#resistance against oppression in all places and all times

[not-neverland06]

we're dating? ♡

logan howlett x fem!mutant!reader

One-shot A/N: I've decided using the same X-men name/powers for the reader in my Logan fics is easier because coming up with superpowers is hard and stupid. They call you flux, like once, it's really just a nickname incoming warning for fluff so bad you'll get a cavity Summary: You're on probation from the team and official house arrest after a little accident with your powers. Logan knows you're going stir-crazy so he takes you to the arcade for some fun. And then your friendship takes a weird turn. (80's timeline in mind, but characters not from the 80’s will be mentioned) Clueless!reader

You’d had an accident, a few weeks ago. Well, accident might be downplaying it too much. You’d destroyed the garden and left a ten-foot crater in the backyard of Charles’ prestigious grounds. In your defense, you had warned them all that it wasn’t a good idea to take your cuffs off. 

The metal bands are entirely necessary to make sure you can’t lose control and wipe out everything around you. Manipulation at an atomic level is beyond fatal. You don’t want to think about what would have happened if you’d had the meltdown and the kids were anywhere near you. 

Charles had been able to shut you down, but now he’s keeping you on probation. You’ve been locked up in the mansion, unable to leave until you managed to get your abilities under control. There’s never been a problem with wearing the cuffs before. You don’t understand why he’s so against them now. 

You’re going stir-crazy. There’s only so many times you can pace your room before you start to lose your mind. He’s not even letting you teach classes anymore. You’re stuck training, all day, every day. 

“Focus!” Charles snaps and you resist the urge to turn his bones liquid. Maybe that would get him off your back. 

Instead of killing your friend, you glare at the large tank of water in front of you. You do what you’ve been doing for the past half hour. It fluctuates from liquid to gas to solid, and then liquid again. An endless cycle of repetition that makes you want to melt your brain so you don’t have to do this anymore. 

You drop your hand and huff. “This is pointless, Charles. What’s this even teaching me?”

He crosses his arms, walks over to you, and pointedly glares at the tank in front of you. You roll your eyes and look back at it. “Shit,” you hiss. In your frustration, the glass has cracked and splintered into dust. Water pools around your stool and leaks through the wood of the floor. You flick your wrist, the glass swirling around you before reforming into the tank. The water follows along, droplets lifting from the floor and dropping back into the container. 

“One moment of frustration, of distraction. That’s all it took.” Charles shakes his head and walks back over to his desk. He picks the cuffs up and you slip them silently back onto your wrists. “How can you be trusted to protect your team on the field if you can’t control this? What are you going to do when you’re panicked and fighting for your life?”

Shame bubbles in your gut. It makes you nauseous and forces your eyes to the floor so you don’t have to face him. He sighs, placing his hands on your shoulders and squeezing gently. You glance up at him briefly and he offers a strained smile. 

“This is for your protection, as much as you hate it, Flux. It’s necessary.” You scoff at the use of your X-Men name. Not much of an X-Man if you’re not even on the field anymore. 

“Right,” you mutter. “Thanks for the lesson in incompetency,” you don’t let him respond and slam the door to his office closed behind you. You feel bad the second you get outside and onto the porch. He doesn’t deserve your bitchiness. It’s your own fault you can’t get a handle on this. You don't have anyone to blame but yourself. 

You let out a dramatic sigh, throwing yourself into a rocking chair and running your hands over your face. The once comforting weight of your cuffs is now oppressing. It just feels like a constant reminder of your failure. You should already have a handle on all of this, but you struggle to even manipulate water. 

“Rough day?” You don’t open your eyes as Logan walks by. He takes a seat on the rocking chair beside you, letting out a low groan as he stretches. 

You let your hands drop into your lap, staring at the sunset so you don’t have to face him. You’ve already dealt with enough dejection today. You don’t need to look at him and be reminded that you want him in a way you can never have. 

“Mhm,” you hum, propping your head in your hand as you watch the sun disappear behind the clouds. The sky is painted in hues of pink and orange that seem too hopeful for how you feel right now. 

Logan chuckles, the sound low and gravely. It makes your heart stutter in your chest and you cringe in embarrassment. You know he can hear the way your heart practically beats free of your ribs when you’re around him. You’re sure with that nose of his he can smell some sort of hormonal change in you every time you lay eyes on him. 

You swear you’ve never felt this way about a man before. You haven’t had many boyfriends before, it’s not really common among mutants. Not many people are accepting of you when they know what you are. And some people are too into you. 

But you've had crushes, and none of them have been as bad as this one is. You want to gnaw on him. It sounds fucking insane every time you think about it. But when you train with him and he tears his shirt off, you want to sink your teeth into him and never let go. 

You feel feral around him, a side of you surfacing that you’re not used to. Maybe it’s because of his mutant abilities. They are very animalistic, it’s easy to blame that on how desperately you crave him. 

You hate being around him and despise not being in his presence. It’s conflicting, and more often than not you sound like a bumbling idiot when you speak to him because your brain is going in a million different directions. 

You hear the familiar click of his lighter and then he shifts again. You risk a peek over at him and regret it the second you do. His head is tilted back, eyes closed in relaxation as he stretches across the porch. Smoke leaks out of his lips as he groans in satisfaction. 

You have to pick your jaw up off the floor and make sure there isn’t drool on your chin. This is insane. You’re a grown woman, how does he have this much of an effect on you? He’s not even doing anything! He’s just sitting there and you want to jump his bones. 

You whip your head around, mumbling incoherently to yourself to get it together. Logan peaks an eye open and you miss the mischievous tilt to his lips. “Something wrong?”

I need to have sex with you or I’m going to explode. 

You stutter for a few seconds, getting your mind back together. “Just training with Charles,” you mutter. 

He sits up a little straighter and quirks a brow. When you don’t continue he sighs. “And?” He prods, impatient for your answer. You hope you’re not reading into it, but you think he’s been as disappointed by your absence from the team as you are. He always complains about being partnered up with Scott. You like to think it’s because he misses you. But you’re probably just delusional. 

“And, nothing,” you sigh. Your hands flop against your legs and you glare at the bands on your wrists. “No progress. I still can’t control them without these on, and my abilities are watered down and useless with the cuffs.”

Logan huffs, you’re caught off guard by the sudden warmth on your thigh. You glance down, eyes widening ever so slightly when you see his hand on your leg. It nearly covers the whole thing and when he squeezes your thigh you think you’re going to pass out. 

You’re friendly. But you’ve never been touchy. At least not like this. The placement of his palm is very intimate and you are struggling not to just get on your knees and profess your undying love. You take in a deep breath, looking up at him so you can get your heartbeat under control. 

But looking at him just makes it worse. Because there is so much faith and fondness in his gaze as he looks at you. His lips are tilted up, eyes soft, and you’ve never had someone make you feel so warm and secure from just a look. 

“You aren’t useless,” he tells you. He squeezes your thigh again before he retreats back to his chair. You have to clamp your jaw shut so you don’t beg him to keep touching you and never stop. “You’re just stuck in this house all day. You’ve got nothing to do but sit in your failure.”

You scoff and throw yourself back in your seat. “Don’t remind me. I’ve begged Charles to let me out.” Your gaze drifts to the crater in the backyard. Some of the kids have been working on filling it in, but whatever energy you’d let go of has left a permanent mark. “He refuses to give me permission.”

Logan laughs, the noise teasing and a little mean. Your brows furrow and you glance over at him with a questioning look. He tilts his head in disbelief like you’re an idiot. “Seriously, Flux? Just fuckin’ leave, who gives a shit?”

“Uh,” you think on it for a minute before weakly settling on, “Charles?”

His face falls and you sink lower into your seat. He looks out at the yard, gaze distant. His jaw clenches a few times before he puts the cigar out on the ashtray beside him. He gets to his feet and you think he might just leave. Instead, he turns towards you. 

You’re caught off guard by the little smirk on his face. “Wanna have some fun?”

Only an idiot would say no. 

You grin and place your hand in his, yelping slightly at how easily he pulls you to your feet. You stumble into his chest and are hesitant to back away when his hand drifts to rest on your waist. He looks down at you, smiling, he squeezes your waist once before he backs up. 

“Come on, kid.” He tugs you inside the house, leading you downstairs to the garage. You already know what he’s going for before the door is even open. 

“Didn’t Scott tell you to leave his bike alone?” Logan takes a step inside. He pauses, glancing over his shoulder and grinning at you. It makes your breath catch in your throat, the happiness on his face. You never see him like this around the others. 

You hate thinking like that. Placing too much importance on your relationship with him will only lead to heartbreak down the road. But, you never see him act the way he does with you with anyone else.

“Since when have I ever listened to Cyclops, sweetheart?” 

“Good point,” you mutter, moving to stand next to him. 

He straddles the seat and looks over expectantly at you. “Don’t you need a helmet?”

You shake your head, “Oh, no, it’ll ruin my hair.” You laugh but he gives you a deadpan look. You don’t regenerate the way he does. An accident would be a lot more fatal for you than it would be for him. You huff, “Relax, Lo, I can use my powers.” When he looks like he’s not going to drop it, you let some energy swirl around your fingers. It solidifies the air around your skin, you reach up and flick at his skull hard enough to hear the metal ding. 

He grunts, glaring down at your hand while you grin. “See,” you whisper, sliding onto the back of the bike and wrapping your arms around his waist. “I’m perfectly safe.” He shakes his head and starts the bike. 

The ride to the arcade is spent in silence. Logan always seems to break every speeding law known to man whenever he takes Scott’s bike out. You’re not sure if he does it to purposefully piss the man off, but it makes you cling to him like a wild animal. You feel like if you hit one speed bump you’re going to go flying. 

By the time he parks your legs feel like jello. He laughs a little at the way your face has blanched. Again, he offers you a hand and holds the door open to lead you inside. You’re trying not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but this whole thing is odd. 

You guys are friends. And you’re friendlier with each other than most of the mutants in the school. But this feels different somehow. For one, Logan kind of despises the arcade. It’s an amalgamation of bad smells and loud noises, and it overwhelms his already sensitive senses. You’ve heard him complain about the smell of body odor and fake cheese enough times when you went on a field trip with the kids. 

Secondly, he’s being more touchy than he normally would. You’re not complaining. You weren’t exactly hugged a lot as a kid, mainly just passed between different mutant fetish clubs. Logan isn’t known for handing hugs out so easily. But right now, he doesn’t seem to be ready to not have at least one hand on you. 

Maybe he’s just cheering you up. You need to stop drifting so far into your mind and just enjoy the night. “Alright, what’s first bub?”

You grin and drag him towards the claw machine. “I’m horrible at these things,” you inform him as you put your quarters in. “But, I hold out hope that one day I’ll be able to actually beat this monster.”

Three failed attempts later, it’s become embarrassingly clear that you will never beat the claw machine. Logan isn’t even trying to hide his amusement as you become increasingly more frustrated. There’s a certain point where this game stops being fun and starts to be an affront to your character. 

Logan peers into the machine and asks, “What are you going for?”

“The pigeon,” you mutter. Your tongue pokes between your lips, and your eyes narrow in concentration. You aim the claw over the pigeon perfectly and slam your hand down on the big red button. 

You’re allowed five seconds of celebration before the damn thing slips out of the claws grasp and tumbles into the pile of stuffies below. “Dammit, Bart,” you let the ridiculous name you’ve come up with for the toy slip.

Logan snorts, leaning against the glass while you jam another quarter in the slot. “Bart?” He teases. 

You shake your head and give him a look out the side of your eye. “What, you think I call myself Flux because I’m good at coming up with names?” You give up after the last failed attempt and turn to face him with a huff. 

He clicks his tongue and shakes his head. “Tough luck, kid.” He slings an arm over your shoulder and pulls you towards the concession stand. 

“Shut up,” you laugh, slapping lightly at his chest. 

The rest of the night is nice. He doesn’t play much except for the strength-oriented games. And then you kind of just exploit him for more tickets. By the time you get back to the mansion, you’ve forgotten all about why you were upset in the first place. 

Nothing had gone wrong, you didn’t have a total meltdown and wipe out the entire arcade. You don’t know why Charles was so afraid of letting you out. 

Logan walks you back to your room, his hand heavy on your lower back as you head up the stairs. You’re talking endlessly, filling up any gap of silence with rambling you’ve lost track of. You don’t know what it is about him that invites you to yap the way you do, but you’re always embarrassed by it the second he leaves. 

You reach your door and smile up at him. “Thanks, Lo.”

He gives you a soft smile, his eyes wrinkling endearingly at the corners. He reaches up and brushes some hair off your shoulder. There’s a certain shift in his expression that has your breath stopping short. Whatever else you were going to say to him tumbles off into an incomprehensible whisper. 

He leans down and every inappropriate thought you’ve ever had about him suddenly surges to the front of your mind. Your lips part in anticipation, thinking he’s going to kiss you and your fantasies are going to come to life. 

His lips brush against your cheek so gently you almost don’t feel them. “‘Night Flux,” he leans back and your body goes with him. He backs off with a smile, walking down the hall to his own room. You feel dazed, eyelashes fluttering rapidly as you fan your cheeks and try to come to terms with what just happened.

He didn’t kiss you, but you oddly aren’t disappointed. You go to bed that night with a lovesick grin on your face. Well, you would have. Were it not for the annoyingly British voice ringing out in your head, “Training’s at four tomorrow morning. Consider it your punishment for sneaking out.”

“Fuck,” you hiss to yourself. Stupid fucking telepaths. 

You thought the arcade was a one-off moment. But Logan keeps sneaking you out of the mansion. Charles hasn’t officially lifted the house arrest, but he’s given up trying to keep you inside. Besides, you’ve essentially got a chaperone since Logan is always with you. 

You make lunch for the two of you and he’ll take you out to the woods for a picnic. Or you’ll go to the movies together. Sometimes you don’t even do anything, just linger around each other. You enjoy the company, and you love having these quiet moments together with no one else around. 

Your favorite part of all of this has to be the way he’s started touching you. He’s always got a hand on your leg or back. And if he can’t do that, then you’re tucked into his side. It’s feeding into a starved part of you that you’ve left neglected for far too long. 

It’s only been about two weeks of these fun little adventures and odd behavior. You’re dreading the moment they’ll stop. You’re not sure when Logan’s going to deem you properly cheered up, but you’re hoping it’s not anytime soon. 

There have been a few more moments where you think your friendship might turn into something more, and every time you’ve been interrupted. You’re actually starting to feel a little edged. You’ve been considering just grabbing him and planting one on him. But every time you think about it you get sick to your stomach. 

You don’t want to make a move on him and end up getting rejected. You know he’s just being a good friend and taking care of you so you don’t end up spiraling too far in your head. It’s happened before, when you’ve been struggling with your abilities. He’s just keeping you from shutting down again and you don’t want to make him uncomfortable because you’re hopelessly in love. 

When you walk out of your room this morning you’re immediately smacked in the face. “What the fuck, guys?” You yell at the two kids running past your room. Not the best language for someone who's supposed to be a role model. You can’t be bothered though, not when they’re running around throwing pink rolls of streamer at your face. 

“Sorry!” Mary calls over her shoulder, laughing as she pins a heart up onto the wall. You’re sure Charles won’t appreciate the hole in his old ass mahogany wood. It’s only as you watch her run down the stairs that you register just what is going on. 

There is pink and red everywhere. It looks like Dollar Store Cupid has thrown up all over the mansion. You’ve been so caught up in your attraction to Logan that, ironically, you’ve forgotten what month it was. 

You grumble bitterly to yourself as you trudge down the stairs. Another Valentine’s Day alone and single. How lovely. You spot two kids giggling to themselves by the banister, they lean in like they’re going to kiss and you gag. “Hey!” You snap, and they jump apart, eyes wide with fear. “Quit it, get out of here.” They scramble off and you feel just a little bit vindicated. 

“Not a fan of young love, Flux?”

You groan and roll your eyes, turning around to find a very smug Scott watching you bully teenagers. “Shut it, Summers,” you warn. You point an accusing finger at him and he raises his hands in surrender. Faux innocence played across his insufferable smirk. “When you’re in a committed relationship, you don’t get to judge me.”

His brows turn down in confusion, “Wait, but aren’t you and Logan-”

He’s cut off by the sound of a loud crash down the hall. You both turn around just as one of the classroom doors slams open. A bright pink explosion hurtles from the doors and a throng of coughing students follows. 

Jubilee walks out a minute later, a guilty expression on her face. “Sorry, I was just trying to make it more Vanetine-y.” 

You glance over at Scott, grinning widely at him while you pat his shoulder and walk past him, leaving him to clean up the mess. “Enjoy the young love, Summers.”

You actively avoid Logan all day. You’re already facing constant reminders of how lonely you are. You see kids walking around with baskets of bears and chocolates. Or you catch them passing notes in class with scribbled hearts all over the front. 

There’s only so much a girl can take before she loses it. The last thing you need is to be faced with the man you have the worst unrequited crush on in history. But he doesn’t seem to get the hint. He’s everywhere you go, popping up around corners and trying to catch your attention. 

You keep brushing him off and pretending like you have something urgent you’re going to be late for. Eventually, though, he was going to catch up with you. 

It happens in the kitchen. Most of the kids are in their rooms or the library. The noise has died down and you’re alone. You grumble to yourself, ripping down a pink streamer that keeps drifting across the top of your head and pissing you off. You grab a frozen meal from the fridge and are about to microwave it when he speaks. 

“Huh, thought you’d want something a little more romantic than a frozen burrito.” 

You gasp, clutching your chest and whirling around on him while your heart races. “Logan, Jesus, you scared me.” He’s frowning at you, eyes glaring at the frozen package in your hand. “Um,” you toss it back in the freezer but the look on his face isn’t going away. “Yeah, I might just go with cereal instead.”

He looks at you and then glances behind him. You peer around his shoulder but you don’t see anything. Without much warning, he grabs your wrist and pulls you towards the stairs. “Logan?” There’s no point in trying to resist him, he could just toss you up the stairs if he wanted to. Still, the silence is kind of creeping you out. 

You call his name a few more times but give up when he makes it clear he’s not going to be answering you anytime. There’s a rotten feeling in your stomach. You have this awful idea like you’re in trouble for something. Like a little girl who's gotten her hand caught in the cookie jar too many times. 

He stops you in front of his door and nods towards it. “You want me to go inside?” He crosses his arms and glares down at you. You huff and mutter, “Jesus, fine.” What the hell is wrong with him?

You grab the doorknob to his room, glaring at him while you do. You throw the door open dramatically, taking a step inside and surveying the area. “Wow,” you suck your teeth and shake your head. “You have not decorated at all.”

“Shut up, smartass,” he mutters in your ear. Chills prick at your skin from his proximity. A shudder goes down your spine as the low tone of his voice reverberates through you. “Look a little harder.”

You roll your eyes but acquiesce. Another run over the room finally shows you what you missed. You gasp and rush towards his bed, “Holy shit, Bart!” He chuckles behind you as you pick the stuffed pigeon up. 

“Went back for him after we left,” Logan tells you. 

You glare at him, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “How many tries did this take you?” He mouths a smug one and you roll your eyes in irritation. You look back down at the pigeon and smile.

He smells like the inside of a claw machine. His head is sewed on crookedly and you’re pretty sure he’s missing an eye. But he’s absolutely perfect to you. You’re about to thank Logan when you spot something metal wrapped around the stuffie’s neck. “What’s this,” you mumble to yourself. 

You slide your fingers under the chain and tug it off Bart’s neck. Logan’s dog tags dangle off your fingers and you stare at him in shock. A sudden cold dread washes over you and you find yourself immobile. “Logan,” you trail off, an unspoken question following his name. 

He smirks, walking towards you and slipping the tags out of your hand. “I wanted you to have this,” he says, his voice low like this moment is too precious to break, “so you know you’re not alone. You’re always so afraid of what’s going to happen if you lose control out in the field. But you forget, you’re not alone. You have me, you’re always going to have me.” He places the tags over your neck, untucking your hair from the chain. 

You don’t even have words for him. It’s such a deeply personal gift. But this also feels incredibly intimate. There’s no possible way for you to reason this away. This isn’t something “just friends” do. 

He seems to prefer your silence, anyway. One of his hands drifts from your neck and cups your jaw. With the utmost tenderness, he lifts your face to his. “Wanted to do this for a while,” he whispers. You almost ask what he’s talking about, but his lips are already covering yours. 

It’s incredibly soft, this kiss, softer than you’re used to. He’s barely putting any pressure on you and it makes you realize that you’re still not moving. You’re just standing there in shock, eyes wide open while the man you’ve wanted since you’ve known him kisses you. 

You drop Bart to the floor and your arms come up to twine around his neck. You finally close your eyes, let your body melt into his knowing he’ll catch you. The second you reciprocate he really kisses you. Neither of you hold back, each of you pouring all the pent-up desire you’ve felt for each other. 

You’ve spent so long dancing around this, around each other. It’s like a missing puzzle piece is returned to you as Logan holds you. You feel full, complete, warmer than you ever have before. 

You part from him - needing air - painfully slow. You don’t want to spend a second away from him now that you have him. You wish you didn’t have to breathe. Wished you could have kept kissing him and never stopped. 

Logan chuckles, pressing a kiss against your forehead like he can read your thoughts. You can feel the dorky smile that’s about to split your cheeks. You bite your lip, hoping it might suppress it, but you know it’s pointless. 

You look up at him with a cheeky twinkle in your eye. “Are you asking me to be your Valentine, Lo?”

He scoffs and pulls away from you slightly. “Do you have to ask your girlfriend to be your Valentine?”

Your eyes widen and your mouth opens and closes rapidly. “I- Well- I mean,” you take a full step back from him and shake your head. “What?” You finally settle on. “I mean, I’m not objecting, at all, but what?”

Logan tilts his head, a disbelieving look on his face. “What do you think we’ve been doing the past three weeks?”

You shake your head, stuttering and struggling for an answer. “I don’t know. I thought you were being a good friend!”

He smiles, there’s no irritation on his face at your cluelessness. If anything he seems to be more endeared to you. “You think I take all my friends on romantic picnics in the woods?”

You sigh, letting out a long disappointed breath. You can’t believe you’ve been so blind. When you think about it, his behavior lately makes a lot more sense. You’re not sure how you were able to trick yourself for so long. 

“Well,” you start, walking back towards him as he pulls you into a hug, “certainly not Scott.” He huffs and shakes his head. You give him a sheepish smile, brows knitted together. “I can’t believe we’ve been dating this whole time.”

He just presses another kiss to your temple and shrugs. “It’s alright, sweetheart, you can make it up to me by being my Valentine again next year.”

There’s something unspoken in his voice. A promise that he’s planning to be around for a lot longer than a year. You smile at him, silently promising the same. “Only if you’re mine.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

a/n: i’m gonna gag actually. Made myself cringe there at the end. I want a valentine next year so bad, it’s sad. But what’s the point of a valentine if it’s not going to be Logan?

end. — I do not own the characters or the comics/movies Wolverine/X-Men, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

dividers by @/thecutestgrotto

[psychotrenny]

I wish people would stop moralising social relations on an individual level. The ways you've benefited from a system of oppression does not make you individually a "bad person"; it's just a material fact of reality. If morality has any place it's how you choose to deal with that, whether to fight against the system alongside those oppressed or to support it either actively or passively. There's no point getting defensive about whatever "privileges" you might have, and there's certainly no point bringing up the other systems that you're oppressed by as if that somehow cancels it all out

This is especially important when it comes to Imperialism because that's both the primary contradiction of our times and the system of oppression that Liberals are most reluctant to even acknowledge. To put it simply; you could be the most marginalised person ever in the Imperial Core but the mere fact that you are living in an Imperial Core country puts you in a materially better position than someone in a comparable situation who is living outside it. And on a systemic level whatever advantages you enjoy by living in the Imperial Core have come at the expense of those living beyond it. That's not to say your oppression isn't a problem or that you have no right to fight against it or whatever. You can resist the systems that oppression yourself without strengthening the systems that oppress others, and indeed principled solidarity between liberation movements is the only real way to achieve any substantial social change.

Liberal Assimilationism is a dead end politically; the only way to secure liberation for all is to oppose Imperial Capitalism and all the forms of oppression it creates or strengthens. You won't get far if all you want is to give your group a bigger share of Imperial Loot, raising your position in the hierarchy instead of dismantling it altogether. Best case any gains you secure for your group will limited and precarious, but it's more likely that you'll be exploited to undermine other liberation struggles and then discarded the second you're no longer useful. Solidarity isn't just morally right; it's the only strategy that works

And to truly achieve this solidarity you need to understand the social relations of the present, and by extension your personal place within them. This sort of reflection might not always be flattering, might not always make you feel good about yourself, but that's not the point now is it? The point is to build a better future, not a larger ego

[soon-palestine]

as an american citizen, you have the right to assemble. the police and other governmental agencies violate this right through mass arrests, illegal use of force, criminalization of protest and other means that threaten our right to free expression.

DO NOT TALK TO THE POLICE:

they are not your friends. they are not there to protect you, regardless of your race. their presence there is to protect the interests of the state.

what to do if you are detained or stopped by the police:

do not resist, even if you think they are violating your rights.

calmly ask someone to record.

ask if you’re free to leave. if you are, walk away.

how to stay safe during a protest:

write phone/legal aid numbers on your body. bring a sharpie for others to do this.

ALWAYS use the buddy system. don’t be selfish & stick to your own friend group. if you see someone alone, invite them into your circle.

don’t know where to seek legal aid?

before attending/during a protest, visit http://nlg.org/chapters/#massdefense.

NLG chapters are organized into regions. find. your region and write their number on your body.

encourage others around you to write that same number on their body.

4. if you are threatened with or under arrest:

you have the right to know why you’re being arrested. calmly ask. if they refuse to provide a reason, stay quiet and ask for legal representation immediately.

do not give any information or sign anything without a lawyer present.

what to do with your phone during a protest:

put your phone on airplane mode

disable face ID/touch, replace with 6-digit passcode instead

spreading awareness is great but avoid posting photos of people that include identifying features.

police want everyone to leave the area, what should that look like:

shutting down a protect through a dispersal order must be the last resort for police.

a clear danger must be present.

police must give adequate time for protesters to disperse and an exit route.

what are your rights if you’re being stopped or detained by police:

you do not have to consent to you or your belongings being searched. if you consent, anything can be used against you in court.

police can conduct a “pat down” if they suspect you have a weapon.

if you see someone being detained, what should you do:

record the interaction. police can not demand to view or delete any footage without a warrant.

use calming affirmations towards the person being detained. they are likely scared. be there for them.

use whatever privilege you have to protect others.

if you see a disabled person struggling, offer to help. find medics to assist people experiencing anxiety or having a panic attack. if you see a BIPOC being harassed, surround them.

personal note on using your privilege: i have seen white people, countless times, place themselves in front of BIPOC when police draw weapons/approach protests. it often works.

do not be a person that just acknowledges their privilege, use it for good.

10. remember that we protect us. ignite this chant as a reminder to everyone present if you have to. communities are supposed to help one another. don’t be a sell out, offer support, share resources, food and water. be a kind soul.

if you can not participate in a protest for whatever reason, you can still help! drop-off supplies! (water bottles, allergy-friendly foods/snacks with ingredients labels on them, sharpies, cards with legal aid numbers on them, masks, makeup remover wipes, hand sanitizer, etc)

sources/disclaimer: main source:

@ACLU and my own opinions. this is not legal advice. consult legal representation if you are in need of assistance.

stay safe, be on the right side of history. black lives matter, no one is illegal, we protect us, land back, all oppression is connected and free palestine. 🇵🇸

[fuckyeahisawthat]

There are so many places in the Villeneuve Dune adaptations where he just...takes all the narrative pieces that Frank Herbert laid out and subtly rearranges them into something that tells the story better--that creates dramatic tension where you need it, communicates the themes and message of the book more clearly, or corrects something in the text that contradicts or undermines what Herbert said he was trying to say.

The fedaykin are probably my favorite example of this. I just re-read a little part of the book and got smacked in the face with how different they are.

(under the cut for book spoilers and length)

The fedaykin in the book are Paul's personal followers, sort of his personal guard. They show up after his legend has already started growing (the word doesn't appear in the book until chapter 40) and they are people who have specifically dedicated themselves to fighting for him, and right from the moment they're introduced there is a kind of implied fanaticism to their militancy that's a bit uncomfortable to read. They're the most ardent believers in Paul's messianic status and willing to die for him. (They are also, as far as you can tell from the text, all men.)

In the book, as far as I can remember (I could be forgetting some small detail but I don't think so) there is no mention of armed resistance to colonialism on Arrakis before Paul shows up. As far as we know, he created it. ETA: Okay I actually went back and checked on this and while we hear about the Fremen being "a thorn in the side" of the Harkonnens and we know that they are good fighters, we don't see anything other than possibly one bit of industrial sabotage. The book is very clear that the organized military force we see in the second half was armed and trained by Paul. This is exacerbated by the two-year time jump in the book, which means we never see how Paul goes from being a newly deposed ex-colonial overlord running for his life to someone who has his own private militia of people ready to give their lives for him.

The movie completely flips all these dynamics on their head in ways that add up to a radical change in meaning.

The fedaykin in the movie are an already-existing guerrilla resistance movement on Arrakis that formed long before Paul showed up. Literally the first thing we learn about the Fremen, less that two minutes into the first movie, is that they are fighting back against the colonization and exploitation of their home and have been for decades.

The movie fedaykin also start out being the most skeptical of the prophecy about Paul, which is a great choice from both a political and a character standpoint. Of course they're skeptical. If you're part of a small guerrilla force repeatedly going up against a much bigger and stronger imperial army...you have to believe in your own agency. You have to believe that it is possible to win, and that this tiny little chip in the armor of a giant terrifying military machine that you are making right now will make a difference in the end. These are the people who are directly on the front lines of resisting oppression. They are doing it with their own sweat, blood and ingenuity, and they are not about to wait around for some messiah who may never come.

From a character standpoint, this is really the best possible environment you could put Paul Atreides in if you want to keep him humble. He doesn't get any automatic respect handed to him due to title or birthright or religious belief. He has to prove himself--not as any kind of savior but as a good fighter and a reliable member of a collective political project. And he does. This is an environment that really draws out his best qualities. He's a skilled fighter; he's brave (sometimes recklessly so); he's intensely loyal to and protective of people he cares about. He is not too proud to learn from others and work hard in an egalitarian environment where he gets no special treatment or extra glory. The longer he spends with the fedaykin the more his allegiance shifts from Atreides to Fremen, and the more skeptical he himself becomes about the prophecy. This sets up the conflict with Jessica, which comes to a head before she leaves for the south. And his political sincerity--that he genuinely comes to believe that these people deserve liberation from all colonial forces and his only role should be to help where he can--is what makes the tragedy work. Because in the end we know he will betray all these values and become the exact thing he said he didn't want to be.

There's another layer of meaning to all this that I don't know if the filmmakers were even aware of. ETA: rescinding my doubt cause based on some of Villeneuve's other projects I'm pretty sure he could work it out. Given the time period (1960s) and Herbert's propensity for using Arabic or Arabic-inspired words for aspects of Fremen culture, it seems very likely that the made-up word fedaykin was taken from fedayeen, a real Arabic word that was frequently used untranslated in American news media at the time, usually to refer to Palestinian armed resistance groups.

Fedayeen is usually translated into English as fighter, guerrilla, militant or something similar. The translation of fedaykin that Herbert provides in Dune is "death commando"...which is a whole bucket of yikes in my opinion, but it's not entirely absurd if we're assuming that this fake word and the real word fedayeen function in the same way. A more literal translation of fedayeen is "self-sacrificer," as in willing, intentional self-sacrifice for a political cause, up to and including sacrificing your life.

If you apply this logic to Dune, it means that Villeneuve has actually shifted the meaning of this word in-universe, from fighters who are willing to sacrifice themselves for Paul to fighters who are willing to sacrifice themselves for their people. And the fedaykin are no longer a group created for Paul but a group that Paul counts himself as part of, one member among equals. Which is just WILDLY different from what's in the book. And so much better in my opinion.

[zoyasribbon]

DOMESTIC DELIGHTS — r. dias

ೃ࿐ summary : The moments spent with your family, they are the most precious in your life, a pure delight that bring solace to your soul. And on this specific Sunday afternoon, this one, you are poised to savor every bit of it.

ೃ࿐ words : 0,7k.

ೃ࿐ genre : mature. fluff. suggestive.

ೃ࿐ warning : cute daughter-father moments, sexual tension.

ೃ࿐ author's note : Despite my deep disdain for Man City (while I do acknowledge Pep's genius football philosophy), I must confess—I find myself particularly attracted to some players... and a certain 6’2 Portuguese center-back has managed to steal my heart. Ugh, what can I sayyyyy, what can I sayyyyy.

You were drawn by the soft, deep chuckles emitted by your husband, guiding you towards the entrance of the living room, where you discreetly pushed the door ajar. 

There he was.

Rúben. 

Dressed in his black Puma sweatpants and a simple, white undershirt, he was doing push-ups with your little daughter perched on his broad, muscular back. Her cheerful, high-pitched voice counted his progress as he effortlessly raised and lowered his body multiple times. You observed them tenderly: the pure joy and trust of your child blending with Rúben's extraordinary strength and patience. Home.

If he noticed you leaning against the doorframe, he said nothing... and you couldn’t help but admire his new three-day stubble beard, a bit more developed than usual, complementing his charming face. 

Suddenly, he twisted to one side, landing on the floor while effortlessly lifting your excited little girl with his sturdy arms before gently placing her on his firm stomach. A timid chuckle escaped your lips at this heartwarming sight. But this gesture didn't deter him from maintaining a somewhat intense gaze that met yours, igniting a fire within you.

"Go play in the garden, princesa. I'll do a few more and then join you," he murmured, planting a tender kiss on her forehead. As his words prompted her to dash out of the room, flashing you a mischievous smile in passing, the room fell into an almost oppressive silence. Only Rúben's erratic breathing and the sudden accelerated beats of your heart seemed to animate the space. 

He eventually raised himself from the floor, taking his sweet time to stand, his brown eyes never leaving your burning gaze for a second. 

Rúben's smile took on a different shade as he crossed the room to approach you, leaving only a few brief inches between you. His arms, marked by the effort, found support on the wooden doorframe, not far from your head, asserting his dominance in height. 

In the depth of his gaze, you discerned the glint of a tantalizing promise.

"You didn't have to stop, you know?" you innocently scolded, letting your right hand wander from his neck, to his left flank and to his hip. You made sure your nails lightly grazed his skin through the thin white fabric, intending for him to feel your provocation. As you did, you sensed a trickle of sweat dampening his shirt, clinging to his still-toned abs, evidence of his numerous push-ups. 

In just a few seconds, his body responded. Engulfed in goosebumps that hinted at desire, Rúben's eyelids trembled, and his Adam's apple bobbed. Though your line of sight didn't reveal it, you were certain that his fingers fervently clutched the doorframe, evidenced by the emerging veins on his glistening shoulders. 

He was on the verge of losing control. The mere thought elevated the corner of your lips into a sly smile, concealing the pleasure you took in this little teasing game. You must admit, you were very in the mood to play today. After all, Rúben simply had no business being so sexy on this delightful spring afternoon. 

Your right hand, still placed on his hip, dared to venture even further beneath the fabric of his black tracksuit to bring him even more closer to you and explore the skin of his lower back and his firm bottom, leading him to open his mouth slightly, letting out a timid gasp. 

Unable to resist the excruciating slowness of your caresses, he leaned forward, daring “Why? Do you want to keep watching?” he managed to inquire with an innocent tone, though mischief lingered within. 

His alluring, plump lips so close to yours beckoned, yet you resisted the temptation they promised... at least for the moment. You knew what he expected from you at this moment, but you just wouldn't comply. You were far too determined to win this battle. 

Nevertheless, the warm breath escaping his mouth was enough to slightly distract you. In that moment, you even forgot your somewhat disheveled appearance—your hair was in a messy bun, and you still had your apron on, still warm from the breath of the oven you had opened to check the crumb-topped salmon you were preparing. 

This seemed not to bother Rúben, whose gaze remained just as fiery and thirsty. His fingers sought revenge, gently sweeping aside a loose strand of hair that had fallen during your observation, trailing across your cheek, your neck, before finally resting on your nape. Then his entire hand delicately settled upon it. Your eyes were nearly completely mesmerized by the movement of his lips. Ruben's voice became huskier and smoother. “Or maybe you want a turn too."

[felixora]

Anders discource

I forgot to post this here as well, lol

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, yeah — IT DID NOTHING.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Anders’ actions inspired people.

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

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

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

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

How the fck is that a compromise?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, the Chantry is just as guilty.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I highly doubt that.

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

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

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

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

[runariya]

Three-Shot: Infinity (JJK) • 1

pairing: alien!Jungkook x human!reader genre: alien!AU, dystopian!AU, dark, angst, S2L rating: 18+, MDNI warnings: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, captivity, MC's cell is the filthiest place in existence, physical harm, MC is a test object, prostitution against will, drugging, death of mentioned friend/family, suicide attempts, pulling of fingernails and toenails, failed escapes, gore, angst, panic attacks, malnutrition, please lmk if I forgot something word count: 3.287

a/n: This work is purely fictional. All characters and events are entirely imaginary and do not reflect reality. Please do not use this story as your own. No translations are allowed without permission. Thank you for understanding! 💕

MASTERLIST • 02 • 03

Year 3709

You wake to the familiar sound of dripping water, the rhythmic tap of soiled liquid against the stone floor counting the seconds, minutes, hours of your endless captivity. The air around you suffocating with the stench of mildew and decay, continuously reminding you of the cell’s dampness. Your breath forms clouds of mist in the freezing air, visible even in the low light seeping through the narrow slit high in the wall, the only connection to the world outside your prison.

Your cell, a narrow rectangle of concrete and iron, is barely wide enough for you to stretch out both your arms without brushing the icy walls. The rough stone floor is slick with gooey moisture, perpetually wet, seeping through your thin, tattered clothing and chilling your bones for days on end. The ceiling, low enough that you can touch it when you stand on your tiptoes, is a mosaic of black mold and peeling paint—something you learned from the time you resisted being pulled from your cell.

In one corner, a rusted metal bucket serves as your latrine, its putrid stench a constant assault on your senses. The bucket overflows frequently, its contents sloshing onto the floor to mingle with the ever-present puddles. Opposite, a single iron cot is bolted to the wall and the mattress lying on it, is a threadbare remnant of its former self, its stuffing long gone, leaving only a few stubborn springs that dig into your flesh each night. The scratchy, coarse blanket provides little warmth against the biting cold, and you often wake shivering, your teeth and limbs chattering uncontrollably.

The days here are indistinguishable from the nights, a ceaseless parade of darkness day in and day out. The only light comes from the slit in the wall, which is sometimes covered by a thick, opaque sheet to plunge you into total blackness if they see fit. You have learned to hate this darkness, for it brings with it the scuttling of unseen vermin and the oppressive weight of isolation. When the sheet is removed, a sickly, green light filters in, casting eerie shadows that dance across the walls, transforming your cell into a landscape of nightmares you can't escape.

There’s silence surrounding you if it weren’t for the endless dripping. Not even a sound from neighbouring captives is heard. You weren’t always alone. Jenny, once your cellmate, the only other human you had ever seen. She was your friend. Your only family, a fragile connection that scared off the isolation you now have to embrace to stay sane. Despite your efforts to protect each other, one day they took her away. That day, she didn’t return like she always did. Like you always did when they took you. That day, she was gone. And without her, you were alone. 

Your lungs feel heavy today, and each breathe is a struggle, a fight against the encroaching dampness that seeks to claim you. Your captors care little for your comfort or health; they provide just enough to keep you alive, a thin gruel that tastes of ashes and despair, and a trickle of water from a rusty pipe that runs along one wall.

The pipe is the only constant source of noise, gurgling and hissing as if it were alive, mocking you with its endless, meaningless chatter. The water that drips from it is icy cold, and you often have to cup your hands and drink quickly before the chill numbs your bony fingers. Your captors use the pipe to deliver their torturous messages, their disembodied voices echoing through the metal, words distorted and sinister. Only there to mock you. They speak in a language you barely understand, a guttural, alien tongue that makes you want to vomit. 

Kaldreks, you’ve learned. The most vile species known in all galaxies. Towering, gaunt figures with pale, frostbitten skin and luminescent green eyes that pierce through the darkness. Their elongated limbs, webbed for navigating their swampy world, end in razor-sharp claws, also used to inflict the worst wounds you had the honour to experience. 

Jagged, icy exoskeletons cover their bodies, providing both armour and a terrifying appearance. Sharp, serrated teeth protrude from their snarling mouths, perfect for rending flesh. 

Your body bears the marks of their cruelty. Scars crisscross your skin, each one a relict to their unspeakable experiments and tortures. Your muscles are weak from malnutrition and disuse, your bones aching with a dull, constant pain. Each movement is an effort, showing off your frailty and their power. They come for you at irregular intervals, dragging you from your cell to a sterile, white room where the cold is even more intense, biting into your barely covered flesh like thousand needles.

It was at the beginning of your captivity when they started to probe and prod, their instruments of metal and glass invading your body, extracting fluids, inserting needles. You and Jenny were a specimen to them, a curiosity to be studied and dissected. Their faces never hidden behind masks, their eyes devoid of any empathy or recognition of your suffering. They spoke in low murmurs, their voices blending with the hum of their machinery, discussing your fate as if you were dead meat and nothing more.

Your fate arrived sooner than you expected, knocking you over at full force. When they tired of using your body as a test subject, they found other purposes for it. Purposes specialised into the pleasures of other species. 

At first, they seized you and scrubbed you clean with freezing water. Standing naked and chained from the celling, they prepared you with various oils with their webbed claws, as cold as the water, coating your skin. You learned quickly that their touch on your pussy wasn't the worst. No, the worst came after they finished their preparations.

Over time, you were used by all sorts of species in the galaxy. Fucked until your holes bled. Bitten and scratched until you passed out from blood loss. Drugged to be fucked again. Woken only to be violated once more. Choked until you thought you had finally died, only to wake with a dick bigger than your thigh being shoved into your mouth, or worse. 

Even though the Kaldreks subjected you to unspeakable horrors and other species weren't far behind, it is the Nepturians who instil the deepest fear. Their human-like appearance, marked only by bioluminescent markings on their arms and spine, along with their imposing height, makes all the nightmares seem like a fairytale. You learned that Nepturians are typically monogamous, bonding for life. Yet, with their females dying for unknown reasons, the surviving males become the coldest of lovers. Their human resemblance haunts you, affecting you more than the others ever could.

You tried to escape more than once, but each attempt ended in failure, teaching you what the Kaldreks were truly capable of. The treatment worsened over time, more often you were used by Nepturians, yet the routine remains the same, spiralling into infinite torture you’re not able to escape. 

You tried to take your own life more than once, believing it was the only control you had left. You used your fingernails, attempting to pierce your arteries, succeeding briefly. But the Kaldreks' senses were too sharp, 'saving' you before you could fully succeed. After the second attempt, they pulled out your nails with tongs. For good measure, they did the same to your toenails. 

Each time, you are returned to your cell broken, barely conscious, your mind fogging with pain and exhaustion. The cot is a cruel joke, offering no comfort, only a hard surface to collapse upon. Sleep is your only escape, but it is fitful, plagued by nightmares of their touches, of endless moments and cold, inhuman eyes that somehow look human. You wake often, drenched in sweat despite the cold, your heart racing as if trying to escape your chest.

Time has lost all meaning. Days, months, years blend into one another, a seamless continuum of suffering and despair. You have no knowledge of the outside world, no hope of rescue. The Earth as you once knew it only a distant memory, a ghost of a dream long forgotten. The planet has been transformed into a barren, hostile wasteland, and you are its last surviving inhabitant, a relict of a forgotten age and species.

You cling to fragments of memories, half-remembered stories of a blue sky and warm sun, of green fields and the sound of laughter. These memories your only solace, a fragile thread of happiness in a world devoid of light. You wonder if you will ever see the sun again, feel its warmth on your skin, breathe air that is not tainted with misery.

But, your captors are meticulous in their cruelty. They keep you alive, but only just. The silver and pink scars cluttering your body proof enough. You are a tool, a means to an end, a living plaything. They are relentless, their personal gain insatiable, their methods devoid of mercy. You have learned to endure, to survive in the face of unimaginable hardship. Each day a battle, a struggle to cling to the remnants of your humanity in a world determined to strip it away.

Yet, somewhere deep within you, the light remains. A flicker of defiance, a refusal to be broken. You are the last human, the final witness to a world that once was. You hold on to this, clinging to the knowledge that as long as you live, there is still a sliver of hope. The Earth may be dead, but you are not. Not yet.

As the muffled voices echo through the pipes, you strain to discern their words. Hints of a plan for tomorrow seep through, reminding you once again of the relentless cycle that bound you. You know you need to escape now; the uncertainty of time on this planet makes it impossible to know when daylight would bring more torment. The Kaldreks are cruel, but the possibility of freedom flicks in the depths of your mind.

In the dim confines of your cell, you take a moment to assess your surroundings, willing the fog clouding your mind to go away if only for some seconds. Your last attempt to escape through the metal bars had failed, rendering that route impossible now. The chains that hold you are worn but sturdy. The glimmer of moonlight through a narrow vent suggest a weakness—a potential path to freedom, you were too scared to use before. You have watched their routines long enough to understand when they were most distracted. Tonight, you would act.

With caution, you manoeuvre your body, testing the chains for any sign of give. Each movement forcing to be as calculated as possible, the cold metal biting into your skin only moves sporadically and as quietly as possible to not alert the Kaldreks. Their voices fade, replaced by the rhythmic sound of your heart pounding in your chest and ears. Time is slipping away, and you have to move immediately. 

You again focus on the vent, its edges slightly corroded. The Kaldreks had grown complacent, and you use that to your advantage. With a surge of adrenaline, you twist and pull at the chains, feeling them loosen just enough to allow your wrists to slip free. The pain is agonising, but you welcome it; the burn a needed confirmation that you are still alive, despite losing more weight to slip through the chains. 

Quietly, you approach the vent, each step as careful as possible against the wet floor. Your fingers brush against the cold metal, feeling the contours of the cold opening. It is a tight fit, but desperation fuels your determination and you pull yourself up, squeeze through, the sharp edges grazing your skin, but you push on, driven by the hope of escape.

The passageway is dark, the air even more damp and musty than in your cell. As you crawl, the sounds of the Kaldreks fade completely, replaced by the distant noise of the wild outside. You navigate the narrow tunnel, each twist and turn feeling like an eternity, until you finally emerge into the open air.

Outside, the wild of the Kaldreks’ planet, Morthak, sprawls before you, a labyrinth of dense foliage and shadowy figures. The three moons bath everything in an eerie green glow, illuminating your path into a better life. You take a moment to catch your breath, savoring the taste of freedom mingled with the cold of the night.

Behind you, the sounds of Kaldrek chatter is gone, replaced by the rustling of leaves and the calls of nocturnal creatures. With your heart racing, you plunge into the underbrush, the foliage thick and tangled but a welcome barrier between you and your captors.

As you try to run, you feel the weight of the past begin to lift off your chest. Each step carries you further from the horrors of captivity, and with every heartbeat, the fear begins to wane. Tears start rolling down your cheeks with every step, sobs sporadically escaping your parched throat. The wilderness, though just as deadly for you as a prey species, is a refuge compared to the cold confines of your cell.

The terrain is uneven, but you navigate it somehow unharmed. Shadows dance around you as the night deepens, the sounds of nature becoming a chorus of freedom rather than threat. You feel the cool breeze on your skin, igniting a spark of hope within you.

Eventually, exhaustion claws at your limbs, your vision too blurred from tears, but you push through, knowing safety lay just beyond the next thicket. You stumble through the undergrowth, the moonlights guiding you like a compass. Finally, you reach a small clearing, the weight of your journey settling heavily upon you.

In that moment, you collapse to the ground, the cool earth contrasting with the heat of your racing heart. You roll against the soil, desperately rubbing your body to mask your scent as much as possible. The wilderness envelopes you, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you allow yourself to breathe deeply. You are free, at least for now, hidden in the wild, away from the claws of the Kaldreks.

As you lie there, surrounded by the sounds of nature, the gravity of your escape begins to sink in. You have taken a step toward freedom, and though the journey ahead remains uncertain, the wild holds the promise of survival.

You wake again in a white room, lying on a bed with a thin, soft blanket covering you up to your torso. Your skin tingles with the sensation of cleanliness, the dirt you covered yourself with gone, and you notice you’re dressed in an oversized black shirt. The unfamiliar garment feels alien against your skin. Though you’ve never worn black nor such garment before and the white room looks different from your previous cell, a chilling certainty grips you—you’re back with the Kaldreks. The realisation crashes like a wave of dread through your body, making your sore and tired muscles tense in fright. 

Panic sets in right after. Heart racing, you breaths come in rapid, shallow gasps, and it feels as though the walls are closing in around you. You scramble off the bed, blanket thrown off you, your heart pounds in your ears like a war drum. Desperation fuels your movements as you search the room for an escape, every nerve ending on high alert. Your hands claw at the smooth, featureless walls, finding no purchase. The air grows thin, and your vision starts to blur at the edges as hyperventilation takes hold. You stumble, your legs barely able to support your weight, driven by sheer terror.

Every corner of the room mocks your frantic attempts to flee. Your fingers trail over the seamless joinery, seeking a hidden exit, but finding none. The sterile whiteness amplifies your panic, memories flashing one by one before your eyes, each failed effort to find an exit compounding your fear. The room spins as you struggle to draw breath, your chest heaving with the effort. Sweat beads on your forehead, trickling down to sting your eyes. Your mind races, a chaotic flurry of thoughts, each more desperate than the last. You press your ear to the walls, hoping to hear something, anything, that might indicate a way out, but there is only silence.

Suddenly, the only door in the room hisses open with a hydraulic huff, and a Nepturian steps inside. Your worst nightmare manifests before you, making your heart stop immediately. He towers over you by more than half a meter, his features disturbingly human. His skin shimmers with a pale blue hue, his black doe eyes feigning innocence. But you know better than to trust them. His hair, a deep vibrant blue, is buzzed at the sides, the top long enough to partially fall over. He’s dressed in a similar black shirt, though on him it fits tightly, emphasising his dangerous physique. Each step he takes, his combat boots fall heavily onto the floor, his face void of emotion. The weight of his presence presses down on you, suffocating in its intensity.

You notice his markings—they look different from those of other Nepturians—different patterns and colour. Stress clouds your mind, preventing you from discerning whether this difference bodes well or ill for you. The bioluminescent patterns seem to pulse with a life of their own, casting faint glows that dance across the room’s sterile surfaces. You try to recall any fragment of knowledge that might explain these markings, but your thoughts are too scattered. The disparity in his appearance lastly only heightens your fear, leaving you paralysed with uncertainty.

You scramble away from him, your body trembling, adrenaline surging through your veins even more. Your breathing remains shallow, and you sense the impending collapse into unconsciousness. Each movement feels sluggish, as if you’re wading through thick, suffocating air. Your mind screams for you to run, but your body betrays you, locked in a state of primal terror. The room feels smaller, the walls collapsing as the Nepturian advances, his expression unreadable.

“Sit down,” he commands, his voice the softest you’ve heard from his kind. But you’re not surprised by his authoritative words, the courtesies of humanity foreign to other species. His words cut through the haze of your panic, grounding you in the reality of the moment. Yet, the command feels like another layer of your imprisonment, a reminder of the control he wields over you and the things that are going to happen to you. Still, you hesitate, weighing your options, the urge to flee warring with the need to survive.

After all, survival courses through you. You assess the possibility of darting past him to escape. But as you glance into the corridor beyond the door, you realise you’re not with the Kaldreks as you feared—you’re on a spaceship. The sleek, metallic walls and the hum of advanced technology signal a different captor. The realisation confirms your doom, multiplied by the presence of the Nepturian. The corridor stretches out, seemingly endless, but each step you might take towards it feels like a step deeper into your personal hell.

Your eyes snap back to the Nepturian as he repeats, more impatiently, “Sit down.” Seeing no other option, and hoping unconsciousness will soon claim you, you comply. As you lower yourself to the bed, he stands before you and, in that same soft voice you first heard him speak, says, “I won’t hurt you.” His words fail to soothe you; you remain terrified, too traumatised to trust anyone, especially a Nepturian. The tension in your muscles barely eases, your mind vigilant and ready to react at the slightest hint of danger.

MASTERLIST • 02 • 03

a/n 2: thank you so much for reading! lmk what you think - also: tag list, drabble requests and character asks are open

All Rights Reserved © @/runariya 2024

[salvidida]

Everything about Scar's treatment in Brotherhood sucks so bad, but there was something specific that has been bothering me for awhile. I hadn't been able to quite put my finger on what it was since watching FMAB for the first time recently (as a lifelong 03 fan). So I rewatched FMA 03 again and it finally clicked what it was that further upsets me about Brotherhood regarding Scar, besides the more obvious imperialist propaganda and racism:

The Elric's relationship to him.

Now obviously Ed's racism towards Scar in Brotherhood is pointed out frequently enough, but it doesn't stop there. It's the way that Brohood Ed is incapable and fully resistant to ever bridging that gap besides a deeply uneasy allyship-of-convenience. Al is also fully distant from Scar, besides their mutual antagonism in the earlier arc. And nothing more is really explored here between these characters.

And I didn't realize how much I valued the way 03's Scar, Ed, and Al contrast, overlap, mirror, battle, and support one another. Their fates and goals are inseparable. Alchemy's impact on the Elrics' lives is reflected with Scar's life and his brother's, as well as their familial relationship to their own brothers; many point out the similarities between 03 Scar and Al, with some noting how Ed and Scar's brother match each other. And the way the Elrics here are more able to engage with the harsh realities that inform Scar's choices and actions versus that of their place as Amestrians, and for Ed as an active member of the military who, despite wanting to cling to his principle of never taking a life, at times can see Scar's point of view and even, with reticence, sympathize with him (Al even more so).

There are layers to the relationship across these three characters. The tension and humanity that arises is a driving force in revealing the dialectics of this show. It's to the point that Al and even at times Ed defend Scar when talking with other characters towards the end of the show, and they even ultimately owe their lives to him (the philosopher stone and grand arcanum that allowed both Ed and Al to live, and for Al to regain his body). And the bond between the Elrics help Scar to forgive his brother, to speak aloud that he loves him in his final moments, before triumphantly accomplishing his goal against the Amestrian military, saving the remaining Liorans, and saving Al from becoming Kimbly's final bomb.

And there are other moments, such as Scar helping Al in Lab 5, telling him he sees his unmistakable humanity after Al helps him save Ishbalan refugees. Scar attempting to help Ed in Lab 5 after he refuses to sacrifice the prisoners for the Philosopher Stone, because he sees the humanity in Ed too, the humanity that can resist merely being a ruthless military dog and scientist. The way Scar treats Al almost like a little brother of his own, and when he mentions that Ed and his older brother share the same kind eyes- said at a time when Scar still harbours ill feelings for his brother's taboos and his sacrifice; which becomes all the more poignant when he forgives his brother before creating a Stone passed down to the Elrics. Scar mentions having sworn off specifically targetting state alchemists post-Lab 5, and this feels like his way of sparing the Elrics of his wrath, even as he holds fast to fighting against an oppressive system with necessary violence. The material here is rich for analysis and appreciation! It doesn't settle on more digestible, black-and-white character archetypes and plot conveniences.

There's a reason why the final outro for 03, where it flashes across four deceased characters who mattered to the Elrics, includes Scar. The man is in the ranks of Trisha, Nina, and Hughes! This isn't a mistake, the writers are intentionally showing the indelible impacts of these people who they cared about.

But with FMAB, it's exceptionally flat here and entirely derogatory. Ed hates Scar, and the narrative treats him as wholly right to do so. Scar needs to repent and reform to the side of his genociders, and never shall these characters interact or converse beyond putting a stop to Father. Scar was nothing more than a vehicle to reach his murdered brother's alchemic research, and an example to be made of any radical who so much as raises a finger against the State. All three of these characters want nothing to do with each other, and that's about as far as we get with them. In Scar's own words, he's nothing more than the 'ooze' (the poison) that arises from military conquest, and by the end of the show it's clear that, even with Scar saving the entire country that destroyed his life, to the Elrics, he will always be that 'ooze'.

In Brotherhood Scar committed what the Elrics clearly considers to be the ultimate sin: he killed Winry's parents, and no matter the circumstances surrounding that event, no matter what else changes, no matter which mass murderers, monsters, and genociders the Elrics can sympathize with, humanize, befriend, and forgive, Scar will never be anything more than an unforgivable murderer. The best everyone gets here is moving on and living seperate lives. Nothing more.

The fact that Ed openly wishes he could beat the shit out of Scar, he verbalizes as such while Winry patches him up and Miles lectures him about the value of reforming the military regime to include more racialized people for its imperialist complex. And the big mercy Ed in this moment offers to Scar is... Not kicking the shit out of him after all.

The juxtaposition between these adaptations, the cold hatred of FMAB versus the entangled, poetic antagonism and comradery of FMA 03 makes experiencing the former anime so depressing. Until watching Broho it never dawned on me just how much I truly appreciated the complexities between Scar and the Elrics in 03. Finding Scar's Earth counterpart at the end of Shambala wasn't just a fun cameo: it feels like a road that leads back to an ally.

At least now I have something I can more consciously enjoy whenever I revisit 03, while articulating yet another reason why I can't stand Broho.

[verosikastrikerstellaexcuser]

helluva boss really wants to whoobify stolas but like he was introduced as a rich guys with a race fetish. i cant look back on that

'you think so lowly of me' my ass. dude that is stuff ppl have said to me to manipulate me

Yeah this is it. People can go on and on justifying Shitlas and they can retcon the scenario all they like they can say oh but Blitz stole the book, oh but childhood friends!!!11 which ironically made it worse because it means Blitz was purchased for a day to be entertainment for Shitlas despite very much not wanting to be. That literally means even as children their relationship was founded on... a transaction for Shitlas' benefit. They can say but Shitlas is sad and lonely, but Shitlas is repressed, but but but.

It doesn't matter. Imps in hell produce all the food, sustaining the rest of hells population including those upper classes very beings, and yet they are treated like shit. They're disadvantaged in doing stuff like starting their own businesses and are seen as just "the workers that do icky stuff I don't wanna do" by people like Shitlas.

Shitlas went ahead and fetishized that. He specifically fetishizes that they're physically smaller which is incredibly demeaning - and hes still at it well into season 2, saying shit like "get fucked little one" about the lawyer imp in Oops (S2 E6).

Idgaf if Blitz tried to steal his book. Blitz can't easily start a business of his own because hes an imp in the first place. Shitlas chose to use Blitz's difficulty to get sex out of him all while disrespecting him and fetishizing his race and the fact that hes a smaller being. Blitz was clearly uncomfortable at that fact and wished he would stop doing it, especially outside of their agreed upon times on the full moon. But no matter what he said or how he resisted, Shitlas all throughout season 1 kept saying and doing weird fetishizing shit outside of their agreed upon times and Blitz could do nothing to get him to stop all the fetishy comments and everything. How are we supposed to ignore and let all of that go and see them as just "both being equally in the wrong"? It doesn't make sense.

No wonder Blitz had was so angry and let him have it in the latest episode. He was exactly right, Shitlas does think he can treat Blitz any way he wants because hes smaller and less important, because Shitlas has been using him as a fetish toy. This isn't some minor fuck up on Shitlas' part. This is a long sustained pattern of behavior that has not properly been addressed or apologized for. This is having a fetish for an impoverished and oppressed race of people and then hurting someone to fulfill of your fetish and gratify yourself.

Contrast this with the latest episode and how Blitz treats Moxxie. Moxxie has expressed he feels harshly treated by Blitz and seems to have a desire for more positive feedback about what hes doing right to be expressed. The show hasn't been great at how its addressed this but in this episode Blitz compliments Moxxie's shooting as they get back to their headquarters. Blitz took in Moxxie's words and has changed his behavior accordingly. He's so much better than Shitlas in every way and I'll die on that hill. He does fucked up shit but not to the level of Shitlas and is far more capable of change and growth. Shitlas just self victimizes, cries at others criticizing him, and dances around the things he's done wrong. Yet the fandom is in a hate spiral against Blitz for being mad at having his species/race and class constantly fetishized. Boooooo!

[butcherbabyx]

As Kevin, aka the Deep is hanging with his only friend, you, he learns something that will change him forever. Reader x The Deep and mention of Homelander

The night was still, the pier as quiet as it ever got, save for the occasional scurrying of a stray cat and the distant hum of boats passing by. The vast expanse of water reflected the dim glow of the moon, casting eerie shadows across the dock. You could almost feel the cool, salty breeze brushing against your skin, the solitude comforting in a way that only this place could provide. This place had become a sanctuary for both of you, a refuge from the relentless chaos of life at the tower. Here, you could escape Ashley's endless barrage of questions, A-Train's questionable taste in music, and, most importantly, the constant, oppressive presence of Homelander

A sudden ping from your phone jolted you from your thoughts. You looked up just in time to see Kevin, his tall frame silhouetted against the moonlight, scaling the steelwork fencing at the edge of the pier. His movements were fluid and effortless, each muscle in his body flexing as he reached the top. He paused, gazing at the water below, then stretched and dove gracefully into the dark depths.

For a moment, you watched him with a sense of quiet admiration. There was something undeniably captivating about Kevin in his element, surrounded by the very thing that seemed to make him feel alive—the water. As he cut through the surface and disappeared into the darkness below, you couldn’t help but think how perfectly he belonged here.

Your phone pinged again. This time, you couldn't ignore it. You took your eyes off Kevin and, with a slight hesitation, pulled your phone from your pocket. A new message, from Homelander. There was a picture attached, but you could not quite manage to open it right away. Taking a deep breath, you tried to calm the nerves that had suddenly tightened in your chest, bracing yourself for whatever he had decided to send this time.

"Did you catch that dive, (Y/N)?" Kevin's proud voice jolted you out of your thoughts. You looked up to see him clambering back onto the pier, water streaming from his hair and clothes, leaving a trail of droplets in his wake. He flashed you a wide grin, clearly proud of his dive.

"Yeah, dude, sick," you replied somewhat automatically, your tone distant as your eyes drifted back to the phone in your hand. You could feel Kevin's eyes on you, sensing your distraction, but the weight of that unopened message was all you could focus on.

You tapped your screen, unable to resist the pull of curiosity and dread. The messenger app opened, revealing Homelander’s text. "Have a look at this." The words sat above a slowly loading image. The signal here at the pier was spotty at best, leaving you in agonizing suspense as the photo buffered.

"Who are you texting?" Kevin’s voice startled you as he ran over, looming over your shoulder and peering at your phone. Before you could stop him, the image loaded, and in an instant, you both saw it.

A photo—flesh-colored and unmistakable—an unwelcome view of what could only be Homelander's… well, Kevin’s gasp said it all. "Holy shit!" he yelped, water spraying off him in a panic as he stumbled back laughing awkwardly.

You had learned to look at the images with a detached indifference. You knew the game. Homelander wasn’t just trying to shock you—he was reaching out in the only way he knew how. But this time, the picture was more revealing, more intimate, as if he was pushing the boundaries, testing how far you’d let him go. the pictures always came at times when he was low, when his usual outlets were out of reach. When the weight of being Homelander, the world's most powerful man, became too much to bear, he seemed to circle back to you. It made your skin crawl. Even now, with Kevin standing beside you, shaking off the water from his dive and trying to laugh it off, you couldn’t shake the unease gnawing at your bones. Of all people, why did he always come back to you?

But you knew the answer deep down. It wasn’t about attraction—it was about control. Homelander didn’t see you as a person; just another plaything in his web of power, someone he could dangle on a string whenever he felt the need to remind himself that he could.

And that thought—more than the picture, more than anything else—was what scared you the most.

You let out a dry, humorless chuckle, forcing yourself to act nonchalant, even though every instinct screamed at you to throw your phone as far away as possible. "Guess Homelander's feeling... generous again," you muttered, rolling your eyes.

Kevin, still recovering from the shock, gave a nervous laugh, clearly trying to shake off what he just saw. “Yeah… generous is one word for it,” he said, his tone awkward but attempting to match your nonchalance.

You could not help but have another look at the pale flesh, in the same way, people can't look away from a car crash, before you shoved your phone back into your pocket, pushing down the unease that twisted in your stomach. You couldn’t let it get to you—not here, not now. Homelander’s games were designed to get a reaction, to unsettle you, and you were determined not to give him that satisfaction, not when this evening had been so peaceful up until now. After he sent you the first photo many months ago, you realized that Homelander had handed you the tools to bring him down if you dared to take the risk. You could have shared those photos far and wide, turning them into viral sensations on Reddit, revealing the private, humiliating side of America’s so-called hero. But the risks were immense. Vought, ever adept at media manipulation, would twist the narrative. They’d portray Homelander as the victim and you as an abusive ex or disgruntled employee. The photos might be dismissed or even disappear, while you’d face severe backlash. And the best-case scenario, the scandal might focus on the disappointing size of his genitalia rather than the deeper issues, turning the situation into a sensationalized spectacle, and you'd still end up dead and burried.

Still, the thought of exposing America's number one hero to ridicule was tempting. Imagine how many might feel vindicated to outsize their idol? The thought of revenge against him, ignited a warm feeling in you stomach. A girl could dream. so, you did what you had done all these moths and you remained silent, balancing between self-preservation and resisting Homelander's twisted need for control. Kevin, finally calming down, took a seat beside you on the pier, letting out a deep breath.

"I now know what girls feel," he said with a sheepish grin, guilt evident in his eyes as he recalled every unsolicited picture he had ever sent.

"If I ever hear of you doing that again," you said, half chuckling but with a clear edge of seriousness, "I'll cut your fucking balls off." You punctuated your threat with a friendly slap on his back.

Kevin laughed, his smile easing the tension. "No, (y/n), I’m getting better at this shit. Treating women with respect and all," he said as if reading from one of those flyers the marketing team had handed out.

He really was trying. You thought about your own past mistakes, the dark deeds you had committed to prove your loyalty to Vought. The blood that had once sealed your commitment still stained your hands. You were unsure of where to begin in making amends for those actions. In that sense, Kevin was already one step ahead of you, though it was clear that his progress wasn’t entirely without your influence.

In a world dominated by alphas and echo chambers of oversimplified, misogynistic takes, you were the only reasonable source of influence Kevin had. Truthfully and saddening, the only reason The Deep had managed to improve at all was because of you. ''Can I see it again?'' Kevin asked, ''Just to delete it for you after?'' ''Be my guest, I don't want to look at his cock and balls anymore.'' You took your phone from your pocket, handing it to him. You watched closely as Kevin reopened the conversation with Homelander, being extra careful not to click or send anything by mistake. His fingers hovered over the image, and from the corner of your eye, you noticed him zooming in.

“Kevin, what the fuck?” you muttered, trying to stop him. But Kevin had his hands firmly on your phone.

“It’s not even that special?” Kevin said, his tone more of a question than a statement.

“It’s just a regular, run-of-the-mill penis,” you said from your spot next to him. “What did you expect? For the tip to be made of gold?”

“I don’t know,” Kevin chuckled, his voice taking on a strangely light, almost chipper quality. “Something more impressive?”

A proud smile spread across his face, and you finally realized where this was heading. Kevin started laughing, and you couldn’t help but join in.

“Gosh,” Kevin said, patting his own upper thighs as he puffed himself up, “my cock is bigger than his.”

You reveled in his reaction, imagining how satisfying it would be if all of America could compare their dicks to Homelander’s. But for now, you settled for the smile on Kevin’s face and the lightness in his laugh.

[psychotrenny]

I really do think this is the end for Israel. The beginning of the end at least. They're essentially a relic of an earlier time, a time when, through a complex confluence of factors, the military power of Europe was so far beyond the rest of the world that it could openly keep the world in shackles. The Imperial powers of Europe could do as they wished and respond to any resistance with overwhelming violence that, no matter how costly in money or lives or how many years it took, would eventually force open resistance to come to a (temporary) end. You saw exceptions of course, such as Ethiopia's successful repulsion of Italian invaders in the 1890s (although even that victory is somewhat undercut but Italy's more successful invasion about 40 years later), but in the majority of cases even the most brave and intelligent of resistance fighters would see themselves worn down and defeated. Just off the top of my head you have figures like Samori Toure, Omar al-Mukhtar, Samuel Maharero; all inflicted numerous defeats on their European Imperialist enemies but in the end couldn't overcome the sheer force that was arrayed against them.

Of course such supremacy was never absolute even at it's apex, and this height was so very short lived. Resistance never fully stopped; outbursts of violence were frequent and various forms of passive resistance like migration, tax evasion and industrial slowdown were ubiquitous. Resistance movements learned from past failures, acquired the weapons of modern war and soon proved a credible threat to the Imperialist forces that by the middle of the 20th century had exhausted themselves through in-fighting. Whether evicted through direct violence or choosing to leave under the inevitable threat of it, the European powers largely ended their direct domination over the colonised world. That's not to say Imperialism was over, far from it, but it mostly took on subtler forms; more soft power with only the occasional resort to hard. Imperial domination is now more than ever exerted through various local proxies and the broader forces that keep them in check as direct subjugation just isn't especially viable.

In the parts of the world without substantial settler populations this withdrawal was accomplished smoothly enough; most of the Europeans present either left without a fuss or found some sort of niche under the new order of things. But the liberation of colonies with large settler populations was a longer and bloodier process; just compare the French withdrawal from Indochina to that from Algeria or the fate of Northern Rhodesia (now Zambia) to Southern Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe). A large number of Europeans were heavily entrenched in these colonies and had both their material wealth and sense of pride tied to the maintenance of white supremacy. Many politicians back in Europe were less willing to abandon such settler colonies, while with or without support from back home the colonists engaged in their own bloody wars of oppression against indigenous people.

But in the end they all fell. Algeria, Rhodesia, Angola, South Africa, the list goes on. Even as these places continue to suffer under the yoke of less direct Imperialism they can take pride knowing that the scourge of direct setter subjugation was defeated. Exploiting people is one thing; there are many ways you can accomplish this without the exploited truly catching on. But the sort of violence it takes to brazenly steal control of a people's land, settle yourself on it while keeping the original inhabitants as second class citizens is going to engender the fiercest resistance no matter what. The only remotely stable settler colonies are those where the indigenous peoples were already decimated by disease before being subjected to centuries of genocidal policies, reducing their current population to a small minority of the nation. And even then the survives continue to resist fiercely. In places where the settlers remained the minority there was simply no chance of such regimes surviving for long.

Israel as a state is among the last of its kind, and I see no reason why it shouldn't meet the fate of all other such colonies. The way I see it the end of Israel is inevitable. The only question is just how much bloodshed and suffering it'll take. The struggle has been ongoing for so very long. I truly hope that we're seeing the final stages of it, but I suppose only time can tell. All I know for sure is that from from the river to the sea, Palestine will be free

[horizon-verizon]

Honestly as a neutral party I would prefer Jaehaera living to Daenaera being introduced. Jaehaera is an innocent, mentally disabled child and her death is needlessly cruel. Her death is the least plot relevant of all of the child deaths that have happened in the dance and it's reasonable for people to want that changed since it comes off as pointlessly cruel. Killing Alicent or even just focusing on her imprisonment more is enough to show that the greens have paid for their betrayal. At least Daenaera can still be introduced and do something else in the narrative even if she doesn't marry Aegon.

I've already explained why Jaehaera's death was plot relevant HERE and HERE.

A)

Daenaera's entire narrative purpose was to marry Aegon and have his children to propagate the Targ line AND to become part of Aegon's mental rehabilitation from the effects of the civil war and watching his own mother get eaten burned/alive by a dragon. This is also reason why she's a fan fav in the first place; it's seen as a noble undertaking to some and a way for the Targs to move away from the greens finally. What other narrative use would you have her have?!

We can't bring up how after the War of the Roses the two fighting houses (Yorks and Lancasters) were successfully brought together in marriage to justify Jaehaera marrying and having a family with Aegon. Because:

Elizabeth of York wasn't disabled like Jaehaera

neither her nor Henry Tudor were little kids when they married

this is a fictional tale that, while modeled after some real events and people, is using them as springboards for a specific, purposefully created "message" unique to the author's

and imagine what it would being pregnant several times really be like for a very mentally incapacitated and traumatized girl like her?!!

Much less the other traumatized boy who's to be her husband? What the consummation and all the...impregnating times looked like?! Then, imagine what the family life would have been like, with these parents unable to ever connect thus the resentment is worse and their kids seeing that?

This doesn't justify Unwin Peake murdering Jaehaera, but no she never should have been married off to Aegon or anyone in the first place and that was not Unwin's doing but a larger group's--Aegon's council/patriarchal feudalism. This is what GRRM's trying to tell you, stop resisting it.

B)

I can believe that it is the way she died and the other context of so much violence men and adults perform against women and girls in this world is what really offends people enough for them to say that somehow, this a narratively irrelevant death. Because they're just that horrified.

The feelings are valid. But the action to erase the significance of the death is not valid. You definitely can wish for a much less violent one, like a poisoning that puts her to sleep or something. The death is supposed to be tragic and make you feel that it wasn't deserved, was horrible, etc. Because it was all those things.

And to say such an untrue thing as "not narratively relevant" also leads me to suspect that some people don't like Jaehaera's death either bc they just:

wanted the greens to win in some way bc they favor them and their cause (my second linked post)

you--knowing that Daenaera will likely be black in the show IF they ever get to the Maiden's Ball--go so hard for Jaehaera bc she at least is a white girl in the universe of HotD

want excessively centrist politics to sway the story at the expense of actual understanding of why we should change and upend the status quo entirely (here the feudal entrapment of girls and women); deny a reality, discourage learning to the oppressive status quo can prevail [on this trend of neutrality]...the truth is the villains/antagonists were always the greens

AND/OR, are avoidant of facing ugly, sordid truths of oppression because they are close to it in real life and haven't found ways of separating that from collective understanding of oppressive systems/coping mechanism

Look anon, Alicent's imprisonment doesn't make up for mass death. Because it's not even just about Alicent as the individual, the grandmother, the mother, etc. It's the effect of her actions on a population. Jaehaera was one of many girls Otto AND Alicent endangered (another being Halaena). Though her actions became something much bigger than her & things went out of her control, that doesn't stop them from being hers AND having affected thousands of lives. Her main aim was to accrue power through her kids and grandkids--who she chose to risk by usurping Rhaenyra and beginning the war--the consequence is she loses said kids and grandkids through other's similar ambition. Again, bc even though those kids were noble and were supposed to be relatively safe, because they are all technically heirs or adults around them can use them accrue power (whether by killing them or through marriages or whatever), they were also targets. We could say similar for Rhaenyra's children, as what happens to her youngest 2; all of them in one way or another die because they were or could be used. however, they AND the greens' kids were all safer if the greens had not usurped Rhaenyra.

The greens were the aggressors and transgressors. The ones who started this war and looked for something out of it. They tried to act worse against Rhaenrya before/during the war AND the whole of Westeros before/during/after, thus they get the worse punishment and lose more than she did.

The entire point is that the greens lose everything, because they went after "everything". They lose everything, including their kids bc they relentlessly and hypocritically ran to obtain more power for themselves by attempting to exclude a woman from the position she never would have had without the will of a man.

They went on the basis that a girl/woman should not rule or become an heir before any direct male relatives...so Jaehaera was cut out of the line of succession by her own side of the family, thus she was also less prioritized, thus she was made into a baby factory for Aegon III. She became their last chance to get their blood to at least be part of the future line, but even that's dashed by a man who had similar ambitions as Otto and Alicent.

In trying to go against the king's word/an actual law, the greens also made it much more justified for someone to not care much for Aegon II's claim or authority...bc if you can so easily flout a king's word, why should you care about the guy you're trying to make king?! And using people who themselves are willing to be so dishonest creates a higher likelihood that they'd betray you, as similar to Ulf and Hugh betraying Rhaenyra. (And somehow, Rhaenyra is the only naive one when she expects people to follow through with their oaths 🙄)

Have you ever thought, anon, about those other girls who were maimed or terrorized into not appearing before Aegon III in the Maiden's Ball? Sure, most of them weren't disabled (Priscella Hogg was, I think), but what happens to Jaehaera is because she was girl in the way of a man's ambitions and not because she was disabled. What about all those Tumbleton folk, Bitterbridge refugees (the raped septas and girls as young as 8!), and riverland peasants--most of them children! Undoubtedly, you will have disabled children in those populations, anon. Why is Jaehaera's death so much more valuable than these mass deaths of also children? Remember that Alicent raised her kids to easier justify committing these atrocities. Maelor and Jaehaerys' deaths also reflect these events. Jaehaera's death was markedly different in meaning from theirs (to open up space for another girls who's being used) because she was female. In the first linked post, I talk about why and how people used Jaehaera's marriage to Aegon and how that reflects on her death being unique from her brothers' because of her gender.

GRRM comments, through Jaehaera and these girls and Rhaenyra what one pattern of F&B has: being female is dangerous because it is to be more of an object or property in lieu of self-concerned ambitious men to the point where the most vulnerable and those who cannot practice some of the same sort of agency can experience gruesome consequences--sometimes to become terrors themselves in their attempts to gain denied agency or defend themselves.

[a-queer-seminarian]

Gaza's Gethsemane

Today is Maundy Thursday, when Christians remember Jesus’s Last Supper, his final meal with his closest friends before his arrest and execution by the Roman Empire.

Meanwhile, right now, in Jesus’ own homeland, millions suffer starvation and terror, displacement and death under Western-funded Israeli colonialism and continued military assault. Israel blocks food from reaching them, leaving Palestinians in fear that any "supper" they can scrounge up might be their last.

After their meal, Jesus led his friends into the Garden of Gethsemane, where he prayed in anguish, fearing all he was about to endure: criminalization, torture, and a painful public death.

Jesus begs his friends to “stay awake” as he wrestles — just to be present, to make him feel a little less alone. How do we respond to Jesus’ plea by “staying awake” to Palestine’s current agony?

"Cry" (2016) by Mohammed Almadhoun.

That question also leads me to ponder another: how does God join Palestinians in their agony? Where is God in their suffering?

Palestinian Christian Mitri Raheb seeks to answer this question of where God is in his 2015 book Faith in the Face of Empire.

Raheb looks at the history of the Palestinian region, from ancient times to today, as a long chain of different empires — from the Assyrians to the Romans, Ottomans to Western-funded modern Israel.

He says that this long history of occupation is what gave Palestinians the ability to notice God where those in power do not: among the powerless. It is this revelation, Raheb declares, that has empowered Palestinians — Jewish, Christian, and Muslim — to survive and resist Empire again and again.

Raheb writes about how in ancient times, the divine was made

“...visible and omnipresent in the empire with shrines and temples that represented not only his glory but also that of the empire. God’s omnipotence and that of the empire were almost interchangeable. He was a victorious God, a fitting deity for a victorious empire. At the other end of the spectrum there was the God of the people of Palestine, whose tiny territory resembled a corridor in Middle Eastern geography. ...This God was a loser. He lost almost all wars, and his people were forced to pay the price of those defeats. In short, this God did not appear to be up to the challenge of the various empires. His people in Palestine were forced to hear the mocking voices of their neighbors who taunted them, 'Where is your God?' (Ps 42: 3, 10). The revelation the people of Palestine received was the ability to spot God where no one else was able to see him. When his people were driven as slaves into Babylon, they witnessed him accompanying them. When his capital, Jerusalem, was destroyed and his temple plundered, they saw him there. When his people were defeated, he was also present. The salient feature of this God was that he didn’t run away when his people faced their destiny but remained with them, showing solidarity and choosing to share their destiny. Consequently and ultimately, Jesus revealed this God on the cross, in a situation of terrible agony and pain, when he was brutally crushed by the empire and hung like a rebellious freedom fighter. The people of Palestine could then say with great certainty [that their God] ‘in every respect has been tested as we are’ (Heb 4:15). For the people of Palestine this meant that defeat in the face of the empire was not an ultimate defeat. It meant that after the country was devastated by the Babylonians, when everything seemed to be lost, a new beginning was possible. Even when the dwelling place of God was destroyed, God survived that destruction, developing in response a dwelling that was indestructible. And when Jesus cried on the cross, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (Mk 15:34), that soul-rending plea was just the prelude to the resurrection…”

It is this revelation that God sides against empire, Raheb continues, that keeps the Palestinian spirit alive through horrible oppression. Though the world may call such faith foolish — how can you believe God is with you and that God will have the final say, when all evidence points to your abandonment and defeat? — it is wisdom to the oppressed. Raheb describes how this wisdom feeds Palestinian resistance, over and over across the millennia:

The art of survival and starting anew is a highly developed form of expression in Palestine, and one I see daily. People’s lives, businesses, and education are interrupted by wars and the aftermath of wars over and over again, and yet I witness people refusing to give up, taking a deep breath, and beginning again. Logically, it is foolish, and yet there is deep wisdom in such a course of action. I’m often asked by visitors how I can keep going. Everything seems to be lost, the land “settled” by Israel, the wall suffocating Palestinian land and spirit, the world silent, and hope almost gone.”

Raheb's answer to them is that God’s presence in and among the suffering, and God’s promised resurrection, of renewal in the face of all terror and death, is what keeps him and his people going.

As we enter into these final days of Lent, I pray for hearts and minds opened to witnessing God’s solidarity with and resurrection for Palestinians suffering imperial brutality. I pray that the Palestinians will survive as they always have — “afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed” (2 Cor 4:8–9).

[oliversrarebooks]

get lost

a story about hapless wanderers and the fairy that collects them

Masterlist

TW: mind control, drugging, restraints, captivity, hypnosis, non-sexual touching and manhandling, condescension

You are lost.

Maybe you decided to go for a hike that was above your skill level. Maybe you wandered into the woods behind your suspiciously cheap vacation rental. Maybe you woke up here among the thick undergrowth. You might not even remember how you ended up here.

But you know for sure you are lost.

Any hint of a path has long been swallowed by roots and branches, moss and weeds. You might have some supplies, but they're not nearly enough to spend a significant amount of time lost in the forest. The trees are even so thick overhead that you can't reliably tell the direction of the sun, if you even knew which direction might help.

The only thing you can do is to keep trudging, hoping that eventually you'll get somewhere.

The more you climb over thick roots and rotten logs, the more you wade through tall grasses, the more exhausted you're becoming. Your calf muscles ache. Your arms are scratched and stung from twigs and rough bark and bugs. You're so tired. But you know you can't stop for long if you hope to get out of the forest before nightfall. It can't be that much further, can it?

You pause for just a moment to lean against a tree, taking a deep breath. The smell of green leaves and damp earth fills your senses, both pleasant and oppressive. This time, you think you sense something else. It smells almost sweet, like flowers or candy. It's different. And while you're not sure it will help, you feel drawn to it.

As you stumble further into the forest, you notice more and more flowers growing thick around you. Scatterings of clover and goldenrod are giving way to larger, more exotic blooms, in stunning jewel-tone colors. Even as the forest gets deeper and darker, you see more and more of the flowers, surrounding you, and the scent of sweet nectar and pollen grows stronger. It makes you feel woozy, almost drowsy, but you can't stop now. You need to keep going. 

You wonder vaguely how such large flowers can grow in a place with little sunlight. The flowers hanging from the branches and swaying in front of you are nearly as big as your entire face. They sway softly in a breeze you can't feel, and you watch them, transfixed in wonder. They're beautiful. And they smell so good.

You don't notice when your feet stop moving. You barely notice when something warm snakes around your ankles.

The flowers sparkle and shimmer and sway in front of you, and you sway too, dazed. A cloud of yellow engulfs your vision and you cough softly as your head fills with pollen. You feel so sleepy, so deeply drowsy, as though you'd like to lay down and take a nap, just rest your eyes for only a minute...

No, you can't stop here. You're lost, and the forest is dangerous. You muster up what strength remains to you to try and take a step back, only to realize that your legs are halfway wrapped in vines, holding you firmly in place. Your feeble struggles cause you to lose balance, and more vines catch you, wrapping around your chest and arms.

Your limbs are already heavy and numb from the sedating pollen, and your weak thrashes against the vines holding you captive do nothing to free you. Just as you start to panic, your mind trying to reassert itself against the numbing influences, the flowers appear before you again, distracting you with their colors. They're starting to blur, your vision fogging. You're getting sleepy, all of your fight draining from your body. You yawn involuntarily, taking in more pollen. You're fighting a losing battle against your heavy, drooping eyelids.

As your mind starts to slip into a drugged, half-awake daze, you're vaguely aware that the vines are pulling you against a tree and restraining you firmly but comfortably. You can hardly move an inch now, but you're becoming less and less inclined to try. It's so much effort to resist, when you could just fall into a dozing dream, relaxed and comfortable and so drowsy.

One of the flowers is growing closer, engulfing your entire vision. You feel the soft petals brush your cheek, the scent of sweet pollen and nectar intense as the flower seals around your face. The dim spark of consciousness that remains to you recognizes this as the final step in the trap: it's going to put you to sleep. You know now it's aware of what it's doing, and it's going to incapacitate you, make you sleep so deeply, helpless and unaware, vulnerable to whatever or whoever set this trap in the first place.

There's nothing you can do about it but take a deep breath. You're so comfortable and sleepy, and your eyelids are beginning to flutter, too heavy to keep open. You relax into the vines. Everything's starting to feel so floaty and far away, and it's so nice to feel your pain and fear flowing out of you. Every breath smells like flowers. Every breath pulls your eyelids down, coaxing you into a gentle, easy slumber. You're too tired and dazed to fight it, to even remember why you wanted to fight it. It's so much nicer to stop moving, to shut your eyes, to let the gentle flowers and vines lull you into sleep.

You skim the edge of sleep, and your dreams are filled with the forest, but you're not lost any more. You belong to it. You're part of the moss on the trees and the breeze ruffling the flowers and the ants marching in a neat line. Your mind relaxes, defenses lowering, as the wind and the  trees whisper to you in words you don't understand.

You don't know how long you sleep, but eventually you feel someone pulling at the vines holding you in place, the light pressure on your body loosening. You fall forward into warm arms, blinking slowly, dazed and just barely awake.

"There, there, I've got you," says a voice like flowing water, washing over you. "Just relax. You're safe."

You have questions, but your tongue is too thick to speak and your mind too drowsy to formulate them. "What...?" you manage.

"Shhh, hush, now. I'm going to take good care of you." 

You're being picked up in a strong grip, and you feel yourself being carried away, the meager light around you dimming as you're brought into an even deeper part of the forest. Your helpless body is laid down on soft grass and moss, propped up against a tree, and you sink into it, fighting the urge to fall back asleep.

A face appears in front of you, shining in the dim light. The eyes sparkle and the mouth smiles, but you can tell instinctively it is not human. 

The strange being sits back and begins to play on a set of panpipes, a low, haunting tune. Its form is difficult to make out, youthful and humanoid but not clearly male nor female, and you can see sparkling, deep blue wings like those of a butterfly. A fairy, perhaps -- that's the closest thing your mind offers. It seems clad only in flowers, ribbons, and strings of beads, which flutter slightly in the breeze. 

It's so hard to think, to even remember how you came to be here, and the music is slowly but surely stealing your focus away. The song is so beautiful, and you're completely relaxed and calm, not at all inclined to move, much less escape. Increasingly less inclined to think too hard about any of this. The air around you seems to sparkle as your vision blurs, your eyes blinking so, so slowly. 

Through your haze you see the fairy smile, looking down at you. You smile back weakly. It stops playing -- although the music continues to tie your mind in binds -- and kneels beside you. It tilts your chin up with the softest of touches, their fingers like sunbeams, and gaze into your glassy eyes.

"What's your name, little one?"

Your name spills from your mouth, and the fairy laughs with a sound like bells.

"Of course it is. You're such a silly little thing, running away from me, aren't you?"

Running away? Your brow furrows. Even in your entranced state, that doesn't seem quite right, does it...?

"You don't even remember why you ran away, did you?" The fairy ruffles your hair affectionately. "It's an awfully good thing I found you before you hurt yourself. You were like a helpless moth, flapping uselessly against a spider web."

"I didn't..." You're trying to collect your thoughts enough to explain why that's wrong. "I didn't run away from you," you finish weakly.

"No?" It leans in closer, eyes far too bright. "Then how did you get here?"

Your mouth opens and closes.

The fairy traces a finger along your cheek, just under your eye. "Can you remember?"

You can't. Your mind is still full of fog and pollen and everything feels like a blur. "...I was lost," you manage.

"Yes, you were," it says with a predatory grin. "And now you're found, but you don't even remember that you belong to me. Poor dandelion fluff." It produces a long, iridescent ribbon from seemingly nowhere, holding it up in front of you. "But don't worry, I'm not mad. I know you can't help it. Your head's just so full of flowers that there's no room for anything hard, like memories."

You'd like to protest, but that seems right somehow. Doesn't it?

"Here, let me put your collar back on." It ties the ribbon in a bow around your neck, and you're too relaxed to stop it. The ribbon feels silky smooth and weightless, and the fairy wraps one end around its wrist. That feels right, too, like something long forgotten locking into place. "Let's get you home, little moth."

It picks you up effortlessly once again, and your limbs are too heavy and numb to do anything more but lean against it. In the blink of an eye, you're flying. The soft, rhythmic wingbeats fill your ears and soothe you as the fairy somehow glides effortlessly through the thick tangles of branches and vines.

You come to a stop at a darkened clearing filled with enormous mushrooms, large enough to sit on and pulsating with soft blue-purple light. There are beads and ribbons and trinkets hanging from every tree branch. In the dim light you can see the sparkle of many colored crystals, and, off to one side, there seems to be a pile of people huddled on top of the mushrooms. Humans, like you, all in various states of undress, with their skin painted in wild, rainbow hues. All of them seem fast asleep.

Before you have a chance to wonder if this is the fate that awaits you, you're laid out onto a bed of soft mushroom, your ribbon-leash tied to a tree. You try to push yourself up and look around, but your head feels dizzy and your arms are heavy and uncoordinated. The fairy pulls your pack from your back and pushes you down gently. You watch as it rifles through your things, tossing this and that to the side, running its fingers down the rough paper of your sketchbook, using your pens to mark its hands, clicking your flashlight on and off, before tossing it all into a pile of other backpacks.

"Drink." The fairy is holding out a small clay cup of unnaturally bright red liquid. "You must be thirsty, little moth. Drink."

You swallow hard. Your throat and lips are dry, but the last remnant of your reason is warning you with all its might. "What is it?" you ask.

"Medicine, silly thing. Medicine to open your mind. Medicine to help you accept. Medicine to soothe you to slumber."

You manage to shake your head. "I don't want that."

The fairy smiles, the shimmering red liquid reflected in its impossibly large eyes, and speaks your name. It sounds like water rushing down a mountain, like fire consuming a forest.

It holds out the cup once more, and your hands reach to take it, unable to stop yourself from drinking. The medicine is warm and tastes like sweet berries and slides down your throat like a living thing.

"Foolish little bunny," it says gleefully, and then you feel everything. Slow. Down.

Suddenly, you're hyperaware of everything around you. The mushrooms below you and the cool air around you makes your skin prickle, the beads clinking together overhead sound like a symphony, and you can smell a hundred things you're sure you've never smelled before. It would be utterly overwhelming if you weren't completely relaxed. A butterfly flaps nearby, and you watch its wings sparkle through lazy, half-lidded eyes.

The fairy is in front of you again, holding a tray of little pots of pigment. It dips its fingers into the purple and runs its thumb along your cheek, outlining your eyes. Symbols are drawn on your forehead as it mutters strange words under its breath. With the pads of its fingers, it coaxes your eyelids shut, and you can feel pigment being applied to them too. You're not inclined to open them again as it lines your lips with colors, running down your chin and onto your neck.

"You're so cute under my spell," says the fairy. "Sometime I'll take you to a still pool so you can see how beautiful my painting is on your blank face."

It picks up your hands and decorates those as well, as your mind dozes and drifts, listening to the far off sounds of bird wings and creatures scuttling through the undergrowth. Your thoughts are filled with colors and mushrooms as a deft finger draws lines around your arms, the fairy's muttering turning into a song, a spell. 

You can feel the magic settling on you and around you like a heavy blanket. Your shoes and socks are pulled off too, landing nearby with a thud, and your feet are decorated, pigment tickling the soles of your feet and the spaces between your toes. Hands that feel sun warmed draw your wrists together and bind them with more silky, weightless ribbons.

"Sleep now, tired little thing. You're safe and sound here with me."

You're half-asleep, eyelids fluttering, as you're picked up and set down again next to the pile of other humans. 

You were lost.

And now you have been collected.

And now you will not be found.

[mylight-png]

Hello. I have been really depressed these past three weeks. In over twenty years of my life I do not remember seeing as much antisemitism as I have in the past month. I am deeply disappointed in the world. I had a higher opinion of it, especially places like Europe, Britain and America. I had believed that when we said "never again", we really had meant "never again". But I was wrong.

It turns out, that our history, and history of Israel has been lied about and twisted into something unrecognizable in universities and mass media, and the world just allowed it to happen. It turns out, that when Jewish people are massacred, people still rejoice in our deaths, using new lies to justify their hatred than the ones they used in WW2. It turns out that the world hates the idea of a Jewish state, it does not want us to have a country of our own, and so will look for any excuse to disparage our state, holding us to an impossible standard that cannot ever be realistically achieved.

We were not given the chance to mourn October 7th. We were not allowed to do so. Almost immediately the world rejoiced, came out in these "Pro-Palestine" protests — even before Israel had retaliated. Called the horrific massacre "resistance". Victim blamed us with the fictional fairytale of "75 year old oppression". Dismissed our grief with "Yeah well but the Palestinian deaths—". Screamed "From the River to the Sea". These were the words we heard on the 7th and 8th of October as news of our people's deaths were reaching us in real time. How can anyone support this so-called "Pro-Palestine" movement after that? Are we still hated this much?

I have already lost someone I considered a friend over this. She started reposting antisemitic lies, calling us "colonial settlers", parroting the Khazar conspiracy theory about Ashkenazi jews (which I am), making absurd claims about how we weren't indigenous, and how Israel does not have the right to exist and how we should cede control to the Palestinians and then live in "their" state, under "their" government. Yeah, we have already seen on the 7th how that idea would go. I was especially disheartened, because she is a person of color, as a fellow minority, I thought she would know better and would know what it's like to be hated over something you can't control...

I still may lose another friend. Recently, she has written me "It looks like Israel is enjoying this! They used this as an excuse!" I have tried to educate her and she seems to have listened, but I doubt my words will be enough. I know where she has gotten these lies, with the mass media continuously airing unverified statistics posted by Hamas controlled institutions all the while sneering at every shred of evidence Israel publishes. I'm tired. I do not believe I can fight against this continuous stream of lies. I'm tired and heartbroken that this is happening to us again.

I always wondered how the world ever bought these lies about how we were responsible for Germany's economic crisis and how we controlled world governments. Now I know. Because it's happening again. Just with new lies. And everything we've seen in WW2: the marking of Jewish homes, the pogroms, the persecution - it's all happening. Again.

I'm sorry for this extremely depressing message. My father, my grandmother and I no longer feel safe in this world. And we feel silenced lest we become victims as well.

I have nothing to add to this, it is as if someone wrote out my thoughts and feelings for me.

I wish and pray for safety for you and your family in this time when safety is an uncertain luxury. We have outlived them before, we will outlive them again. We meant "never again" when we said it, and I know our community well enough to know we follow through.

Am Yisrael chai

[apas-95]

When people go 'this has destroyed any chance of a palestinian state! maybe israel would have eventually decided to stop being a genocidal settler colony, but not now! are you really so stupid to think that you could *possibly* defeat israel?' it's really interesting - in that they very clearly aren't paying any attention at all to the material situation, not just in terms of the oppression of Palestinians, but of the basic dynamics of Palestinian resistance.

The reason 2021 was met with such shock was that it was unprecedented - the occupation recognised it for what it was: proof. The Palestinian resistance forces mounted a counteroffensive against the occupation, a genuine attack into the depth of the occupied territory, bypassing all existing defenses. It was reactive, it was incomplete, but it proved one thing - the balance of power *could* be tipped. The current flood *is* the balance being tipped. It is an outright offensive, precipitated by nothing other than the genuine need for liberation, and launched at a time and place chosen by the Palestinian resistance forces themselves. It may very well not defeat the occupation outright, it may lose steam within a while and reach an unsteady equilibrium. This is how resistance goes. But what was once unthinkable is now reality. The summit has been crested, and slowly, but surely, the path towards the complete defeat of the occupation is underway.

This much is practically obvious to anyone paying any attention at all to the military situation. Israeli commanders have been captured, entire divisions lost, military headquarters occupied. There is no coming back from this, there is no return to a status quo of a Palestinian resistance that can be handled quietly through airstrikes and checkpoints. The occupation recognises this as an existential threat, declaring a state of war - yet somehow its supporters have deluded themselves into the belief that this is a pointless show. My only advice to them is that even rats know to flee a sinking ship.