#for once. not even in discussions over their fucking oppression

[lesbiansanemi]

Gay trans men be normal about women challenge. Especially trans women and lesbians

[mogai-sunflowers]

this will be a bit of a long post but i ask that you please please read the full thing if you want to know more about Sudan- i feel like not enough people ACTUALLY know what's going on in Sudan. a lot of people have a vague idea that a 'war' and genocide is going on, but it's important to know the specifics as well.

there is extremely little coverage of Sudan from non-Sudanese sources, and even those that DO cover it often paint it as a war between two different generals for power over a country- and to a certain extent, without context, that IS what's happening. for those unaware, the two 'warring factions' in Sudan are the official Sudanese military- the SAF (Sudanese Armed Forces) and the RSF (Rapid Support Forces).

in April 2019, during the Sudanese Revolution, Islamist dictator Omar al-Bashir was deposed by the SAF in response to a mass wave of revolutionary organizing, protests, and sit-ins. Immediately after, the TMC (Transitionary Military Council) was established, with SAF general inspector Abdel Fattah al-Burhan being appointed as the chairman. for a brief time, protestors engaged in negotiations with Burhan, and many believed that he was being ernest in his promises of a true civilian democratic government- but it soon became clear to protestors that he was not actually taking their demands seriously, so demonstrations once again intensified. on June 3, 2019, it was under Burhan's command that the Khartoum Massacre was committed, killing 118 protestors while they were participating in a sit-in at the military headquarters in Khartoum.

as the next few months went by, agreements came about to dissolve the TMC and form a Transitional Sovereignty Council based on a draft of a constitutional declaration. it was supposed to be that a military official would be the chairman for 21 months, then transitioning to a civilian chairman for the next 18 months- but Burhan staged a coup in October of 2021, and dissolved the council and effectively turned the Sudanese government back into a military junta, which was the cause of further protesting.

i want to emphasize the crimes and horrors of the SAF because they are often forgotten in these discussions due to the absolute atrocities committed by the RSF. there is no good guy here- both the SAF and the RSF are vying for dictatorial power. so let's talk about the RSF.

headed by genocidal war criminal Mohamed Hamdan Dagalo, known more widely as "Hemedti", the RSF formed around 2014 due to reorginization of the Janjaweed militias- which were the militias that formed across the Darfuri regions of southwestern Sudan to suppress demonstrations against Bashir's oppressive and racist regime which carried out the first genocide of Massalit and other ethnically non-Arab peoples across Darfur in the early 2000s. so to be succinct- the RSF has direct roots in dictatorial suppression of Sudanis protesting against ethnic cleansing, genocide, and oppression.

for around a decade, the RSF and SAF were different factions of the Sudanese military- both have their roots and a pattern of supporting dictatorial violence and anti-Black genocide. and, on April 15, 2023, these two dictatorial Arab-colonialist powers began fighting out of the blue. fighting has been most intense around Khartoum, the central state and capital city of Sudan, where now an estimated 35% of its residents have been forced to flee, with the rest trapped in the middle of an active war zone.

the RSF has been actively continuing the genocide of non-Arab Darfuri Sudanis that its predecessor the Janjaweed committed 20 years prior. they have been consistently launching attacks against Massalit villages in Darfur and El Geneina. Recently, they have completely ethnically cleansed several Massalit villages, killing hundreds in each one of them. in addition, they are committing so many other war crimes, like sexual violence, blocking access to humanitarian aid, occupying civilian homes and kicking the residents out, along with blatant ethnic cleansing campaigns, mass murder, and targeting of civilians.

but don't think that this is a 'civil war' as many are calling it. a civil war is an internal dispute, but this is far from that. both the SAF and the RSF are supported by external powers, namely the UAE, Saudi Arabia, and Russia, who all provide funding to these groups IN EXCHANGE FOR SUDANESE RESOURCES LIKE GOLD AND OIL. this is, ultimately, not just some random war between two different military groups- it is a war funded by and for foreign colonial powers who have a vested interest in colonizing Sudan for its resources. as an example- the UAE's- and especially Dubai's- infamous gold and jewelry industry, is only made possible by the fact that the UAE illegally smuggles 80% of Sudan's gold- they fund this by sending weapons AND SOLDIERS to the RSF. Several of the gold mines in Sudan are owned and operated by the Russian government.

all of this, both the 'internal' AND the external, colonial aspects of this war and genocide, has led to the world's current WORST humanitarian crisis. not only do LOW estimates place the total murdered in the past year at 150,000, but out of Sudan's population of nearly 47 million, over half (25 million) are in severe need of humanitarian aid, and of those 25 million, over half are children. fighting between the RSF and SAF has lead to severe blockage of aid, and the UN's initial proposed budget of $1.5 billion in April of 2023 has not only not increased to accommodate the severe worsening of the crisis, but ALSO has not even been funded 20%.

2.5 MILLION PEOPLE ARE EXPECTED TO STARVE TO DEATH IN SUDAN BY THIS FUCKING SEPTEMBER. THAT IS LESS THAN 2 MONTHS AWAY.

additionally, due to both western colonization and the Sudanese governments' deliberate cutting of internet access across the entirety of Sudan, there is a huge lack of the proper infrastructure for generating awareness and spreading videos and info from on the ground in Sudan. this means that not only are people unable to effectively crowdfund support to leave, but they are also barred from accessing social media to spread awareness, and they're unable to contact loved ones outside of Sudan most of the time.

also, Sudan is HUGE- in order for displaced people to escape fighting, they usually have to walk, on foot, for hundreds of miles, often across literal deserts, with extremely little access to water. there has also been a surge of internally displaced people dying due to illness and scorpion stings in displacement camps. 70% of Sudan's hospitals have stopped functioning entirely. and even if they DO make it to a neighboring country, most of the options there are just as bad, if not worse- Egypt is extremely anti-Black, and doesn't allow work permits to most Black refugees, meaning they are relegated to being houseless and jobless if they go to Egypt- and westward in Chad, there is also crisis with food and resources, so the government of Chad quite literally can not materially support anymore Sudanese refugees. In South Sudan, there is also conflict, war, and crisis, and in Ethiopia, where the genocide is taking place in Tigray, the government is extremely hostile to Sudanese refugees. there are currently more than 6,000 Sudanese refugees stranded in the forests because of the hostilities they faced while in UNHCR camps.

and everyday that we're not doing something, this genocide, war, and humanitarian crisis is getting worse. doing something starts with being educated. i urge y'all to look more into this, don't just take what i'm saying and roll with it- truly learn and listen to Sudanese activists on this. i highly recommend following these accounts on Instagram:

@/red_maat , @/bsonblast , @/sudansolidaritycollective, @/forsudaneseliberation, @/darfurwomenaction, @/liberatesudan, @/zzeirra, @/yousraelbagir, @/modathirzainalabdeen, @/sdn.world, @/nasalsudan, @/sudanuntold, @/kandakamagazine, and @/almigdadhassan0

IF ANYTHING I'VE SAID IS INACCURATE, PLEASE LET ME KNOW!

i'd like to spread this post for some education. could you reblog this @decolonize-the-left @incorrectmadrigalfamilyquotes @homoidiotic @heritageposts @el-shab-hussein

@fairuzfan @palipunk @silicacid @sissa-arrows @apollos-olives @

@northgazaupdates @our-queer-experience @intersexfairy @genderqueerdykes

[orcasoul]

The Lesser of Two Evils

Summery: Rome is the enemy but so are the people you've spent your whole life with. When faced with a desperate choice of life or death which enemy should you choose?

Warnings: Swearing, smut (eventual), threats of rape, sexual harassment, violence, gore, detailed injuries, angst, enemies(ish) to lovers, protective Marcus Acacius, age gap, OFC/reader.

Word Count: 5,622

Part 2

The evening stretched on and you made every effort to remain as invisible as possible. While Adhelm and his sons convened with the council and discussed the next plan of attack you busied yourself with preparing food for them, making sure to keep your eyes on your hands as you served them. But you didn't have to look up to know a pair of eyes were watching your every move. Predatory eyes, just waiting, biding their time. You could feel the hate closing around you, oppressive and suffocating. After serving everyone in attendance, Adhelm dismissed you and you couldn't have been more relieved.

You breathed the chilly night air in deeply through your nose as you stepped outside and released a sigh of relief. All you want now, is to get home, lock yourself away and try to ignore the sense of foreboding prickling under your skin. You hurry along the shadowed path, passing other homes filled with the voices of families, laughter and music. Often you would stop and remember what it felt like to have a family, to have a home filled with love and not just some weathered shack filled with silence and lonliness. But this is not the time for yearning. You need to get home, now.

The hair on your arms suddenly raise and it's nothing to do with the cold. Your heart begins to pound rapidly as the disquiet you'd felt earlier now shifts into an almost paralyzing fear. You are not alone! The sound of footsteps confirms your suspicions. You turn around quickly but the blanket of darkness hides whomever is following you. Your heart is now in your throat! Panic propels you to pick up the pace as you swiftly turn on your heel. As you round the corner of a storage building, relief sweeps over you but only for a moment before two strong arms engulf you; one around your midsection, squeezing your arms to your sides, and the other across your chest, hand pressing firmly over your mouth.

You try to scream, to free your arms but the grip is unforgiving. In your feeble attempt to resist all you can do is emit a muffled scream and kick out. The next thing you feel is the intense, sharp jolt, shooting from the back of your head. Glinting specs dance in your vision, almost resembling a vibrant night sky in the dark. A hand wraps around your throat and another finds your mouth once more. You blink harshly to clear your vision, the face coming into view being the one you loath the most. Fucking Bardulf! The arsehole flashes you a toothy grin, obviously pleased by your frightened response. He leans in closer to your face, snarling. "You really thought you could get away with that display back there?" Without a second thought you bit down on his hand.

Bardulf instantly recoils but before you can cry out he backhands you, knocking you to the ground. "Bitch!" he fumed as he pulled your head back by your hair. Your eyes widen in terror when you feel a sharp cold point pressing lightly at your throat. "Scream and I'll cut your fucking tongue out and ram it down your throat, understand?!" "Y... yes," you stutter, legs feeling like they might give way any second. Bardulf removes the knife and drags you to your feet, roughly slamming you against the side of the hut. "My father has been lenient with you for far too long. But that is about to come to an end," Bardulf smirked, your gut twisting up in response.

"Please, just let-" you whimper but he cuts you off, "Shut up! Kuno has no use for you so I convinced him to give you to me when he becomes chief. Told him I'd... "look after you". You want to stay strong. You want to mask the dread you feel right now, but your face betrays you, much to the delight of your assailant. "Things are going to change around here very soon. You will learn your place. I won't just beat it into you..." he slithers a hand down your torso, gripping your waist. Your stomach threatens to expell it's contents as his filthy paws continue to grope you. "I'll fuck it into you!"

Your heart plummets. For a moment you are speechless. He can't be serious! Why does he hate you so much? What have you ever done to him to deserve this campaign of hate he has waged against you for so long? "You c... can't! Your fathers' rule-" "Will die with him. When you are mine I shall do with you as I please. Your body will be my body," he says as he smoothes a rough finger over your cheek. Just the feel of his skin against your makes you wish you could shed your own and grow a new, untainted one.

"Why?" You begin to cry -more from frustration than fear now - despite your best efforts not to. "Why do you despise me? Why do you constantly torment me!" "Because I can," Bardulf gripped your chin, forcing your eyes up to his. "You will show me the respect I deserve. I'm going to break you, slowly. Oh, it'll be such fun," he snickered, almost maniacally, the shadows of the surrounding buildings making him appear more menacing than ever before. He continued, "I'm going to break you..." his lip curled in a cruel grin. "And once I've had my fun, I will enjoy watching you die as I squeeze the life from you."

Tightness grips your chest as his words chill you to the bone. Rage has now taken root, strangling the fear from you. "Fuck you, you loathsome piece of shit!" you lashed out, finding it within you to push him away. A repulsive smile stretched across his face. "I'll let that one slide this time, Alia. Savour it, while it lasts." Bardulf releases his hold on you and walks away, laughing to himself. You sprint home as fast as you can, locking your door before falling onto your bed and sobbing uncontrollably.

"It'll be okay. We'll be okay!" your mother stressed while holding you tightly in her arms, but the tremble of her body betrayed her words of reassurance. Outside your house, angry voices are rising in pitch, demanding that your mother show herself. In amongst the commotion your fathers' voice rang out, loud and determined, warning the gathered mob to go home. "Stay here," your mother whispered and began to rise from the corner you were both huddled in. You grip her arm, desperation in your eyes and voice. "Don't go mama, please!" "I'm just going to the window." She cupped your cheek, the warmth of her flesh soothing your nerves. If only you'd known that would be the last time you'd feel her gentle touch.

The storm of anger outside seemed to escalate with every passing minute, more and more voices joining the already volatile crowd. "You're all a bunch of gullible fools!" your father exploded. "She has nothing to do with the failed crops. You're just looking for something or someone to blame and I won't allow you to blame her!" "Bring her out, bring her out, bring her out!" the horde kept chanting. You cover your ears and close your eyes, desperate to drown out the noise, heart thumping so wildly, you fear it may burst through your chest. Your whole body jumps when your mother lets out an anguished scream and bolts for the door.

Scrambling to your feet, you run outside after her but stop dead in your tracks, muscles frozen, shock and disbelief anchoring you to the spot as you witness your fathers' blood soaked body fall to the ground. "Papa!" you whimper, all the air now having left your lungs as if you'd been punched in the stomach. You gasp for air, tears burning your eyes. Your mothers' piercing cries shake you from your stupor. "No! Mama!" you scream as she gets dragged off of your fathers' lifeless body. You only manage to run a few steps towards her before you feel multiple hands gripping your arms, fingers digging into your flesh as you fight against their hold.

"Please, please don't hurt her!" you beg the frenzied crowd but it falls on deaf ears. Your mother screams your name as she is beaten and kicked mercilessly. Accusations are spat at her along with the words "Witch" and "kill her". The whole time you struggle, frantically, to free yourself, screaming and pleading until your throat is raw. She is then pulled to her feet and dragged back to your house. You pull against the men restraining you so forcefully it feels like your shoulders might dislocate. Her once beautiful face, now black and blue and dripping with blood seeks your own before she is thrown through the door.

A man carrying a lit torch approaches your house and your eyes widen in horror, the world slowing down for you as you watch him throw the torch onto the thatched roof. In a matter of seconds your home is a blazing inferno, your innocent mothers' screams joining the crackle of the flames. You have no voice. Your strength abandons you, falling to your knees, mouth open to scream but nothing can escape the crushing sorrow and anger constricting your lungs. You clutch your hands to your chest, tears streaming down your cheeks while your life as you knew it literally goes up in flames before your very eyes.

Your body shoots upright, chest heaving as your wide eyes dart around the dark room. It's silent, oppressively so, the cold, empty darkness being the only witness to your grief. It's been a long time since you'd dreamed of that day, of your parents' death, but Bardulf's threat had festered in your mind as you drifted off into an uneasy sleep. Using your sleeve, you wipe your tears away and sit up in bed. Your body longs for comfort, for a time when the embrace of your parents felt like an impenetrable shield. Nothing could hurt you back then. With a heavy heart, you wrap your fleece blanket around your body and bring your knees to your chest, hugging and resting your chin on them. Only you can comfort yourself now and it has to be enough.

These people - who were supposed to be your people - have taken everything from you; your family, your freedom, your dignity - even your only friend. fresh tears form at your lashes at the thought of Faro. You'll always carry the weight of his death with you. But also a silent rage at Bardulf; the bastard even grinned at you as he slit his throat! For the past fifteen years the community has shunned you, the chief and his family had enslaved and alienated you and the kids you had grown up with made your existence hell with their relentless bullying.

And for what? All because some fear mongering arseholes had convinced the village that your mother was a Seer (witch) and was responsible for a bad harvest. The familiar sting of anger wells up again, replacing the hopelessness you'd awoken to only minutes ago. Fuck these people! The only reason you were spared that night was because you were only a child at the time, and the only reason no one had dared to take your virtue is because Adhelm feared your "Seers' blood" and threatened death upon anyone who touched you. But very soon, even that one last thing that was just yours will be taken from you.

Your belly twists in discomfort knowing that Bardulf will take what he wants from you and when he tires of you, he will kill you like a worthless animal. Unless... you get the hell out of here. The option to flee had always been there - and Faro often spoke of starting again somewhere new - but you knew you both never would have survived on your own; two children out there alone... It just wasn't possible. Your father had taught you how to hunt small animals and how to fish, but if the elements didn't get you, the bears and wolves would eventually. Fleeing was a death sentence for so long, but now...? Maybe salvation is possible. Salvation in the form of an injured and angry Roman General sitting in a cage not too far from your hut.

Marcus shivers as a cold breeze licks at his bare arms. In quiet contemplation he sits against the bars watching the moon spill it's silvery luminescence in a halo around itself, his mind transported to simpler times; times when he observed the moon from his balcony back home, when the mere sight of it would offer peace and stillness to the emotional scars of years of battles and slayings. But tonight he feels no such piece. He has accepted the fact that he will die soon, already having beseeched Mars to lend his unwavering strength to his men, his brothers, and not allow his public execution to quell their resolve and weaken their moral.

Rome will be victorious, no matter what these heathen beasts do. Rome is the light and darkness cannot dwell where - "General..." Marcus startles from his pensive state at the unexpected whisper in the dark. Posture rigid, he scans the immediate area but the darkness is almost impenetrable. "General!" the voice whispers again, with more urgency this time. "Who's there?" Marcus demanded. "Shhh... someone will hear us." Marcus lowers his voice. "I said who's there? Show yourself." "I can't. It's Alia. You must be still or you'll draw attention." "What do you want?" Marcus asks in a hushed tone, turning his head a fraction over his shoulder in the direction of your voice.

"I need to ask you something," you begin, your voice cautious. "Is it possible for an... outsider to become a Roman citizen?" Marcus remained silent for a moment, unsure if he'd heard you correctly. Surely you couldn't be planning on abandoning your people. "Why would you-" "I haven't the time to explain. Please just tell me if it's possible for someone like me to begin anew as a subject of Rome!" The urgency in your voice leads Marcus to wonder what could have happened for you to seek out refuge from your enemy. It must be pretty bad for you to take such a drastic action. "Yes, as long as you have committed no crime nor treason against Rome, anyone can be granted citizenship."

In the still of the night Marcus hears you release a sigh of... relief? "In that case, I have a proposition for you," you venture carefully. "Speak..." Marcus encourages you. "I will help you escape and get you back to your army if you promise that you'll take me to Rome with you and make me a Roman citizen." Marcus' immediate reaction is disgust at your disloyalty to your people, but he bit back his scorn; after all, you just might be his only hope. "I will-" he began but you cut him off. "Swear to me!" you demanded. "On my honour, I will take you to Rome, and I will personally and publicly grant you citizenship an all the rights and protection that entails."

You take a deep breath, then exhale, "Okay... In three days there will be a ceremony and celebration in honour of our youngest warriors' coming of age. Almost everyone will attend except for a few watchmen. When the time is right, I will create a distraction and then I'll come for you. This will be our only opportunity. If we fail, we are dead. Do you understand?" "I understand. I will be ready," Marcus assured. "In the meantime you must eat and build up your strength. Until then, General." Marcus listened to the sound of you shuffling away through the trees. He leans his head back against the bars, a glimmer of hope sparking within. Maybe the gods aren't done with me yet.

The next two days pass agonisingly slowly. You tend to your duties while keeping your head down, trying your best to remain inconspicuous to everyone, especially Bardulf, but every now and then you catch his sickening leer boring into you, giving you a look as if to say "It's only a matter of time." If your escape plan fails, it's all over for you. You won't wait for Bardulf to enforce his inhuman punishment on you. You'll escape or die trying. Either way he won't get what he wants and the fact that you'll be the one to ensure that, brings a quiet satisfaction to your anxious mind.

While tending to Marcus' leg you'd also snuck in some extra food to help build his strength during those days, silently mouthing "soon" to him. The night before your escape, your whole body is thrumming with uneasy apprehension. You're not sleeping tonight. You mentally rehash the escape plan over and over, praying you've left nothing to chance. Your bag is packed - and hidden away - with everything you'll need for the journey; water, ointments and balms, bandages and a small stash of fruit and dried meat that you were able to sneak from the mead hall. It's not much but it will have to do.

Dawn breaks while you continue to pace around in your hut, willing your jittery nerves to abate. It's imperative that you maintain a cool facade today. A few moments of deep, slow breathing helps to alleviate the storm brewing in your stomach. You can do this. The whole village is abuzz today, with the excitement of tonight's ceremony. While preparations are under way, you are escorted once again to Marcus' cage, food, water and fresh bandages in tow. The guard is never too far away so you keep your voice as low as you can. "Today's the day," you whisper while dressing Marcus' leg, still to intimidated by him to look him in the eye.

It's not lost on you just how thick and muscular his thigh is; a sobering reminder that this man is dangerous and could easily overpower you once you are both alone and kill you with ease. But at this point you have nothing left to lose. "After the ceremony the celebrations will begin. Once the wine is upon them, I will start a fire..." you glance around quickly, ensuring no one is within earshot. "While they are distracted I will come for you. Be ready." "I will... thank you, Alia." Marcus' unexpected gratitude and soft tone caused you to forget yourself momentarily, your eyes flicking up to be met with a softness you hadn't imagined possible from someone like him.

Instead of the cold, sharp glare he'd granted you at your initial meeting, he now regards you with gratitude and... something you can't really discern. The intensity of the moment makes you heart leap in your chest and you can no longer comfortably hold his gaze, so you lower your eyes. "Don't thank me yet, General," you shook your head. "Marcus," he replies swiftly. "Marcus," you repeat awkwardly after a moment, glancing at his face then away just as quickly. "Make sure to eat." You gesture to the bowl you had set down beside him. "You're going to need your strength." And with that you bag up your supplies and stand by the gate, calling to be let out.

As Marcus watched you walk away he's suddenly overwhwelmed by a whirlwind of conflicting emotions; hope - however small - that he'll live to see his home again, uncertainty that this risky plan of yours will actually work and a gnawing consternation at having to place his fate in the hands of, not just a stranger, but an enemy. As much as he would like to trust you, he knows the only reason you want to help him him is to help yourself. He can't help but wonder, again, what could have happened for theses Gutones to treat one of their own so abhorrently, which also leads him to wonder if you're more dangerous than you seem. He'll have to keep a close eye on you.

It's clear there's a lot going on that he's not aware of... but if it brings him his freedom and a second chance to live, he'll accept your help as desperate times call for desperate measures and even enemies can benefit from aiding one another sometimes, but he'll never be foolish enough to fully trust you. Now all he has to do is wait for the moment to arrive and in the meantime he will pray to Mercury to guide his and your steps and lead you both to the sanctuary of the Castrum (army encampment).

The ceremony went without a hitch - or at least you assume so, as you were never included in social events, unless it was to serve, and that's what you are doing now; serving the increasingly drunk and rowdy young warriors and their families. The evening stretches into night and finally, the time has come. It's now or never. While most of the women and children have returned to their homes and settled in for the night, the men continue their frivolities becoming more and more inebriated. Using the situation to your advantage, you slip away from the mead hall unnoticed, keeping to the shadows as you hurry to your hut to retrieve your bag.

Your heart is thumping in your ears, hands shaking as you exit your hut for the last time. But before you execute the next step of your plan, you have one more stop to make. Adhelms home is thankfully abandoned for the time being, he and his sons still eating and drinking their fill in the mead hall, unaware of your intrusion. On the back wall of his home is a large rack, full of weapons he'd acquired from defeated foes. The smug bastard seemed to pride himself on his "spoils of war" as he'd called them. Among the display was your fathers Seax (dagger) still in it's sheath, taken the night your parents were murdered.

With a pounding heart, you take the Seax from the rack, your fingertips trailing over the intricately carved zig zags running down both sides of the mahogany hilt. Tears build behind your eyes as just the mere touch of this knife brought forth a connection, a closeness with your father that you'd never expected to feel again. You carefully tuck it into the belt around your tunic and with a new determination, leave the chiefs home, grabbing a lit torch from a sconce on the way out.

Marcus waits anxiously for what fells like an eternity, in a constant state of hypervigilance, expecting you to show up at any moment. Every sound in the dark catching his ear sends his adrenaline spiking, but every time it's a false alarm. Frustration and doubt begin to creep in the longer he waits. She's not coming! Had you lost the nerve or been caught? Damn it! You were his only way out. He was a fool to put his faith in you. Marcus growls quietly to himself, careful not to draw he attention of the guard close by. Just when he'd thought all was lost an orange glow lighting up the darkness at the other end of the village caught his eye.

Panicked voices arose through the village as the orange light grew brighter and and the crackle of flames filed the air. The guard keeping watch lingered for a few moments, seemingly unsure of whether or not he should abandon his post, but as the chaos intensified he hurried off, disappearing around the side of a building. Marcus pulled himself to his feet lumberingly, limping to the other side of the cage, eager to see what was happening. His brow scrunched in confusion when thud followed by a pained groan rang out close by. A moment later, you emerged from where the guard had disappeared, keys clinking as you rushed to the cage door. "We have to go now, before he wakes!" you cried as you clumsily fumbled with the keys, trying each one out until the lock finally clicked.

Throwing the cage door open you hurried inside, forgetting all about the initial fear you'd felt in this Romans' presence. The only thing that matters now is escaping. Slinging one of Marcus' arms over your shoulder, you brace yourself to support his weight and the two of you make haste, away from the village and into the surrounding woodland. Scrambling through the inky black forrest with loose rocks and branches and twigs from broken trees and low bushes would be an arduous endeavour at the best of times, but trying to keep your footing whist helping to drag this mountain of a man with you is proving increasingly difficult.

It's obvious by Marcus' grunting and heavy breaths that he's mustering all the strength he has to keep pushing forward. "It's... not far... now. Urrgh... we're... nearly there," your voice shakes under the sheer exertion, your arms and legs burning with every step. "Where are we... going?" Marcus panted, twisting his head in every direction, keeping a ear out for the sound of anyone following. "There's a small... clearing... up ahead. I've got a... horse waiting... for us there." Sweat is trickling down your back now, your lungs aching with every drag of air you take in but you find the will to keep going. Nothing will stop you now... you hope.

A few minutes later you both arrive at the clearing. The full moon is bathing the open area in a soft milky gleam, the limited light enough to guide your way. It's as though the god Mani himself has taken issue with your predicament and had decided to lend you his favour. The horse you had managed to sneak out of the village in the early hours of this morning stands calmly next to the tree you'd tethered her to. A quick glance at your surroundings shows no sign of immediate danger, so you swiftly make your way over to the horse, only slowing down as you draw closer. You're greeted with an agitated whinny as the horse shuffles nervously.

You carefully pull yourself from under Marcus' arm and hold your palm out for the horse to sniff. "Shhh easy, Inga," you sooth while digging an apple from your bag. "Easy, girl. Sorry I left you here for so long." You rub down the center of her face, all the way to her velvety muzzle as she happily munches on the peace offering you'd given her. Once Inga had been placated you turn back to Marcus. "Quick!" you gesture to the horse and crouch down, interlacing you fingers to serve as a sort of step to help him mount. "I can manage," Marcus insisted, knowing you'll never be able to lift him.

Gripping onto the pommel of the crude looking saddle, Marcus took a deep breath, mentally and physically preparing himself for the coming agony of swinging his injured leg over the horses' wide body. With a surge of reserved energy and determination, he lifts his leg, throwing his entire weight along with it, swallowing the painful howl trying to claw it's way up his throat. Unfortunately in his weakened state, Marcus wasn't able to gather the needed momentum and bagan to fall backwards. Before he could fall off the horse completely, you appeared behind him, pushing him up and helping to steady him as he settled on Inga.

You flicked your wrist. "Move back." Marcus raised a questioning eyebrow at your order, remaining where he sat. "I know the direction to my Castrum." "In the dark?" you ask sceptically, surprising yourself with the hint of challenge in your voice. "How do you know the way?" he asked, as if he were afraid you'd get lost. "I overhear everything in Adhelms home," is all you offer. "Very well," Marcus conceded and slid back to sit behind the saddle. He offered his hand to pull you up. You reach out, fingers barely brushing his when all of a sudden a sharp yank of your hair sends a shockwave of pin pricks rippling across your scalp.

Your hands automatically fly up to where the pain radiates. Next thing you know, you are spun around, face to face with an enraged Adhelm. "Treacherous bitch!" he snarled in your face, fury twisting his weathered features into a grotesque appearance. "After everything I've done for you, this is how you repay my kindness, by betraying your people, your home!" "Let me go!" you shrieked, trying to free yourself from Adhelms iron grip. Through the sound of your pulse rushing in your ears you hear Marcus' threatening voice, demanding your release, followed by a distressed groan and thud on the ground.

As you writhe and fight to keep your hair this time, Adhelm continued, "I should have killed you alongside your parents. I knew you couldn't be trusted. It's in your blood, you evil, degenerate cunt! You'll pay dearly for this betrayal!" The air is forced from your lungs as your body is slammed against a nearby tree, the shock of the impact manifesting in sparks of white before your eyes. You only manage a couple of breaths before Adhelms hands crush your throat, cutting of your air intake completely. You scratch, desperately at his rough hands, throat burning and eyes watering; the pressure building behind them leaves you afraid they will burst from their sockets any moment.

A haze begins to settle over your mind, making it difficult to focus on anything around you. The panicked whinny of Inga and the deep growl of Marcus' voice sound muffled and far away. Everything seems to be slipping away, like a feather, floating into the distance on a calm wind. "You have always been more trouble than you're worth," Adhelm continued to rant, the hatred in his voice bringing your focus back to the present. In a final attempt of self preservation, your hand went to your belt, as if it remembered what your terrified brain couldn't; father's knife! What happened next was mostly a blur. Warmth pooled over your hand and Adhelms words were replaced with a gasp and a wide eyed look of disbelief and anger.

His hands slid from your throat and you coughed violently as much needed oxygen rushed into your lungs. When his body hit the ground your eyes travelled to the knife lodged in his chest. Blood continued to pour as his chest stilled and the life in his eyes dimmed until they just became empty, glazed over orbs fixed on the sky. You're frozen! Light headed and you're certain you will throw up any second. Your chest is clamping down on itself, making it near impossible to breathe. You'd just killed a man! Yes, he was cruel and dangerous, but he'd died by your hand. A hand that had never exacted violence against anyone before.

Reality itself seems to have distorted; maybe it's all just a bed dream? You cannot tear your eyes away from the corpse at your feet and at the same time you can't bare to look. You think you hear your name being called over and over, but it's irrelevant. Tears spring to your eyes and begin to roll down your cheeks. At first you barely register the weighted feeling on your shoulders as you are turned around to a demanding and authoritative voice. "Hey, look at me, look at me! You did what you had to do. It's okay," Marcus tried to sound reassuring, but in the moonlight he could see you weren't actually there, a blank teary stare is his only response.

"Get on the horse before someone else comes!" You stagger forward as he pulls you with him and it's then it really hits you. You yank your wrist from his hand and clutch your stomach as a wave of sobs wash over you. "I k-killed him! What have I done?! Oh Gods!" Marcus turns back to face you, gripping both of your upper arms now. "You defended yourself," he asserted forcefully. "There's no wrong or shame in that, you hear me?" But you don't hear him. All you can hear are the echoes of Adhelms laboured gasps just moments ago. You're certain the wretched sounds will haunt you forever.

Marcus can see that his words will not help you right now and precious time is wasting away. Any minute you could be discovered. You continue to cry, lost in your own mind and Marcus curses himself for what he's about to do. "I'm so sorry about this," he mutters, shaking his head, then slaps your cheek - not hard enough to really hurt, but it's enough to shock you back into clarity. The moment he hears the slap is the moment he sees recognition and coherence resurface in you, along with a look of shock and vulnerability. Marcus buries the instant remorse he feels. He can feel bad about it later. Right now you both have to get as far away as possible.

In a no nonsense tone he says, "Get. On. The. Horse. Now... Or this was all in vain." That seemed to have knocked some sense and urgency into you as you nod and rush back to Inga, who's stomping a hoof in frustration. You untie the reins from the tree and Marcus helps you up onto her back. Once seated you extend your arm to pull him up. Between his heavy weight and lack of strength it takes a lot of effort to pull him up. Eventually he settles behind you, wrapping his arms tightly around your waist. With a kick to Ingas ribs, she speeds off into the forrest and the dead of night.

@myownwholewildworld @imherefordeanandbones @picketniffler @h0w-1-wanna-l1v3 @chrissy-forfucksakes-wakeup @meetmeatyourworst @yorksgirl @joeldjarin @echo-ethe @whirlwindrider29

Part 1

Part 3 coming soon...

[adickaboutspoons]

So there's several posts going around lately that seem to be dancing around the same proposition - that being that Ed is violence-averse altogether, rather than specifically killing-averse. While it's important to always keep the fact that Ed is no more violent than any other character on the show (and a good deal less violent than some), and that his use of violence is extremely considered and not the result of uncontrolled rages, denying that he would, has, and does commit acts of violence, and willingly, and sometimes even enjoys it, is just demonstrably wrong and elides a significant part of his character. When Ed is discussing "packing it all in" with Stede in 1x4, the reasons he give have nothing to do with being weary of or uncomfortable with the expectation of violence demanded by his position as a pirate, but because he's bored because "it's not a challenge anymore" because people don't fight back once they see Blackbeard's flag. He "loves a good maim." He genuinely has a blast with Jack and all his Jackassery. He gleefully spoke about mugging a guy for a dinghy. He thought the Knife Parade was a fun game until Fang told him his experience was not universal. He hands over a big fuck-off knife with the treasure he gives to the urchins, so clearly doesn't have a problem with using violence to defend what's yours. When he says to Stede "I'm not sure I want to go back to the old days of getting drunk all day and biting heads off turtles and making some poor bloke eat his toes for a laugh" that's not the same thing as saying he's forsaking his piratically violent ways and doesn't want to use violence ever again. The specific mention of all-day drunkenness and turtles calls back to the kind of shenanigans he got up to while Jack was around - and thus is a rejection of that kind of mindless violence for violence's sake; a prospect we had already witnessed him expressing discomfort with when Jack brought up what a wild man Ed used to be at brekkie. After all, part of the "most fun [he's] had in ages, years... maybe ever" has involved showing Stede how to "use a little oomph" and flirtatiously swordfight (both moments included in Stede's "what does it feel like to fall in love" mental montage) - violence as a means to procure a desired outcome, and with as little actual bloodshed or permanent injury as possible, but by no means not none. The show is so careful to never condemn the use of violence wholesale - like, at no point is the message a facile "violence is never the answer". It condemns certain types of violence, usually specifically those enacted large-scale by oppressive, colonialist social structures, but also cruelty for cruelty's sake. Outside of that, though, violence is a tool, and thus is only as "good" or "useful" as the task to which it is being applied. Ed is a master craftsman - he will use the tools at his disposal deftly, and, yes sometimes take joy or pride in his work. And that's not a bad thing, nor does it make him a bad person.

[mossadspypigeon]

the pro palestine obsession with “armed resistance,” needs to be studied under a microscope.

“there is only one solution, intifada revolution.”

“resistance is justified when people are occupied.”

both of these catchy little chants display a laughable lack of knowledge, but let’s discuss the second one in particular tonight.

the people screaming it truly don’t know:

a. jewish history

b. what occupation or resistance are.

israel is jewish land. it always has been. it’s where judaism and the jewish people come from. it has been conquered and occupied by oppressors—british, arab, turk, persian, babylonian, greek, roman, byzantine—for over 3,000 years. no matter how hard they try, no matter how badly they wish they could make us disappear, the jew hating world cannot erase that history.

as established, jews are a historically colonized and occupied people. so why then is our resistance not justified? because we have better weapons? because of lies that say we are in power?

who has been IN LESS POWER throughout history, around the world, than jews? (no this is not an oppression olympics thing). when we had israel and judea the first time, empires couldn’t leave us alone. after, we have been dragged from our homeland in chains, enslaved in some places and stripped of rights and humanity in most others, raped, mass burnt, genocided, stolen from, attacked, relegated to humiliating professions, not able to own land, corralled like animals into ghettos and the pale and mellahs (the arab version of a ghetto), massacred, treated like scum, slandered, demonized, villainized, terrorized, forced to assimilate over and over and over, systematically murdered, expelled and BANNED for no reason at all except that we live and continue to live. in every generation, they come for us because we have the audacity to exist.

the one thing we wanted, for over 2,000 years of this horror, was to return to our home. if we were in diaspora, we longed for it, we prayed for it, we wished for it, we yearned, and when we could, we returned. if we were IN israel, we suffered for it. we lived as third class not-even-citizens. we endured the crusades and the arab riots.

l’shanah haba’ah b’yerushalayim: next year in jerusalem.

we have never stopped hoping. and now that we have it back, now that it is ours again, now that we offered peace deal after peace deal and gave up parts of our own ancestral land just so people who hate us will leave us be… the world tells us that the continuation of jew hatred, of the nazis and their ancestors, of all of our oppressors, of the horror we have endured around the world for centuries, is ACTUAL resistance?

that, essentially, what was done to us by the romans, the arabs, the turks, the babylonians, the persians, the russians, the syrian greeks, the church, the spanish, the nazis, etc etc etc…was always justified because it was “resisting” us?

because that is what the pro palestinian movement is: resistance against jews and jewish rights. that is what “from the river to the sea palestine will be free,” and its original form “from water to water palestine will be arab,” mean: NO. MORE. JEWS.

and that is what they are talking about when they use the word “resistance”: eradicating jews. aka the goal of every single oppressor we have ever had.

hitler said “my struggle.” before him, his political influences said the same. every time we were massacred, expelled, stripped of rights, “rioted” against, rounded up, the oppressor framed it as a persecuted society fighting back against the evil jews. that WE were a threat that must be purged. a “force” to be resisted.

so that is what these protestors consider liberation today: a world without jews. that is what they support and march and clamor for. that is why they hate zionism, the movement made by jews for jews, that was created to ensure we could finally have agency again. because once more, for the millionth fucking time, we are that “force” that must be resisted.

if not, then why is OUR landback movement, our decolonization called nazism?

why is our self defense lied about and called genocide? why is our own oppression used against us?

why are we constantly painted as the aggressor?

why is our history stolen and our indigeneity denied? why are we told to “go back to europe”?

why do they insist on calling their precious “palestine,” the name COLONIZERS gave to the region?

why is it okay to change the truth when jews are involved?

if not, why is israel called an apartheid colonialist project?

jews, who do not have a history of colonization. who were a vulnerable people, most of our population forcibly displaced and prevented from returning to our land, living at the mercy of people who hated us for centuries. we are oppressing the people who were our oppressors. who conquered our land, built their third holiest site on the RUINS of our holiest? who want us wiped from the earth and driven into the sea? who, after they destroy israel, g-d forbid, want to hunt down jews everywhere?

if the pro palestinian crowd is not “resisting” jews, then why do they target synagogues and jewish businesses?

if not, then why is it that when we promise ourselves and the world “never again,” and ACT TO KEEP THAT PROMISE, we are evil? when we build an army so it will never happen again, so we will never be at the mercy of others again, that army is an “occupation force”?

when we are fired upon and return fire, we are suddenly the ones who fired first? every single time?

when our people are massacred, raped, and stolen, and we respond with force to take out the enemy that has consistently committed crimes against us for decades, that constantly threatens our eradication, we are condemned by the world?

if not, why is our side never once acknowledged? why are they so afraid of what we have to say and what we can do? of what we represent: jews they can’t step on anymore?

every lie about us is believed fully without question or second thought, simply because the right words were used, the right buttons pushed. it’s almost like everything we do is considered heinous and unjustifiable…except setting down our weapons and dying.

the world hates a strong jew, a jew who won’t give in. a jew who actually and truly resists. that is why zionism is so hated. that is why israel is the villain. that is why we have always been considered a threat, because no matter what they threw at us, we wouldn’t give up.

(that is why antizionist jews exist, btw. as a response to thousands of years of oppression, they have lain down their weapons and spiritually died for the world, at their convenience, in the hope that for once, they won’t be hurt or killed. they have given up and surrendered and turned their backs on their own people for the illusion of safety. how sad is that? how tragic? that safety simply does not exist.)

anyway, if the anti israel crowd WASN’T resisting jews and jewish rights, they wouldn’t have to manipulate the narrative, demonize the jewish land back movement, coopt and erase our history, deny our ties to the land, support the people who want us eradicated, and/or fear the truth. in fact, they wouldn’t hate israel at all.

basically: they wouldn’t find any way they could to justify a world without jews, even if they have to delude themselves to do it.

yes, assholes, “zionist,” means jew no matter how many christian zionists exist in the world. it always has.

so no, not a single person chanting that horseshit knows what occupation or resistance is, and it’s likely they never will.

oh and also, pointing out the jew hate behind the palestinian and pro palestinian movements is not hating palestinians, aka arabs. ✌️

[ceilidhtransing]

I feel like so much shitty discourse could be avoided if people more consciously bore in mind the fact that Mainstream Society and The Queer Community are, you know, meaningfully different spaces that often have different social phenomena and different issues.

Random example, there'll be a discussion about femininity often being prized over masculinity, especially transmasculinity, in some queer spaces. And there'll be a bunch of transmasculine people talking about being made to feel unwelcome once they came out, feeling pressured to identify as nonbinary rather than as a binary man as that receive less hostility, being increasingly isolated and othered once they started T, feeling pressured to act more feminine and GNC, being told that their presence as a man makes others in the space uncomfortable, etc.

And then inevitably someone will respond with something like “OP what fucking planet are you on. You're fucking insane if you think femininity is prized over masculinity in society. And the idea that nonbinary people have privilege over binary trans people - what is this fucking enbyphobic bullshit? God, some people are so stuck in an echo chamber of terminally online tumblr queers with their invented problems that they've forgotten what it's like in the real world.”

But was the discussion about wider mainstream society? Or was it very particularly about the queer community and issues that these people have faced specifically within that community?

The queer community is a subculture (arguably many subcultures but let's try to keep it simple), and it's totally, utterly standard for subcultures to - even deliberately, as an act of pushback - value different things from the mainstream culture. Aesthetics thought of as “weird” or “[insert slur here]” by the mainstream can be highly prized in the queer community. Identities that are all thought of as equally “fucked-up” and “cringe” by the mainstream can find themselves organised into some weird hierarchy of validity and oppressed-ness within the community. Politics which are considered extremely fringe and radical by the mainstream can be considered the default norm, even a necessity, in the queer community. Gender expressions that are seen as the most basic “normal” thing ever in the mainstream can be devalued by the queer community for “not looking queer enough” or “being straight-passing”. And none of this is a contradiction because this is pretty much how subcultures operate! They assert different values and cultural norms from the culture they exist within and that's partly what makes them subcultures.

So if someone's pointing out “I face this issue specifically when I'm interacting with queer spaces”, it doesn't do the conversation any good to assume that they're talking about mainstream society and attack them for “being deluded about how the real world works” or “inventing fake problems to sound more oppressed” or something. (And the inverse - someone pointing out “I face this issue when I'm interacting with the mainstream” and someone else responding with “I don't know what you're talking about; I never face that issue at all [in my exclusively queer friend group and support network]” - is far rarer, but it does still happen, and it's just as unhealthy for the discussion. Probably the most common example of this I can think of is when cis gay and lesbian people discuss homophobia they've faced, for instance to do with their gender expression, and someone goes “but that doesn't happen, because actually cis gays are a privileged group and I've never seen anyone attack their presentations” - yes, because the frame of reference you're using is the queer community, where being gay is pretty much the expected default, and you're forgetting that in mainstream society, even cisgender gays and lesbians are by no means “a privileged group” that experiences no oppression ever.)

People need to be able to discuss issues in the specific social contexts they're talking about without it being basically guaranteed that someone will misinterpret them and start jumping down their throat in anger at something that wasn't even said or implied. It is so bad for the community when people seemingly can't fathom that the dynamics at play might be different within queer spaces versus out in mainstream society and it leads to so much pointless toxicity and aggressive misunderstanding.

[utilitycaster]

To your point this isn't about breaking thrones: either in cooldown or the episode itself, Matt called the beings Ashton was interacting with 'elemental lords and ladies', iirc. There is no sidestepping this issue, which is why fans who can't tolerate criticism of the character resort to these false accusations, or single out a handful of hateful comments the character gets over the legitimate critiques. It's become so transparent to me -- thank you for continuing to point it out, honestly.

Right, like these are also immortal, eternal, immensely powerful beings! They're different from the gods but again, if the issue is a power differential, then why are titans exempt?

One also has to acknowledge that Ashton told the entire Accord they served the weak and then when Ka'Mort said the weak would be "remade" he was like "yeah sounds great". I even at an earlier point said that Ashton isn't hypocritical, they're just prioritizing their own pain, which they've largely misplaced on the gods when it was in fact largely due to multiple shitty mortals, most of whom were either also seeking the power of the titans (the Hishari) or at least doing business with the Ruby Vanguard (Jiana), or as far as we know totally secular (Greymoore Asylum...where they ended up because of the Hishari).

I also said this in the tags but like. If you are an internet stranger and you're like "well I relate to this character so if you don't like them I am sad" it's like, why the fuck do you think you're inherently likeable? Like yeah actually if you agree with that statement and don't see any issue with it, I think you're someone who at the very best is worryingly susceptible to indoctrination by fascists, and that's not someone I want to be around! If you genuinely are like "oh, no, this person can't be an asshole because they are dressed like a Good Person, per punk lace code" you are like, cartoonishly stupid, literally, like I bet I could lure you into running into a wall if I painted a train tunnel on it! If you say such disingenuous things as "why are people so afraid of change" when the issue isn't that things will change (once again. I have to point out. that there's fucking aliens from the moon showing up and I haven't seen anyone take issue with that provided they're, well, coming in peace) that just tells me that either you're deliberately manipulative or you're extremely easy to manipulate yourself by any charismatic leader who says "why won't you do what I say? Why does change scare you?"

If you think you're entitled to my approval not just of you but because of your blorbo based on identity that's a massive point against you, in my book, actually. Like why should I like you? You seem needy and annoying. I think you deserve all human rights and should live comfortable freely without fear of violence or discrimination but you sound like a self-absorbed dick who's exhausting to be around and I don't want to feed your shitty ego! You're not being nice to me or taking my concerns seriously or showing me you're fun or caring or even interesting and worth befriending; you're just reciting a list of your blorbos and your oppressed identities at me as if you think you can pressure me into putting up with your whiny ass. And yeah, if you can't articulate why it's totally okay if the strong will survive and the weak will be remade, you're not going to contribute to this discussion in any meaningful way, because that's the point of contention.

[funnyscienceman]

Ok but like WHYY did ubisoft have to insist with the one game a year thing. Why couldnt they let syndicate cook in the oven more. Why do they have THREE queer men in the same game and not do ANYTHING with them!!!

Like yes, yes, i get it, i get wanting to for once make a story in a fun setting where you dont have to think about real life prejudice and hardships and bigotry and just have characters be silly, i love that too. I do! And id be all for that if doing it just didnt waste a potentially banger study of the characters and the setting ;-;

Like god i go back and forth on this constantly. I already love syndicate as it is, i think it's fun and neat and the happy gaming vibes about it is core to its identity, it's just that simultaneous to that, three queer men in the same game!!!

like GOD im still miffed that there are only, like, two or three fics about this, and so far i havent found any discussion or anything of it, but oh my god how different all three of them are from each other. You could do so much just with having any of them in the same room — and they are often enough in the same room (jacob and either ned or roth at a time), but nothing's really done there!

we have roth who sees fcking nothing wrong with getting kids hurt, because he doesnt actually care about anyone or anything, he's just some fucking joker wannabe that yeah, sure, probably has some anger and resentment at society because he's a gay man in his 40s or 50s by now, but jesus fucking christ retaliation against homophobia does not equal rampant needless unproductive violence roth!!!

then we have ned, who — i mean he doesnt ever give his opinion on whether kids deserve any respect or anything but considering in every other department he's pretty much just Some Guy, it'd be fair to assume he also has the extremely average stance of 'dont fcking kill kids and dont blow up buildings for no good reason??' in the grand scheme of the templar-assassin stuff he has just about as much relevance as roth: roth was just the boss of the blighters, ned just finances the fryes by virtue of them working for him. He probably doesnt even know about it, and tbh i dont even know if he'd care??? But like i imagine roth doesnt care in the way of 'as long as you dont get in my way, it's all set dressing,' ned i imagine would be smth like 'are yall fckin serious? are you kidding me rn? i have to skirt around transphobes on a daily basis, now youre telling me there's a secret society on top of that with even worse ideas?? What the fuck???'

like uh, not caring about it as in 'I cant deal with this rn i need a nap'

HE'S JUST AN EXTREMELY REGULAR PERSON (besides the crime lord stuff) IS WHAT IM GETTING AT.

then there's jacob, who's the youngest out of these guys btw, fckin 21 good god he should be at the club not trying to disassemble systemic oppression— ANYWAY

(ned is 27-28 over the course of the game, btw; we dont actually have a solid timeline for anything, just the year, so tbh jacob could've also been 20 and not 21 yet during the game. both he and ned have late birthdays, just a month apart)

so, yknow, being extremely early 20-somethings, both frye twins just take a train to london completely on impulse and dive headfirst into undoing the templars that've had an iron grip over the city for basically as long as they've been alive, yknow, as you do; and throughout the game jacob has to deal with goddamn daddy issues and fighting with his sister and insecurity and trying to be an assassin — and that's a lot for a guy to handle!! Especially one who's still just a couple years out of being a teenager! That's a fucking lot and if the devs are right, then he hasnt even realized that he's bi yet! Not until roth fucking kisses him while jacob's got a knife in his throat for the aforementioned indiscriminate, unproductive violence!

i mean, granted, yeah there were gay undertones during sequence 8, but i have to admit my bias here because i honest to god cannot take those missions seriously. Roth fucking preaches this and that about freedom and whatnot and then im plopped into the mission and it's the most rule-heavy shit ive ever seen in my short life as an assassin's creed player. Like what the hell, those missions were atrocious. Apprently i need to detonate the bombs a specific way, i cant just shoot them from a distance, i have to hold a button crouching down right next to the bombs, and then run the hell away! I have to avoid THIS and THAT while kidnapping xyz! Like there's freddy's apprehend missions and then there's THIS.

at least with ned's missions all you have to do is get the shit and go… i'm still salty that ubisoft cut his questline because they fucking insist on releasing a game a year >:((

my battery's dying. All these guys are different flavors of queer on top of just being pretty different and pretty similar in various ways, and there's just… barely anything about it. Ned especially, since he's just a quest giver whose screentime totals to, like, 2-5 minutes. I just wish they really did more with the setting; not just the queerness and these three specifically, but like, evie, henry, the class conflict — like there are shreds of it, seeds, but there's not much before you kill starrick and credits roll :((

idk. im just gonna refresh ao3 again cjemddjekjx

[toasted-valentine]

Ghost Story Good Enough Analysis

Ghost Story Musical has two main couples, Joey and Anthony, and Józef and Hao. The song Good Enough is the backstory to Joey and Anthony's relationship, and within this you can see the major cracks in their relationship and why it is failing when the story starts.

Before I begin this analysis, I would like to define a few terms.

Infantilization: "Infantilization is when an adult is being treated like a child, even though nothing about their mental, physical, social, or intellectual wellbeing requires such treatment."

Fetishization: "Fetishization can be thought of as the act of making someone an object of sexual desire based on some aspect of their identity."

White Supremacy Culture: "White Supremacy Culture is a form of racism centered upon the belief that white people are superior to people of other racial backgrounds and that whites should politically, economically, and socially dominate non-whites."

Internalize Racism: “Internalized racism is a form of internalized oppression, defined by sociologist Karen D. Pyke as the "internalization of racial oppression by the racially subordinated."”

I will be organizing the lyrics by color, Anthony is green, Joey is blue, when they sing together it is orange, and when I am unsure who it is singing then it will be in pink.

(ANTHONY and JOEY, in a bar that is really just their apartment. Younger and hungrier. ANTHONY perches by the edge of the stage, looking into the dance floor like he is going to fall off in a second. JOEY leans on the bar with affected casualness, but after he shifts a little to sip his drink, he carefully repositions himself exactly back to where he was. Neither of them are dancing.)

ANTHONY:

TRY NOT TO WISH THAT I’D JUST STAYED HOME IN BED

Anthony is not a social person, presumably he was dragged out to a gay bar by friends, and really isn’t interested in being there. He’s trying to have a good time and force himself to be happy so it won’t disturb the people around him, this is a negative personality trait that can be seen within Wolf In Sheep Country. From the beginning he has struggled with setting boundaries and openly speaking about his discomforts. This behavior will only escalate and make his relationship with Joey crumble.

TRY TO IGNORE GUYS TALKING OVER MY HEAD

This line is either about Anthony’s friends ignoring him and not really taking him into consideration, or other gay men at the bar not really considering his feelings at all and just fetishizing him being asian.

CHOKE DOWN A CHASER, PRETENDING TO TEXT

Once again, Anthony is keeping his own personal issues pushed down instead of openly discussing them, just drinking and pretending not to be dying a little on the inside.

MAKE SURE MY LOCK SCREEN CROPS OUT MY EX

This could add potential context, Anthony most likely is fresh out of a relationship, and is trying to find a guy to fuck and then forget or his friends made him go out to try and help him forget about the break up. Either way, it’s another instance of Anthony being avoidant rather than dealing with what is going on within his life. The fact he crops his Lock Screen instead of changing it is also a show of it, sweep it under the rug instead of making any actual change.

JOEY:

TRY NOT TO FREEZE AGAINST A FOREST OF EYES

Joey is a transgender man, and like many trans people he experiences social dysphoria. He is deeply aware of how people are perceiving him, and is terrified of people staring at him and seeing his feminine “flaws”.

PULL DOWN MY JEANS TO TRY AND BREAK UP MY THIGHS

Joey is trying to make himself appear more masculine, covering the fact he most likely has a bit more curve to his body fat distribution and that he lacks masculine genitalia. It’s that fear of someone seeing through him and seeing that he’s trans.

TRY NOT TO SPEAK SO MY VOICE DOESN’T CRACK

Many trans men who are early on hormones or pre t struggle with their voice cracking, Joey is avoiding speaking so no one hears the fact he’s not the ideal of white masculinity, no matter how much he looks the part.

IGNORE HOW THEY TITTER WHEN I TURN MY BACK

Joey believes that everyone can tell he is trans and are judging him for it, that when he turns his back every man in that room is staring and scrutinizing him.

ANTHONY/JOEY:

BUT THIS WILL BE GOOD

Joey and Anthony are trying to stay positive and hopeful, they want to have something come out of that night, and are both telling themselves that something other than discomfort will be pulled out of the mess.

JOEY:

DESIRE LIGHTS ME UP LIKE A CHRISTMAS TREE

It’s notable that Joey is the one who gets to say this line, often times trans men are desexualized due to the male gaze and the idea they can’t openly desire sexual contact, so him openly divulging the fact he is there for a one night stand is a nice touch.

ANTHONY/JOEY:

THIS WILL BE GOOD

Again, more reassurances to themselves that they aren’t going to walk out alone that night. This lyric is a motif that gets brought up throughout the song in various ways.

ANTHONY:

BUT EVERY HEATED GLANCE I CATCH AT MISSES ME

Anthony is trying to find a hook up, but so far no one has shown much interest in him, and it’s getting under his skin. He wants sex, he wants someone to be a rebound after his break up, and is feeling deeply insecure about the fact no one has shown interest so far.

ANTHONY/JOEY:

THIS WILL BE GOOD, AS GOOD AS I CAN DO 'CAUSE BOTTOM-FEEDERS ARE STILL FISH IN THE SEA JUST LOOK, I'LL BE GOOD GOOD ENOUGH FOR YOU

The previous line of reassurance is flipped on its head in this, going from a positive affirmation that they aren’t going to be left behind, to one of self doubt. Both men are deeply flawed, believe themselves barely enough for anyone at all, and are willing to settle for anyone because they believe anyone who dates them are settling for “good enough.”

ANTHONY:

I SEE THIS ALL-AMERICAN BOY BY THE BAR HIS SHIRT'S STILL ON, DOES HE KNOW WHERE WE ARE?

Anthony finally takes notice of Joey, and sees just how out of place he is. Joey is dressed like he’d call someone a slur in a bass pro shop, meanwhile he’s in a bar full of guys that all look like they’d make someone burst into flames with how well they’d be able to roast an outfit.

LEANING LIKE HE'S LOOKING FOR HIS PICKET FENCE HE'S NODDING TO THE MUSIC BUT HIS SHOULDERS ARE TENSE

In this we can see Anthony’s attraction to Joey is due to his ideal American boy look, Joey may be uncomfortable, but all Anthony can see is the white ideal he has been chasing and wants Joey for himself due to this.

I'M ALWAYS SOMEONE'S PORCELAIN DOLL OR HIS BRITTLE DREAM OF BAMBOO I CAN BE THE BOY YOU NEED IF YOU SNAP ME RIGHT IN TWO

Anthony reflects on how men have often times fetishized him due to his Chinese background, infantilizing him and feminizing him due to it, and wants someone who can just be rough with him and won’t treat him like a fragile China doll.

AND WHO ARE YOU, ALL CORN-SILK HAIR AND MAPLE TREE, DON'T YOU KNOW WHAT I THINK I KNOW YOU WANT FROM ME?

In this line we can see Anthony being hypocritical, along with a flash of internalized racism. He’s fetishizing Joey’s white and western traits, idealizing him as some sort of perfect model of what he should be, and assuming Joey only wants him so he can be having sex with an Asian guy.

I SWEAR I'M STILL GOOD THE LAST BRUISED PEACH AT THE BOTTOM OF THE BIN I’M STILL GOOD SINCE WHEN IS NOT BEING CHOSEN A SIN? I'M GOOD, AS GOOD AS ANY OF YOU ‘CAUSE THE RUNT OF THE LITTER TRIES HARDEST TO WIN I SWEAR I'LL BE GOOD GOOD ENOUGH FOR YOU

Both men are still on the train of thought thinking they’re just good enough, not really being able to have the level of self confidence and love to take pride in themselves, but still wanting to live in a world where they can be enough for someone.

JOEY:

DON'T SNIFF THE BAIT IF YOU'RE NOT GONNA BITE IT'S GETTING LATE, IT'S BEEN A LONG NIGHT I DON’T WANT TO BE YOUR “ONLY EXCEPTION” OR TREATED LIKE A BACHELORETTE I CAN REEL YOU IN WITH A PRIMED PERCEPTION BUT I HAVEN'T MASTERED HOOK-AND-SINKER YET

Joey is used to men fetishizing him for his transness, not seeing him as a man due to it, and having to fight tooth and claw to be taken seriously as a man. He’s worried Anthony is going to do the same, but still wants to sleep with him. He’s also struggling with the fact he hasn’t really gotten to the point here he can feel comfortable openly propositioning someone for sex, so it hoping Anthony will take the first big step.

AND WHO ARE YOU, WITH PRETTY EYES, SOFT INGENUE, DON'T YOU KNOW WHO I THINK YOU THINK YOU'RE TALKING TO?

In this line it is Joey who is being the hypocrite, he is feminizing and infantilizing Anthony, and the vocabulary he uses in particular is something to take note of. Anthony is Chinese, and Joey specifically calls out Antony’s eyes as “pretty”, and follows it up with “soft ingenue.” While there is nothing inherently wrong with finding a partner’s eyes pretty, the context of him calling Anthony an ingenue changes the meaning.

An ingenue is a young girl who is inexperienced, fills the role of the innocent, and in media is often taken advantage of by someone more mature. Joey is feminizing Anthony by doing this, presuming him inexperienced and an easy target, and going entirely based on the fact Anthony is Asian. Joey is a white man who is feminizing a Chinese man for is own sexual gratification and being deeply hypocritical all the while.

Joey also believes that Anthony doesn’t realize he is trans, so is just waiting for the moment it comes out and Anthony doesn’t want him anymore.

I SWEAR I'M STILL GOOD THE CRUSHED UP CHIPS IN THE BOTTOM OF THE BAG I'M STILL GOOD I COULD HAVE A DATE, BUT I'M JUST GOING STAG I'M GOOD, AS GOOD AS ANY OF YOU THE KID WHO'S IT ALWAYS WANTS TO PLAY TAG I SWEAR I’LL BE GOOD GOOD ENOUGH FOR YOU

Continuing to play into the insecurities both have, but desire for one enough.

JOEY:

GOD, YOU'RE FLAWLESS

There is a tendency for, white men especially, to sexualize people of POC descent as the ideal standard of sexual beauty. Specifically those of East Asian descent, which ties back to ideas of orientalism and the male gaze. Joey calling Anthony flawless is him falling into the same “porcelain doll” trap that Anthony pointed out earlier, not seeing Anthony as his own person, instead something to be used for his own pleasure.

ANTHONY:

GOD, YOU'RE STUNNING

Anthony is fetishizing Joey’s western traits, seeing him as more attractive due to his whiteness, and finds him the most attractive man there due to Joey fitting perfectly into western ideals of manhood.

JOEY/ANTHONY:

YOUR LOVE COULD MAKE ME PERFECT, TOO

These two are codependent as all hell, they want to use each other to make up for their own perceived flaws, and think if they can have one another it’ll “fix” what’s wrong in their lives. It’s an unhealthy mindset that’ll come later to bite them in the ass in There’s A House, when neither of them want to discuss what’s wrong in their relationship, and instead choose to hide behind the idea of having a perfect relationship.

ANTHONY:

MY HAIR WOULD BE BLONDER-

Based on this line we can assume that Anthony has dark brown or black hair, a trait that is typical of East Asian men, and that Joey is blonde. Anthony wants to be whiter, he wants to fit into the mold of perfect white man, but can’t no matter how hard he tries because that’s just not how is body is made. He wants what Joey has, wants to be that strong white male archetype.

JOEY:

MY VOICE WOULD BE LOWER-

Joey, in this instance, is envious of Anthony’s (presumably) status as a cisgender man. He wants to have Anthony’s lower voice, the ability to pass as a man with no effort, to have what he doesn’t. He’s envious of Anthony.

JOEY/ANTHONY:

I’LL WAKE UP JUST AS HOT AS YOU

Again, both are fetishizing one another and envious, desperately wanting the traits that they admire, unable to see their own positive ones in the haze of self hatred and internalized racism and transphobia.

AND I WON’T HAVE ANY REASON NOT TO DANCE IN THE LIGHT

They think that they can be more confident if they “fix” the parts of themself they don’t like, for Anthony it would be the fact he is a visibly Asian man, and for Joey it would be his transness. They don’t really understand that it’s more their own self esteem rather than something inherently wrong with their own bodies that is causing their awful feelings, and are trying to take each other for the night to hide away those feelings.

JOEY:

I KNOW YOU'LL REGRET THIS-

Joey thinks that Anthony will regret sleeping with a transgender man, most likely having had it happen to him in the past, so is just bracing himself for it.

ANTHONY:

YOU'LL REGRET THIS

Anthony most likely has had white men regret having sex with him due to his race, and is just waiting for Joey to turn around and not want him anymore.

JOEY/ANTHONY:

BUT I'LL GET YOU FOR TONIGHT

Joey and Anthony both see each other as conquests, as ways of taking hold of their own insecurities, and see being able to have sex with one another as a victory over the parts of themselves they hate. A sort of “if he fucks me, then I’m still enough, in spite of all that’s wrong with me.”

For Joey it is being able to sleep with a cis man and be chosen as a sexual partner, being picked out of all the men in that bar, and it being his own self assurance that he’s enough.

With Anthony it is a white man wanting him, him seeing it as a victory over his own heritage, and a victory over the system of oppression that makes him feel lesser than his white peers. If he can fuck a white man, one that is the beacon of white centric masculine rhetoric, then he’s won something in that moment.

This is in stark contrast to how Hao and Józef speak of sex and their desire for one another, in the demos Hao is the one who speaks openly about it, but when he does it is purely out of adoration and love for Józef. They have such a fulfilling relationship that Hao is able to notice the moment Józef starts acting too rough and not himself, because he’s used to Józef being a very loving partner, both in their everyday life and in their sexual relationship. During Hao’s pondering of love during I Breath In, You Breath Out, he makes direct note that sex is nothing but a chore without love.

Joey and Anthony don’t have sex out of love, they do it out of a fucked up sense of obligation and competition.

BUT I SWEAR YOU'RE STILL GOOD SO NO NEED TO LOOK FOR BRUISES THAT I COULDN'T SEE

The earlier line about light comes back here, because they are having sex in what we can assume is a dark room, they cannot actually see one another. Due to this darkness, there is no risk of being able to see each other’s “flaws”, and metaphorically they are idealizing one another instead of being able to love the real person in front of them.

YEAH, YOU'RE STILL GOOD BECAUSE I MIGHT DISCOVER YOU'RE BETTER THAN ME YOU'RE GOOD, BUT MAYBE IF YOU ARE THEN YOU CAN TEACH ME TO BE STILL GOOD GOOD ENOUGH FOR YOU

Both men are absolutely terrified that if they see each other in the light, in a vulnerable state, then they’ll realize they can do better. They’re also scared of seeing each other and only seeing what they lack, which they are already doing. They want each other as a broken way to patch up the holes in their hearts and insecurities, not because they actually want to love one another.

The song Good Enough, at its core, is about fetishization, internalized transphobia, internalized racism, insecurity, and only being able to see a partner in the ways they are better than you instead of loving them as a whole.

[respectthepetty]

In Short (Short Film Appreciation Post)

Because I'm loving the discussion about the lack of queer diversity in western mainstream media, I want to encourage y'all to support your local queer film festivals. They showcase international queer feature-length films and a wide variety of short films from marginalized voices.

To motivate you, let me present two shorts films:

Up first

F^¢k 'Em R!ght B@¢k

I watched this twelve minute short film last year as part of the screening committee I sit on, and I'm pleased it's finally available, for a fee, on several streaming platforms.

After a night of partying, Sammy's boss demands he take a random drug test, so he must avoid and outwit her to keep his job.

This is Sammy.

He doesn't smoke weed.

But he unknowingly ate weed butter when offered a delicious cake from a random guy he slept with.

This is his boss.

He catches wind of her planning to give him a random drug test, so since the system is fucking Sammy over, he plans to fuck it right back by taking two days of leave to figure out how to get out of it.

He tries everything to get the weed out of his system. EVERYTHING!

Even his best friend suggests using her pee instead.

Basically, Sammy is stressed, pressed, and systemically oppressed.

Yet with the help of modern technology, he realizes he can finesse his way out of this.

So looking like a million, he shows up for work the next day.

But in order to find out how he fucks the system, you gotta watch the short.

And let me tell you, the reason is beautiful.

The short features real-life queer rapper Ddm Ddm

But it also touches on workers' rights and community support.

In Short, it's hilarious, realistic, and all-around amazing.

Up next,

How Not to Date While Trans

Director, writer, and main character Nyala Moon shares a humorous take on dating while trans. This 13-minute short film is free on YouTube, but Moon currently has another short making the festival rounds called "Dilating for Maximum Results" and it's just as hilarious.

This heartfelt yet cutting comedy follows the dating life of Andie, a black trans woman, and the problematic men she meets along the way.

Moon's short is comedy gold, and a great part of it is due to her blunt depiction of being a trans woman.

In the short, she plays Andie, who is a transformer, which she explains is an insult to trans women, but she is trying to reclaim it.

She has a three-date rule before she tells a guy she is trans: coffee, dinner date, then the third date must be public in case he freaks out when she tells him.

But the second date is usually the hardest since she has to subtly quiz the guys without outing herself. It's like a game show, but the men don't know they are on it, and she stays safe!

But even when guys make it to the third date, there is still the chance they will run.

So the short discusses not only dating but random hookups.

Will she attempt the tried and true "nail and bail" or is she open for something more?

To find out, you have to watch it!

In Short, it shows all the ways trans women must navigate dating while also making sure Andie gets laid.

Once again, support your local queer film festival and watch some great films!

[checkoutmybookshelf]

And the Familiar was a Sourdough Starter

This is actually not a book I picked up, it was a book a friend who is very into baking loaned me. And let me just tell you, it was a DELIGHT from start to finish. There were baked goods, an aggressive sourdough starter, and so, so many gingerbread cookies. There were also excellent questions about what it is to be a hero, the limitations and failures of authority, and under what precise circumstances climbing up a garderobe becomes a viable option (spoiler alert: it's when there are literally no other options). Let's talk A Wizard's Guide to Defensive Baking.

There will Be SPOILERS below the break! Be warned!

Fourteen-year-old Mona is a baker first and foremost. If she sometimes can save overworked dough with magic or make a like of gingerbread men can-can, well thats just a thing she can do. She is a baker. Until, of course, a dead body shows up on the kitchen floor.

Dead bodies showing up randomly is just never, ever a good thing.

Its even less a good thing when a bougie, dickheaded wizard from the castle decides you did it, and because a whole lot of people at a whole lot of levels failed catastrophically in their job, you end up in the position of having to climb a garderrobe to galvanize a weak leader into not doing a magical racism. And then because EVEN MORE PEOPLE FAILED TO DO THEIR JOBS, you at 14 are the last wizard left to defend the city (which is currently sans army) against a bunch of mercenary raiders. Oh, and your magic is entirely bread-based.

I, much like Mona was, would have been royally pissed that I had to be a city-saving hero at 14 because the system and a bunch of key individuals failed that hard and it somehow got left to me. And that is possibly one of the best parts of this book, is that discussion that heroes rarely feel heroic, and then asks WHY. And the answer is almost always some variation on "because a bunch of other adults fucked up." And that sucks, and it's hard, and it's unfair, and all of that is acknowledged in story. But Mona still has to step up and BE that hero.

Thankfully, however, the book at least acknowledges that the 14-year-old should never have to make the sacrifice play. Knackering Molly, a deadass (pun fully intended) horse necromancer who was heavily implied to have been forcibly employed by and subsequently deeply traumatized by the army in her youth, steps up to make the sacrifice play to save the city that did her so dirty. And she does it not because it's heroic or even because it's the right thing to do, no. She does it because if she doesn't, then another wizard kid--of whom she is rather fond--would have to. It's not fair that Molly has to take that hit either, but she was a grown-ass adult who was capable of making that choice, and I love that she did it for Mona. If Mona hadn't been in the picture, I think Molly would have let the city fall without a second thought. And that might even have been the right choice.

Wrapped up in Mona's hard lesson in adults fucking up is a hard lesson about the fact that authority can be weak and corrupt, and it can and will use state actors (the "all cops are bad" energy of a couple of scenes in this book is legendary) to oppress and murder people without power or authority. It encourages questioning and holding authority figures accountable. And once the fight is over, it acknowledges that being given a butt-ton of awards and recognition doesn't make any of it ok. Mona is still angry at the Duchess after all is said and done, and that is very much framed as perfectly understandable and acceptable.

Now, while the politics and power brokering and coming into an adult understanding of how systems of authority work are really excellent parts of this book, they're not the only excellent bits. We have got to talk about the magic system.

People who hate soft magic systems should leave now, because the magic system in this book is softer than raw dough. There is no Sandersonian breath counting here. But I have always thought that magic systems shouldn't get in the way of a good story, and I like a good soft magic system. This one also goes back to basics with what they call sympathetic magic--basically, if you have a bit if a thing, you can command the rest of the thing (you might recognize this as thaumaturgy).

This works beautifully for baking magic, because you can do a LOT of this with dough. And Mona does, from little magics like saving overworked dough or stopping biscuits from burning to full on bad gingerbread men who sabotage the enemy and GIANT BREAD GOLEMS. Seriously, the magic and the baking works together with a natural synergy that just happens effortlessly. The gingerbread men are sassy and wonderful.

But of course I would be remiss if I didn't mention Bob the Sourdough Starter. Bob is...an accident, more or less, from when Mona panicked that she had killed her aunt's sourdough starter and threw magic at it. Bob was the result. Bob eats flour, sugar, odds and ends of baking, and the odd dead fish when nobody's looking. He also has definite opinions about people. Mona is the center of his world, and Spindle and Aunt Tabitha are acceptable. Uncle Albert gets growled at, and when Mona yeets Bob at the Spring Green Man during his attempted assassination of her, Bob burns the Spring Green Man like acid. Needless to say, when the city is besieged, they yeet chunks of Bob at the oncoming hordes and it is...disturbingly effective.

In this house, we stan Bob. From a safe distance and with a haddock I hand, if at all possible.

Overall, this book was a delight to read, and I'm a little sad I have to return it to one of my book buddies. Mona was a treat as a protagonist, the supporting cast was colorful and fun, and the stakes were realistically high. I highly recommend this treat of a book.

[okay-letsdothisonelasttime]

I'm back on that hunger games bullshit. Cause you know, the world is turning into a dystopion nightmare before our eyes, so why not consume media that showcases the hell on earth we are barrelling toward. And as always I have some (many) thoughts.

(This is long, but I needed to get it out of my head - sorry in advance if anyone does actually read it)

Gale is the worst - we all know this. He's manipulative, petty, short sighted and insecure. A great representation of fragile masculinity. But I'm only now coming to realise a lot of my dislike of the third book was largely ignited by his increased role in the narrative. Don't get me wrong there was a good potion of it that stemmed from being a (privilaged) adolescents at the time and thus unable to fully comprehend and empathise with the themes being discussed. But even at that age he was so unpalatable (and still is) that having to hear about him and his shitty behaviour throughout the story really undermined the complexity of the narrative (at least for me. Shitty unnecessary love triangle with a terrible man = loss of interest).

The third book is so much more interesting to me now (excluding fucking gale) that I have (experience with) comprehensive knowledge of mental health struggles (i.e. ptsd, depression, anxiety, panic disorders etc.). The way that finnick, katniss, haymitch, Johanna and of course peeta (and really all of the tributes) struggle with their truma, particularly in the third book, is very interesting, if horrifying, to read about. Especially when you consider the time during which this was written. Like yes mental health was being discussed more freely and with less stigma. But it wasn't the same open conversations we are having now, over a decade later.

There's so many small details from the books that I had completely forgotten about. Details that subtlety weave into the narrative and really intensify the characters, themes and political systems being represented. Things that make the capitol and their power that much more terrifying. Ideas that anchor the distopian themes more to reality and reflect the growing injustice and corruption in our own world back at the reader.

The books do a better job of representing katniss and peeta's age then I remember. Yes they have grown up with hardship, poverty, oppression and are therefore justifiably tougher and more comprehending then your average (privilaged) teen. But both show a level of naivety (for lack of a better word) throughout the books, particularly catching fire, that is a fundamental buy product and nessisary reminder of the fact that these are 16 to 17 year old kids. Forced into being the face, voice and engine of a revolutionary war.

While I once resented certain character deaths at the end of the series and questioned the motives and decisions made by individuals. I have come to realise (with age and experience) that it was so much more important for the story that it's wasn't contorted into some kind of palatable "happy ending" for fan service. The story would have never worked as a whole if it wasn't being brutally honest about the cost of change. Not just in the indicriminant loss of life (it could be your mum, your neighbour, your bully in school - just like it could be the unnamed character or your favourite protagonist). But the tax it can take on the mind, body, spirit and morality of the people who are fighting for it. Standing up for your rights, for your friends and families safety, for the quality of life of hundreds of unnamed people who you have never met will take a toll. And standing up against the oppression of yourself and or others will never be easy. And there's every chance you might walk away from that fight and no longer recognise yourself when you look in the mirror.

Anyway I'm sure there's so much more, but in conclusion 'the hunger games' aged like fine wine for the most part.

And while i understand why there was so much push back against it for the last little while. A young white women being represented as the savour of the oppressed because she was a figure head (at least for a large part) for the movement, while many grass roots organisations do the actual fighting on the ground. [Please see edit to add below for corrections]

I think overall there's a lot of political issues the book discusses well, which have remained topical and relevant enough that it still has a place in the current day. (Particulalrly with the distopian shithole amaerica is tuning into as we speak).

EDIT TO ADD: it has come to my addention that Kitniss was infact written into the books as a POC, likely either Native American or Melungeon. Something I didn't know, but makes a hell of a lot of sense, and I think is far more powerful when you consider her role in the series. However this does bring the white washing of her role in the movies to the forefront and opens up the issues of racial prejudice and lack of equal oppunity in hollywood. How visual media can very easily corrupt and alter our comprehension of literature. And why represention is so incredibly vital.

Because the reality is that, for me, having Katniss' role payed by a white women in the films completely steam roled and mentally erased the nuance of her characterisation as a POC women in the books. As I'm sure it did for a lot of young white teenagers. Which in turn emboldened a lot of (priviaged and white) people to participate in proformative activism. And subsequently led to the backlash that I wrote about above.

Thank you to @bluestrawberrys for bring the above issue to my attention so I could make the nessisary correction.

[faded-mage]

Avise

Avise was pretty sure she lost count of the days. Work felt slow and she grew tired of remaining idle as the days passed. She knew Cullen and his troops were on their way from Skyhold but Hawke and Alistair returned with the news they were expecting - the remaining Grey Wardens travelled to Adamant Fortress and were holed up inside. The elf grew increasingly antsy and could not keep still. She could feel Solas’ gaze on her as she paced inside the barracks, the two had retreated inside the building to hide from the midday sun. With little air movement in the barracks, the heat might have actually been worse. They busied themselves while they waited and during one of their expeditions they found a cache of Tevinter artifacts so Dorian was busy inspecting those and Blackwall spent most of his down time with Captain Rylan, assisting with the troops.

The sweat that poured off of Avise felt disgusting. Despite the stares from the troops, Avise often walked around in the barracks in shorts and a breast band, wanting to keep the sweat from soaking her clothing or armor. For the thousandth time that trip she wondered how anyone survived out there. She also missed feeling clean, even after wiping herself down with cool water she could feel the sweat return quickly after. It was a nightmare.

Solas did not seem to mind however. Unless they were out in the sun he went shirtless and only wore a pair of loose linen pants. It had been a while since they were able to be intimate and their current situation did not allow for privacy but Avise enjoyed the view all the same. She looked forward to the trip ending soon, that they could return home and sleep in her bed. After a long bath at least. Avise felt Solas’ hand on her waist, pulling her into him, causing her pacing to halt. He pressed his bare chest against her back as the familiar tingle of his magic crept across his skin. Solas’ skin felt cold. Her entire body leaned into him as he moved his hands to her neck. Avise wore her hair up more often than not these days, to keep it from sticking to her skin. He placed a light kiss between her shoulder blades before wrapping his arms around her. The cold skin felt so good against her that she could not hold back a small groan, her body temperature lowering the longer they were pressed together. The heat felt much less oppressive.

“We really should make you elves get a room,” Dorian chuckled as he rounded the corner to see Solas wrapped around Avise, the sweat on the elf’s skin turning frosty with the magic. Avise did not care, nor move from Solas’ grasp. It was so hot out and it wasn’t like their relationship was a secret. “You’re just jealous you did not think of this sooner, Dorian. I know I am.” Avise felt a small rumble against her back as Solas chuckled softly causing her lips to curl at the edge, Dorian continued speaking, “Perhaps. However, I cannot stay for whatever this turns into because Commander Cullen has arrived with his troops. They want to discuss what to do next. Also, it seems Bull and Varric rode with them and are looking forward to seeing you.”

Solas kissed the back of her neck once more, dropping his hands from her body. The lingering sensation of cold lingered on her skin though she was not keen on heading outside into the sun once again. Exhaling deeply, she shoved her feet into closed boots. As much as she preferred to be barefoot, or at least close to it, the stone floors grew dangerously hot in the sun. Avise pulled Solas’ hand to her lips and kissed his palm before she moved to walk passed Dorian, the mage tried to stop her, pointing out she was only in trousers and a breast band. The elf shrugged, “It’s fucking hot, Dorian. They can get over it. Or stare.” The mage chuckled as he watched her walk from the room.

- - -

The siege of Adamant went well… until it didn’t. The Commander’s forces breached the outer walls which allowed the Inquisitor and her companions to slip inside. They fought through enslaved mages, demons and Grey Wardens as they pressed into each new section of the keep. At each skirmish Avise offered the Wardens to retreat to the Inquisition forces. That they would not be harmed, that the Inquisition had no desire to hurt any more Wardens than they had to. Unfortunately almost all of the mages they encountered were under Corypheus’ control so they were unable to be saved.

Inquisition soldiers backed them most of the way, filling and controlling areas as they were cleared. Taking choke points until they reached the center of the fortress. Through their advancement in the keep Alistair and Hawke joined her group to push forward. The rest felt like a blur. Avise was torn between stopping them at all costs or trying to convince them to join their side. To show them they were being used by a darkspawn. Avise stopped dead in her tracks as they entered the courtyard to see dozens of Wardens turning to look at their small party, Dorian almost barreling into her at full speed. The mage said exactly what she was thinking, “Shit.”

Overlooking the courtyard was Warden-Commander Clarel with Erimond, readying another sacrifice. She tried to appeal to Clarel but it fell on deaf ears until Alistair’s voice rang out behind her, pointing at Erimond directly, “And then he binds your mages to Corypheus!” From the look on Clarel’s face, that got her attention, the Warden-Commander now looking down at the Inquisitor. She could see her confidence was wavering. Clarel’s voice echoed through the courtyard, “Bring it through.” Avise felt the distinct crackle of magic envelop her as the Warden mages channeled magic into the small rift in the center of the courtyard. As the rift grew larger, Avise could see a massive demon, larger than any that she had seen before peaking through the rift. Is it looking directly at me? The elf shuddered with the thought.

The Wardens who were not mages turned towards their group and moved towards them, Hawke and Alistair’s did little to persuade them to stop. Avise was panicked, she could feel her heart beating wildly in her chest, she did not think they could defeat them all. She could taste the beginnings of Dorian and Solas’ magic swell behind her. Wiping out the entirety of the Grey Wardens in one fell swoop sounded like a terrible idea despite her hesitations on the Order. They were far from perfect but they would be needed for future Blights. She could hear the panic in her voice as she spoke to them, hands raised to show them she was not reaching for a weapon. Desperate pleas, “Listen to me! I have no quarrel with the Wardens! I have spared those I could, I don’t want to kill you but you’re being used… and some of you know it, don’t you?” A handful of the Wardens expressions faltered as she spoke, good. One from the mob in front of her spoke aloud, his voice echoed, “The mages who’ve done the ritual? They’re not right. They were my friends, but now they’re like puppets on a string.”

Avise’s gaze landed on Clarel in the distance and while the Warden-Commander was trying to stand firm, she could tell she was hesitating. Their words settling in her mind. Erimond grew impatient with their hesitations, showing his hand. He grew angry, his voice berating the Inquisitor, dropping his façade, “My master thought you might come here, Inquisitor! He sent me this to welcome you!” Corypheus’ dragon roared in the sky above them, loose rock and stone rattling under their feet. It was close enough the sound vibrated within their bodies. The appearance of an apparent Archdemon seemed to knock sense into Clarel finally, her dark expression turning towards the magister now. Erimond bolted from Clarel’s side and the Warden-Commander pursued him, yelling behind her as she left, “Help the Inquisitor!”

The elf exhaled shakily, that at least was dealt with. But with a massive Pride demon crawling its way through the open rift, they had more problems. Avise pulled her staff from her back, immediately swinging it around to launch crackling lightning towards the demon as the Wardens all turned and unsheathed their weapons.

- - -

With the help of the Wardens, the Inquisition was able to defeat the Pride demon. They stayed back to hold back smaller demons who began to pour from the open rift. Avise dashed towards the steps, staff in hand, as they followed the path Clarel and Erimond took. She could hear footsteps of her companions behind her so she did not slow, even as they rounded corners and leaped up multiple sets of stairs. Corypheus’ dragon pursued them, finding nooks and small openings in the fortress as they ran. Its jaws snapped at them, fire spewed from its mouth. Bull’s heavy footsteps behind her echoed loudly as the qunari spoke, a hint of humor in his voice, “Dragon’s making things interesting!”

They reached a final set of steps that led to a crumbling bridge, there was no place for Erimond to go. The magister lost his balance as Clarel hurled spell after spell at him from her staff. The man only able to concentrate on putting up a barrier to protect himself. The dragon landed behind Clarel, the bridge shaking under its weight. It snapped the Warden up between its massive jaws and swung its head side to side before tossing her back onto the bridge. She was alive and moving, but barely.

Though the noise and chaos Avise heard Clarel repeating the Warden’s oath aloud. The dragon approached Clarel, heavy footsteps reverberating through the stone. “In war, victory. In peace, vigilance…” As the dragon stepped over her, its attention turning on the Inquisition now. Its head arched back, readying a bolt of fire from its throat, Avise heard the final words of the oath, “In death, sacrifice.” Clarel released a massive, blinding spell into the dragon’s underbelly. It’s body slammed into the bridge below it and the stone crumbled beneath them. The elf frantically yelled, “Go! Go!” to her companions, scrambling to get away from the collapsing bridge. They weren’t moving fast enough, she could feel it as they ran. They weren’t going to make it.

As she fell towards the canyon below, rubble and her companions falling with her, Avise swung her hand forward, the familiar crackle of green energy escaping her palm and creating an open rift below them. They disappeared in a flash of light and the rift was gone.

- - -

Avise was freefalling still, feeling dizzy as her body tumbled through the air. Suddenly she stopped just before hitting the ground, floating in the air. “What…” her voice trembled and then she fell onto her back, a grunt escaping her with the impact. The elf moved slowly, rolling onto her knees while her vision adjusted. Where were they? Her gaze settled on Alistair first but he was standing upside down on a stone arch nearby. Hawke moved into view, perpendicular to the ground. “the fuck?” She heard in her own voice. She slowly stood, resting her hands on her hips as she looked at the two humans defying gravity. Alistair’s voice made her refocus, “Well, this is unexpected.” She gave him a wry smile as Hawke chuckled awkwardly next to them. Maybe the stories were wrong about Alistair, perhaps he was more sarcastic than goofy.

Remembering that they were not the only ones with her, Avise looked around her frantically to see Dorian, Bull and Solas all sprawled out nearby, slowly getting to their feet. No one looked particularly worse for wear and they were all currently alive. Small victories. Hawke slowly walked down the rock towards the ground, stepping hesitantly to be on equal ground. Alistair did much of the same, an awkward hop to land on the plane next to them. Solas was dusting himself off as he stepped next to Avise, the two elves now staring at a large city in the sky in the distance. If that city was what she thought it was, then they were in… “This is the Fade,” Solas’ voice echoed what her mind was slowly knitting together. She could hear the awe and excitement in his voice. They looked at one another, eyes meeting, “The Inquisitor opened a rift. We came through… and survived. I never thought I would ever find myself here physically… Look. The Black City, almost close enough to touch.”

Avise felt like she could not breathe, a mixture of emotions hitting her square in the stomach. The area of the Fade they were in was not pretty, it felt like one formed through pain. The Black City was once the seat of the Maker if the Chantry was to be believed. She felt someone grasp her arm and begin to lead her away, the elf struggling to tear her eyes away from the city in the distance.

They had to keep moving. Wandering through the maze of stone and dirt that made up the Raw Fade, they were able to piece some things together. A powerful demon resided where they were, manipulating the area to its whims. Solas believed that the demon was some form of Nightmare, or Fear and the deeper they traveled the more Avise found he was correct, his words gripping at her as he spoke, “Fear is a very old, very strong feeling. It predates love, pride, compassion… every emotion save perhaps desire. Be wary. The Nightmare will do anything in its power to weaken our resolve.”

Nightmare quickly noticed their presence, its voice echoed through their bodies, rattling through their skin and bone. Avise felt dizzy each time it spoke, its words overtaking her mind. She was unable to ignore it, to push its words out of her head. Was the demon speaking through the Fade itself or was it somehow in their minds? It made little difference, she decided, it snaked its way into their minds with ease.

Their only hope was to reach the rift that lay open at Adamant, they were able to see it in the distance. A glowing beacon of their only possible way out. With each step closer to the rift, the demon tried to claw itself deeper into their fears. Searching for their darkest secrets to reveal to them, to taunt them aloud for everyone to hear. “The Qunari will make a lovely host for one of my minions. Or maybe I will ride his body myself.” Bull was the first to be taunted but he stood strong and continued to walk, chuckling defiantly, “I’d like to see you try.”

Dorian was next and so the demon continued. Comparing Dorian to his father. Taunting Hawke with her fear that she did not matter, that Anders would die because of her, just like the rest of her family. Nightmare spoke to Solas in elvish, the words were familiar but felt old. Avise could make out most of it but it made little sense to her, “Dirth ma, harellan. Ma banal enasalin. Mar solas ena mar din.” Pride is your downfall? Harellan was trickster, she knew. Avise glanced towards Solas and their eyes met when he responded, “Banal nadas.” Nothing is inevitable.

She tried to push the words from her mind, their fears wrapping around her heart. It was intimate in a way she never wanted or at least to have heard their fears from their lips alone so she could offer compassion in return. Avise knew she would come next. There was so much she feared but what part of her ached the most? What part of her did she try to hide from herself in the deepest parts of her mind? It came for her finally and as it spoke the elf’s footsteps grew slower until she stood absolutely still.

“Now Inquisitor, your clan is dead. Wiped out from existence because of you. You were the one to reject tradition and doomed them all by guiding the wolf to your door. You bring death and destruction to everything you touch.”

Avise could not breathe as it spoke, the final words fading away into silence as the vibrations in her body subsided. She had to close her eyes and inhale slowly, deeply. The overwhelming fear of loss and guilt. Was her clan right? Did she draw the Dead Wolf’s treachery to them? Was she the reason they were massacred and an entire line of elves wiped from existence? If true, she was no better than the shem who destroyed and gutted her history. The Nightmare found its way into her very heart and pick at the guilt that sat there, the fear and the despair that she was the one to blame.

She felt Solas move to stand besides her but she could not look him in the eye. A gentle brush of his fingers against her hand made her flinch, she did not deserve the comfort his presence would bring. Her voice sounded hollow, “We need to keep moving.”

The deeper into the Fade they waded, the worse it became. The demon stopped taunting them after it finished with Avise and that made it all the more intimidating. At least when it spoke to them, taunting them, they could pretend it did not have the time to plan something else. Avise rounded a large pillar of stone only to find a cemetery tucked away besides stone steps. She slowly walked up to it, her gaze landing on a stone in front of her. It took her far too long to realize what they were. Again, it was aspects of their deepest fears. Her eyes scanned the headstone in front of her. Solas. Dying Alone carved under his name. Avise took a small step back before turning to try and push everyone out of the cemetery. They couldn’t look, this was what the Nightmare wanted. It wanted to crawl into their heads and break them so they could not leave, “Don’t read them! Turn around!” Her voice was heavy, begging but everyone stood and stared. No one moved.

Bull said nothing as he stood in front of his own stone, folding his arms across his chest as he read his fear. Dorian tried to drag him away but the small mage barely budged the qunari. Solas was not standing in front of his, he had found hers. Her hand shook as she reached out to touch his arm, to try to pull him away. Avise’s eyes flickered over her own stone. It was marred with blood and scorch marks, a crack through the center of it. Aviselan. The clan was right. Solas pulled his eyes away away from the stone but could not meet hers, the mage feared what he saw in the stone. Sadness tugged at his features.

They slowly recovered, still wading through the Fade but their steps were different. Avise could feel it with each moment they were there. Slowly the Nightmare tried to break them and it had succeeded in slowly wearing them down. One more obstacle stood between them and the rift. The impossibly large demon she saw peeking through the rift when they first found the Wardens. It was massive, dozens of eyes scattered over its head. It almost looked like a very large, deformed spider. Of course it was a spider.

Avise pulled her staff and rolled her shoulders back. She pulled all of the anger, the pain that the demon taunted her with and focusing it in the fight. She would show the demon was fear truly was.

- - -

Solas

The silence on their ride from Adamant was deafening. Solas watched Avise from afar while they rode. They successfully pulled themselves from the Fade but each of them had been harmed in a way that would take some time to heal. The loss of Hawke, who sacrificed herself so that they could get through only added to the despair that hung around the group. The Commander was riding alongside Avise, his voice was soft enough that Solas did not know what he was saying to her but the haunted look and faraway detachment in her eyes indicated she heard little of what he said to her.

Seeing and hearing their fears laid bare put a new perspective on how he saw himself and if he were being honest, how he saw Avise. He feared dying alone. Solas felt alone for much of his physical life, never fully settling into a home. Mythal complicated those feelings. He was attached to her in a way that should never have been. She coerced him into service and he fell into blind devotion, likely to make himself feel like he made the right decision but that morphed into resentment as time went on. Even during the rebellion, surrounded by like-minded elves, he felt alone. Solas knew if he asked, Avise would be by his side until the very end and that actually made him more afraid. There was something about her, she was his heart. No, not only that. There was something deeper there that he could not name or at least not remember the name of. Her gold eyes glanced over at him momentarily and his inner monologue disappeared.

She looked tired but also afraid when she looked at him. He heard her fear no matter how hard he tried to push the voice of the Nightmare that invaded their minds, its words echoed in his head even now. Her fear on the headstone only complicated matters. Avise blamed herself for the destruction of her clan. You bring death and destruction to everything you touch, it said. In Solas’ experience it was the exact opposite. She created life and life wherever she went. Another phrase that Nightmare said stuck out to him, By guiding the wolf to your door. He knew of their strange connection across time, that there was something about Fen’harel that drew her to him. Like that string he felt when she pulled him to her in the Fade, the golden light that wove itself between the two of them. Solas also knew the views of the Dalish on the God of Lies, did she fear that she caused their demise and ill-fortune because of her connection to the Dread Wolf? That sat heavy on him, once again the urge to tell her everything formed at the base of his throat like a knot. Solas was a lot of things but he would never hurt her by ripping away everything she ever loved despite what the stories said.

No one spoke for hours as they rode until they could no longer, small chatter around the fire as everyone set up their tents for the evening. Solas originally was set to share a tent with Bull but he needed to check on Avise and he sat the line between not caring what the others saw and knowing that his presence could look poorly on her depending on who shared what with whom. Their relationship was an open secret amongst her inner circle and they were not always the most subtle in their affections.

Avise silently slipped into her tent, avoiding everyone’s gaze while she did so. Solas noticed. He wrestled with rushing to her or waiting until the camp was quiet to go to her, eventually everyone drifted to their own tents and he was left alone with Bull around the fire. Before he could struggle more with the decision, Bull’s voice cut the silence, “Aren’t you going to talk to her?” The elf’s blue-grey eyes glanced towards the towering man, “What do you mean?” The qunari shrugged his shoulders, “We all know you two are sneaking around. I am a pretty good spy but even the dull ones have noticed. That demon asshole said some pretty heavy shit, I am just surprised you’re still sitting here with me instead of trying to talk to the boss.” The elf opened his mouth to say something but he was at a loss for words. The qunari was correct, he should have been in that tent the moment Avise slipped away.

He pushed himself up from the ground with only a nod to the qunari. Solas did not need to confirm that Bull was right, the man looking quite pleased with himself. The elf stepped inside the tent slowly, his voice soft, “Vhenan, are you awake?” There was a faint cry from somewhere inside, the elf entering the tent to find Avise sitting on top of her bedroll with her head in her hands. Solas sat in front of her, his fingers gently pulling her hands from her face so she could look at him. His palms cupped her cheek and he used this thumbs to wipe away the tears sat upon them. Solas gently kissed her forehead and she leaned into his chest, his arms wrapping around her tightly. He spoke to her quietly in elvish, telling her how wonderful and strong she was. How she was resilient. How everyone had fears that hurt and bit and sat quietly in the back of their minds until it screamed to the surface.

“Ir abelas, Solas” he heard her say, muffled as she was still hiding her face in his chest. “I tried to push away the guilt that I was not there to save them. We had our differences and I did not have the desire to return to them but I did not wish for their destruction. But the guilt does not go away.” Solas frowned, pulling the elf from his chest. He needed her to see his face when he spoke. He needed her to see that he was not lying to her, that every word he said was true, “If you had been there, you would have died too. The humans blamed the elves for the sickness that ravaged their city and destroyed them for it. Nothing you could have done would have changed that. Those prejudices run deep.” Solas took her hands in his and slowly kissed each knuckle, “Your touch does not destroy, it creates. You have lifted so many up out of the dirt, protected those that needed protecting. Placed joy in those who sat in their pain and anguish. Myself included. It may be selfish of me but I am glad you are here with me. You may be the last of Clan Lavellan but you are truly a legacy to behold and do them great justice carrying their name.”

She stared up at him for a long time, silent. Her eyes reflected the small amount of light in the tent and he found it to be beautiful. He kissed her hand once more before he continued, “Ar lath ma vhenan. I love you more than I can possibly express.” Solas could not decipher the flurry of emotions that sat on her features until she finally spoke, her brow knitted together in determination. A small peak of the Avise he knew shone through her pain, “Ar lath ma, Solas. For as long as you’ll have me, you will never have to fear dying alone.” Her words created a pain in his chest. Maybe he did not need to fix his past mistakes, maybe with her he could make the world better by fixing the one they were in. That his regrets did not need to push him towards the path he walked alone. He could remain with her as Solas.

With Avise consoled, they laid down on the bedroll with their limbs intertwined. She eventually fell asleep in his arms while he considered her fears. Her quiet breathing lulled him to sleep.

- - -

As the sun rose, so did the heat. Avise looked and sounded significantly better than the night before. Her normal morning grumbling surface as she tried to burrow her face against his chest, trying to hide her eyes from the sunlight. They were set to stop at Griffon Keep for supplies before making the trip back to Skyhold. They also needed to pick up Blackwall and Varric on the way by. Solas knew how fond the dwarf was of Hawke and he did not envy whoever was set to tell him that Hawke sacrificed herself in the Fade for them. The woman was a force and understood Varric’s attachment to her.

Hawke refused to let Alistair stay behind, having grabbed the Warden by the shoulders, shaking him. “A Warden must help them rebuild! That’s your job! Corypheus is mine.” Solas considered their lovers as well. Someone was going to lose their love in some way. Solas knew Hawke was still with Anders, despite him being the catalyst to the Templar-Mage war and Alistair was still with Elera, the Hero of Fereldan. Avise received a letter from Elera before they left for the west, requesting that she kept Alistair safe the best she could. That she could not lose him. He thought of Avise and how he would feel receiving a letter that she sacrificed herself for others. The thought made a knot appear in his stomach.

The last thing Hawke said to Avise, their eyes meeting before the woman rushed the demon in the Fade, “Say goodbye to Varric for me.” He knew Avise would take it to heart and be the one to break the news to Varric, no matter how much it hurt. Awe sat within Solas as he considered their final moments in the Fade, he swore he heard Hawke say to herself before she left them, “Sorry, Anders.”

[qweerhet]

frequently, it's Exhausting being at an intersection where i have experienced both "sanist and racist Reddit Atheism lateral violence" and "anti-atheistic and racist Liberated Religion lateral violence" because of the simple fact that both camps are deathly committed to arguing that the other camp does not, in fact, exist in any meaningful way and only exists as singular rude people in individual leftist spaces.

like i truly do not enjoy how this makes me sound like an Enlightened Centrist, but quite frankly i have been in a variety of left-leaning spaces over the course of my life, and there are left-leaning spaces which are run by members of one particular religion (or even, occasionally, have power systems that privilege two, possibly three religions working in conjunction) who use systemic power within that space and use it to oppress atheists and agnostics within that space. and there are also left-leaning spaces which are run by atheists that use systemic power within that space to oppress minority religions, primarily along the axes of sanism and racism, and therefore all non-consensus-reality experiences regardless of religious status.

and like, in both cases, i've experienced institutions being utilized to enforce that oppression--the institution of the church + equivalents in the case of the religious oppression, obvs, and in the case of weaponized atheism, the mental institution and the carceral system (which are so interrelated it feels rather redundant to refer to them separately in this context tbh).

and i think it's extremely unwise to build your entire comprehension of religion + privilege + systems of power from your leftist bubbles, tbh, because that's how you get shit like "christianity is the only religion that has any problems" on the Liberated Religious side, and "anyone who has an experience outside of consensus reality is an agent of oppression" on the other side. like, hyperfocusing on your experience within left-leaning bubbles is to exclude yourself from a more holistic understanding of how religious institutions + systems of power operate worldwide, and how those systems of power are reproduced on smaller scales and within interpersonal relationships.

like, that's all awfully broad, i acknowledge, but it's difficult to get into specifics without missing the forest for the trees once again. when you're tweeting like "and where are these evil anti-atheist members of minority religions who oppress you? are they in the room with us now? you're just mad about being called antisemitic" you're Missing The Forest For The Trees in that, like, "religion" doesn't mean one specific thing and "atheism" doesn't mean one specific thing (they're both extremely general terms for extremely broad concepts that have varying relationships with the concepts of culture + consensus reality + history depending on the context they're being used in!) and maybe atheist jews are also mad at you for erasing the negative experiences atheist jews have in religious jewish spaces when you say that. and sure maybe your social context is primarily made up of dealing with antisemitic shit from white supremacist atheist leftists who utilize power structures to paint targets on the jewish members of your social bubble when religion comes up at all, but also, like, there is absolutely a social context where pretty much every discussion of religion is centered around an institutionally powerful theocracy attacking atheists and leftists utilizing that power structure to oppress atheist leftists within their social bubble.

like--again, i fucking hate how much this makes me sound like an Enlightened Centrist, and on a personal note, i do feel like there is a moral pressure to pick a side, but i really don't think there's "sides" to pick at the end of the day. i think atheist social bubbles, particularly in america, are incredibly vulnerable to hegemonic ideals of sanism and racism, and i think lefty religious social bubbles are incredibly vulnerable to hegemonic ideals of "subtle" conservatism engrained in religious institutions and racism, and i think all of these things are really fucking easy for groups to begin enforcing violently when the groups in question are both violently oppressed and under constant attack from the institutions in power in their particular areas of the world. like, it's so easy to fall back on hegemonic failsafes to protect one's own, and i think the core of this perceived divide is that these groups have high rates of people defensively and publicly participating in oppressive hegemonies to attempt to garner some form of protection from the constant oppression they face, and forming high-control social groupings based around this phenomenon.

[hauntedjpegcollection]

extra bandages

wc: 3305 au: valorant au ch: xavier, benji

The call connects and for a minute there’s noise—a trio of girls talking, laughing, static crackling as the cell phone is moved around, foot steps as she walks away somewhere into her terribly small apartment, the noise is wistful and beautiful and makes Xavier’s heart redouble with hurt and almost bitter resentment—and then Emily’s breathless, excited voice.

“Hi! Xavier, hey. Almost missed your call, sorry.”

It’s Saturday and she’s in college and nothing else exists for her but class and lectures and books, so it makes sense. He wishes she had missed the call, he thinks it would be easier. Xavier can imagine her with her friends, dressed down in clothes passed from their eldest sister, hair freshly dyed black maybe and curling the way all of their hair does. Young with the entire world in front of her, a little drunk off whiskey poured in tea cups while she and her room mates sit around a laptop and play music. Gossip, discuss class, ruminate over love. Nothing pressing, no concerns.

Xavier runs his hand down his face, sitting at the edge of his bed. His hair smells like gunsmoke, even after a shower. He thinks he says hello.

“Thanks, by the way,” she ends a sentence, after a healthy chatter about her classes. He doesn’t understand a single thing about them, their confusing curriculum or the times of day her lectures start and end. He’d been bad in school as a teenager and college had never been an option for him. He looks at his fingers as she talks, notices blood welling up under a nail he’d bitten savagely. It looks strangely black and rotten.

“For?”

“Oh, please,” Emily snorts. Her voice sounds different over the phone. “Mom’s as bad at lying as you are. I know you paid for my books.” Xavier’s shaky thumb moves over the big red MUTE button, so she doesn’t have to hear his raspy inhale. His hand covers his forehead, elbows to his knees. The laminate flooring beneath him is blurry, but he refuses to blink. “Xavier? You still there?”

“Yes,” he manages, in a voice he thinks is rather convincing. He mutes again quickly to clear his throat and swipe a hand back through his hair. The little black dot of blood disappears there. Xavier smiles, sitting there in his bedroom, alone. He can feel it stretch cartoonish and fake. He needs it there to put some sort of inflection into his voice, otherwise she’ll know. And Emily can never know. None of them can. “Why the fuck are they so expensive, huh?”

His little sister laughs, the sound making his heart wrench.

“Are you visiting any time soon?”

Xavier closes his eyes.

—

The cadence of warfare is so ingrained in Xavier that he can tell when it’s nearing it’s brutal, ugly end without even needing a signal. The gunshots are far less, the air becomes oppressive no matter the weather, the dust finally settles. It’s something in his bones. Something innate and instinctual; a hound understanding that the hunt is over, standing at the cusp of a hill and wondering why his master didn’t let him get the rabbit.

He leans against a crumbling plaster wall inside what was once an office building, smearing blood from his shoulder. It is stark red against the contrast, garish and hilariously fake looking. A knife had gotten him, nothing deeper than superficial, but those were always the sort of wounds that bled the worst. He’d not been paying attention, not been on his best behavior. Xavier swipes a gloved hand through sweaty hair, breathing hard.

It was rare to find respite before extract. This hardly counted, but what else was there? He was blessedly alone, and the flickering lights above him danced near hypnotically in his war weary eyes. Xavier huffs a laugh through his nose. He isn’t sure what’s funny, if anything is at all. For a moment, he isn’t even there, but slightly above himself. Staring down at a sweaty, dirty soldier.

Xavier’s comm crackles to life on his shoulder. He reaches for it, ready to respond to the evac signal.

Instead, “We got one.”

The blood on his shoulder has made his tactical gear tacky and stiff. Xavier folds a hand over the shallow wound, his vision darkening at the edges. A dreadful feeling wells inside him. A premonition that he can’t name. The world tilts on it’s axis and everything slides left, everything goes tinny in his ears and his mouth dries, tongue awkward and fat in his mouth. Xavier’s chest constricts, his veins thin, sweat drips off his chin.

“Enemy combatant is medical.”

His boots skid on the ground, kicking up crumbling plaster and spent bullet shells as he runs.

—

“Corporal.”

The kid standing watch is a teenager, maybe twenty if you fucking squint. For a disorientating moment, Xavier is reminded of his sister—not that these two girls look alike. But there’s brief memory of Emily’s birthday; he’d bought her a stack of journals from a local store and she’d acted like it was the best gift she’d ever received, even next to the fancy watch her then boyfriend had bought her. The girl standing in front of him is trembling slightly, with dilated pupils and sweat slicked blond hair. A muscle in her jaw jumps as Xavier steps forward.

“We’re waiting on Sergeant,” she mumbles. There’s a look of shame on her face as Xavier presses past her—clear orders must have been to stop anyone from disrupting—then a weary relief as she’s patted softly on the shoulder. What was her name? Xavier doesn’t know Stiles’s crew as well as he should.

All other thoughts of teenage mercenaries and his sisters and his bloody shoulder disappear once Xavier is in the room. It had been an office at one point, but the desk is turned over. Computer parts strewn about. There’s a splatter of blood on the floor, dark but fresh. A wire hangs from the ceiling, dangling lonely and surreal.

Sweat pools under Xavier’s arms, down his back. He feels sick and cold, his stomach trembling, his hands numb as he steps further into the room. Wilson’s broad back hides his prey, meaty hands on his hips. He’s outlined like a monster from a storybook; harsh and dark and terrifying, a blocky silhouette in black fatigues, rifle slung over his shoulder. Something that exists purely to hurt.

Wilson scares Xavier.

But he is far more scared of stepping up beside him and finding who the blood belongs to.

When Xavier blinks, sweat drips into his eyes. He has to remove a glove and rub the heel of his palm against an eye. Please, God, he thinks for the first time in a long time. Please, please. Please. Pleasepleasepleaseplease.

“Fuck you come from?” Wilson turns to stare at him, a look of surprise mingling with disgust.

And it isn’t Benji.

The man on his knees is wheezing, a broken nose bubbling blood down his chin and onto the ground. He isn’t Benji. He’s—like the girl in the doorway—young. A mop of brown hair, messy and grimy, skin tanned by a clear love for the sun. His eyes are a dark, pretty blue as he glances up to Xavier; fear is making them skittish, bouncing everywhere. He’s crying. Paths of tears clean blood on his face. His lower lip trembles. He isn’t Benji.

“This is a medic.” Xavier’s voice is toneless as he gestures toward the boy. There’s a small red cross on the chest of his otherwise gray uniform.

“I can see that,” Wilson drawls lazily.

“I want to go home.” His voice wavers, wet and thick. His broken nose makes him drop the ‘t’s. I wan’na go home. Hope flickers in his eyes as he looks at Xavier. “Please—”

“Yeah, yeah.” Wilson slaps his gloved hand across the back of the kids head, sending him falling forward. His hands scramble across the ground—his pistol lays disarmed in the corner of the room. Xavier watches the young medic slowly pull himself back to his knees, a fresh wave of tears mingling with the thick drip of his bloody nose.

“Don’t do that.” Xavier’s voice is quiet. He watches a tear slip over bruised skin, catch on the corner of the boys mouth.

“I don’t know anything—” I don’know any’hing. “Please.”

The smell of blood is so strong, Xavier’s mouth feels coated with it. He’s broken his nose a fair amount of times—it’s a big target, Lark laughs, sitting on the edge of a gurney, holding up gauze pads. Benny frets with a butterfly stitch, a useless endeavor. Xavier’s face burns, but he grins, the blood dripping off his chin and into his hands. Oh, shit, it bleeds so much, man. It’s not Benji. It’s not him. Just a kid. Just some kid. Emily and her school books. Pressure wells up inside Xavier’s skull, a pounding feeling at his temple. I wan’na go home, please, I don’know any’hing, please.

Wilson hits the medic again.

I’m so bloody stupid. Makes sense, doesn’t it? Don’t be a sore winner. Please, I don’—Please, I wan’na go home—You could have been wired this whole time—please—

Xavier’s jaw clicks.

Have you got the extra bandages I gave you?

Please.

Wilson’s heavy body falls as Xavier’s fist catches him in the side of the head. He lands bodily on his elbow, howling in pain, rifle skittering across the floor. Absolutely nothing registers within Xavier as he falls to a knee and catches Wilson by the neck of his tac vest. It almost feels routine to punch him again—it doesn’t really feel like anything at all. His fist connects with a heavy cracking sound. Once, twice, a third time striking a cheekbone. Wilson’s howling turns guttural and vicious.

A sharp pain in his side makes Xavier stutter—but like a well oiled machine, he keeps punching. His knuckles split open, old scars weeping. Wilson digs his knee in harder, viciously, going for a kidney, to try and burst something internal. Kill him. He’s snarling it; kill you, I’ll fucking kill you. Xavier feels empty inside where Wilson is trying to hurt him. The injury can’t register, because there’s nothing of Xavier to injure. He doesn’t really feel at all, not even the pain that’s crawling up his body and making his arm twitch.

Screaming from behind doesn’t stop him. Wilson—highly trained, competent, sadistic—gets a single punch in to Xavier’s face. But it’s a good punch. Connects with his eye; there’s a scar underneath that one, from when he’d cracked his orbital bone. Benji had saved him from his own team mate. Benji had killed for him.

Xavier falls backward, looking at the beige ceiling above him, the wire dangling from a missing tile. The screaming continues—the medic is gone. There’s only blood left, where he’d been kneeling. Xavier blinks at the bottom of Wilson’s boot as it comes speeding toward his face.

But the girl from the door way slams into him, sending him falling sideways. Xavier isn’t sure of what happens next. It doesn’t feel relevant at all. His shoulder throbs, reminding him of the cut—he laughs, loudly, wetly, stupidly. Jesus, he laughs so hard the bruise forming on his side from Wilson’s knee groans and protests. He laughs, thinking of those extra bandages. Of course he still had them.

Of course he did.

—

“Are you out of your fucking mind?”

Sergeant Stiles crashes through the door. Lark—poor fucking Lark—tries to stop her with his hands raised, sputtering apologies that he can’t make. She shoves him aside as if he weighs nothing and Xavier is more stunned that she’s handling a radiant like that, then he is at being screamed at. Being screamed at feels natural. Normal, in this nightmare version of his life he can’t wake up from—Lark hitting his shoulder to the wall, wide eyed and afraid does not feel right.

But Xavier can’t do much more than sit there and stare as Sergeant Stiles snatches him by the hair and wrenches their faces close.

“What were you thinking?” She seethes. Stiles has deep set, brown eyes and a beauty mark at the side of her left eye. She’d learned early to keep her hair short—was a viciously efficient soldier and a Sergeant for a reason. Her grip in his hair feels iron clad, like he’s a puppy scruffed to heel. His throat bobs, but he can’t find an answer. The pain finally has begun registering—in his eye, in his side. Now, at the roots on his scalp.

“I don’t know, sir,” Xavier whispers.

“Injuring one of your own? Letting a prisoner escape?”

“He wasn’t a prisoner.”

“Who says?” Stiles barks. Her fist tightens so hard, he whimpers. The sound is pathetic and small; Xavier feels pathetic and small, like something to be reprimanded and abused. Lark is staring, back flat to the wall, looking at the scene with mortified uncertainty. Something comes back to Stiles then—either Lark’s palpable fear, or the small sound of hurt in the back of Xavier’s throat—because the sergeant releases him and steps back. “Who says?” She repeats it with cold authority, fists at her thighs.

“I said,” Xavier whispers, brushing a hand back through his hair. “I outrank Wilson. He was a medic. Just a medic. He wasn’t armed. Wilson was going to torture him.”

“Wilson’s a fucking freak—”

“You.” Stiles points to Lark, as he threatens to interrupt again. His big, black jacket hangs off one of his shoulders. Disheveled, messy. His face pales. His defense is plain in his expression; but it’s not defense of a corporal. Not even defense of a colleague, a fucking peer mercenary. Lark is defending Xavier in the wrong way—his emotions painful in his pretty, dark eyes. Xavier’s reality is sharpening, his focus clearing. He looks down at his bruised knuckles in shame. “Leave.”

“But—”

“Just go, Lark.”

The young radiant shoots Xavier a wounded look, chin dipping to his chest. But he listens. Slams the door on the way out and makes Stiles face even stormier.

It feels like a long time before she speaks again. Xavier can’t meet her eye, so he continues staring at the scabs forming over his knuckles. He thinks there’s a tooth indent. He wants to feel savagely justified. All he feels is a painful emptiness that won’t go away. Xavier presses a thumb between his knuckles, listening to the creak of his bones, enjoying the warmth of pain blooming on the back of his hand.

“I cannot protect you from that man.”

“I know.”

Xavier doesn’t look up.

“This isn’t the military,” Stiles continues. The fury in her voice is mixed with a terrifying desperation. She isn’t a bad person—that’s what Xavier is thinking, staring at the blood welling on his knuckles. That Stiles isn’t bad. She’s on the wrong side of a very wrong war that they started, but she isn’t bad. “I will tell Lieutenant Tillman to keep you both separated, but I cannot keep a fucking eye on Wilson. He does what we pay him to do.”

“We don’t pay him to torture people.”

“We don’t pay you to be a fucking hero!”

Silence descends once more. Xavier finally looks up at her. Stiles’s fury has drained. Replaced with a weary resignation. Disappointment. Humiliation makes something prickle behind Xavier’s eyes. He blinks rapidly, looks away. He wishes she hadn’t made him get rid of Lark.

“Did you know him? You know—you know he wasn’t whoever you know here. Right? Some ex boyfriend, or something? Doesn’t matter, wasn’t your version of him. You have to remember that shit, Wolffe.”

He wants to ask her if it matters. He was a person. He wanted to go home.

But instead, Xavier nods. He says, “Yes, sir.” And they let him leave.

—

As Benji and Xavier stare at each other, across the hall, he yields to the idea of them being together. He thinks of an even more alternate reality; where Xavier laughs and lopes forward and Benji rolls his eyes and catches him by the waist and Xavier asks, where’s the signal and Benji whistles three times just to indulge him. They smell the gunsmoke on each other and the sweet tang of sweat and Xavier leans down, hunching because of his height, holding Benji’s cheeks and they kiss.

He imagines that without the hallway, without the tactical gear, without the war. He thinks there has to be at least one version where they’re together without the rest of it. Maybe they meet at a college party or maybe they’re neighbors who accidentally run into each other in the elevator all the time. Xavier introduces himself and Benji—who is so like this Benji, but maybe softer—snorts and doesn’t introduce himself at all. He waits a few more times, where Xavier has to impress him with his terrible collection of jokes.

There’s some version of them, not standing in a derelict warehouse hallway, looking at each other like they cannot tell who between them will pretend the other is a stranger first.

Xavier’s comm comes alive. Tillman, his drawling southern accent, “You got an all clear for me, Wolffe?”

Benji stands there. His hair is messy, stringy with sweat. His lower lip trembles, but Xavier thinks that Benji doesn’t notice that tell. That when he’s emotional the smallest part of his expression shakes. Xavier stares at him, at the beautiful pinch of his heavy brows and the elegance of his curved nose. He looks tired. It makes Xavier’s throat narrow. He looks tired.

Xavier lifts a hand to his comm on his shoulder. Presses it.

“All clear here, LT.”

“Atta boy. Round up in five.”

They resume their staring. The silence feels like a heavy, cold hand, pressed against the back of Xavier’s neck. Pushing until it feels like his spine is creaking under the weight of it. He steps forward, looking at the ground. He wants to say something, doesn’t he? Apologize again. Don’t you want it to be real? It was real, it was real when it was happening and it’’s been real the entire time. No one made me go down that alleyway. No one made me kiss you. I wanted to kiss you. It was real for me, wasn’t it real for you?

“Your eye—”

“No.”

It comes out more wounded sounding than he means. Part of Xavier wants to be angry at Benji, but he can’t be. Christ, he can’t, because Benji isn’t wrong. It all looked so bad when one examined it top down, clinical and assessing. And Xavier feels so guilty, because he regrets it. He regrets taking that radianite more than anything, even though it had paid so well on the black market and it had done Emily so good. Xavier hates himself, because he can’t be selfless and think it was worth it. He just feels sorry.

He clears his throat and doesn’t meet Benji’s eye.

“You don’t get to ask,” he says quietly. “If you go out the back left entrance, no one will see you. Just keep low.” When his eyes flicker up, he smiles sadly. “See you, Benji.”

“Xavier—” Benji’s voice cracks a bit. He shoulders his rifle. “Just—Just put some fuckin’ ice on it, yeah? Some ice.”

Later, when Xavier is in his bed, he stares at the ceiling (frozen peas on his left eye) and wonders if Benji can’t help but care. If it’s the nature of a medic to care. Or if—and he thinks its dangerous to let himself think at all, especially this—Benji cares because it’s Xavier. Wouldn’t that be nice.

[tittyinfinity]

I know it's already been said (can't find the post), but just a reminder that once this is all over, you can't expect people who just went through the worst trauma imaginable to be able to get over it and become model citizens immediately. Trauma that bad lasts for generations. We've seen this pattern play out many times from US and UK imperialism – take away the people's resources, ruin their mental and physical health, blame them for the struggles imposed on them, heavily judge & police every action of theirs, and then use that to justify their arrest/murder.

So if you don't have a perfect interaction with a person who is going through/went through/had family go through a genocide, give them some fucking grace. Maybe their politics don't line up with yours. Maybe they have some out-of-date beliefs. Maybe they're angry & irritable; maybe they aren't the nicest to you during a discussion. Still give them some grace. You know why?

A lot of us have had the privilege of being in a place where we can assess our biases & behaviors in order to correct them. They don't even have the time to think about it.

Think about all the old biases you used to have. Would you have grown out of them if you had experienced nothing but trauma, with no outside resources to help you learn about those things?

So if you're white and you find yourself thinking something like "I don't care about this person's oppression because they were homophobic" you need to re-assess that. It's been proven that punishment and ostracization does not help anyone get better. You can't defend other human rights with racism.

Identity politics isn't our first priority. Our first priority is MAKING SURE EVERYONE HAS A RIGHT TO LIFE so that there are even identities to discuss in the first place.