#implications of tax shift

[techminsolutions]

Choosing Between Old and New Tax Regime: Navigating the Maze

Choosing Between Old and New Tax Regime Navigating the intricacies of tax regimes can be akin to walking through a labyrinth. The Union Budget of 2023 has thrown in a twist by making the new tax regime the default, complicating decisions for taxpayers who now need to actively opt for the old regime. Understanding the New Tax Regime In the new income tax regime, the government has revamped rates…

[novaursa]

Twin Fires

- Summary: Both you and Aegon have no problem expressing your desires openly and torment everybody in the Red Keep.

- Paring: reader (twin!wife)/Aegon II

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N. For full chronological order of these works visit my blog. The list is pinned on the top. Or, you can read it as a one-shot.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 2 665

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

You sit on the chair beside Aegon, your hand resting lightly on his arm. The room is filled with the dull murmur of the small council meeting, the voices of the Lords Tyland, Larys, Jasper, Otto, and Grand Maester Orwyle blending into an almost rhythmic drone. You can see Aegon's eyes glazing over as his mind drifts away from the discussions of grain supplies and tax levies. You know exactly where his thoughts have gone.

Aegon shifts in his seat, his fingers drumming lightly on the armrest. He can't stop thinking about the night before, the way your skin felt against his, the warmth of your breath on his neck. The council's voices fade into the background as he remembers the way you gasped his name, the look in your eyes as he pulled you closer. His lips twitch into a small, satisfied smile.

"Your Grace," Otto's sharp voice cuts through Aegon's reverie. "Would you care to join us in the present? We were discussing the matter of the Dornish threat on our southern border."

Aegon blinks, attempting to pull himself back to the present. "Yes, yes, of course," he says, though he has no idea what Otto was talking about. His mind is still on you, on the way your hair spread out across the pillows, the way you whispered his name.

Otto's eyes narrow. "It seems your thoughts are elsewhere, Your Grace. Perhaps you would care to enlighten us on what is so captivating."

Aegon feels the eyes of the council on him, but he can't help the smirk that forms on his lips. "Just thinking about my Queen," he says, his voice low and suggestive. "Last night was... eventful."

You feel your cheeks heat at the memory and the implication of his words. The council members shift uncomfortably in their seats, while Otto's face turns a deep shade of red.

"Your Grace," Otto says through gritted teeth, "perhaps now is not the time for such... reflections."

Aegon laughs, the sound rich and warm. "Oh, come now, Otto. Surely even you can appreciate the joys of marriage."

Tyland coughs, trying to hide a smile behind his hand, while Larys's eyes gleam with amusement. Jasper seems to be studying a particularly interesting spot on the table, avoiding looking at anyone.

The Grand Maester clears his throat. "Perhaps we should return to the matter at hand," he suggests diplomatically.

"Yes, let's," Otto agrees, his voice tight. "As I was saying, the Dornish—"

Aegon's thoughts drift away again, this time to the look on Otto's face when he walked in on the two of you in the gardens. Aegon had you pressed up against the stone wall, your skirts hitched up around your waist. Otto had stammered and turned bright red, backing away as quickly as he could.

"Y/N," Aegon says, turning to you with a wicked grin, "do you remember when Grandsire walked in on us?"

You can’t help but laugh softly, nodding. "Yes, I do. He looked like he was about to faint."

Otto's knuckles are white as he grips the edge of the table. "Your Grace, please," he grinds out. "This is neither the time nor the place."

"Lighten up, Otto," Aegon says, waving a hand dismissively. "A little levity never hurt anyone."

The tension in the room breaks slightly as the other council members chuckle. Otto, however, looks like he's about to explode.

"Perhaps we should adjourn for today," Aegon suggests, rising to his feet. "I believe we've accomplished quite enough."

Otto opens his mouth to protest, but Aegon is already moving, taking your hand and pulling you to your feet. "Come, Y/N," he says, his voice low and intimate. "Let's continue this discussion elsewhere."

As you leave the room, you can feel the council's eyes on your back, but you don't care. All that matters is the warmth of Aegon's hand in yours, and the promise of what the rest of the day holds.

Aegon leads you through the winding corridors of the Red Keep, his grip on your hand firm and possessive. The flickering torches cast long shadows on the stone walls, creating an intimate atmosphere that sets your heart racing. The echoes of the small council meeting fade away, replaced by the anticipation of what is to come.

Instead of heading to your private chambers, Aegon pulls you toward the grand library, a place of quiet refuge and intellectual pursuit. The scent of old parchment and leather-bound tomes fills the air as you enter, the dim lighting from the candles casting a warm glow on the rows upon rows of books.

"I've been thinking about you all morning," he murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear. "I can't wait to continue where we left off last night."

You shiver at his words, your own desire mirrored in his eyes. He leads you to a secluded corner, hidden from view by towering bookshelves. Aegon presses you against the polished wood, his hands eager as they roam your body. The library's quiet solitude only adds to the excitement, the risk of being discovered making your heart race.

But just as Aegon is about to pull you into a passionate kiss, a soft cough from behind a nearby shelf makes you both freeze. Aegon straightens, his head snapping towards the sound. Emerging from the shadows, a book in hand and expression stern, is Aemond.

"Aemond," Aegon says, a smirk playing on his lips. "I didn't expect you to be lurking in the library."

"I can see that," Aemond replies dryly, stepping into the candlelight. "Must you always be so public about your... activities, brother?"

Aegon laughs, the sound deep and unabashed. "Why not? What's the point of being king if you can't enjoy yourself?"

Aemond rolls his eye, clearly unimpressed. "There are other ways to enjoy oneself that don't involve making a spectacle."

Aegon pulls you closer, his hand slipping around your waist. "But where's the fun in that, brother? Life is too short to be so serious all the time."

You can feel the tension in the library, but there's also a hint of amusement in Aemond's gaze. He shakes his head, exasperated but not entirely unamused. "You are impossible, Aegon."

"That's why you love me," Aegon replies, grinning. "Now, if you don't mind, we were in the middle of something."

Aemond raises an eyebrow. "Clearly. But perhaps you could exercise a bit more discretion. The walls have ears, and not all of them are friendly."

Aegon waves a hand dismissively. "Let them listen. Maybe they'll learn something."

You bite your lip to stifle a laugh, the absurdity of the situation not lost on you. Aegon turns his attention back to you, his eyes dark with intent. "Shall we continue, my love?"

Aemond sighs, shaking his head again. "Very well. I'll leave you to it. But please, try to keep it down this time."

As Aemond turns to leave, Aegon can't resist one last jibe. "Don't be jealous, Aemond. You'll find your own fun one day."

Aemond pauses at the doorway, glancing back with a faint smile. "One can only hope."

The door closes behind him, and you and Aegon are alone once more. Aegon pulls you into a deep kiss, his hands eager and insistent. The interruption seems only to have fueled his desire, his need for you more urgent than ever.

"Now, where were we?" he murmurs against your lips, his voice a seductive whisper.

You smile, wrapping your arms around his neck. "Right here," you reply, pulling him closer.

As the passion between you reignites, the lingering humor of Aemond's intrusion adds a layer of excitement to the encounter. The grand library might have its hidden eyes and ears, but in this moment, all that matters is the fire burning between you and your king.

Your bodies are entwined, the weight of Aegon's heated skin pressing down on yours as you both clutch desperately at each other in the dimly lit library. The scent of parchment and aged leather fills the air, mixing with the intoxicating musk of your fervent lovemaking. Aegon's platinum blond hair falls over his eyes, glistening with sweat, as he murmurs your name — Y/N — with breathless urgency.

"More, Aegon," you gasp, fingers digging into his back, pulling him closer. His lips are on your neck, your shoulders, everywhere at once, as if he can never get enough of you.

"You always want more," he grins against your skin, his voice a low growl of pleasure and amusement. "And I always want to give it to you."

You arch against him, your breath catching as he moves within you, each thrust bringing you both closer to the edge. Your world narrows to the sensation of his body, the heat of his touch, the sound of his ragged breathing mingling with your own.

Just as the world is about to shatter into a million pieces of ecstasy, the library door slams open with a thunderous crash. "Aegon! Y/N!" Dowager Queen Alicent's voice rings out, sharp and furious.

Aegon jolts, startled, and the sudden motion pushes him deeper into you, causing you both to cry out in unexpected bliss. The impact sends you both stumbling backward into a massive bookshelf. There's a moment of stunned silence before the entire row of shelves begins to topple like dominos, books cascading to the floor in a chaotic storm of paper and bindings.

As the dust settles, you find yourself pinned beneath Aegon, both of you as naked as the day you were born. His violet eyes are wide with a mix of shock and lingering desire, but there's a hint of laughter in them too. You can't help but chuckle softly, the absurdity of the situation taking hold again.

Alicent stands there, her face a mask of fury, flanked by a pale and trembling Grand Maester Orwyle, who looks like he's about to collapse. His precious tomes from the Citadel lie scattered and crushed around you.

"Mother," Aegon starts, still half-laughing, "I didn't hear you knock."

"Knock?" Alicent's voice rises in pitch, her hands clenching at her sides. "You have no sense of shame or propriety! Look at you both!"

You glance at Aegon, then back at your mother, feeling no shame whatsoever. "We were...occupied," you say with a coy smile.

Aegon shifts slightly, still positioned rather intimately, and you can't help but stifle a giggle. "We were, indeed," he agrees, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

Alicent throws her hands up in exasperation. "Occupied! In the library! Grand Maester Orwyle has important matters to discuss, and you are here...doing this!"

Orwyle makes a strangled noise, his eyes darting to the ruined books. "My...my tomes..."

Aegon looks around, still atop you, and shrugs. "They can be replaced, Orwyle. Unlike my dear sister-wife, who I cannot get enough of."

You can't help but laugh, reaching up to pull him down for a quick kiss. "Flatterer," you murmur against his lips.

Alicent's face turns an even deeper shade of red. "Enough! Both of you! Get up and get dressed this instant!"

With exaggerated slowness, Aegon finally rolls off you, standing and offering you a hand up. You take it, rising gracefully despite the chaos around you. Neither of you bothers to cover yourselves, reveling in your mother's discomfort.

As you both dress leisurely, Alicent mutters angrily under her breath, and Orwyle looks like he's aged a decade in mere minutes. The library is a mess, but to you and Aegon, it's just another amusing chapter in your reign as King and Queen.

Once clothed, Aegon winks at you, a smirk playing on his lips. "Shall we continue this...discussion later once more, my love?"

You return his smile, feeling the heat already rising again between you. "Oh, absolutely, Your Grace. I can't wait."

Alicent groans, turning away with a huff. "Seven save me," she mutters, but you can see the hint of a smile tugging at her lips. Despite her anger, even she can't deny the unbreakable bond you share with Aegon.

You and Aegon stride through the open doors of the library, a sea of wide-eyed servants parting before you. Whispers and shocked glances follow your every step, but you and Aegon remain completely unaffected, wearing expressions of amused indifference. The thrill of your recent encounter still lingers, and you can feel Aegon's hand subtly brushing against yours, a promise of more to come.

"Well," Aegon muses loudly, his voice echoing down the hallway. "Since the library is no longer an option, how about the throne room next?"

You hear a gasp from a cluster of maids, their faces a mix of scandal and fascination. Just as you are about to reply with a cheeky retort, Alicent's voice rings out from the library, where she is still consulting with Orwyle. "Aegon! Y/N! I swear by the Seven, if you even think about it, you'll both be confined to your chambers for a month!"

Aegon grins, leaning close to whisper in your ear. "I think she's bluffing. The throne room would be quite the statement, don't you think?"

You laugh softly, shaking your head. "Perhaps another time, Aegon. We should at least pretend to heed her warnings once in a while."

He sighs dramatically but nods, his arm slipping around your waist as you continue down the hall. "Very well, my Queen. For now."

The next morning, the sun filters through the windows of the council chamber, casting a warm glow over the ancient stone walls. Alicent paces back and forth, her brow furrowed in frustration. Across from her, Otto Hightower sits at a polished wooden table, his expression calm but concerned.

"Alicent," he begins, his tone measured, "we need to address the behavior of the twins. This...scandalous display cannot continue. It undermines their authority and brings dishonor to the throne."

Alicent stops pacing, turning to face her father. "Believe me, Father, I am well aware. Yesterday's debacle in the library was just the latest in a long line of their...indiscretions."

Otto sighs, folding his hands on the table. "We must find a way to curb their impulses. Aegon and Y/N's bond is undeniably strong, but it is also causing disruptions. The court is buzzing with rumors, and the smallfolk are beginning to talk."

Alicent nods, her frustration evident. "I've tried talking to them, scolding them, threatening them with confinement, but nothing seems to work. They simply don't care."

Otto leans back in his chair, considering. "Perhaps we need a different approach. Something more...persuasive. Have you considered involving the High Septon? His influence could carry weight, even with those as headstrong as Aegon and Y/N."

Alicent's eyes widen slightly at the suggestion. "The High Septon? Are we really at that point, Father?"

Otto nods solemnly. "If we are to maintain order and respect, we must consider all options. Aegon is King, and Y/N is Queen, but they must learn that their actions have consequences beyond their own pleasure."

Alicent sighs, her shoulders slumping slightly. "Very well. I will arrange a meeting with the High Septon. Perhaps he can impress upon them the seriousness of their duties."

Otto reaches out to place a reassuring hand on her arm. "It is for the best, Alicent. For the realm, and for them. They must learn to balance their love with their responsibilities."

As Alicent nods, determined but weary, you and Aegon lounge in your chambers, blissfully unaware of the conversation taking place. Wrapped in each other's arms, you share a lazy, contented morning, your laughter and whispered promises a stark contrast to the serious discussions unfolding elsewhere in the Red Keep.

Aegon presses a kiss to your temple, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your skin. "What do you think Mother and Grandsire are plotting now?"

You chuckle, shaking your head. "No doubt some scheme to rein us in. But we have each other, Aegon. Whatever they plan, we'll face it."

He smiles, a slow, lazy grin that makes your heart flutter. "Always, my love. Always."

[crguang]

wasted with longing

You and Kafka have a simple, superficial relationship that benefits you both. You should have known that nothing is ever simple when she’s involved.

friends with benefits, smut, afab!reader, gp!kafka, vaginal penetration, blowjob, dom!kafka, 4.5k words

A/N: fuckboy kafka is real and we should all be running… towards her🤣 this will be a series! i’ll fine tune it when i wake up but this is for my very excited anons and mutuals <3

part two

this is the collective playlist, i’m still adding songs as i go: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4fNHJsbeJLC49Fa8ACVOwW?si=pgaCSUzVTgmXZ8OuQJWLKA&pi=u-9uwba0QiQlWH

You push open the door to your apartment with a tired sigh and step inside. Freeing your feet from the new boots you bought days before feels heavenly, you’re still breaking them in and the process is almost torturous, often leaving you sore by the evening. You put on the slippers you discarded that morning as you shrug off your jacket, placing it back into the tiny closet near the front door. The lights are off but you don’t bother turning them on, instead, you make a beeline for your bedroom and flick that switch on. It’s late, around 11 PM, and you’re itching for a shower before collapsing into bed after spending the afternoon on your feet. You open the window a crack to let the breeze in, seeing as the summer nights tend to leave you sweating. You discard some of your clothing on the way to the bathroom, holding onto them to throw them in the laundry basket next to the sink. Standing in your underwear, you turn on the shower and adjust its settings to room temperature before removing your clothes. You’re grateful for the peaceful moment when you step into the shower, simply letting the water hit your face and soak your body.

Today was particularly challenging; your boss was a jerk your whole shift, more demanding than usual, and you’d promised some friends that you would go out with them after work even though you just wanted to be home by then. Forcing yourself to socialize is mentally taxing and often leaves you with a headache at the end of the night, too. Under the refreshing water, you feel the knots of your muscles loosen slowly as if smoothed out by warm, gentle hands. Your head tilts towards the shower head. For a few minutes, you wash away the weight of the day, focusing on the pitter-patter in your ears deafening you to all but your thoughts. An impulsive one passes by, meant to be fleeting but it solidifies in your head until you can’t help but entertain the idea.

You wonder what Kafka is doing, if she’d come running if you called the way she often does once the sun sets. She’s been busy lately, you think; you haven’t heard from her in around two weeks and you’ve been too preoccupied with work to bother checking on her. You don’t know what she does for a living, only that your palms brush against new cuts across her skin every once in a while. The acknowledgment of their presence goes unsaid like many other things, locked in a messy closet to which you both hold the key yet refuse to organize. Still, she’s skilled in the ways of your body and works you out like no one else can, so you ignore a lot about her to prioritize how relaxed you feel after a couple of hours with her. Some parts of you, your heart and fingertips, twitch to understand her absences and inconsistencies. You try not to dwell on that confusing desire for too long lest you come to a conclusion you don’t like. Kafka’s enigmatic, she’s mysterious and rehearsed as to always keep the upper hand in whatever war she’s implicated in like the world is an open minefield and she can’t afford a single misstep. Every semblance of genuine conversation about her turns into a game she has to win and you’re getting tired of playing along. However… you have to admit that you could use the distraction tonight.

The thought doesn’t leave you as you finish washing yourself and step out of the shower with a clean towel around your frame. You look for your phone once in the bedroom, picking it up from where it was discarded on your dresser, then sit at the edge of your bed. It takes a bit of scrolling through your recent conversations to find Kafka’s contact. You refrain yourself from rolling your eyes at the last texts you’ve exchanged. She can’t be relied on for your impromptu needs and you wish the opposite was true as well, but you’ve learned to make yourself available whenever she seeks you out. It’s pathetic, you tell yourself, even as your thumbs hover over the screen’s keyboard. You recline on the mattress with a sigh and hold your phone above you, wondering if you should do this. It’s late, and though that’s usually when you see each other, Kafka has the habit of not replying until hours later. It’s irritating, especially when you scroll up to her last messages and notice how quickly you always answer them. You toss your phone on the bed and cover your face with your hands. You swallow a scream.

“Embarrassing, embarrassing,” you mutter to yourself, “no dignity at all.”

As you question your life choices and consider blocking Kafka’s number to make yourself feel more in control than you are, your phone buzzes with a notification. You turn on your stomach to pick it up, tapping open the screen.

You stare at the most recent text for almost a full minute before closing the device and sitting up straight. The coincidence of her messaging you while you’re debating whether you should text her first leaves you reeling for a moment. You hesitate, fiddling with the phone in your hands. You want to leave her waiting like she often does to you, but… Excitement creeps up your spine at the thought of seeing her. This is what you wanted, isn’t it? Why not take what you need from her and send her on her way? This is what she’s good for, it’s how she regards you as well, so you give in to your impulses and craft the perfect text. Kafka’s reply comes almost instantly.

You can’t deny the flutter in your gut but you sure as hell can ignore it.

You make sure to be ready before Kafka comes knocking at your door. You lather yourself with your favourite lotion before pulling a tank top over your head and putting on pyjama shorts. You clean up around your apartment even if she never lingers long enough to get a good look at it, picking up dirty laundry and clearing the dishes. You don’t see the minutes tick by as you do your best to seem presentable. You check your teeth in the bathroom mirror, decide to brush them because you don’t have any mint, then tap your cheeks a couple of times, tilting your chin this way and that. You’re looking at your nails, wondering if you should clip them since they’re getting a bit long, when the doorbell rings.

You take measured steps towards the front door so as not to look too eager and shake your head at your antics. You turn the handle, revealing Kafka’s nonchalant expression on the other side of the door. She smiles at the sight of you, clad in her usual tight clothes and custom-made coat, and you have to suppress one from betraying your thoughts as you take her in. She does the same to you, gaze appreciatively raking over your figure before she even greets you. She still has makeup on, hiding the fatigue you know rests under her eyes, and she’s holding on to her pair of gloves instead of wearing them. You think she probably wrapped up whatever it is that she does and came to your apartment right afterwards.

You open the door wider and step to the side so she can come in. “You look tired.”

Kafka walks in and closes the door behind her with a foot. Her smile widens a touch, a self-assured edge to it. Her head tilts— you watch the loose strands of hair follow the movement— and her eyes drop to your chest for a deliberate second then lift to meet yours. “You look beautiful as ever.”

You don’t hide the annoyed roll of your eyes. You turn your back on her to lead her further into the apartment. She follows, slipping off her coat from her shoulders and discarding it on a sofa in the living room.

“You got rid of the painting?”

You look at where she stopped in front of the couch. She points to the far wall with her chin as she lays her gloves on top of her coat. You stand, dumbfounded. You used to have an abstract painting hung on that wall but stored it to install a TV instead. You’re mostly surprised she noticed; her lips are usually on yours instants after she’s stepped through the door.

“It’s here somewhere,” you gesture vaguely to the room.

“Mm… This coffee table’s different, too.”

“You broke the glass of the other one the last time you were here.”

Something in the way she glances at you, a cocky glint in her eyes, tells you she remembers.

“Right. What was it you said that night— ‘Don’t you dare stop?’”

You know Kafka revels in the flash of irritation that creases the bridge of your nose.

“I don’t remember that.”

“No?”

She makes her way to you, fingertips trailing on the back of the couch and amusement shining through her contacts, dusty pink swallowing the lilac at their edges, reminding you of carefully plucked calla lilies. Her slender fingers cup your jaw to tilt your chin, the nail of her index sliding across your skin, and you meet her stare with practiced ease. You hate how easily the anticipation of her touch heats the embers in your belly and you can’t stand knowing that she’s aware of her effect on you. Kafka brings you closer until all you care to see is the lustful, rosy shades of her irises. Her gaze lowers to the curves of your mouth.

“Need a reminder?” Her murmur is felt on your lips like the warm, inviting breeze wafting through the open windows.

You hook a finger under the waistband of her shorts and tug her forward. “Guess so.”

Her low chuckle is cut off by the kiss you plant on her lips. Kafka indulges your control over her, lets you back her up against the wall and pull her close with a hand around her neck. Her arm snakes around your waist, your body pressed to hers. She tastes sweet, like a sugary drink or a juicy fruit, and your tongue slips into her mouth to taste her fully. She welcomes it readily and allows it to swirl around hers before you feel her fingers curl around your throat. The pace shifts, hungry and hurried, as she effortlessly takes over the kiss, momentarily taking your breath away. You’re forced to follow her lead and exhale through your nose when she doesn’t release you. The hand on the back of her neck travels down her collarbone, pulling on the leather strap of her outfit so it slaps against her once you let go, and the hum that sounds from her throat softens your bones until you’re putty in her hands. Her shirt crumples in your grip while your fingertips tease the buttons of her shorts. Your world is reduced to the soft caress of her tongue in your mouth and the growing bulge beneath your palm.

Her hold on your neck relaxes slightly and you pull away enough to regulate your breathing. You stroke her over her clothes, drawing a sharp intake of breath from her. A pleased smile makes its way onto your face and your eyes blink open to stare at her swollen, peach lips.

“Someone’s happy to see me.”

Kafka traces the hollow of your throat with a rounded nail, smiling amusedly at your teasing tone. “Mmm.”

“Two weeks and a little kiss gets you worked up?”

“Were you counting?”

“Please. You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” You unclasp the buttons of her shorts and pull them down her waist to reveal the band of her pantyhose, toying with it and sighing in faux exasperation. “I suppose I could help.”

“Yeah?”

Kafka stares at you, anticipation in the way her lips unconsciously part, and you retain her lustful gaze as you withdraw from her body to put your hair up using the hair tie on your wrist. You raise a playful eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth, and her eyes narrow a touch at your cockiness. She doesn’t say a word, though, simply watches you lower yourself to your knees with that smile that says she’ll wipe that expression off your face soon enough. You start with her thigh-high boot, zipping it down to get it out of the way, then grip the edges of both her pantyhose and shorts to slide them off the rest of the way at once. Her layers annoy you on nights when your need is greater than your patience, but you enjoy teasing her like this; testing the elasticity of her boxers’ waistband, running the pads of your fingers over the thin fabric and along the thick of her bulge, pressing leisure, open-mouthed kisses on the soft flesh of her inner thighs. Kafka is a patient woman, her hand tangles in your hair but doesn’t pull. Her heavy stare makes you feel powerful despite being the one on your knees, she either doesn’t bother to hide her desire or she can’t— regardless, you’re her only way towards sweet release and she has no choice but to grant your petty wishes.

Your lips trace the outline of her length over her underwear. One hand cups her between her legs while the other kneads her plush thigh. You delight in the little hums Kafka doesn’t care to contain as you pepper kisses on her clothed cock, a thumb gently massaging her balls until you feel her twitch under your lips. Still, she doesn’t tell you to hurry along or pressure you in any way. Knowing that her cool demeanor is an act fuels the satisfaction in your gut. You pull at her boxers and free her hard cock, refraining from biting your lip at the sight of its prominent vein. You follow its pattern with your mouth and use a hand to curl around her base, eyes fluttering shut. You’ve done this so often, licked long stripes up to her tip and stroked her sensitive skin with teasing touches, that the feel of her against you is engraved in your gray matter. Your tongue swirls around her leaking tip to collect her pre-cum before taking her into your mouth. Kafka is so big you have to use your fingers to stroke what can’t fit past your lips. The weight of her cock on your tongue makes you so incredibly wet, you feel arousal trickling down your inner thigh. Her hips buck forward and her hand caresses your hair in a manner so fond you’d mistake her lust for care if you didn’t know any better. You work her up with quiet, muffled moans around her dick and she guides you down her length with one hand, unable to tear her eyes from your pretty face as you suck her off. You take as much of her as you can, feel the head brushing the back of your throat every few thrusts of her hips, and revel in the short, throaty moans spilling from Kafka’s lips.

“Mmhh… How pretty you look with your mouth full,” she manages to tease you in between low gasps, smugness dripping from her words. You give her sensitive tip a particularly harsh suck and bask in the uncontrolled jerk of her hips.

You look up at the crease between her brows and the rapid rise of her chest, her audible pants intoxicating you. With her head tilted to gaze down at you, strands of magenta hang in the air like threads of silk. You squeeze her base once to draw a longer moan from her. The taste of her bypasses your every thought, and you can only focus on her throbbing, wet cock filling your mouth. You stroke her with the same hungry pace, occasionally squeezing your thighs together to appease the heat between your legs. She’s so hard, so needy, you can’t help the indignant whine that escapes you when her fingers grip your hair and pull you away from her dick. A thin string of saliva connects her head to your tongue and breaks with the distance, falling onto your chin.

“Don’t pout, you’ll get your fill,” Kafka smiles despite her heavy breathing, urging you to stand with her hold on your head, “I’ll make sure of it.”

A tinge of irritation surges in your bloodstream at the cocky edge of her tone and the way your pussy aches for her touch. Her nose brushes yours once you’re on your feet, warm breath fanning over your lips. You hate that you want her, that your body responds to her by melting into hers as she steals the air in your lungs with a single heady kiss. You hate the way your thighs part almost immediately to allow her wandering hand better access to your cunt. You hate the amused chuckle that leaves her when she realizes you’re not wearing any underwear and rubs between your slit with a finger. And yet, you only get wetter under her ministrations, brows twisting with the pleasure she’s giving you. Her digit withdraws from your slick pussy, glimmering with your arousal, and Kafka stares at you with lidded eyes as she brings it to her lips to suck it clean. The wet sound of her mouth sends a jolt straight to your core. You need her to fuck you so badly, you can barely think before grasping the leather strap under her collarbones to pull her forward.

Your lips meet in a messy, heated kiss, her salty taste on your tongue and your slick on hers. You stumble down the hallway, losing pieces of clothing along the way, until you reach the bedroom and Kafka firmly pushes you down onto the bed with a hand on your bare chest. Her mouth is locked with yours and you feel her touch on your hips, across your waist, over your ribcage where your heart drums for her. Her thumb applies pressure on your erect nipple, drawing a needy sigh from you. You sneak around her chest to unclasp her bra and she assists you in sliding it off her arms to discard it on the floor. Her cock presses against your thigh while she teases your nipple between two fingers. You know you’re ruining the sheets beneath you but you can’t bring yourself to care; you get more desperate with every minute she’s not buried inside you, unable to contain the quiet whimpers that escape you.

“Kafka…” you breathe out in a whine, aware of how much it turns her on to hear her name out your lips. Her cock throbs on your thigh at the sound.

She plants kisses down your jaw and pinches your nipple a couple of times, the feeling delicious yet not enough. Her hum rumbles through her chest, “Mmm… Pleading already?”

Aeons, she’s infuriating. You wrap a leg around her waist and her length rests on your slit, but you bite the flesh of your cheek to keep in a breathy moan, not wanting to inflate her ego more than it already is. Kafka reaches down to rub her tip between your lower lips, almost groaning as your slick mixes with the saliva from your tongue. Your lungs stutter and you suck in a breath, nails digging into the expanse of her back. Her head grazes your aching clit, you arch further into her to repeat the action. It feels so good you forget all about who you’re dealing with until she speaks up again.

Kafka’s licks a broad stripe up your neck, then her mouth brushes the skin of your jaw on its way to your earlobe, pressing a kiss just below.

“You’re dripping…” Though her voice is close to your eardrums, you barely register the words she utters, lost in the pleasure of your clit sliding against the thick of her cock. “How much do you want this, mm?”

There’s a lick on the cartilage of your ear before she pulls away to look at you through the dull pink of her irises, eyelids heavy. The movement of her dick on your pussy comes to halt and it takes you losing that relieving friction to understand that she expects an answer.

“W-What?”

“Did you miss me this much?”

Your heel digs into her lower back to pull her closer, but her lips simply stretch into a knowing, teasing smile. She presses her tip against your twitching clit once, delighting in the flutter of her eyelashes and the beginnings of a needy moan that you refuse to let her hear.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you reply, but even you have to admit that your sentence lacks conviction or venom.

“Mm…” Kafka guides the tip of her cock to your gushing entrance and your next inhale gets caught in your throat. “Is it flattery if it’s true?”

“You w— Hah—!”

She pushes the head inside you, feeling you clench instinctively at the intrusion, and lets out a sigh of pleasure as your warm, tight cunt welcomes her cock. She watches a quiver go through your bottom lip and briefly bites her own. One hand digs into the plush of your love handle, the other sinks into the bedsheets next to your head. She slides another inch into you and your fingers tangle in her locks, tugging at the sensation of her length inside you, stretching you so well a breathless gasp spills from your mouth. Her smile is smug, pleased at your silence, and you swallow as you muster the strength to speak. Kafka leans closer, the tip of her nose against your cheek and her breath warming your skin. Slowly, she bottoms out completely and gives you a moment to adjust to the fullness. Something in the way her pants falter occasionally tells you that she needs that pause too. Her lips are on your jaw in a kiss way too soft, too gentle to be from her; her who means nothing to you aside from the pleasure she provides you.

“I missed you.”

You feel a buzzing sensation in your lower belly that has nothing to do with her cock nestled in your cunt. The words are murmured like a confession but you know they aren’t one, Kafka means to provoke you so that she can put you in your place, a game you’ve played since the day you met. You can’t explain why it’s as if your heartstrings are plucked and manipulated like those of an instrument, its melody disorganized and disharmonious. You don’t understand the sudden irritation that mixes with your arousal, sending a shiver down your spine.

You tug at her hair and her head follows the movement backwards, lips parting.

“I hate you,” you manage to utter through gritted teeth, and you’re frustrated to find that there’s no truth in what you’ve said.

Kafka’s growing grin turns mocking. “Aww. But you’re sucking me in…”

To prove her point, she withdraws from you just to thrust back in, her tip hitting that sensitive spot inside you. Her length rubs your walls with every thrust of her hips, rendering you speechless aside from the quiet whimpers that fall from your tongue, and your anger fades away, replaced by the desperate need to come. Your fingers messily swipe at your clit and your nails paint crescent moons on her back from how tightly you’re holding on to her body. Despite her own need, Kafka is determined to pull more lovely sounds from you. Her pace is tantalizingly slow but harsh in the way you prefer as she fills you to the brim. You feel her all around you, her lips on your jaw, the pads of her fingers sinking into your flesh, her cock buried deep inside your fluttering cunt. Her low moans and short groans hit your ears in sinful sounds that only make you wetter. Her breasts are flushed to yours, following the rocking of her hips.

“Fuck, fuck—“ you babble breathily, lost in the pleasure, “more…”

You don’t register Kafka manhandling you with an arm around your waist so that you’re straddling her lap instead, only that the change in position allows her to drive deeper into you. You moan brokenly as she grabs your hips and guides you down onto her cock in one go. Your thighs tremble, aching, and your orgasm is imminent. Kafka groans into your shoulder, bouncing you on her dick, the taut coil in her belly begging to snap. Your slick trickles down her length and your wet pussy swallows her cock, you clench around her like you dread she’ll pull out before you can come. She uses a palm to apply pressure on your lower stomach, feeling the faint outline of her bulge inside you, and the sensation pushes you over the edge. You cream on her cock with a cry. Your head tilts back and Kafka leans away from your shoulder to gaze at your cum drenching her girth. She knows how sensitive you get after an orgasm, can feel you twitch against her with the aftershocks, but she can’t help jerking her hips upwards to fuck your cum back into your pussy. She wants to see her own cum merge with yours until you’re so full of her that you’re gushing.

“Kafka—!” You gasp out, fingers gripping her loose ponytail, “W-Wait…”

She shushes you with an insistent kiss. She’s close, guiding your hips up and down her throbbing cock. With a particularly harsh thrust, that familiar coil in her stomach finally breaks and her cum spills into you in hot, intense spurts against your inner walls. It’s too much for you to handle even as her thrusts stutter, yet a second orgasm builds inside you, quick and desperate; your body moves on its own accord, further stimulating you and drawing a long, drawn out moan out of you. Kafka’s lips are parted and you miss the sheen in her eyes as she stares up at you unashamedly riding her until you come around her dick a second time.

You’re both coming down from your high some time later, your eyes are shut and the pace of your rising chest slows down enough for you to take deep breaths. Kafka is a comforting presence beside you on the bed, and like you do with many things, you ignore the warmth that is born from your chest and spreads across your torso. A welcomed kind of exhaustion creeps up on you, almost pulling you into a dream, but you hear Kafka move next to you so you turn your head to look at her. She’s fixing her hair, putting back locks of magenta into her ponytail. She feels your gaze on her and meets your eyes with a small smile. There’s that twitch of your heart and fingertips again at the sight of the soft glow of her sweaty skin under your bedroom lights.

“You look exhausted,” her tone lacks its usual teasing edge but you’re too tired to notice, “I’ll use the shower and lock behind me with the spare key. You should sleep. I’ll message you tomorrow.”

You don’t say anything to that. You stare at the ceiling as the shower is turned on in the background.

Kafka doesn’t text the next day.

[amateurvoltaire]

For the past six years or so, this graph has been making its rounds on social media, always reappearing at conveniently timed moments…

The insinuation is loud and clear: parallels abound between 18th-century France and 21st-century USA. Cue the alarm bells—revolution is imminent! The 10% should panic, and ordinary folk should stock up on non-perishables and, of course, toilet paper, because it wouldn’t be a proper crisis without that particular frenzy. You know the drill.

Well, unfortunately, I have zero interest in commenting on the political implications or the parallels this graph is trying to make with today’s world. I have precisely zero interest in discussing modern-day politics here. And I also have zero interest in addressing the bottom graph.

This is not going to be one of those "the [insert random group of people] à la lanterne” (1) kind of posts.  If you’re here for that, I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed.

What I am interested in is something much less click-worthy but far more useful: how historical data gets used and abused and why the illusion of historical parallels can be so seductive—and so misleading. It’s not glamorous, I’ll admit, but digging into this stuff teaches us a lot more than mindless rage.

So, let’s get into it. Step by step, we’ll examine the top graph, unpick its assumptions, and see whether its alarmist undertones hold any historical weight.

Step 1: Actually Look at the Picture and Use Your Brain

When I saw this graph, my first thought was, “That’s odd.” Not because it’s hard to believe the top 10% in 18th-century France controlled 60% of the wealth—that could very well be true. But because, in 15 years of studying the French Revolution, I’ve never encountered reliable data on wealth distribution from that period.

Why? Because to the best of my knowledge, no one was systematically tracking income or wealth across the population in the 18th century. There were no comprehensive records, no centralised statistics, and certainly no detailed breakdowns of who owned what across different classes. Graphs like this imply data, and data means either someone tracked it or someone made assumptions to reconstruct it. That’s not inherently bad,  but it did get my spider senses tingling.

Then there’s the timeframe: 1760–1790. Thirty years is a long time— especially when discussing a period that included wars, failed financial policies, growing debt, and shifting social dynamics. Wealth distribution wouldn’t have stayed static during that time. Nobles who were at the top in 1760 could be destitute by 1790, while merchants starting out in 1760 could be climbing into the upper tiers by the end of the period. Economic mobility wasn’t common, but over three decades, it wasn’t unheard of either.

All of this raises questions about how this graph was created. Where’s the data coming from? How was it measured? And can we really trust it to represent such a complex period?

Step 2: Check the Fine Print

Since the graph seemed questionable, the obvious next step was to ask: Where does this thing come from? Luckily, the source is clearly cited at the bottom: “The Income Inequality of France in Historical Perspective” by Christian Morrisson and Wayne Snyder, published in the European Review of Economic History, Vol. 4, No. 1 (2000).

Great! A proper academic source. But, before diving into the article, there’s a crucial detail tucked into the fine print:

“Data for the bottom 40% in France is extrapolated given a single data point.”

What does that mean?

Extrapolation is a statistical method used to estimate unknown values by extending patterns or trends from a small sample of data. In this case, the graph’s creator used one single piece of data—one solitary data point—about the wealth of the bottom 40% of the French population. They then scaled or applied that one value to represent the entire group across the 30-year period (1760–1790).

Put simply, this means someone found one record—maybe a tax ledger, an income statement, or some financial data—pertaining to one specific year, region, or subset of the bottom 40%, and decided it was representative of the entire demographic for three decades.

Let’s be honest: you don’t need a degree in statistics to know that’s problematic. Using a single data point to make sweeping generalisations about a large, diverse population (let alone across an era of wars, famines, and economic shifts) is a massive leap. In fact, it’s about as reliable as guessing how the internet feels about a topic from a single tweet.

This immediately tells me that whatever numbers they claim for the bottom 40% of the population are, at best, speculative. At worst? Utterly meaningless.

It also raises another question: What kind of serious journal would let something like this slide? So, time to pull up the actual article and see what’s going on.

Step 3: Check the Sources

As I mentioned earlier, the source for this graph is conveniently listed at the bottom of the image. Three clicks later, I had downloaded the actual article: “The Income Inequality of France in Historical Perspective” by Morrisson and Snyder.

The first thing I noticed while skimming through the article? The graph itself is nowhere to be found in the publication.

This is important. It means the person who created the graph didn’t just lift it straight from the article—they derived it from the data in the publication. Now, that’s not necessarily a problem; secondary analysis of published data is common. But here’s the kicker: there’s no explanation in the screenshot of the graph about which dataset or calculations were used to make it. We’re left to guess.

So, to figure this out, I guess I’ll have to dive into the article itself, trying to identify where they might have pulled the numbers from. Translation: I signed myself up to read 20+ pages of economic history. Thrilling stuff.

But hey, someone has to do it. The things I endure to fight disinformation...

Step 4: Actually Assess the Sources Critically

It doesn’t take long, once you start reading the article, to realise that regardless of what the graph is based on, it’s bound to be somewhat unreliable. Right from the first paragraph, the authors of the paper point out the core issue with calculating income for 18th-century French households: THERE IS NO DATA.

The article is refreshingly honest about this. It states multiple times that there were no reliable income distribution estimates in France before World War II. To fill this gap, Morrisson and Snyder used a variety of proxy sources like the Capitation Tax Records (2), historical socio-professional tables, and Isnard’s income distribution estimates (3).

After reading the whole paper, I can say their methodology is intriguing and very reasonable. They’ve pieced together what they could by using available evidence, and their process is quite well thought-out. I won’t rehash their entire argument here, but if you’re curious, I’d genuinely recommend giving it a read.

Most importantly, the authors are painfully aware of the limitations of their approach. They make it very clear that their estimates are a form of educated guesswork—evidence-based, yes, but still guesswork.   At no point do they overstate their findings or present their conclusions as definitive

As such,  instead of concluding with a single, definitive version of the income distribution, they offer multiple possible scenarios.

It’s not as flashy as a bold, tidy graph, is it? But it’s far more honest—and far more reflective of the complexities involved in reconstructing historical economic data.

Step 5: Run the numbers

Now that we’ve established the authors of the paper don’t actually propose a definitive income distribution, the question remains: where did the creators of the graph get their data? More specifically, which of the proposed distributions did they use?

Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to locate the original article or post containing the graph. Admittedly, I haven’t tried very hard, but the first few pages of Google results just link back to Twitter, Reddit, Facebook, and Tumblr posts. In short, all I have to go on is this screenshot.

I’ll give the graph creators the benefit of the doubt and assume that, in the full article, they explain where they sourced their data. I really hope they do—because they absolutely should.

That being said, based on the information in Morrisson and Snyder’s paper, I’d make an educated guess that the data came from Table 6 or Table 10, as these are the sections where the authors attempt to provide income distribution estimates.

Now, which dataset does the graph use? Spoiler: None of them.

How can we tell? Since I don’t have access to the raw data or the article where this graph might have been originally posted, I resorted to a rather unscientific method: I used a graphical design program to divide each bar of the chart into 2.5% increments and measure the approximate percentage for each income group.

Here’s what I found:

Now, take a moment to spot the issue. Do you see it?

The problem is glaring: NONE of the datasets from the paper fit the graph. Granted, my measurements are just estimates, so there might be some rounding errors. But the discrepancies are impossible to ignore, particularly for the bottom 40% and the top 10%.

In Morrisson and Snyder’s paper, the lowest estimate for the bottom 40% (1st and 2nd quintiles) is 10%. Even if we use the most conservative proxy, the Capitation Tax estimate, it’s 9%. But the graph claims the bottom 40% held only 6%.

For the top 10% (10th decile), the highest estimate in the paper is 53%. Yet the graph inflates this to 60%.

Step 6: For fun, I made my own bar charts

Because I enjoy this sort of thing (yes, this is what I consider fun—I’m a very fun person), I decided to use the data from the paper to create my own bar charts. Here’s what came out:

What do you notice?

While the results don’t exactly scream “healthy economy,” they look much less dramatic than the graph we started with. The creators of the graph have clearly exaggerated the disparities, making inequality seem worse.

Step 7: Understand the context before drawing conclusions

Numbers, by themselves, mean nothing. Absolutely nothing.

I could tell you right now that 47% of people admit to arguing with inanimate objects when they don’t work, with printers being the most common offender, and you’d probably believe it. Why? Because it sounds plausible—printers are frustrating, I’ve used a percentage, and I’ve phrased it in a way that sounds “academic.”

You likely wouldn’t even pause to consider that I’m claiming 3.8 billion people argue with inanimate objects. And let’s be real: 3.8 billion is such an incomprehensibly large number that our brains tend to gloss over it.

If, instead, I said, “Half of your friends probably argue with their printers,” you might stop and think, “Wait, that seems a bit unlikely.” (For the record, I completely made that up—I have no clue how many people yell at their stoves or complain to their toasters.)

The point? Numbers mean nothing unless we put them into context.

The original paper does this well by contextualising its estimates, primarily through the calculation of the Gini coefficient (4).

The authors estimate France’s Gini coefficient in the late 18th century to be 0.59, indicating significant income inequality. However, they compare this figure to other regions and periods to provide a clearer picture:

Amsterdam (1742): Much higher inequality, with a Gini of 0.69.

Britain (1759): Lower inequality, with a Gini of 0.52, which rose to 0.59 by 1801.

Prussia (mid-19th century): Far less inequality, with a Gini of 0.34–0.36.

This comparison shows that income inequality wasn’t unique to France. Other regions experienced similar or even higher levels of inequality without spontaneously erupting into revolution.

Accounting for Variations

The authors also recalculated the Gini coefficient to account for potential variations. They assumed that the income of the top quintile (the wealthiest 20%) could vary by ±10%. Here’s what they found:

If the top quintile earned 10% more, the Gini coefficient rose to 0.66, placing France significantly above other European countries of the time.

If the top quintile earned 10% less, the Gini dropped to 0.55, bringing France closer to Britain’s level.

Ultimately, the authors admit there’s uncertainty about the exact level of inequality in France. Their best guess is that it was comparable to other countries or somewhat worse.

Step 8: Drawing Some Conclusions

Saying that most people in the 18th century were poor and miserable—perhaps the French more so than others—isn’t exactly a compelling statement if your goal is to gather clicks or make a dramatic political point.

It’s incredibly tempting to look at the past and find exactly what we want to see in it. History often acts as a mirror, reflecting our own expectations unless we challenge ourselves to think critically. Whether you call it wishful thinking or confirmation bias, it’s easy to project the future onto the past.

Looking at the initial graph, I understand why someone might fall into this trap. Simple, tidy narratives are appealing to everyone. But if you’ve studied history, you’ll know that such narratives are a myth. Human nature may not have changed in thousands of years, but the contexts we inhabit are so vastly different that direct parallels are meaningless.

So, is revolution imminent? Well, that’s up to you—not some random graph on the internet.

Notes

(1) A la lanterne was a  revolutionary cry during the French Revolution, symbolising mob justice where individuals were sometimes hanged from lampposts as a form of public execution

(2) The capitation tax was a fixed head tax implemented in France during the Ancien Régime. It was levied on individuals, with the amount owed determined by their social and professional status. Unlike a proportional income tax, it was based on pre-assigned categories rather than actual earnings, meaning nobles, clergy, and commoners paid different rates regardless of their actual wealth or income.

(3) Jean-Baptiste Isnard was an 18th-century economist. These estimates attempted to describe the theoretical distribution of income among different social classes in pre-revolutionary France. Isnard’s work aimed to categorise income across groups like nobles, clergy, and commoners, providing a broad picture of economic disparity during the period.

(4) The Gini coefficient (or Gini index) is a widely used statistical measure of inequality within a population, specifically in terms of income or wealth distribution. It ranges from 0 to 1, where 0 indicates perfect equality (everyone has the same income or wealth), and 1 represents maximum inequality (one person or household holds all the wealth).

[warrioreowynofrohan]

This is one of the best articles I’ve seen yet on Trump, Trumpism, and the upcoming election. It’s directed at the right and centre-right (whereas most tumblr posts on this are directed at the left), but it’s saying – with detailed analysis and evidence – exactly what needs to be said, to everyone. This is not a normal election. How you vote this November determines whether you ever get the chance to vote in a democratic election again. This is not a game. Fascism is not a buzzword or a rhetorical device to hurl at anyone and everyone you disagree with. It is real, it is dangerous, and Trump is openly running on a fascist platform.

There are only two sides in this election: those who want the United States to be a fascist dictatorship and those who do not.

I live in Canada. I do not want to live next to a fascist state (especially since the Comservatives here are way ahead in the polls and their leader gives every sign of wanting to cozy up to Trump).

Please, stop this while you still have a chance.

Today we’re going to look at definitions of fascism and ask the question – you may have guessed – if Donald Trump is running for President as a fascist. Worry not, this isn’t me shifting to full-time political pundit, nor is this the formal end of the hiatus (which will happen on Nov 1, when I hope to have a post answering some history questions from the ACOUP Senate to start off on), but this was an essay I had in me that I had to get out, and working on the book I haven’t the time to get it out in any other forum but this one. And I’ll be frank, some of Donald Trump’s recent statements and promises have raised the urgency of writing this; the political science suggests that politicians do, broadly, attempt to do the things they promise to do – and the things Trump is promising are dark indeed.

Now I want to be clear what we’re doing here. I am not asking if the Republican Party is fascist (I think, broadly speaking, it isn’t) and certainly not if you are fascist (I certainly hope not). But I want to employ the concept of fascism as an ideology with more precision than its normal use (‘thing I don’t like’) and in that context ask if Donald Trump fits the definition of a fascist based on his own statements and if so, what does that mean. And I want to do it in a long-form context where we can get beyond slogans or tweet-length arguments and into some detail.

Now the response from some folks is going to be anger that I am even asking this question and demands for me to ‘stay in my lane.’ To which I must remind them that the purpose of history and historians is, as Thucydides put it, is to offer “an exact knowledge of the past as an aid to the understanding of the future, which in the course of human affairs must resemble if it does not reflect it” (Thuc. 1.22.4). This is my lane. Goodness knows, I’d much rather be discussing the historical implications of tax policy or long-term interstate strategy, but that isn’t the election we’re having. And if hearing about these things that happened is unpleasant, well, Polybius offers the solution: “men have no more ready corrective of conduct than knowledge of the past” (Plb. 1.1.1). We must correct our conduct.

The author, Bret Devereaux, lays out the history of the rise to power of Hitler and Mussolini and draws out the lessons

What I want to note here are two key commonalities: First, fascists were only able to take power because of the gullibility of those who thought they could ‘use’ the fascists against some other enemy (usually communists). Traditional conservative politicians (your Mitch McConnell and Lindsey Graham types) and conservative business leaders (your Elon Musks) fooled themselves into believing that, because the would-be tyrant seemed foolish, buffoonish, and uneducated that such an individual could be controlled to their ends, shaped in more productive, more ‘moderate,’ more ‘business friendly’ directions. They were wrong; many of them paid for their foolish error with their lives (Victor Emmanuel III paid for it with his crown). Mussolini and Hitler would not be ‘shaped,’ – they would be exactly the violent, tyrannical dictators they had promised to be – to the total and utter ruin of their countries.

Note that these men were not exactly subtle about what they wanted to do. Mein Kampf is not a subtle book. But they both knew how to promise violence to their followers while prevaricating to their temporary allies; be wary of the fascist who promises violence in his rally speeches but assures you that, if you just give him power, he won’t hurt anyone (except the people you don’t like) – because it is a lie, of course.

Second: once these fascist leaders were in power it was already too late to stop them. Precisely because fascists had no respect for democratic processes and the rule of law – things they had declared openly in seeking power – once in power, they were unconstrained by them and swiftly set about converting all of the powers of the government into a machine to keep them in power. And the conversion from democracy to dictatorship was remarkably swift, in Italy, Mussolini marched in October of ’22, rewrote the election rules in November of ’23 and by December of ’24 had effectively dropped even the pretense of democracy; just two years. Hitler was faster: appointed chancellor in January 1933, by March of that year he had suspended constitutional protections and ruled by fiat; just three months.

The time to stop an authoritarian takeover of a democratic system is before the authoritarian is in office, because once they are in power, they will use that power, to stay in power and it becomes almost impossible to remove them without considerable violence (and difficult to do even with considerable violence).

That, however, creates a tricky situation. With most political ideologies, voters can adopt a strategy of judging by outputs: “if you don’t like the current government’s policies, let these other fellows here have a go at it and see if they do better. If not, you can always vote them out next time.” But with fascists and other authoritarians there may not be a next time and this strategy fails: by the time the actions of the fascists make it clear they are dangerous, it is too late to vote them out.

This is why it is important to listen carefully to what fascists say and what they promise and most importantly to take their threats of political violence and authoritarianism seriously.

Which is not to say that everything on the right is fascism (just as not everything on the left is its own authoritarian variant, communism). Ronald Reagan was not a fascist, nor was George H.W. Bush or George W. Bush or John McCain or Mitt Romney. They were conservatives within the liberal tradition (again, ‘liberal’ here in the old Jefferson-Locke-and-Washington sense). Most Republicans today are not fascists, although a distressing number appear ready to repeat Franz von Papen’s mistake of assuming they can achieve their goals through an alliance with fascists. Only the devil wins such a devil’s bargain.

How is one to tell the difference? Listen to the things they promise to do and understand that they make speak out of both sides of their mouth: promising violence to one audience and then toning down their rhetoric to another. But politicians speaking from within the tradition of liberty don’t need to speak that way because they don’t promise violence in the first place.

Listen for the promises of violence, the promises to suspend press freedoms, the promises to persecute political adversaries and when you hear them believe them.

I strongly recommend reading the whole article, as the author goes on to lay out two of the more common definitions of fascism and analyze, point-by-point, how Trumpism fits them.

There is a reason why some Republicans, even some of the people who were in Trump’s inner circle in 2016-2020, have jumped ship now. The Republicans who are willing to vote for Kamala aren’t doing it because she’s conservative – they’re doing it because they’re anti-fascist. It would be deeply ironic if people on the left who have been calling themselves anti-fascists for the last eight years proved to be less so than those Republicans. This may be one of the most crucial moments in American history. Take it seriously.

[schneiderenjoyer]

My Descent Into Madness About Unilogs

This is more of a full blown conspiracy theory than a theoretical analysis of information, keep that in mind.

So, as always, this will be VERY long and ramble-y so take your time reading!

I left off in my discussion about The Wheel's connection to the Storm and it being the possible key to how it all works without really explaining it. This is why.

The Wheel doesn't just have the ability to create fog that repels the Storm within the suitcase, but also has the ability to summon arcanists.

Through a two dimensional golden thread weaved onto the spindle, it can't be felt tangibly and it doesn't seem to truly "exist" in that realm. But with enough of these "nonexistent lines" can Vertin call out to an arcanist and bring them there.

Specifically any arcanist of any timeline. Regardless of if they've ever been reverse into that era yet.

As well as the implication of summoning an arcanist not just from their timeline, but from another universe's timeline.

Now, I'm about to pitch you the conspiracy theory part of the essay, so entertain my insane ramblings for a bit because this is gonna be one of my hottest takes known to man.

Sonetto didn't survive the Storm in the prologue.

Here's my reason why I consider this a possibility:

We barely knew Sonetto's personality in the prologue, so it'd be easy to do this switch compared to doing it at a later date. But what we can glean from pre-1966 Storm and post-1966 Storm Sonetto is her immediate tonal shift.

Sonetto before the Storm is far more subdued with her way of speaking with Vertin. Professional and could even be considered more polite.

We can chalk this up as her being on Work Mode and with the Storm's arrival approaching, it's far more important to get the task done than her relaxing her mood.

So, let's think about why I think it's not possible for her to make it back to the Foundation on time. In the prologue, we see them discuss a new form of teleportation device still being improved by LaPlace.

It's a means to have a better way to teleport a large group of people from a much farther distance.

With this in mind, it's important that they have the disks to immediately evacuate because it'll take longer to get back to the safety of the Foundation. But they used all three of it. One to summon Vertin.

One to intercept the enemies.

And one-

Was used by Regulus to escape.

And with that time, they only hade 45 minutes left before the Storm hits. Sonetto instructed her squad to go back ahead, leaving her to go with Vertin to investigate.

Even if we're absolutely generous in stating she can get far with using consistent fast travel arcane spells to move her to safety, how much time did she have?

Not enough. Not even the best teleportation spell can get her back in time assuming the nearest London branch is just a subdivision away.

Speaking of teleportation spell, we can even use one of the teleportation spells as a reference. Aferoj Around.

It's one Sonetto suggested Vertin used to summon her, but immediately dismisses it as a possibility. It could be because of the fact that the range wouldn't make sense assuming that Sonetto's been summoned from the main headquarters all the way to where Vertin is. So even an advanced arcane skill like that can't just summon someone in that great amount of distance.

While it's also should be taken into account that with the reverse having send them from 1966 England all the way to 1929 America, it's still an impossibility if they were to still be within London. Because if that kind of spell is so easily executed consistently, then they wouldn't be developing the Teleport disk. It's an advanced skill for a reason and even that has limitations. So other less taxing teleport skill wouldn't have the distance needed to get Sonetto back in time.

Which brings us to post-1966 Storm Sonetto and the wild implication of her summoning. For one, her reaction is far more brighter and excited, familiar even. Much more like the puppy we consider her to be now. It can also interpreted as shock, but the demeanor compared to post-1966 Storm Sonetto at least has a slightly noticeable difference.

One of the biggest difference though, is this:

Madam Z somehow knew about what Vertin's doing and has instructed Sonetto specifically to seek her out.

If we can believe in Vertin's words here, she's never told anyone about this. Not even Madam Z. So to boldly be told that they knew all along is a strange difference that even took Vertin off guard.

Why this is important is to ask you this. Just how much can you tell if someone is replaced with another version of themself? We're all lead to believe that those differences are drastic, but alternate universes doesn't have to be full blown change. It can be as simple as putting on your right sock first rather than the left that day.

Which is why it'd be so cruel and so sneaky to actually have done this switch in the first place. Because we don't know Sonetto enough to have noticed the change. And Vertin doesn't know her enough either after 4 years of not really being that close to her.

And how can I say this could be possible without a little bit more evidence to entertain it? Well, Chapter 5 is the reason I'm making this theory in the first place. And that's because of one person.

Diggers.

This man. THIS MAN.

Canonically fukin joins the Manus. This manfailure is the sole reason, aside from one more reason but i'll get into later, why I thought about this possibility.

Because you can say that maybe after this event in the island he'll just defect to Vertin's team later after suffering the injustice of the arts or whatever, but I like to point back to one of the listed descriptions of Unilog's capabilities.

It can sometimes change the fates of people. So what I'm suggesting is that the Diggers we end up recruiting isn't the same Diggers, but an alternate universe one who didn't join the Manus as he was literally ripped from his timeline to join Vertin's instead.

This could explain many more of the characters in the roster being from timelines far into the past or even far into the future like John Titor. Heck, it explains dead people like Click and Poltergeist being there when they're supposed to be dead. Because summoning them through The Wheel has the potential to change their fate.

So yes, you can also argue that means Vertin did end up saving Sonetto from reversing and they actually do have their timeline's Sonetto still, but there's still the possibility that she's just another universe's Sonetto. She's both this timeline's Sonetto and not at the same time.

Schrodinger's Sonetto. (Note that this isn't the accurate use of Schrodinger's cat logic, it's mainly a joke)

Which now leads up to 100% the ultimate reason why I wanna pitch this idea as possible and y'all already know where I'm leading up to, this is just a huge build up to one thing and one thing only.

S C H N E I D E R.

THAT'S RIGHT. IT WAS SCHNEIDER ALL ALONG. You think I wouldn't go a single damn analysis without talking about my bbygirl? You're dead wrong. If this summoning system has the damn ability to yoink people from another universe and change their fate, then the possibility of getting Schneider back is far more real. Heck, you can even pull a version of her that actually IS an arcanist like y'all I fukin swear I'm not delulu, PLEASE--

ahem.

So that's my thoughts about what could unilogs do. I know it's extremely far fetched, but I like to entertain these ideas in hopes that it might give people a lot of other theories to craft!

[chichikoi]

hygge; — (n.) a quality of coziness and comfortable conviviality that engenders a feeling of contentment or well-being.

pairing: wriothesley x gn!reader fandom: genshin impact genre: fluff warnings: implications of a stoic/reserved reader. a/n: half asleep while writing this, but what can i say, wrio's been on my mind.

As the day released its tendrils of weariness, you and Wriothesley found yourselves ensconced in the hushed sanctuary of your shared space. Wriothesley, the embodiment of stoic composure, detected a delicate shift in the atmosphere—a subtle softening that spoke of your unspoken struggle. 

You allowed a fleeting vulnerability to grace the room like a rare bloom, despite typically being a bastion of quiet strength. Wriothesley, attuned to the nuances of your connection, adjusted the cadence of his responses with a delicate touch of understanding, a modulation in his normally crisp demeanor. 

Within the quietude of the room, Wriothesley, his words now an invitation, murmured, "What are you thinking about, hmm?" His voice, usually a composed symphony, now carried a timbre of compassion, an echo which resonated with the hidden notes of your soul. 

Your heartbeats synchronizing with the rhythm of the evening, yielded to the gentle inquiry. "It's just been a taxing day, that's all," you confessed, your words a whispered sonnet in the dimming light. Wriothesley, his gaze a serene constellation, responded with a gentle touch, "Sometimes, the weight of the day can be overwhelming. You're not alone, love." The usually reserved duke of the fortress of meropide, finding solace in the whispers of untold words, acknowledged the delicate interplay of emotion. 

It was in the tranquil ambience of Wriothesley's arms, that you found a harmonious respite, a consecrated interval where the lines of exposed frailty depicted a portrait of intimacy. As you quietly unwound, an atmosphere of sacred understanding emerged, wherein through gestures of vulnerability two souls were able to connect on a canvas illuminated by truthful revelations of the heart. In this moment beyond time, a refuge was discovered and a shared sanctuary emerged, as the verses of your humanity spoke to one another. The quietude enveloped you, a serene sonnet written in the language of understanding and whispered solace.

[intheholler]

Do you have any tips for being more comfortable using your natural accent in front of people? I was bullied for it as a kid and scrubbed my accent away through teenhood. As an adult, I feel like I still have to put on a neutral accent so people at work won't judge me. I told one of my old bosses that I was from Appalachia and he went on about how he'd seen do many documentaries on Appalachia and what good people we were, but also added that "Wow! I never would have known. You don't have an accent at all. You're so well-spoken!" and it felt bad. I think he had good intentions, but it made me feel like a zoo animal. I always see comments on other Appalachian folks' posts about their accents too, and there's always a handful of jerks who have to say something about their intelligence or make an incest or drug addict "joke".

It all hurts a lot and makes me self-conscious, but I don't want to be this way around my friends. Do you know how I can stop letting peoples' ignorance and classism get to me? Worrying about how I pronounce words or if I'm using region-specific slang all the time is so exhausting.

hi there <3 this is a topic near n dear to my heart because i spent so much of my life trying to avoid sounding appalachian, and the last few years of it desperate to sound so aggressively appalachian that yankees can't understand me, lmao.

that is all to say: this is gonna be long as usual.

first: class solidarity, family <3 this stuff really sucks.

what inspired me to push past the discomfort of using my natural accent after a lifetime of getting rid of it was actually along the lines of what you mentioned: people being shocked that i could be from appalachia, and be articulate at the same time. there are so many nasty, hurtful implications there.

i hate to say it, but there's no easy answer to this.

something in me just… snapped one day about ten years back. i started to look inward, and i discovered this overwhelming pride and passion and love for my home that i had denied myself my whole life, out of fear over how it made me look.

i started doing the self-work and digging deeper into that. it wasn't comfortable, but once i embraced appalachia, i wanted to defend her. the best way to do that for me was to be loud. my pride in where im from outweighed the rest.

maybe you should start there, too. look inward, break down your own subconscious biases about yourself and about our home. find out why you have been made to think this way.

work on loving the appalachian parts of yourself. GET. FUCKING. ANGRY. at those who poisoned your mind with this shit, and use that fury to work on dismantling the beliefs they imposed upon you.

because why shouldn't we talk like our mamas just because some asshole thinks its funny? why should we give up ties to our community and culture, just to be respected? why should every blessed conversation be emotionally and physically taxing just to make a classist more comfortable?

it isn't my shame to carry, and it isn't yours. it is their shame, and their self-work to do. it is not our responsibility to coddle their ignorance. that is on them.

now, when someone hears me talk, it causes a sort of dissonance that they then have to wrestle with. it shifts the discomfort and emotional labor away from me, and puts it on to them instead.

every time i speak proudly, they have to confront themselves and their biases, and how it harms someone that they respect--you.

and if they aren't the kind of person empathetic enough to do that, literally who gives a shit what someone like that thinks about you.

turn those 'jokes' they make about it right back on them:

why is drug addiction funny? why is incest and sexual assault of children funny? why are underfunded schools and a failure to give children across the nation a fair and equal education something to laugh about?

framing it in my mind that i was taking back control in conversations this way helped me speak more comfortably. it made me feel empowered.

i think of it like this: by speaking in my dialect and embodying positive and "unexpected" traits from the region (leftist politics, anti-racism, things like that), i reclaim my power. i use that power to slowly shift the opinions of appalachia with the people i interact with.

it was scary, and it's still scary. but by making a conscious decision every day to speak in our dialect and be courageous even when it's hard, we are reclaiming the parts of ourselves that they took from us. we are bettering the image of the region we love so dearly.

it is INCREDIBLY empowering now to settle into my accent. but it took a LOT of self-work, courage and self-respect to be able to do it.

it ain't easy. i do still struggle with it; i catch myself code switching all the time. i don't think you or me or any of us trying to reclaim our accents will ever fully escape the weight of the classism that dictated our manner of speaking for a huge chunk of our lives, unfortunately.

but if you do that difficult work, it is so, so liberating, family.

you can do it. talk to yourself when you're home alone. let the accent get comfortable again on your tongue. start there, then let that beautiful dialect out for the world to hear <3

[cenestpaslavie]

Election Fraud?

You've seen this image:

It’s a graph from a website named ZeroHedge. Its purpose is to highlight the dramatic increase in democrat votes in 2020, and the subsequent decrease in 2024. This is to bring attention to the theory that the 2020 election was a farce. However, this graph is not viable evidence of election fraud. All it shows is that more people, overall, showed up to the 2020 election. I believe this increased turnout can be attributed to the unprecedented circumstances at the time.

Firstly, it is clear that Democrat and republican votes increased from 2016 to 2020. For Democrats, it was a 23% increase, and for Republicans, it was 18%. It then seemingly drops to normal levels for Democrats in 2024, but not for Republicans. It should be considered that this is a developing situation, the article this graph was created for was posted on November 6th, while votes were still being counted. Currently, on November 8th, the graph would look more like this:

As the rest of the votes are counted, the graph will continue to shift. It’s still a significant loss in Democrat votes, but it’s definitely not the flat line shown in the original graph anymore.

The drastic increase in the votes of Democrats and Republicans (though admittedly, mostly Democrats), can be attributed to the issues at the time. In 2020, there were the George Floyd protests, which went on the entire year (and almost another two after that), there were the California wildfires which decimated 4.3 million acres, and of course, the beginning of the COVID-19 lockdowns, which ruled over the entire year. In times of exceptional social tension, voter turnout will increase; this has always been true. For example, in the first election after 9/11, democrats showed a 16% increase in votes, and Republicans showed a 23% increase, based on the votes of the previous election. An increase, which is proportionally very similar to 2020, only reversed. Another important factor is the social distancing protocols in 2020, where the reasons a person could request to vote by mail were expanded, and many states sent all registered voters a ballot by mail. So, people who had not voted before had a mail-in ballot dropped in their lap and might have already been pushed into action by the increasing social tension.

In the 2024 election, though, the drop in voter turnout was not proportional to what we saw in 2008, the second election after 9/11. Though, again, as the votes are counted, this gap will decrease. It is my belief that many typical Democrat voters were feeling disillusioned with the state of things. Trump’s campaigning was ever-present, the assassination attempt caused massive publicity, and Kamala only had a few months to campaign. The biggest issue many left-winged people were concerned with this election was the ongoing genocide in Gaza. Since both Trump and Kamala did not plan to stop funding Israel’s invasion, many people voted third party or did not vote. While Kamala did show more empathy towards the Palestinian people than Trump, it was not enough to sway the majority to her side.

In conclusion, there was not and is not an election fraud. The results are what they are, and trying to prove a voting fraud distracts from the action that needs to be taken now to win back the Democrat votes for 2028. It also risks re-empowering the 2020 election fraud movement, which was violent and conspiratorial.

I would also like to add that despite the mostly neutral tone in this post, I am firmly a leftist. It is genuinely gutting to see the outcome of this election, not because of fraud, but because all of those people really approved of such archaic, hateful ideas.

Sources: 

Durden, T. (2024). Trump Wins: Here Are The Economic, Market, Tax, Tariff, Immigration And Regulation Implications. [online] Zerohedge.com. Available at: https://www.zerohedge.com/markets/trump-wins-here-are-economic-market-tax-tariff-immigration-and-regulation-implications [Accessed 8 Nov. 2024].

This is the ZeroHedge article which contains the original graph.

HOW WE VOTED IN 2020 A TOPICAL LOOK AT THE SURVEY OF THE PERFORMANCE OF AMERICAN ELECTIONS. [online] Available at: https://electionlab.mit.edu/sites/default/files/2021-03/HowWeVotedIn2020-March2021.pdf.

This is a breakdown of voting methods in 2020, used when talking about the increase of mail in ballots.

The Editors of Encyclopedia Britannica (2017). United States Presidential Election Results. In: Encyclopædia Britannica. [online] Available at: https://www.britannica.com/topic/United-States-Presidential-Election-Results-1788863.

This is an official record of the United States presidential election votes. This was used to calculate the increase of Dem and Rep voters, and to construct the updated graph.

Molski, M. (2024). How voting demographics changed between 2020 and 2024 presidential elections. [online] NBC4 Washington. Available at: https://www.nbcwashington.com/decision-2024/2024-voter-turnout-election-demographics-trump-harris/3762138/.

A comparison of voter demographics between 2020 and 2024. Used for me to get a general idea of the situation.

Kerlin, Katherine E. “California’s 2020 Wildfire Season.” UC Davis, 4 May 2022, www.ucdavis.edu/climate/news/californias-2020-wildfire-season-numbers.

Acres burned in the 2020 wildfires.

[nayziiz]

Shadows | LN4

Summary: [Mafia] In the face of dire financial troubles, Lando receives a desperate plea from his father to unearth a lucrative solution within the family business. Fueled by the pressure to rescue his family from ruin, Lando stumbles upon a seemingly perfect venture—using luxury cars as a facade for the clandestine world of drug trafficking. With the unexpected partnership of Amelia Rossi, his father's best friend's daughter, Lando believes he has found the ideal accomplice. However, as the Norris family collides with the ambitious Russells in a ruthless bid to establish their dominance, the perilous path Lando has chosen places not only his newfound enterprise at stake but also entangles Amelia in the dangerous crossfire that unfolds.

Warning: Violence, drugs, blood, smut, fluff, guns

Pairing: Lando Norris x OC (Amelia Rossi) - appearances from other drivers

Masterlist

Chapter 13

Amelia sat in front of the television, her eyes fixed on the screen with a mixture of anticipation and apprehension. Every passing second felt like an eternity as she waited for the BBC's morning news bulletin to begin, her heart pounding in her chest as she braced herself for what was to come.

Finally, the familiar jingle signalled the start of the broadcast, and the reporter's voice filled the room as she broke the news of the police's investigation into Harold Rossi. Amelia's breath caught in her throat as she listened intently, her eyes widening in shock at the gravity of the allegations being levelled against him.

As the reporter detailed Harold's alleged involvement in several murders, kidnapping, smuggling, and tax evasion, a wave of disbelief washed over Amelia. It was as if the ground had shifted beneath her feet, and she struggled to process the magnitude of what she was hearing.

Beside her, Lando stood silently, his expression unreadable as he absorbed the damning information. His father stood beside him, his features etched with a mix of concern and resignation, his own world crumbling around him.

For Amelia, the news brought a mixture of relief and disbelief. Relief that the truth was finally being exposed, but disbelief at the extent of Harold's alleged crimes. It was a moment she had both feared and hoped for, and now that it was unfolding before her eyes, she found herself grappling with a whirlwind of emotions.

“Police have been supplied with damning evidence implicating London businessman Harold Rossi in several federal crimes. Rossi was allegedly involved in several murders from 1998 and is also accused of kidnapping and, most recently, tax evasion.” The reporter spoke. “This is an ongoing investigation.”

Amelia took the remote and switched off the television.

“So, I guess it’s official then, I’m not Harold Rossi’s daughter anymore.” She breathed.

“Amelia, I know what he did was wrong, but Harold loves you with every ounce of his being. You do realise that?” Adam was quick to interject.

Amelia's gaze shifted to Adam, her expression softening at his words. Despite the gravity of the situation, she couldn't deny the truth in his statement. Harold's actions had been reprehensible, but beneath the layers of deceit and betrayal, there had always been a flicker of paternal love, a desire to protect and care for her in his own flawed way.

“I know.” She murmured, her voice tinged with a mixture of sadness and resignation. “But love isn't always enough, is it? Sometimes, it's not even close to being the right thing.”

Adam nodded in understanding, his own gaze clouded with a mixture of empathy and regret. He had long grappled with his loyalty to his best friend and his desire to do right by his son, torn between the conflicting loyalties that had defined his life for so long.

“You're right, Amelia. Sometimes, love blinds us to the truth, and it takes courage to see things as they truly are.” He conceded, his tone sombre.

As Adam retreated from the living room, his steps heavy with the weight of his actions, a profound sense of melancholy settled over him like a shroud. For decades, he had stood by Harold's side, their friendship forged in the crucible of shared experiences and mutual trust. They had weathered storms together, navigated the treacherous waters of the business world side by side, and stood as unwavering pillars of support for each other through thick and thin.

But, everything had changed. The revelation of Harold's dark deeds had shattered the foundations of their friendship, leaving Adam reeling with a sense of betrayal and disillusionment. He couldn't shake the feeling of emptiness that gnawed at his insides, the sense of loss that permeated every fibre of his being.

As he retreated to the solitude of his own thoughts, Adam couldn't help but wonder if he had done the right thing. Had he made the right choice in exposing Harold's crimes to the world, or had he betrayed a friendship that had been the bedrock of his existence for so long? The questions swirled in his mind, casting doubt upon his actions and leaving him grappling with the consequences of his decisions.

“Is your dad okay?” Amelia asked Lando.

Amelia's question hung heavy in the air, laden with concern and empathy as she looked at Lando, who stood quietly beside her. His expression was unreadable, a mask of stoicism that belied the turmoil brewing beneath the surface.

“He'll be fine.” Lando finally replied, his voice tinged with a hint of sadness. “It's just a lot to process.”

Amelia nodded in understanding, reaching out to gently squeeze his hand in a gesture of comfort and support. She could see the conflict etched in his features, the struggle to reconcile the actions of his father with the man he had always known and respected.

“Did we make the right choice here, Lan?” Amelia wondered, suddenly feeling saddened by how everything had played out.

Lando's gaze softened as he turned to face Amelia, his expression reflecting the depth of his emotions.

“I believe we did. We couldn't continue living a lie, Amelia. The truth had to come out, no matter how difficult or painful it might be.” He replied, his voice steady and reassuring. Amelia nodded in agreement, though a trace of uncertainty lingered in her eyes.

“Everything feels so surreal, you know?” She murmured, her voice tinged with a sense of disbelief. “To think that my whole life has been built on lies and deceit. It's hard to wrap my head around.”

Lando reached out to gently cup her face in his hands, his touch tender and comforting.

“I know. But we're stronger than this. We'll get through it together, one step at a time. And, you know you have a family with us who love you like their own.” He softly reassured her. Amelia leaned into his touch, drawing comfort from his presence and his words.

“Yeah.” Amelia smiled as she gazed lovingly at him.

A few quiet moments passed before her phone started ringing. She glanced at the screen and saw her father’s name flashing. She showed Lando the screen who gestured for her to give him her phone, which she did. He answered the phone and pressed it against his ear.

“Harold.” Lando sneered as he greeted Harold.

“Lando? Where is Amelia?” Harold frantically queried.

“She’s not available at the moment.” Lando lied, attempting to create space between Harold and Amelia.

“I would like to speak with my daughter.” Harold insisted, his voice half panicked.

“I think you’ve caused her enough pain as is. What more could you possibly have left to say?” Lando countered, frustrated and impatient with Harold’s demands.

“Let me speak with her, please, Lando.” Harold pleas sounded too genuine for Lando to ignore.

With a heavy sigh, Lando glanced down at Amelia who nodded. Lando handed her the phone after putting it on speaker.

“Dad?” Amelia spoke, cautious yet curious.

“Amelia.” Harold breathed a sigh of relief. “Are you safe?”

“I’m safe.” Amelia confirmed, keeping her answers short and to the point.

“Adam will look after you.” Harold stated, in a way confirming the obvious.

“What do you mean?” Amelia asked, confused.

“There are people who are implicated by my crimes coming to light, Amelia. They will seek revenge. Just stay with Lando and Adam, they will keep you safe. Do you understand?” Harold implored, his voice growing softer with each word.

“I understand.” She confirmed.

“You know I love you, Milly.” He reminded her, his voice barely a whisper.

“I know.” She acknowledged the fact, but was hesitant to reciprocate the sentiment.

“And I’m sorry I-” He began but was cut off.

A gunshot reverberated through the phone causing Amelia to flinch and launch the phone away from her in a startle. Lando took the phone from Amelia and spoke into it.

“Harold?” Lando's voice was urgent as he repeated Harold's name, his heart pounding in his chest as he awaited a response. But all he was met with was a deafening silence, the absence of Harold's voice sending a shiver down his spine. “Harold? Are you there?”

“Harold? Answer me, damn it!” He demanded, his tone laced with concern and fear.

But still, there was no response, no indication of what had just transpired on the other end of the line. Lando's mind raced with a million possibilities, each one more terrifying than the last.

As Lando's eyes met Amelia's, she could see the turmoil swirling within him. The weight of the situation seemed to press down on him, his usually confident demeanour replaced by a sense of urgency and concern. With a practised hand, his movements quick and deliberate, he ended the call and then swiftly powered off her device.

Amelia's heart pounded in her chest as she watched him, a sense of unease settling over her. She had never seen Lando like this before, his normally composed facade crumbling before her eyes. It was as if he was battling some unseen force, struggling to maintain control in the face of uncertainty.

“We have to get you out of here, now.” Lando announced, flustered and frightened, before exiting the room to find his father.

After a few minutes of frantically searching for Adam, he found his father in the study with his head in his hands, still very overwhelmed by the part he played in Harold Rossi’s downfall.

“Dad?” Lando spoke as he lightly knocked on the study door.

“Lan, what’s up?” Adam asked gently as he lifted his head.

“Harold just called to speak with Amelia, and we think he may have been shot.” Lando explained to his father, his voice cracking.

“Are you sure?” Adam implored as he rose to his feet.

“Not 100%, but there was a gunshot and he didn’t respond.” Lando responded.

“I’ll get the jet ready. You need to get Amelia somewhere safe. I’ll give Verstappen a call, maybe you can hide her in the Netherlands for a while.” Adam suggested, grabbing his phone. “Just get her to the hangar now. And, just be safe, son.”

“Yes, Dad.” Lando agreed before rushing back to the living room to inform Amelia of the plans.

Amelia's mind raced with uncertainty as she sat on the couch, the events of the past moments playing over and over in her mind like a broken record. The sound of the gunshot echoed in her ears, reverberating through the silence of the room. She couldn't shake the feeling of dread that gripped her heart, the fear of the unknown looming over her like a dark cloud.

Was it really a gunshot? Or had her mind played tricks on her, conjuring up phantom sounds in the midst of her panic? She couldn't be sure, and the uncertainty only added to her growing sense of unease.

“We need to leave.” Lando said as he rushed into the living room, his voice firm with resolve. “Go grab what you need and do it quickly. We don’t have a lot of time.”

Amelia nodded, her heart pounding in her chest as she rose from the couch and hurried upstairs to their bedroom with Lando on her heels.

As the McLaren 765LT Spider glided through the city streets, the tension inside the car was palpable. Amelia sat in silence, her mind swirling with a maelstrom of thoughts and emotions. Beside her, Lando's grip on the steering wheel was tight, his jaw set with determination.

The journey to the hangar felt like an eternity, each passing minute weighed down by the weight of uncertainty. Amelia's gaze flickered to the passing buildings outside the window, the familiar sights of the city blurred by her racing thoughts.

Finally, they arrived at the hangar, its imposing silhouette looming ahead in the darkness. Lando parked the car with precision, his movements swift and purposeful. With a sense of urgency, he guided Amelia out of the car and towards the waiting plane.

The hangar was quiet, the only sound the distant hum of engines and the soft rustle of the night breeze. Amelia followed Lando up the steps of the plane, her heart pounding in her chest with each step.

Inside the plane, the atmosphere was tense yet oddly calm. Lando checked the controls with practised ease, his movements fluid and confident. As the engines roared to life, sending vibrations through the air, Amelia felt a surge of adrenaline course through her veins.

They were leaving everything behind – the chaos, the danger, the uncertainty. And though the future was still uncertain, Amelia found solace in the knowledge that she was not alone. With Lando by her side, she knew they would face whatever lay ahead together, united in their resolve to overcome whatever obstacles came their way.

[ranticore]

Chapter 3 - To Be Phocid [Qedivar's research]

It's that time again. Ishmael is a teenage boy, fair warning.

I'm posting this on mobile so I cba linking the previous chapters but go into the siren tag to find them.

x

Following these events, and at Maris’s insistence, Ishmael began to keep a journal. To the delight of this author, his writing was deep, introspective, and highly detailed. From now on, I no longer had to rely on pieced together scraps and reports, but from a primary source. As such, the way these events are related will shift a little, but that is only for events concerning Ishmael.

Cherta, unfortunately, did not keep a journal at this time and remains frustratingly opaque, given Ishmael’s somewhat biased recounting of their activities. Although one must concede to the difficulties of keeping a journal underwater, before the age of sub-aquatic writing systems, and with eighteen other overambitious adolescents in relatively close proximity.

Ishmael’s journal was recorded on a computerified device and was not written by hand, though his deep dream education had serviced to educate him in handwriting skills. This was tested when he was younger, as part of an evaluation to determine the extent of his dexterity. Although the notion of a form of writing which is stored in a purely hypothetical space is very odd, especially in its permanency, it has enabled us to access his thoughts at this day and age, whereas traditional aquatic knot-writing would have long since rotted away.

He wrote in the language of the Predecessors, which I believe to be the root of all air-speaking language families. The translation of these texts is what has taxed me more than any other part of this process, aside from the grievous bodily harm, and it has taken a fantastic span of time to achieve this translation. I cannot credit my sources for fear of implicating them but you can be assured that the finest minds of the Spire collaborated on this project. This Predecessor tongue is what is spoken in all of the videos, enabling me to learn it to a conversational level, though I am hardly fluent.

Some of the journal is rendered untranslatable due to it referring to objects or concepts which were considered common knowledge at the time, requiring no additional definition. These concepts or objects will be clearly marked. However, I believe much of the text to be familiar to many people, telling of the frustration and longing common and recognisable today. That said, I believe it is also important not to take for granted the relatability.

Ishmael is not always familiar to us and existed in a time we would find nigh incomprehensible. Do not take this as reason to doubt his interiority or personhood, and do not fall into the trap of believing that you would have done better in his place, that you would have seen clearly what he obviously did not (and had good reason not to). They may have been phocids, or the predecessors of phocids, but they were new. If you were the first of your kind, could you do better?

I will now present the text in chronological order, starting from the eve of his sixteenth birthday:

-

Entry 1 – I hate seeing that baby siphonid. It’s still moving. It drags itself around on the leg the researchers didn’t take. Now I’m just going to remember this forever, since I wrote it down. Great. I hate that fucking noise. Why can’t they just get it to shut up?

Thank [deity]. They took it away.

Update – it didn’t even taste good.

-

Entry 2 - Maris told me to talk more about my feelings. What does she know? Nobody understands me anyway. I don’t think they can feel all that on their face like me. The sipho noise kept touching me. The researchers are always talking about hydrofoils and antennae but I bet they don’t know what I do - how the siphos talk to each other. I told Callum and he didn’t know what I meant, even though he has a beard.

Talked to Lee again about sex since Dan said he wouldn’t tell me himself. I don’t think Lee told the truth about a lot of that stuff. The other kids sometimes joke around a bit too much, but it is kinda funny I guess.

Update - Dan shouted at me for asking, but now I have proof Lee was wrong.

-

Entry 3 – The phocids click at each other underwater with their tongues.

Dan got so angry after I pulled my face hair out. He made the interns [untranslatable] search my room for the hairs and they actually found them. They didn’t even do anything with it, just put it in a bag and sealed it away. Looks like nobody wants it at all. Dan says Atom spent 120 billion nua making me, so I think one face hair is worth a few million. If I started selling them to the people outside the lab, I could buy my own stake of land on Siren just like them. I wouldn’t let Lee in. My fingers are probably worth a couple billion each.

Should I

-

Entry 4 – Emer (the intern) looked at me like I did something wrong when she changed my pillowcases.

Spilled bile EVERYWHERE when they were testing me. I keep thinking about somehow saving it and trying to sell it. I’m supposed to be a digestive model for Siren food, so my insides are probably worth a lot. I should ask Dan when he calms down.

Callum came around to talk to Dan again. He’s getting really tall, he’s taller than me now even when I stand up straight. He’s so skinny, like the baby siphonids (I can snap one in half with just my teeth now). When Callum was there, he didn’t want to look at me, but I get it. They didn’t even cook the siphonid this time, it was raw and with the shell on. His leg is the same width as one of them.

Emer won’t stop changing my pillowcases. Is there a way to prevent them from smelling like that?? Callum hasn’t been around so I can’t ask. Maris thinks it’s just because people my age start getting sweaty but Dan specifically told me he made me not have sweat glands anywhere but my hands. Then he said the phocids do have sweat glands. I still don’t get the point of sweating if you’re already a stupid wet rat who lives in the

-

Entry 5 – I’m seventeen now. Since I’m an adult, I decided to stop being reticent around the phocids. I want to know if they found a comfortable way to walk without the skin coming off their tails. So I went to talk to them today for the first time. There is a window where you can do it, they let it open ever since the climate control got busted again last month.

Cherta is really weird. I knew they couldn’t stay in the pool for very long because they might have a seizure but apparently it can happen any time, not just underwater. They have a button implant that makes their muscles relax. Anyway, their tails have thicker skin than mine so that was useless. But it is still worthwhile, I think, to meet with the phocids. They remind me why I am a human, and they are not. I kind of pity them because all they're ever going to be is a bunch of test subjects in a tiny swimming pool.

Cherta told me that one of the phocids died a year ago. I don’t remember Dan ever talking about it to me, but they said it was a big deal. Apparently they got pressure sickness when climate control broke the first time. I think Cherta broke it the second time, they sounded too proud to mention it. I don’t get it. Anyway, breaking stuff in the lab is against the rules and I think I’m going to tell Dan about that.

-

Entry 6 – I made the right choice. Cherta got so angry when they found out I told on them that they had another seizure. The other phocids had to pull them out of the pool. Dan thought I did the right thing but I don’t think he liked me going to tell Cherta about it afterwards, told me no one likes a snitch. Well, then, what am I supposed to do? Just let it happen? I hope Cherta chokes on that gross pool water next time.

Dan suggested I go do something other than visit the phocids and I agree, they’re clearly not worth my time. I went to see Callum instead but he wasn’t in. He has a games console, I saw him show it off to Lee the other day. I wonder if he’d let me try it.

[End of Journal Entries]

-

It paints an interesting picture. As Ishmael mentions, Cherta suffered permanent neurological issues as a result of their birth mishaps. This was a point of contention within the lab, beyond Ishmael’s knowledge; the finance manager of the settlement questioned the wisdom of keeping a test subject in an aquatic locomotion study group who could not spend much time underwater. Every time, however, Dan Loris would respond that Cherta now provided essential information about phocid neurology and drowning mechanisms.

The phocid whose death Ishmael mentions was number seventeen, Ambla. It is highly likely that number seventeen’s death was accidental, but the circumstances were not caused by a failure of the lab’s climate system.

I have found the experimental notes from that day; Ambla was brought to an isolated chamber which was controlled by the climate system, with its own test pool, and the quality of the atmosphere was changed to match that of the Precursor home planet. The force of gravity was thus increased. What the Humans did not expect was Ambla’s sudden inability to swim to the surface. They inhaled water, which settled in their lungs and caused them to drown even after they had been pulled out of the pool.

Dan expressed grief in his notes, and surprise. He did not understand why such a thing would occur and blamed the climate system for somehow altering the test beyond his parameters. This is likely what led to Cherta’s misconception that the climate system had killed one of their friends, and their subsequent sabotage of the climate system every few months after that.

But any phocid or selkie reading this will intimately recognise the problem, and I believe the mystery of Ambla’s death may now be solved. The water taken to fill the pool was likely Tel!am’s Blood, a phenomenon all sea-faring people will know about. The Precursors, it seemed, were unfamiliar with it, and had pumped water in to the pool which nobody could swim in. But with the increased gravity, even the fittest phocid would struggle to rise in shallow water.

Regardless, there exists a substantial gap between that last journal entry and the next. Almost a year, in fact, when Ishmael did not write at all, and neither did he participate in Maris’s therapy sessions. I do, however, have a copy of Callum’s journal with me which provides at least half of the narrative, incomplete as it is.

[mariacallous]

U.S. Vice President Kamala Harris’s selection of Minnesota Gov. Tim Walz as her running mate was met with enthusiasm from Democrats across the party, including from the party’s left wing. A big part of this is Walz’s solidly pro-labor governing record and his appeal to working-class voters, which was on display on Wednesday when he spoke at the Democratic National Convention in Chicago.

Although his championing of working Americans’ jobs, pay, and rights has obvious and important domestic appeal, it also has a potentially significant implication for foreign policy under a Harris-Walz administration.

One of the Biden administration’s most important projects, sometimes summarized as “post-neoliberalism,” has been the move away from unfettered so-called free trade—the pro-corporate theology that dominated the past few decades of economic policymaking. The government is now fully back in the business of investing in U.S. workers and communities. (A 2023 report tracking this progress was published by the Roosevelt Institute, a think tank helping to drive this transformation.)

As vice president, Harris has played a key role in this pivotal project, and selecting one of the  most pro-worker governors in the country as a running mate signals that she is all-in on this shift. This is great news, because not only is this post-neoliberal, pro-worker agenda likely where the election will be won, but it is also central to the larger goal of defending global democracy.

Conservatives have noticed. “By picking Tim Walz as her running mate, Harris has gone a long way toward bolstering her left-populist flank and neutralizing [Republican vice presidential candidate J.D.] Vance’s potential appeal,” wrote Sohrab Ahmari, the founder and editor of the conservative nationalist magazine Compact and a leading voice of the populist new right, when the pick was announced. “Walz can’t be framed as a neoliberal Democrat in the Clinton-Obama mold.”

Vance’s own speech at the Republican National Convention in July was billed as foreign policy-focused, but it was really all about how U.S. elites had failed the country’s struggling workers. Playing up his family roots in a small Ohio town—“a place that had been cast aside and forgotten by America’s ruling class in Washington”—Vance attacked U.S. President Joe Biden for his past support of the North American Free Trade Agreement, for China’s entry into the World Trade Organization, and for “the disastrous invasion of Iraq.”

“At each step of the way, in small towns like mine in Ohio, or next door in Pennsylvania or Michigan, in other states across our country, jobs were sent overseas, and our children were sent to war,” Vance said. While larded over with common right-wing tropes and xenophobic invective, the speech sounded like a road map for how the Republican Party intends to capture the working class.

In its own way, Vance’s speech was a darker, divisive version of a more affirmative and unifying  address that U.S. National Security Advisor Jake Sullivan gave in April 2023, which laid out the Biden administration’s global economic agenda. Confronting the flawed assumptions that dominated U.S. statecraft in the past 40 years—“that markets always allocate capital productively and efficiently”—Sullivan rejected the philosophy that “championed tax cutting and deregulation, privatization over public action, and trade liberalization as an end in itself.”

Like Vance a year later, Sullivan acknowledged that elites had failed working people in the United States. He said that not only had an economic integration approach failed as a geopolitical strategy—not stopping China from military expansion or deterring Russia from invading its neighbors—but it also radically increased economic and political inequality, both globally and domestically. The speech marked an important step forward in Washington’s thinking.

However, much less noticed was a speech that Sullivan gave a week later at the Washington Institute for Near East Policy, which showed how the Biden administration still had one foot in the previous era. In that speech, Sullivan laid out the administration’s plan to maintain U.S. hegemony in the Middle East by buttressing relationships with various repressive, undemocratic regimes and stitching together an alliance intended both to contain Iran and box China out of the region.

I noted to administration colleagues at the time that the second speech was a formula for squandering the opportunities of the first. While the Biden administration had discarded some of the flawed foreign-policy assumptions of the past, it continued to hold fast to the idea that Washington can purchase security and prosperity for U.S. workers by exporting insecurity and repression to others, whether in the Middle East, China, or anywhere else. The past 10 months of catastrophic war in Gaza should have discredited that notion, if it wasn’t already.

The United States can build a more equitable global order, or it can frantically try to maintain global primacy, but it can’t do both. The Harris-Walz team has an important task and a big opportunity to diminish this contradiction and complete this transformation. Just as the neoliberal era proved that giving carte blanche to big corporations—whether they’re car companies or weapons manufacturers—is not a means for achieving broad economic progress or security, the past 20 years of the “war on terror” showed that a heavily militarized foreign policy feeds global insecurity and shreds the fabric of international norms.

As outlined by Trump and Vance, the Republican vision is essentially zero-sum: The United States and its workers only win by others losing, and vice versa. The Harris-Walz team can offer a vision of contrasting solidarity, which doesn’t seek to build political consensus by vilifying the foreign enemy of the moment but rather seeks ways to uplifts workers and their communities in every country.

The U.S. public needs to hear more about how diplomacy and cooperation—including with China, can provide other benefits for Americans, as evidenced recently when China imposed new controls on fentanyl precursor chemicals—and about how the issue of irregular migration, which has been a driving force in far-right populism, can only be addressed by improving conditions and reducing violence in the home countries of those migrants—a shared struggle that the labor movement understands and embraces.

A real pro-worker foreign policy doesn’t pit the security and prosperity of Americans against workers in other countries but recognizes that our security and prosperity are bound together. We saw the outlines of that in the speech from Walz, the good neighbor and the inspiring coach, on Wednesday. That is the winning global vision that he and Harris should embrace.

[shapituha]

Zyg is the standard representative of a vampire from off-Earth. All I can say specifically about him is that he's a bit of a recluse. Also, he has a friend who I haven't given a proper name to yet-. He is a parasite that has taken up residence on the head of some dead dude. Well. They also like to listen to music.

But the vampirism in this universe is entirely a mutant evolutionary form of fatal insomnia that became super common after the war due to radiation in some areas. The effects of the Shift are of course implicated in such a weird mutation.

The main features are blue skin, black hair, and red eyes. Unlike classic vampires, they have a reflection and need to eat normal food in addition to drinking blood.

Once infected, they are unable to sleep FOREVER. Also cannot age due to abnormalities in telomerase, but do not become invulnerable to other dangers (such as disease).

However, they still like to peddle tales about only silver killing them, just like the bloodsuckers from folklore. Afraid of sunlight due to UV-sensitive skin.

Insomnia is gradual after infection. At first they have nightmares, start waking up in the middle of sleep, and then sleep becomes impossible.

They only drink blood to compensate for the lack of sleep.

They feel better about victims who don't get enough sleep. Perhaps the blood tastes even better to them, because the inhabitants of Non-Earth produce substances against bloodsuckers when they get enough sleep, though in fact it is much more useful in this form.

EVERY Non-Earth dweller can become a vampire. But the vampires themselves do not strongly approve of the fact that someone is "malnourished"* and breeds new bloodsuckers. Because of this, the Vampire Community has emerged, trying to track down every vampire and keep their population under control. If you breed a new vampire - you have to die. Because of immortality, the community is a little worried that the spread of vampirism creates competition in food - because you can't suck each other's blood. This organization is also trying to set up a state so they can have their vampire utopia, in which the tax would be blood donation among mortal beings 🙄

Btw, they suck at it. Yeah and even keeping track of all the vampires doesn't really work out. (((Other vampires don't like drinking cooled blood from packets, of course they won't volunteer to do that)))))

*Vampirism can be contracted by drinking blood and not killing the person sucked. The chance of getting infected is about 40%, but it's better to be insured anyway.

[ngdrb]

Evaluating the Concerns and Potential Extremism of Project 2025

This far-right, extremist agenda is a threat to a multiracial, diverse democracy

Introduction

Project 2025 has garnered significant attention and sparked debate among various stakeholders. This analysis aims to explore the reasons why some individuals and groups express apprehension about the project and to evaluate whether these concerns are deemed extreme. Additionally, this discourse will consider potential modifications to address these concerns  and Perceptions of Extremism

Scope and Ambition

 Project 2025 has been widely viewed as ambitiously forward-thinking. While some express concerns about its comprehensive scope possibly causing unforeseen disruptions to current systems, critics suggest these challenges are natural in pioneering endeavors. The project's magnitude naturally provokes apprehensions regarding its feasibility and long-term sustainability. However, such bold initiatives are essential to drive innovation and address pressing global challenges. By carefully navigating potential pitfalls and leveraging comprehensive planning, Project 2025 can emerge as a transformative force for progress, laying a robust foundation for a sustainable future.

Political and Social Implications

The project's political and social ramifications are pivotal concerns. Detractors argue it could bring about sweeping alterations to societal norms and governance, potentially marginalizing specific demographics. These transformative shifts are frequently perceived as revolutionary, thereby evoking apprehensions about its radical nature. Such apprehensions underscore the need for a careful examination of its potential impact on inclusivity and social cohesion. It is imperative to navigate these concerns with a balanced approach that ensures equitable outcomes and fosters constructive dialogue about the project's goals and implications for a harmonious society.

Economic Impact

Concerns abound regarding the economic repercussions of Project 2025. Critics contend that the necessary financial resources might overburden public finances, potentially necessitating higher taxes or diverting funds from essential sectors. Such economic uncertainties are seen as fueling perceptions of radicalism. It is crucial to address these apprehensions through careful planning and transparent communication about the project's long-term benefits. By emphasizing strategic economic growth and prudent resource management, we can mitigate fears and build consensus on the project's potential to foster sustainable development and economic stability. This approach ensures that Project 2025 is viewed not as a risk, but as a catalyst for positive change.

Technological and Ethical Concerns

The integration of advanced technologies in Project 2025 raises significant ethical and privacy concerns, making it a contentious initiative. The potential for surveillance, data misuse, and erosion of individual freedoms stokes widespread fears. As we embrace these technologies, we must address the ethical implications to safeguard privacy and uphold fundamental rights. Ensuring transparent and responsible use of data can alleviate concerns and foster trust. By prioritizing ethical considerations, Project 2025 can become a beacon of innovation that respects privacy and individual freedoms, turning a potential threat into an opportunity for responsible technological advancement.

Potential for Adaptation

To mitigate the perceived extremism of Project 2025 and address the apprehensions, the following adaptations could be considered:

Incremental Implementation

Adopting a phased approach to project implementation offers the opportunity for continuous assessment and refinement at each stage. This strategy not only facilitates better risk management but also mitigates concerns about abrupt changes. By breaking down the project into manageable phases, we can identify and address issues promptly, ensuring smoother transitions and more effective solutions. This method fosters a more controlled and adaptable environment, increasing the likelihood of success while minimizing disruption. Embracing this incremental approach will ultimately lead to more sustainable and positive outcomes for the entire team.

Transparent Communication

Improving transparency regarding the project’s objectives, procedures, and potential outcomes is crucial for fostering public trust. Engaging openly with stakeholders and employing effective communication strategies are essential steps in combating misinformation and alleviating concerns. By clearly articulating our goals and methods, we can establish credibility and reassure the community about the project’s positive impacts. Emphasizing these aspects not only enhances understanding but also cultivates a supportive environment where informed decisions can be made collaboratively. This approach ensures that all parties are well-informed and aligned, promoting a constructive dialogue that strengthens confidence and minimizes uncertainties.

Ethical Guidelines and Oversight

Implementing stringent ethical guidelines and independent oversight mechanisms effectively addresses worries regarding privacy and data security. Prioritizing ethical considerations not only safeguards sensitive information but also cultivates trust and support from the public. By adhering to these principles, we demonstrate our commitment to transparency and accountability, fostering a climate where individuals feel secure and valued. This approach not only mitigates risks but also enhances our credibility, ensuring that our practices align with the highest standards of integrity and responsibility. Ultimately, integrating robust ethical frameworks is pivotal in garnering widespread endorsement and maintaining ethical leadership in data management.

Economic Safeguards

Implementing economic safeguards is crucial to shield vulnerable groups and promote fair resource allocation, alleviating concerns about financial burdens. Transparent budgeting and stringent financial accountability are indispensable in fostering trust and ensuring equitable distribution of resources. By instituting these measures, we not only protect the most vulnerable but also uphold principles of fairness and responsibility. This proactive approach not only mitigates fears of economic strain but also lays the foundation for a sustainable and inclusive economic framework that benefits all segments of society.

Conclusion

Project 2025’s ambitious nature and potential for significant societal impact inevitably lead to concerns about its extremism. By understanding these apprehensions and considering adaptive strategies, it is possible to address the fears and work towards a more balanced and acceptable implementation. Engaging with stakeholders, ensuring transparency, and prioritizing ethical considerations are critical steps in this

[kimosims]

The days seemed to pass swiftly, each one blending seamlessly into the next with a tranquility that often made Florence wonder if she had somehow slipped into paradise without realizing it. Sure, the household chores were demanding, and the persistent ache in her arms from scrubbing clothes served as a constant reminder of their precarious financial situation, but her optimistic and romantic spirit always sought out the silver lining. And the brightest silver lining she could ever imagine was about to reveal itself to her.

“Oh goodness, I'm pregnant!” Florence gasped aloud as she strolled through the garden one afternoon. After spending the day puzzling over the frequent waves of nausea and her growing fatigue, the realization finally dawned on her like a sudden burst of clarity. Of course, she was pregnant!

Florence wasted no time, hurrying to the veranda where her husband was absorbed in his latest painting. She was breathless by the time she reached him, her shining eyes meeting Albert’s as he glanced up, distracted from his work. For some reason, he understood immediately, without needing the news to be spoken aloud—they were expecting.

"Are you certain, my love?" he asked, dropping his brush and gently cupping her face.

"Yes, my darling. Oh, I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life!" she replied, her smile growing even more radiant—something he hadn’t thought possible.

Though Albert had never cared much for the idea of family, he hadn’t anticipated the overwhelming flood of love that surged through him at that moment. He swiftly lifted her in a joyous spin, embracing her tightly. His wife was pregnant, carrying their future child.

The news of their impending child filled Albert with a sudden surge of inspiration for his paintings, and this newfound energy guided his hand for weeks and months to come. He seemed alight with a fervor that bordered on obsession; something had shifted in his mind, and he spent endless hours immersed in his creations. Yet, despite his tireless work, nothing was ever sold. Albert, an artist at heart, refused to let financial constraints tether his free spirit. He needed to create without the burden of commercial demands.

Even when friends visited their home, whether under the bright sun or during a downpour, Albert continued to paint as if he were running out of time. Each night, he would retire to bed later and later, but still, not a single cent came into their household. Meanwhile, the loan money dwindled by the day.

As Albert channeled the shift that Florence’s pregnancy had brought into his art, she felt the weight of it in far more tangible ways. The initial euphoria of the news, though immense, had caused the young and somewhat naive Florence to overlook the real logistical implications. But as her pregnancy progressed, the domestic tasks became harder. Laundry became an impossible feat, standing for hours in the kitchen grew more taxing, and food supplies began to thin, with their dwindling finances unable to cover the necessary ingredients.

These realities weighed heavily on Florence's mind. She feared for the future of their child. Alone in bed at night, waiting for her husband who was endlessly working, she would ponder if Albert would truly be able to provide. His carefree spirit, once so charming, began to raise doubts. The art world was unpredictable—what if he couldn’t find patrons or sell his work? What would become of them? What would become of their child?

As the days passed, Florence’s mood began to deteriorate, each solitary meal and lonely night deepening her concerns. Her doubts grew stronger with every brushstroke Albert laid on the canvas, and the worst part was, he didn’t seem to notice.

One day, the situation reached its boiling point. Her emotions, further inflamed by pregnancy hormones, finally burst forth in a fiery confrontation. She lashed out at Albert, her frustrations pouring out like a dam broken.

Albert had never seen her so angry, and it jolted him from the boyish haze he had been lost in. For the first time, he realized she was right.

That afternoon, after the argument, he found her in the room they had already begun to prepare as a nursery. There, with a heart full of remorse, he gently apologized. “You’re right, Florence,” he said, his voice softer than she had ever heard it. “It’s time I stopped hiding behind my art and found patrons—buyers who will support us. You’re an incredible woman, and you deserve so much more than this. I want to provide for you, for us, for our child.”

Florence, whose heart had been captured by Mr. Darlington from the very moment their eyes first met, forgave him. She always would.

[justforbooks]

Wolfgang Schäuble, who has died aged 81, was a giant of German public life, epitomising the successes, anxieties and obduracy of his postwar country. The longest-serving parliamentarian in German history, Schäuble played a pivotal role in two crucial events of the past four decades – the process that led to reunification in 1990 and the austerity measures imposed across much of Europe following the global financial crash of 2008.

To the German public, he will probably be best known as the politician who was shot while campaigning, by a man suffering from mental illness, and paralysed from the waist down, only to return to frontline politics within months. Seven years later, in 1997, Schäuble was asked by an interviewer from Stern magazine how his use of a wheelchair might affect his chances of fulfilling his ultimate ambition. “A cripple as chancellor?” he replied. “You have every right to ask that question.” Bluntness and a lack of self-pity became his leitmotifs.

The second of three sons of Karl, a tax adviser, and Gertrud, Schäuble was born in Freiburg im Breisgau, in the southwest region of Baden Württemberg, and studied law in his hometown and in Hamburg, though he quickly turned to politics. He entered parliament for the Christian Democratic Union (CDU) in 1972, at the age of 30. He went on to win the Offenburg constituency 14 times in a row, sitting in the Bundestag under every postwar chancellor except the first, Konrad Adenauer.

In 1984 he entered the cabinet when Helmut Kohl appointed him head of the chancellery (chief of staff) and minister for special affairs. In April 1989, he was promoted to interior minister. It was from that position, but still in the manner of the chancellor’s fixer, that Schäuble led the reunification negotiations that followed the fall of the Berlin Wall.

During these talks he first came across Angela Merkel, an unassuming scientist from the GDR who had become a senior adviser to its outgoing government. The triangular relationship is one of the most fascinating and complex in modern German history. Schäuble claimed to have “discovered” her, suggesting her for the new all-German cabinet. Kohl patronised her as “the girl”, yet he increasingly promoted her. The assumption throughout was, however, that when the time came the one male titan would replace the other.

Kohl’s 16 years of office – a period of economic growth for Germany and the hegemony of post-cold-war liberal economics – ended in 1998 with the election victory of the Social Democrats under Gerhard Schröder. Schäuble, who had been leader of the parliamentary party, effortlessly succeeded Kohl as head of the CDU and leader of the opposition.

Within months, they were embroiled in scandal: a former party treasurer was caught taking a suitcase filled with a million German marks (about £300,000) from an arms dealer in a parking lot in Switzerland. It soon emerged that this transaction formed part of a much vaster system of corruption. Schäuble professed ignorance about the affair, only to be implicated, and exposed as having lied to parliament.

It was then that Merkel struck, publishing a letter in the Frankfurter Allgemeine newspaper in December 1999 in which she called on her party to shift generations. In so doing, she paved the way for her assumption of the crown and her long political hegemony. Kohl never forgave her.

In the fourth of six books he wrote during his career, called Mitten im Leben (In the Midst of Life) and published in 2000, Schäuble talked about his political regrets. He did not criticise Merkel, but, unlike all the other politicians he named with first and surnames, he referred to her as “Frau Merkel”. When he later asked her why she had not informed him in advance of her plans – he was still party leader after all – she replied: “You wouldn’t have allowed me to.”

When she eventually became chancellor in 2005, Merkel appointed Schäuble her interior minister. They buried their differences, and he served her loyally, in that post and then from 2009 as finance minister during her second and third administrations. He became the continent’s dominant economic force and leading enforcer of austerity, seeking to embed Germany’s strictures of balanced budgets – the Black Zero – across the EU. With his opposition to bailouts, and advocacy of spending cuts and structural reforms, Schäuble became an object of hate among many on the left, particularly in those countries teetering on the brink.

In his 2017 memoir, Adults in the Room, Greece’s finance minister at the time, Yanis Varoufakis, claimed that his German counterpart admitted that the medicine couldn’t work, but had to be administered for ideological reasons. Schäuble long denied this. Indeed, one of the curiosities of Germany’s obsession with austerity budgets – which is now causing considerable heartache for Olaf Scholz’s government – is that they remain largely popular, according to opinion polls.

Throughout his career Schäuble was a staunch pro-Atlanticist. He was one of few senior German politicians to support the Iraq war. He was also much more hawkish than others towards Russia, likening its seizure of Crimea in 2014 to Hitler’s annexation of the Sudetenland.

In 2017 he was chosen as president (speaker) of parliament, a role he was initially reluctant to take, but fulfilled with his characteristic acuity. He had let it be known that he would like to become Germany’s president, a largely ceremonial but important position, but was twice overlooked.

Schäuble is survived by his wife, the economist and teacher Ingeborg Hensle, whom he married in 1969, and by three daughters, Christine, Juliane and Anna, and a son, Hans-Jörg.

🔔 Wolfgang Schäuble, politician, born 18 September 1942; died 26 December 2023

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?