarceration [...]”. [...]

Relations of dependence between planters and their laborers, sustained by a moral tie that indefinitely indebts the laborers to their master, are the main mechanisms reproducing the plantation system long after the abolition of slavery, and even after the cessation of monocrop cultivation.

The estate hierarchy survives in post-plantation subjectivities, being a major blueprint of socialization into work for generations and up to the present. [...] [Contemporary labor still involves] the policing of [...] activities, mobility and access to citizenship [...].

---

[There is] persistence - until the 1970s in most Caribbean and Indian-Ocean plantation societies, and even until today in Indian tea plantations [...] - of a system of remuneration based on subsistence wages [...]. Plantations have been viewed as displaying sovereign-like features of control and violence monopoly over land and subjects, through force as much as ideology [...]. [W]itness the plethora of references to “plantocracies” [...] ([...] sometimes re-christened “saccharocracies” in the Cuban and wider Caribbean context [...] [or] “sovereign sugar” in Hawai’i). [...]

[T]race the genealogy of contemporary sovereign institutions of terror, discipline and segregation starting from early modern plantation systems - just as genealogies of labor management and the broader organization of production [...] have been traced [...] linking different features of plantations to later economic enterprises, such as factories [...] or diamond mines [...] [,] chartered companies, free ports, dependencies, trusteeships - understood as "quasi-sovereign" forms [...].

---

[I]n fact, the relationships and arrangements obtaining in the space of the plantation may be analogous to, mirrors or pre-figurations of, or substitutes for the power and grip of the modern state as the locus of legitimate sovereignty. [...] [T]he paternalistic and violent relations obtaining in the heyday of different plantations (in the United States and Brazil [...]) appear as the building block and the mirror of national-imperial sovereignties. [...]

[I]n the eighteenth-century [United States] context [...], the founding fathers of the nascent liberal democracy were at the same time prominent planters [...]. Planters’ preoccupations with their reputation, as a mirror of their overseers’ alleged skills and moral virtue, can thus be read as a metonymy or index of their alleged qualities as state leaders. Across public and private management, paternalism in this context appears as a core feature of statehood [...]. Similarly, [...] in the nineteenth century plantations were the foundation of the newly independent Brazilian empire. [...] [I]n the case of Hawai’i [...], the mid-nineteenth-century institution of fee-title property and contract labor, facilitated by the concomitant establishment of common-law courts (later administered by the planter elite), paved the way to the establishment of sugar plantations on the archipelago [...].

---

[T]he control of movement, foundational to modern sovereign claims, has in the plantation one of its original experimental grounds: [...] the demand for plantation labor in the wake of slavery abolition in the British colonies (1834) occasion[ed] the birth of the indenture system as the origin of sovereign control on mobility, pointing to the colonial genealogy of the modern state [...].

The regulation of slaves’ mobility also represented a laboratory for the generalization of [refugee, immigrant, labor] migration regulation in subsequent epochs [up to and including today] [...] [subjugating] generally racialized and criminalized subjects [...]. [P]lantations appear as a sovereign-making machine, a workshop in (or against) which tools of both domination and resistance are forged [...].

---

All text above by: Irene Peano, Marta Macedo, and Colette Le Petitcorps. "Introduction: Viewing Plantations at the Intersection of Political Ecologies and Multiple Space-Times". Global Plantations in the Modern World: Sovereignties, Ecologies, Afterlives (edited by Petitcrops, Macedo, and Peano). Published 2023. [Bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me. Presented here for criticism, teaching, commentary purposes.]

[racefortheironthrone]

Warhammer Gaslamp: Imperial Society

(For the Introduction, see here)

The State

In many ways, the Empire of Man in 2725 IC is scarcely recognizable compared to the rickety feudal monarchy of the 2500s. While the Grand Provinces still exist on paper, the vectors of power have transformed radically. In exchange for generous subsidies from the central government, seats in the Imperial Parliament's House of Nobles, and other privileges, the Elector Counts and the provincial nobility have ceded much of their de facto independence - such that it is now provincial law that must be approved by the Emperor's Prime Estates in Altdorf for harmony with Parliamentary law and Imperial regulation, not the other way around.

While the electoral franchise has been gradually extended to all adult men with an income of 12 marks (one for each of Sigmar's tribes), as well as veterans of all income levels, the Imperial Parliament's power of legislation and the purse is balanced by the immense state capacity of the Imperial Bureaucracy. A massive civil service of some 2 million public sector workers who answer to the Emperor and his Chancellor (who also serves as the Chairman of the Council of Ministries) the Imperial Bureaucracy is fanatically meritocratic and even though the sons of the elite are disproportionally represented (especially in the top ranks), mere birth and privilege are not enough to succeed in government. Even the bluest of bloods must still pass the draconian Entrance Exams and follow those up with a strong record of Yearly Performance Assessments in order to survive the political knifefighting and rise through the ranks.

In addition to the General Staff of the Imperial Armed Forces, the Treasury Ministry, and the Ministry of Industry and Public Works, one of the most influential of the Ministries is the Health Ministry. Emerging out of a longstanding compromise between the Farmer-Artisan Party and the Patriotic Party, the Health Ministry is in charge of the Sozialversicherung Gemeinschaft, which provides modest old age, widows and orphans, disability, and kurzarbeit pensions to all citizens of the Empire...as long as they give yearly blood samples to the Imperial Plasmic Survey. The Survey tests tens of millions of samples for signs of epidemic, industrial, environmental diseases, and malnuitrition, which it uses to triage people into Imperial Hospitals and District Health Centers.

Secretly, the Imperial Plasmic Survey also tests citizens for were-Beastmanism and other forms of mutancy, and signs of vampirism and vampiric transfusion (and increasingly less commonly, unlicensed witchcraft). The Health Ministry then passes on the information of anyone who fails their tests to the Schwarzmänner - the secret police descended from the Ancient Initiatic and Holy Order of the Templars of Sigmar - who will hunt you down like the dog you are.

The only way for one of the "Untervolk" to escape the hunt is to flee into the sewers, subway tunnels, and ancient sub-sub-sub basement communities known as the Undercities, where they fight a desperate war for survival (and food) against the Skaven.

The Church(es)

In the last two hundred years, most of the Imperial Cults have fallen under the benevolent paternalism of the Church of Sigmar; while Morr, Verena, Shallya, Myrmidia, Taal, Rhya, Mananna, and the like are honored by those who have need of their services, their clergy are largely dependent on the Church of Sigmar for their financial livelihood.

As I have already mentioned, the Church of Sigmar is increasingly polarized between the Orthodox Volkmarites and Radical Hussites. Socially conservative and stronger in the north and west of the Empire, especially among the bourgeoisie, nobility, and larger farmers, the Orthodox Volkmarites believe strongly in obedience to authority. In their doctrine, Sigmar's Plan has predetermined for every person in the Empire their proper place on the Great Chain of Being, and Sigmar does not make mistakes.

By contrast, the Radical Hussites are stronger among workers, agricultural laborers, and small farmers in the south and east of the Empire. The Hussites believe that "the Strength of Sigmar is in the People," and that all believers stand equal in the ranks of His Army. Moreover, Hussites believe in "Strength Through Progress," that in order to be strong, the Empire must constantly reform itself to meet the crisis of the day. Proof of the righteousness of their beliefs is to be found in the Avatars of Sigmar, who are continually born into the world to serve as the Messiahs of the People, and show them the new path – Valten the Martyr being the most famous of these Avatars. Hussites await the coming of a New Avatar of Sigmar in the coming Time of the Comet.

While most of the conflict between Volkmarite and Hussite are carried out in pulpits and Church councils, both factions also recruit and sponsor Hammermen, the modern descendants of the Warrior Priests of old, who still carry two-handed warhammers as symbols of their faith, although they have long since traded red robes for long Army-surplus greatcoats. Among the common people, the Hammermen are seen as incorruptible tribunes who will see that justice is done in all those cases that the Reichspoletzei don't consider worth their time, but they are equally likely to turn their warhammers on their rivals.

In recent decades, the religious status quo has been violently disrupted by the Neo-Ulricanism of Nietzsche Zarathustein. Growing ever stronger in the North, especially around New Middenheim-Ulricberg, Neo-Ulricanism emphasizes the need for the individual to move beyond conventional social authority and become independent moral agents in the world by continually testing their strength against the darkness. As Zarathustein writes in Man unt Wulf-Man, “he who wars against the abyss shall never fall into the abyss.”

Institutions of Learning

In addition to the Imperial War Academy and the various State Universities, the Imperial University of Neüscience and Techno-Sorcery bears particular mention, as it is the institution whose Technomancers have given the Empire the upper hand in economic development and mechanized warfare. When the winds of the Aethyr shifted westward starting in 2594, gradually bypassing the Old World and drawn across the Great Sea to the "gulf stream" effect of the Vortex of Ulthuan, magic began to weaken on the Continent, even as a new breed of super-engineers began to produce inventions and discoveries once only possible through sorcery.

While initially denounced by the Colleges of Magic and rigorously investigated by the Schwarzmänner, the Technomancers were vindicated by the fact that repeated tests done by the Imperial Plasmic Survey demonstrated not even latent aptitudes for witchcraft. Under pressure from the Emperor and the General Staff, and with the strong patronage of the Monopolhauses, the Imperial Colleges of Magic, the University of Altdorf, the Nuln College of Engineering, the Imperial Gunnery School, and the University of Nuln were merged into the Imperial University of Neüscience and Techno-Sorcery (known better as the “Exploding University”), with rival campuses in Altdorf (specializing in theoretical neüscience) and Nuln (specializing in applied neüscience).

The common people of Altdorf and Nuln would be more outraged by the dangerously weird and weirdly dangerous experimental research perpetrated by the faculty and student body alike, if the University wasn't such a boon to the local construction, manufacturing, and sanitation industries. As it is, they only storm the campuses with torches and bricks when the University forgets to pay its parking tickets, or when the wrong team wins the University Blood Bowl Cup.

[the-badger-mole]

The Other Woman: Part 4

Ursa had set out a plate of Zuko's favorite cookies. He'd always known it was juvenile, but he'd always appreciated the thought. Today was different. Now the gesture just seemed infantilizing.

"I'm so happy to see you!" Ursa was saying. "The house feels so empty during the day without Ikem and Kiyi here." She paused and sighed sadly. "Did your sister tell you that all the universities she's considering are hours away from here?"

Zuko winced. He had been present the day that Katara encouraged his youngest sister to take going to college as an opportunity to expand her horizons, both academically and physically. He hadn't added much to the conversation, feeling a bit disloyal to his mother, but he also didn't have the heart to push her to stay closer to home, as he knew Ursa would've wanted. He couldn't after seeing how Kiyi's eyes lit up at the thought of spending time in Ba Sing Se or the Southern Water Tribe. In hindsight, he was glad he hadn't tried to reign in his sister's dreams.

"Mom," Zuko said taking a deep breath. "We need to talk." Ursa froze halfway through filling Zuko's coffee cup. She found a smile a moment later, the consummate hostess, even after all these years since her divorce from his father had taken her far away from the social elite.

"That sounds serious," she said lightly. "I hope it's nothing bad?" Zuko took a breath and silently went over the speech he'd been practicing for the last three days.

"It's about Katara," he said. Ursa's eyes widened, and two splotchy patches of red appeared on her cheeks.

"She's not pregnant, is she?" Ursa tried to keep her tone light, but there was something cold in her tone. Zuko realized with stunning certainty that she would not be happy to hear that Katara was pregnant.

"Mom-" Zuko sighed.

"You should insist on a paternity test," Ursa huffed, setting down the coffee pot and sweeping crumbs from the table, agitatedly. "Before you sign anything, you make sure you get a paternity test. Agni knows how many prominent young men have found themselves bound to supporting uppity little harlots for decades because they signed birth certificates before making sure the child was theirs." Zuko listened to his mother's rant in mounting horror. How had he not seen this hostility towards Katara for what it was? How had Katara taken so long to reach her breaking point?

"Mom, she's not pregnant," Zuko cut in before Ursa could get any further into her insinuations. Ursa visibly relaxed, which made Zuko dread saying what he had to say next. "She broke up with me."

"Oh!" Ursa, to her credit did try not to look too excited. "Well, I never thought she was the right fit for you, anyway. You'll move on in time, you'll see."

"That's just it, Mom," Zuko said as calmly as he could with his insides tumbling wildly inside of him. "Katara is the perfect woman for me. She's smart; she's kind; she's the most patient person I've ever met besides Uncle. She's so far out of my league, I was afraid to talk to her at first. Did you know that it took me almost a year to get the courage to ask her out?"

"Zuko-" Ursa blinked in surprise. She scrambled to find something to say. "I don't know why you would feel that way. You-you're a remarkable young man-"

"And she made sure to tell me that- to make me feel that every opportunity she got!" Zuko exclaimed. "She loved me! If I'm lucky, she still loves me! But I sat by and let her sit through levels of disrespect I wouldn't allow my coworkers to sit through! I ruined the best relationship I ever had because I was afraid of upsetting you!"

"Me!" Ursa gasped. "All I want- all I've ever wanted for you was the best!"

"Then why did you treat Katara so horribly?" Zuko demanded. "She was never anything but respectful to you! And she made me happy. What more could you possibly want from the woman I marry?"

"She isn't good enough for you!" Ursa insisted.

"Why?" Zuko slammed his hands on the table and stood, knocking his chair over "Why don't you think Katara is good enough for me, Mother?" His voice rang through the room. Ursa paled and sank into her chair.

"I feel dizzy," she gasped. Zuko rolled his eyes and got her a bottle of water from the refrigerator.

"All I want is a reason for why you don't like Katara," Zuko groaned.

"I don't like it when you yell," Ursa's voice quaked with unshed tears, and her hands shook as she opened the bottle. "It reminds me so much of your father." Zuko's jaw dropped at that.

"Are you seriously comparing me to him?"

"It's not that, my love," Ursa said hurriedly. "Not at all. It's just that when you were yelling, you reminded me of him. It-it took me back to..." She drew a shallow, shuddering breath.

"Fine, Mom," Zuko growled in frustration. "I won't yell. I just need to know what your problem is with Katara."

"She isn't good-"

"-good enough for me," Zuko interrupted. "So you've said. I want to know why, you think that. What specifically made you think that Katara isn't good enough for me? She's been kind and respectful to you, right?"

"She walked right out of here without saying anything to anyone the other night," Ursa reminded Zuko, defensively. "That's respectful?"

"She heard what you said about her," Zuko told her. "She heard what you said, and she heard me not say anything to you about it. That's why she left. She's always been respectful towards you, and Ikem. And Kiyi loves her. Uncle is furious at me for losing her! Even Azula thinks she's too good for me! Why are you the only one with a problem with her?"

"I'm-I'm sure she's a lovely girl," Ursa forced out. "But you, my son! You are going so many places. You have such a bright future ahead of you. Can you see her being the one to get you there? She is going to want her own career. She won't be there to support your ambitions. She'll put her own ahead of yours. Your children will end up being raised by strangers. Is that what you want?"

"I want her!" Zuko snapped. "I love Katara. And I-I know that I haven't done a good job of letting her know that- of letting you know that. I've wrecked everything with her for your feelings, Mom!"

"Are you blaming me for your break up?" Ursa sputtered indignantly.

"No!" Zuko paced the floor a few times, raking his hand through his hair. "I messed things up with her. I prioritized you over her."

"I'm your mother-"

"Yeah, and you abandoned me !" Zuko rounded on her hotly. "You abandoned me and Azula, and then you showed up ten years later with a new husband and child and wanted us to just play happy family. And, you know what? I was fine with that! I get why you left. I'm not blaming you for that. But Mom, I was an adult when you came back. I'm a grown man, and you still want me to be your little boy. I can't do that anymore. I'm ready for my own family! I want a family with Katara, but I made her take second place to you. I won't do that again. I don't know if she'll ever forgive me, but even if she doesn't, I'm not losing her for nothing.

"What are you talking about?" Ursa asked. Tears were streaming down her face and she had a napkin pressed to her mouth. Guilt lanced Zuko, but he shut his eyes and took a breath.

"I love you, Mom," he said. "But I can't make you the center of my world. I'll still come by to see you, but you can't claim my time for three nights a week anymore. No more last minute favors. No more begging me to come over to check for prowlers when you have a fully functional security system. No more speaking down about people I care about. I want you in my life, Mom. But not at the expense of everyone else."

"Zuko-" Ursa sobbed.

"This has to be the line." Zuko turned his eyes down to the table, with his fists clenched at his sides. "Katara was never a threat to you. I love you because you're my mom. I was hoping you two would get along. Did you know that she lost her mother as a child? I guess, I was hoping..." Zuko pinched his nose and let out a huff. "It doesn't matter what I was hoping. You have two choices now, Mom. Either you respect the fact that I'm a grown man with my own life- respect my time and space and my choice in who I want to spend my life with- or we can't be in each other's lives anymore."

"Zuko!" Usra looked as if she had been slapped in the face. She gaped up at her son in horror. Part of Zuko wanted to cave and apologize for hurting her feelings, but the larger part of him- the part that was still raw and hurting from losing the woman of his dreams- knew that this was for the best. He sighed and turned to leave.

"Good-bye, Mom."

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5

[russia-libertaire]

From social alienation to social purpose

"Many members of Russia's emerging educated elite found themselves alienated from the tsarist state as well as separated from most of Russian society by their education and their disdain for traditional values and relationships. [...] By formulating programs for social development which enabled them to play an integral part in overcoming Russia's poverty, oppressiveness, and backwardness, the intelligentsia provided itself with a social role that seemed to reintegrate it into society as spokesman, conscience, or guide. [...] Personal interest, social idealism, intellect, and cultural experience thus combined to produce in the intelligentsia a fervid, often self-sacrificing, and potentially authoritarian commitment to social transformation in accordance with an idea frequently carried to its logical extreme."

Michael Katz and William Wagner's introduction to What Is to Be Done?, by Nikolai Chernyshevsky

[cbk1000]

I don't know, I just think it's kind of hilarious getting labeled as a 'liberal elite' after growing up solidly middle class and never going to college because I think people should have access to healthcare. My mom was a nurse before she retired and my dad was a machinist. I'm a revenue analyst for a hospital and my husband is a building inspector for a small city. My paternal grandfather grew up in a ghetto in Northern Ireland, and my paternal grandmother wasn't much richer. My maternal grandfather worked on dams and my grandmother was a stay-at-home mom. What are you talking about, you dumbasses. I'm one of you.

[farmerbebop]

I heard some birds singing at midnight yesterday and thought "At least McGoohan photoshopping has one good side effect, I guess".

So I put him in paintings again, while thinking of my paternal grandpa, who died before I was born. Yes, in case you are wondering, he also "resigned".

He was chosen to be a revolutionary at a very young age by an army officer who came across a group of boys playing one day and noticed one of them was different than the rest. He was then trained among the "elite" of his generation, who all went on to be high-ranking politicians, except him.

While he and his wife were out there fighting against the biggest war machine in the world, his son was raised on a thousand lines of epic poetry recited to him by his illiterate grandma, on the songs and poems of his father's friends. Dad didn't mind not being as talented as his father, in music, poetry, sport, everything. He loved swimming in the river, playing the guitar, and being mischievous. He later caused his mother many troubles, the least of them was him saying "How can I work for a boss who is less qualified than I am?" everytime she sent him somewhere to apply for a job.

How my grandma raised three kids alone after grandpa's death, how she wrote poems for him every year on his death anniversary, how we struggled and are still struggling to live, like many millions of our people who don't belong to the rich and corrupt ruling class of our country, I can't really tell you. I have never been good at this.

I just want to say one more thing. That "The Best of Friends" also reminds me of my best friend. She used to take a nap after lunch, I didn't. Everytime I turned up at her door after lunch she told me "What are you doing here?". And then let me in. After doing the dishes, she and her sister soon fell asleep with me lying between them, wide awake, daydreaming the summer noons of my childhood away. Those were probably the happiest days of my life.

References:

Pereza andaluza (Julio Romero de Torres)

Reading by Candlelight (Carl Vilhelm Holsøe)

In front of the house (Józef Mehoffer)

Wild Friend (Évariste Carpentier)

[saintmeghanmarkle]

Netflix Cooking Shows by u/C-La-Canth

Netflix Cooking Shows I tried to count how many food-related shows Netflix currently offers. I gave up after about 100. There are shows about cooking, food competitions, famous chefs, restaurants, international foods, and on and on. I think Netflix honestly doesn't know what to do with the Harkles. Her show is on a level with Random House Penguin publishing The Bench. It's low effort from a low-talent who doesn't deserve this. The only thing I've seen her "cook" are hamburgers which she cooks wrong, and some vile grilled lettuce. The closest association I've seen with her and gardening is when she carries big bouquets of market flowers (which puzzles me; does she not live on a landscaped estate with gardeners?). As for "entertaining", please show ONE single photograph of her, in her home, actually entertaining anyone. As for friends? Oh, come on. Who really wants to be her friend?Similar with the husband. What can he offer? He's never worked at a regular job. He's uneducated. He's not witty, or paternal, or kind, or charismatic. Truly, the only novel thing he brings is an arcane skill at a sport that is boring and elite. That's the only remotely interesting thing about him that Netflix can build a show around!The only answer I have is that they've made a Mephistophelean deal, and payback won't be pleasant. post link: https://ift.tt/EC9MDyv author: C-La-Canth submitted: April 19, 2024 at 01:03AM via SaintMeghanMarkle on Reddit disclaimer: all views + opinions expressed by the author of this post, as well as any comments and reblogs, are solely the author's own; they do not necessarily reflect the views of the administrator of this Tumblr blog. For entertainment only.